Briar Rose (10 page)

He blinked. ‘What village do you call your home?’ he asked.

‘Bliss.’

The corners of his mouth curved upward. ‘That is a curious name for a hamlet. Is it truly so blissful for those who dwell there?’

‘No. It’s OK, I guess.’
At least it doesn’t have wolves in the streets.

‘Oh . . . kay?’ he asked, puzzled.

Briar realized she needed to translate. ‘OK means . . . it’s good. Nothing really fancy, but good.’

‘I see,’ he said, frowning. ‘Our village is not blissful. It is dangerous here, what with the wolves and the fata.’

‘The what?’

‘They are—’

Someone called out for Ruric and he quickly waved her into a corner. ‘Stay out of sight until I have finished with this one. Then I will help you if I can.’

Briar did as he asked, though she wondered why he was so nervous about her being seen by anyone.

Once another man and his horse had departed, Ruric returned. During that time, he’d apparently given her situation some thought. ‘Perhaps I can find someone who knows where your
village lies,’ he said. ‘Then I can arrange an escort to return you safely to your family.’

‘I don’t think it’ll be that easy,’ she said, that admission crushing a bit more of her hope. ‘I think I’m here for some reason.’ Not that she had a
clue why she felt that way. It was more instinct, like knowing she should walk towards the oncoming car in her nightmare, rather than trying to dodge it.

When she looked back up, Ruric’s frown had reappeared. ‘You are most peculiar, Briar Rose.’

‘I know,’ she said, flopping down in the hay. ‘Tell me more about your village. Why do you have a pack of wolves roaming the streets? I mean, that’s pretty . . .
drastic.’ She’d almost said ‘medieval’.

‘They are only part of what keeps this village in thrall.’

Which wasn’t an answer. ‘What about this princess?’

‘She is part of the problem. Aurora has been asleep for a long time, you see.’

Aurora? Oh wow, I’m in ‘Sleeping Beauty’.
That was her fave tale ever, but why did it feel wrong?

‘Why hasn’t some prince kissed her and broken the spell?’

‘You know of her plight, then?’ Briar nodded. ‘In truth, many have tried, prince and commoner. They all failed because of the regent.’

‘What regent?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘The one who rules the kingdom until Aurora is restored.’

That’s not right.
While in some of the versions of ‘Sleeping Beauty’ the curse had put the entire kingdom asleep, in others it was just the princess, her family and
the servants, trapped inside a wall of thorns. None of the tales had ever spoken of someone
running
the kingdom while they waited for the sleepy royal to rise and shine.

‘Who is this regent person?’ she asked.

Ruric’s face clouded. ‘That is a very dangerous question.’

He beckoned her further back inside the stable. She noted he kept himself positioned so he could see the doors at all times.

‘Aurora was cursed to die when she reached her sixteenth birthday,’ he replied in a lowered voice.

There’s a lot of that going around.

‘When the princess pricked her finger on a needle, she fell asleep.’

‘And her family too, right?’

‘Yes, but . . . they did not survive. One by one, they died from some mysterious illness, or at least that is what the regent claimed. Now the only one left is Aurora and none can awaken
her.’

That was so wrong. Before she could follow up on that, somewhere in the village a gong began to sound.

‘Another curfew?’

‘No.’ Ruric’s face fell. ‘I knew that fool didn’t have a chance.’

‘You mean the guy that left his horse here?’

‘Yes. That sound means we are being summoned to a Reckoning.’ He stared at her. ‘We must cover your hair.’ Ruric hurriedly dug around in his possessions until he found a
coarse piece of fabric, which he handed to her. It smelt musty and even though she tried to talk him out of it, he wouldn’t budge.

‘Just cover all of it. Tuck it up tightly.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s dangerous for you to be seen the way you are. I’ll explain later. Hurry now, we are running out of time.’

