25d (edited) • Spotlight
Nobody's Princess (unfinished novella)
You're welcome to read this, but it was really just to test the length limit of posts. it appears to be at least 11,000 words lol.
Chapter One: If the Dress Fits
Frey marveled at her surroundings as she was escorted to the royal table. Opulence oozed from every corner of the banquet hall. Grandiose chandeliers, burning hundreds of candles, hung from the vaulted ceiling. They cast a flickering golden hue over the rich tableau below.
“How did they light those candles all the way up there?” She mumbled to herself as a servant pulled her chair out. She stepped towards the table and waited for the chair to be slid under her before lowering her bottom as delicately as possible.
“They winch them down, light them, and winch them back up,” the servant replied in a low whisper as he leaned over and spread a napkin across her lap. “You might see the pulleys attached to the cross beams if you look hard enough.”
Frey blushed and chastised herself. She should be more careful. A proper princess would, of course, know how they lit the candles. Or, more likely, wouldn’t care.
Keep your mouth shut, silly girl!
Beneath the chandeliers, white linen dressed a dozen long feasting tables. Their silver and crystal place settings reflected distorted images of the diners taking their seats. Bedecked in exquisite fineries, the kingdom’s richest and most influential characters were earnestly engaged in high society chatter and gossip. They canoodled and cackled while waving their goblets at scurrying waiters.
She admired the gowns worn by the ladies. She knew from her mother that fabric of any blue shade came at great expense, being the most difficult dye to procure from nature. Here there was a predominance of blue and indigo, violet and mauve on display. Clearly, these people enjoyed exhibiting their wealth. Almost as much as they enjoyed the King’s wine. But the garments were nothing compared to her own dress. An azure cloud of mulberry silk floated around her. Without breasts large enough to hold the strapless garment aloft, handmaidens had used hidden tape, stuck directly to her skin. Frey fought the urge to scratch her itching chest.
Her own table dominated the hall, rising two feet above the rest to give the royal family and their consorts a commanding view of their subjects. Its centrepiece, the King’s coat of arms in crystal. Two swans, either side of an artillery piece, their entwined necks reaching skyward. The same design adorned the banners that hung from the grey stone walls. Frey had never understood what it meant. Her father, lost in the Civil War with the North two winters ago, had joked that one swan represented taxes, and the other represented death. Preferably death to the North. It was his only joke, being a hard man. He paid her little attention other than to scold her for the smallest of things. Frey often wondered if he yearned for a son to go soldiering with.
She tried to stop marvelling at everything, lest she gave the impression she’d hadn’t seen it all a hundred times before. After the slip-up with the waiter, she couldn’t afford another mistake. As she forced her gaze down to the tabletop, she caught sight of the guard posted at the door to her left. His stare was icy, focused tightly on her, and her alone. She shivered. Did he know? Had she failed already?
Of course he knows, silly, he’s a royal guard. If the handmaidens are in on it, surely the guards are, too.
—-
Earlier that evening, a royal escort had arrived at her cottage. He waved a decree from the King that required Frey to accompany him to the castle immediately. After hugging her mother goodbye, she’d been bundled onto the back of a sweating steed and galloped from the village, through the wheat fields, and up to the castle.
Her escort had dismounted right at the gatehouse and helped her off the horse. He hurried her through stone passageways, up a spiral staircase, and knocked on a solid oak door. With that, he bowed and left. The door opened and three handmaidens pulled her inside, swarming around her like buzzing bees. The conversation was all one-way, with them issuing stern commands, such as “Arms up!” before her smock disappeared over her head. And “Legs together!” when they’d pulled her underwear down and off. The roughest of them made a tutting noise as she held Frey’s old clothes at arm’s length and dropped them in a bucket as if they were poisonous.
Frey barely had time to be embarrassed. As they jostled her this way and that, she took in her surroundings. A palatial bed chamber. Velvet red curtains framed a four-post bed. An expansive marble dressing table piled with makeup and fashion accessories. The cream carpeting felt an inch thick under her toes.
Outside the chamber, an argument ensued. Princess Jasmine’s petulant voice rose above all others.
“This is ridiculous. There’s always threats against us. I don’t see why I should have to hide and miss the first feast of the season! I’m eighteen. I’m not a child anymore!”
And it dawned on Frey that the room she stood in belonged to the Princess herself.
Frey heard the Queen answering her daughter in a weary, but calm, voice.
“I know that, dear. But your father’s advisors have received a specific threat. They’re not taking it lightly. And besides…”
Frey strained to make out what followed, but the Queen had lowered her voice to a whisper.
With her clothes gone, the maids sponged the day’s farm work off her body before they forced her to kneel over a basin so they could wash her hair.
“It’s the same shade of blonde, but it’s not long enough,” someone muttered while they rubbed her dry with the most luxurious towels Frey had ever felt.
“It will have to do,” another replied. “People will just assume she had it cut.”
When they’d dried her off and produced fresh underwear, the senior maid ducked outside to advise the Queen and princess. The royals halted their hushed argument and came to see.
“Stand next to her, Jasmine,” the Queen ordered.
The Princess, still pouting over the whole affair, did as she was told. Frey felt like a side of lamb hanging in the butcher’s window. When she glanced over at Princess Jasmine in her pearl-white negligee, she corrected herself. She’s the lamb. I’m the mutton.
The Queen circled the pair, handmaidens in tow like a string of ducklings.
“Well, she’s the same height, at least, and her face has Jasmine’s shape, like everyone said. Not much we can do about the hair, I suppose.”
“We could try extensions, Ma’am,” the senior maid replied. “But I fear we’ll run out of time. We still need to fit the dress and apply her makeup.”
The Princess crossed her arms in a huff and scowled at Frey. “The dress won’t stay up. She’s got no tits!”
“Jasmine!” the Queen scolded her. “I’ll not have you speaking like a commoner. And you should treat this lass with more respect. She’s putting herself in danger for your sake.”
“Oh yes, don’t forget, little one.” Jasmine looked at Frey with a glint of menace. “You’re more than just a princess for the night. You’re a target!”
“That’s enough!” The Queen grabbed her daughter’s arm and dragged her from the chamber.
Later, the Queen returned and explained some more.
If Frey survived the evening, passing herself off successfully as Jasmine, the crown would forgive her mother a whole year of taxes. It was a prize worth the discomfort. As to the idea that she’d be the target of a potential attacker, well, that much was true. But she needn’t worry, the King’s Guard would protect her. They were the best soldiers in the land.
Frey decided not to question why, if the King’s Guard were so reliable, the King didn’t trust them with his daughter’s protection at this feast.
—-
The King and Queen interrupted Frey’s reverie when they entered the dining hall and took their seats to her right amidst a din of applause from the tables below.
