by Reza Ali
“I do not care anymore; I want you to be my queen. I want you by my side every day. I cannot be with any woman but the woman I am in love with. I love you, Lady Evangeline.”
His words sent shivers running through her.
“I love you too, My Prince,” she whispered softly, saying the words for the first time.
He held her tightly, his muscular frame pushing against her chest. Her head rested on his shoulder; she felt perfectly at peace. This was where she wanted to be; nothing in this world would satisfy her more.
“Come with me, My Prince; I want to show you something.” She took his hand and led him to the backyard of the sanctuary.
A large bonfire burnt proudly, with people sitting around, telling stories and keeping warm. They rose to their feet and cheered as the prince walked toward them. Melissa appeared with two helpers carrying a chair each. They laid them down beside the fire and gestured for the prince to sit next to the princess. He held the princess’ hand, not letting her leave his side. She smiled at him and he smiled back.
One of the men stood up, holding his hat in both hands over his crotch. He smiled at the king, flashing his yellow teeth.
“Your Majesty, may I be so bold as to say you are a fine man; indeed, you are. Welcome to my fire; I am the captain of this blaze. Please do let me know if you require anything, as I am, as I always have been, your loyal servant,” he said to a roar of laughter.
“Henry, behave yourself! We are honoured by the company of the crown prince. We should show respect,” scolded the princess, wearing a smile.
“Henry? My namesake! A pleasure to meet you, indeed,” the prince interrupted.
“The pleasure is all mine, Y’ Majesty. Perhaps one day I shall visit your fine castle and set a fire that I may captain and we may share a keg of your finest.” He beamed, flashing his beautiful smile.
“Henry!” she shouted one more, embarrassed, but amused.
“Beg pardon, Y’ Majesty, me and Philly over here sat wondering if you fancy our fine lady. A lovely queen, she will make, beautiful as they come. Clever as a fox she is, too!” said a gaunt, slender man with wild red hair and an even wilder beard.
“Mully!” the princess shouted. This time, her eyes opened wide, giving him a dangerous look.
“I do fancy her, Mully, and, err, you can pass Philly the message. You are right; she will make a great queen.” He turned to her and smiled.
“Then, Y’ Majesty, what are you waiting for? She will make the most beautiful queen we have ever had!” an elderly woman shouted.
“Sick to my stomach of them ugly wenches they call royals,” a voice shouted to raucous laughter.
“Stop! Please, you cannot discuss such matters with the prince. There are many considerations for a queen. The prince cannot act on impulse. So please, leave him be,” the princess implored.
“I shall declare today, before the captain of this bonfire…” The prince lifted his eyebrows as he looked at Henry.
“Thank you, Y’ Majesty!” Henry interrupted, bowing his head to more laughs.
“I shall declare that I do so love the Lady Evangeline.” He had just completed the sentence when the whole crowd burst into cheering and raucous applause.
“My Prince, please do not do this! Not here!” she ordered.
“My Lady, I will declare my love for you in front of this whole town, this whole country if I have to,” he said, bold and loud enough to elicit another cheer.
At that moment, they heard trotting horses pull up at the front gate. A knight appeared and hurried up to the prince.
“Forgive my interruption, Your Grace; your urgent presence is required at our camp. A message from Aragon has arrived; the archbishop requests your counsel,” the knight said.
“Good God, Sir Gerald, can a crown prince not have moment of privacy?” He glowered at the knight.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I only follow orders. If you so desire, I could return with your message.” The knight was embarrassed.
“No need. I will return with you.” He stood up, took the princess’ hand and walked to his horse.
“What are you doing?” she asked with a confused expression.
“You are coming with me back to the camp.” He mounted his horse and extended his hand to her.
“No, I will not go there. There is too much happening and you cannot reveal anything about us. Please, My Prince, trust me, no good can come from me being paraded like this.” Her voice was soft and gentle.
