The Sweetest Spell (3 page)

As we neared our village square, I broke into a huge grin. So
many people! Carts were lined up along the road, some turned into little houses for those who’d traveled from Seed and Furrow. Father unhitched the cart, then led our donkey to a communal pasture to join other donkeys. There’d be no confusion when we went to retrieve the creature because it had been branded with Father’s symbol. As I climbed out of the cart, villagers walked past, also dressed in their best town clothes. They gave me a wide berth. The children whispered.

Without a word to me, Father headed straight for the tavern, as did most of the men. They’d drink throughout the day, breaking into boisterous song as the ale numbed their minds. Singing was good for my father. He’d changed so much since my mother’s death, curling into himself like a snail into its shell, keeping all his feelings inside. Since her passing, Father had never once stood on the husband market’s stage. He told me he didn’t want another wife. But I knew the truth. No one would want to marry the father of Emmeline, the unnatural girl. My mere existence had doomed both Father and me to solitude.

As Father stepped into the tavern and disappeared behind its heavy door, a pebble bounced off my leg. I spun around. Maude Boar, the milkman’s daughter, hurried past, two friends by her side. “You shouldn’t have gotten in Griffin’s way,” she snapped just before throwing another pebble, which stung my arm.

“I didn’t,” I snapped back.

“Are you calling my brother a liar?” Her crooked tooth caught on her lower lip. Despite the sneer, Maude looked pretty, a painted comb tucked into her braid.

Fortunately I didn’t have to answer her question because a hopeful bride hurried past Maude and her friends, catching their attention. A chorus of squeals filled the air as the girls surrounded the bride. I hobbled away.

Our village square wasn’t much to look at—just a big open space between the tax-collector’s house and the tavern. The gravedigger and the blacksmith lived in the other buildings. No merchants lived in the Flatlands. We were forbidden from obtaining merchant licenses, so we relied on a few traveling peddlers to bring in goods.

A wooden stage sat in the middle of the square. The few benches had already been claimed. Everyone else sat in the dirt or stood. The eager brides, all wearing floral wreaths in their hair, began to gather in front of the stage, chattering among themselves. A boy selling bags of roasted walnuts wandered throughout the crowd, as did a girl selling bunches of baby spring carrots. Milkman Boar had brought some rounds of cheese and was selling wedges. My mouth watered. I’d forgotten to pack a lunch and I had no coin to spare. I took a long drink from the town fountain.

“Emmeline!” Lull Trog, the gravedigger’s wife, hurried up, nearly knocking me over. Clearly her need to spread gossip was greater than her fear of my unnaturalness. As she adjusted her black apron, many heads turned to watch. “Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said coldly, then took another sip of water.

Lull Trog frowned. “Of course you know what I mean, girl. Tell me how Griffin got that wound on his face.”

“It’s not a wound. It’s a scratch.” As I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, a devilish thought crept into my mind. I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Do you want to know the truth? Even if you find it
shocking
?”

She widened her eyes and nodded. “Aye.”

I leaned closer. Lull Trog’s entire body stiffened and I stifled a wicked smile. “Griffin Boar got that scratch on his face because he tried to kiss me.”

“He didn’t,” she said with a gasp.

“He wanted to have some fun before he got married.” I raised my eyebrows. “I had to protect myself.”

Lull Trog held her breath. Then she spun on her heels and dashed off, her arms pumping madly. She grabbed another woman by the arm and whispered into her ear. They both turned to look at me. I smiled and waved. What would life in Root be like without some new gossip about Emmeline Thistle? I didn’t want to disappoint.

Villagers stepped aside as I found a spot in front of the blacksmith’s. Leaning against a post I had a clear view. Rousing applause filled the air as our tax-collector, Mister Todd, walked up the steps and onto the stage. He nodded as if the applause was meant for him. It wasn’t. Villagers tolerated him because they had no other choice. All tax-collectors worked for the king. Because the collection of taxes was the most important job in the kingdom, tax-collectors wielded the power of life and death. Todd had hanged more than one tax evader. But he made no attempt to hide the fact that he hated his job. Being assigned to the Flatlands was the lowest
rung on the tax-collector ladder. Living with us lowly dirt-scratchers was punishment for something he’d done. He was constantly trying to get reassigned.

