“You will find it, Papa! I know you will!” Clementine cried and - again - Gilbert seemed to look straight at her as though he had heard. “Do you see me, Mr Thackeray?” she asked him. “Can you hear me?”
Gilbert turned to the King. “I will do all I can, Marcus.”
The two men solemnly shook hands to seal the promise.
“For God’s sake, man! There must be something you can do!” The King paced back and forth, never taking his eyes from his daughter’s prone figure. “It has been five days!”
The royal physician threw his hands up in despair. “Your Majesty - if you will just let me try the leeches once more ….”
His face red with rage, King Marcus turned on the unfortunate doctor. “You will not put those blasted creatures anywhere near my daughter again! Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The physick bowed obsequiously. “Perhaps, then, we should try another…” He nodded towards the hallway, where a motley queue had formed, in the Tower’s spiral stairway.
The King huffed out an angry breath. “Very well. They can’t be any more useless than you are!”
Watching from the corner of the room, Clementine cringed at her father’s tone. The poor physician was out of his depth with this one. He was more used to dealing with coughs and sprains than a Princess who was lying in Slumber. He must also be aware that her mother’s attendant had been exiled from the Kingdom when he had failed to wake her.
The physician consulted his list of people who had answered the King’s summons. “Perhaps we could try …um … Elder John, Wizard of Wensleydale?”
The King rolled his eyes. “Spare me the wizards, the warlocks and the witches! Thus far, they have proven worse than bloody useless!” he bellowed and there were rumblings of discontent from the staircase as several of those still waiting took the hint and made their departure.
“Perhaps a monk, Your Majesty?”
“Fine. Give it a try.”
As the physician left to find a monk, the King crossed to his daughter’s sleeping body. “Wake now, daughter, I beg you!” he whispered.
“Oh, Papa!” Clementine tried to place her hand on his arm but, without her corporeal body, she was unable to offer him any comfort. Her spirit could do nothing but observe.
“Your Majesty - Brother Grimly.”
Clementine and her father both turned to see an imposing monk enter the room. He wore a dark brown tunic, tied at the waist with a piece of leather; from this hung a small sack. Clementine grimaced. The man certainly lived up to his name. He removed the cowl that covered his head to reveal a skeletally thin face. “Your Majesty,” he said solemnly, inclining his head.
“Brother … Grimly,” the King said suspiciously. He looked to the physician. “What exactly is he going to do?”
The physician gulped - which did not bode well to Clementine’s way of thinking. “Er … Brother Grimly, perhaps you would care to explain?”
“Certainly.” The monk took a crucifix and a small bottle from his sack. “I shall attempt to drive the demon from the body of the Princess.”
“What demon?” the King asked ominously.
Brother Grimly was new to the Kingdom of Fairborne. This was his first - and soon to be his last - meeting with King Marcus. “The evil entity,” he explained, “which sits in the breast of the Princess and feasts hungrily upon the banquet of her soul.”
“Out!” the King roared. “And any other monks out there can bloody well leave too!” He glared at the physician. “Tell me there is someone on that infernal list who can actually do something useful!”
Clementine clutched her breast. The vivid images conjured by the monk were already beginning to play on her mind. Dear God! Had she the organs to do so, she would probably be spewing right about now. She examined her prone body closely but could see nothing amiss. There were no demons tearing at her soul; no beasts devouring her flesh. None that she could see anyway. But what if they were there all the same, crawling through her body and making a meal of her soft, innocent soul?
Meanwhile, the practitioner had been skimming through his list, muttering to himself as he discounted one person after another. Finally, he sighed in defeat and looked up at the King. With a shrug, he said, “Your Majesty, we have three crown Princes who are each convinced they can bring the Princess out of her Slumber with nothing more than a kiss; a warrior who is ready to shake Her Highness out of it and a hedge-witch who has a potion that she is positive will do the trick.”
“Is that it?” the King demanded.
“I’m afraid so.” Futilely, he glanced once more through his list. “I mean, well - there was another monk but .…a- absolutely not - obviously,” he finished quickly as the King glared at him.
“Right! Send in the sodding hedge-witch then!”
A moment later, a small, square woman with a head full of fading curls entered the room. She bustled over to Clementine’s sleeping body and began unpacking a small hessian bag. First, she took out some dried herbs and threaded them through the Princess’ golden curls; then she sprinkled a handful of petals liberally over Clementine’s face and chest.
Seeing the King’s raised eyebrows, she smiled nervously and pulled out a small, glass phial.
“What is that?” King Marcus asked gravely.
The witch gave a tickly cough and uncorked the bottle. ”Tis a tincture, Your Majesty,” she said in a small voice.
“And what is in it?”
“Oh - well, the recipe is a secret one, Your Majesty. ‘Twas handed down to me from my great-great grandmother through her great-grand mother, my great-grand ….”
