Chapter 5: A Villain and a Villanelle****
The next day, Alexander was walking through a castle hallway after discussing a missive with the king. He was eighteen now, having turned of age the year before, but he was feeling every bit of his adulthood today. The king was but putty in his hands, and Alexander was making more contacts in the castle all the time. When his father had died several months ago, Alexander had taken his place as the highest-ranking Noble in Metropolita. For some, that would have been a great honor. But for him, it wasn’t good enough. *He* intended to climb to the top--and as King Samuel’s cousin and nearest male relation, his claim to the throne came just after Princess Loisette’s . . . which meant he was very close to the top indeed.
Though he’d had nothing to do with the death of his father, it had been one part of his plan to rise. He hadn’t felt the loss of his sire any more than he had felt the loss of his mother a decade previously. His younger brother had been just as unaffected both times. Their entire family had always been emotionally detached from each other.
Alexander was walking through the castle in an attempt to find one of his castle spies when he ran across the princess. She was a little less than seven years younger than him, which meant he practically loomed over her. Still, he put on a kind smile and gave an elegant bow. “Your Highness,” he greeted.
“Duke,” she returned with a slight nod. Her hands were holding on to two small simnel cakes, and she was presumably trying to go outside with them.
As he studied her, a thoughtful frown touched his face. Before, her health had been such that he had marveled that she continued to last even a day. Now, however, something seemed to be breathing life into her. Her cheeks--once pale as newly fallen snow--were beginning to get some color in them. There was also a happiness in her bearing that had been lacking before. He had thought--and perhaps hoped--that she wouldn’t even make it to thirteen. Now, however, he had to withdraw that judgment and render a new one. If this improvement was real, then it was possible she was truly a valid candidate for the throne.
He gave her another warm smile, trying to inject all the pleasantness he could muster into his face. “How is the day treating you, Your Highness?”
She smiled back at him. “It is treating me well, Alexander.”
“Indulging your sweet tooth?” he asked her, gesturing toward the cakes in her hand.
She looked down at the simnel cakes, and her cheeks flushed. “Y-yes. I am.”
Based on the girl’s thinness, he suspected she was carrying one--if not both--of the cakes for someone else, but he didn’t press the issue. He had better things to do than interrogate a child about baked goods. “Please, don’t let me keep you from enjoying them, Your Highness.” He bowed again, and she smiled one last time before continuing on her way.
He watched as she left. Once she was out of sight, a villainous smile crossed his face. Perhaps it would not be too difficult to fit her into his plans.
****
As Clarkent brushed the constantly shifting Penelope Grace, he found himself anxious rather than annoyed. Though the horse was obviously trying to make the grooming process as difficult as possible for him, his thoughts were not on her . . . but on the princess.
She had normally already arrived at the stable by this time, and he was beginning to think that perhaps she wasn’t going to come at all. And that worried him.
Had she told her father about falling off her horse and been forbidden to return? Had she been hurt worse than he thought? What if something else had happened to her?
At last, however, she walked through the stable entrance, a smile on her face and no discernible limp her in step. His relief was such that he actually exhaled audibly. “Your Highness,” he greeted. Then, unable to help himself, he ventured, “Are you feeling better?”
She nodded. “I am.”
“I’m glad,” he murmured shyly. He studied her for a few seconds, wanting to ensure that she really *was* better, and he realized something. She seemed happier--and even . . . healthier. Or was he just imagining it? It was getting harder and harder to remember the petulant little girl that had first come into the stable. Now, she had been replaced by someone he enjoyed spending time with--someone who treated him as a person and not just a stableboy.
Despite that, he often felt awkward around her and occasionally found himself tongue tied. But he was still genuinely glad to see her every time she came to the stable--even if she was a spoiled brat of a princess. <All right,> he amended. <Maybe she’s not a *complete* brat.>
She had two small cakes in her hands, and he found his eyes drawn to them. Upon seeing him look at them, she smiled and told him, “I brought these for us--one for me and one for you.” She held one out toward him.
He stepped forward hesitantly. The *princess* had brought him something?
As he took the cake from her, he felt a warmth spread in his cheeks, and he mumbled, “Th-thank you, Princess.”
She smiled. “What is your favorite kind of cake? Simnel cakes are my favorite.”
He stared down at his cake for a moment. “My mother makes really good Bryndons.”
“Does she make them for you a lot?”
Clarkent’s face hardened. “I only get them once a year, Your Highness.”
She tilted her head. “Do you get them on a holiday?”
