The Scarecrow King: A Romantic Retelling of the King Thrushbeard Fairy Tale (6 page)

The maid gave a choked wail, but dashed ahead of me. “Very well, Your Higness.”

Even at this obscenely early hour, Balinore castle still buzzed with people, though not the nobility. Servants crept along the halls, and guardsmen, and all stopped to stare at me, a yawning mess just risen from bed.

Or so I thought. But when the gasps and whispers continued, my nerves began to prickle. Why were there so many servants awake? Why did they stare at me more than usual? As I caught the smirk of a particularly irritating servant, it made me frown. What exactly was going on?

“He is in the throne room, Princess Rinda,” Dorcas continued, leading me forward. She sounded suspiciously like she was choking back tears.

“Do cease blubbering, Dorcas,” I said, sweeping past her as she opened the double doors to the main hall. “You’ll wake everyone else and then I’ll be even more cranky.”

“Yes, my princess.”

The fact that my father was meeting me in the throne room told me that he would have attendants with him – Father liked to make a scene when he sat upon the throne. He felt it was his duty as king – both law and entertainment. So I was not surprised when a guardsman opened the doors for Ruth and I and the room was filled with people.

Rather, it surprised me to see my sister, Princess Imogen, seated next to my father, her eyes red with weeping. I strode forward, intending to take my place on the dais next to them.

“Rinda,” my father said warningly, standing as I strode past all the whispering courtiers and guardsmen. “Where are your manners?”

I stifled an impolite yawn. “Still in bed, I imagine, where I ought to be.”

I expected my impudence to make father furious, as it always did. But for some reason, he simply…smiled. That was odd. When I moved to push past the guardsmen to take my place on the dais, they didn’t move. I glanced over at my father. His smile had grown even larger.

“Stay there, Rinda. I wish to show you something.”

Was this another one of Father’s veiled insults – not allowing me to sit? I feigned boredom as I stood before the throne like a supplicant, waiting.

My father shifted in his chair and glanced over at Imogen. She continued to weep into a delicate handkerchief, shaking her head. Father ignored her reaction and turned back to me, gesturing in my direction with a magnanimous wave of his hand. “Do you remember what I told you last night?”

I played with a lock of my tangled hair and tried to seem casual. “That you despised me?”

Father’s eyes narrowed into cold slits of disapproval. “Since you were not interested in any of the suitors at the ball, I vowed to give you to the next man that walked through the door.”

Ah yes. My father’s ridiculous threat.

“He is here. Meet your bridegroom, daughter.” The look on my father’s face was nothing short of triumphant.

Dread pitted in my stomach again. So he’d found someone to marry me off to, did he? I glanced around the room, puzzled. I saw no nobility lurking in the corners. There were guards dressed in the royal family’s livery lining the walls, my father’s vizier and advisors, and a shabbily dressed minstrel lurking behind me on the carpet, his hat in his hands.

I glanced back at my father, my brows raising a little. “I do not see the man in question. Perhaps he has fled the scene at the thought of marrying the foul-tongued princess.”

“While I could not blame a man for doing so,” my father said dryly, “He yet stands behind you.”

How had I missed him? I turned fully and glanced behind me. No one but the guardsmen and the minstrel. The minstrel gave me a cheerful smile. “Greetings to you, fair lady.”

I stared at him. His voice was slightly accented, making all of his speech sound more fluid than it should be. His voice was lovely, even if the rest of him was somewhat…alarming. For a minstrel, he was very large, with broad shoulders and a tanned face. His hair was a nondescript shade of brown that seemed to stick up in short, unruly spikes and his face was clean of everything but a boyish smile. His hands, I noticed, were large and callused, and his clothes were garish and patched at the knees. A poor minstrel. A very friendly, poor minstrel.

I turned back to Father, wary. “You must be joking.”

“I’m afraid not,” said my father the king. “Summon the priest.”

“What? I–no!” I strode forward, gathering the massive amounts of lace from my dress into my arms. “Father, you can’t do this!”

“A princess’s duty is to help secure the kingdom. You proved to me last night that you have no concern about this kingdom or the royal family in the slightest, and you have offended the nobility. As king, my duty is to remove you from court. As your father, it is my duty to teach you a lesson.” The look in his eyes was hard, and he leaned forward as he spoke, as if enjoying every word. “Therefore, you shall marry.”

