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Sample 1
CINDERELLA'S DRESS Prologue
Once Upon a Time
Nadzia tucked the cleaning rag into her apron in exchange for her feather duster. She held it out like a dance partner and placed her other hand against her chest in mock modesty. “Mnie? You’d like me to take this dance?” She looked around as if another maid had entered and was waiting to waltz in her place. “Tak, yes, of course,” she said.
Humming the tune from the final song at the anniversary ball, she waltzed on bare toes around the queen’s dayroom with her feather companion. Mere hours ago, the ballroom had been filled with the sounds of stringed instruments and swishing skirts. There had been long tables of puff pastries and rows of men in cravats, and oh, how she had longed to join the dancing. She breathed deeply to catch the scent of the hundreds of roses and gerberas and lilies still standing at attention downstairs.
Nadzia bowed again to her duster and returned to her duties with a contented yawn. She stopped by the door to the queen’s bedchamber and pressed her ear to the ancient oak. Not a sound. Should she wake her? The queen had never slept so late.
Nie. Let her sleep. Soon there would be no sleep in the household for months.
Nadzia moved on to dusting the vases on the mantel. The round-bottomed red one was her favorite and she took it down to gently sweep the feathers into its neck. It would look lovely with a bouquet of white peonies from downstairs.
“Nadzia!” The queen’s voice carried through the walls.
The girl ran to the door and flung it open, the vase still in hand. “Yes, my queen?”
She stood by her enormous fireplace, her bedclothes draped gracefully about her large and growing midsection. Her eyes were rimmed with red. The door connecting her chambers to the king’s shut with a loud crack, and she blinked before taking a step forward. Her hands shook as she pulled back her hair and smiled.
“You are my most trusted servant and friend. I am sorry to have to send you away.”
“Send me away, m’lady?” Nadzia squeaked. Her breath caught in her throat. She had served the queen since the day of the royal wedding. She had never so much as spilled a drop of tea nor scorched a piece of silk. To be sent away was to be shamed. What would her mother think to have her stumbling back up the mountain in disgrace?
The queen, as if sensing Nadzia’s thoughts, shook her head. Her eyes were kind. “It is because you are my most trusted friend that I give you this task,” she said gently. “You will remain in my service, and I will continue to provide for you. You and Esmerelda. You must go to her in the mountains.”
Nadzia’s knees regained some strength. The queen was not dismissing her.
“My stepsisters…” The queen’s voice faltered. “They have married the Burgosov twins.”
Nadzia dropped the vase. Glass shattered at her feet, red shards strewn on the cream tiles like blood.
The queen flinched. “Once they have convinced their husbands to break the peace treaty, they will come for me.” She held up a muslin-wrapped package. “They will come for the dress.”
Nadzia ran forward, cutting her toe on a piece of glass. She wrapped her arms around the queen’s neck. “Come with me. We will all be safe in the mountains.”
The queen pulled Nadzia’s arms away and pressed the maid’s hand to her swollen belly. “My time is too soon. Nie, I cannot make it.”
Nadzia felt the skin under the thin nightdress, taut as a round drum. And underneath, the child poking as if in a morning stretch.
The queen lovingly stroked the muslin package. “This dress means the kingdom to me, and only you can keep it safe. Find Esmerelda, and leave this land,” she commanded as she shoved the package into Nadzia’s arms. Next, she pulled something from her pocket. “Thank you for lending me your necklace for the ball. It was a perfect match. But you must wear it now and always. It will be our sign.”
Nadzia touched the amber pendant as the queen clasped it around her neck. Her mother’s necklace. It felt right to have it back again. The faint scent of old pine forest wafted up as the amber warmed to her skin. No other necklace emitted a scent such as this. It reminded her of home. Of safety.
“Tell no one where you are going. Esmerelda has bound us together, and we will find each other. If not me, my daughter. It is her legacy. Do this for me, I beg you.”
Sample 2
THE QUEEN'S HIDDEN LEGACY
Chapter 1: Queen Cadha
Morag flew through the drafty stone corridor of the royal quarters, humming a tune to hide the irritation she was feeling. She smoothed the annoyance from her face as she chased down the royal nanny. The woman held one ten-day-old baby in each arm, the twins freshly bathed, ready for sleep. The nanny knew Morag was behind her, but she bustled along anyway, gleeful that she could outpace a palace fairy, even if the fairy had an injured wing.
When the nanny had to pause and open the queen’s sitting-room door, Morag caught up to her.
“Why hello, sunshine and starlight.” Morag forced her way past the nanny’s protective stance, extending her hands for the wee prince and princess to grasp. “Have you been fair goodly ones for your mother today?”
The nanny frowned and pulled the twins away from Morag. “The princess has a right set of lungs on her. We all tried to keep the queen from hearing too much during her daily rest, but you know how she is.”
