Bardess of Rhulon Page 4

After nights of racking sobs, Rose came to a difficult conclusion. To win this war, she had to forfeit this battle. To restore her freedom, she must lie and pretend to submit to their parental will. Rose was good at telling stories and even making them up, but to actually lie to her parents galled her. It distressed her to deceive the people she loved—even her wretched mother. Rose must now lie or become Mrs. Simon Split-Oak.

  Freedom has a price.

  Rose would not only have to lie, but she must leave her home, perhaps forever. To remain free and follow her heart, she had to suffer the loss of family, home, friends, and even country.

  So, with a bowed head and sullen manner, as her parents would never believe joy, she agreed to marry Simon.

  Her father, now willing to show himself, gently patted her on the shoulder. “That’s a good girl. It’s for the best, Rose. It’s time to put aside girlish games, like your mother wisely advises. You’ll thank us in time. You’ll see.”

  He did not look her in the eye when he spoke those words.

  Her mother’s triumphant smile for her submission galled her. After they seemed certain of her docile obedience, they unlocked her room and restored her freedom as a reward for her submission. Rose’s favorite dishes were served at meals too. Always a robust eater, Rose could not stomach food now. Lying to her parents made her feel dirty and withered her appetite. For once her mother had to coax her to eat the succulent dishes.

  Gerta blamed Rose’s lachrymose state on bridal jitters and eagerly planned the wedding with the efficient strategy of a warlord.

  Freed from the prison of her room, she rarely left it now. Her family did not impose anything, though they still watched her guardedly. She needed to focus and gather courage to escape. She asked to see Belenus, on the pretense of inviting him to her wedding, but her parents refused to let her see him or even to send him a letter.

  Tomorrow was Solday, her wedding day.

  Not if I can help it, Rose fumed inwardly.

  She endured the last fitting of her wedding dress in silence, despite her mother’s constant chatter. A broad border of lace fabric had been added at the hemline to lengthen the skirt, since Rose was so much taller than her mother and the sleeves were altered to little puffed sleeves to update the fashion for a spring wedding.

  “You’ll love being a bride,” Gerta beamed, stitching the hem with practiced whips of her needle. “It’s the one day of a maiden’s life when she is treated like a princess. She is the center of attention, except of course when there is a christening. That’s another great day. I cannot wait for grandchildren. Being a mother will give you joy, Rose.”

  After the dress had been refitted to her mother’s satisfaction, Rose took it off and changed as her mother hummed and laid it out on her bed like a grand prize.

  “Supper will be in a little while. I need to run to the kitchen and check on your wedding cake. Can’t you smell it baking? It’s your favorite—yellow cake. I used extra eggs and vanilla too. Tom offered to make it, but it’s a mother’s right to prepare her daughter’s wedding feast. I hope you’re hungry tonight. We’re having baked ham with sweet potatoes and peas for supper. You love sweet potatoes, dear. Do eat something tonight. You will need your strength for tomorrow. Why don’t you rest for a bit and think about what kind of flowers you want to carry at the ceremony. I have a big box of ribbons to choose from to tie them with. Would you like that?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Finally alone, Rose’s hands, curled into tight fists, shook with frustration. All her mother cared about was Rose’s submission and marrying her to that oaf Simon. She did not hate Simon, but his very existence made her cringe now. He was allowed to visit once since Rose accepted the marriage, but they only sat on the porch in awkward silence while her mother chattered about the wedding plans. The reality of the wedding night also loomed in her mind. Did her mother actually expect Rose to tolerate Simon touching her? She shivered at the thought and realized her happiness meant nothing to her mother. This truth stung, but it eased Rose’s guilt a little about her deception.

  That night, after a celebratory supper for her last night as a maiden, which Peony and Tom attended with false cheer, Rose retired to bed early. She could not find the courage to face Peony and Tom another moment. She could not look at her parents for that matter.