Her waiter reappeared at her right shoulder, and she gladly accepted the proffered glass of wine. Anything to help calm her nerves.
Please don’t spill it on this dress, for the lord’s sake.
An ever-growing collection of steaming silver platters, pewter bowls, and tureens were brought to the table. Frey had never seen so much food in front of her at once. Or smelt such delicious, mouth-watering aromas. And the variety! Game birds, roasted, broiled, and grilled, joined thick cuts of red meats, ribs, and pork crackling. She thought she recognised venison from the time a poacher had been selling it in the village tavern. Everything lay in beds of yellow, orange, and green vegetables. There was even a whole glazed fish sitting between her and the Queen. Frey thought its dead eye watched her every move.
No doubt you’re also aware I’m a fake, she thought to the fish.
Jasmine’s parents paid little attention to Frey. They were immersed in their feasting and accepting compliments from royal subjects left, right and centre. She imagined it was normal of them to ignore Jasmine. Thank goodness for small mercies. The King read a pile of notices put in front of him by his courtier.
When Frey emptied her wineglass, an arm appeared over her shoulder and refilled it. The waiter had been behind her the whole time.
Wait until I tell Mother I had my own waiter for the night!
The warm buzz of the wine helped Frey relax, and she nodded when he asked if she’d like him to prepare a plate for her.
With deft handling of the silverware, he arranged portions on her dish so artfully she felt it a shame to disturb the arrangement. But her hunger over-rode that concern, and besides, it might attract attention if she didn’t join in like everyone else.
The fake princess enjoyed a few bites of the delicious food before all hell broke loose.
Chapter Two: Riches to Rags
A candle flame in the central chandelier burned low enough to lick a hidden fuse, fizzing it into life. Its orange sparks rushed their way to the bomb cradled in the chandelier’s iron arms.
The explosion rocked the banquet hall. The ceiling focussed the blast down onto those below. Hot pieces of shrapnel tore through tunics, dresses, waistcoats, and the soft flesh within. The fragments penetrated as easily as Frey’s fork had cleaved a piece of poached salmon a moment before.
The salmon never made it to her mouth. The shockwave sent it flying with the rest of the cutlery and accoutrements, followed closely by the burly soldier with the icy stare. He performed a graceful parabolic leap that culminated in a crash, right on top of Frey.
The real Princess Jasmine had been lurking behind a curtain to the rear of the royal table. Desperate to see the occasion she was missing; she’d donned a simple linen frock and bunched her hair inside a mob cap to look like a scullery maid. It was the last time she’d play dress-up. A piece of ironwork ricocheted off the floor and knocked her stone-cold dead. Her parents fared somewhat better, the feasting table offering a modicum of protection from the explosive onslaught. The Queen cowered behind her enraged husband as he bellowed orders to all and sundry.
Oblivious to Jasmine’s demise, Frey fought for air, squashed under the King’s Guardsman. Over the screams and crashes, she heard debris pinging against his metal armour. When that abated, he scooped her up with one chain-mailed arm around her waist and bashed his way through the smoke and scattering survivors towards a side entrance.
Struggling to comprehend what had just happened, as she bounced painfully against the soldier’s hip, Frey at least understood that she was being removed from danger.
This relief was short-lived. Outside, the soldier pushed her against a wall and gagged her with a filthy rag. He tied her ankles and wrists, blindfolded her, and then threw her over a horse. Terrified, she could hardly breathe, let alone protest, as he jumped behind her. The beast responded to his command and galloped away against the tide of Kings Guardsmen running to the banquet hall. She could hear them yelling orders to each other and she tried again to scream and wriggle free.
Her screams did not make it past the rag in her mouth, and no amount of thrashing would free her from the horse. She writhed and kicked, her high heels falling off and clattering to the courtyard. The soldier pinned her down with one huge hand against the small of her back.
They rode out of the courtyard, through a gate, and across the wheat fields. She could tell as much by the changing sounds of the horse’s hooves. The terrifying, torturous ride went on into the night until, finally, she felt the horse slow beneath her and the soldier dismount. He yanked her down, and when she tried to stand with bound feet, she fell and slumped to the ground with a whimper.
The soldier grunted. She couldn’t tell if it was a frustrated grunt or an amused one. He and the horse were panting hard from the ride. Her own breath wheezed around the rag, and every inhalation hurt her bruised ribs.
The blindfold was torn from her head, and she blinked against the moonlit sky. She saw a forest clearing with no lights other than the moon and stars illuminating trees, undergrowth, and the sodden, mossy ground. They were in The Kingswood then. And from the length of the ride, they must be well within it. She was sure they’d ridden half the night.
The soldier had left his armour behind, probably to lighten the load for his poor steed. While his simple tunic made him somewhat less fearsome, he still wore a sword belted to one hip and a dagger to the other.
“If you scream, pretty Princess, I’ll cut you,” he warned, drawing the smaller blade as he removed the gag.
After an involuntary dry retch, Frey whimpered, “I’m not the princess.”
He pulled saddlebags off the horse and set about unwrapping cloth parcels of bread and cheese. “Ok, not-the-princess,” he said gruffly, “Eat and drink; we’ve got a long way to go.” The dagger sliced through the bonds around her wrist in one quick flick. She wasn’t hungry but accepted the water canteen, taking a long swig.
She wiped her mouth. “Where are you taking me?”
“A long fucking way from that cozy castle of yours. That’s for sure.”
His crudeness scared her even more. Rather than point out the castle wasn’t hers, Frey shuffled back against a fallen tree and tried to find a comfortable position. A dull ache emanated from all her limbs. Her ankles burned, rubbed raw by the tight bindings.
The sapphire blue dress had not fared well either. Beneath her fear and pain, she worried about the beautiful garment now covered in grime and horse sweat—a ridiculous cause for concern in the current circumstances. Perhaps her brain was blocking out the more frightening aspects of what was happening to her.
So far, while the soldier had been rough, he had shown no inclination to abuse her. She allowed herself some hope that this misunderstanding could be resolved, and she’d be returned to her farm, somewhat worse for wear but otherwise in one piece. But how does someone prove they’re not a princess when they were captured in full royal regalia from the King’s feasting table? And she reminded herself glumly that she had a natural likeness to Jasmine. It was why the royals had chosen her in the first place, and that likeness had been enhanced by the work of the maids, with their makeover.
Failing to think how she’d convince him he’d captured an innocent farm girl, she resigned herself to being dragged even further from home. But surely word would reach this brute that Princess Jasmine was alive and well, having hidden safely from the attack at the feast. Then he’d release her. In the meantime, it would be pure heaven to have her feet unbound. She drew a breath and tried her luck.
“If you untie my feet, I can sit astride your horse, and the ride will be a lot easier for both of us.”