Once she’d done as he asked, he hastily smeared dirt on her face, taking special care to darken her eyebrows. His fingers were calloused, but gentle, and it was disconcerting to be this
close to him, to see so deep in his eyes.

As if made uneasy as well, Ruric stepped back, wiping his hands on his breeches. ‘That will have to do.’ He pulled on a grey cloak, tying it at his neck.

‘What is this Reckoning thing?’ she asked as he secured the stable doors behind them.

‘It is . . . a summons by the regent. All in the village are required to attend, unless you are at death’s door.’

‘And if you’re not . . . dying?’

‘Then you soon will be.’

Ruric took off at a pace that made Briar scurry to catch up with him. It didn’t help that he was blessed with long legs.

When she protested, he refused to slow down. ‘We must hurry. It is never wise to be late,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘It is best not to draw attention to ourselves.’

Briar growled under her breath. Still, Ruric was so serious she clamped her mouth shut. Eventually she’d get her answers.

As they hurried along, she stole quick glances at the other villagers. Some had pockmarked faces, or missing teeth. A few limped along using makeshift crutches. A young woman with a baby in her
arms hustled past, her face flushed. She looked familiar.

‘Mrs Bailey?’ Briar called out. The woman didn’t act as if she’d heard her and kept moving.

Briar thought maybe she’d been wrong, but then she saw two other people from her town, as well. One man looked straight at her, but there was no sign of recognition.

OK, this is freaky. Part Bliss, part . . . whatever.

Next to her, a portly man puffed along, flour dusting his clothes. A baker perhaps? A small boy sped past them with a scraggly dog barking at his heels.

In the daylight the village looked just as confusing as it had at dusk. Ramshackle houses with uneven roofs crouched over the street like arthritic vultures. The street itself was dirt and mud,
or worse, depending on where you put your feet.

This is too real to be a fairy tale.
The storybook villages were littered with clever boys, hideous giants, brave princes and evil stepmothers. Princesses were everywhere, most of them
in dire need of being rescued. The only thing in abundance in this hamlet was people who really needed a bath.

Hasn’t anyone invented soap yet?

Despite the smell, Briar really wanted to slow down and check it all out. Even if this was a dream, how often did you find yourself inside a story? Unfortunately, Ruric didn’t alter his
pace until they reached some sort of crossroads when the increasing foot traffic slowed him down. Five lanes – they could hardly be considered streets – converged at a hub, like spokes
on a wheel. In the very centre was a well.

Just like Bliss used to have.
Briar had seen pictures of it at her grandparents’ house.

After much jostling, more villagers spilt in around them from all sides, then they all channelled down one street in particular. Luckily, it was the widest of the bunch.

Ruric touched her arm. ‘Stay close to me,’ he said, his tone worried.

A woman walked by, a shiny area on her cheek catching Briar’s notice. For a second she thought it was some sort of jewellery, but blood oozed around it, dark and weeping. Then she spied
another villager, this one with pieces of metal replacing two of his fingers. He seemed in pain, his hand swollen and infected.

‘What is wrong with those people?’ Briar asked, angling her head in their direction.

Ruric shot a quick glance at them. ‘They have accepted the regent’s metal as a talisman against our enemies.’

‘Why would anyone do that if it hurts them?’

‘They will do anything not to fear, even if the threat is nothing compared to the cure.’

Out of the corner of her eye Briar caught sight of a man hunched over in an awkward position, his arms and head secured in some sort of wooden framework. He was smeared with rotten produce and
covered in swarming flies.

She tugged on Ruric’s sleeve. ‘What did he do?’

‘He was one of the night watchmen and was caught asleep at his post. He’s fortunate all he got was the pillory.’

Eventually they entered an open area just outside the village. To Briar’s relief, it was broad and green. The air was cleaner here and she took a deep breath, savouring it.

‘Oh, that’s better,’ she said. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To the common,’ her escort replied. ‘It is where the villagers graze their livestock.’

