Lies of Golden Straw

by E. L. Tenenbaum

  Truth is, there really wasn’t much for me to say to him. His message had been clear in the singular look he gave me. That I seemed to be doing just fine. That I had slid rather quickly into my new role. That I was unusually comfortable with the crown on my head. It was less an accusation and more of a question: Who are you? What have you done with my Millie?

  But hadn’t I already told him Millie was gone? Was she worth his pain and disappointment? Was she really precious enough to hold onto? Why did he insist on calling for her, instead of warmly accepting the woman who had taken her place?

  I don’t remember much else from that night, but I do remember going back to my rooms when night had turned into dark morning and being prepared for the king’s arrival to my chambers. I also remember, when no one was looking, cramming down some bloodapple, an herb causing temporary sterility in small doses, death in larger ones. I’d taken it from my mother’s garden. Herbs to make sure I wouldn’t be carrying the king’s heir until I chose otherwise. Until I was sure I was safe.

  I remember the king finally coming in with a smile that was at once sly and shy. He studied me standing before him, trying not to tremble from nervous anticipation. Nothing had seemed real until this moment when it was just the two of us in my private chambers. I wanted to laugh and throw up at the same time.

  Slowly, the king stepped closer to me. Carefully, he took my hand. Absently, he rubbed the back with his thumb. Butterflies exploded in my stomach.

  A cheeky grin stole across his face. “The things we do for the good of the kingdom,” he mused.

  I laughed. He smiled warmly and drew me closer.

  My stomach churned within me, grinding the bitter herbs in a rhythm to match the aching in my chest.

  Later, when the morning sun was just stretching over the horizon and it was finally time to sleep, I propped myself up on my side and looked down at my husband and king. His face was tired but happy, his eyelids fluttering shut even as he forced them to stay open.

  “What is it?” he asked softly, lazily tracing my face with his finger.

  “I was thinking,” I began.

  “Um-hm?”

  “Now that we’re married…”

  The king smiled and his fingers slid down to my arm.

  “What am I supposed to call you?” I finished.

  The king chuckled. “Is that important enough to keep you up now?” he asked.

  “I just…it’s just…names are important,” I said lamely.

  “Call me what you will,” he said dismissively.

  “There are names one can call a king, and names one cannot,” I countered. “No matter what is between us.”

  The king’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “There are names an heir to the throne can be called, and there are names he cannot,” he corrected.

  I rolled my eyes, pushing away the guilt at his expectations of an heir. “Of course,” I agreed, “but we needn’t worry about that yet.” Or ever, I mentally added.

  “Well,” the king said slowly, “what would you like to call me?”

  “Rupie?”

  The king shot me a look. “Please don’t.”

  I thought of Lady Mulberry’s shrill voice and giggled. “Rai?”

  The king gritted his teeth. “If you must.”

  I let him suffer with that a moment. “I mustn’t,” I finally reassured him, and his jaw relaxed again.

  “Rudy?”

  A raised eyebrow.

  “Reginald?”

  A glare.

  “Reggie?”

  A barely suppressed snort.

  “RR?”

  “Really?”

  “Rrrr?”

  “You outdo yourself.”

  “Rainn?”

  Nothing.

  “Right as rain?”

  “If that’s what’s left.”

  I studied him. “That’s what you wanted.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so?”

  “I wanted to hear your suggestions.”

  “Aggravating man.”

  Rainn laughed and pulled me down toward him, burying his nose, and a kiss, in my golden hair. “Can we sleep now?”

  I settled in against him. “If we must,” I replied.

  “We must,” he decided.

  But I wasn’t finished just yet. I gripped his hand to keep him from falling too quickly into sleep.

  “Um-hm?”

  “If you don’t like any of your names,” I asked, “then why don’t you change them?”

  “My names are part of a tradition, a chain connecting every ruler of Farthington, then and now. Changing them would mean separating myself from them, and I don’t wish to do that, no matter how I feel about them.” The king shifted slightly. “When the time comes to worry about it, we’ll go to the portrait hall and you can pick out the ones you like best,” he promised.

  “Agreed,” I replied, though I doubted we’d be going anytime soon. If ever.

  “Agreed,” the king echoed distantly, and it was but seconds before he’d drifted into peaceful sleep.

  I lay awake a little while longer, thinking of what we’d just spoken of, in how much he believed his name to be a part of who he truly was. Of how, like whomever that first Charles was, he wanted his children to be a part of that, too. True, I had taken temporary measures to keep from bearing his heir, but I couldn’t keep the happy swell from my heart at the idea that the king would let me choose a name for his child, a name that would make him the next link in an ageless, royal chain.

  It may seem like such a little thing, but it’s really rather significant to someone whose own mother and father never bothered to name her.

  The first few years at the palace passed in hazy clouds of contentment. In the beginning, I was terrified the mysterious little man would appear at any moment and trumpet our bargain to the court at large. When he didn’t show the first year, or the year following, I allowed myself to relax, ignoring the weight belting my heart until it receded to a dull, bearable, background throb.