  Her mother stopped her on the stairs and took her hand. “You’ll see everything will be better now. You must accept your place, Rose. Life will settle in. You will find happiness with Simon and children. Trust your mother’s wisdom.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Her father did not embrace her, as though he suspected her deliberate distance was the broken trust between them. He bowed his head and turned away, whispering, “Good night, Rose.”

  He looked so sad. She wanted to run to him and hug him one last time, but dare not do so.

  “Goodnight, Papa,” she whispered evenly.

  In the quiet of her room, she stared at the wedding dress that lay across her bed. It had been her mother’s bridal gown years ago. Next to it was her bridal headdress, a wreath of silk flowers with long blue ribbons. Rose fought the urge to rip it to shreds. The dress was a white threat, the moonlight shining on its cruel lace. It looked like a shroud. The sounds of life downstairs gradually faded. Later, the soft pads of footsteps in the hall and her parents going to their bedroom finally cast a mollifying silence in the house.

  Rose lay for hours; it was well past midnight before she finally stirred from the warmth of her narrow bed. Efficient and quiet as a mouse, she went to work. Even in the dark, she knew where her clothes chest was, topped with the quilt her mother had made for her twelfth birthday, the row of ragdolls on the window sill she had collected as a little girl, naming each one after some famous heroine or goddess, which annoyed her mother. Dolls were intended for a girl’s practice for motherhood, but Rose was not interested in that. Her dolls fought battles. All memories of innocence before deceptions and lies threatened to damage the soul.

  Rose decided to travel as a boy, having read about such a ruse in stories and hoped she could do it with success. She was tall as a boy and not that pretty anyway, so why not? She balked at cutting her hair, her one flaw of vanity. She settled on braiding her hair back tightly and pinning it up. She found an old hat with a wide brim and also wrapped a scarf around her face. She pulled on her trousers and wore a plain shirt and jacket over that. She took out her sturdy walking boots, but carried them. She would wait until she was outside before putting them on. She feared creaking floors would expose her.

  She grabbed her old satchel from under the bed and stuffed it with an extra set of clothes, socks, writing styluses, and a roll of paper. It burned her that she had to leave her treasured books behind. With regret and longing she glanced at her old birthday quilt and snatched it; she rolled it up tight and tied it to the satchel. Her cautious search for her lute and money was fruitless. Her stolen property was well hidden, since her parents did not fully trust her submission. The lack of her money was annoying, but her lute was precious. She needed it to help her earn her keep. She could still sing without it and tell stories, it just would have been better with her lute. She did not know when she would earn enough coin to buy another.

  There was one last thing to do before she left her bedroom. She reached under her mattress and withdrew the farewell letter she had written this morning.

  Dear Mother and Papa,

  I cannot marry Simon. I must find my path in life, so I am leaving home. Do not worry for me and please do not hate me. I cannot be the daughter you desire, so I must become the woman I was meant to be. Forgive me. In time, I will send word that I am safe.

  Farewell.

  Rose

  She folded it and laid the letter on her dresser. She picked up her satchel and opened her bedroom door a crack and listened to be certain all was clear. Silent, she crept down the stairs to the kitchen. Her wedding cake loomed in the center. A large sheet cake smothered with thick white
icing; pink and blue candy flowers rimmed the cake. Such temptation of confection would have been hard for her to resist before, now she could not stand to look at the array of cakes and goodies. Instead, she grabbed a loaf of bread and block of cheese from the pantry. Now I am truly a thief, she thought with irony. She added a few apples to her loot, since they kept well. She took the water bag her father used when they went fishing. Sad memories of happier days threatened tears.

  She stepped outside into the bright moonlight. It was a chilly night, still a long way to summer, and she pulled her jacket close. She slipped on her boots and began to walk. Her eyes filled with bitter tears, for she never thought she would have to leave home this way. She felt like an outcaste skulking away in the dark with stolen goods.

  Freedom has a price.

  A strange shadow by the gate caught her eye, just a few steps away. Curiosity pulled her toward it. Upon close inspection, she gasped and fell to her knees.

  It was a lute!

