by Casey Lane
King Louis grimly shook his head. “I failed you when I sent you from the palace, Colette. But I will not let you be thrown to these dogs. Worry not! You will soon be rescued.”
If she weren’t so scared, Colette would have screamed in irritation.
“Father! Wait, Father! Hold back, they can’t fire!” Arianna—beautiful and lovely though her skirts were slightly askew and her hair loose—ran down the battlements. “Father, they can’t have kidnapped Colette. She’s been working as a shepherdess this whole time.” Arianna panted so hard Colette could barely understand her.
“Stand down, Arianna,” King Louis snapped. He was angry, for the first time Colette could ever recall, with his oldest daughter. “You have no knowledge of the situation.”
“Why didn’t you tell him where I was?” Colette hollered up at her older sister.
“You told me not to!”
“Yes, but I didn’t know he would go crazy because of it!”
“Surely we can clear matters without hostilities,” Queen Ishield said.
“You have my precious daughter. I will move the world to see her returned, no matter what calamity I bring upon myself,” King Louis said.
Colette wanted to cry. This was what she had always wanted—to know how deeply her Father cared for her. But why did it have to be right this moment, and in this particular way?
“Colette, move back.” Rainer’s voice was low, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“No—Rainer, we can’t fight,” Colette said. “It will start a war.”
“I don’t care. I’m not giving you up,” Rainer said.
“I don’t think he’ll give us a choice, Colette,” King Gunther said. “You are better off retreating with Queen Ishield. We’ll join you shortly.”
“No, we can get through this if everyone would just stop grabbing for their weapons!” Colette said.
Rainer drew his sword. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”
“The fiend—he means to strike down the princess!” the knight shouted.
“Archers, ready!” King Louis shouted.
“Father, don’t!” Arianna pleaded.
King Louis ignored her. “On my mark!”
“Shields up!” King Gunther shouted.
Panic flooded Colette as a soldier grabbed her mare’s bridle and dragged her away. “Wait, don’t!”
“Aim,” King Louis shouted.
“Father!” Colette screamed. “If I love you as I love the salt on my food, I love Rainer as I love the sugar in my cake!” She scrunched her eyes shut, afraid to see what would happen next.
Everything was silent.
“You mean it…don’t you?” King Louis asked.
Colette was so relieved she almost started crying. “Yes!”
After a few moments, the golden gates swung open, and King Louis himself stood in the entrance. “Daughter?”
Colette flung herself from her horse and ran to her father, crying as she buried her face in his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” King Louis whispered. “I am so sorry.”
With the near crises averted, King Louis welcomed King Gunther, Queen Ishield, and Prince Rainer into the palace. He made every effort to treat the foreign royalty with the warmth and respect he reserved for his closest friends. After giving his blessing to Colette’s engagement with Rainer, everyone thawed considerably, though it was not a relaxing visit.
The wedding date was set for three months from that day, and Arianna used every skill of persuasion in her possession to talk her parents into allowing her to accompany Colette to her new country and prepare for the celebration.
Three months passed like the blink of an eye, and sooner than Colette expected, the day of her wedding had arrived.
Colette leaned back in her chair with a thump, feeling as used as a damp rag. She inspected the tables arranged around the room, holding nobles, royalty, and guests from all the neighboring kingdoms.
The wedding was a success.
“Is everything alright, wife?” Rainer kissed her on the cheek, then leaned his forehead against hers.
“Everything is wonderful,” she said firmly. “I just can’t believe we got through it without our fathers shouting at each other.”
“I think they’ve come remarkably far,” Rainer said. “They haven’t rumbled about politics since your family arrived.”
“I’m surprised, but overjoyed, that you aren’t as angry with my father as King Gunther has been,” Colette said.
“Of course not,” Rainer scoffed. “King Louis has a fearfully powerful pardon in my mind as he sired you, and you are my everything.”