“I don’t need to hear your family tree woman! Just tell me what you intend tipping down my daughter’s throat!”
Another small, nervous cough. “Well, Your Majesty, as I said, ‘tis a secret recipe .…”
“Well you had better unsecret it then!”
“Hmm. Well - erm. There’s nettle, of course, and liquorice and sage; some Valerian; poppy seeds and a very small quantity of toad saliva. Oh - and one teeny, tiny drop of bat’s blood.”
“Do not even think of putting that vile concoction anywhere near my daughter!” the King thundered and the physician, moving faster than he believed possible, hurried her out before the roar had finished reverberating around the room. Still at the door, he turned to the King. “The Princes, Your Majesty?”
“Send them in,” the King sighed in defeat.
Clementine perked up. Finally! Something interesting!
“Prince Heinrich of Ronstadt,” the physician announced worriedly.
Clementine wrinkled her nose: he was fifty if he was a day! She hoped very much her father hadn’t made any rash promises such as offering her hand in marriage to the Prince who could wake his daughter. Prince Heinrich bowed to the King. Without ceremony or introduction, he leaned over Clementine and planted a brief but firm kiss on her lips. The physician examined her. “Nothing,!” he said and the Prince, head bowed, shuffled out.
The next Prince appeared in the doorway. “Prince Bartholomew of Blearily!” he announced himself eagerly. Clementine’s eyes widened in surprise as he hurried across to her prone figure. “Princess!” he cried and, sweeping her up off the bed into his arms, proceeded to cover her face in noisy kisses.
“Good grief, man!” the King shouted. The Prince dropped Clementine back onto the bed and waited expectantly. “Er … nothing,” the physician pronounced and the Prince was hastily shooed away. Clementine was ready to take a wash cloth to her sleeping face. She pitied any Princess they did manage to wake in this ghastly manner!
“Next!”
The last Prince entered the room. Before he could be announced, the King held up a hand. “I am not interested in who you are or where you’re from. Just know this: if you touch my daughter with anything but your lips, I will land you into the next Kingdom.”
The Prince scuttled nervously to the bed. He gave the sleeping
Princess a perfunctory peck on the lips and left without bothering to wait for the result. The King held his hand up to the physician. “Don’t bother! I can see for myself that exercise was a complete waste of time.”
“Perhaps we should send out for more Princes,” the physician suggested and Clementine gave an unladylike snort of laughter. Angrily, the King called for Clementine’s old nurse, Agnes, to sit with the Princess with strict instructions to allow no visitors. “And, Agnes, take those bloody twigs out of her hair while you’re there!” he roared as he stormed out of the Tower Room and sent the last few stairway stragglers packing.
Clementine shook her head. “Poor Papa,” she said sadly and followed him through the closed door.
Gilbert paced the drawing room, waiting for Lady Motley to make her appearance. Though he knew the King intended to be gone only for a day or two, Gilbert felt what he had discovered was too important to wait.
Finally the door opened and Lady Motley entered, looking as imperious as ever.
“Good day, Mr Thackeray. I am told that you wish to speak to me.”
“Indeed, Lady Motley, I do.” Belatedly, he remembered to offer her a bow. “May I, first of all, enquire as to Princess Clementine’s present condition?”
“If you mean ‘does she still Slumber?’ than the answer is ‘yes’,” she replied, She took a seat and indicated he should take the one opposite. Gilbert felt too restless to sit. Pacing in front of Lady Motley, he ran a hand through his already messy hair. “I have been doing some research,” he announced suddenly.
“Mr Thackeray, I refuse to have this discussion while you are wearing a hole in the rug. Sit!”
“Of course. My apologies.” Gilbert sat down as he had been told. “I’m afraid I’ve been a little distracted these last few days.”
“Now you may tell me what is on your mind.”
Gilbert leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. “I have been doing a lot of reading on the subject of somnolence .…” he began but Lady Motley cut him off.
“My niece, Mr Thackeray, is under a curse.”
“Yes, I understand that but, even so, there are those who have fallen into a similar state who have not been cursed and it is into those cases I have looked.”
“How fascinating.”
“Yes, it is, my Lady,” Gilbert said, ignoring her caustic tone. “There are many case studies which might give hope of a cure.” He ran a hand through his dark curls. “Though we have very little time in the case of the Princess.”
“Yes - and it runs shorter by the day so you’ll forgive me, Mr Thackeray, if I ask what exactly it is you came here to tell my brother.”
Gilbert’s whole body was urging him to move; to do something other than sit here but he forced himself to remain seated. “I read of a case,” he explained patiently, “where a woman slipped into a Slumber shortly after giving birth to her first child. Her husband sat with her day and night, talking to her and telling her about the baby and how much the two of them needed her. Some ten days later, when all hope seemed lost, the woman awoke. She spoke of how she had heard her husband calling to her and she had fought to find her way back.”
“And this is supposed to help the Princess how, Mr Thackeray?”