Morag straightened to her full height, as tall as the nanny’s waist, and followed the crotchety woman through the sitting room, still trying to attract the babies’ attention. She beamed when the prince squeezed her finger, however accidentally at his age. “Och, he’s a braw lad, this one. We could call him Fergus. A strong name like that and no one will tease him about his unfortunate birthmark.” Although longer hair would also take care of that.
The warmth of the room struck Morag as she entered the queen’s bedroom. A young attendant carefully stoked the glowing peat fire on the hearth. The fire served to ward off the autumn chill and warm the ailing queen, but it left a strong earthy scent hanging in the air.
The tapestries covering the stone walls here were softer and more delicate than those in the corridors, telling tales of love rather than battle. Near the window, a special floor-to-ceiling tapestry of a regal unicorn standing proudly and unchallenged dominated the room.
Heavy drapes in a deep evergreen fabric framed the window looking out over the low, setting sun. The queen’s four-poster bed, a grand structure of carved mahogany, centered the room, its hangings embroidered with the royal crest and trimmed with thick braided cord. A large oak cradle waited at the foot of the bed, lined with soft linens and a gossamer veil to protect the infants from drafts. Not that they spent much time sequestered there, as the queen preferred the twins at her side.
Morag broke away from the overprotective nanny and stood near the cradle. “Cadha, you should call the lad Callum. And then the lass can be Cara. Peace and friendship. And your names would alliterate.”
The weary queen finished brushing the ends of her long auburn hair before placing her silver brush on the bedside table. She pushed herself up, leaning against the plush headboard as she readied herself to hold her babies. She set her blue eyes firmly on Morag. “Nae, Morag, you’ll not hear their names from me. Not until their naming ceremony. What would the king say?” She took several shallow breaths before reaching for her twins. “It’ll be soon enough, and you and the entire kingdom will learn their names.”
“As you wish. But if you don’t mind me suggesting, Ian and Iona are nice names as well. Would be lovely for twins, both acknowledging divine blessing.”
Cadha ignored Morag and kissed each little head. “And how did the day go today?”
Undaunted that her suggestions were rebuffed, Morag pivoted to give her account. “The rivermen are busy as ever upstream on the secret project your husband has them on. But the watchmen saw several kelpies in the water, prowling about near the bridge. They’ve added more guards to the patrols to watch for those water horses.”
The nanny shot Morag a withering look before she spoke sharply. “Enough of that. Let the queen focus on getting her strength back. I want no more relapses of that lung disease.” With a practiced motion, she adjusted the thick blankets around Cadha, tucking them in with care that spoke of a deep, if stoic, affection.
Cadha and Morag exchanged a look over the nanny’s head. The woman muttered as she flitted about the room tidying what didn’t need to be tidied. She hovered near the queen’s vanity, straightening creams and perfumes that the queen hadn’t used in months.
Queen Cadha still had her lung disease, and they all knew that she wasn’t recovering from it. But if pretending helped the nanny carry on through her duties with the children, they would allow her the fiction.
“Morag, off you go to dinner before you’re missed. We’ll talk more tomorrow, I promise.” The queen reached out to take Morag’s hand. “Thank you for being my eyes and ears. I’d be as forgotten as an old mop if it weren’t for you. Check in with Solly to make sure she’s still happy to keep tending my garden, even though I haven’t been able to take the bairns there yet. And tell Mavis I miss her visits, but I understand how busy she is.”
“Aye. But before I go, you ought to know there have been developments.” She glanced at the nanny, wishing she would leave. “It’s been noticed that supplies have been disappearing from the kitchen. Osario is making a fuss about it. He’s got an ambitious young guard patrolling with him and searching for clues. There’ll be a right ruckus when they find who’s taking those supplies.”
The queen looked distracted, snuggling noses with the prince and princess, but Morag knew her well enough to not feel slighted. The queen was paying close attention. As was the nanny, so Morag was careful with her words.
“Anything else that I should know about?” Cadha asked, her gaze momentarily shifting from her children to Morag.
Morag nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, a few things worth noting. First, there’s talk among the townsfolk of a strange figure seen at dusk by the river. Some say he’s a wandering bard, others claim it’s a kelpie in human guise. Also, the blacksmith’s apprentice has gone missing, and rumor has it he had a quarrel with his master over the quality of steel being forged for the guards. And finally, Solly’s been complaining about holes in the garden.”
“Holes?”
“Holes.”
“I can see how that would vex Solly.” The queen waved her hand. “I’m sure she’ll have it figured out by week’s end.” Cadha shifted the squirming princess. “What about this bard? Any description? Outstanding features?”
“Descriptions vary, but most agree on a few points. He’s cloaked, with a wide-brimmed hat shadowing his face. No one’s seen him up close, but there’s an air about him that makes people suspicious.”
The queen leaned forward, her interest clearly piqued. “Does this wide-brimmed hat hold a flower?”