“Fine, I’ll marry,” I began in a panic. “Bring back that dirty king. I’ll apologize to him–”

“The Lioncourt retinue left this morning,” Father said sharply. “You have ruined a potential alliance with them when you could have been Queen.”

I didn’t care about being queen, not if I had to be married to a dirty scarecrow of a king. “Then another noble–”

“No one will marry you, Rinda. You made quite sure of that last night.”

Cold fear spread through me, and I shook my head furiously, my fingers twisting in the thick lace of my gown. He wouldn’t marry me off to this stranger. Even my own father did not hate me that much, surely. “There has to be someone else.”

“I vowed I would give you to the next man that showed up at my door.”

“But this?” I protested, gesturing wildly at the man who stood behind me. “This…this…
beggar
!”

“Minstrel,” the man behind me cheerfully corrected. “Shall I sing you something?”

“
No
,” I ground out furiously. I was inches away from screaming. “Father, you
can’t do this
.”

“Can’t I, Rinda? I am the king.”

Imogen sobbed into her handkerchief, looking at me with despair.

Helpless, I sank to the floor, staring at my father in disbelief and horror. I knew he’d always felt distaste for me. Knew that he was furious with me for last night. But I’d never in my life expected him to revenge himself upon me so cruelly. “Father,
no
.”

But Father was enjoying himself too much. A fervent light was in his eyes, and he couldn’t hide the smile on his face from the room. “You. Boy. What is your name?”

The minstrel stepped forward to my side. “I am called Aleksandr, Your Majesty,” he said in the pleasant, accented voice. “Are you sure she is quite agreeable–” He cast a concerned look down at me, his eyes warm and brown.

Like that of a commoner. My father was marrying me to a commoner. I stared in horror at his callused hands. This wasn’t happening to me.

“I am the king. She cannot go against what I decide,” said my father in a cold voice.

My head bent to the floor, and I let my curtain of dark hair hide the despair in my face. He was right – I couldn’t do anything. The word of the king was law. How many times had I used that against my own servants in the past?

“Very well,” said Aleksandr, far too chatty for my tastes. “Does she come with a dowry, then?”

My sister gasped in outrage.

I turned to stare at the man at my side with something akin to hate. “You’re marrying me for my money?”

He grinned at me, nonplussed. “Absolutely not. I’m marrying you for your charming demeanor.”

My father gave a bark of laughter at that. “Her trunks contain a fortune, trust me.” Father raised a hand, beckoning someone behind us forward. “Good, the priest is here. Stand her up and we can begin.”

Aleksandr's hands were on my waist, hauling me to my feet. They were warm and the calluses snagged on the silky material. Humiliation burned on my face and I slapped his hands away, shoving him back. “Don’t touch me,” I hissed.

“You sure you’re a princess?” he said, grinning. “I always thought the nobility had, you know…manners.”

“Her lack of manners is why she is marrying you, boy,” my father said as the priest moved to the king’s side.

“I see,” said Aleksandr, in a more somber tone. “Very well then.” He offered his arm to me in a chivalrous gesture.

I ignored it. My thoughts were frantic. I could run away from the room, hope that the guards wouldn’t catch me in my flowing nightgown…and then what? Hide in my royal apartments until Father had the door broken down? Run away? Or would he go even lower? Marry me to a pig farmer?

Father took my silence as acquiescence. He gestured at the priest. “Begin the vows.”

“No,” I screamed, pulling away from both my father and my new bridegroom. “Father, please.”

“I will hear nothing of it,” he said in a strident voice, his face becoming tense.

“No wonder my mother died giving birth to me,” I spat. “It was the only way she could get away from you.”

“You insolent little witch!” Father roared. “I will tolerate this no longer!” My father raised his hand to slap me and I flinched, shutting my eyes tightly.

The blow never came. I squeezed an eye open to see Aleksandr's large, strong hand grasping my father’s forearm, inches from my face.

“You may be king,” Aleksandr said in an even voice. “But that will be my wife, and I will not tolerate you harming her.”

My eyes wide with fright, I stared at my father and Aleksandr. Would the minstrel be dragged away? Whipped and tossed into the streets?

