by Joanne Dahme
George and I were huddled beneath the mantle of the king as we watched the fantastic scene before us.The soldiers bore down upon the rats with an unbound fury, snatching the rats with their gloved hands to thrust them to the ground to stomp and then slice at their heads.The screeches of the frenzied rats mingled with the cries and shouts of the women and soldiers. The smell of blood-tinged dew filled the air. My empty stomach turned. Surely this must be a scene from hell.
The servants had already scrambled, running in all directions, as none seemed an assured escape.The soldiers and royal guards followed, swinging their swords with what looked like a force normally reserved for dragons as the rats charged them with a confidence that belied their small size. They seemed crazed by the blood spilled around them. They wanted more and seemed to think nothing of the cost.
“Hold on to me, Nell!” George shouted as he watched a terrifying pack run across the green.
But the rats did not approach our small group. Instead they cowered when they drew closer, under the curses of the Black Prince, who had by this time returned to the square, furious, his face flushed with heat. “Push them toward the moat,” he ordered the pockmarked soldier and Henry, who had the old soldier’s sword in his hand now and swooped upon the rats almost gleefully.
Authority blazed in the king’s eyes as the prince approached.
“Does my son dabble in the black arts?” he demanded, pushing one of the royal guards away. “Assist the women!” he demanded impatiently, fury welling up in his voice.The armored soldiers scurried after the rats, leaving the king and the Black Prince alone with George and me.
“What do you say? Are these your creatures?” the king pressed. I thought I detected a weariness in his outraged voice.
The prince glanced at me furtively like an animal before answering the king, as if he wanted to make sure that I would not flee. He tightened his grip on his sword as he turned to address the king.
“They are, my lord. I use whatever powers that be to better protect our kingdom. I am not timid about that,” he replied proudly. “A pity this latest lot had to be discarded,” he added, turning toward the Tower and Traitor’s Gate. I followed his line of sight. By this time, the women had taken refuge in the Tower. Only the men and Henry remained on the green. They were herding the remaining rats toward the moat with their boots and swords. By now, the rats’ bloodlust was spent as they crawled, their fur sleek with red-dashed sweat. Sir Andrew remained on the steps of Traitor’s Gate, supervising the rats’ plunge into the waters. He still clutched the horn in his hand.
“Will the rats drown?” George asked. He sounded hopeful.
“Yes, they’ll drown,” the Black Prince replied, whipping around to face us again. “Sir Andrew will pay for this mess,” he added petulantly.
The king shook his head like a disappointed father, without so much as a sideways gaze to inspect the progress of his men as they steered the rats.Their speech, punctuated by nervous laughter, filled the air. They had regained a semblance of victory. The king eased himself into his chair, as if movement were painful again.
“Tell Andrew to come to me,” the king ordered. A hungry smile played across the prince’s face as he yelled to Sir Andrew to approach.The prince raised his sword as Sir Andrew’s colorful, ambling figure drew near. Sir Andrew held no sword. Only the horn, whose powers seemed to have drowned with the rats.
“Hold, my son,” he ordered. “Put your sword down, unless you intend to use it to chop a few strays.” The prince’s arms quivered as he raised the sword above his head, before slamming it down hard upon the empty chopping block.
“My lord,” Sir Andrew said, dropping to one knee with difficulty. He was, after all, an old man—an old man who had spent the last hour running along the moat, summoning the rats to just as quickly dispose of them. George ran to his side to take him by the arm.
“Thank you, my boy,” Sir Andrew mumbled, leaning on George’s skinny frame to pull himself up again. I caught the shimmer of sentiment in the king’s eyes, but the prince’s eyes were filled with loathing.
“Have you proved your point, sir?” the king asked, as if he and Sir Andrew were in the midst of completing some debate.
“I do believe I have, my lord,” Sir Andrew replied, his already ruddy complexion appearing redder beneath his halo of white hair. “Call me treasonous if you must, but I thought the king needed to know that he had a rat in his midst.”
“How so, Andrew? That is a charge full of treason.” The king cocked his head, awaiting a studied response.
“As you saw, my lord, the rats responded to the prince’s battle horn. They respond to none other.” Sir Andrew lowered his gaze respectfully.
“And what do you say to this, my son?” the king asked, suddenly locking his gaze on me.
The prince sputtered. He held his sword in both hands now. He was trembling violently.