“Dinnae ken. I’ll find out.”
“Do. Thank you, Morag.” The queen looked out the window at the river. “Take care who you ask. Until we learn friend or foe, I don’t want anyone knowing that I’m doing anything but tending me bairns.” She glanced back at Morag, her eyes conveying the seriousness of the situation.
“Not even Solly will suspect, and you know how sneaky she is at getting information out of me. I will stand strong.” With a final glare at the nanny, Morag left the room, wondering what the woman had gleaned from their conversation.
Sample 3
LIZ AND NELLIE
Chapter 1: In Which Elizabeth Bisland Is Called Into Her Editor’s Office And Surprised
Thursday, November 14, 1889
THE MORNING LIGHT glows around the edges of the curtains when the maid enters and tiptoes across the bedroom toward the window. I’ve hardly slept a wink, and it doesn’t seem right she’s about to wake me up. Odd that she sneaks in so quietly. Being fond of sleep, I’ve never witnessed this ritual before.
She throws open the curtains with a surprising flourish and follows with a quick “Good morning, miss.” She curtsies to the lump that is me on the bed, and stands patiently waiting with the breakfast tray. “Eight o’clock,” she adds by way of a hint.
Despite already being fully awake, I make a show of groaning as I push myself up against the bed frame. After tucking the quilt tight up against my chest, I accept the silver tray loaded with a covered plate, a small glass of orange juice, a dainty cup of tea, and a pile of correspondence.
I scoop up the letters stacked atop the morning newspaper – replies for the five o’clock tea we are hosting tomorrow.
“Will that be all, Miss Bisland?”
“Yes, thank you.” I pat the newspaper expectantly with my fingertips.
After the maid leaves, I make short work of breakfast while sorting the mail. I set aside an invitation to dinner and make a separate stack of bills. All that remains are my tea and the paper. Newspapers are a wonderful resource, despite being filled with trite, sensational writing.
I skip over Nellie Bly’s latest stunt and move on to the society pages. A gentle tapping sounds at my bedroom door. Would that girl round up some gumption and knock like she means it?
“Come in.”
The maid holds out a thick, cream colored envelope. “This just came, miss. I am to tell you it is urgent.”
“Urgent?” I tip my eyebrow as I take the note and reach for my letter opener. “It’s my editor at The Cosmopolitan. He needs me to come in as soon as possible.”
My sister Molly pushes through the doorway, nudging our timid maid aside. She is already dressed in her tan wool challis. Her brown hair is swept up in a French twist, leaving her curly bangs falling over a forehead creased with concern.
“Your editor?” she asks. “But we have fittings today.”
My stomach churns as I think about what the note might mean, but I turn my mouth into a smile for Molly’s benefit. “I’m sure it won’t take long.”
I get out of bed and begin my toilet with washing my face, while Molly chooses a warm woolen dress for me. Mr. Walker has never called me in like this before. My newspaper editors did all the time, which is why I prefer working for the magazine. Of course, when I have to, I will race all over the city to write freelance features for the newspapers. My gaze lands on the stack of bills, and Molly notices.
She comes over and kisses my cheek. “Surely, as ‘the most beautiful woman in Metropolitan journalism,’ you are not afraid of your editor.”
“Afraid? Don’t be silly.” Wary. “And it’s only the writer at The Journalist who says that.”
“They all say it,” she retorts. “And you know what Mother says: Elizabeth needs to slow down so a man has a chance to get a decent look at her, or she’ll never marry.”
“I work with men all the time. American men aren’t interested in what a woman has to say. They just want something pretty to dote over. As if I am a fancy lamp.” I secure my hair with three pins.
This comment makes Molly laugh.
“Besides,” I continue, “you’re one to talk. You’re older than I. Why aren’t you getting married?”
Molly frowns at the reminder of her age but refuses to take the bait. “You wouldn’t marry an editor, would you? He’d constantly be correcting you.”
When I don’t answer, she teases me more.
“Mr. Charles Wetmore, esquire, wouldn’t approve of your marrying an editor. We’ve all noticed how he’s set his cap for you.”
I still don’t answer, letting the heat rising up my face speak for me. The handsome Mr. Wetmore had increased his attentions toward me lately. His was one of the replies in the mail this morning: I look forward to spending the evening together. He had addressed the reply directly to me, not to both Molly and me as the other replies had been.
“It won’t take long. I’ll be back in plenty of time for our fitting.” I kiss Molly on the cheek and rush off.
The offices of The Cosmopolitan magazine are but a few minutes walk. As soon as I step into the noisy room, every reporter stops working and watches me make my way to Mr. Walker’s office. It creates an unnerving silence.
What have I done? My last article about tenement building improvements went through without comment, and the next article isn’t due for another week. Yet, the secretary studies me with a bemused expression. And the men elbow each other like school children pointing out the new student.