He finished packing the saddlebags before answering. “And you’ll run off into the night, no doubt!” He strode over, and she flinched when he scooped her up by the armpits and threw her back over the horse.
She persisted from her prone position, staring at the ground. “Where would I run to? Barefoot, lost in the forest? You’d catch me in no time.” Frey did actually fancy her chances of outrunning this fellow. He wouldn’t know how quick she was back on the farm, chasing chickens and running with the dogs as they gathered stray sheep. Maybe there was some merit in keeping up the pretence of being a delicate princess after all.
Deeper into the forest, the terrain proved more difficult until her captor halted and pulled her off the steed again. He brandished the dagger in a silent warning before slicing through the remaining bounds around her feet. The relief was instantaneous, and she sat and rubbed her sore ankles while he coiled the rope.
He grumbled. “One wrong move and—”
She interrupted, “Yes, I know. You’ll cut me.”
With full blood supply returned to her feet, she tested them, standing and walking a few paces in a circle. The damp moss tingled newly awoken nerves in her soles. It would be folly to rely on them to carry her fast enough. Not right now, anyway. They were still too numb. And the constant stare from her captor meant there’d be no opportunity to grab a rock or any other weapon. It wasn’t the time for fight or flight. It was the time to wait.
Perhaps reading her mind about potential weapons, he demanded, “Take that dress off. Show me you’re not hiding anything.”
Fear returned in full. Was he really just wanting to check for hidden weapons, or was this the start of an assault? No, she assured herself. If he’d wanted to do that, he could have tried that by now.
There was no point arguing. He’d simply rip the dress off her if she didn’t comply, which would likely make him angrier. She pulled the ensemble over her head and hung it from a nearby branch.
Standing in front of him with hands on hips, in nothing but her knickers, she reflected glumly that this was the second time her body had been paraded in front of strangers.
He strode towards her with menace and reached for her breasts. She cowered, but instead of groping her, he ripped the seamstress tape from her skin.
“Ow! that hurt!”
“What was this for?” he asked suspiciously, waving the bits of sticky tape in front of her face.
She sighed. “The tape held the dress up, that’s all. Because my boobs aren’t big enough. As you can rightly see?”
His laugh did nothing to calm her nerves.
With the dress back on, she bunched it around her hips and jumped up on the horse with practiced ease.
She looked over her shoulder at the man who had an arm tightly around her stomach. “What’s your name?”
“My name doesn’t matter.” His grizzled face bore a permanent angry expression, but she decided that since their last stop, it was less fearsome. The amusing boob observation was probably to thank for that. He still looked very determined, though.
Frey pushed a little more. If she could get his name, things might turn civil.
“Well, my name’s Frey. If you decide that matters.” She faced forward again in case the horse took them under any low-lying branches that required ducking.
“No, it fucking isn’t,” he grumbled. “It’s Princess Jasmine, bitch daughter of soon-to-be ex-King Harold.”
“Ok, call me Jasmine if you want. Captain?” Hoping the assumption of a high rank might be taken as a compliment, she was wrong. He laughed again.
“We don’t have captains in the North, you silly tart. Couldn’t afford to pay them if we did, given the high taxes your father screws out of us. I’m a Seargent.” He sat taller in the saddle behind her. “But a bloody good one! Given that, I’ve just kidnapped the Princess.”
Some information, then. He’d confirmed that he was from the Rebel Northern Army, and she was indeed being kidnapped, no doubt to extort a huge ransom from the King. Not a bad idea on their part. It was a shame they’d only kidnapped a stand-in. The real princess and her parents were probably right now celebrating and thanking their good fortune and foresight.
Dusk was making its appearance, with grey light seeping through tree branches. It wouldn’t be long before she was missed back home. No royal escort would return her after a glamorous night of feasting and being fawned over. Frey worried what her poor mother might soon go through.
—
They made steady but slow progress through the thick forest. The canopy overhead blocked all but a few twinkling stars and an occasional glimpse of the moon. There’d be no more galloping until they broke into some open ground.
She wondered how the royals would handle her disappearance, not to mention the attack. It was doubtful they’d pay the ransom for a mere farm girl, that was for sure. Would they still forgive her mother a year’s taxes? Maybe. She’d saved Jasmine from being kidnapped, after all.
They stopped once more as the sun rose, and she indulged in the proffered stale bread and cheese.
Another couple of hours navigating through the forest saw them emerge into scrub land. With the sun out, few clouds, and little shade from a flat landscape, the climate grew significantly warmer. Occasional swampy marshes played host to a variety of buzzing, humming, and chittering insects. Huge dragonflies hovered around them, and worse, mosquitoes. Perhaps attracted by the odour of their combined sweat, the blood-suckers added another torment to the journey.
“Your horse will need a good rest soon,” Frey said, batting away another airborne attack. She needed one herself. Her backside had gone completely numb miles ago, and she was desperate for a wash. No matter how dire the circumstances, or how simple her farm upbringing, a girl still liked to be clean. This one did, anyway.
The Seargent bristled. “I know my horse. Don’t you worry about that. And we’re nearly at a rest stop.”
After more miles of torture, they angled towards a ridge. It looked like the start of a long incline, rising into a range of hills towards the northeast and higher still, perhaps growing into mountains. Frey couldn’t quite make them out on the horizon. A hazy heatwave had settled over the scrubland, reducing visibility that far away. Behind them, the forest had become a dim green line in the distance.
The ridge afforded them some shade and relief from the glaring sun.
A small brook of burbling water flowed from the foot of the outcrop. It splashed into a spherical rock pool and continued its journey underground. The pool was at least knee deep and a good deal wider than the bath Frey had enjoyed a lifetime ago. She looked into the pool longingly as the horse drank and the Seargent refilled the canteen. Would she be allowed to bathe?
Her captor stripped out of his tunic and pants without paying her any heed whatsoever. His manhood on display without shame until he sat in the pool and splashed water over his face. In response to her gaping stare, he shrugged. “If you run, you’d never make it back to the forest before I caught up with you on Stella. So, you may as well have a wash.”
Well, she knew the name of the horse now, a small victory. But it wasn’t his lapse in security that had caused her surprised expression. It was the sudden view of a well-hung cock and balls. The farmer in her reflected that, had he been a bullock, he’d fetch a decent price for stud duties. On his taught right shoulder, he bore the tattoo of the Northern Rebels, a broken blue chain wrapped around a dagger of ice. His other muscles were bullock-worthy, too. Probably a good reason he’d been chosen for such a hazardous mission. She remembered how easily he’d scooped her up from the banquet hall and carried her away as if she were nothing more than a rag doll.
