Queen of Gold and Straw: A Rumpelstiltskin Retelling

by Shari L. Tapscott

  I’m bumped and prodded and nudged to the front of the group so that as the door is opened, I have the first view of the room I am to occupy before I can somehow sneak away and find Rune.

  I gasp, and the others behind me do the same. The king did not lie. The room is exquisite—the fabrics are lush and heavy, the carpets are as plush as those in the throne room, and the furniture is carved and ornate.

  And every inch of the room is covered in straw. It lies scattered about, tossed as if by a great wind. It’s sticking from the drapes, out of the pillows, under the rugs. In the corner, under the window, sits a spinning wheel.

  “What do you think?” the king asks from directly behind me, making me jump. I didn’t realize he followed us.

  I whirl around, my palm to my chest.

  With his hands behind his back, he studies the room. “I believe it will do.”

  My mouth works, but no words pass my lips. My focus is on the window, my only hope for escape.

  The king looks at me, and his forehead knits as he takes in my apparent horror. To our entourage, he says, “Leave us.”

  The group hesitates, but then they flee, leaving me alone with the king. He waits until they are gone, until the hall is silent, and then he looks at me with a surprisingly coherent expression. “They poison my wine.”

  I gape at him, and he only laughs and leans against the door frame. “I promise you I’m not insane, but I have to play the part, lest they realize I’m onto their game.”

  “You’re very good at it,” I whisper, more than a little unsettled. Even now, Conrad gives me no clue he might remember me. And is he truly being poisoned? Or is that the madness speaking?

  “You see,” he says, “I don’t know who the culprit is quite yet. So, for now, it’s easier to toss the wine into a potted plant and pretend my mind is addled. Once I single out the man responsible…well. I’m sure I don’t have to explain it to you.”

  Too overwhelmed to speak, I stare into the straw-covered room. “I can’t spin straw into gold, Your Majesty.”

  “I asked you to call me Conrad,” he says, meeting my eyes.

  My entire body sags with relief. He does remember.

  “And I knew you couldn’t spin gold the moment you walked in.” He fingers a strand of my hair and frowns. “I spent the last few hours wondering if perhaps the forest shadows were playing tricks on me. I truly began to wonder if you were blond.”

  I want to bat his hand from my hair, but I stand, eying him nervously. “How could you possibly tell from my hair?”

  The king leans close, a little too close for my comfort. “If you were the product of a tawdry affair between your father and an elf, you might be able to spin gold—which isn’t such an outlandish idea considering the company you keep. But you’re far too brunette to have elven blood running through your veins, aren’t you?”

  “What do you expect me to do?”

  “I expect nothing. However, I suggest you learn how to spin gold very quickly because if this room isn’t covered in it by morning, I assure you my advisors will order your death.” The king takes me by my shoulders and gently walks me into the room. “But if you were to…have help? Well, I can’t say I’m opposed to that.”

  He stares at me for a long moment, and I stare right back.

  “What are you saying?” I finally ask.

  “You know exactly what I’m saying—but tell no one.” Then, with the click of a lock, the king is gone, and I am left alone.

  Chapter 13

  The tower is the tallest of the castle—which is rather fitting for my predicament. I sit, straddling the sill, debating whether or not the thick, rope-like vine will hold me should I choose to climb down. Which, of course, I won’t actually do because my leg shakes at the very thought. The autumn breeze swirls around me, taunting me, begging me to try.

  But I just can’t.

  I’m about to crawl back into the room and try to change the straw myself, like I’ve seen Rune do so many times, when movement toward the base of the castle catches my attention. It’s a dark, moonless night, but the flickering lights from the torches on the ramparts shine in the darkness. Their light reflects off the moat far, far below. I squint, sure that I saw something near the base of my tower.

  The silhouette climbs up the very vines I didn’t trust, fast and sure and strong. I watch with bated breath as he rises higher and higher, until I have no doubt.

  It’s Rune.