He felt a heavy pressure in his chest, and he closed his eyes briefly and then opened them. “Visiting Day,” he said softly. Those two words were all he needed to express himself. That was the only day of the year where he could see his parents.
She looked down at her cake, her face a little sad. “I see.”
“I don’t get cake any other time. The castle has better things to do than make cakes for stableboys, Princess.” He gave her a smile, but it was forced. He missed his parents terribly.
“That’s nice that your mother makes you cake,” she commented, still looking sorrowful. “She must--she must love you very much.”
“She does,” he said firmly. “Both my parents do. They mean the world to me--and I to them, Your Highness.”
“What is it like?” she asked him. Seeing his look of confusion, she quickly added, “Having a mother?”
He stared at her, tracing the lines of grief in her face. It had to be hard--being a princess without a mother. Her father was probably busy all the time, so who did she talk to? Did she have many friends?
“It’s nice,” he told her softly. “I don’t get to see her often, but . . . She gives me things and worries about me. She asks about my life . . . and my dreams. I think a lot about the day when I’ll leave the castle and get to see her and my father whenever I want.”
She took a bite of her simnel cake, looking lost in thought, and he stared down at his own cake for a few moments before finally biting it. The flavors of the cake were so different from his usual fare, and he relished every bite. It was only rare that he got to have any kind of dessert, and to have one sprung upon him like this was a very pleasant surprise. In fact, it--along with the conversation he had just had--made him feel guilty for all his negative thoughts about the princess. Maybe he’d been judging her too harshly. Maybe he hadn’t been seeing the whole her. He had been looking at a false image that had been constructed of her--the princess, not the person.
He ate the cake slowly, but it didn’t last long. The princess’s had been eaten much faster, and she was already standing by High Flyer’s stall and rubbing his nose, her earlier sorrowful mood either gone or masked. Clarkent moved to stand beside her, and she turned and started as she realized how close he was.
“Are you ready to go, Your Highness?” he asked her. He might have been amused at her reaction if he was not still feeling a little morose.
“Yes,” she said, moving to pat High Flyer once more. “I am.”
****
As they rode through the field, Loisette stared upward. A falcon--was it James?--soared overhead in the clear blue sky. She longed to be up there with the bird, rising above the concerns of everyone on the ground, but she was stuck where she was.
With a heavy sigh, she dropped her eyes to the grass. A pretty red flower caught her eye, and on impulse she brought High Flyer to a stop. She looked down at the ground with a wary eye and then slid off the horse.
“Princess,” the stableboy called out nervously. He brought his horse beside her and then dropped to the ground. “Is something wrong?” His concern for her might have been charming if it weren’t so annoying.
“Nothing is wrong,” she told him as she knelt on the grass. She reached a hand out and picked the flower, lifting it to her nose and inhaling its aroma. She clutched it to her chest and then looked back up at the sky with a sigh.
“Your Highness,” Clarkent asked hesitantly, “do you want help back on your horse?”
Loisette turned to look at High Flyer, who was simply standing and awaiting guidance. On his bridle gleamed a small golden medallion with the royal seal on it--a rearing pegasus.
“I wish I had a pegasus,” she said softly.
****
When the princess expressed her wish for a pegasus, Clarkent immediately frowned, not understanding her. “A pegasus, Your Highness?” Where had *that* come from?
She swiveled to look at him. “A pegasus. A winged horse.”
“I know what a pegasus is, Your Highness,” he said, annoyed. “It’s on the royal seal.”
“They’re wonderful creatures,” the princess said with a dreamy sigh. “Peregrine the White once told me a story about how my mother was able to ride one.”
Clarkent raised his brow. “*You* know Peregrine the White?”
She gave him a funny look. “Of course. He’s my father’s court magician.”
<Oh, right,> Clarkent thought, feeling a bit embarrassed. Of course she associated with such an important man. She probably knew all of the Nobles as well. Out loud, he said, “You want a pegasus, Your Highness?”
“Think how exciting it would be to fly through the air on one!” she exclaimed.
“And how painful it would be to fall from one,” he countered. He hadn’t meant to sound so grouchy, so he softened his voice and asked, “Would you like help back on High Flyer, Your Highness?”
She sighed again, presumably sad since she lacked a pegasus to ride, and then she suddenly perked up. “No. I do not.”
“No?” he echoed.
“I want to dance!” she exclaimed.
From the way she looked at him, Clarkent could tell immediately that she didn’t mean a solo dance. And he also knew immediately that he was going to have to disappoint her. “I’m--I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I can’t dance.”
“I can teach you!” she proclaimed. “After all, you taught me how to ride horses.”
