Lubos had had his fill of such girls at court, which was why he'd happily agreed to his father's suggestion that he accompany the tithe collectors on their rounds this year. Father had told him he suspected a conspiracy among his lords and barons, who were cheating him of his rightful percentage. Lubos, however, smelled a different plot. The recent floods had affected them all, and all of his father's kingdom was poorer because of it. If the tithe was smaller this year, it was because the lords and barons had less to give. Well, to the king, perhaps. Every man among them with a daughter old enough to be out of swaddling clothes wanted to push the poor girl toward the prince, and it was worse than court. Lord Bachmeier was by no means the worst of them, but Lubos had to give him credit for being the most persistent. His four daughters were all old enough to be married, and it seemed the girls had a competition among themselves to see who could win the prince. Lord Bachmeier had boasted about the quality and quantity of linen his lands produced, and it seemed that every lady in the land was employed in making the stuff. His own daughters went everywhere with a spindle in one hand and a distaff in the other, linked by a length of thread. This thread they then used to ensnare him in any way they could.
Why, only last night Lubos had woken from a terrible nightmare. The four girls had turned into spiders, venom dripping from their fangs, as they spun webs to entrap him the moment he moved.
Unable to bear the feeling of fine wool or linen, for it reminded him of his nightmare, in the morning he dressed in his coarsest clothes. But he'd almost screamed when Lorelei let her hair trail over his hand as she filled his cup.
To escape her wide eyes and even wider mouth, for Lorelei had evidently never heard a man utter such an unmanly squeak before, he'd made his excuses and bolted.
He headed to the town at first, a place where the girls did not go, for they believed it was beneath them, or at least their father did. But as he descended into the valley, Lubos noticed a stream with a well worn path beside it that led up the mountain and into the forest. There might be good hunting up here, he thought, which would give him a good excuse to flee from Lord Bachmeier and his daughters in the future, if he needed it.
As he climbed, Lubos heard a strange creaking sound. Like a sign blown in the wind, but it was not a back-and-forth sound. It was as though the wind had picked up the sign and carried it forward, protesting all the way, as it moved ever onward.
Lubos laughed aloud at the thought. Why, the sign was him – moving ever onward from vassal to vassal, protesting when presented with a possible bride at each new castle.
Lubos emerged from the shelter of the trees, and saw the truth. The creaking was driven by water, not wind. Nor did the wood move onward. The giant waterwheels, spinning on their axles in the stream's turbulent flow, could go nowhere. They were anchored in this place as marriage would make him a fixture in his father's castle, for the rest of his life.
A small bridge arced over the millstream, leading to a building as big as any manor house Lubos had visited on his travels. This belonged to the miller, or at least it did now. Perhaps Lord Bachmeier's family had once lived here, before moving to their current castle. He considered crossing the bridge so that he might take a closer look at the house, and perhaps obtain a cup of ale, for climbing this path had been thirsty work. But if this house belonged to Lord Bachmeier still, then any of his daughters might be lying in wait for him there, or one of his servants who might send a runner to find the girls. Either way, his solitary walk would be over.
Instead, Lubos dropped to his knees beside the stream, cupped his hands, and drank. It was cold and sweet, tasting of the mountains it had descended from. Better yet, it slaked his thirst enough to make him choose a higher path – the one that led further up the mountain, following the stream. For if the water tasted so good in the lower reaches down here, how much purer would it be in heights? Determined now, he followed the stream to its source.
Four
Molina trekked up to the pools, panting a little as the slope grew steeper. The track led to the topmost pool, the biggest and deepest of the three. The cool, blue water tempted most newcomers into taking a dip, but Molina knew better. The glacier fed stream was ice cold still when it fed the top pool, and the overhanging trees did little to let the sun in to warm the water. The second pool was little better, for it was cut into the cold stone of the mountain itself, which seemed to drink the warmth the water gained from the sun glittering across its surface.
The third pool, however, was an overflow for the other two. When the snowmelt was too much for the top two pools to take, the water trickled down over the rocks into what was now a third pool, but after Midsummer, would be little more than a depression in the ground, where the softest, thickest grass grew.
Now, it was waist deep – perfect. No trees grew around this pool. The rocks left them no place to take root.
Molina clambered down to the bottom pool, before she stripped off, laying her clothes out on the rocks. She was under no illusions that the water would be warm, and she would appreciate her sun warmed clothes when she donned them again.
She stretched her towel out on the biggest, flattest rock, where it would be within easy reach.
From up here, you could see almost clear to the other side of the valley and all the town in between. If anyone approached, she would spot them at least a mile away, as they took the road leading out of town – more than enough time to dry off and dress.
So she plunged into the water, hissing at that first, cold contact, before she grew used to the temperature and began to wash. She used the soap on her body first, lathering and rinsing as she surveyed the valley below. Then, checking that she could still feel her feet, she decided to take advantage of the afternoon sun to wash and dry her hair, too.
