The Once Princess, Part 2

Part 1

He stood up and began to pace back and forth from the chair to the hearth, the firelight and shadows making his face look more gaunt than before. 

“I have received news, grave news, that has upended everything. Even now, I can hardly fathom what it means. For me, for our family, for the kingdom . . .” 

His voice faltered into silence, and I prompted, “News, Papa? Is it the Eidermans at the border? A rebel enclave?” I thought about the old stories I’d heard about the bloodthirsty traitors who had once plotted to overthrow my father and place their leader on the throne. I’d often imagined how I might respond when queen if such insurrection were to arise again.

“It—it is not recent news. It is something that happened long ago, but I was not aware of it.” Papa sighed and ran his fingers through his hair again and again, then he stopped pacing and faced me.

“Let me tell you a story, Pepper.” That was his pet name for me. “Fifteen years ago—that was when the Shrike was still in hiding.” I shivered at the rebel leader’s name. The plans he’d had for the kingdom, and especially my family, were common knowledge. Gruesome knowledge. “He was stronger than ever and had won over many to his side, even here in the palace. Not only servants but a few court officials as well.”

“The almoner, Baldric,” I whispered.

He flinched as if at a stab, and I felt guilty for mentioning the man who had been his friend. “Yes, he was one. When he was unmasked as a traitor, we also arrested several others whom we had trusted completely, including the nursemaid we had chosen to care for our first child. She was highly recommended by Trista’s own sister, so we had perfect faith in her. 

“How could we know the Shrike had poisoned her mind just a few months before she came to us? He must have known she would be entrusted with the care of a royal child, and he targeted her with his terrible lies.”

I shivered and tried to imagine being held as a baby by that fiendish traitor. She probably had fangs hidden behind a sweet red smile.

“We discovered the nursemaid’s treachery when the Shrike was captured, and they were both imprisoned. She sickened soon after and died. He was tried and executed in short order. Until a few days ago, I thought that was the end of the matter—whatever he had been planning, we had stopped it. There was never any widespread violence, the rebels never stormed the castle. We thought the danger was past. But now . . .” He buried his face in his hands and I thought he might have sobbed—but that was impossible for my strong, brave father. Nothing but the greatest misery could drive him to tears.

He resumed his pacing and picked up the threads of the story. “Before we captured him, the Shrike had planned a terrible, daring deed. Something that would shame the crown, strike at my very heart, and be the start of the war he had been working so hard to begin. 

“On the night the queen gave birth to our first child, the nursemaid was to steal the princess.”

The Once Princess, Part 1

 Oie blanche, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Many tales have been told of Beatrix, Princess of Ravenspire, who lived for the first fifteen years of her life as the lowest peasant—daughter of no one, loved by nobody in particular, living off discarded cabbages in the gutter—until the momentous day when a royal messenger rode into her village with the pronouncement that she was, in fact, a long-lost daughter of the king. Born on the same day as a nursemaid’s child, she had been switched with the peasant child just an hour after her birth. Now the truth had been discovered, all would be set right, and Beatrix would one day inherit the whole kingdom. 

And those are wonderful tales. Unless you happen to be the nursemaid’s real child. Unless that was the momentous day you discovered you had no home and no family.

Runaway Nuns

Matins bells rang cold and clear, but Anna was already awake and dressed, standing by the window that looked out on perfect darkness. Not even the moon lit the abbey grounds, only a sprinkling of stars, lonely in their distance. The song of a single bird, anticipating the dawn, warbled soft but strong into the narrow cell.

This landscape had become familiar over the last few days, a serene oasis of warmth and hospitality after the long trek from Nimbschen. But these were the last few moments. When the sun rose, Anna would be gone and never return.

A soft knock came at the door. She’d barely opened it a crack when Sister Clara shoved her way inside and smashed it shut behind her, wincing at the sound. She was clearly shivering, even under her heavy habit, and Anna placed a hand on her shoulder to steady her, speaking in the softest whisper, “Sister, what is the matter? Has anyone seen you?”

