Once Upon a Time: The Villains (23 page)

“You know of…”

“Everyone knows of the princess whose heart is made of ice.”

Is that what people say of me? Hardly flattering, and false.

As the sun sets, we make camp in the woods and my beggar husband produces a brace of hares which he roasts over the open fire. Before I bed down, he chews the herbs and covers my blisters in the spitty goo. I turn away, for I cannot stop gagging. He laughs and doesn’t seem bothered by my reaction. As the night before, he plays his lute and I fall asleep.

The next day, we push through a meadow. Its grass is long and sweet smelling; its flowers more lovely than any I’ve seen. “To whom does this meadow belong, for it is a treasure to the eye.”

“To one king or another. Do you really care?”

I never did before. I groan my regret again, for I had luxuries at my fingertips and now I wallow in the dust. My husband smacks the pig’s rump, making it jerk into an uncomfortable trot. I hold my tongue, for I fear I have upset him. The meadow gives way to fields of wheat and rye and orchards of nut and fruit trees. The abundance is great and I cover my eyes for I cannot bear to see what I so casually threw away.

That night, I test my feet. The blisters have dried and are slowly turning into calluses. I sit down and willingly lift my skirts to my ankles so he can plaster my blisters with the healing herbs.

“They seem much improved.”

“They are,” I agree, “but I think one more night will see them better.”

He shrugs and chews the herbs. I talk of the beauty we’ve seen this day while he ministers to my feet and not once do I gag. When he is done, I lie down and beg him to play. He pushes the lute into my hands. “I am weary. While you have lounged across these many miles, I have walked. Play me a song so that I may relax.”

Me? Play the lute? I look at the instrument. It is beautiful. Finely made; the wood warm to the touch. I glance back at him. He has made himself comfortable, his hands tucked behind his neck, his legs stretched out, long and straight. “I-I cannot play.”

“Cannot play?” He snorts and closes his eyes. “I find that hard to believe. Surely every princess is taught her music.”

“I did not say I was not taught. I-I did not take to the instrument — any instrument. The music master said I was an abomination to the angels and to never play again.” I leave out that I purposefully refused to practice and threw a fit every time the music master came within ten feet of me.

My husband sighs, and I hear a world of disappointment in it. “Tell me wife. What can you do to entertain? A man deserves his leisure and a wife is made to give him ease.”

“I…um…”

I cannot think of one thing I do to amuse others. I am pretty. That is my gift. Then a revelation brightens my mood. “I sew!” It is no lie. “My stitches are small and neat and very precise. No one can embellish a pillow or create a tapestry as beautiful as I can.”

“A good talent,” he says thoughtfully, and then frowns, “but hardly entertaining. We will have little need for such extravagant superfluities. At least mending shall be easy for you.”

Mending? That is a maid’s job and hardly worth my time. My beggar husband has a princess as a wife and must adjust his expectations accordingly. I am determined to show him I have worth beyond the simplistic work of a day laborer. “It is said I have wit.”

He laughs. “What needs a woman for wit? If conversation is needed, a man goes to the alehouse.”

I had heard many men did just that. My father is the exception to most men, and I tell him so. “He found my mother and me most helpful and amusing after a long and weary day.”

“He also found himself saddled with a disobedient daughter who, I might add, he gave to the first beggar to offer up entertainment. Whether as a reward or punishment, I have yet to decide.” His eyes open and his look cuts me to the bone. “Is there nothing you can do?”

I am a noble woman. I am to be pretty and kind, to offer myself up as an alliance when needed and breed an heir to the crown. I cannot tell him these things. He will laugh for I am, and have done, none of these things. I place the lute on the ground between us and lie down. I have nothing to offer this man — any man. The music master’s face appears in the misty recesses of my mind’s eye and his lips curl with one terrible word. “Abomination.”

I curl on my side, drawing my knees to my chest. Why I am suddenly upset, I cannot comprehend. As the night deepens and our breathing mingles into one sound, we fall asleep, side-by-side, strangers forced together by the whim of my father.

In the morning, I wake and am able to walk to my litter. I stare at the contraption, loathing it as much as I appreciate its usefulness, and cast a beseeching glance at my husband. “My feet are much healed. I am sure I can walk.”