  I reach for him as he swings himself through the open window, and then I turn away because my shoulders begin to quake. Relieved tears sting my eyes. “How did you find me?”

  Rune rests his forehead on my shoulder. “I’ll always come for you.”

  Holding the back of my hand to my mouth to lock in my chaotic emotions, I turn into him. He tugs me close, but his frame is tense. He’s uneasy. Still in his arms, I look up. “What is it?”

  He glances toward the window, which is so very far above the ground. “I don’t know how to get you out of here.”

  My chest tightens, making it hard to breathe. “Can’t you…”

  Use magic? I don’t say it, but the unspoken words hang in the air.

  Rune shakes his head, a bitter smile on his face. He strokes my hair—my plain, brown hair. “If I could do that, do you think I would have climbed all that way?”

  “Then what do we do?”

  The elf looks around the room, surveying the straw. “We buy time.”

  Following his gaze, I nod, and a weight is lifted from my chest. Yes, Rune can change the straw. But there is so much of it. And there is no creek for him to sift for the gold needed to kindle the magic.

  I run my finger over my mother’s locket and then yank it over my head. “Here.”

  Rune studies it for several moments, knowing what it means to me, and nods. Without a word, he clears a place for me on the bed. “Sit. It’s going to be a long night.”

  Such a long night that, no matter how I fight it, I fall asleep long before morning.

  I wake to a chorus of gasps. Bolting upright, rubbing my eyes, I turn toward the doorway. Half the castle must be gawking at me. A dozen maids, several stewards, a handful of advisors, the chamberlain, the local constable, and too many guards to count all loiter with the king at the threshold of the room, wide-eyed and seemingly speechless.

  Sunlight shines through the window, illuminating the gold that hangs like spider webs from every imaginable surface.

  Rune is gone. I don’t even remember him leaving.

  A tall, reedy-looking advisor looks about, his mouth open and his eyes narrowed. He turns to me, perplexed. “How?”

  All eyes are on me, and I feel their curiosity burning into my skin. I swallow and then shrug, for I have no answer. Not one I’ll give them anyway.

  “Let her keep her secrets.” Conrad’s eyes lock with mine, and the relief I find in them gives me hope. “Join me for breakfast while someone”—he waves his hand about—“tidies this up.”

  The way he says it makes it sound as if a toddler got into the master’s paints and had a bit of fun—not as if there is enough golden thread in the room to construct an elaborate, and very heavy, tapestry.

  I glance around, wondering why Rune left without saying goodbye. Is he here somewhere in the room? Does he need me to lead these people away so he can slip out the window?

  “All right,” I finally answer, and I go to Conrad’s side.

  It’s quite safe to say that I never, not once, imagined I would dine at the right side of a king—ours or any other. I should enjoy the food; heaven knows it’s more decadent than anything I’ve eaten before, but my stomach churns as I worry about Rune.

  Did he escape?

  Why didn’t he say goodbye?

  Conrad glances at my plate. “You’ve barely eaten. Is it not to your liking? Shall I have the cooks bring something else?” Before I can stop him, he yells out, “Greta is displeased!” He turns back to me. “What do you want? Roast boar? Schnitzel? Per
haps a strudel?”

  I shake my head, helpless as the staff turns their eyes on me. Their expressions are not altogether friendly.

  “I’m fine. It’s all very delicious,” I murmur as I drop my gaze to my lap. “I’m not terribly hungry is all.”

  “You’re sure?” He waves to his people. “They don’t mind.”

  The looks they’re exchanging make me think they mind quite a lot.

  “I’m very sure, Your Majesty.”

  He narrows his eyes. “We can’t have you calling me that. Not when you’re to be my bride.”

  Panic tightens my chest, making it hard to breathe. I’m not going to be here long enough to be the king’s bride.

  “Call me Conrad,” he continues, pretending we’ve never discussed it before.

  Protesting just as I did in the forest, I murmur, “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “I command it, and now you have no choice.” He flashes me a brief smile, one that makes me feel as if it’s us against his court. Together, like a team. Then he gives me another look, this one I can’t decipher.