He tried to kiss her, but Colette nudged him in the ribs. “We cannot carry on in front of everyone,” she warned him.
“It’s our wedding feast.” Rainer tilted his head and gave her his most innocent expression—failing horribly, as his amber eyes sparkled with unholy glee.
“You are incorrigible,” Colette muttered. She let Rainer take her hand as he returned his attention to Queen Ishield, who sat on his other side.
Colette squeezed his hand as she turned to her other dinner partner, her father. “Are you enjoying the feast, Father?”
“Yes, of course. King Gunther and Queen Ishield are fabulous hosts,” King Louis said. He smiled at her as he listlessly pushed meat around his plate.
Colette hid a smile. “Really?” she asked with as much innocence as she could muster. “But you do not appear to enjoy your dinner.”
“Ah, well…” King Louis glanced down at his plate. “In truth, I am rethinking my wedding gift to you. Perhaps I ought to send a cook with the rest of your gifts.”
“Oh? Why do you think another cook is necessary?”
“The food is a bit….”
“Tasteless?” Colette asked.
King Louis studied her, probably having heard the hidden edge to Colette’s question.
Colette’s smile turned genuine as she offered her father a small bowl of salt. “The fault of the food lies with me. I asked the cook to refrain from seasoning your food.”
She hesitated and wondered if he understood.
King Louis stared at his plate. “So this is how much you love me—that without me, life is tasteless?”
Colette only nodded. She dared not to speak.
To her surprise, King Louis’ eyes glazed over with unshed tears. “Daughter, I am so sorry.”
Colette pulled her hand from Rainer’s grasp so she could hug her father. “It’s fine, Father, as long as you know, now, how much I really love you.”
Father and daughter embraced with laughter and perhaps a few tears. When they parted, Rainer again reclaimed her hand.
“I am so lucky to have such a clever wife,” he murmured.
Colette snorted. “I don’t think any other princes would agree with you.”
Rainer shook his head. “That is their loss. As for me, I find cleverness a very desirable trait. Though I must say I’m rather smug as I already understand your wit.”
Colette raised an eyebrow at her husband. “Oh? Why is that an occasion for smugness?”
“I wouldn’t like to eat cake made without sugar.”
Colette laughed, and he continued. “Though it does frighten me that you are already so well liked by the kitchen staff you could persuade them to serve a king tasteless food.”
“It’s because I understand, at least a little, how difficult their tasks are,” she said.
“Aw,” Rainer cooed. “Missing Fat Face, are you? We could always send for that sheep.”
“Don’t you dare,” Colette hissed.
“Why not? You don’t want it running about the castle like a wooly dog?”
“No, it’s because the farmer loved that sheep. It would break his heart to sell Fat Face, but he would do it if we asked.”
Rainer leaned back in his chair and laughed so hard he slapped his thigh.
Colette ignored his display and sipped her wine.
Before she
could protest, Rainer swooped in and dropped a quick kiss on her lips. “I love you, my clever, sheep-herding princess,” he murmured.
Colette smiled. “And I love you, my cunning, prancing prince.”
And so the clever princess and the sly prince lived happily ever after.
The End
About the Author
Sign up for my mailing list and receive the K. M. Shea Starter pack filled with free stories.
My pen name is K. M. Shea, but my readers—I prefer to call them Champions—call me Kitty.
I love to write funny, clean stories with strong characters. Books like that are among my favorite to read so naturally I love writing stories like that as well. My philosophy is that life is tough, so books should be something that makes you relax and laugh!
I’m a huge book geek—I love everything from the classics to science fiction, but fantasy and young adult are my favorite genres—and I’m a pretty big nerd as I love video games, super heroes, computers, and I have a passion for book memes.
