The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  He thought she was an angel—fine. Angels cannot save men’s souls. Angels are messengers of God. They execute God’s judgment. So when the opening came, she took it. He put his face into the flowers. Here was the third way her father told her to look for, presented to her in a bouquet of daisies.

  But even as she felled him, swung the bottle with her two hands as if she were beating the dirt from a stubborn rug, as his head jerked backward and slammed hard into the door behind him, as he slumped down to the floor, even then she hoped he would think better of his actions, and would one day come to understand how love truly behaved.

  It was a fortunate thing, really, that he had banged his head on the door. The crack of his head on the stout wood behind him doubled the force of her blow and turned his legs to jelly. So everything had worked out quite nicely, and now the second most powerful man in the kingdom lay prostrate at her feet, again, this time with a contented smile plastered across his face and dozens of little white and yellow flowers scattered over and around him.

  Now came a sharp knock. The dragoon! She believed that only Chunk stood on the other side of the door, so she turned the key and opened the door a crack, then froze. It wasn’t Chunk. Chunk stood to one side, eyes wide. The man before her was just as big as Chunk, but ten years older, gruff and grim and suspicious. She did not want to pit Chunk against this man. “Yes?” she asked. She tried to sound sweet, but the question had a decidedly testy edge.

  “Beg pardon, ma’am. Is everything all right?” He looked at the wine bottle still in her hands, then strained to look past her, but could see nothing around her. The prince was obscured by her puffy skirts.

  “Everything is fine,” Panna told him. That came out a little sweeter.

  There was nothing to be seen without pushing her physically out of the way. “Heard something hit the door,” he said.

  “But all is well.”

  The dragoon was not convinced. Chunk looked over at his partner. “I didn’t hear him call for us, did you?”

  “No. But something hit that door.”

  She smiled and held up the bottle. “Clumsy of me.”

  He thought a moment, then said, “Please stand aside, ma’am.”

  Panna could think of nothing to say, and so she stood firm and looked the man square in the eye.

  The dragoon turned to his partner for help.

  Chunk shook his head thoughtfully. “His Highness’s orders were, no one in or out unless he said. And I didn’t hear him say. Did you?”

  As the suspicious dragoon hesitated, Panna looked away, back into her apartment, smiled at something only she could see, then turned back and said calmly, “I’m sorry, but the prince can’t come to the door right now. I’m sure he’ll be very pleased that you asked about him. And that you obeyed his orders.”

  The dragoon’s face knotted up. “So you’re telling me he’s fine.”

  “The prince?” She turned away to look at Mather again, the smile still on his face where he lay. She turned back. “Blissful.”

  The guard was weighing the consequences of believing her when something amiss caught his eye. He stared hard at her shoulder, his brow furrowing. She glanced down, fearing she would see a bloodstain on her dress. But it was a daisy, clinging to a stray wisp of hair. She smiled, plucked it up, and handed it to him.

  He smiled back, surprised. “Why, thank you, ma’am.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He caught himself, grew serious again. “You’re sure all is well?”

  Her response was light. “All is well.”

  “All right then.” He nodded. “If you’re sure.”

  “Very.” She smiled and waved.

  He waggled his fingers at her. She closed the door. It clicked shut. She heard the dragoons discussing the situation. She turned the key.

  She took a deep breath, feeling secure for the moment. Then she looked down at the prince. “Well, Prince Mather Sennett, Crown Prince of Nearing Vast. Do you think I understand the nature of power yet?” But she didn’t feel that the answer was any too obvious.

  She pondered. The Tower balcony was not more than twenty feet away. She could drag him to the rail, wrestle him over it, and the world would be rid of him. She could say he had attacked her, and she hit him, and he fell. All that would be true. Her father would then live. She might go to prison, but she might not. Either way, her father would be free. And the nation would be free of Mather Sennett. He would never be king. All this would be good.

  She closed her eyes. But Pastor Will Seline would know. She could lie to him, but in the end he would know. She couldn’t hide something like this from him for long. He would be crushed. He would try to convince her to confess. He might even turn her in. And if she didn’t confess, how would she be any different than Mather? She had lectured him on exactly this point. No, she couldn’t get away with it. And God would know, regardless.

  She sighed. The third choice had led very quickly to something of a dead end.

  And then Mather groaned.

  Panna looked at him, then up the ceiling. “Well? What now?” The question was urgent, even angry. She couldn’t have Mather coming around. But there was no time to make a plan, no time to pray, no time even to think. He groaned again. His brow furrowed and his head turned to the side. First his shoulder, then his hand twitched. Then his whole body writhed.

  She knelt beside his head, shushing him gently. She set the bottle down, then took his hair in her hands, knotted it between the fingers of her fists, raised his head high, and slammed it back down onto the oak floor, hard. He whimpered. Then she did it again. “Now be quiet,” she said urgently. He seemed content to oblige. She felt both relief and nausea. This was a horror.

  Knuckles rapped at the door. “Everything okay in there?” the gruff dragoon called through the door.