Unbinding it took some time, and washing it even longer, for the thick, dark mane was her only vanity, not that anyone noticed. Most of the other girls in the village had hair in varying shades of flax. The darkness that made her different didn't appeal to any of the village boys. Not that she wanted it to, Molina reminded herself. When she was satisfied that her hair was hidden under the thick layer of creamy lather, she lay back, floating on the surface of the water as she rinsed the soap from her hair. She combed her fingers through it again and again, sending bubbles over the lip of the little waterfall which in turn fed the stream that turned her father's waterwheels.
She squinted at the turning wheels, which looked like toys from this distance. If she could only attach a spindle to the axle of one, and yet keep the distaff close enough…
Molina shook her head and ducked under the water. Under the surface, the world was murky and green, much like the strange ideas that wanted to take shape in her head. Watermills for spinning and weaving. Why, even Lord Bachmeier thought her daft, having such ideas. Perhaps he was right.
No, she was not daft, she told herself firmly, surging out of the water. Her father listened to her, just as he had listened to her mother. Her ideas were new and different, much like Mother's, and the town did not like different. The floods had proved that. The floodwaters might have washed away crops and buildings, but it seemed the swirling waters had taken some people's sanity with it, too. Once things settled down again, perhaps then they would be open to new ideas. Lord Bachmeier could not live forever.
She used her towel to dry herself off as best she could and squeezed the water from her hair. She pulled on a shift to cover her nakedness, then began to comb her hair. When the tangles were gone, she stretched out on the rock where her towel had lay, letting the sun dry her hair, before she braided it back into a style more suitable for a virtuous miller's daughter. Resting her head in her hand, once again she watched the waterwheels turning, the cogs of her mind turning with them.
A spindle, a distaff, and a wheel…all placed together so that she had no need to hold them, leaving her hands free to spin, and spin faster…
She found a fire pit, long since extinguished, where the farmhands heated
up their dinner on flax harvest days, and dug out some charcoal. A piece of bark, caught between two rocks on the edge of the pool, sufficed as her canvas, and Molina began to draw the design taking shape in her head.
Five
A rabbit hopped across the path, and Lubos found himself reaching for his bow out of habit. By the time he nocked an arrow to the string, though, the creature had vanished. It was for the best, he mused, for he was not truly on the road between castles at the moment. If he were, the rabbit would be a welcome addition to the evening stewpot, but if he brought it back to Lord Bachmeier's kitchen, it would surely be wasted, for the man kept a fine table already. Just looking at his four plump daughters could have told Lubos that.
There must be something wrong with him that such examples of beautiful womanhood did nothing for his libido. But his father's vassals were determined to get a betrothal out of him, so he returned home with a bride.
Another rabbit hopped past, slower this time. Lubos pulled out his bow and managed to fire before the creature disappeared, but all he hit was grass.
He cursed. Unlucky in love, and unlucky in hunting. He could do little to improve the first, but the second was within his power. Lubos emptied his quiver, setting the arrows point-first into the ground at his feet. He surveyed his surroundings, and settled on a tree fifty yards away to be his target.
Lubos let the first arrow fly, followed by the rest, before going to retrieve them and try again. He hit the tree more times than he missed, but he could improve. He could.
He fired arrow after arrow all afternoon, until his arms ached and his sweat-drenched tunic stuck to him in the unseasonable spring heat.
His desire to find the stream's source redoubled, and he packed away his bow and arrows so that he might take the mountain track higher still.
A trickling waterfall seemed to be the source of the stream's flow, and he stopped to cup his hands beneath it. He brought the water to his lips and drank. But instead of the pure, sweet water he'd tasted in the lower reaches, this had the distinct taint of something like soap.
Lubos spat it out and wiped his mouth. Had he climbed the mountain in search of pure water, only to find a washerwoman at work? Even now, luck eluded him. He would have to climb higher to find what he sought.
The path curved away from the waterfall, and Lubos took it. He rounded a particularly large boulder and found himself in a positively enchanted clearing, where dappled sunlight filtering through the trees glittered on the surface of a deep pool. A pool with no sign of washerwomen or their work.
Lubos edged closer, until he was near enough to cup his hands and drink. The freezing water numbed his hands, but it tasted so fresh he had to drink more. A sound from below drew his attention, and he peered down the slope.
Ah, he'd thought there was only one pool, when there were actually three. The lowest pool had clothes laid out on the rocks to dry, but there was no one in sight. Perhaps the washerwoman would return?
Lubos paused for a moment. Reaching the third pool would require climbing down rocks. He'd do it, and he could see adventurous youngsters doing it, but a weary wife, burdened with a bag of laundry? He hadn't met a woman yet who wanted to make her work harder.
So he climbed down, determined to satisfy his curiosity, even if he had to wait all day for the washerwoman's return. Either the clothing belonged to a remarkable woman indeed, or there was an easier path he couldn't see from up here.
"Where did you come from?" an imperious voice demanded.
Lubos lost his grip and slid down the last few yards. Thankfully, he managed to land mostly on his feet before he whirled to face his interrogator.
For a moment, he didn't even see her, until he looked down. One of the creamy underdresses was…occupied.
The girl sat up and folded her arms across her breasts. A good thing, too, for the fine linen showed more of them than was decent. "How did you get here?" she demanded.