  She dropped her satchel and picked up the lute with care. As Rose held it in her hands, feeling its smooth wood and touching the strings, she knew it was not her lute even in this darkness. It was Belenus’ lute, with the familiar worn leather strap attached. Her master possessed four fine lutes, but this was the one he used when he played. How long had it been there, lying against their white-washed fence, waiting for her? Why had no one taken it in passing or inquired? She looked around, but could neither see nor sense anyone nearby.

  How did Belenus know I would run away?

  Tucked in the strings was a letter. She plucked it carefully and unrolled its mystery. She risked standing in the bright moonlight to read the contents. It was sketchy in this light, but she could see it was a letter of recommendation and introduction, commending her skill and talent as a Bard. She could use this letter to gain entry to a noble house or even an admission to audition for the Bard Academy in White Thorn. She recognized Belenus’ flourishing signature at the bottom. She folded the letter and tucked it in her jacket.

  She thanked Belenus aloud, as though the wind would magically carry her words to him. “Thank you, Belenus. I will make myself worthy of your gift, Master,” she promised aloud, fearless of discovery. “I swear by my gods and by my soul, I will make you proud of me.”

  With head held high, Rose walked the moonlit path out of the village. The lute slung over her shoulder, her heart was light again. Her bravery restored and spirit strengthened by the faith of one man.

  Chapter Four

  After days of hiking through overgrown trails choked with wild grass and thick leafy vines, Rose finally found a tilted guidepost with a cracked wooden sign hanging from a rusty chain, forlorn and forgotten in the wilderness. The words were painted in both Rhulonese and Tirangeli, faded and cracked by time’s weathering hand. “Here marks the border of Tirangel,” Rose recited in Tirangeli.

  Rose had expected to be more inspired by this hard won feat. In secret, she had studied the old maps in the library before running away, but they were much older than she realized. Three days ago she reached a fork in the road; she chose this path based on her hand drawn maps from those books. But it only led deeper into dense wilderness instead of civilization. Now she felt like the village idiot.

  Too late now.

  “At least I’m not completely lost,” she shrugged, speaking Tirangeli, which Rose often practiced on her journey. She had only herself for company and decided to put this lonely time to good use. Belenus had tutored her in several languages of the western kingdoms, and she was grateful for this. Her sharp memory always helped her to learn fast, however, it was still going to be difficult.

  She recalled her mother’s reaction to Rose learning Tirangeli. Goodness, whatever do you need that nonsense for? You speak one language just fine already.

  At this forgotten border, she observed no difference in the landscape between the two countries. The dirt, grass and rocks looked the same; the trees were just as tall and the sky as blue, though overcast with rain clouds again today. What destiny awaited her in this strange land? What mysterious trials did the elusive Karta, Goddess of Fate, have hidden for Rose in her shadowy wings?

  Taking a deep breath, she crossed into the new realm with a broad step. The ground was spongy from rain and her boots made squishy sounds. It doused her moment of liberty. “I’m in Tirangel,” she announced. And I’m so hungry.

  She treaded on, shoulders stooped with her lute and satchel. The strange forest that surrounded Rose dusted her imagination where ancient fey myths and monsters loomed. It would be so easy to become lost in these shadowed woods, so she stayed on the path. She put her childish fears down to being alone for so long. Still, Rose was watchful for the ancient Fairy Folk, for if they existed, such primordial woods would be home for their elusive race. Perhaps a sprite waited for a hapless wanderer like Rose, eager to lure her into the Otherworld groves to be lost forever. She imagined an ogre lurking in the dark corners of a cave nearby, hideous nose sniffing out the scent of a frail solitary girl, licking his chops hungrily. A troll crouched beneath a bridge loomed in her thoughts, ready to snatch her away and drag her into the darkness. These creatures lived in dark, dank places and preyed on innocent travelers. She had often told these fey tales at fairs and festivals.

  Rose hoped they were only tales. She cursed her imagination. A family of red squirrels caught her eye. They chased each other around a tall cottonwood tree and she laughed at their antics, relishing the silly distraction. Her stomach gurgled, and she took a long drink of water from her flask in a vain attempt to appease its demand for food. The tepid water tasted stale. There had not been a fresh stream or river in sight for two days, and she was afraid to stray too far from the road.