“I will not let it be said I abuse my wife.” He presses me onto the pallet and fusses over my comfort. “Be content for today and on the morrow you will have your legs back under you.”

The sound of the now familiar snap moves the pig forward and I heave a heavy sigh. Before long, we come to a town. It is bright and clean, and the people who live here are cheerful and polite. It is a town similar to my own, yet its air seems sweeter, its mood, lighter. The houses are dressed like candy and the streets cobbled as finely as my stitches. I cannot take in all the details available to my eyes. An ache of longing pierces my heart.

My once precious gown is ripped and dirty and my hands are covered in dust. My once privileged life is now ordinary. I no longer belong in a place so fine. “Why did I not do as my father asked ...”

My husband frowns. “It does not please me to hear you constantly wishing for another life. I begin to fear your father has seen fit to free himself of a covetous woman, yet in doing so has cursed me with one.” A quick snap and a sharp squeal combines to draw attention to us, and I hunker down on my pallet.

Beyond the other side of the town, within the shade of the forest, a small hut juts up from the underbrush like a living beast. When we approach, its walls quiver as if it breathes in our scent. I do not find any sound of welcome emitting from it, though I feel as if I am being watched.

“Who lives here? Or is it abandoned? Is that why we’ve stopped, to partake of a repast before we continue our journey?”

“We will have a repast, but we will not resume our journey. We are home.”

“Home?” My eyes widen with alarm. “It cannot be.”

“I know it does not look like much, but it is cozy as a downy nest. It does a fine job of keeping the wind and rain out.”

I doubt his claim as he pulls me through the front door which sags on old leather hinges, and I spy the front shutters missing a few slats. It looks far more cramped than cozy. There is one bed, one table, a fireplace and a crude sink in the corner. “All I see is a servant’s bed. Where do I sleep?”

“Servant’s bed? What servant? This is all ours. We do for ourselves here, wife.” He picks up a bundle of twigs and places them in my hands. “Make a fire and put on some water. I need a swallow of tea before you start dinner. I’ll be just there,” he says, pointing to the bed. “I am most egregiously tired from our journey.”

He immediately flops onto the bed and waits for me to begin. I’ve never started a fire before. I don’t know what to do. I look from the bundle to my husband. He waves me toward the fireplace with a wide, expectant smile. Surely I have seen the servants start a fire many times, but I cannot for my life remember exactly how they did it. Crouching by the hearth, I toss the twigs in. I remember the servants rubbing something, so I pick up a stick and poke at the thick layer of ash. Nothing happens.

I remember them blowing. Yes. Gently at first. I do the same, leaning forward as I do. Nothing. Mayhap I am blowing too gently? I lean closer and give it a good, stout blow. Ashes swirl, engulfing me and half the hut in their sooty, gray flakes. My husband pulls me back as I cough and sputter for breath.

“Helpless as a ewe in a bog, you are,” he says. “Stand back and watch.” I gladly give the chore to him. In no time, a fire is lit and a kettle is boiling and a nice potato stew is bubbling in a suspended pot.

As he stirs, he orders me to clear a spot on the table. I wet a rag and begin to clean, but I only seem to push the ash deeper into the grooves. After a few minutes of scrubbing, my beggar husband plops two bowls onto the soggy tabletop. A jug of watered-down wine is found and two cups. He sits, and with his foot, he pushes out the other chair and nods for me to join him.

I am unimpressed, but starving, and I join him. He says a quick prayer and digs into his food. I grimace and peer into my bowl, prodding bits and pieces around in an effort to identify them. One thing I do notice and I look over at him. “No meat?”

He grunts. “You must get used to eating what is at hand, wife. Tomorrow I will set to catching game.”

We eat the rest of the meal in silence, yet my mind chatters worriedly, especially every time I look at the bed. Soon, the time for rest arrives. As I slip from my gown under my husband’s watchful gaze, he strips to his braces and sprawls himself upon the bed. All too soon, I wear only my shift. I peek over at my bare-chested husband. His eyes glitter contentedly as he lazily chews on the end of a straw I can only surmise he has pulled from our mattress. I approach the bed, eyes again downcast, and ask, “Which side of the bed do you prefer?”

