Chapter 9 The Heroic Prince that I Am #2
“Yes, well, I can’t say I’m used to these accommodations either.” The beggar stands and stretches, grimacing.
It’s the first time I’ve been able to get a good look at him, so I stare boldly. He’s not much taller than I. Light brown hair curls out from beneath his cap, which—horrors—seems to be part of a costume.
“Why are your sleeves so puffy?”
He scowls, but ignores me to continue shaking the stiffness from his limbs. I continue my inspection, but there’s nothing else to note. His scruffy face is just … normal.
I squint. Almost too normal.
He notices me watching him and pauses his calisthenics. A look—almost hopeful, I think—passes over his very normal, boring face.
Hopeful for what?
Ugh. I look away.
I’d stand, but I’m not sure if my legs will support me, so I focus on flexing each muscle in turn, starting by curling my toes. When I’ve gotten all the way to my shoulders, raising them one at a time, I realize the beggar is still looking at me.
Well, I suppose we must have a conversation at some point.
“Let’s make some things clear,” I say.
He raises his eyebrows. “Oh yes, let’s.”
I ignore the impertinence. “Mainly this: you are not allowed to touch me.”
“Why, my lady,” he says with a mockery of humility, “did you want me to leave you face-first in the mud last night?”
“There was never any mud near my face.”
The nasty man grins. “Tell that to your mirror.” He pantomimes swiping at his right cheek, and I involuntarily feel my own.
My fingertips land on a bit of crusted dirt. I flatten my lips and scrub at the spot with the heel of my palm. I’d forgotten to wash off my lip paint last night, too, so I probably have red smears on my chin. Delightful.
“Anything else you’d like to, er, clear up?” he asks.
I ignore this, pushing my aching body off the ground with only a tiny grunt.
“I’d offer a hand,” the beggar says, “but I suppose you’d reject it.”
I give him a frosty smile, the kind that cuts more deeply than a scowl, but he seems remarkably un-cut.
“So, still not in the mood to converse, I see.”
I’m actually desperate to converse. Shame accompanies the realization. I cannot seriously want to talk to this man! It would be degrading!
Unfortunately, my other option is silence, and staying silent means I have to think, and thinking means I have to figure out—figure out—
I bite the inside of my cheek. The pain keeps me from spiraling.
“So, beggar,” I force, “what do you have to say for yourself?” It’s a grating way to open a conversation, but it’s what came out.
“Forgot my name already?”
I roll my eyes.
“Besides, why should I have to say anything?” he continues. “You’re the one that caused all this mess.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you, your ladyship! I certainly didn’t want this to happen!”
The words shouldn’t sting, but—heaven help me—they do. “Walk away, then.” I wrap my hurt feelings in a thick layer of ice and allow it to frost my words. I’d like to add, and I won’t miss you, but I fear being alone more than I dislike my current companion, and I don’t want him to know that.
The beggar’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, it looks like he’s considering it. Finally he sighs. “As annoying as this is, I can’t just leave a lady in a cursed wood.”
“What are you going to do, then?” It comes out too quickly, and I hope he doesn’t catch the pitiful undertone beneath my words.
“My”—he coughs—“my friend is, er, traveling back to Rhylorria. He said he’d meet me on the road. And then, I guess, he’ll tell me what to do.” He peers through the trees.
If it weren’t degrading enough to be married to a wandering minstrel, now I am faced with the added indignity that my wandering minstrel is cryptic. And, apparently, Rhylorrian. I study him with narrowed eyes.
“Well?” he finally says, when the silence lingers long and uncomfortable. “Shall we make our way back to the road?”
I shove my uncharitable thoughts to the back of my mind so I can focus on answering his question. “Which road?”
The beggar frowns. “Is there more than one?” When I let my disbelieving silence stretch, he reddens. “We were traveling from Rhylorria, and we stayed at a village with a public house. A little place. Nasty. Smelled like wet chickens? Everything was slightly damp?”
Fortunately, these added details do not jog my memory. I shudder. “So that’s where you picked up the smell.”
His mouth opens and closes. Very charitably, I refrain from pointing out how much he looks like a dumbstruck toad. He takes off his feathered cap to run a frustrated hand through his hair, and when he finally speaks, his voice is a low growl. “It’s of the utmost importance that I find my—friend.”
I don’t know what he wants me to do about it. Perhaps I should just strike out on my own and let him look for the moldy inn on his own.
Alone.
My stomach falls at the thought. Don’t think about that right now. Very slowly, I manage to say, “If you were coming from Rhylorria, it’s due west.”