But instead, my father narrowed his eyes at Aleksandr and flexed his hand. “Very well.” He turned to the priest. “Let us begin the ceremony.”

The priest opened the thick Libram and began to intone the sacred rites. I could barely focus on the words, my thoughts spinning in my head wildly.

I, Princess Rinda of famed Balinore, was being married to a minstrel. With my father’s blessing.

What was to become of me now?

Chapter Six

“Ready to leave yet?” My groom’s cheerful voice grated in my ears as he wandered over.

I ignored him, watching as servants loaded trunk after trunk into the back of a horse-drawn cart. Only twelve of them would fit – I’d be leaving so much behind. My custom saddle, my palfrey, the gilt-edged dishes that I’d ordered from Corlais just last month. My favorite dresses barely fit in the pitiful amount of trunks I was allowed to take with me.

“Well?”

“I’m packing,” I ground out after it became painfully obvious that I wouldn’t be able to avoid answering him.

“All of those trunks are coming with us?” Shock laced his voice and he rubbed his head, ruffling his hair. “We can’t possibly take all of that.”

I got to my feet and brushed off my skirts, irritated that I’d dressed in my plainest riding habit and only three petticoats. Just the somber feel of it was vexing me. “We are taking all of it,” I declared, casting him a defiant look.

He raked a hand through his spiky hair that could not seem to decide if it was blonde or brown. “Princess,” he began, then peered at me as if seeing a stranger. “Brandy, was it?”

“Rinda!” My fingers curled, itching to slap him. “How can you not know my name? You just married me!”

“Rinda, that’s the name,” he said, completely ignoring my wrath and striding over to the cart. It teetered high with trunks, the servants ignoring him as they shoved and lashed rope across the trunks. “Very pretty name,” he said absently. “So why is all this being packed up again now? Who is taking it?”

“Those are my things.” Was he soft in the head? Had I married a fool?

He scratched his head, the gesture making tufts of hair stick up. “Er, see…Rindy–”

“Rinda!”

“Rinda,” he corrected, the slow smile on his face making me wonder if the mispronunciation of my name was entirely an accident. “We can’t take all this with us. It’ll be impossible to make any time on the road.”

I watched the servants strain to tie down my smallest trunk, and sighed. I was not entirely unreasonable, after all. “I suppose you’re right. I shall simply have to do with less dresses. Let’s cut it down to eight trunks.”

“One,” he said in a surprisingly firm voice.

“One trunk?” My voice rose an outraged octave.

“One dress,” he said, and tossed a pack in my direction. “One dress and ask the servants to pack enough food in there for a few days travel.”

I caught the pack he tossed, and stared down at it, uncomprehending. It was so…small. My favorite dresses had layers of crinolines and thick, puffed sleeves encrusted with jewels. Even half of one of my dresses wouldn’t fit in this ridiculously tiny pack. “You must be joking.”

“I assure you, dear lady, I am quite serious.”

Overcome with furious frustration, I threw it to the ground. “I am not a pauper, you fool.”

“You are now,” he said, beaming a sunny, unconcerned smile at me. “You married one.”

My hands clenched into fists and I gritted my teeth. I forced myself to count to ten before giving him a cool courtier smile. “I hate you, minstrel.”

He shrugged, completely unconcerned with how I felt at the moment, and seemed far more interested in the horse hitched to the cart. “Do we get to keep the horse?”

“We’re keeping all of it.” I was not going to leave the castle with nothing but the dress on my back. The man was fooling himself if he thought otherwise.

To my surprise, he simply squinted at me, and then smiled. “Have it your way. We need to leave soon.”

That was better. Somewhat mollified at his easy capitulation, I raised a hand to my eyes and shielded them against the too-bright midday sun. “Why? Where are we going in such a hurry?” Did my poor minstrel husband have somewhere to be? A job singing or dancing in a bar?

At the thought, my stomach churned in revulsion. Me. Married to a minstrel. I was going to be sick.

“Ah, but that’s a secret, my dear lady, and one you do not need to know.” Aleksandr grinned at me. “Now go say your goodbyes and I’ll try and figure out how to get this cart onto the road.” He slapped the horse’s hindquarters and the entire cart creaked with the weight of my trunks. “Er, somehow.”