The water was too inviting. Her body ached for relief from aches and numbness, not to mention dirt. She removed the dress and lowered herself into the coolness, as far from him as possible. The cold shock didn’t last long, as her skin sang with thanks. This place was a literal oasis. Shaded, life-giving water in the middle of an inhospitable landscape. Dragonflies hovered over the glistening surface, keeping the mosquitos at bay. The occasional pond skater made an appearance, their wide feet allowing them to ride the gentle ripples.
Below the surface, she pulled her knickers off, bunched them into a makeshift sponge, and went about washing her body with them.
The Seargent relaxed after a long night and half a day on horseback, all the while guarding his prisoner. “Poor little princess, having to wash herself as a nasty Northern man watches. And no maids to scrub your back. I can do that if you like?”
She had no doubt he could! But didn’t answer either way, lest a wrong choice of words provoke him. He took the silence as a no, thank goodness. The man was a brute and a member of the rebels her father had died fighting; she reminded herself. But he’d confirmed again that he was no monster.
Whatever remained of her beautiful hairdo was ruined when she ducked her head under and ran her fingers through the arrangement.
When her body was as clean as possible with the tools available, she spread the underwear on a rock to dry. Her attention turned to washing the dress.
Halfway through her labour, a tunic and pair of pants flew from the other side of the pool and landed on her head. “You can wash mine when you’re done,” their owner demanded.
He climbed out soon after and wandered bare-arsed over to Stella, removing her saddle and pouring cool water from the canteen over her midsection. He returned to refill it and repeat the process over her back and hindquarters. So, he cared for his horse. This earned a small tick in his favour, and Frey entertained another brief dalliance with hope. Had he been cruel to the animal, she’d have had little chance of escaping this unscathed. A man with no respect for animals very often had no respect for people either. Everybody knew that.
It wasn’t too long before the clothes were dry enough to put back on. She hauled herself out of the pool and hurriedly dressed while he fussed around Stella, refitting the saddle. She yelled “catch” and threw his damp clothes at him. He snatched them out of the air without a word.
She couldn’t help watching as he struggled to dress, especially at the effort required to tuck his manhood away. Yep, a prize bullock, for sure.
“We should make Rivermere before nightfall and sleep there. As pretty as that dress is, you’ll need something warmer,” he said as they remounted Stella. “We’ll steal something. But may I remind you that you’ll be far from home? If you escape, you won’t find any friendly faces loyal to the throne. Understand?”
It was quite the speech for him. Frey nodded, and her heart sank somewhat. Perhaps she’d missed her chance, however hard it might have been earlier. He was right; this far north was not the place for Princess Jasmine or her lookalike to be wandering alone. She’d likely fling herself out of the frying pan and into the fire if she ran. Shit!
Humans and horse ventured onward, refreshed by the rest and water. The going became easier as the boggy marshes gave way to undulating hills with firmer ground under hoof.
Frey no longer had to tolerate an arm around her waist. If she hadn’t already suffered so many hours atop a horse, this part of the ride might almost be pleasant. Clouds were gathering now, blowing in from the East and captured by the ever-taller ridge to the West. By mid-afternoon they blocked the sun, and it wasn’t long before the air chilled significantly. Frey looked forward to her captor’s plan to steal more clothes.
Their next rest stops were quick to avoid riding through what would be an even colder night. Other travellers became more prevalent, necessitating wide detours to avoid contact. Twilight saw them reach farmland surrounding the small village of Rivermere. It wasn’t long before the Seargent spotted what he was looking for; a farmhouse with clothes hanging on a fence. “There’s always someone who forgets to bring their clothes inside,” he muttered. Frey wondered how many clothes he’d stolen in his time.
The thievery went unchallenged. He simply rode Stella alongside the fence and scooped up the largest couple of garments within reach.
Rather than ride straight through the village, they circumnavigated it to find somewhere to lie up for the night. A three-sided barn far enough away from its farmhouse to avoid detection suited perfectly. The open side faced east, away from the house and the prevailing weather. Stella trotted inside on the hard-packed dirt floor. Round bales of hay were stacked against the far wall.
“This is perfect. Off you get Princess.”
“I’m not the…. oh, never mind. You’ll see.” Frey dismounted and began stretching her muscles and massaging blood flow into all her numb places. “My backside’s killing me,” she muttered.
“That’s because it’s so scrawny.” The stolen clothes landed at her feet. “See if you can make these fit.”
Disregarding the insult, she examined the garments, including a linen smock that might once have been white. It wouldn’t retain much warmth, but at least be more comfortable than the dress. There was also a brown flannel capuchin that should take the edge off the cold as it came with a hood. She quickly changed out of the dress, shivering in the cold, and into the oversized farm wear, looking like a peasant girl in her father’s clothes. Some string from a hay bale tightened the ensemble around her waist. It was a mess, but would be less noticeable and a lot warmer.
Her captor, having tended to Stella, gave an approving nod. “You look like shit. Excellent. Now, help me move some of these bales. We need to make a smaller shelter to keep the warmth in.”
“I know that. I’m not stupid.” She sighed.
With some effort, they stacked the bales to create a cosy hollow below and between them. It reminded Frey of the spaces she’d find in her own hay barn when she was little and needed to hide from her angry father.
When they’d finished work on their humble abode, the night was pitch black. Even in her new attire, Frey was freezing. The wind gusted against the barn and swirled inside the opening.
“It’s shifting, coming in more from the northwest,” the Sergeant said, staring out into the night. “Bedtime Princess!”
“Will Stella be ok?” she asked, crawling between the hay bales at his command, thankful for the shelter.
“She’ll be fine. She’s a Northern beast, not some prissy Southern show pony. And she’s got a belly full of hay heating her from the inside.” He gave Frey a shove ahead of him.
“Hey, watch it!” she yelped.
“Or what?”
She didn’t answer. He had this habit of reminding her, with either harsh words or shoving and poking, that she was his prisoner.
He climbed in after her, took the sword and dagger off his waist, and lay on top of them on his back. “I’m a very light sleeper. Try to take my blades in the night, and you’ll find one of them in your belly.”
“Yes, sir.”
The ruined royal dress served as a thin blanket. They were squashed so close together that it covered them both. Frey was sure that sleep would be impossible. Miles from home, held captive by an enemy soldier and crammed between hay bales in a freezing barn. She resigned herself to being awake, alert, and uncomfortable until the sun rose.
In the night, she woke with a start and, after remembering where she was, realized she’d been wrong about sleeping, and he’d lied about being a light sleeper. He tossed and turned next to her and cried out in anguish, deep within a nightmare.
Fearing his cries might be heard down at the farmhouse, she reached an arm around his chest and pulled him tightly into her. “Shush! it’s only a dream.” She spoke firmly into his ear and had to repeat it before he woke, scrabbling for his dagger. Frey had nowhere to go. If he didn’t realise who she was in the dark, he’d stab her to death. “Don’t! It’s me. Your prisoner.”