  “Just fine!” she sang out. But her own head pounded, and she put a hand to her forehead. What, precisely, was her plan here? To bang his head on the floor every couple of minutes? She looked out the doorway at the porch rail, tempted once again. If she just threw him over, she could walk to the dragoons, surrender, and let the chips fall where they may. She hung her head. I could really use some help. Then it occurred to her. She didn’t need to be rid of him. She only needed to keep him still, and quiet.

  Panna had been but a child, and certainly had not seen anything, nor had she been told very much when Mr. Sopwash was found trussed and gagged after being robbed near Inbenigh. Lack of knowledge hadn’t bothered the children of the village, however, who faithfully bound and gagged one another for weeks afterward, the technique becoming an instant requisite for every game of Sheriffs and Brigands, remaining so until worried mothers put a stop to it. But Panna knew how to play that game. She had no rope now, but she had bedsheets, and she quickly tore a long strip from one of them. She certainly knew how to work with cloth. And one thing every child in every fishing village learned, male or female, was how to tie a good, tight knot.

  When she was finished, she checked her handiwork. One strip bound the prince’s feet, another his hands behind his back. He would not wriggle free. Panna had less confidence in the gag. The knot would hold, but would it keep him quiet? She studied his breathing. He seemed to be having no difficulty. She looked at the large area at his hairline that was swelling, turning crimson. A few drops of blood oozed. He would live.

  Satisfied, she grabbed the Crown Prince of Nearing Vast by the ankles and dragged him, face down, into her bedroom. She took him straight to her closet. She rolled him in, leaving him face up on and among the shoes he’d bought for her, that she had never worn, under the gowns and dresses she would never wear. She closed the heavy doors and piled the comforter up around them, hoping it would help muffle his inevitable cries for help.

  She walked to the balcony, past the table set here under the stars, where two wine glasses sat empty, two candles sat unlit—the white linen setting where a dark royal ambition would never come to pass. She looked dow
n on the lamplit streets far below. She looked up to the black sky, a billion pinpoints glowing bright. She took a deep breath and offered up a quick prayer.

  Then she screamed.

  And then she screamed again.

  There was a banging on the door. “Ma’am! Open up!”

  She screamed again.

  The door cracked, splintered. Chunk was by her side. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “Where’s the prince?” the older one demanded, looking around with deep alarm.

  She shook her head and pointed down into the darkness over the railing. “I hit him.”

  “What?”

  “I hit him. And he fell.” She didn’t look at either one of them.

  “Dear God,” the older man said, looking ill. “He fell?”

  The two dragoons stared at one another. “We have to get down there and find him,” Chunk said, stating the obvious.

  The elder one’s eyes narrowed. Panna closed her own eyes, praying silently that Mather would stay unconscious. “Ma’am,” he accused her, “if you hit him here, why are the flowers all on the floor in there?”

  Panna looked where he pointed. The wine bottle still sat on the floor among the daisies. She turned now to look at her accuser. She had no answer. She raised her chin.

  The dragoon saw only an admission of guilt in this, and his lips pursed in anger. Panna glanced over at Chunk, whose mouth dropped open. She tried to tell him silently that all was indeed well, that it would be all right. But he just shook his head, unbelieving. She felt badly for him.

  The older one grabbed her roughly by the elbow. “You’re coming with us.”

  Chunk ran ahead to find the Captain of the Guard, to report what would surely become the news of the century. The elder one, taking Panna through the winding stairways and hallways down to the ground floor, had visions of inquests and testimony and, ultimately, prison for himself and his young partner. Maybe hanging. He hoped upon hope that the young woman had a good story and some very, very good friends.

  Panna’s mind raced. Would this really work? She didn’t know. It seemed to be working so far. She had neither given in to Mather nor had she killed. This was the plan that had popped into her head when she’d asked God for help. Did that mean He’d given it to her? Or was it just her own mind, churning and desperate?

  In a few minutes the prince would recover. Someone would find him, and everyone would know. He would be furious. Who knows what he might do? But at least everyone would know. Perhaps someone would care.

  The main stairway at the end of her trek was a huge, ornate cascade of steps that flowed down to the main hall, the one used for the most fabulous of fabulous events. As she descended it, Panna saw another opportunity.

  The constant state of fabulous perfection that was Princess Jacqalyn streamed across the marble floor below.

  “Princess!” Panna called out. “Princess, please help. It’s the prince!”

  Jacqalyn turned and looked up. She sighed. The girl had gotten herself into trouble after all, in spite of her warnings. She hoped Panna didn’t expect her to support some claim against Mather. “What is it, dear?” she asked as Panna flowed breathlessly down the stairs, having wrenched her elbow from the grip of the dragoon.

  “I don’t know how to say it.”

  Jacqalyn looked at Panna’s captor, hustling to keep up with her. He wore an expression of fear, something Jacq never saw in a dragoon except when Mather was drilling into one over some perceived offense. “Well, someone had better say it.”

  The dragoon grimaced. “Begging your pardon, ma’am. Seems the prince took a tumble. From the balcony.”

  Jacqalyn’s eyes went wide. “The Tower balcony?”

  The fear in the dragoon only grew. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Jacqalyn turned on Panna, her face twisting into a rabid scowl. “You have no idea what you’ve done, you stupid little—” She spun on the dragoon. “Where’s your captain? You’ll hang for this.”