  True to his word, the king did not sweep me away in grandiose displays of passionate love, but we did work to build a relationship of mutual regard. By the time I felt comfortable enough in the palace to really consider it mine, I would say that we had actually grown fond of each other. Neither of us worried that some sort of love would indeed come in time.

  Aside from that, there was much studying that had to be done. I had much to learn about being a queen, about who I must talk to and how, about who could talk to me and how, about what it was like to pay attention to not just the workings of one village, but many, hundreds of villages compromising the greater kingdom. And there wasn’t just our kingdom to think of, but all the ones across the realms, our neighbors, our allies, the thorns in our sides. True, I had a limited place in matters of state, but Rainn insisted there were things I needed to know because a knowledgeable queen inspired a knowledgeable court. Along with everything else, he respected my intelligence to understand these things, too. As if to prove it, he purposefully made a point of randomly raising facts for which I needed to know enough to formulate a proper response.

  “The maids would like to decorate the little alcove abutting the entrance with lilies,” I would say.

  “Something we should save for when—”

  “—Princess Lyla comes to visit,” I would finish for him.

  “They are a favorite of hers,” Rainn would point out.

  “So you’ve said,” I would reply.

  “Have I?” he would ask innocently. “It’s just something to

  know—”

  “—about our neighbor to the north,” I finished for him. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Very well, then.”

  Another interesting thing that happened in those early years was a rather unexpected incident that would shape the nature of my reign as queen.

  One day, somewhere between the second and third year of our marriage, I was riding in my carriage th
rough the streets of the capital, though I can’t quite remember why. Was I going somewhere? Coming from somewhere? Was I out with purpose or for pleasure? Does it really matter now?

  The carriage had been bumping along the cobbled roads when suddenly it stopped in middle of the street. At first I thought we’d paused to let someone pass, a shepherd perhaps with his entire flock of sheep, but when we still sat there, I banged on the carriage roof to find out what was going on.

  Seconds later, one of my footmen poked his head into the carriage window.

  “Beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” he said, “but there’s a man in the road who refuses to move. Captain Kirkin is attending to the matter with an attempt at minimal damage.”

  I supposed this sort of thing happened often to nobility, but it was the first time anything of the sort had happened to me.

  “Minimal damage?”

  “It would seem,” the footman replied, “that the man wishes for Her Majesty to bless his daughter’s spindle.”

  An incredulous laugh escaped me. “Whatever for?”

  The footman tried to hide the way he shifted his weight. “He believes it will help her find a good husband.”

  Now I really did laugh. Was this the lesson the people had taken from my father’s lie? Was this to be the legacy of my story? Still, I was amused enough to order the footman to allow the man to step up to my window.

  Moments later, I peeked out to find an earth-worn peasant carefully pushing a wheelbarrow between the ruts of the cobblestone street so as to not jostle the spindle lovingly cradled in soft cloth within. Kirkin walked close enough behind him to kick his heels as he stepped.

  The man stopped before my window, doffed his hat, and bowed as low as he could without falling over.

  “Your Majesty,” he said to the stones at his feet.

  “Rise and state the reason for your mischief,” I commanded genially.

  The peasant straightened, but not without keeping a subservient hunch to his back.

  “If it pleases the queen,” he began.

  He dared to raise his eyes enough for me to see the hope in them, and something caught within me so I couldn’t bear to think of turning this man away without anything. What did it matter this one spindle, this one man? I could always order someone to marry the girl if the natural course of time didn’t fulfill the blessing for me.

  “Bring the spindle closer,” I ordered.

  Kirkin shielded the questioning look in his eyes and pushed it within reach. I leaned out my window just enough to touch the upper tip of the drive wheel. It was smooth, no doubt softened through years of use. I rested my hand upon the wheel and closed my eyes as if in prayer.

  “Blessings upon the spindle and blessings upon the maiden who works it,” I whispered, before opening my eyes with a warm smile, just in time to catch the tears pooling in the poor man’s eyes. “May Heaven shine with good grace upon you,” I continued seriously. “May your daughter have true peace and contentment.”

  Frankly, I hadn’t promised him anything, but the man reacted as if I had. He leapt forward to grab my hand, but Kirkin was too quick for him. He pulled him back quickly, making clear there were still some things that would not be tolerated, then quickly signaled to the coachmen to get moving.

  “Thank you—thank you—thank you, Your Majesty,” the man called after me as the horses pulled the carriage forward again unimpeded.

  I didn’t turn to look, but I was sure he had allowed the tears to fall.

  I won’t deny it now, looking back from the safety of the future that then had yet to pass. I wasn’t keen on perpetuating my father’s lie, but that encounter had done something to me. Until then, I had mixed feelings about all that had happened to bring me to that singular moment, stopped in the street, a queen among her people. Who was I to have deserved such good fortune? How could it be that the lie I’d kept alive had been so handsomely rewarded?

  Although the king never confessed to believing I was magical, he still married me because of what I had supposedly done. The thought filled me with both shame and awe. Shame for the falsehood that had brought about my current life, awe for the wonder of what a few words had wrought. And what a world had risen from the power of such a careless few.