  He’s looking at me…but somehow, he’s now speaking to the people around us. “And you don’t want to defy the orders of a king, do you?” He makes a chopping motion to the side of his neck.

  Because he expects it, I let out a weak laugh, which the others around us join.

  If I hadn’t met him before, if we didn’t share that evening in the woods, I would swear the king was mad, plain and simple. Still, his mood swings are disconcerting. Conrad catches my eye and smirks in a very alert, sane sort of way—reassuring me it’s only an act.

  But really, how can I know? If the king is acting, he’s far too good at it.

  One of Conrad’s advisors, the rotund one, walks into the room and pauses just behind the king’s shoulder. He clears his throat, quietly alerting us to his presence. When the king waves for him to speak, the man says, “The second room has been prepared, Your Majesty.”

  “Second room?” Conrad looks taken aback for one full heartbeat, and then he shakes his head and pushes his plate aside. “Excellent.”

  My skin begins to prickle even before Conrad turns back to me and gives me a slightly off-kilter sort of smile. “Are you ready to spin more gold?”

  “More?”

  Conrad’s already standing, staring at me, begging me to cooperate. “Of course. Apparently my advisors believe we would all benefit from witnessing your skill again.” His tone is hard, cold. It has the man at his side stepping back.

  My head begins to spin as the king pulls me to my feet. It’s too much. Even if Rune returns this evening, he will be too exhausted from the night before. Magic takes a toll, even on elves.

  I pull my hand from Conrad, risking his wrath. “I couldn’t possibly, Your Majesty.”

  “Conrad,” he corrects, leaning close but looking at the others out of the corner of his eye. “And you must. Or…” he makes that chopping motion again.

  I’m not sure whether it’s a warning or a promise.

  I pace the room, this one larger and grander than the last. But, like last night, it too is full of straw. Also like last night, there are guards posted beyond the door.

  The straw rustles under my feet as I go back and forth, back and forth. This room is also at the top of a tower, but I have confidence Rune will make it, just as he did last night—as long as he’s not currently locked in the royal dungeon.

  Movement in the window makes me jump, and then I sag with relief. “You came.”

  Rune makes a dashing figure, climbing over the sill. I run to him, clasp my arms around his waist, and bury my face in the fabric of his tunic. He smells like forest and freedom, and I want nothing more than to leave with him.

  “I didn’t know if you escaped last night,” I say.

  He slides his arms around my waist, locking me against him. “I’m fine.”

  “I can do it,” I whisper after several moments. “I can climb down the vines. We can leave tonight.”

  “No.” He holds me close, and his breath tickles my ear. “You’ve never even climbed a tree, Greta. It’s too dangerous.”

  For once, I wish I were one of those outlaw girls, the ones who wear trousers and carry swords and…climb down towers. But Rune’s right. I’m simply not.

  I twirl the ring on my finger, the last token I have of my mother, and then place it in his hand. “Can you do it?”

  He clasps the ring in his palm and nods. Again, I settle on the bed, but this time, I force myself to stay awake until morning. Watching Rune work is mesmerizing, and soon, the room is draped with gold.

  I’m half asleep when he stands and stretches his back. There are dark circles under his eyes, and I know he’s weary. “I have to leave.”

  The sky is just lightening. Down below, kitchen girls and servants have likely lit the morning fires.

  “I will sneak away to the forest as soon as I am able,” I promise.

  Rune kneels in front of me and studies me for a long second before he brushes a strand of hair out of my face. My skin tingles where his fingers travel, and I shudder. His hand goes still on my cheek.

  The breeze from the open window is cold, and I move closer, toward his warmth. I draw my eyes to his, waiting until he meets my gaze, and then brush my hand over the small, gold medallion at his neck.

  His pulse jumps in his throat as I move nearer.

  “Greta…” he begins, and then his jaw hardens. “They’ll be coming for you soon.”

  Sure enough, the sun has crested the mountain, rising over the trees. Now is not the time.