“Very well, I will be back as soon as this is done. I love you, Lady Eve.” He held her hand tightly.
“I do too, My Prince.” Her turquoise eyes held a despairing look.
His destrier trotted forward behind the knight. She stood at the gate, watching him disappear into Old Town. Some moments passed as she stood watching the empty street. An owl hooted in the distance, the sound echoing down the street. The cold breeze picked up around her, and she tightened the collar of the black coat she wore over her red tunic and black woollen breeches. A brown leaf descended from nowhere, swirling and dancing in the breeze before falling peacefully, resting beside her black leather boots. The night was unusually dark and silent; there wasn’t a soul on the street as far as she could see. Just as she turned to return to her sanctuary, four riders appeared from the dark and approached her.
“Evening, M’ Lady. We have been sent by Prince Henry to accompany you to a place he wishes you to see,” said a man wearing a black tunic of fine ring mail, with a black cape strung around his shoulders.
“But the prince just rode off minutes ago.” The corners of her eyes crinkled as she thought, then she ran her fingers up her thigh, brushing past the three daggers she had sheathed around it.
“That is correct, M’ Lady; he sent us back for you. I would venture a guess that he intends to meet you there,” the man replied.
“You do not intend to take me to his camp, I hope?” she asked, looking alarmed.
“No, My Lady, it is not far away. Not anywhere near the camp,” he assured her.
“Very well, I shall follow you, then.” She walked to the stables and untethered her horse.
She rode behind them through Old Town until they turned into a dark alley. The princess’ suspicions arose, but she remembered that the prince was always considerate of her wishes and, in their last conversation, she had implied that he should not parade her in front of the camp. The riders stopped and dismounted at a point where the town ended and the shrub trails leading to the forest began. They stood in a line in front of her horse and looked at her. She dismounted and walked towards them.
“Will the prince be arriving soon?” She shrugged.
The men sniggered together and continued looking at her. At that moment, she realised something was amiss. These men had nothing to do with the prince. Why had they brought her here? What did they want from her? She narrowed her eyes and looked at each one of them.
“You are a real beauty, My Lady,” one of the men commented.
She looked on silently. Each man had a longsword sheathed in a scabbard and they looked as if they were going into battle. They each wore a contemptuous smile and continued staring at her. She brushed over her daggers once again. Her heartbeat accelerated and her breathing grew heavier.
“Father Norman said you are a witch. Does he speak true?” another man asked.
“A witch or a wench?” asked the first man, to a roar of laughter from all of the men.
“You men would do well to leave now.” Her voice held firm as she stood completely unmoved.
“You want us to leave? But we got business with you, My Lady.”
Laughter echoed through the dark forest.
“If you are going to kill me, get on with it. I have little time for your petty words and absent wit.” She walked towards them and allowed her coat to slide off her back onto the ground.
The men were slightly unnerved. They had expected her to run and scream for mercy, but she boldly came towards them,
almost challenging them, almost throwing down the gauntlet.
“I do not like the look of this; can we finish her and leave?” the first man asked apprehensively.
“What’s the matter, boys? Are you afraid of a girl?” She continued to saunter forward.
Two of the men approached her, swords drawn and ready. She stood before them, flicking her gaze between the two, then her eyes flashed incandescently for a moment. The two men standing before her looked at one another nervously, then lifted their swords and thrust forward in a straight stabbing movement aimed at the princess’ chest. She immediately leapt higher than their shoulders and somersaulted over them in mid-air. The men’s swords pushed forward together, cutting neatly through the air, but struck nothing. As she flipped over, she ripped two daggers, one in each hand, from the sheaths strapped to her thigh. She flung them simultaneously. As her feet touched the ground behind the two men, the knives sank into their wrists and dropped them and their swords to the ground like a set of dominos.
