by Tia Nevitt
She always knew she would one day leave home, even if she didn’t know what she was waiting for. Long ago, when she first laid her plans, she decided that she would have to go disguised as a man. She now pulled out a long strip of cloth that she had prepared, and she bound her breasts flat. It didn’t take much effort. She continued to wind the cloth around her waist in order to obscure the fact that she had one.
The other garment she had prepared was a codpiece carved from a tree knot, rigged with straps so it tied around her legs and hips. She fitted it into place over her pubic bone, and into the cavity she secreted her father’s coin pouch, minus five schillings. Over it, she pulled her nephew’s trousers and work shirt, both shortened to accommodate her limbs. She unbraided her hair and combed it up into a topknot that was not uncommon among young men. There was nothing to be done about her lack of a beard, but due to the prominent bone structures in her face, she didn’t necessarily look feminine when dressed as a man. She looked like a youth of about nineteen or twenty, perhaps younger.
She then went downstairs. Her mother stopped and stared. “Mein Gott,” she said.
“See?” Gretchen said as she twirled. “No one’s going to take me for a woman.”
Her mother stood before her and looked at her from head to toe. Gretchen felt the intensity of her mother’s gaze. It was as if she was studying her, memorizing her—and even seeing her anew.
“I’m so used to the way you look,” she said, “that it seems right to me. I can’t imagine you any other way. But seeing you in this disguise...” She sighed. “I have been deluding myself. Of course, you need to find other people like you. I just wish—” A tear spilled out of her eye.
Gretchen reached up to wipe it away, but her arm was too short. Her mother laughed and squatted down on one knee, as she had done countless times in Gretchen’s life. They were now eye to eye. “I just wish you didn’t have to travel so far to find these people.”
“So do I,” Gretchen said.
Her mother pulled her close, and Gretchen felt her tears soak through the cloth of her shirt. It locked in her memory, along with the doughy smell that was trapped in her hair, and the abrasive feel of her stout woolen dress.
“I’ll go get your father.”
She hastened down the main hall of the Einhaus, but instead of waiting, Gretchen grabbed her pack and followed. They found him in one of the horse’s stalls. He turned to look at her, and his eyes widened.
“My clever girl,” he said. “No one will ever take you for anything but a boy.”
“I hope not,” she said.
“The money from the dowry—it’s somewhere safe?”
Gretchen hesitated, but then she grabbed the codpiece and gave it a little jiggle as she had seen men do so often.
Her father looked shocked for a moment. Then his laughter filled the entire house. He picked her up and spun her around. “Oh, I will miss you, Meine Madchen.”
“I’ll miss you too, Vater.”
He put her down and stared for a moment. Then, without a word, he put his hand on her head and pronounced a blessing. Then he bent down to embrace her, as did her mother.
“Find what you are looking for, and then hurry home. With or without a husband.”
“I will.”
And she walked out of the farmhouse and headed for the inn.
* * *
When Richard arrived atop a hill overlooking a large town, he swore. It seemed that no matter what he did, he always ended up near people.
It looked to be a large town, with stout walls and built along a slope that ran alongside a great river—probably the Rhine, if he remembered his geography correctly. The town had many domes and peaks, with timber-beamed houses and roofs tiled and thatched. Atop another hill perched one of those ubiquitous castles that loomed over every town, except this castle looked to be more like a palace. Certainly not a mere border fortress. He frowned. Something about the windows looked familiar.
He scanned the rest of the town that was visible from this angle. He could see an elaborate basilica. That hinted at a bishopric, at least. Maybe even an archbishopric. His eyes shot back to the castle. The presence of both a palace and a basilica meant this was an important town, perhaps even a ducal seat or a small principality.
He pursed his lips. Larger towns always kept their secrets better than small towns. And news could be found there. It had been long months since he had news of his father.
He headed for the town gates.
A group of peddlers mobbed him as he entered the gate, but they dispersed quickly at his first rebuff. He looked around at them, startled. They hurried into alleys as if they feared being caught at some crime. Then he noticed a mounted official approach him on horseback. Uncertain, Richard stopped.
“Guten Tag,” Richard said.
The official nodded. “There is a tax upon entry into town.”
“I see.”
“Ten pfennig.”
“Maybe I’ll just leave,” Richard said, gesturing to the gate behind him.
“You’re already here.”
He paused as he thought about the implications of this. No wonder the wall guards had not challenged him as he entered. He imagined them behind him now. “Will you take the value in goods?”
The official gestured to the empty alleys. “If you can find a peddler willing to trade for coin, certainly. There is, however, a certain tax on sales.”
Of course there was. “What happens if I cannot pay?”
“Then there’s the work gang.” He raised his fingers to his lips, as if to whistle.
“As it happens,” Richard said, his hand going to his pouch, “I can pay.”
“I’m relieved to hear that,” the official said.