Lubos had to open and close his mouth several times before his voice came out. "From…from the road from the castle. Lord…Lord…" He couldn't for the life of him remember the man's name, and the more he stared at the girl's dark hair, blowing free in the breeze, the less he could think of anything but her.
"You came from Lord Bachmeier's castle? One of his new labourers, I imagine, as you can't even remember his name. Did he send you with a message for the miller? I'll take it, but next time, you should go straight to the house. No one is to touch the millponds without the miller's permission."
Lubos stared at her outstretched hand, trying to work out what she wanted him to place in her palm.
"Did Lord Bachmeier send you?" she repeated.
He fixed his gaze on her gown, stretched out on a rock. It was as fine as those worn by any of Bachmeier's daughters, though she didn't look anything like them. Her hard curves were half the size of their soft ones, and her dark hair and eyes were midnight to the daughters' cloudy morning light. Exotic. Irresistible. Like no woman he'd ever seen before. And wearing nothing but a shift, as if she wanted to tempt him.
"He must have known I would come here. Made sure you were waiting for me. I must say, if you are the woman he had in mind to warm my bed, Lord Bachmeier's hospitality has definitely improved beyond measure," Lubos said, taking a step toward her.
She was nimbler than he expected, leaping to her feet. In three strides, she was close enough to snatch up her gown and use it to cover her shift.
"The only bed I'll warm is my own, and Bachmeier knows that well," she said with a dangerous glint in her eye. "If he sent you to make trouble for me, then he must truly hate you. A man with no honour, who has not even the courtesy to turn his back when he stumbles across a woman in a state of undress…perhaps this is the first time I will share Bachmeier's opinion."
A washerwoman with a fine gown, so close to the manor house by the mill…this was the miller's wife. And he'd just treated her like a common harlot.
Feeling his face grow hot, Lubos bowed low. "Forgive me, Mistress Miller. I was struck dumb by your beauty." He kept his eyes firmly on the ground at his feet.
"Dumb means you cannot talk. You may have a problem with your tongue, but that is not it," she said gently. "You are new here, so I will forgive you this once, farm boy, as long as you do not say such things again."
Farm boy? Lubos almost laughed, then realised she had based her assessment on his clothes. If he told her who he truly was…
Then she would be less forgiving, for a prince should know better.
"Thank you, mistress," he said.
He waited, but received no response. Finally, he lifted his head, only to find the girl had gone. She'd dressed and disappeared. Leaving nothing behind.
Something blew from behind him, and he reached out instinctively to catch it. It was a piece of bark, bleached in the sun until it was as pale as parchment. But it wasn't the bark that held his attention. It was the sketch on it. A few lines, scrawled in charcoal, but he could clearly make out the shape of the waterwheels below, connected to what looked like a spindle and distaff. Her work, it must be…
Tucking the piece of bark inside his tunic, he began to make his way back to Bachmeier's castle. But he saw nothing of the road, no matter how many rabbits hopped across his path. All his vision was occupied by a pair of glittering dark eyes that belonged to the miller's wife.
Six
Her father was jubilant about getting three new queens for the hives, and Helga had made a particularly fine stew with dumplings before heading back to the village for the evening, so Molina did her best to forget the strange encounter with Lord Bachmeier's new farmhand. For a moment there, she'd though Bachmeier had sent the boy to kidnap her and force her to become his bride.
But Bachmeier wouldn't do such a thing, surely. He'd asked, she'd refused, and he'd insisted she would regret her decision when he chose another. He'd said it dismissively, as though he cared little what she regretted, for he would have shifted his affections elsewhere, if indeed they e
xisted at all,.
"The village boys still fear you. What in heaven's name did you do to scare them so?" Father asked.
Molina considered her response carefully before she said, "Oh, they think I'm a witch, because I know how the waterwheels work." Actually, it was more likely they blamed her for that Easter festival when she and a few of the other people her age had drunk too much wine and decided to celebrate some ancient pagan fertility festival that Rikard insisted was celebrated at the same time. They'd all paired up, taken their clothes off, and proceeded to see how fertile they were. Two of the girls fell pregnant that night, but when Rikard entered Molina, she'd cried out so loudly at the pain that she'd killed his desire, too. He claimed she'd cursed his manhood with her barrenness, and as she was the only girl not carrying a child, the others believed it.
But she had no intention of telling her father that.
"Bachmeier won't wait forever. A lord like him will lose patience eventually, and decide to take what he wants. You should choose a husband, and marry the man soon. Then Bachmeier will turn his eyes elsewhere."
Molina shrugged. "None of the village men are a better choice than Bachmeier, for if they were, I'd be married already. My passion is for waterwheels and what we can make with them. Machines, not men."
"That's what your mother said, too. Did you know the first time I kissed her, it was behind the mill? And one day when we went swimming in the millpond together…"
"I know, I know, you've already told me," Molina interrupted, not wanting to hear about the first time her parents got naked together. It reminded her too much of the disturbing events of the afternoon. "Does Bachmeier have some new workers up at his farm?"
Spin- Rumpelstiltskin Retold Page 2