He pushes himself up on his elbows. “Which side? Why both, wife.” He cocks his head and smiles. “Do you think to sleep here? That will not do. A goodly wife sleeps next to the fire. It serves two important purposes. First, she will be warm all night and never fear taking a chill, and second, when the fire begins to die, she can awaken and place fresh logs upon it. There are blankets in the cupboard.” He flops back down and says, “Good night, wife.”

Confusion stifles my thoughts. I automatically go to the cupboard and take out the blanket. If I were any other woman, I would be upset, but I am thankful. I do not long to share my beggar husband’s bed. I gladly spread out my blankets near the fire and drift to sleep.

I am awakened by a slap to my rear and a bellow in my ear. “Wake up! You’ve let the fire die. Is there no chore I can set you to that will be done?”

With a yawn, I rise and blink back the last of sleep. My bones ache from my hips to my neck. No amount of stretching will ease the pain. But I do not complain. A hard floor is better than a smelly beggar man. He squats and hands me a cloth. “I go ahunting. Perhaps I’ll be gone for more than a few days. Clean the house while I am gone and store up the cupboard with fresh berries and roots.”

He stands and leaves, and I am free of him. I climb from my makeshift bed and crawl onto the mattress. It is lumpy; I do not care. I beat down the worst offenders before I close my eyes and sleep. I do not waken till well after noon. With only myself to worry about, I rummage about for food and find precious little hiding in the cabinets to entice me. The last bit of potato stew is eaten — cold because I once again have let the fire my beggar husband showed me how to make and I can’t seem to imitate go out — and I crawl back in bed.

The next day, I find a barrel filled with rain water, and I wash my hair and underclothes. That was a mistake for my hair grew even more knotted while wet and I have no way of releasing the mess. My clothes fair no better for I couldn’t find any soap and my washing only turned the dirty splotches into streaks of brown and gray. Hungry and irritable, I begin to wish my beggar husband back. With my shift partially dry, and my hair resembling a weaver bird’s nest, I tearfully climb into bed and fall asleep.

When I wake the next day, the sagging front door is open and light pours into the hut. I hear whistling and see the unruly mop of hair that belongs to my husband as he bends over a collection of carcasses while he skins them. I must have made a noise, for he turns and looks in at me. “Good morning.”

I push myself up. A pinch of joy flashes at seeing him. No longer am I alone.

He wipes his bloody hands on his trews and comes inside. “What have you been up to since I left?”

Tears clouded my vision. I couldn’t help it. “I am aggrieved! I could not start the fire. I tried, but it would not take. There is nothing to eat, and I washed my hair and clothes, but since I could not find soap, I smell like a wet dog.” I bent my head into my hands and let all my frustrations out. “I want to go home.”

“Now, now,” my husband says, laughter coloring his voice as he pats my back and eyes the chaos that has become my hair. “Challenges are bound to arise.”

He leaves and comes back with a deep bowl and a small pail of water. With him directing the movement of my head, he washes my hair with freshly scented soap and rinses every bit clean. Afterwards, he procures a comb. Horror sparks my mind. I do not look forward to raking it through my hair. Truth be told, my maid has always tended to the chore.

He shows me once again how to start a fire, and this time I watch his every move. When the fire catches, he presses me before it and holds out his hand. Puzzled, I look at him, and he says, “Give me the comb.”

I hand it over and he begins the chore of detangling the heavy mess that is my hair. I cry, not because he pulls my hair, but because he is so gentle. Why would he care? I have done nothing. Shame pulls at my heart, and I quietly sweep the tears away.

A moment later he stops and collects the pot, a knife and a pile of potatoes, a large onion and three large carrots and hands them to me. “Idle hands make for an empty pot.”

His expectation is clear. I hate the sour smell of the onions. The chore is tedious, but I bite my lip and cut the vegetables into small pieces over the pot. He tugs, I cut and time moves forward. Before long he says, “Soot still covers the floor. What did you clean while I was away?”

“I told you. My hair and clothes.”

“I was gone many days.”

“The first day I slept. The second day I looked for food. The third is when I cleaned.”

“Your hair and clothes.”

“Yes.”

“What of the house?”

“What of it?”

“It’s filthy.”

I had noticed, but what was I to do? I glance over my shoulder and smile up at him. He had been so kind, I was willing to show him my gratitude by granting him my presence and learning another chore. “Now that you’re here ...” I had already learned to start a fire and cut meat. That seems plenty to occupy my day.