Chapter 76
Maylie
MAYLIE PRESSED A cup of bitter-smelling herbs into the young man’s hands.
‘You must drink all of that … Sire? M’Lord? Your Highness?’
He glanced up, his dark hair falling across his face.
Maylie had heard very little of Prince Ottone over the winters.
Much had been said about his older brother, the heir, of course – how handsome, clever and skilled he was – but the younger Prince was generally forgotten.
She had always had the impression that he was slightly disappointing – quiet, plain and homely – but the young man before her did not match these expectations.
Prince Ottone might not dazzle you, but he had a kind, gentle charm.
‘Thank you,’ he said, taking the cup from her, his voice slightly muffled by his swollen lip. ‘Thank you for everything.’
Maylie nodded and wondered if she ought to drop into a curtsey. She had not curtseyed since her days working as a maid in Tormale and she was not sure her aching, tired legs could manage it.
She was still deliberating when he added, ‘Can I see Lady Alinore now?’
‘She’s resting in the next room.’
‘I won’t wake her.’
Maylie nodded. ‘Go on through.’
The young man winced as he climbed to his feet. Holding his side, he limped into the cottage’s lean-to. ‘Thank you,’ he said again, pulling the curtain closed behind him.
Maylie blinked back her tiredness. The oddness of the situation was too much to grasp – the strangeness of the last day and night was beyond her comprehension.
She did not think her aunt Tadrie could ever have guessed that courtiers and royalty would cross the threshold of their humble little cottage. Maylie almost laughed at the thought.
She drifted around the room, picking up and putting down soiled bandages and ointment.
Since walking through the cottage door, she had tended to the wounds, burns and bruises of her patients without pause.
The intense flurry of activity mixed with her overwhelming tiredness had left her numb and exhausted.
She longed to hold one of her boys or rest against Chrisanie’s chest for comfort.
She yearned for familiar, safe things. But her family were in Silicia’s main square with the other villagers, staying out of the way while she tended to their guests.
Carrying a mixing bowl and cups to the sink, Maylie caught sight of a figure through the window. She paused. Her stomach lurched.
Outside, the Princess stood beside the herb garden, facing the forest. A small, thread-like form with black hair sliding from braids down her back. She seemed to be watching something.
Maylie glanced at the dark band of trees further up the mountainside and thought she noticed a flicker of silver between branches.
Taking a fur from beside the fire, she pulled it around herself, grimacing against the sore throb of her hips.
Then she stepped outside into fresh dawn light.
Watery spring sunshine was creeping down the mountainside, turning the sky pale and milky.
The night was finally over and morning was on its way.
Maylie walked around the corner of the cottage to the herb garden. As she passed the henhouse, the chickens clucked and squawked, eager for breakfast.
The Princess turned at the noise. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s you.’
She was still wearing the cloak Maylie had given her last night, its thick, colourless wool worn and lumpy. It was Maylie’s best cloak, but it must be the ugliest thing the Princess had ever worn.
‘Hello, Princess.’
She shook her head, more hair falling down her back. ‘Don’t call me that. I’m not a princess, not really.’
Maylie blinked in surprise. ‘What shall I call you then?’
‘I was hoping you could tell me that.’
Maylie’s hands quivered. She longed to touch this woman – her daughter.
Her fingers itched to hold the smooth, soft cheeks, to stroke back the trailing wisps of hair, to clasp her tightly, and make up for the winters they had been parted.
She had a sudden memory of the screaming, red-faced infant from the past and she was filled with wonder.
That same baby who had been formed inside her was this woman.
Despite the odds, they had both survived.
‘I know who you are,’ added the Princess, jutting out her chin. ‘You told the Great Dragon that we’re related so you must be … you must be my mother.’
Mother. The word ripped through Maylie, tearing open a place she had spent eighteen winters stitching shut. Somewhere filled with wounds she had never dared name.
‘Yes,’ she replied simply.
They stood quietly, watching each other.
‘I was told that my mother was a woman called Esmelie Tuchi from the Pits and that she was dead,’ said the Princess finally.
Maylie flinched at the mention of her sister. ‘No, that’s not true.’
‘So what is my name then?’ asked the Princess, her voice strained. ‘Or did you not even name me before you gave me away?’
‘Your name?’
‘Yes, that’s what I asked you. Surely it’s the least you can tell me.’
Maylie was finding it difficult to follow the conversation.
She could not stop staring – her eyes raking over every detail of the Princess’s face, over every dip and slope of her body.
It was peculiarly overwhelming, but she recognized what was happening.
This was how she had felt when her sons were born, looking on their shrivelled, hunched bodies for the first time. She was in love.
‘I suppose I wanted to call you Esmelie,’ she said. ‘After my sister.’
‘Esmelie.’ The Princess seemed to move the word around her mouth, as though chewing on it. ‘So she was a real person?’
‘Yes. Esmelie Tuchi was my sister, but she wasn’t from the Pits, not really. She changed herself to Esmelie Drucelli when we moved there and … well, it’s a long, sorry tale.’ Maylie tried to push away the dark, horrible memories that came surging forward.