Richard felt his thin coin pouch and brought out a schilling, which was worth about twelve pfennigs. The official held out his hand, and Richard held the coin over it. “If you please, Mein Herr, what is the name of this lovely town?”
The official frowned again.
“I’m lost,” Richard said with a smile.
“The town is Weisslandburg,” the official said.
The coin fell out of Richard’s hand as he blinked at the official.
Pleased, the official did not noticed Richard’s discomfiture as he continued, “Home of the fairest queen of all.”
“The fairest?” His voice strained to escape.
“Yes. You will soon see for yourself. She often has processions through the city.” With that, the official turned aside his horse and trotted off through the streets.
Richard scrubbed his hand through his hair. Weissland! No wonder the windows had looked familiar. He saw them behind the queen every time she used the magic mirror. So he was in her city, at last. It had been his original intention to come here—to find the mirror, to destroy it—but he had found it necessary to stay lost once he had entered the queen’s domain months ago, running from town to town, fleeing secrets that he couldn’t help but learn.
Yet now, he was here. And this time, the queen’s secrets awaited him.
With a grim smile, he headed deeper into town.
He had barely taken ten steps before a boy fell in beside him. “There’s lots more taxes,” he said. “That pouch of yours don’t look all that heavy. It’ll get a lot lighter if you stay here long.”
“I trust you have a solution?” Richard asked.
“Maybe. I’m just being helpful to a stranger.”
/> “I see. Is there an information tax?”
The boy grinned. “Not an official one.”
“So what sort of useful information do you have?”
“Over on Weavers’ Lane, you might find things for sale besides cloth. And on Tanners’ Street, maybe you’ll find something to eat. And so on.”
“I see.” Richard held out a pfennig; the boy took it and vanished.
With that information, he found his way to Tanners’ Street, admired some dusty boots and walked away with a midday meal.
He headed toward the castle as he looked around. It was not a prosperous town, with hungry-looking people who looked at his foreign clothing with suspicion. Yet there were signs that it had been prosperous once. Beneath well-built houses with stout rooftops walked people with ragged hemlines and bare feet. The streets were well paved but were without the usual traffic. Few people were on horseback, and those who were appeared wealthy. Everyone else was on foot or bore burdens via hand carts.
He stopped a passing girl. “Excuse me, Fräulein. I have just arrived in town.” He gestured to a man bent double under the burden of a handcart. “Is there some law restricting the use of livestock?”
“Yes, sir. A tax on all creatures that foul the streets.”
He blinked. “What about rats, then?”
She grinned. “They’re the only ones that can shite for free.”
He made his way to the castle, then paused when it loomed before him. It was like something he had seen in a dream. He had never been here before, yet he had seen those windows twice a day for years now.
To his relief, there was no tax to pass through the castle gates, and he walked through the inner and outer bailey. He had grown up in castles like this one. The stables, the mews, the blacksmith, the barracks. When he could see the innermost courtyard of the castle, he paused. This would be the most heavily defended. Only liveried servants could pass through here, or noblemen who could account for themselves. Only a few moments’ observation was enough to confirm this, when a pair of noblemen on horseback entered the inner sanctum without challenge.
He stared at the castle and wondered what he was going to do now. He was a prince by birth, but he now looked more like a pauper and he lived worse than one. He eyed a passing servant, one who was close to his height and weight, and briefly considered waylaying him. He could divest him of his clothing, sneak into the castle and—
“You there! What’s your business?” A hulking shadow paused before him. Richard blinked and looked into the florid face of a bulky soldier.
“I, um—I’m a passing scribe looking for work,” he said, falling back on the type of work he had done from time to time over the past few years.
“You won’t find that sort of work here. The queen has her own scribes. Now enough gawking. Move along.”
And he was firmly directed out.
Still, the encounter gave him an idea. He found a cheap room at a nearby Gasthaus and set himself up with a quill and paper in the corner. To his delight, he discovered that scrivening was not yet a taxed service, no doubt because it was usually a job for priests.
His plan was simple. His clothing, although once fine, had long since worn into rags except for one set of tunic and breeches. He needed only a cloak and boots to complete the ensemble of a nobleman. A week or two as a scribe would surely earn him that, especially if he was willing to write the type of discreet forgeries that priests usually refused to do. Once attired as a nobleman, he would be able to infiltrate the castle, find the mirror and destroy it.
Chapter Three
Lars didn’t lust after his employer’s wife—not really. She was fifteen years older than he, and more matronly than he was yet ready for, with a double chin, well-nursed bosoms and a large, round backside. But she did represent something very desirable to him.
He had never seen a dwarf-shaped woman before. Men, he had seen aplenty. His own father, for one, plus other court dwarfs who regularly amused the royalty. They—most of them—had the same thick torso, the same stumpy arms and legs, the same distinctive features.
But on the Frau...well, he tried not to think of what she looked like in the nude. Herr Dexter would thrash him for such thoughts. And so would that giant son of his.