The flood of people continued on, and in time they approached an open field. There weren’t many cows or sheep, but a substantial crowd had gathered, clustered in tight knots. Briar guessed
there were over two hundred souls with more still streaming from the village. Some were fully human; others had that metallic talisman of which Ruric spoke. The way the brass twisted into their
flesh seemed more torture than protection. It reminded her of the wolves.

Ruric paused for a moment, eyeing the crowd. ‘Come, let us head for the oak,’ he said, pointing to a massive tree in the very centre of the field. In many ways the field reminded her
of the one outside Bliss. It had that same pastoral vibe. Before they had a chance to move on, a man with bulging biceps and a leather apron joined them. He had big bristling eyebrows and a crooked
nose, like it’d been broken, but not set properly.

‘Smithy,’ Ruric said, inclining his head politely.

‘Ruric. How are you today?’

‘Well, and you?’

‘The same. Who is this, then?’ the man asked, nodding his head at Briar.

‘My . . . cousin, Briar. She has come to visit me, no doubt to report home as to how I am faring.’

Briar made sure to nod and go along with the ruse.

‘Welcome, maid,’ the smithy said, then frowned. ‘Poor day to be here, though,’ he added, shooting Ruric a knowing glance.

‘True, but none of us were given a choice,’ he replied. ‘I need a new horseshoe. I’ll bring the damaged one by this afternoon so you can judge the size of it.’

‘I’ll be watching for you,’ the smithy replied, and headed off. Briar tracked him for a time until he joined a dark-haired lady with broad hips.

‘Cousin?’ she said, giving Ruric a raised eyebrow.

‘It has to be that way,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You don’t resemble me so I cannot claim you’re my sister.’

He had a point. ‘So why did you have me cover my hair?’ she asked, making sure to keep her voice so quiet only he could hear her. ‘A lot of girls here don’t.’
Almost all of them, in fact, at least those of her age.

‘Do you notice anything in common about them?’

Her eyes hopped around, checking out each young female she could spy. They ranged from tall and scrawny to heavy and round. One even resembled her cousin Saralyn, except with dark hair, which
was really creepy. Then she saw the one thing they weren’t.

‘None of them have the same hair colour as mine.’

‘That is it.’ He leaned closer now. ‘It is said that the regent dislikes any that have hair the colour of gold because it is an insult to the sleeping princess.’

‘So what does he do? Give you a haircut?’

‘She,’ he corrected her. ‘Yes, there is a haircut, in a way. She has you beheaded.’

‘You’re not . . . joking, are you?’ Briar replied, aghast.

‘No. I saw a young woman die in this very spot only a few weeks ago. She had come to the village with her husband, but no one warned them of the fate that might befall her.’

‘What did her husband do?’

‘He died at her side, ripped to pieces by a—’ Ruric shook his head. ‘Those are not things you should know about.’

In lieu of a reply, Briar’s stomach somersaulted.
They kill
people because of their hair. What kind of hell is this?

As he led her across the field, people greeted them pleasantly and there were more questions as to who
the fair maid
was. Briar also received a few glares along the way, mostly from
younger girls.

The tree they sheltered under was gnarly and huge and had to be centuries old. As Briar rested her back against the trunk, enjoying the leafy shade, she couldn’t help but notice a few
women frowning at her.

Ruric noted it as well. ‘Ah, they’ll be wagging their tongues when this is through. You are seen as a threat to all those mothers who have marriageable daughters.’

‘But cousins can’t marry,’ she said. When he gave her a bemused expression, Briar gasped. ‘They can?’

‘Most certainly. In my village as well.’

‘Not where I come from.’
And for good reasons.
‘You’re not from here?’

‘No. I arrived in the spring. Quinton, the elderly man who owns the stable, needed help. He’s been pleased with my work, so I’ve stayed on.’

‘People seem to like you,’ she said. Especially the girls, who tracked him wherever he went. Some primped their hair or swayed their hips enticingly whenever they thought he was
looking in their direction.