Hands Off

New Year, and a yellow world dawned. Fresh, yet with an unhealthy tinge, like a jaundiced baby. I stepped into the unseasonably warm air, loosed the collar of my school uniform, and took off across the quad, as certain as I'd ever been that this was the right thing to do.

Why was I so certain? Couldn't I have sent the feelers of my thought into the future and sensed the shape of the next few years? Someone once said that every action echoes in eternity. If there is such a thing as a backward echo, surely, I would have realized there was no possibility of waking up in my bed the next day with all the world unchanged.

But I heard no echo.

Familiar shapes in my peripheral vision—columns, shadowy porches, white-topped figures in skirts hurrying late to breakfast. Back from winter break and slipping into old habits. I swung open a heavy door, tromped down corridors and up stairs, and arrived before a portrait.

He was a balding man draped in black robes, not bothering to look at the painter. The sight of his fat hands made my stomach clench. I didn't even glance around the room before opening my satchel and pulling out a brand new can of spray paint.

I thought no one saw. No one stopped me.

Seconds later, I stepped back to survey my handiwork. Finally thinking of myself, I shoved the can away and walked fast down a flight of stairs—a back service entrance Tracey had told me about. I didn't stop until I arrived at the dorm, where I collapsed against a brick wall and let my heart beat.

I didn't think about security cameras, guards, committees, or principals—the short-term consequences of my courageous idiocy. How much less did I imagine the lawyers, doctors, journalists, courtrooms, photographs, testimonies, and injustice of the years to come? At that moment, I knew whatever came would be worth it. I'd said my piece. Those dripping yellow letters—HANDS OFF—would get the message across. Maybe I'd be the last girl who'd have to tell him that.

Turns out I was the last, although my final words would be heard at the end of a knife.

Writing Challenge: Frontier Tragedy

I took the challenge to write a scene based on 3 things given to me by my friend Corrie—1 setting + 2 characters. Here's what she sent me:

Log cabin, wilderness, 1800s. Wife just found her new and not very close husband (arranged marriage, populate the country sort of thing) killed in a bear trap (it happened ok?? ;)) and is discovered  covered in his blood by a half white half Indian hunter

Here's what I wrote!

The panic was setting in. At first it had been shocking, then horrifying, and now she was numb. She balled up her fists to rub out the stain soaking into her apron, but it spread to her dress and coated her arms, bright red and sticky. Sobs caught in her throat, awful gasping noises that never made it past her lips. 

Roger was dead, and she was covered in his blood.

A Picket Fence and Iced Tea

Her head was tilted to one side when I saw her, reminding me of an upside-down rabbit I'd once owned. She'd escaped to the backyard one night and it rained on her (the rabbit, not the old woman in the flowered overalls), and she was never the same again. An inner ear infection, I think. She always had her head tilted upside down after that. Until her tragic death at the hands (or, more accurately, teeth) of the neighbor's Rottweiler. 

As I say, Tamara reminded me of that rabbit, the way her head almost rested on her left shoulder. She walked toward me down the garden path and stuck out her hand.

"Howdy, friend. Don't mind me, just trying to unstick a little earwax. Been bothering me for a week. My hearing isn't the best on a good day, but I'm half deaf now. Nothing a little hydrogen peroxide can't help. What can I do for you?"

Heaven's Cattle Prod

You know that feeling when your heart jumps nine inches into your mouth and you're standing there with your heart pounding between your teeth, praying the other person doesn't see it, and trying to talk past the bloody, beating thing?

Some call it vulnerability. I call it heaven's cattle prod.

All my life I'd kept as far away from that feeling as possible, wrapping myself in layers of independence like fluffy down quits, insulating my fears with rationalizations, and ducking into shadows whenever authenticity threatened to shine its caustic beam on me.