  “I’ll find you as soon as I can escape,” I promise.

  He squeezes my hand, and then he’s out the window.

  Chapter 14

  I know he’s there. I sensed him the moment I had a foot out of the tower. He can try to kill me, I suppose. Normally, the prospect of a human challenging me would be laughable, but my magic is dangerously low, a well almost dry. I don’t dare use more, not until I’ve had a chance to replenish it with long, uninterrupted hours of sleep.

  Near the ground, I release the thick bands of ivy and leap, miraculously landing on my feet despite my extreme exhaustion.

  “Hello, elf,” the king says. He leans against the bottom of the tower, looking mildly bored, as if waiting for me to climb down was particularly tiresome for him.

  Crossing my arms, I assess him, feigning indifference. He’s tall for one of their kind, though shorter than I. He’s muscular—his body honed from hours sparring, not a scrap of excess fat on him. In my current state, besting him could prove to be a challenge.

  “Conrad,” I say, refusing to use a title. He’s not my king, after all.

  “Do you have another night in you?” he asks, immediately leaping to the point.

  I study him. He knows—but of course he does. We met in the woods. Was this his plan? Deplete me of my magic, let me kill myself while attempting to save her?

  It would be a tidy way to get me out of the way, I’ll give him that. But there’s something about the exhausted slump of his shoulders and the tired look in his eyes that tells me someone else has their hand in this.

  “I’m not sure,” I answer him truthfully.

  The dark king looks up, meeting my eyes. “You must, or they’ll kill her.”

  “Isn’t it you who decides who finds their way to the chopping block, Your Majesty?” I mock him with my tone, too proud to admit he could best me at the moment. “Or is it perhaps a voice in your head that controls you like a puppet?”

  He’s not mad; I knew it the moment we met, but from the way his eyes flash, I know I’ve struck a nerve.

  “I am a puppet, that is true. Yet it’s not a figment of my imagination, an apparition in my brain, that holds the strings, but men of flesh and blood.”

  “Oddly, it appears to be you who wears the crown,” I answer.

  My brother would never tolerate this of anyone, no one at all.

  I step forward, my eyes narro
wing with distaste as I continue, “You might know nothing of my people—nothing but rumors and idle gossip—but believe me when I say we watch you. You were a boy when you were crowned, too young to take the kingdom’s reins, but are you not of age now?”

  “There are men who plot against me, men who poison my wine, attempt to keep me malleable. Until I know who is behind the plot, I play along, waiting for them to slip and reveal themselves.”

  “I understand.” I give him a knowing nod, a cocky, mirthless smile playing across my face. “You have no spine.”

  “I am wise enough to know I am mortal.” The human king’s eyes flash, and his hand finds the hilt of his sword—a silent warning. “Next time it might not be a mind-numbing draught that makes its way into my wine but a poison. What good am I to my people if I am dead?”

  “What good are you to your people now?” I stand straighter. “What good are you to Greta? She is not a doll, a disposable plaything. I swear to you, I make you a solemn vow, that if you hurt her, if you cut her down, I will destroy you and your kingdom. Everything your family has built, I will level. Everything you take pride in will be dust in the wind.”

  It’s not an idle threat, though with my pulse sluggish and my magic a meager trickle through my veins, it feels like a bluff.

  The human king watches me, sizing me up as an opponent does before an attack. After a moment, he nods, his stance softening, his hand dropping from its sword as he looks away.

  “She calls to me,” he admits after several long, silent moments. “It’s the combination of her locked jaw and wide eyes, the way she stands straighter even when her pulse thrums with fear. She’s strong and vulnerable, and far too regal to be a peasant in the forest.”

  I loathe that he sees that in Greta, that in the brief time he’s known her, he’s latched onto the same things that drew me to her. Greta is magnetic in her grief; she is a lone figure in the howling wind of loss and desperation, hair whipping behind her, eyes focused on the distance, standing strong—hauntingly beautiful when she should be bent and broken.