He wondered what the other farmhands thought.
The four of them didn’t always work well together, but they knew better than to cause trouble. None of them wanted to be sent away. None really had anywhere to go, except back to whatever unpromising situation they had come from...except maybe Rudolph. Of the lot of them, Lars only really liked Gunther, who was also the oldest, except for Herr Dieter. Rudolph was pure trouble. Klaus was quiet and sullen. Lars had only been among them for a handful of weeks. As the newcomer, he got the hardest work—plowing the field.
He tried not to think of his aching back as he guided the plow in the furrow while the tireless oxen pulled. They did not stop until they reached the end of the field, or until Lars hauled them to a halt with the reins. And since that was almost as difficult as guiding the plow, he let them pull as he kept the plow going as straight as he could. He really wasn’t strong enough for this work, but it was getting easier—or rather, less difficult—and it was better than hearing Rudolph’s mocking voice. Besides, Gunther was too old. He took care of the animals. Klaus was too small, and he was a smith besides, which was work that everyone valued. As for Rudolph, he had foisted the work on Lars the day he started. Lars wasn’t sure what sort of work Rudolph did nowadays. Lars was too busy to tell.
Still, Lars did not regret coming here. Someone had told him the tale of a dwarf haven, having heard of it by a passing minstrel. Ever since the prince had left the castle, Lars had not been certain of his place there, and he never was able to fill his late father’s shoes. The king now had a new chief fool who was not a dwarf, and Lars had become the butt of the jokes more than ever. So he had decided to try honest work on a farm. Herr Dieter had been dubious when Lars told him of his background, but had given him a chance just the same.
Since then, he had never worked so hard in his life. It was oddly exhilarating, if exhausting. His aching back never bothered him enough to interfere with his sleep these days.
Lars spied Dieter’s son Erick striding toward him across the field, so he hauled the oxen to a halt. The boy was sixteen, and he took care to plant his large feet in the furrows. He was a born farmer, not like the rest of them. He came to within yelling distance.
“Looks like a storm,” he yelled. “Papa wants you to get the animals inside.”
Lars nodded and looked up at the thunderclouds. He guided the oxen toward the cavernous entrance of the farmhouse. Klaus was inside and began to unyoke the oxen without a word while Lars dragged the plow to its place. By the time they were finished, the thunderclouds were rumbling. He was just putting away the harnesses when Gunther stuck his head in.
“Hey—we have visitors. Another short one. With the minstrel.”
Lars and Klaus looked at each other for a moment, dropped what they were holding and headed outside.
The visitors were talking to Rudolph and Herr Dieter. The others gathered around while Lars hung back. The minstrel was telling Herr Dieter that he would only stay one night. “But my companion here wishes to stay for a time.” The face of the newcomer looked astonished as his eyes flicked from face to face.
Lars frowned. Or was it a he? He paused for a moment and then he joined them.
“
So, you’re looking for work?” Dieter asked.
“Well...in a way,” the newcomer said. “I heard about this farm, and I wanted to—I had to see for myself.”
“I can’t say I blame you,” Dieter said. “Folks like us are rare enough. What kind of work do you do? New hands usually take a turn at the plow, but you look small for that sort of work.”
“A turn at the milking would suit her better,” Lars said.
Dieter turned to him. “Eh? Her?”
Lars gestured at the visitor. “Can’t you see? She’s a woman, disguised as a man.”
Everyone turned to stare at her anew.
“Very astute, sir,” the Spielmann said. “Until now, her disguise has been impenetrable.” He gestured grandly to his companion. “May I introduce Fräulein Gretchen?”
Fräulein Gretchen met Lars’s eyes briefly, and he could see they were a rich green. Lest she leave any doubt in anyone’s mind, she dropped a curtsy. “I am pleased to meet you all. Perhaps I should have a word with the Hausfrau?”
Herr Dieter seemed dumbfounded. Lars gestured. “She’ll be in the back of the house. Her name is Frau Marta.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at Lars before the turned to the house. Every one of them watched her until she had disappeared inside.
* * *
Gretchen looked up at the yawning door as she entered. It was much like her parents’ farmhouse, with an arched door set in the center of a wooden structure with a high, sloping roof that extended low to the ground on both sides, and walls with thick wooden cross-members forming squares and triangles. It was a good deal more ancient than her parent’s own brick and log farmhouse.
Still, it looked familiar enough to be welcoming; she had grown up around such houses. As she entered, she could feel the eyes of the farmhands upon her. Even though the minstrel had described the house and its occupants, she was still unprepared for the sight of them, and she walked away on shaky legs. Was that really the way she looked? She was both attracted and taken aback. Even though she knew she looked much like most of them, she was not accustomed to seeing herself, except her face. She was able to recognize all of them from Johann’s descriptions, except one—the man who had known her for a woman.