“Mr. Walker, you wanted to see me?” I ask, settling into the chair near his desk. Mr. Walker is a handsome man, with trim black hair and matching handlebar mustache. He is also a forceful, ambitious man, intent on making a go of his newly acquired magazine. Ignoring my racing pulse, I keep my smile slight, as if I haven’t a care in the world.
“Yes, Miss Bisland. You’ve read the Jules Verne book, have you?” He hands me a new copy of Around the World in Eighty Days. “Phileas Fogg and all that?”
“Of course.” We had discussed the novel during one of my literary salon meetings when I lived in New Orleans.
He leans forward and stares eagerly at me. “How quick do you think a woman could go around the world?”
I examine the book cover as if it holds the answer. “I don’t know. Eighty days, I suppose.” I glance around. Everyone in the newsroom is watching our exchange.
“I believe you could do it in less than seventy-five.”
“Me? Circumnavigate the globe?” London. Italy. Singapore. Where else did that man go? I smile, playing along with his what-if scenario. “I believe I could too.”
He claps and grins, his handsome face drawing me into his excitement. “Then it’s settled. How long will it take you to get a bag ready?”
“Sir?”
“You leave today.”
The blood drains from my face. He is serious.
“Next spring or summer would provide better traveling conditions and give me plenty of time to map the route and make appropriate plans.”
Mr. Walker is already shaking his head. “No, no. That will never do. Nellie Bly from the New York World left for Europe less than two hours ago aboard the steamer Augusta Victoria.”
He tosses the offending newspaper onto the desk. On the front page is a picture of Nellie Bly wearing a long black and white checkered Ulster coat and holding a small gripsack.
“This is about Nellie Bly?” My throat goes dry. “I don’t wish to compete with a stunt reporter.”
I stand, preparing to leave. Nellie Bly has pulled some wild schemes since moving to New York – getting committed to a mad house for one, pretending to sell a baby another. All to uncover the ill-treated of the city and sell newspapers, but mostly to sell herself. Under heaven, I don’t want my name associated with hers.
Mr. Walker motions for me to sit back down. “We’ve done the calculations and think they have made a mistake. We can outdo them by going in the opposite direction, where the winds will be in your favor and you’ll miss the January snow in the Midwest. We’ll put you on the train to Chicago tonight.” He circles his finger like it is the one circumnavigating the world. “And we’ll have you back here the day before Bly, even though you will have left hours after her.”
“But I have fifty guests coming for tea tomorrow.”
“Cancel.”
“I don’t have any travel clothes made up.”
“Hire someone. A team!”
Silence settles as I think of my last – and most important – reason not to go. Unlike some women reporters, I am quite content writing my society articles. I relish the culture and refinement. If I do this, my name will forever be linked with that wild Bly woman – our names will be splashed across all the papers. My anonymity will be gone.
But then, consider a trip around the world! Once, when our family had money, such a trip would have been within my reach, but we lost so much during the civil war. Molly and I have talked about Europe, but with us barely making our way, we’ve never been serious. Could I do it? Really do it?
I curl my toes in my boots, thinking back to when I first arrived in New York and the managing editor of the Sun advised: “My dear little girl, pack your trunk and go back home. This is no place for you.”
Mr. Walker strokes his black mustache as he sizes me up. “You will be well compensated as a full-time employee.”
Full-time? A reliable income. Mr. Walker is dangling a carrot that is hard to resist.
He nods towards the cluster of men, still watching. “They say you can’t be packed inside of a month.”
I examine the smirking group. The newest writer, a self-satisfied swarthy fellow, grins and tips his chin at me.
“They do, do they?” I lift my own chin as I focus back on Mr. Walker. “Give me the afternoon.”
Mr. Walker breathes out a gust of air and leans back into his wooden desk chair. “Excellent.” He reaches out to receive an itinerary from Wilson, the magazine’s business manager. He studies it and frowns. “Best we can do. You are on the six o’clock train to Chicago.”
“Speaking of packing, how many bags may I bring?”
Mr. Walker snaps his chair back upright. “Bly has one small gripsack. See that you find something similar.”
I can’t help but lift my eyebrows. “Oh.”
There is no way I am going around the world with only one handbag, but I set my mind to pack light.
On the way home to tell my sister, I slip into the candy store below our apartment. Bad news first heard with a bag of pralines is better received than news without. Once in the apartment, the enormity of my assignment hits me, and I drop into the chair by the door.
“Liz! What is it?” Molly rushes to my side.
I hold out the candy. “I am going on a trip around the world. I leave tonight.”
***
Chapter 2: In Which Nellie Bly Is Called Into Her Editor’s Office And Gets What She Wants
Three Days Earlier: Monday, November 11, 1889
I HELD THE note in my hand as I sat down at the editor’s desk. He had never summoned me with a note before, and in the evening no less. What was I to be scolded for this time? I twirled my lucky gold ring around my right thumb as I stared at him making notes on a pad. Would Cockerill hurry up and get it over with? I had plans to take Mother to Hamlet at the Broadway Theatre tonight.