By now, Henry and the royal guards had rejoined us. I could hear them breathing heavily to regain their wind. Henry grabbed my hand, and I felt a rush of pride. He was just a common-born soldier, but in my regard, he was twenty times the man that the Black Prince feigned to be.
“My lord,” the Black Prince cried, sounding truly exasperated. “You would take the word of a servant over that of your son?”The question sounded more like a dare.
“The threads of this story bound you to its vicious core, my son. But what pains me more than your dark pride is your willingness to sacrifice Nell and George to hide your part in this intrigue. We have a pledge to protect the innocents.”The king ran his hand across his face, rubbing his forehead as if it truly ached. “I fear that you shall never grow into this throne.”
“I shall slaughter them all,” the prince said, in a voice that contained a hint of madness.
The king rose swiftly. His guards jumped to attention. “Escort my son to his chambers,” the king ordered evenly, “and stay with him there until I am ready to join him. And the prisoners. . . .” He used the term more gently. “Take them back to the dungeon to wait for me.”
Before he turned on his heel, the prince threw us a deadly look. Sir Andrew’s eyes fluttered. I prayed that his skittish heart would hold. He had been so brave this day.
We said nothing as we watched a pair of the armored guards shadow the prince’s furious gait to the Tower. The Tower green was deserted now. Its grass bore flecks of blood.The early morning sky was a melancholy gray.The Tower’s raven was once again perched on the edge of one of the castle’s turrets. He would be patient. He cocked his head and watched as we were taken, without chains, back to the dungeon.
journey
IT is HARD TO DESCRIBE HOPE, but I knew it was the emotion we were feeling as we sat on the straw that had softened our burdens during the night, our backs against the cold, pocked stone of the dungeon’s walls. Shabby prisms of light teased their way into the darkness by way of the arrow loops, giving the impression of the netherworld. But still, my heart was lighter than it was when the day had dawned.
I wondered, looking at George’s bright red cheeks and ears, Is this what hope dared to look like? His blood seemed to have renewed itself, touching his skin from the inside out. Henry looked at me fiercely, as if his vision were suddenly restored from blindness.
“Nell, I believe the king still loves us,” George whispered, leaning forward to see Henry and me. “He sounded angry at the prince for getting us in trouble,” George reasoned. He nodded as he spoke, as if the action would convince me by suggestion. His dirty brown bangs brushed against his eyelids.
“That’s because he sees the face of his daughter,” I said, “although I am nothing like the princess.”
Henry replied, a smile softening his features.“The king surely recognizes the loyalty and strength within you.”
I bowed my head, wanting to honor and plead for that thought. If only it were so.
“Ah, but you are like the princess,” a deep voice resonated from the dungeon’s entrance.We had not heard the
squeak of the wooden door. It was the king.
We pulled one another up, bumping into one another as we curtseyed and knelt clumsily.
“My lord,” we said in unison. I was vaguely aware that my knees were trembling.
“Nell, come to me,” he commanded softly. His mantle fell from one shoulder as he extended a ringed hand to me. His eyes were warm, the lines in his face more shallow.
“I need you to give me a reason to stay your execution, to believe your word over the word of my own son,” he said.
I glanced back at George and Henry, and they smiled and nodded, encouraging me to tell our truths. I knew I had no other choice.
“Forgive me, my lord, for being presumptuous, but I will tell you what I think you need to hear.”
From there it was like a falling, words and thoughts tumbling from my mouth and I could not have stopped their momentum no matter how dire and grave they sounded. I told the king everything, from the prince’s mysterious appearance on his sister’s ship as we approached Bordeaux to the princess’s death, and the prince’s terrifying dance under the flames of the pestilence pyres on the beach. I told him of the prince’s insistence that I play the role of the princess to win the hand of the prince of Castile, our escape from him in the woods, and our journey back up the coast to Bordeaux. I cited those, by name or trade, that had assisted us as we fled the prince’s rats. Finally I told him of the betrayal of Gracias. That act had cut me the deepest.
My heart was racing when I had finished, my dry tongue ignorant of how to take my story back to the present. Instead I lowered my head. “I wish I could have saved the princess. She had given me so many gifts—her love and friendship, her home and spirit. And she taught me to read. She shared her knowledge and wisdom with me. She made me feel as if George and I meant something to the world,” I whispered. I did not know whether my final words had reached the air. But when I finally had the resolve to look the king in the face again, he was gone.
Before the morning had ended, we had one final visitor, who beckoned us from the dungeon doorway. Although the shadows muted the brightness of his dress, the whiteness of his hair was unmistakable.