He stares at me. I point through the trees to where the sky is lightest. “We came down the east road last night. I presume your friend and your moldy inn are the other way.”
“What?” The beggar stares at me, horror washing over his plain features. “You led us the wrong way? I have to go back!”
“Past my father’s house, which he specifically told us not to come near?” Useless man; he should have told me he wanted to head to Rhylorria!
The beggar runs his hands through his hair again and starts pacing. I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost, but not quite, because I’m still here quite against my will, and I dislike him on principle.
He stops pacing and squares his shoulders. “I don’t see any other options. And I really think that your father will forgive—” He catches sight of my expression and swallows whatever else he was going to say. Good. I don’t want to talk about my father right now.
“Well?” he continues, gruffly. “I don’t suppose you have any ideas?”
“None at all.” I offer an insincere smile.
“I’ll just wait for you to figure it out.
” I sink back down to my mossy seat. The walk last night—coming after a frantic week of preparations for my party—has worn me out, and I’m not overly sad to rest a while longer before resuming the trek down the mountainside.
If I ever have a chance to weigh in on the Godmothers’ Council and make some suggestions to their Standard Progression, I’ll motion to replace the Gift of a Pretty Laugh with the Gift of Endurance.
Perhaps it will help another distressed maiden someday, if she happens to be stuck on an unwanted journey with an unwanted teapot and an unwanted husband.
I wiggle my big toe inside its boot, trying to find a position that will relieve the blister I’ve developed, while the beggar stares at me in disbelief.
“You’re really going to sit there and let me solve all your problems for you?”
“While you’re about it,” I say, “do you think you could fetch me a drink?”
He casts his eyes to the sky, exasperated. “Of all the spoiled—” he mutters. “That’s a good place to start, though.” It’s a grudging admission.
A tiny spark of warmth wriggles into me. Did I say something … useful?
I try to keep my heart from fluttering too much. I was attempting to be annoying—which worked—not trying to solve any of our numerous problems. But … perhaps … I could help solve them? Father always said that rich men don’t want clever wives, but what if a poor man does?
The beggar is talking, but it takes me a moment to understand him.
“What?” I say.
“What did I do to deserve this?” He makes sure his sigh is loud enough for me to overhear. “I said, do you know these woods well enough to find water? A river, or stream, or spring?”
“Why would I—” I begin, primed for belligerence, but I stop myself.
“Actually, yes—well, maybe.” I close my eyes, trying to visualize the map of Candor Father has on his study wall.
He’d throw darts at it when the other lords were annoying him; Lord Shadebale’s estate is nothing more than an uneven hole by now.
I bite my bottom lip. There was a little brook not far from Melusine’s glade, but what did it run to?
My eyes pop open. “There is a stream,” I say in surprise. “East of the road we were on—maybe a mile? So if we go”—I look around, locating the sun—“that way …”
The beggar seems as surprised as I am. “Are you sure?”
I lift one shoulder, my short-lived burst of warmth vanishing at his skepticism. “By all means, you may choose a different direction if you wish.”
The beggar stoops to pick up his guitar. “We’ll try your way,” he says with reluctance. “Although if it’s taking us away from the road, we’ll never catch my”—he coughs—“my friend.”
I grimace at the thought of walking again. I’d rather go back to sleep. There’s a tempting pile of leaves that appears relatively comfortable. But the thought of running water has also reminded me that I’m desperately thirsty, so I grab my teapot and move to push myself back up.
Only to discover that I’m stuck. One of my legs has gone numb and refuses to move, tiny pinpricks of pain running up and down it when I attempt to shift positions.
The beggar, guitar over his back, is already marching the way I’d pointed.
My eyes widen. He can’t—he can’t just leave me behind! Alone!
“Lem!”
The beggar freezes, then spins slowly. The corner of his mouth quirks up. “What did you just say?”
I open and close my mouth like a helpless baby squirrel, embarrassed. I try my leg again and wince.
The beggar trudges over to me and folds his arms. “Were you worried I was leaving you, my lady?”
I can’t admit that, so I grit my teeth and focus my thoughts somewhere else. “It’s just a cramp.”
The beggar holds his hand out. “I suppose that’s as close as you’ll get to asking for help,” he observes, “so here you see me, very generously offering it un-asked.”
I don’t want to touch him, but I might collapse if I try to put my weight on this leg, so I grasp his warm, dirty hand, dimly noting that it’s too soft for a beggar, and let him pull me up and steady me while feeling returns to my limb.
“So,” the beggar says, “shall we be off?”