  She hoped to find a village soon. The way stations built for travelers were sparse along this route and were quite run down. In the wilderness, she just as often slept in cramped, moldy tree holes or beneath bushes. How she longed for a real bed with soft, clean sheets smelling of lavender sachets her mother always slipped into the linen closet! Her poor birthday quilt was filthy now, but it was comforting to wrap herself in at night.

  Rose had endured the grueling task walking miles alone. In the beginning, she hitched the occasional ride with farmers and merchants traveling southward. That eased her way, though she was careful not to be too friendly. She played the lute to pay for her ride and supper and even told a few stories, keeping her voice low and raspy. She claimed a sore throat whenever they asked for a song. She did not know how to sing like a boy. Still, her disguise as a young boy searching for adventure was successful. It’s strange how boys seeking adventure are applauded and girls are considered unnatural for it.

  There were a few blessed days spent with a kind family. She told them her name was Robert. They gave her a lift in their farm cart and she rode atop large flour sacks, comforted by its homely scent. She was grateful to them for their generosity and kindness. They were an older couple, with a daughter about Rose’s age. The girl was shy and quiet around Rose, thinking her a boy of course. It would be improper for an unmarried maiden to be otherwise, unless she was officially being courted and chaperoned. Rose let the mask conceal her true sex, though it would have been nice to have someone her own age to talk to. She missed Peony’s companionship. The family shared their meals and campfire with her, which helped stretch Rose’s meager provisions. They felt sorry for the boy they came to know as Robert, not Rose, going to a strange country. They told ‘Robert’ to take care among the strange tall folk in the southern kingdom. Before they parted company, the wife pressed a small basket into her hands, packed with pears, apples, cheese, and a loaf of nut bread. The generous gift brought tears to Rose’s eyes, but to her relief, her boyish facade remained intact. The family seemed happy too. She had not been happy living with her mother for years and that thought made Rose very sad.

  After they dropped her off, she was truly alone for the first time in her life.

  That was her last ride and
since then the days were grim and lonely. She had eaten her gift of food sparingly, though in better times she would have polished it off in a day. Now she was hungry and alone in a strange land.

  Stop moping, Rose chided herself.

  The city of White Thorn was her future now, but homesick memories haunted her. She cried herself to sleep almost every night. The physical pangs of hunger assaulted her again. She ignored it and tried to pass the time by reciting her favorite tales and poems. When she began the epic of King Ironheart, she stopped in her tracks, realizing it was the last poem she performed for Belenus. She wept for a moment, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and walked on.

  Recollections of home haunted her like a vengeful ghost, refusing to vanish. In the kitchen, Rose only excelled at burning toast, but her mother ruled the kitchen liked a warrior ruled a battlefield. Memories of pancakes dripping with cinnamon butter and maple syrup, mashed potatoes whipped with baby onions and cabbage, chocolate cake, fried chicken, pot roast simmered with new potatoes, carrots and gravy, and fluffy egg pie stuffed with spinach, cheese, and mushrooms baked in a flaky crust, made her salivate. These were the dishes her mother cooked for her during her last days at home before she ran away. At that time, Rose’s appetite had vanished due to emotional stress and was unable to eat more than a bite of her favorite foods. Now her deprivation demanded vengeance and it cursed her frugal eating during those final days when delicious hot meals had been abundant.

  “But all the food in Stonehaven would not make up for being forced into an arranged marriage,” she reminded herself. “I can’t go back home, so why torture myself?” Rose said firmly in Tirangeli, and trudged further into the new territory with heavy steps.

  Rose tried to concentrate on her new life in White Thorn. She realized her high expectations might not be realistic, since women in most realms faced some prejudice. Still, Tirangel was a logical choice for many reasons, not just because it bordered Rhulon. Women were allowed education beyond the rudimentary needs, they owned businesses and property, and some even served as warriors! Rose had read many stories and poems about women warriors from Belenus’ library. She hoped to meet a real one.