The Cherry Pie Princess

by Vivian French

  “All right,” Azabelle agreed. “I’ll have the first turn at choosing!”

  There was a protesting wail from her sisters, and Emmadine snatched up a dress from the pile on the floor. “I want THIS one!” she said.

  “But that’s the one I want!” Fabrizia seized the dress and tugged. Emmadine refused to let go, and a moment later there was a ripping noise.

  “Now look what you’ve done!” Fabrizia glared at her sister. “You’ve ruined it! Now there won’t be enough to go round!”

  “Yes there will.” Clothilde counted out the remaining dresses. “One two three, four five six! They must have sent an extra one.”

  Donnetta looked doubtful. “What about the freak?”

  “Peony?” Azabelle shrugged. “Mother gave her a dress for her birthday. She can wear that.”

  “But these are all blue and white,” Donnetta objected. “Peony’s birthday dress is pink.”

  “Whose side are you on?” Clothilde frowned at her sister. “If you’re so worried about Peony, give her your dress! And then YOU can explain why you don’t look like the rest of us!”

  “The freak doesn’t need to know,” Bettina said. “We’ll just tell her Mother’s expecting her to wear pink.”

  This seemed to Donnetta to be a happy solution, and she joined in the scrum to choose the prettiest dress. Further inspection revealed that the dresses were all very pretty, and the bickering died away.

  “Who’s going to tell Peony?” Clothilde asked once peace was restored.

  “Fabrizia ought to tell her,” Emmadine said. “She tore the dress.”

  “No I didn’t.” Fabrizia was outraged. “You did!”

  Emmadine shrugged. “We’ll both go.”

  The two princesses were surprised to find Peony’s door was locked.

  “Peony! Open the door!” Fabrizia ordered.

  “I can’t.” Peony had her eye to the keyhole. “Miss Beef locked me in and she took the key away with her.”

  “So you won’t be coming to the christening tomorrow?” Emmadine could see an answer to their problem.

  “Yes I will!” Peony was indignant. “She’s got to let me out before then.”

  “Oh.” Emmadine, disappointed, sagged against the door. Fabrizia pushed her out of the way.

  “Peony? Listen! You’re to wear your birthday dress tomorrow – the pink one Mother gave you.”

  There was a moment’s silence, and then Peony said, “I thought Father wanted us all dressed the same. Blue and white dresses … I’m sure that’s what he said.”

  “He must have changed his mind,” Fabrizia began, but Emmadine seized her arm.

  “You don’t need to explain,” she said. “Come on!” And she and her sister sped away.

  Peony was left staring at the keyhole. “Bother,” she said. “I hate that dress. It makes me look like a boiled prawn.” She opened her chest of drawers and pulled the dress out. It looked even worse than before, as it was now creased and wrinkled. “Oh dear. I’ll have to try to borrow an iron. I do wish it wasn’t so terribly frilly!” She tweaked at a frill and it came away under her fingers. She gave another tentative pull and yet more of the frill unravelled. “It’s not very well made,” she said disapprovingly, and she looked more closely. “It’s just tacked on! It’s yards and yards of ribbon held on with a single thread! I wonder… Oh, I do wonder. Let’s see if I’m right!”

  Peony gave a hearty tug and was rewarded with handfuls of frilled silk. It took her five minutes to remove enough for her plan. Plaiting three lengths together made a substantial rope; the princess tied it to a bedpost, then heaved on it. “It looks strong enough,” she told herself. “And there’s only one way to find out if it is…”

  She went to the window. Another couple of carts were being unloaded outside the kitchen door, and Peony was forced to wait until they were empty. As they rattled away she pulled the ribbon rope across the room and tossed it over the balcony. She was pleased to see it almost reached the ground. At least I won’t have to jump the last bit, she thought. I do wish it wasn’t roses down there, though. They look horribly prickly!

  After one last tug to test the rope’s strength, Princess Peony began to climb down.