Finally, Cockerill finished writing and looked at me. "Mr. Pulitzer wants a big story. Can you start around the world day after tomorrow?"
My heart skipped a beat. “I can start this minute,” I said, jumping up and shedding all thoughts of Hamlet. Hadn’t I proposed this scheme a year ago? Took ‘em long enough to figure out it was a bang-up idea. I needed clothes, a new bag. . . and where had I filed that itinerary?
“We thought of starting you on the City of Paris tomorrow morning, so as to give you ample time to catch the mail train out of London. There is a chance the Augusta Victoria, which sails the morning afterwards, will run into rough weather, causing you to miss your connection with the mail train.”
“I will take my chances on the Augusta Victoria and save one extra day,” I said, deciding quickly. The Augusta Victoria had recently set a speed record crossing the Atlantic. If I were to beat Jules Verne’s eighty days, that would be the ship to do it on.
“Have you a passport?”
I bit my lip. “No. Will that be a problem?”
Cockerill waved in Mr. Van Zile, the one unlucky enough to be closest to the editor’s desk. “I need you to go to Washington immediately. Speak directly to the secretary of state, and get this girl a temporary passport.”
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, I went to get a dress made at the William Ghormley shop on Nineteenth Street, east of Fifth Avenue. It was a more exclusive studio than I would normally patronize, but these were extraordinary circumstances, and I had to be sure of the quality.
“Mr. Ghormley, I want a dress by this evening.” I spoke crisply and businesslike to the thin tailor, confident that such a task could be done.
“Very well.” Without a hint of hesitation, he led me over to a sampling of materials.
I smiled as I followed. My editors always took some working over and it was nice not to have to argue for a change.
“A dress that will stand constant wear for three months,” I said before he could pull out any fabrics, and to make sure he understood the quality of the work I expected despite the short notice. “I am going on a trip around the world.” My last words came out breathless. It was finally hitting me.
Mr. Ghormley chose several bolts of cloth and laid them out on a small table in front of a pier glass where the light was true. He draped the samples open and studied how they looked in the tall mirror between the windows.
“Around the world? And what are you trying to prove this time, Miss Bly? That the world is flat after all?”
“Ha! Not in the least, Mr. Ghormley. I’m going to beat Phileas Fogg’s record and do it in only seventy-five days.”
“Around the World in Eighty Days?” He looked up with a spark in his eye. “You think you can beat an imaginary man’s record?” He returned to the fabric. “I suppose if anyone could, it would be you.”
He pounded his hand on a plain blue broadcloth and a plaid camel's-hair. “What do you think of these? Strong. Durable. Fashionable. Should carry you around the world and back again.”
“Excellent.” I leaned on the table. “Aren’t you worried for me? A young woman traveling in parts unknown without a companion?”
The decision to go alone had been an easy one. A few years before, when I traveled to Mexico, my mother had gone with me. But she didn’t move fast enough for a race. I had to beat Phileas Fogg, or there wasn’t any point!
Mother had not been happy to hear the news. During the intermission of Hamlet, she reached for my hand. “Pink, dear,” she had said, invoking my childhood nickname, and reminding me how she used to dress me up in pink when all the other girls wore drab colors. It’s her fault I feel the need to stand out. “This is different from your other stunts. Halfway around the world, there will be no one to rescue you should you need help.”
“I am not worried, Mother. The world will meet me as I meet it.”
Mr. Ghormley chuckled. “I have read your articles. I am more worried for your fellow passengers.”
He put the rejected fabrics away and set about cutting out a traveling gown. Before I left Ghormley’s at one o’clock, I had had my first fitting and made plans to return at five o’clock for the second.
A few more stops, and I had ordered a thick overcoat called an Ulster to take me through the winter, a lighter dress from my regular dressmaker to wear in the parts of the world where it would be summer, and lastly, a new bag to pack everything into.
That night, after Mother had gone to bed, I settled back into a chair with a deeply satisfied grin on my face. This would be my most daring adventure yet. The whole world would hear of Nellie Bly.
Sample 4
THE TOWER PRINCESS
Prologue
In a land, far, far away where the winters are bitter and the springs are wet, there is a kingdom called Morlaix. Once a famous land where merchants traveled to trade for salve and balsams made from the fabled rowan trees, the land is almost forgotten today.
Morlaix Kingdom was once strong and united. In that lush, green land, two boys grew up together as best friends. Did I say grew up? I meant, competed. After all, one was Anglo-Saxon. The other, Viking.
“Bet I can climb the castle wall without getting caught by the constable.”
“Bet I can shoot my arrow through the cook’s hat and pin it to that post.”
Problem was, they both wanted the same thing when they grew up: the crown.