Todd’s three men stood nearby, each carrying a sword. They acted as his enforcers and bodyguards.

As Todd walked to the middle of the stage, his steps stiff and bowlegged, the applause grew louder and louder, joined by whistles and cheers. The husband market was about to begin. He cleared his throat, his floppy black tax-collector’s hat drooping over one eye. A flagon of ale in one hand, he punched the air with the other hand. “Shut your traps!” he hollered. The cheering continued. The hopeful brides pushed closer to the stage. After a long drink, he turned the flagon upside down. Finding it empty, he tossed it aside. It flew across the stage and slammed into a guard’s chest. Laughter arose. Todd wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Shut your traps, you stupid dirt-scratchers, or I’ll double the ale tax!”

Immediate silence fell over the square. “That’s better.” He tightened his belt, pulling his gut up a few inches. “Let’s get to it. Calling all unmarried men. Get up here, you doomed fools.”

Cheers and whistles erupted again as the men made their way onto the stage. Some took eager steps, rubbing their hands in anticipation of a bride. A few, mostly the young ones, had to be pushed onstage by their fathers like sheep to the slaughter. Twenty-three men in all, a good number—unlike that year long ago when plague wiped out an entire season of husbands. The hopeful brides pressed close together. It’s one thing to imagine a husband. It’s another thing to look into his eyes and face your future.

Griffin Boar was the last to take his place onstage. His hair bounced with each of his confident steps. His mother, Finny Boar, and his sister, Maude, sat together, waving excitedly. On the other side of the square, men emerged from the tavern to watch the event unfold. While most smiled and cheered, a dark expression covered my father’s face.
He’s thinking of the time he stood on that stage
, I guessed.
When my mother bid on him and won
. I wanted to tell him how deeply I missed her.

As the husbands-to-be lined up, tax-collector Todd stumbled to the side of the stage and grabbed another flagon from one of his guards. Once he’d emptied it, he returned to his duties. “All right, ladies, feast your eyes on this loathsome group of losers.” He pointed to the first man, an old guy named Gus who flashed a toothless grin. “This one’s a real beauty,” Todd said. Everyone laughed, including Gus. “Don’t waste your coin on him, ladies. All you need to win Gus is an old rooster or a lame donkey.” More laughter. “How many years you’ve been widowed, Gus?”

“Three,” Gus said.

“And how old are you?”

“Sixty-one,” Gus replied. “But I’ve got a nice cottage with a deep well and a good roof.”

“Sixty-one?” Todd slapped Gus on the back, nearly knocking him over. “Ladies, bid on Gus if you want to get a good night’s sleep. He’s too old to
bother
you, if you know what I mean.” This comment brought on raucous jeers from the tavern crowd.

Tax-collector Todd stopped at the next in line, a young man wearing a fur vest. “I don’t know you. What’s your name?”

“I’m from Furrow.” Furrow lay on the very edge of the Flatlands, where the forest was thickest. “I’m Boris, son of a huntsman.”

The crowd ooohed.

“A huntsman’s son is a good catch,” Todd shouted. “He’s not much to look at, but he’s got nice breath.” Then, after adjusting his floppy hat, he moved to the next man and the crowd quieted. There stood an
unwanted.

The unwanted had been widowed, with five young mouths to feed. If he’d been a nice man, my heart would have ached for him. But he was cruel, known to beat his children. He deserved his unwanted status, though his children didn’t deserve a house without a mother. “No pretty girl’s gonna bid on you, that’s for sure,” Todd said. “Any of you ladies desperate enough to want this dirt-scratcher?”

The brides huddled closer, fearful that such a fate might befall them. For some families, it was better to get rid of a daughter, even if it meant sending her to live with a horrible man. One less mouth to feed. Would this be my fate next year when I turned seventeen?

The sheriff made his way down the line, prodding the men with insults. One was as skinny as a rat’s tail. Another was as ugly as a toad. One was so shy that he turned beet-red and tried to run off the stage. “Virgin!” the tavern men cried. But then the crowd fell silent again. Todd took a long pause as he stepped up to the next candidate.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “You’ve been counting the years waiting for this one, haven’t you, ladies?”