  On the other side of the courtyard, Basil was watching. “Interesting,” he said thoughtfully. “Very interesting…”

  Chapter Nine

  KING THOROUGHGOOD was in a bad mood. The christening breakfast was to take place in the royal banqueting hall, and he had spent the day storming up and down it, shouting at the various trolls, maids, dwarves, pageboys and gnomes who were putting up tables, arranging flowers, polishing plates and sorting knives, forks and spoons. The magnificent cake was in position; the prime minister, who was scuttling behind the king trying to keep up with his master’s instructions, attempted to lighten the atmosphere.

  “The cake’s very fine, Your Majesty. Very fine indeed. A most excellent choice!”

  The king’s brow darkened. “It’s too small. It should be bigger! Much bigger.”

  “Yes! Yes of course, Your Majesty. Should I order another one?” The prime minister bowed very low, keeping his fingers crossed. At this late stage another cake would be impossible. Fortunately a gnome carrying a large vase of multicoloured flowers scurried past, and the cake was immediately forgotten.

  “Blue and white!” the king roared. “Blue and white! Does nobody ever listen to me? I said no reds or yellows or pinks or purples! The decoration is to be blue and white, and ONLY blue and white!” He snatched at a pink rose, threw it on the floor and stamped on it. The gnome was so surprised that he dropped the vase, and it was at this unfortunate moment that Princess Peony came flying through the door.

  “Father!” she called. “Father! I have to talk to you – it’s really, really, REALLY important!”

  It took King Thoroughgood a long moment to recognise his tangle-haired and breathless daughter. An argument with the thorniest of the roses had left her arms scratched and her dress torn. “Peony! How dare you come rushing in looking like … like a PEASANT!”

  “Oh, never mind what I look like!” Peony seized her father’s arm. “Father, you’ve made a terrible mistake and it’s all my fault!”

  “A mistake?” The king’s frown grew darker. He was not a man who made mistakes.

  “The librarian! It was ages and ages ago, but I’ve only just found out about it. You had him thrown into a dungeon and he was only trying to help! Please, Father – PLEASE let him out!”

  Even a king has difficult days, and this had been an especially difficult day for King Thoroughgood. Everything had gone wrong that could possibly go wrong – and now Princess Peony was demanding something that was not just ridiculous, but positively treasonable.

  “Absolutely not!” the king thundered. “Absolutely NOT!” He swung round to the prime minister. “Skeldith! Lock my daughter in her room!”

  “If you try, Mr Skeldith, I’ll … I’ll BITE YOU!” Peony’s glare was even more threatening than her father’s, and Skeldith backed hastily away. “Father, you’ve got to listen to me!”

  Her father was purple with rage. He was the king. He was His Royal Highness King Thoroughgood – and he was being defied in public by a girl in a torn and dirty dress. He knew the servants were winking at each other, sniggering, laughing at him… It was too much.

  “Guards!” Two substantial trolls came running. “Guards, take the princess away and put her in the dungeon – the dungeon for Those Who Speak Out Of Turn.” The king scowled at his daughter. “Perhaps THAT will teach you to mind your manners!”

  As the guards carried Peony away, she called, “I’ll be looking for Mr Longbeard, Father! It wasn’t his fault! I’ll tell him you’ll let him out very soon!”

  Queen Dilys, woken from her nap by an agitated Miss Beef, had hardly heard the news of Peony’s escape before King Thoroughgood appeared in the doorway. “That girl is out of control,” he raged. “Do you hear, Dilys? Out of control!” Seeing Miss Beef,
he turned a darker shade of purple. “And what do you have to say for yourself, woman? My daughter is running riot, and you’re nowhere to be seen!”

  “I don’t think you need worry, dear,” the queen said in her most soothing tone. She can’t have gone far—”

  “She went TOO far! She came running into the banqueting hall and accused me – ME! – of making a mistake! In front of all the servants! I won’t have it, I tell you!” The king was pacing up and down. “She needs to be taught a lesson!”

  Miss Beef, eager to account for herself, nodded enthusiastically. “That’s why I locked her in her room, Your Majesty—”

  “And much good that did,” the king snapped. For a brief moment it occurred to him that Peony had shown remarkable ingenuity in escaping, but he crushed the thought. “Useless! Totally useless. But I’ve dealt with it. A strong hand, that’s what’s needed… I’ve had her thrown in the dungeons.”