He realised and muttered, “Fuck!” before putting the blade away and sitting up to wipe the cold sweat from his brow. “I hate that dream.”
Frey breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m not overly keen on it myself.”
She slipped in a casual question while he was vulnerable. “What’s your name, soldier?”
He took some time before settling back down, rearranging his weapons and the dress blanket. And when she’d given up expecting an answer, he blurted, “It’s Duncan, if you must know.”
Another minor victory on this strange journey. Frey reasoned that knowing each other’s names brought them closer and might benefit her. How, she wasn’t sure, but it made her feel better anyway.
“Care to tell me what that dream, or nightmare, was about?”
“Not really.” He paused. “Actually, yes, it was a memory. Your Daddy’s army attacking our village.”
She didn’t have a reply to that, other than a weak “I’m sorry” that earned her a grunt in return. Both fell back to sleep without another word.
Duncan woke first, before sunrise. He punched Frey on the shoulder to wake her and left to prepare Stella. There was nothing Frey could do but relieve herself behind a wall of bales and mount the horse in her usual spot up front. The old aches returned but with less pain, with her body now accustomed to the riding.
The wind had calmed to a stiff breeze, blowing off the ridgeline from the Northeast and carrying a hint of the frozen mountains. Dawn broke under a sky of two halves. Behind them, a muted blue with scattered white clouds. Ahead, a band of grey, pregnant with rain.
Duncan urged Stella into a canter, where the ground was safe enough. Now that Frey was more appropriately dressed, they used the main road. Any encounters with people were dismissed with a nod as they rode by.
The ridgeline at her right shoulder grew taller as the day progressed, and the water that fed yesterday’s brook re-emerged. It began as a trickle, broadening into a stream. They stopped whenever Stella needed a break and a drink. By noon, the entire sky had become dark grey and spat ominous raindrops at them.
Midafternoon saw them riding through steady rain, and progress slowed. There was no way Duncan would push Stella when any muddy puddle could hide a deep, leg-breaking hole. Frey bore the brunt of the weather, and when she started shivering, Duncan called a halt and dismounted. “I’ll go up front,” was all he said.
Still miserable, but less so with a burly soldier to block some of the rain and wind, Frey hung onto him with both arms around his waist. On into the afternoon, they rode. Now that the pace was slower, Stella needed fewer stops.
Duncan informed her crudely over his shoulder, “There’s no more food anyway, so unless you need a piss, we’re going to keep riding until we get to the tavern.”
“The Tavern. That sounds…good,” she shouted into the wind.
“Of course, it’s good. It’s practically in the North. It’s got real ale and real women!”
Frey wouldn’t say no to a tankard of real ale if he allowed her one. She wasn’t so sure about the real woman.
Chapter Three: Winds of War
The previous night.
Half a world away in the castle morgue, the Queen cradled her dead daughter’s body. Her maids held vigil by her side. Their attempts at words of comfort had all been rebuked by the sobbing monarch. In the meantime, they’d lit extra lanterns and ordered food and drink from the kitchens in case they were down there for the long haul. The day following the deadly feast was drawing to a close, not that it was noticeable down in the morgue. But there seemed no end to the wailing and sobbing.
King Harold’s ranting and raving paused long enough for a war council to be convened. He sat in the war room at the head of a solid oak table with the world map engraved into its surface. His navy and army generals sat along each side, dressed in full military regalia. At the other end of the table, an older man wore a simple cassock that might have fooled folks into mistaking him for clergy. But a priest he was not. Simon the Fixer, as the King called him. Others, when out of earshot, replaced the “fixer” with less innocuous names, none of them complimentary.
On this occasion, the generals abandoned their usual warmongering stance and agreed with the devious political adviser in robes. They had some trouble expressing this, though, without offending their leader, who wanted immediate revenge.
Of course, it was natural when a King’s daughter had been killed to mount an all-out war against the filthy enemy responsible. But the war being justifiable did not make it winnable. Winter was less than a month away, and routing the rebels from their mountain hideouts was hard enough during an agreeable summer. A winter campaign against an entrenched enemy, on their home soil, well… any child would tell you it’s a foolish notion. But neither general fancied the idea of telling the King that. And so, they’d let him rant, and they’d answered his questions on the strength and placement of their forces. All the while knowing they’d gently back the position of the robed weasel, with his sharp nose and squinting yellow eyes, like piss holes in the snow.
The King declared he didn’t give a single fuck about the fate of the Princess’s body double and there was no way any ransom would be paid for her.
Simon the Fixer leaned across the table and wheezed, “Let’s not forget, Your Highness, the rest of the Kingdom believes dear Jasmine is alive. It is Jasmine that is in rebel hands as far as they are concerned. We must continue the pretence. Negotiate with the captors over whatever ridiculous ransom they demand. But most importantly, we mustn’t do anything to endanger that girl. We need her back alive, but an invasion of the north will surely see her dead.”
The generals raised an eyebrow each. They’d expected the advisor to caution against an all-out winter war, during which their forces would freeze their arses off chasing shadows in the mountains. And he had. But his reasoning for the advice surprised them. The farm girl was expendable, surely.
It was Simon’s opinion that everyone else around the table, King included, was dumber than pig shit. But he was careful not to let that show. He continued his explanation before the pause was mistaken for an invitation to argue.
“Your Kingdom needs Jasmine alive. She’s your only heir and the key to strengthening ties with our allies to the West or East. Granted, it would be more advantageous if she were your son. But a daughter is better than no child at all. She still commands a hefty amount of respect and potential for alliances when married off. It is imperative that news of her death never leaves this castle. Or indeed this room, and the morgue where your good lady wife still grieves.”
The King, keeping admirable control of his anger, nodded. “If that silly little bitch had done what she’d been told and hid in her chambers, we wouldn’t be in this mess. We’d be laughing at those northern scum for being fooled into taking the wrong tart! Fucking women! God knows I’ve tried for a son. But it’s quite clear I’ve been sowing my seed in a barren pasture since Jasmine.”
His subjects kept their heads low. It was common knowledge among the King’s higher ranks that he held little regard for the women in his life. No, his anger came from being bested, not from the loss of Jasmine. That was the beginning and end of it. Yet there was never merit in agreeing with a man when he insulted his own family. Should he change his mind while you’re in agreement, things could get very awkward.
“Be that as it may,” Simon answered, “we still retain some control over this situation. And the time will come for revenge. A timing that you will determine, your Highness, not the enemy. We must fight on our terms.”
“That sounds wise,” the Navy General, a weather-worn old sailor by the name of Jacoby, agreed. “When the polar ice has melted enough that my ships don’t become trapped in the confounded stuff.”