The Princess folded her arms. ‘Then why is your sister’s name on my record?’
‘Because I gave her real name when I …’ Maylie trailed off, unable to speak it aloud. ‘Anyway, the Queen called you Cressyda,’ she added. ‘And that’s a fine name too.’
The Princess’s amber eyes flashed and her top lip curled back. ‘Yes, that’s what my real mother named me.’
Maylie knew this was meant to hurt her and it did, a little. But she was too astonished by what was happening to really feel the slight.
‘Those two boys who left the cottage when I arrived …’ The Princess’s voice had lifted a few notches. ‘They were your sons?’
‘Yes, I’ve three boys. The oldest is called Gredie and he’s away at the moment with friends. Then there’s Harie and the youngest is Rozowie.’ She wanted to say more – to tell the Princess all about her family – but she stopped herself. Perhaps it was too much.
‘And the man? He’s your husband?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But not my father?’
Something inside Maylie tightened painfully. She wished she could say yes. Chrisanie was such a wonderful father.
‘I’ve not seen your father since before you were born. I don’t know what happened to him. But he were of Mountain blood too.’
The Princess looked away. Her shrunken form seemed to wilt further.
‘Chrisanie would love to meet you though,’ added Maylie. ‘And the boys. They’d be so excited. They’ve never met a princess. And they’d like to have a sister …’
As soon as she said it, Maylie knew it was wrong. She had wanted to soothe, and she had got carried away.
‘I didn’t mean—’ she began.
‘They are nothing to me. You are nothing to me.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
The shifting expressions on the Princess’s face revealed the vast undercurrents of emotion tangled within: anger, hurt and pain.
‘I’ll never forgive you,’ she hissed.
It was what Maylie had always feared and she let the guilty devastation of those words cut through her, deep and agonizing.
She tried to remind herself that this was to be expected – she was not going to be welcomed back with open arms – but it still hurt all the same.
Swallowing down the stinging burn of tears she replied, ‘I don’t want anything from you. ’Tis enough just to see you now.’
The Princess lowered her head. She looked more miserable than ever.
‘I should like to tell the tale of you and me one day,’ Maylie added carefully. ‘If you’ll let me?’
She watched a battle between curiosity and fury play out across her daughter’s face.
‘I don’t want excuses.’
‘There’re none to give. I’ve always regretted what happened. I always will.’
The Princess’s features softened slightly. ‘I’m tired,’ she muttered.
‘You need rest.’ Maylie noticed the severe jut of her daughter’s collarbone poking through the woollen cloak. ‘And something to eat,’ she added. ‘I’ve bread and cheese inside.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ replied the Princess in a tone that sounded automatic. Then she tilted her head and added, ‘But maybe something.’
It was a start.
Maylie had to stop herself from smiling. The thought of watching her daughter eat food she had prepared brought a warm contentedness to her heart. If nothing else worked out – if the Princess returned to Tormale and Maylie never saw her again – perhaps that alone would be enough.
They were both turning towards the cottage, heading to the front door, when the Princess said, ‘I need you to explain to me about my Gift.’
‘You mean the Sight?’
‘Yes. I want to understand it.’
Maylie glanced up the mountainside at the forest. She could just make out the faint outline of a figure in the trees. Watching them.
‘I can explain everything I know, but ’tis not much,’ she replied. ‘I’m not sure ’tis something that can ever be fully understood. I’ve some notes on the Hidden People you can read. I think my mam made them, but she died when I were very young. I’m guessing she had the same Gift.’
Despite the difficulties of the Sight and the complexities it had brought to Maylie’s life, she felt glad that this was something she shared with her daughter. A part of her had always been embedded inside the Princess and would remain so for ever.
‘You’ve already shown yourself to be very wise with your Gift.’
The Princess’s brow puckered. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You bartered with the Great Dragon. What you did were amazing. You’ve saved lives. You’re a hero.’ Another burst of pride glowed through Maylie’s chest. ‘You were very brave,’ she added.
The Princess touched something at her neck, fiddling with a scrap of material tucked beneath the collar of the cloak. ‘You gave me this,’ she said suddenly.
Maylie saw a flash of faded pink. Recognition hit her like a slap and she gasped. ‘My ribbon,’ she whispered. ‘You kept it? You wear it?’
Tears slipped from the Princess’s eyes. She looked as though she was trying to say something – perhaps another cutting retort – but her face crumpled with emotion and a sob escaped her throat.
Without thinking, Maylie held out her hands and drew Cressyda to her chest. Wrapping arms around the thin, brittle shoulders, she held her daughter tightly and felt the rhythmic thud of her heartbeat pulsing against the Princess’s cheek.
‘My girl,’ she murmured so quietly it was barely audible. ‘My poor child.’
Below them, in the main square of Silicia, the bells of the Sanctuary began ringing once more.
Maylie knew they ought to go inside the cottage before prying villagers came wandering about. Snatches of what had occurred in the night would have already started circulating and everyone would need answers. Soon the whole tale would have to be told.
But not yet.
For now, Maylie would keep holding her daughter; arms clasped around the small, strong figure. This time, she would not be the first one to let go.