“When I’m king, I’ll expand my territory in all directions—as far as I can ride. I’ll let you till my fields.”
“When I’m king, I’ll build the grandest castle around and let you serve my bread.”
“You’ll never be king; your head is too fat.”
“You’ll never be king; you can’t shoot straight.”
Boys grow into pages. Pages into squires. Squires into knights. One knight was tall with chiseled chin and quick reflexes. One knight was short with cunning mind and piercing eyes.
Finally, all their betting and arguing came down to one final war. The knights fought valiantly, side by side, to defend the ailing Morlaix king—their king who was desperately ill and dying without an heir.
The battle was won but the strongest two knights, well, they were not done.
“Who’s got the fat head, now?”
“Look how straight my shot was, eh?”
All through town the knights did battle, ignoring the townspeople they did seek to govern, smashing the very town they did wish to own. About to destroy the life-giving center of the Isle of Morlaix.
“You will relinquish to me.”
“You will hand over your sword and muck out my stables.”
They knocked each other off their horses and continued fighting fist to fist for both the upper hand and for the kingdom.
“You will lose in hand combat. My reflexes are quicker.”
“My mind is fast. Hand combat is my best skill.”
Finally, the fight came to a standstill underneath the Tree of Morlaix. My tree. And that is how I got involved. The tree must not be hurt no matter the ego of the knight.
“Stop your bickering.
Your biting.
Your belly wagging.”
Swinging nimbly out of the tree, I planted my two small feet between the growling, frothing knights.
They stopped and stared. Likely surprised to see me. I am the stuff of legends and tales and bedtime stories in this land.
“Who are you?”
“What are you?”
Maintaining a menacing stare to make up for my small stature, I proclaimed, “King of the Woodlings.” I expected them to bow. Most do.
Blank looks.
Bawk! In their ignorance, they were the same. I uttered a deep growl that began as distant thunder and quickly multiplied to an earthquake. The shaking earth caught their attention and brought them to their knees.
“Woodlings are the magical creatures who play
underneath the forests on the islands of Morlaix.”
With eyebrows raised, the two knights, still on their knees, awkwardly bowed.
I have a little bit of magic, not a lot. Enough to make people wonder about me. And take a rest from fighting to listen to my poems.
“I see you two men, full of sass,
have found yourselves at quite an impasse.
Both of you want to be king,
rising when King Rorick sings his final sing.
Yet, your skills are equal in every way.
Your fight will go on and on, forever beyond a day.
Perchance when only one of you remain,
t’won’t matter anyway—there’ll be nothing left to gain.”
At the end of this speech I made the two knights turn around and witness their selfish battle through the village.
They had dueled through the very heart of the marketplace. And, being autumn, and the harvest fully in, the marketplace was rather packed. They had smashed through piles of pumpkins, leaving trails of stringy orange innards strewn about the stalls. Exploded hay bales littered the ground. Columns of dark smoke smudged the sunset in the distance and marked the knights’ path of destruction through the metalworking corridor. As they stood observing, a decorative gourd that had been flung onto a rooftop rolled down and shattered, breaking the silence.
The sound seemed to release an angry craftsman—a plump fellow with a pumpkin smashed on his head. He took a step forward, shouting impolite things while jabbing his finger at the knights. After speaking his mind, he flung pumpkin guts on each one, dulling the shine on their shining armor.
“All this disaster created without an enemy in sight.
Wouldn’t you say—for these villagers—it was an unfair fight?”
The two knights managed to hang their heads and look ashamed, even though they were not. Their brains were already whirling, trying to come up with new ways to gain the crown.
Thus, I negotiated a peace treaty between Jorvik the Large and Simon of the House of Waterton. They each took half the kingdom. Exactly half.
“Half? But that is not whole.”
“Half? That is only part of what I want.”
“There is only one way to solve this fine riddle.
The town must be firmly split down the middle.
Half to each other, and with a dividing wall
That is my decision. This is my call.”
We built a wall right then, splitting the town into North Morlaix and South Morlaix (for the reigning king did, after all, sing his last sing.) The wall traveled from where the water laps the base of the sea rocks, to where the thick forests choke the shore, through the fields and villages, across the moat, until it split the very center of the castle. Half for Jorvik and half for Simon. The stables, the drawbridge, the moat. Dividing everything into North and South Morlaix. Eighteen feet high, six feet across, the Dividing Wall separated the land for two new rulers, friends no longer.
North Morlaix was mainly Viking and South Morlaix mostly Anglo Saxon.
As for the peace treaty, it was to last as long as each knight held the throne. They could never again attack each other, or outside forces would take over and neither would win. But if they would allow, love could conquer all.
THE KINGS’ CONTESTS
After the wall went up, King Jorvik and King Simon set about to build their families and their armies. They decided if they could not attack one another, surely, their children could. They each took a bride. Jorvik from among the strongest damsels. Simon from the wise.