But the King frowned. “And the little tart’s family? I think she had a mother. It won’t be long before she realises something is amiss. Peasants aren’t clueless. What if she decides her daughter was taken from the feast?”
Simon’s lips curled into a tight grin. “I had the mother brought from her village this morning. She’s safely under guard in the Queen’s chambers, where she will remain for the duration. As will the Queen’s maids. None of them will be released or speak to anyone outside our circle.”
Army General Bertrand made his contribution. “Or we could kill them all now, to be sure.”
“In other circumstances, I’d agree,” said Simon, “but our death toll already sits at a dozen, and more injured. Deaths so close to the seat of power create ripples of discontent and paranoia. We don’t want to exacerbate that. Some might perceive the North’s little escapade to have had even greater success if more loved ones go disappearing in the night. No, we need to still the waters. We can keep those few who know the truth locked down easily enough. I’ve told them it’s for their own protection. And they’ll be treated well, of course. There are servants’ quarters next to the Queen’s chambers. We’ll make use of those.”
The King spoke in a low growl. “I agree. The next deaths should be Northmen, not Southerners. But what’s your plan, Simon? Pay the ransom to these scum and recover this…what’s her name?”
“Frey.”
“… recover this Frey. And her impersonation of Jasmine becomes permanent?”
Simon picked some imaginary fluff off his sleeve. “Yes, for the foreseeable future. Until we’ve made significant headway against the rebels or forged a powerful alliance with another kingdom. Her worth diminishes after that.”
“And the ransom? You conveniently skipped that question.” The King looked ready to fume again.
Simon’s grin widened. “Oh, we’ll pay it. But not with genuine gold. I have an alternative developed by a brilliant alchemist in my employ. We call it fool’s gold.”
“Don’t tell us you’ve taken silver pieces from the treasury and painted them gold?” Jacoby snorted. “We captured a smuggler’s skiff once. Those idiots thought their buyer had paid them in gold bullion. Until seawater splashed all over it and the gold paint rinsed right off. Ha!”
Simon’s narrow eyes squinted further into an icy stare. “No, Jacoby. We haven’t painted silver coins gold. Do you take me for an imbecile?”
Jacoby wisely refrained from answering.
When Simon had suppressed his contempt, he explained his alchemist had done a far better job than painting.
It was amazing what skilled academics could achieve when you locked them in a dungeon and threatened to keep them there unless they made a breakthrough. Trapped underground with hundreds of northern prisoners, the alchemist had experimented like his life depended on it. And it did. Soon enough, he came up with an end product minted from lead that would pass for gold well enough under most inspections. As long as nobody tried to melt it.
“I can have a platoon of my best men ready to mount the rescue operation before sunrise,” Bertrand announced.
“Not an entire platoon, please, general,” Simon cautioned. “They’ll stick out like dog’s balls marching towards the north. If you send a platoon, they’ll be met with a battalion. Or whatever the northern equivalent is, and our little lady might die in the ensuing fight. No, give me a small escort squad instead. I’ll lead the operation to hand over the fake ransom and recover our fake Jasmine.”
“YOU! Surely you jest. You’re not military trained, let alone an officer!”
“My many talents might surprise you.” Simon smirked. “In any case, this is hardly a military operation. This is a commercial transaction, and I’m particularly good at those.”
The King stood, already bored with the meeting. His concentration waned easily. He strode to the window. Outside, the castle holdings were quiet now, but for the footfalls of the King’s guard, doubled in number and patrolling the ramparts.
A messenger raven flew past him into the room and landed on the table in front of Simon. It screeched and pecked at him while Simon removed the tightly rolled parchment from its leg.
“Well?” Harold asked from the window. The two generals leaned over the table, trying to read the tiny scribble.
Simon tossed the parchment to them. “I must go threaten my alchemist. He needs to make a lot more gold coin.”
Bertrand snatched up the tiny roll of parchment. “Those scum want five thousand in gold.”
Simon headed to the exit. “Send your squad to me at first light.”
“Who does he think he is?” Jacoby asked the King. “Giving us orders.”
Harold grimaced. “I agree. He’s an arrogant little prick, but he’s extremely useful.”
Simon made haste back to his private chambers, scurrying through the corridors of power as fast as his sandals would allow. Safely inside with the door bolted, he retrieved the genuine message from inside his sleeve and spread it open on his desk. Those idiots had demanded something far more ridiculous than five thousand gold coin. They wanted every rebel prisoner released. He’d predicted as much when he planned his sleight of hand. Ideology and emotion drove the enemy, not greed. But he could not entertain such a transaction even if the King capitulated. There was no profit in it for Simon. No, he required the demand to be gold.
Because the kidnapping had answered a question Simon had long since pondered—how to walk out of the castle with a sizeable chunk of the Royal treasury. Not only could he now do that, but he’d do it with an armed escort.
He poured himself a large glass of stolen whisky and toasted his brilliance.
Chapter 4: Northern Hospitality
Sunset was barely discernible when Duncan led Stella off the road and into a copse of trees. He dismounted with a “Stay there” and marched off, unbuckling his sword. Under the cover of the trees, Frey enjoyed a break from the driving rain. In the day’s last dim light, she saw Duncan hacking away at the undergrowth and small branches. He came back with a handful of wet wood and stuffed it into a saddlebag.
“What’s that for?” she asked, ducking to avoid a kick in the face as he swung back onto Stella.
He nudged the horse around and back to the road.
They had to shout into the wind to make themselves heard. “You ask too many questions.”
“There’s not much else to do.”
“It’s a Northern custom for taverns and guesthouses. Upon entering, you must contribute fuel for the fire.”
“But that wood’s not going to burn. It’s soaked through.”
“For fuck’s sake! It’s not going on the fire tonight! It’s a tradition. A toll to pay. You should be familiar with tolls; they’re like your father’s taxes. Pretty soon, we won’t be able to fart without paying for it.”
“He’s not my father. Because I’m not the princess.”
“Sure, whatever. Not-the-princess. Now shut up. You’re annoying me.”
Rosie’s Alehouse and Lodgings sat at the foot of the dividing alps. The last stop for anyone intending to traverse the pass through the mountains. A solid rock taberna with a high sloping roof of slate tiles, designed to prevent snow buildup. In daylight, it blended with the grey shale of the mountainside. At night, the yellow glow from its windows provided a welcome beacon of warmth to weary travellers. Now, in the driving rain that was fast becoming a storm, the light fought to be seen, flickering weakly between the squalls.
Stella took them behind the main building to the stables without need for prompting. Duncan tied her up in a spare stall and found a canvas cover in a box at the back. With Frey’s help, they slung it over Stella’s back and tied it off under her belly.