  “The dungeons?” Queen Dilys looked startled. “My dear – she’s our daughter! A princess!”

  “Then she must learn to behave like one. And if those who are paid to control her can’t do it, then I will!” King Thoroughgood gave Miss Beef a final glare and strode away.

  “This is all most unfortunate.” The queen fanned herself with her handkerchief. “It’s the christening tomorrow morning! Will he allow Peony out in time, do you think? Goodness! What will people say if she’s not there?”

  Miss Beef was seething with righteous anger. “I don’t wish to criticise, Your Majesty, but I’ve never, in all my years as a governess, met such a wild, self-willed girl. I’ve done my best, Your Majesty – but I do not expect to be blamed for such totally impossible behaviour!”

  Queen Dilys looked vague. “I’m sure you’re right, Miss Beef. Now, if you could just go and see that the girls’ dresses have arrived safely? I absolutely MUST close my eyes, or I’ll be a complete wreck tomorrow…” And she waved the fuming Miss Beef out of the room before sinking back on her bed.

  Chapter Ten

  PEONY WAS INSPECTING her new surroundings with interest. The guards were marching her down a long, dark corridor; on either side were heavy iron doors, each with a small grille. Occasional mutterings could be heard from inside, including a request for “Hot buttered toast, and be quick about it!”

  Peony was relieved to see that most of the doors were open and the cells empty. Maybe Father doesn’t use the dungeons very often, she thought. And maybe the prisoners have done unspeakably dreadful things. She turned to one of the guards. “What did he do?” she asked, pointing at a door with a remarkable number of padlocks.

  The guard shrugged. “Ask the king. He put ’im there. Been there months.”

  “Stole a cheese,” the other guard volunteered. “Trouble was, it was due to go to the palace. Upset His Majesty something shocking.”

  “Oh.” Peony found it hard to believe that the theft of a cheese deserved such harsh punishment, and her face was thoughtful as she continued down the corridor.

  The dungeon for Those Who Speak Out Of Turn was the very last door. The hairier guard produced a large key and turned it in the lock with much huffing and puffing. “’Ere!” he announced as the door finally swung open. “Enjoy!” He pushed Peony inside and slammed the door behind her. A moment later the grille slid open. “Supper’ll be in a while, Miss. Buttered beans. Ain’t no toast.” And the grille was shut.

  “Buttered beans?” Peony said wonderingly. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten buttered beans. This is definitely widening my mind. Brrrrr! It’s very cold in here.”

  She looked round and saw the stone walls were glistening with damp. Some attempt at comfort had been made: six iron beds heaped with rough blankets were ranged around a feeble fire at one end of the room, and there were clean rushes on the floor. Light filtered down from narrow windows high under the rafters; Peony immediately squinted up to see if she could squeeze through. Deciding she couldn’t climb the smooth grey walls, she made her way towards the fire.

  Coming closer, she discovered that two of the beds were occupied. A faint snoring came from both, but the occupants were buried so deep under the blankets it was impossible to make out who they might be. Rubbing her hands together, Peony turned to the fire.

  “Is there any more coal?” she asked loudly. “This fire is useless … I’m freezing, and I’m sure you are too.”

  There was no answer, but the snoring stopped.

  “I’m Peony, by the way,” she went on. “I’m looking for a Mr Lionel Longbeard. I owe him an apology.”

  The blankets on the nearer bed heaved and a deep voice said, “An apology? Nobody ever apologises round here. And who would want to apologise to a librarian? Who ARE you?”

  The blankets parted and a head emerged. The nose was so remarkable that Peony had to force herself not to stare. Now my mind is really widening, she thought. I’ve met trolls, and dwarves, and gnomes – but I’ve never ever seen a nose like this. She stepped forward and dropped a little curtsy. “How do you do? I’m Peony. Might I ask who you are?”

  “Horrington,” said the head. “Horrington Wells. Stand still, child. I need to look at you. And you’ll want to look at me. Everyone does. It’s only to be expected. Horrington Wells is a rarity, an exception … a vision. We will stare at each other for – shall we say, forty seconds?”

  Peony felt compelled to curtsy a second time. “Certainly…”

  “Then let us begin.”