“Perhaps if you talked to her; if there was someone at her bedside day and night talking to her, calling her back … perhaps then the Princess would wake.”
“Well that is certainly an intriguing theory, Mr Thackeray,” Lady Motley replied as she stood up. “Now, I have a lot to see to with my brother away.”
“You will tell His Majesty what I have said?”
“Of course - anything that might help my dear niece,” and rang the bell.
A moment later, the footman arrived. Gilbert followed him into the hall and was about to leave when he suddenly stopped, causing the footman to plough into him. Gilbert looked up the grand staircase but saw nothing. He shook his head and continued through the door.
Gilbert Thackeray had heard her. Clementine was sure of it! She ran down the stairs but the front door had closed by the time she reached it. She had tried to go outside before but the heavy front door had never allowed her to pass through.
She heard the sound of wheels on the gravel outside and knew Mr Thackeray must be leaving. She couldn’t let him depart! He might be her only hope! She ran towards the door, calling to him - and suddenly she found herself outside. Turning on the top step, she marvelled briefly at her good fortune. Then she spotted Gilbert’s gig trundling up the drive and she ran, although it was less of a run and more of a glide and it took no effort at all for her to catch up with him. She hopped onto the back of the gig, facing away from Gilbert who was driving and completely unaware of his spectral passenger.
The very moment they left the extensive grounds of the Palace, Clementine was as far from home as she had ever been.
Chapter Five
The journey to Gilbert’s home was not a long one. It covered no more than five miles but to Clementine it felt as if she had arrived in another Kingdom.
On the way, she saw men and women toiling in the fields and washing blowing in the wind outside houses that seemed impossibly small to the Princess, who was used to the immensity of the Palace. They passed other carriages and carts and the drivers tipped their hats in greeting or thanks as Gilbert made way for them on the narrow road. They passed a school where children played outside, their voices loud and high with the excitement of being out in the sunshine. A woman chased a pig, that seemed to have escaped its pen. All this was part of her father’s Kingdom and yet, until now, Clementine had never seen it for herself.
Gilbert turned off and drove round the back of an attractive looking house that faced the road on one side and sweeping fields on the other. He jumped down and handed the horse and gig over to the ostler. Clementine followed him as he crossed a small flower garden and went through the back door. Having hung up his hat and jacket, he proceeded to his study.
The study itself was a cluttered mess, which both impressed and appalled Clementine. She would never have guessed it of the methodical, Mr Thackeray. How did he ever manage to compose such tidy thoughts in such a messy environment?
“Ha!” she said aloud. “And to think you accused me of having disorganised thoughts!”
Gilbert spun around, raking a hand through his hair as he searched the room to locate the source of the sound. Clementine watched him carefully. She was positive that, on some level, he could hear her; she just wasn’t sure what he could hear - or chose to hear.
“Boo!” she shouted. For a moment, Gilbert held himself very still but showed no other reaction. Then he hurried to his book case and started to peruse the titles. After a second or two, he chose a book and sat down at his desk. Curious, Clementine looked over his shoulder so she could read the title.
“Classification of Mental Disorders” she sighed in frustration. “You are not mad, Mr Thackeray - just stubborn!”
But Gilbert was far too much a man of science to respond to strange voices with anything other than scepticism. She was going to have her work cut out to get through to him. Of that she was sure.
Gilbert was going mad. He was sure of it. There was simply no other explanation. Another soft breeze caressed the back of his neck. He stomped to the door. “Mrs Finn!” he bellowed.
Alarmed because her usually mild-mannered employer was actually shouting for her, the housekeeper hurried up the corridor.
“Mr Thackeray,” she called breathlessly, “Whatever’s the matter?”
“Is there a window open, Mrs Finn?”
“A window?” She pressed a hand to her heaving chest. “Mr Thackeray, are you telling me you were shouting because of an open window?”
“Oh! Did I shout?” Gilbert asked sheepishly. Mrs Finn was getting on a bit and probably shouldn’t be tearing down corridors. He moderated his voice, striving for a casual tone. “I’ve been feeling a draft the last day or so and I w
ondered if perhaps a window had been left open.”
“I will check, Sir, but I’m fairly sure that none has.” She peered at him, her face a picture of concern. “Is there anything else? Perhaps I could fetch you a nice pot of tea?”
“No, thank you, Mrs Finn,” Gilbert replied. “I am sorry to have bothered you.” He closed the door and sat down at his desk. He felt foolish. Thinking hard, he absent-mindedly ran a hand through his hair, There had to be a rational explanation for the things he had heard and felt over the past two days. There had been oddities he was at a loss to explain, such as the sensation of a someone - or something - touching his hair or the distant sound of a voice calling to him but … there was never anyone there. And he kept feeling the soft touch of a breeze: no, not a breeze really - more like the whisper of a breath.
Slumber Page 4