She stood in front of the third man, who immediately made for his sword. Within a fraction of a second, she took the dagger by the blade, drew it over her shoulder and let it rip, flinging it into the back of the man’s hand before he could reach his sword. As the knife struck him, it slit a vein and blood burst forth like a red fountain. The man shrieked and spun around holding his hand, trying to contain the blood spill. A dollop of blood struck the princess on her cheek and a droplet descended toward her mouth. Instinctively, her tongue shot to the corner of her lip and took it. Oh no! She knew this had been a grievous mistake. She looked at the last man standing before her.
“Run, please, run!” Her head was bowed, but she lifted her eyes to look at him as she muttered the words.
That was all she could say before it happened. Her eyes glowed like the morning sunlight and her fangs advanced beyond her lips. The last man stumbled back in terror. She leapt silently, stealthily, brutally towards him. It took less than the blink of an eye and her head was under his jaw, locked into his neck. He fell over on his back and, as he hit the ground, she wrenched back her head, taking half his throat in her mouth. Blood sprayed like spring water from the earth; she took as much as she could, drinking it like a starving peasant. The other men sprang up and ran. She leapt at the man next to her; he was still trying to contain the bloody fountain when she ripped into his neck from the back.
She pulled the knife from his hand. Blood splattered all around as she flung the knife at one of the two men running. It struck him on the back of his head and he fell between strides, sliding forward motionlessly. The last man tripped as he watched his compatriot fall beside him. He turned over, on his buttocks, scanning the bodies, looking for the assailant who, but for the last few terrifying minutes, was to be their big payday. His eyes scanned the area; there was nothing but chilling silence. Then he saw her sauntering toward him, blood caking her lower jaw, eyes incandescent. He crawled backwards in panic, wanting to hide, wanting to be far away from the approaching terror. She hurtled towards him like a bloodthirsty eagle. He closed his eyes tightly, then felt a slight weight upon him. He felt himself being shaken like a rag doll and then he felt something ripping him open. A burst of pain streaked through him like volts of electric current. He dared not open his eyes; coldness seemed to creep within him, slowly engulfing his hands and body. He felt himself drifting, his consciousness receding until complete blackness took hold.
Chapter 6
New Life
“The crown prince came to the princess’ sanctuary; he sat amongst the townsfolk right beside her. He held her hand and declared his love for her,” said a small man with filthy brown clothing and a stench enough to make Lord Cunningham’s head spin.
“That’s enough, thank you. Please see this gentleman out the back door. ” Lord Cunningham turned to the castle steward, Raymond Redfern.
“Certainly, My Lord,” he replied and led the man down the stairway towards the servants’ quarters and through the back door.
There was silence until the man was safely away, then Lord Cunningham pulled his lips tightly together and gave John Carter an angry look.
“So the crown prince is love with our princess. Does not surprise me, really; so many men have fallen that way for her. The difference here is that she seems to have fallen for him too.” John Carter cast a hesitant smile.
“I tell you she will be the death of us! She knows of the Valkrays’ raid in London, yet she still cavorts with this prince as if all that matters is her little romance. Damn her!” Lord Cunningham’s lips twisted in anger.
“You should not be so hard on her. Everything she does is always for the benefit of others. Allow her this indulgence; she has never ventured beyond our circle,” John replied quietly.
“You…” His eyes narrowed and he pointed at John angrily. “You think I know not of your feelings for her. I know you love her; I always knew it. She has crossed the line this time. What kind of man are you, Carter? How can you stand for this?”
“I have respect for her choice; she deserves everything her heart desires. If I could give her the world, I would, not because I love her, but because she is more deserving of it than anyone I know.” John spoke softly, lowering his head. It was obvious he had deep feelings for her and this hurt him immensely.
“Damn you, Carter! I am going to put an end to that abomination across the street. Now!” Lord Cunningham stormed out.
As Lord Cunningham entered the large doors to the sanctuary, he walked over a wooden pail, mistakenly placed at the door, and stumbled forward. He grabbed hold of a chair to keep his dignity. The place inside fell silent and everything ground to a halt for a moment, all eyes firmly on the red-faced lord. An elderly woman walked up to him and took his hand.