He shook his head adamantly. “I can’t dance with a princess--”
“That is just silly. There is no reason why you can’t dance with me.”
“Your Highness--”
“*Clark*,” she returned firmly, “I order you to dance with me.”
He sighed, knowing he couldn’t win this argument--especially not after she had made it an order. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Perhaps he seemed too downtrodden, for her excitement level dropped a little. “You don’t *really* mind, do you?”
“I guess not,” he mumbled. Mostly, he didn’t want to make a fool out of himself.
She dropped the red flower to the ground and commanded, “Now, put your hand on my waist.” When he didn’t move, she grabbed his hand and placed it there. Then she grabbed his other hand and held it in the air with hers. “I’m going to sing a song. There are four beats to this, so it shouldn’t be too hard. I will lead you--do what I do.”
“Okay,” he murmured, uncomfortable at being this close to the princess.
“Take my hand and dance with me,” she began to sing, not missing his ironic smile at her song choice. He awkwardly tried to step with her but only managed to step on her toes. As a result, her next words came out with a bit of a hitch: “D-dawn is coming, end of day.” She shook her head at him and said, “Stop staring at your feet. Look at my face. *Feel* the music.” Then she sang, “Life could end so happily.”
“S-sorry,” he told her, flushing as he once again mashed her toes.
“All right,” she said, looking perturbed. “Think about the beat--one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . . ” And then she sang the next verse:
“Staring at me quietly,
You can take my breath away.
Take my hand and dance with me.”
This time, he managed to avoid her toes, but he was very much *not* in time with the beat. She simply laughed away her frustrations this time--“You really aren’t a good dancer, are you?”
“Maybe you’re not a good teacher,” he shot back, a bit surprised at his audacity.
But she simply rolled her eyes and continued:
“Stars are staring at our glee.
Envying our life, sigh they,
‘Life could end so happily.’”
“It’s daylight,” he murmured contrarily, finally feeling himself fall into the natural rhythm of the song.
Ignoring him again and pasting a solemn expression on her face, she sang:
“Know they not we cannot be.
Know they not how hard I pray,
‘Take my hand and dance with me.’”
“I thought that’s what I was doing,” he said with a smirk.
There was a crack in her solemn façade, but she kept on:
“Parting takes the breath in me.
Imagining you’re here to stay--
*Life could end so happily*.”
He didn’t make a snarky comment this time, instead allowing himself to listen to her voice as she sang the villanelle. She had a beautiful singing voice--there was something sweet and innocent about it, something that tugged at his heartstrings. He had heard the song before, but it had been sung faster and less respectfully. She actually managed to inject feeling into the villanelle, and he found he enjoyed both listening to her and dancing with her.
As she finished the song, he found himself growing sad:
“Tears are falling as you flee.
All we had was just a day--
. . . Take my hand and dance with me.
Life could end so happily.”
With her guidance, he spun her into a suitable ending position. She held the position for a few seconds and then relaxed. Beaming at him, she said, “See--you can dance!”
He smiled. “I guess my teacher wasn’t so bad after all.”
“Well, I had good teachers myself,” she admitted. “But I still am surprised you didn’t know this dance.”
Clarkent released the hand he hadn’t realized he’d still been holding, and he stepped away from the princess. “There isn’t much time in the stable to practice dancing,” he told her gruffly.
“I guess not,” she said softly.
“I should--I should probably be getting back.” It was one thing to be riding horses with the princess--and quite another to be dancing with her.
“All--all right,” she stammered. “Thank you for dancing with me.”
He nodded as he went to stand by High Flyer. She came up to him and placed her hands on his shoulders, looking like she wanted to say something to him. But before she could, he lifted her into the air, and she had to struggle to get seated properly on her mount.
Clarkent went over to Esroh Repus and got up on his back. As the princess guided High Flyer into a walk, he stared at her grimly. He was a stableboy. And the princess couldn’t be friends with a stableboy. That wasn’t how it worked.
Before long, she would find some new pastime, and he wouldn’t see her anymore. As much as he wanted to think of her as a friend--well, it just couldn’t be.
He was a lowly stableboy. And that was all he would ever be.
****
Chapter 5 GlossarySimnel Cake: In medieval times, this was a cake of hard pastry filled with different kinds of dried fruit (like raisins and figs).
Bryndons: These were small cakes served in a sauce of wine, nuts, and fruit.
Villanelle: A rustic song from Italy . . . or a 19-line poem with a specific rhyme scene and refrain, the most famous being “Do not Go Gentle into that Good Night.” Here, the two meanings are sort of conflated.