  That incident proved something very important to me. Although I had not intended it, although I had done nothing to bring it about, I was now wholly convinced that I had to share some of this good with others. Good that would only continue as long as I kept the lie alive.

  A few days later, I was summoned before the king and his trusted advisor, the infuriatingly practical Sir Grigory. I was ushered into Rainn’s personal study, where my husband reclined comfortably behind his desk, vainly attempting to hide his amusement while Sir Grigory wore down the carpet with his furious pacing.

  “Ah, here you are,” Rainn greeted me as I entered.

  I dipped into a short curtsy in response.

  Sir Grigory stopped long enough to greet me properly and looked ready to relaunch into his podiatric assault on the carpet, but willfully stayed his attack. I glanced between him and Rainn, trying to discern which man’s mood was best to mirror.

  “May I inquire as to what this is about?” I asked carefully.

  “What this is about?” Sir Grigory repeated, forcibly clasping his flailing hands behind his back, clenching his teeth to keep from shouting in disrespect. “Surely, Her Majesty recalls an incident that occurred not a few days ago when her carriage drove through Raedryn?”

  “Certainly,” I confirmed.

  “Well, it would appear that the man Her Majesty blessed has indeed found a suitable match for his daughter,” Sir Grigory continued.

  A muffled sound came from the direction of my husband and I glanced over to see him stifling a laugh behind a sheaf of letters. I could understand his amusement, but a part of me was unexpectedly stung by it, too.

  “That’s wonderful news,” I said to Sir Grigory.

  “Wonderful? Yes, for her it is,” he replied.

  “Isn’t it?” I questioned.

  Sir Grigory suffered a few false starts before further explaining. “The Queen can appreciate how word has quickly spread about this story. All types of people are now petitioning the palace for her blessing,” he elaborated, gesturing madly at three sacks slumped against a wall, unable to contain the papers spilling from the top.

  The thought of all those petitions struck me momentarily mute. Really? All this from one simple gesture of closed eyes and raised hands? All this from an uncensored comment made during lunch on a farm? How could anyone foresee this?

  “Very well, then,” I replied.

  “Very well, Your Majesty?” Sir Grigory inquired dumbly.

  “I will see them all,” I answered.

  The room froze a brief moment.

  “All?” Sir Grigory repeated dumbly.

  “Why ever not?” I demanded.

  Sir Grigory sputtered. “Surely, the queen can see the great inconvenience it would cause her, and that is aside from genuine concerns for her safety if just anyone is allowed into the palace.”

  “So they won’t come in,” I replied. “I’ll greet them in the courtyard.”

  Sir Grigory’s eyes bulged in disbelief. My husband swallowed his laughter again and again.

  “Do you have nothing to add to this conversation aside from your stifled sniggering?” I finally turned on him.

  The tone of my voice and impertinence of my question did little to dim Rainn’s amusement. “Rather, Emalyn dear, I think you have this well enough under control,” he replied.

  I rolled my eyes at him, and Sir Grigory turned his astonished gaze upon his monarch.

  “Surely the king wouldn’t allow this?” he asked.

  Rainn smiled pleasantly. “If the queen wants it,” he replied, “we’ll turn it into a national holiday of sorts, once a year, twice a year. It’ll be good for the kingdom,” he added with a wink at me.

  “I don’t believe this!” Sir G
rigory cried, throwing his hands up in frustration.

  “The people wish it, and I see no harm in granting it if it will lift their spirits,” the king countered. “The queen will bless their spindles, their daughters, their crops. Whatever they want.”

  “And what, pray tell, Your Majesty, will the queen do in a year the crops fail and her blessings go unfulfilled?” Sir Grigory asked, finding refuge in the practicality that was his sturdiest rock in the storm of politics.

  “I will promise them a better year,” I supplied.

  “Yes,” Sir Grigory murmured, “it is easy to promise. Though even Her Majesty must admit that she cannot control the weather, cannot give the crops the rain and sun they need.”

  “What do a few words matter either way if they bolster the hope that tomorrow will be better?”

  Sir Grigory shook his head. “So we must indulge this fantasy to protect the people’s hope.”

  “Something of the sort,” I agreed.

  Sir Grigory shook his head again. “Have you not considered, Your Majesty, how power invites liability, too?”

  I glanced at Rainn who simply tilted his head to the side, indicating the final decision was mine to make. I thought of the fear that had possessed me when I first came here, of the certainty I felt when I thought my father’s fabrications would finally be the end of me. Then I thought of the morning the guards came to a room full of gold and the way the peasant man had begged for my blessing. I thought of Rainn’s careful choice of words and that glass wall of water.

  Despite my best intentions, I had become a liar like my father, and agreeing to move forward with this meant I would surpass him in ways he never could have dreamed on his own. Was it worth it? Maintaining the lie, securing my place, creating the aura, just to create an enduring legacy based on a fantasy? Wherever I turned, no matter my intentions, no matter the unspoken agreement between me and the king, the lie would always ensure that I never fully gave up the charade.