Heart of Ice: The Snow Queen Book 1
Beauty and the Beast
Enthroned: King Arthurs and Her Knights Book 1
https://kmshea.com/
Chains of Gold
A Rumpelstilzchen Retelling
By Shari L. Tapscott
Chapter 1
His hair is the color of rich, wildflower honey, and his smile is warmer still. He’s my peace, my heart, and though I’ve known him from the time I was old enough to venture into the meadow to gather wildflowers, I’ve never known his name.
Lying on my side, chilled by the cool autumn ground but too content to move, I watch as my friend scoops up the damp silt from the creek bed and lets it sift through his fingers like I’ve seen him do hundreds of times in the past. His magic glows like amber in the sun, and the wet, sandy mixture dries in his palms as if baked from the sun on the hottest of summer days.
His eyes—tawny, amber, mesmerizing—lock on mine, and a hint of a smile tugs at his lips. Without a word, he turns from me and blows the sand and grit away. I sit up, loving this part of the game. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen it.
“Well?” I ask, eager.
He glances at his empty palm and frowns. “Not this time, Greta.”
Disappointed, I sink back to my elbow. It doesn’t always work.
With a flash of a mischievous smile, he turns his palm toward me. The finest dusting of gold coats his hand, shimmering like the crushed mica the flamboyant women of the village wear on their eyelids.
Gasping, elated, I sit up and trail my finger down the middle of his palm, leaving a streak. “Is there enough?”
Slowly, he presses his palm flush against mine and meets my eyes. “You know there is.”
I shouldn’t spend time with him, shouldn’t love him. He’s an Alfar, one of the fair folk of the forest—tall, handsome, dangerous. No one knows of our friendship. Not Adalhaid, the chandler’s niece, not Aunt Gerlind, who’s not my aunt at all but the woman who fancies my father and has tried to seat herself into my departed mother’s chair, and not Father. Certainly not Father.
I call him Rune because he is truly my secret.
Taking his time, Rune chooses a tall stalk of wild rye. “Hold your hand up.”
He needn’t say it because I already am. With the utmost care, Rune weaves the stalk through my fingers. “Now close your hand.”
Doing as I’m told, I clench my fingers to my palm, encasing the grass in the gold dust, and offer my hand to Rune. Knowing what comes next, butterflies flutter in my stomach. Gently, he brushes his lips over my fingers, over my palm, and breathes a warm breath. My hand tingles and grows hot.
After several moments, he releases me. With raised eyebrows and a secret smile, he nods for me to look.
Even though I know what to expect, I suck in a breath when I open my fist. Wrapped around my fingers, where the stalk of rye was only moments ago, lies the finest of golden chains.
“You are amazing,” I whisper as I unwind the chain and hold it up to the autumn sun.
Rune catches my hand. “If you think so, then marry me.”
I lean forward, my lips mere inches from his. “Only if you tell me your name.”
Every day since I turned seventeen he’s asked me, and every day my answer is the same. What started as a mild flirtation has shifted to something more serious. Today, I wonder if he truly means it.
For the first time in the history of our friendship, Rune hesitates at my request. My pulse jumps, and I focus on the feel of his breath against my lips. Then, much to my disappointment, Rune sighs and pulls back. He smiles again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes this time. “You know I can’t.”
“You can’t?” I sit back. “Or you won’t?”
He meets my eyes. “Both.”
“Why?” I ask, frustrated.
Several moments go by, and a breeze blows through the trees, sending red and gold leaves swirling around us. A few settle on my dress, but most land in the creek and are swept away. They twirl in the bubbling flow, temporarily catching on rocks jutting from the cool, mellow water, and then, as if they can stall no longer, float downstream.
The chill of evening is in the air, my reminder that it’s nearly time for me to leave. I shiver as I wrap my arms around myself.
“If I were to give you my name,” Rune says, so quietly I have to lean closer, “and you were to say it one day, perhaps completely by accident”—his eyes lock on mine—“I would cease to exist.”
I freeze and search his eyes. “Is that true?”
“You don’t want that burden.” His tone is serious, his expression dark.