  He nodded glumly. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Go get the surgeon! And get every servant and every guard in the building out onto the grounds. We need to find whatever’s left of my dear brother before some guest stumbles upon…whatever’s left of my dear brother.” The dragoon stood still, not wanting to leave Panna behind. “Go!” Jacq ordered. “I’ll watch this…” But she trailed off again, thinking better of each of the many descriptive words for Panna that popped into her mind in a staccato cadence of impropriety.

  The dragoon ran off at a sprint. Jacqalyn immediately grabbed Panna hard, by the upper arm, her fingernails digging in painfully. “Fell from the balcony indeed. Pushed is what you mean. And I believed your innocent little girl act.” The princess sighed and then said, “Let’s just go take a look at your handiwork.”

  The two women went out to join the dragoons, servants, household physicians, and almost every other resident and guest of the palace in the search for the prince. Dragoons searched bushes, servants pointed upward, discussions were held about where, precisely, one might stand to be underneath the railings of the Tower. Many glances were thrown Panna’s way, all suitable for the occasion.

  The prince was nowhere to be found, of course, which led to a call for torches and lanterns to light the underside of the trees. Surely he had been caught in one of them. Guards and servants were sent to the rooms facing the gardens, to the windows and lower balconies, to see if Mather’s body might be wedged, living or dead, in a crook of some dark oak.

  Panna, of course, searched only for a chance, one chance when no one was looking, when all eyes were upward, when she might slip away. And finally, one came. Everyone strained upward, following a call from a guest to the effect that he could see, or thought he could see, something caught in the tree above. “There, right there!”

  “Where? I don’t see anything!”

  “Look, that dark spot right there.”

  “It’s a squirrel’s nest. Isn’t it?”

  “Too big for that. See that, that’s a foot.”

  Gasps could be heard.

  “We’ll need more light,” the Captain of the Guard announced grimly. “And bring a ladder, and some rope.”

  Within minutes, the crowd had all gathered in this one spot, many holding lanterns and torches, all staring up with craned necks at a dark shape, in truth nothing more than leaves and shadows and a bit of dead tree branch, but now transformed before their earnest eyes and ignited imaginations into a body: the head here, the feet just there, and a ghastly bit of brokenness in the middle part.

  At this moment Prince Ward arrived, sauntering up to his sister. “What’s up?” he asked, adding his to the array of upturned faces. He carried a tumbler of brandy in his hand, several more on his breath.

  “Your brother, the prince,” Jacqalyn answered.

  “Ooh. That can’t be healthy.”

  “Seems the hero’s wife pushed him over the edge.”

  He grimaced, squinting into the dark. “I take it we are not speaking metaphorically.”

  “He’d have given her half the kingdom,” Jacqalyn said bitterly, still peering upward. A moment later, seething, she tossed back toward Panna, “I hope your little fits of monogamy are worth all this.” But when she turned to give the vapid girl the full brunt of her royal, withering scorn, Panna had vanished.

  Prince Mather tried to put a hand to his throbbing head, but found he could not. It took him a long while to regain his senses, to understand his predicament, to remember, to piece it together. But eventually he succeeded: He was trussed up like a turkey for basting. By Panna, no doubt.

  He remembered the vision of beauty that had met him at the door. He remembered thinking this was the most wonderful moment of his life. His eyes were welling up with tears. Yes, he remembered that. And the flowers! He could smell the flowers. Even now, he could smell them. The pure sweetness of them was astonishing. He had put his face into them.

  He couldn’t help himself. He drifted off into their joy
ous ether again.

  He squinted and blinked. He regathered his thoughts. Then he burned with embarrassment. She had hit him at that moment. Hit him from within the daisies. Then she had tied him up and left him here in the dark. He felt around with his hands. Shoes. He was in a closet. She’d left him in the closet!

  His head pounded furiously. But now, even in his pain, he felt again the warmth of that moment at the door. He teetered in his anger. The light of her smile, the vision of her, walking toward him, joy in her eyes. He could feel her; he could smell her. He could smell the flowers…

  No. This time he stopped himself. He couldn’t keep drifting off into the flowers. He squeezed his eyes shut. His head pounded. She had hurt him badly this time, he knew. His mind wasn’t working right. He kept losing consciousness. He shook his head, felt the throbbing pain. He cursed himself for it, but he couldn’t hate Panna. He knew that she had in fact given him what he wanted. He now knew what it felt like to be loved by her.

  And worse, he knew she was right to do what she’d done. He would not have kept his bargain. He had determined already, in that one brief moment at the door, that he could not let her go, that he would break every promise, every law, every principle of good behavior, just to prevent her from leaving him. She had been right. He might have done anything.

  He struggled against his bonds. But she had done a thorough job. How would an innocent like Panna Throme learn to tie and gag a man? The answer was, she was not at all what she seemed to be. She only feigned all that sweetness and piety. But he knew this notion was not true. She was indeed what she’d seemed when she’d approached him at the door. The light on her shoulders, the gown, her hair up just so, and that smile. Those flowers…the smell of them…