If gold coins had suddenly rained from the sky, the excitement wouldn’t have matched that moment. The screams were heavy with agony. The tears held as much hope as dread. Years of dreaming of this moment could be dashed in an instant—or the prize could be won. The brides jumped up and down, daisies falling from their hair. “Griffin!” they yelled. “Griffin!”

The parents of the hopeful brides rushed toward Griffin’s parents, surrounding them with gifts—a basket of eggs, a chicken in a crate, a skinned rabbit carcass, a clay bowl. Griffin’s parents would naturally want their son to marry into a family that could provide lots of gifts, and they’d try to influence his choice. But Griffin could choose to ignore his parents’ wishes. He could accept the highest bidder or not. He could even refuse all bids and wait until next year. There was no predicting the outcome of the market.

“What’s this?” tax-collector Todd asked, pointing at Griffin’s chin. “Is this the tragic wound we’ve heard so much about? Did our very own Emmeline do this to you?” Heads whipped around. Glares shot my way. “From what your mother was saying, I thought you’d be unrecognizable. But this? Someone get me a magnifying glass so I can see it.” The tavern men burst into laughter. Griffin scowled.

I hadn’t told my father about the encounter with Griffin. But he didn’t react to the uproar. Still standing with the tavern men, he’d turned away from the stage and was looking down the road that led from the village square.

Todd took another drink from his flagon, then stomped his
boot. “We’d best bid on Griffin Boar first. None of these other wretched oafs will get a single coin until Griffin’s out of the way.”

The brides started pushing again. One scrambled onto the stage and shoved her coin bag at Griffin. “He’s mine,” she said as one of the guards pulled her away. “Mine!”

“No, he’s mine!” another bride hollered, and a fight broke out. One bride punched another in the face. Two brides fell onto the ground, wrestling like mad women. Griffin folded his arms and smiled. I cringed. It wasn’t their fault they were acting like idiots. What else did a girl have to look forward to? A village girl was supposed to marry and have children. She was supposed to serve her husband. Nothing more was expected. Nothing more could be achieved.

“I love a good fight!” Todd hollered.

Father didn’t appear to notice the fighting. He walked a few paces down the road, his steps cautious, his head cocked as if listening for something. Had the donkey gotten loose? I held tight to the post, leaning forward to watch him. Suddenly he spun around and looked through the crowd, right at me, his gaze filled with fear.

My heart skipped a beat as the sound of horse hooves thundered in the distance.

Villagers scrambled to their feet and parted as fourteen horses and fourteen soldiers rode into the village square. The crest of Anglund, a white swan in a sea of yellow, hung over each horse’s flank and covered the front of each soldier’s tunic. It was rare to see royal soldiers in the Flatlands. They occasionally brought messages to the tax-collector, but never more than two or three soldiers at a time. Why would the king send so many?

A stunned expression swept over tax-collector Todd’s face as the soldiers spread out along the edge of the square. Their yellow tunics shone brightly against the drab browns of Flatlander clothing. Three wagons came to a halt outside the square. The drivers jumped out, then led their horses in a half circle, turning the wagons around to face away from the square. The drivers waited, reins in hand, as if to make a quick exit.

The lead soldier maneuvered his horse right up the staircase and onto the stage, which creaked beneath the creature’s weight.
My gaze darted between the stage and my father. I could tell by his clenched expression that he was worried. Something serious was about to happen.

The lead soldier dismounted, then handed the flag to the huntsman’s son, who looked as bewildered as everyone else. “I’m Captain Finch.” That seemed a fitting name since his nose was small and sharp like a beak. “You are the local tax-collector?” Todd nodded. Captain Finch opened a saddlebag and removed a scroll. “This proclamation is sent from His Royal Majesty, King Elmer. You are ordered to read it immediately.”

Murmurs arose as Todd unrolled the scroll and read to himself. His shoulders slumped. My father began to push through the crowd. “Emmeline,” he called. He wanted to tell me something. I squeezed between two little boys who were sharing a bag of walnuts. This time, villagers did not step aside to let me pass. They were transfixed on the scroll.

Todd and Captain Finch turned their backs to the crowd for a muffled conversation. The captain nodded his head, confirming whatever news had been delivered. Shouts arose from the crowd. “Tell us!”