They sloshed through the mud to an iron-strapped wooden door at the front of the establishment. A bunch of rags were wrapped around a tree stump in the entranceway. “Clean your feet.” Duncan said, as he rubbed his boots across the stump.
A wall of warmth, noise, and the odour of humanity hit them as they stepped inside. Farmers, their families, and travellers sat around various tables and benches, engaged in shouted conversations. Such was the din, it drowned out the storm. To the left, a massive fire burned in a brick hearth. To the right, half a dozen booths lined the wall, offering a modicum of privacy and somewhere less chaotic to dine. At the far end, just visible behind the crowd, a bar stretched the width of the tavern. Behind that stood Rosie herself. A buxom woman with flaming red hair, rosy cheeks, and generous bosoms threatening to break free of her tightly laced blouse.
“Now there’s a sight for sore eyes,” Duncan said, pushing Frey in the small of her back towards the fire. He leant into her and muttered in her ear. “Remember, these are all Northerners. If they realise who you are, things could get ugly. So, keep your head down and your mouth shut.”
She didn’t need to be told twice. Duncan added the bunch of wood to a large pile beside the fire. Several nearby patrons nodded their approval and returned to drinking, laughing, and arguing.
Someone yelled “Dickhead, over here!” from one of the booths. A burly soldier-type with the same tunic as Duncan’s was leaning over the partition and beckoning. Duncan threaded his way through the tables, shoving Frey ahead of him. In the booth, Duncan pushed her down into the seat next to his friend. Opposite sat a dark-haired, chisel-faced woman not much older than Frey and as slim but muscular. She wore a sleeveless doublet of black leather that revealed taught biceps. She stood to greet Duncan, tight black leather pants hugging her legs. The welcoming slap she whacked across his back would have sent most men flying.
Duncan sat beside her, opposite Frey. The woman in black lowered her voice. “You sure nobody’s following you?”
“Would I have come here if I thought anyone was following me? I’m not stupid, Clara.”
The soldier next to Frey backed him up. “No, the dickhead’s a bloody legend! I can’t believe it. He banged his tankard in jubilation, sending frothy ale sloshing across the table.
“Bloody Hell, Vincent!” Clara made to clip the noisy soldier across his ear and would have done so had they not been interrupted by Rosie. The cheery landlady had bustled her way over to hug Duncan. She knelt beside the booth with a plump arm still around his shoulders. “The wanderer returns! And with a new lady by his side.” She looked over at Frey, who was trying to blend into the surroundings. Rosie’s cheery face darkened as she glanced under the table.
“This poor lass is in bare feet! Duncan, I swear, sergeant or not, I’ll put you over my knee if you don’t learn how to treat the ladies better!” She stood and scanned the crowd. “I’ve got a bar to tend, but I’ll get Yvette to fix you up with some grub. Now, where is that girl?” She bustled off into the noise.
Clara frowned. “Vincent, swap sides with the little tart, so she’s less obvious.”
Rather than move, Vincent simply lifted Frey under her armpits and plonked her down on the other side of him, next to the wall. She could see why he and Duncan were friends. Both were obnoxious pigs.
“Thank god you made it back,” Clara said. “We were worried the storm would delay you another night. I couldn’t wait much longer, with piss-head Vincent here.”
The accused drained his beer and sat back, grinning. “She doesn’t like all the attention I get from the womenfolk.”
“Did you send the Raven?” Duncan asked.
“Of course,” said Clara, sipping her ale. “Should have got there last night. But we won’t see a reply for a while. The birds can’t fly in this weather. Anyway, did my bomb make a nice big bang?” Her eyes glinted in anticipation.
“It damn near blew me out of my armour! That’s how big the bang was, Clara. You always go too far. They’ve got dead and injured back there.”
Victor belched. “Good. Serves them right! Where’s that pretty little thing with more ale?”
All the while, Frey cowered in the booth’s corner, peering out from her hood and very much wishing she were anywhere else.
The arrival of a hot bowl of stew changed that.
Yvette, a harried bargirl with dirty-blonde hair wearing a grubby apron, arrived at the table with a tray. She plonked one bowl of stew in front of Frey, dodging a pat on the rump from Vincent. The other bowl went in front of Duncan, followed by tin spoons and a full tankard each. “I’ll be back with two more ales,” she said to Clara. And to Vincent, “But yours will be tipped over your head if I feel any hands on my bum.”
Vincent performed a sharp military salute at the departing Yvette. “Yes, ma’am!”
“You’re an idiot, Vincent,” said Clara.
With the royal feast a distant memory, the stew smelled divine. Chunks of beef, potato, carrot, and leek swam in a rich gravy. She downed a spoonful before Duncan or one of his friends snatched her bowl away. The taste lived up to the smell, and she peeked out from under her hood to check if anyone objected before tucking in properly.
“Did you even feed her?” Vincent asked, watching Frey scoop up spoonsful of the stew. “Poor thing looks to be starving.”
“Hands off, Vincent,” Duncan warned, without looking up from his bowl. “She’s valuable merchandise!”
Yvette made her way back through the rabble with full tankards for Vincent and Clara and a pair of woollen slippers that she tossed under the table to Frey.
When Duncan fished a handful of silver coin from a breast pocket and tried to pay, Yvette waved him away. “Rosie said it’s on the house if you come for up a cuddle later.” She shrugged.
Clara laughed. “I wonder how many free drinks that lovely big cock of yours has earned over the years.”
Duncan blushed, and Vincent mumbled with a sulk. “It’s not the size. It’s what you do with it that counts.”
Unseen beneath her hood, Frey rolled her eyes and enjoyed her stew, still wary of how long this good treatment would last. Clara, the bomb maker, looked deadly and not to be messed with, but she hadn’t paid her much attention. Vincent was a typical sleaze bag. She could probably cope with him. Yvette certainly didn’t take his nonsense. But Yvette wasn’t a prisoner of these three, so…
And Duncan. She fancied Duncan was softening, especially after his awkward nightmare in her company the other night. There might be a safe way out of this yet. The unknown factor was how things would change when they realised she wasn’t Princess Jasmine. She still doubted the King would pay any kind of ransom for her. Would these rebels let her go when there was no coin forthcoming? None of them looked like cold-blooded murderers. But Clara had made a bomb that killed people, so she WAS a murderer. And Duncan and Vincent were soldiers. They’d kill people, no problem. Would they kill innocent farm girls, though? And amidst all these worries, the suffering of her poor mother bothered her the most.
The storm eased somewhat, and by closing time, most of the crowd had scattered into the night, back to their farmhouses, cottages, or to resume their journeys. Yvette placed a large stump of slow-burning willow onto the fire. It would last until morning and offer a tiny amount of heat to the lodging rooms above.