  Horrington’s face was very long, not unlike a gloomy horse. His nose was not only large, but a bright strawberry red, and the straggles of hair were rust-coloured. His gaze was fixed on Peony’s face, and he did not blink until he gave a sigh and said, “Child! Our forty seconds is complete. Tell me, what have you learnt?”

  “Erm…” Peony considered. “I think you are … very different—” She stopped, wondering if she had been rude, but Horrington seemed pleased rather than offended. He pushed the blankets aside and swung himself upright, and Peony saw that he was extraordinarily tall and very thin. He was dressed in red and yellow velvet, so faded and old that Peony wondered how it held together.

  “I am indeed different, child,” Horrington said. “I am, as you may see by my attire, a jester. I tell jokes. Let me prove it to you. Answer me this: what fish only comes out at night?”

  Peony knew the answer at once. “A starfish. That’s rather an old joke, if you don’t mind my mentioning it. Do you know any better ones?”

  “I fear not.” Horrington shook his head. “And I see you are one who speaks her mind. Is that why you have joined us?”

  “Oh yes,” Peony said with feeling. “Father got cross with me and ordered the guards to bring me here – but I don’t mind because I want to tell Mr Longbeard how sorry I am.” She looked across at the other bed and lowered her voice. “Is that him?”

  By way of an answer Horrington leant across and tweaked at the bedcovers. “My friend – are you awake?”

  “My knees hurt.” The voice was decidedly grumpy. “Rheumatism. That’s what it is … rheumatism. From the damp.”

  Peony’s eyes widened. “Mr Longbeard! It’s Peony! Don’t you remember me? I met you in your lovely library…”

  There was an eruption of bed covers, blankets and feathers, and up sat a tousled dwarf dressed in blue pyjamas. He stared at the princess. “WHAT? I’ve never seen you before in my life!”

  “But you have!” Peony leant over the end of the bed. “I came with my sisters and Miss Beef, and I asked you a question – I didn’t know it wasn’t allowed! And I’m so very sorry, because you were punished for being kind and helpful and that should never ever have happened…” She paused as the dwarf scrabbled under his thin pillow. Pulling out a pair of wire spectacles, he balanced them on the end of his nose.

  “Let me see … let me see… Yes… Perhaps I do remember. You’re Princess Peony.” He took his spectacles off, cleaned them on his pyjamas, and put them back on again. “And you’ve come to say you’re sorry… Well
, well, well.”

  Peony clasped her hands together. “I tried to tell Father he made a terrible mistake putting you in a dungeon, Mr Longbeard, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  She saw the dwarf’s shoulders droop and ran to his side. “Mr Longbeard, I’ll do everything I can to get you out – I promise.”

  Chapter Eleven

  AS PEONY DID HER BEST to soothe Lionel Longbeard, Horrington Wells raised an eyebrow. “Do I understand that you’re one of the princesses, child?”

  “I’m the youngest,” Peony told him. “Well – baby Vicenzo’s the youngest now, of course.”

  “A boy?” Horrington was surprised.

  “He’s the sweetest baby!” Peony’s face lit up. “I just wish I could play with him—”

  She was interrupted by the sound of clanking and rattling, and a moment later the dungeon door swung open and the prime minister edged inside. He looked round nervously, and cleared his throat.

  “Princess Peony,” he began, but got no further. Peony had jumped to her feet when she heard the door being unlocked, and now she ran to him and clutched at his arm.

  “Skeldith! Dear Mr Skeldith! Have you come to let Mr Longbeard out?”

  Skeldith cleared his throat a second time. He was of the decided opinion that visiting a dungeon was not something a man in his position should be asked to do. The king, however, had been insistent.

  “I regret to say, Princess, that is not the message His Majesty wished me to convey. His Majesty wished me to ask if you were sorry for your – ahem! – behaviour. If that is the case you may return to the palace. Ahem. And His Majesty would, I was instructed to say, expect a personal apology in the morning.”

  “An apology?” Peony stared at him. “Whatever for? All I did was ask him to set Mr Longbeard free!”

  Skeldith coughed. “Ahem. I can only repeat His Majesty’s message, Princess.”