“Sir Andrew!” George cried. “Are we allowed to come out?”
“Yes, my boy,” he chortled. “And it is just as much a relief to me as to you, as I cannot abide the rank airs of the dungeon.”
George jumped up from our straw pallets and threw himself into Sir Andrew’s arms. It cheered me to see that his affections had not been tainted by our ordeals. George was truly blessed with a generous spirit.
Henry and I approached the torched light of the hallway a bit more tentatively. I was almost afraid to believe that our horror had ended.
“Have we been pardoned, sir?” Henry asked quietly, as if not wanting to shatter George’s joy. He squeezed my hand reassuringly.
Sir Andrew’s round, ruddy face seemed to cast its own light. “Indeed you are, my boy.The king has instructed me to ensure that you are bathed and fed, and provided with some clean and warm clothes for your journey.”
My joy was muted by the moment’s trepidation.
“Our journey?” I repeated, searching Sir Andrew’s eyes for some clue. “Has the king decided to send us on an errand?”
Sir Andrew shook his head. His arms still encircled George’s tiny frame. “No, my dear.The king simply wants to ensure your safety.”
I must have looked confused, because Henry, too, cocked his head before asking the question that made too clear our situation.
“What will happen to the Black Prince, sir?” Henry asked as if he already knew the answer.
Sir Andrew sighed. “Nothing, my boy. The Black Prince is the heir to the throne. The king plans to spend his remaining years actively grooming his son.”
“Will you be protected, Sir Andrew?” I asked. He hadn’t mentioned embarking on his own journey.
“I will, my dear. The king assures me that the importance of my health will be made clear to the prince, as it is related to his own ascendancy to the crown.”
George had been listening intently, despite his boyish calm at this latest news. His face suddenly became serious, his gap-toothed smile replaced by a more mature mien.
“I don’t believe the prince will ever become king,” George said. “I can feel it in my bones.”
Before sunset, we said our good-byes to the king and to Sir Andrew. They never asked us where we might go, and what we intended to make of our future, but when Sir Andrew led us across the Tower’s green, toward the drawbridge that led to Tower Lane, it was the king who emerged from the stables, followed by three royal guards, each leading one of the king’s horses.
When Henry and George dropped to their knees and I fell into a quick curtsy, I suddenly felt the grasp of a strong hand on my arm and I was pulled into the king’s embrace.
“You have honored my daughter, Nell, these past two years more capably than any nobility.”
Again I felt the tears that threatened whenever I thought of the princess.
“I loved her so, my lord,” I whispered.
“I know,” he said as he pressed a purse into my hand.
“You, sir,” the king said to Henry. “Will you protect them always?”
“I will, my lord. On my soul, I will do my best.” Henry turned to me to share a slow, reassuring smile.
“Thank you, my lord,” I whispered as Henry assisted me, and then George, into the saddle. Henry quickly was on the back of his own horse.
I did not know where we would go. I only knew that we were going away from the prince and from this plague that had tainted us all.When I took a final glance over my shoulder, to look one last time at the Tower, I swore I distinguished the prince’s silhouette in one of the high windows of the Tower’s royal quarters. For a moment, time stopped, and I realized that the sudden swooshing that rang in my ears was the sound of my own pounding heart. The figure in the Tower leaned into the open air and then slowly extended his hand to me, as if beckoning me to join him, just as he did in that long-ago dream. I could not see his face but I could imagine his scornful smile. I stared until he turned away and disappeared into the castle.
“What is it, Nell?” Henry asked, glancing toward the Tower suspiciously.
“It is nothing, Henry.” I attempted a smile. “I was just thinking how wonderful it is that we have our freedom.”
BEMBO
Aldus Manutius, a highly influential Renaissance printer, designed Bembo over five hundred years ago in Venice, Italy. He first used the light, easy-to-read type in the late fifteenth century publishing an essay by Pietro Bembo, an Italian scholar. The typeface soon became extremely popular throughout the country.When Bembo reached France, famed Parisian publisher and type designer Claude Garamond tried to duplicate it. This caused Bembo’s influence to spread throughout the rest of Europe. In 1929, the English Monotype company revived the Bembo design using books and materials set with Manutius’ original fonts. By the 1980s, Monotype had created a digital version of Bembo, along with semi-bold and extra-bold weights and italics. This latest incarnation has solidified Bembo as one of the most prevalent typefaces today.
© 2009 by Joanne Dahme
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2008933264
eISBN : 978-0-786-74664-4
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