Duncan and Clara helped herd the stragglers out the door. Much to Frey’s discontent, Vincent had fallen asleep in the booth, and his head lolled on her shoulder. Wary of her position as a prisoner, she was reluctant to complain or try to extricate herself. Until Clara came back to the booth and yanked him away by one of his arms. “Wake up, you drunken slob, you’re dribbling all over the poor tart.”
Vincent wasn’t the only one being dragged by an arm. Rosie was leading Duncan up the stairs behind the bar. He called back to Clara, “We’ve only got one room, but two beds.” He nodded towards Frey. “She should probably bunk with you, rather than Vincent.” And with that, he disappeared to pay the landlady for the food and drinks with his body.
Clara looked Frey straight in the eye for the first time since they’d met and said, “I don’t know why he said we should share a bed. He must have forgotten that I like girls.” And winked at her. Frey couldn’t tell if it was in jest or a genuine threat to keep her unnerved.
She looked at Vincent, lurching towards the stairs, singing one of his rebel songs. Badly. Frey shrugged. “I’d rather be molested by you than him.”
The black-clad bomb maker laughed. “The Princess has a voice and a sense of humour too!”
“I’m not the…” Frey sighed. “…doesn’t matter.”
Rosie’s boasted four guest rooms with a communal bathroom, plus the landlady’s own abode and Yvette’s tiny bed chamber that came with her job. Tonight, a gang of travelling shearers and general farm labourers occupied three of the rooms. They’d put in a hard day’s work with the local livestock, then battled the storm to reach the tavern for an evening of drinking. Unsurprisingly, loud snoring could now be heard from their lodgings. More snoring came from Vincent, slumped against a wall. Yvette gave Clara a sputtering oil lantern and an old iron key that opened the fourth room. She bade them good night before disappearing into her own lodgings. The sound of sliding bolts suggested she was well guarded against any intruders.
Clara opened the door and hung the lantern on a hook inside. The spartan guest room contained little more than two wooden-framed beds, with straw-stuffed mattresses atop them, and a large storage box between.
She dragged Vincent inside and said, “Make yourself useful”, to Frey, “grab his feet.” They swung him onto the bed positioned under a small window that rattled as the wind and rain beat against it. “That looks like the coldest bed. Serves him right.”
The storage box yielded a pile of rough hessian blankets, threadbare and unravelling at the edges. Clara pulled them all out and chose two with the least wear. “These are probably all we need.” She tossed them on the empty bed, sat at the end, and proceeded to take her boots off.
Frey needed the bathroom and said as much. Clara shrugged. “Go. But I better not hear you trying to creep down those stairs. I can hear a mouse sneeze, so don’t even think about it.”
When Frey was done, she washed her face with frigid cold water under an iron faucet and crept back, hearing moaning noises from the landlady’s room. “Sounds like Rosie’s getting her fill,” Clara said, massaging her feet. She stood, pulled the doublet and vest over her head, revealing a shapely pair of pale breasts, and set to undoing the buttons of her leather pants. Frey found something interesting to study on the wall until she was summoned again. “Help me out of these leathers, would you? They’re the devil’s own job to take off. Grab them at the knees and pull the bloody things down.” Frey did as she was told, kneeling on the wooden floor while Clara withdrew a silver dagger from a hip pocket and used it to clean her nails. With a great deal of pulling on the pants legs, Frey had them halfway down each thigh before she looked up, right at a smoothly shaven vulva. She drew a sharp intake of breath and went bright red. Clara laughed from above. “I’m not sure what you expected me to have in my pants. You seem easily shocked.”
Frey asserted herself. Clara was right. She was too easily shocked, and it was becoming tiresome. “You Northerners seem to delight in exhibiting yourselves without a care,” she complained. “That’s as far as I can get these pants down with you standing. You’ll need to sit on the bed.”
Clara sat at the edge of the bed and lifted her feet to allow the pants to be pulled off entirely. “Are we too crude for the likes of you pretentious royals? Sorry, but we don’t have time for your niceties.”
“I’m not a royal. Like I kept telling Duncan, but he wouldn’t listen. I doubt you will either.” She handed the pants over to the now naked Clara, resisting the urge to throw them.
“Well, what are you then? Jasmine, the court Jester? Brought up to be a princess for the King’s amusement?”
“My name is Frey, and I’m a farmer with the misfortune of a face like Princess Jasmine’s.” Frey, too tired to stand anymore, sat on the bed and put her head in her hands. “The royals got wind of your plan somehow and made me pretend to be Princess Jasmine at the feast. It’s that simple. Since then, I’ve been blown up, kidnapped, humiliated, had a big cock waved in my face, ridden hundreds of miles through the night, into swamps, glaring sun, pouring rain, and freezing cold.” She took a breath. “I’m scared and tired, but also angry. And if I ever see the real Princess Jasmine again, I’ll stab the silly bitch myself.”
Clara waited a moment before asking, “Have you quite finished?”
“I think so,” Frey answered, wiping wet eyes.
“Good. I have one question.”
“Yes?”
“Is Duncan’s cock really that big?”
Frey blinked away tears and looked at Clara. “Do you folk think about anything else?”
Clara shuffled further up the bed. “Not really. Apart from overturning the throne so we can live in peace. Hmm… you don’t sound like a princess; I’ll give you that. But if you’re not, we have some serious problems. Anyway, that’s for the morning.” She slid her dagger under her side of the mattress. “Try anything in the night and…”
“You’ll cut me,” Frey finished for her. “Yes, I’m well aware of that.”
“And take those clothes off. They stink.”
Frey sighed, stood, and undressed, thankful to be out of the damp rags. Climbing under the covers next to Clara, she said, “I’ll save you the trouble of saying it. I already know I’ve hardly got any tits, and my backside is scrawny. And I don’t care.”
Clara smiled. “I was going to say no such thing. You might want to shave that cute little bush of yours, though. We have some little critters up here called mountain lice. They’d love to hide out in that.”
“Oh, wonderful.”
It was impossible to fit in the bed without their bodies touching. Frey lay still and awkward at first, but calmed after a while. Clara’s skin felt softer, smoother than she’d expected, and cool against her own. She tensed when Clara turned on her side and reached an arm around her waist.
“Relax, Princess, or farm girl, whatever you are. You’re safe with me. Now go to sleep.”
She watched the weak yellow light from the lantern for a while, flickering across the rafters and reflecting in the window over Vincent’s bed. The rain had eased to a soft patter now, and the wind quit howling and settled for a gentle low-pitched whistle around the back of the Tavern.
Finally relaxed enough to sleep, Frey turned towards Clara and mumbled, “Thank you” against her shoulder.
“For what?”
“I dunno. Not stabbing me?”
“Go to sleep, or I might.”
—-
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Nobody's Princess (unfinished novella)
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