We study each other for several heartbeats. Then, making a decision, I reach for his hand, turn it palm-side up, and lower the chain into it. “Make me a disk, something round and small and unadorned.”
Rune raises an eyebrow but clasps his hands together without question. As his magic glows, the light seeps from the chain within. Once it fades, he uncovers his hand, revealing exactly what I asked for. I take it from him and bring it to my lips, kissing it softly.
He watches me, intrigued, and I press it back into his hand. “I offer you a promise. I will never betray—”
“No,” he says so abruptly I jump. After letting out a long, slow breath, he takes my hand. Softer this time, he says, “No. Never offer an Alfar a promise, Greta. They are worth more than gold.”
His words are ominous, and, as if the air around us senses it, a gust of wind blows past, far stronger than the last cool breeze. The sun sinks behind the Black Forest, the last of its rays gone, and the valley lies in shadows.
“Then what shall we call it?” I ask.
Rune squeezes my hand. “A token.”
“A token of what?”
Almost nervous, his eyes dart to our hands. “Of your affection?”
Feeling bold, I lean forward and press a quick kiss to his cheek, taking both of us by surprise. “All right.”
Rune blinks at me, his handsome face bemused.
I stand, feeling giddy, and brush the dust from my dress. “It’s late. I have to go.”
Before he can answer, I turn on my heel and run from the meadow, through the darkening forest and its lengthening shadows, to the cottage I’ve long called home.
“Why are you starry-eyed?” Aunt Gerlind asks as she heaps a helping of sausage and tangy braised cabbage with beets in front of me.
Surprised, I look up from my spot at the table. “Starry-eyed?”
I don’t dislike Aunt Gerlind, not exactly. She’s older than I am by eight years, far younger than my father, and she nursed my mother when she grew ill five years ago. I suppose I’ve never forgiven Gerlind for letting Mother die, perhaps even wondered if she didn’t hurry the process along.
But, the truth is, Gerlind’s a pleasant woman, and when she’s visiting, Father ignores me for the most part. Which is always a blessing. And, besides my friend Adalhaid, who was married to the tanner�
��s son last spring, she’s the only female companion I have.
She smiles and brushes her chestnut-colored hair back. “There is someone, isn’t there? Is it Sigwald? Barnhard’s son? I saw you speaking to him the other day, and he seemed quite taken—”
The door opens and then slams shut, and Father comes traipsing into the room, cursing the storm that moved in with the night. Aunt Gerlind drops the subject, wise enough to know it’s best not to speak of romance when Father is about.
“Wretched weather,” he mutters as he kicks off his boots and tosses them toward the hearth. He yanks off his wet-with-rain hat, revealing hair that’s more gray than brown, and throws it in the boots’ general direction. “I told you, didn’t I? The geese moved out too early and mice are in the grain—winter’s coming early, and it’s going to be harsh.”
I frown at the bits of caked mud that have fallen on my newly-swept floor. “Yes, Father.”
He follows my eyes and scowls at the mess. “How many times have I told you, Greta? I expect the cottage to be clean when I return.” And then he starts muttering about how much time I spend in the meadow.
The cottage is clean. I’m careful to keep it as lovely as it was when Mother was alive, back when we were, though not rich by any means, doing well.
It’s a pretty home, far nicer than most near the village. The floors are inlaid with slats of wood, and the windows, which are fitted with real etched glass, aren’t marred by a single smudge. A quilt lays, nicely folded, over the upholstered window seat, and candles burn on newly-polished silver dishes. Fresh flowers are arranged in vases that dot tiny tables, looking merry.
Everything is more than tidy.
Just when I open my mouth to argue, Aunt Gerlind catches my eye and subtly shakes her head. Turning to Father, she says, “Your supper is ready, Hans.”
She pours him a tankard of ale, the quality kind she buys him in the village. He glances from me to the table and then decides his belly is more important than arguing. “Very well.”