“Are you well, My Lord?” she asked softly.
“Yes, the…” He pointed at the bucket lying sideward next to a table.
“Sneaky old bugger, that pail; once took me also, clean on my rear.” She laughed to herself.
“I beg to differ, Myra; the pail was innocent. I bore witness to it all,” an old man jibed.
“Mind your manners, Uncle Ben! We have an important guest,” scolded Myra Tartly, the elderly lady holding Lord Cunningham’s hand.
“Blessings, My Lord; the name’s Ben Rathbone, but you can call me Ben,” the old man said, bowing his head.
“My name is–”
“Lord William Cunningham!” a chorus of voices shouted, interrupting him.
“How do you know who I am?” His anger had long simmered and showed no trace.
“How could we not? Our lady told us all about you. You are the very reason for this establishment; she told us everything, My Lord,” said a middle-aged woman named Bertha Daniels.
“Me? No, that is inaccurate. It was Lady Evangeline who did this, not me,” he stammered, wondering why the princess would tell them such falsehood.
“The lady did say he was modest. See, he takes no credit!” Myra shouted.
People gathered around him, looking at him with a gratitude that he found unfamiliar. Melissa smiled as she watched them usher him to a seat at a little podium, where they would usually do small prayer and thanks every morning and evening. They gathered around him with a reverent curiosity, shouting their appreciation and thanks, waiting for an opportunity to touch him gently.
He was overwhelmed by this undeserved attention. He still could not understand why they were so thankful to him, even if the princess had told them an untruth; the people just seemed enamoured with him.
“My Lord, Fred Webster is the name. I am ever so grateful to you and the lady. I do not know how to repay your kindness. The only thing I can give you is prayer, so I pray from dusk ’til the hour of change, sometimes even beyond. I pray for you, My Lord.” A small, gaunt man with shaggy brown hair wearing a stained brown tunic with some gaping holes along its length and a pair of old brown pants, tattered at the ankle, knelt at Lord Cunningham’s feet.
“The
re is no need for that, my good man. What was done is for your benefit and you need never thank me, not even in your prayers.” Lord Cunningham spoke hesitantly, feeling unworthy.
“But I must, My Lord. I was a horseman, looking after the stables at the Foresters. That was until old man Forester passed, then they closed the stables and sent the horses away. There was nothing they needed of me after that and I was let go. I spent days looking for means, to no avail. Days become months and months became years. My wife was with baby at the time; when she birthed, we had no food, no shelter…” His voice softened and cracked.
Lord Cunningham stared at him with an unfamiliar conviction, a strange interest in his story and an even stranger sorrow for his plight.
“My baby needed food; I could not provide no matter how hard I tried. I would leave hours before the sun rose and return hours after she set, but with nothing. I do not know which god had cursed me so. I swear my baby’s starving tears were like a knife to my chest, striking me over and over again. I tried, My Lord; gods be my witnesses, I tried! She needed sustenance, but we had no food, My Lord, no food! I would collect the leavings of every house around us, but her crying was incessant; my baby was starving and I could do nothing. Then one night the crying stopped; it stopped! Just like that. She was gone. My baby was gone.” His whimpering turned to waling. He fell to the ground holding his face, tears streaming.
Lord Cunningham’s heart sank. He felt every bit of this man’s pain. In his mind, he saw the dead baby curled up and wrapped in her blanket, he saw the crestfallen father and the inconsolable mother. The hurt that had torn an irreparable chasm in the man’s soul, he saw it all. His face was drenched in tears as he woke and walked to the man, who lay on the ground in unfathomable grief; the man who opened Lord Cunningham’s cold heart and unfettered his imprisoned compassion, allowing it to roam free and open his eyes to the strife that people suffered daily. He picked up the man gently and wrapped his arms around him.