By proclamation of the King of North Morlaix: A contest. To find the damsel of greatest strength. In five days’ time. A Tournament.
The winning damsel was built like a fighting horse. She could carry the knight’s charger five paces. She could throw a boulder from the top of the castle keep and hit the ocean. Her name was Ingrid, which means “hero’s daughter.” She was exactly what Jorvik was looking for in a wife.
Not to be outdone, Simon also held a contest.
By proclamation of the King of South Morlaix: A contest.
To find the damsel of greatest intelligence. In five days’ time. A Test.
Simon’s bride would come from amongst the most scholarly. He devised a series of puzzles and riddles to be solved. The damsel who could solve them all would become his wife. The winning damsel not only solved all the riddles, but also made up her own that Simon himself could not solve. Her name was Margaret, which means “pearl.” She was truly precious to Simon.
Jorvik wanted to produce a strong heir, Simon, a cunning one.
Jorvik’s wife was fertile and bore him seven sons shoulder to shoulder. Delighted in his growing army, he directed their training exercises next to the Dividing Wall in the castle courtyard. He had them growl and grunt and throw heavy objects to make sure their strength could be heard.
Simon’s wife was barren. She used all her cunning to study herbs and balsams to help her bear a son. As the ivy climbed its way up the wall, time slipped by and Simon had no heir. He suffered through years of hearing the army train next door. With no children of his own, Simon poured all his energies into training his own knights from the populace of South Morlaix. He knew as soon as his old friend Jorvik stepped down from the throne, the sons of North Morlaix would scale the wall to attack. He must be ready.
King Jorvik watched his sons train each morning. He was proud of their strength and skills. The only fly in his mead was that to win the entire kingdom, he would have to abdicate his throne to one of his seven sons. He was not ready to do so. The eldest was eager to step forward as the new king. Daily he stalked back and forth before the Dividing Wall like the caged panther he had once brought home from a trip to Africa.
The second, third, and remaining sons trained only because they enjoyed the exercise. They knew their older brother would take over the throne.
“You did not make the bulls-eye. Try again,” commanded the eldest son, Herrick, cracking the small whip he carried with him.
“I was close enough. If t’were a man he’d be dead already.” The second son threw down his bow. “I’m going fishing.” He stalked off, taking youngest sons numbers six and seven with him. The boys were not yet teens and were much more interested in catching supper than in practicing under Herrick the Panther’s critical eye.
A BOY AND GIRL ARE BORN
Then one day there was the unmistakable cry of an infant from the South. The Panther stopped in his tracks, cocking his head. This cry was coming from the castle, not from a village brat.
Royal trumpets sounded.
The Panther’s lip curled in a smile that looked more like a grimace. “Finally, my competition has arrived.” He reached back into his quiver, pulled out an arrow, and shot into the Dividing Wall. “Until we meet.”
* * *
It was true. A son was finally born to Simon and Maggie. There was great celebration. With an heir at last, Simon pinned his every hope on the healthy eight-pound creature. He named the baby boy Manny, meaning “powerful warrior.”
“How long I have waited for you,” whispered King Simon.
Unfortunately, Queen Maggie, exhausted from the difficult nine months of carrying the child and after a strenuous labor, lived only hours after her bright boy was born. On that final day, her skin turned pallid and the bed sheets became soaked with perspiration. Her fever would not come down and no one knew what to do, least of all King Simon. He paced at her footboard while she held the sprawling infant.
“Manny, dear,” she said to the baby. “My time with you is short. I must give you a lifetime of love while I can.” She kissed his little baby nose. “You will never remember me. But my prayer for you is to unite the kingdoms the way they once were and bring peace to the land.” She kissed his little baby fingers. With trembling hand, she removed her jeweled cross necklace and laid it on the boy. She looked at Simon with pleading eyes. “Don’t let him forget me,” she whispered. “I want him to know how much I wanted him.” She kissed his little baby toes.
Then Maggie died holding Manny in her arms, the king holding them both.
A ruddy nursemaid removed the squawking infant from his mother’s arms and gave him to the king. Choking back his tears, he brought the infant to the window to show the waiting citizens their prince.
While holding the babe in view of the citizenry, he unfurled the child’s banner. The people whooped and hollered. They knew the stakes of the divided kingdom. Did they not hear the next-door army practicing every day? The prince was their hope as well.
Then, with a cry of despair, the king unfurled the black banner of death. The cheering and dancing stopped. The people stood and stared. No! Their beloved queen? It could not be. Yet there were the two banners side by side. One signifying life, the other death.
The king knew he should speak. The people needed his strength and his wisdom. But he had nothing to say. He backed away from the window until the people couldn’t even see his shadow.
Not knowing what to do, the people sat on the ground and waited. King Simon didn’t know what to do either. For the moment, he did not care that he was king over only half a kingdom. For just a moment he thought only of his family and what he had lost. But then, something inside him shifted. Realigned his thinking. He had to preserve what he had left.
