Chapter 6
Guinevere
The clash of swords in the square draws my attention from where I’m wandering in the rose garden in a rare patch of sun.
Within the keep, Melantha and her ladies are embroidering pillows and composing sonnets in honor of the prince who will arrive in a sevennight.
Unable to sit a moment longer and tolerate them congratulating me one more time, I left to take some air.
The sun dips behind a cloud again, and the transient warmth I felt on my shoulders disappears suddenly, leaving only the cutting cold of the winter air. I pull my fur collar up a little higher and turn toward the courtyard where the hunters are training with Alaric.
Training provides a rare opportunity to study him, and I find myself lingering to watch at the low wall which circles the garden.
His men move with rough, raw power, grunting and swinging their swords as they parry with each other or repeat hit after hit into heavy straw-filled bags or wooden blocks.
Alaric stalks between them, correcting a movement, snapping at them when they aren’t fast enough, or simply watching in stony silence.
One of the hunters—a dark-haired man whose slender face looks younger than the others—swings the longsword, cutting into the upright log at a place lower than the other men.
Alaric stops. He gestures for the man’s sword. Then with a swift and cruelly efficient motion he lifts it and slices the log in two. The top of the wood drops to the ground with a dull thud.
“Take an ax and cut me five more pieces the same. Your training finishes when you have sent your sword through all five the way I just did and not before.”
The man starts. From the look of him he might be there all day and still not complete the task.
“The rest of you pack up and prepare to saddle up. We ride out before midday.” Sweeping his cloak around him Alaric turns and stalks toward the stable, and his men hurry to obey, leaving the young hunter searching through the wood pile for logs.
It’s a wonder more of them aren’t killed if that’s his method of training. The callous way he speaks to the men rankles me, but I’m forbidden to talk with them. I can’t even offer condolences to the young hunter.
Really, what does Alaric mean by being so condescending all the time? What makes him think he is so far above the rest of us?
Turning, I stalk back through the rose garden, pausing to gather a fallen flower.
Something must have knocked it from the branch in full bloom.
The petals are bright and soft. Its form plump and perfect.
It is so perfect, if it had not fallen it would have been cropped by the royal gardeners for the queen’s chamber.
I suppose there’s no tragedy that it fell since it would have been plucked anyway.
Not allowed to spread its petals. Instead it will last in the full blush of its glory a day more and suddenly dry up until the petals grow dry and crunchy and brown.
Melantha allows no imperfect flowers in her vases. Any touched by frost or sun or wind are rejected. Only the most beautiful things are sent to the queen.
As I gather the fallen flower in my palm, I’m fixated by the softness of the petals. By their concentric swirls as they grow smaller and smaller into the tiny bud which hides at the center. I stroke a fingertip over an outside petal only to discover a tiny ridge of brown crusts its outer edge.
I pause in the act of plucking the imperfect petal from the flower. Why should I? Saved from the queen’s table, this flower is free to blossom in imperfection. Free to wear its tarnishes. Why make it suffer after death?
Instead, I tuck the flower at the corner of a stone bench, smiling to myself at the way the red of the petals livens the gray stone.
If only I could fall from my royal perch to float to the ground and to freedom. If only I could escape this marriage and my stepmother who orchestrated it. She is so hungry to be rid of me she would barter me to the next prince who asked regardless of what sort of match he would make for me.
She has always found me trying. She’s said as much, more than once.
Perhaps I could try harder to please her, but she’s always made that an impossible task. Every time I felt I came close to impressing her, the standard always seemed to grow higher.
Perhaps I can use my failure as a strength, though.
If the prince finds me as trying as Melantha does, perhaps he will call off the wedding.
She will be angry, but she always finds something to be angry with me about.
It would not be the first time I’ve suffered through a long lecture or disapproving looks cast down the table.
I gather my skirts to climb up the three steps into the kitchen garden where herbs and medicinal plants grow.
The more I think about this, the more I think it is the only way I’ll get any say in this.
I may not be able to choose my husband, but perhaps there is a way for me to reject this man I do not want.
I’d rather die an old maid than live as a wife to the prince of Dolmire.
Mind made up, my steps crunch over the gravel of the courtyard and in through the servant’s entrance. The tarnished rose has given me an idea.
The corridors here are dark and narrow, but there is no one around, so no one stops me from brazenly walking into the kitchens and through them toward the cupboard where the expensive spices are stored.
Thankfully the tiny cabinet drawers are unlocked, and I root around searching for something truly pungent.
I bend and sniff several of the tiny compartments containing spices I don’t recognize, but nothing has quite the scent I’m looking for.
Nothing will be bad enough to put off the prince.
I hear footsteps in the kitchen before I’ve found anything.
I just need a few more minutes, but voices outside the storeroom make me jump.
Hastily I shove the tiny drawers back where they came from and spin as the old cook strides through the door to the storeroom and pauses there, eyes wide with shock. “Princess!”
I brush my hands over my skirt guiltily to brush the last traces of spices from my fingers, though I have every right to be here. I am the princess after all!
I would hate my stepmother to catch wind of what I’m planning, though. I cough. “Ah, I was looking for something. We have so many spices in here.”
The older woman looks in surprise between the spice cabinet and me. “Yes, my lady, we do. Might I help you find something? Perhaps you were looking for some spiced wine? Is your stomach unsettled?”
“No, it is only that I—” I’m searching for a reason for me to be here when I strike on something. “Would you have some fresh milk brought to my chamber? And some butter?”
“Certainly, my lady. Shall I send some bread as well? Or a little cake?”
No doubt she thinks my request is strange. I could have sent my maid down to the kitchens for this. “Yes. That will do nicely.”
I try to step past her, and she moves out of my way, but calls, “Is there anything else, my lady?”
“No. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
I straighten my back and walk out through the kitchens past the two kitchen girls who stare at me and share a look when I stride past, ignoring them.
I only hope this works and I’ve been subtle enough that Melantha does not get wind of it.