He knew the Panther stalked at the wall. He felt his enemy’s restlessness grow every day. He knew his son would be in grave danger. The Panther would have no heart for a baby. Could he make a double funeral? Would it be convincing? Then he could send his son into hiding—away from his family to be raised as a commoner.
Wishing he had his wife’s wise counsel, he collapsed into a chair. He knew now, more than ever, what a pearl he had in Maggie.
While he was mulling over these thoughts, the nursemaid approached him, wringing her hands.
“I ‘ave a sister, newly widowed. She bore a babe yestreen and ‘as no way to care for ‘em. Bring ‘er into the castle to raise her son like he wos the prince. A decoy, as it may.”
The king stared unblinking at the nursemaid. Could he put someone else’s babe at risk? He was shamed for even thinking it.
“’T’would be her ‘onor to serve the king in this way,” said the nursemaid, sensing the king’s concerns. “’Tis for the safety of the prince.”
What the king didn’t know was that the nursemaid and her sister were conniving, greedy women. The nursemaid herself did not wish to leave the luxury of the castle, and she had been looking for an opportunity to bring her sister in to share the wealth. It was not the kingdom’s best interests she was concerned with, rather, her own. And what she was sensing was not the king’s feelings, but opportunity. Once the king went along with her plan, he would be hard pressed to restore the real prince. The entire kingdom would recognize the nursemaid’s nephew, Nigel, as the prince of South Morlaix.
“And where would my boy go?” asked the stricken king, studying the baby, marveling at his tiny ears. Grief flooded his mind and he had a hard time putting thoughts together.
Smiling wide, the nurse revealed her crooked teeth. “Thar be a fine tailor and his wife in town. They ‘ave not been able to ‘ave children, much like yerself. He wonts an apprentice. They would be most agreeable. And ‘is wife would be sure to hide the true nature of the wee babe.” She stroked the prince’s cheek.
The king nodded, relieved that he wouldn’t have to send his son away. He could watch him grow up. But what kind of relationship would they have? Could he risk not letting his son know he was the prince until he had grown into a man? Simon pressed his hand to his temple to stop the throbbing. Then the babe awoke, screwed up his face, and let loose a piercing wail. The king wished he could scream too. Instead, he handed the child to the nursemaid with all the ideas.
* * *
Not long after, in North Morlaix, the cry of the eighth child born to Jorvik’s wife rang out. This time, a girl.
The king stared at the babe. He was so used to having sons that he felt a bit awkward. His wife, too was a little shocked.
“It’s…a girl?” The king set down the sword he had brought with him. He had given each of his seven sons a sword at their birth. What did one give a girl? A shield mayhap?
“We can’t call her Thorwald like we planned,” he said.
Ingrid laughed.
Jorvik had never heard his wife laugh before. Once she started, she couldn’t stop. Her mirth was catchy and soon Jorvik also broke out in joyful noise. The child’s birth was the beginning of other changes in North Morlaix.
After much debate and suggestions from every member of the family and the court, the babe was named Gressa, meaning “pearl.” This made the old nursemaid raise an eyebrow, but she kept her tongue silent.
No one stepped into the castle without a quick look in on Gressa. Presents piled up. Fancy linens and imported silks. Gold jewelry and precious gems. Not to mention grain and chickens from the townsfolk.
Ingrid kept company with plaiters to learn how to entwine Gressa’s hair when she grew a lock or two. The princes of North Morlaix came to coo and make funny faces at the baby. In all, Gressa brought out a softer side of her family. In everyone except the Panther.
THE CRY THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING
At first, the king and queen rejoiced over their daughter. It was like they had never had a child before, the way they doted on her. One day, when they were strolling in the garden, they heard a baby cry on the other side of the wall.
In King Simon’s private garden.
In response, their baby girl cried and reached for the wall, as if to comfort the child on the other side.
The hearts of the king and queen grew cold. The young prince of their enemy. A boy on one side, a girl on the other. Too many kingdoms had been lost over forbidden love. They decided then, that the two must never meet. King Jorvik had a lock installed on the princess’s room in the tallest tower.
The Panther observed what happened in the garden of North Morlaix.
“My father’s response is weak,” he seethed. “He allows a coal to burn.” Then, planting stories filled with fear and uncertainty, he convinced his father that the princess must be protected from all harm.
What he really meant was that his own future was to be protected at the cost of his sister’s freedom.
King Simon, realizing the implications of destined love, also took measures. He handed back his true son to the tailor’s wife and told her never to bring him secretly to the castle again. His son would not be killed by his rival’s son, nor beguiled by their daughter.
From my home in the ancient rowan tree I watch it all. Those knights—turned kings—think they have outsmarted me. They don’t know everything.
I left a hole in the wall.