White Hart (3 page)

I laugh and pat his arm, the heaviness lifting. “Don’t hold back, Father. Goodness knows, I’ve never heard you say a bad word about anybody.”

“Well, today a girl undeserving is granted an opportunity many want—”

“Father—”

“It’s true, Mae, whether you want it to be or not. Most young girls would kill to be a queen one day. I’m almost positive some actually
have
killed in the past—”

“We’ve talked about this. It’s not what I want. He could be ugly, fat, unpleasant... rude... Who knows? I’m not prancing around in a dress for the rest of my life. My place is here, with you.” I squeeze his arm. The words sound half-hearted even to myself. I am saying the things he wants to hear. What I leave unsaid, well, it might break his heart. There
must
be more to life than Halts-Walden, but the thought of leaving Father behind on his own... I couldn’t... Could I?

“Very well, Mae. But know that you’ve not missed your opportunity yet. The prince is not married. You could grow to like him.”

“Unless the prince knows how to cull an oak or carve from ash, I’m not interested. I don’t like pampered boys.”

We move through the fence posts into the market. The milkmaid’s handiwork, now complete, gives the illusion of walking beneath a sky of colourful flowers. I inhale their scent. The fragrance is so sweet that the craft stirs inside me and I long to call the butterflies again.

“Goodness, look at the town,” Father says. I help him through the cobbles of the market square. His cane taps as we walk. He nods and smiles at the many people milling around. “Look, the tanners have scrubbed up. Even the blacksmith. The bakers have made a huge loaf for the occasion. There’s food everywhere.”

Men and women huddle around the small daub-coated shops, many holding tankards and smoking pipes near the tavern entrance. They wear their best outfits with embroidered tunics and slicked back hair. The ladies have plaited their hair and woven the plaits prettily atop their heads.

“Where?” I step in front of Father, searching greedily for the food.

“That’s not for you, little miss.” The baker’s wife shoos me away, flapping her broad red hands.

“Little miss, indeed.”

“Don’t create a scene, Mae. We have to fit in here.”

“I would never dream of it.” As we turn away I make a rude gesture at her behind Father’s back. The baker’s wife scowls at me.

“What are you laughing at?” Father asks, eying me suspiciously.

“Nothing, nothing. Shall we take a seat until the prince arrives?”

The Fallen Oak has set out barrels and stools for the onlookers. I settle Father down and he stretches out his bad leg. But I’m too agitated to sit. My muscles tingle. I want to be running in the woods or riding Anta.

“Have you seen Anta this morning?” I ask.

Father leans on his cane and looks up at me, squinting against the sun. “Not seen him.” He shrugs. “I’m sure he’s in the woods.”

That’s what I’m worried about. It would be an opportune moment for someone to sneak into the woods and shoot Anta for his fur, or for luck, as some of the more superstitious believe. On more than one occasion, I’ve seen a pig farmer perform the gesture of protection from the gods when I pass him with Anta. I’m sure he believes Anta is some sort of demon.

I regard the crowds, searching for poachers and drunkards, the kind of unsavoury men who hang around our hut at night waiting for Anta to appear to them. I see some of them; others are missing.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I say. Before Father can protest, I’ve hitched up my skirts and set off back through the crowds, dodging the stout bodies of workmen, the shocked faces of their wives, and the tiny children skipping along the market. I must look a sight, but I don’t care. I have to check on Anta. If I can just check he’s all right...

I duck beneath the flowers and carry on through the market with my skirts dragging. I hitch up my belt, and the lengths of material come loose beneath it. I swear as my feet get caught. Distracted by my dress, I don’t notice the girls approaching from the mill. We run straight into each other. When I step back and rub my sore nose, I realise that I’ve bumped into the one and only craft-born—and soon to be princess of our realm—Ellen Miller, of the millers.

“Oh, do watch where you’re going,” she says, her lips curling with disgust.

I curtsey sarcastically. “Your majesty.”

“When I
am
queen, I’ll be able to arrest people who insult me,” she replies. A blond girl called Alice titters stupidly behind her.

“Then I shall avoid the queen. Now, if you’ll let me pass, I have somewhere to be.”

Ellen, who I notice is wearing a stiff corset of bright scarlet with her bosom bulging over the top, lifts her skirts and sidesteps directly in front of me. “But the prince will be arriving shortly.”

“I don’t care about the prince. I need to get to the woods.”

The girls behind Ellen, her usual troupe of followers, whisper and share worried glances. Ellen’s face pales. “You spend far too long in that place. It’s unnatural. You’re unnatural.”

“So are you.” I can’t help the smirk stretching across my face. “
Craft-born
. I hope you give us a demonstration of your abilities later.”

Ellen’s cheeks become a shade similar to the colour of her clothes. “I will. She lifts her dress and jerks her head away from me.

I can’t help but watch them shuffle away, with their silly little heeled shoes clipping on the stones. They are forced to hop over puddles, and one girl squeals when her dress catches the mud.

“Idiots,” I say, turning on my heel and pelting towards the woods. My hair whips against my cheeks.

I burst through the first throng of trees, breathing the forest air into my lungs. My dress streams out behind me. It drags along the ground, collecting twigs, dirtying on the mud. For a brief moment, I wonder if Mother ever ran like this. Father will be disappointed, but he knows I’m like this. He knows I’m no good.

“Anta!” I shout into the lurking shadows. When I stop running, the wind seems to freeze. The rain has stopped. Bushes rustle, and I whip my head around, air expelling from my lungs in a rush. “Anta!”

A twig snaps. I grip hold of my dress. Maybe coming here alone was a bad idea.

“Anta?”

Something moves. I catch it with the corner of my eye. It’s dark, not white like Anta. I shouldn’t have come here on my own. How far have I run into the woods? How deep am I in the Waerg Woods, with the shadows waiting...? I will my legs to move, ignoring the tremble in my muscles. A shape catches the corner of my eye. There’s something watching me, and it isn’t my white hart. I spin on my heel and start to run, but my feet catch on my dress and I fall forwards in the mud. It splatters on my skin. I can taste it in my mouth, bitter and mildewed. My hands shake as I push myself up from the ground. Gathering my skirts, I stumble forward, desperate to be away from the looming trees. The footsteps sound too close behind me as I urge myself forwards. Willing myself to be brave, to face whatever threat awaits me, I turn and face my attacker.

“Wha...? Who are you?” I say, breathlessly.

“What are you doing, lass? Why are you scrabbling about in the dirt?”

Three men sit atop their steeds. Two wear metal plates over their clothes. The other—a teenage boy of about my own age—wears some sort of green-ivy headdress and a long red cape draping over the quarters of his horse. He has sandy blond hair and bright silver eyes. There’s a playful, sarcastic smile on his face, which annoys me.

“What does it look like? I fell,” I reply.

“You Halts-Walden folk are strange,” he says. “And rude. Is that how you address your prince?”

I swear under my breath. With the fright, I’d forgotten all about the prince. I attempt a half-hearted curtsey in contrition. “Sorry, um, Your Majesty.”

“Highness,” he corrects. “Well, that’s quite the worst curtsey I’ve ever seen in my life, but I suppose it will have to do. I must confess that we’re rather lost and late. My guard saw a rare white stag and we thought to hunt it. Father would be so impressed to mount the head of a—”

“How dare you.” I clench my fists in fury.

The prince’s jaw falls open. “I beg your pardon?”

“How dare you hunt my stag?”

“I’m sorry, your stag? Surely you don’t
own
the stag.” He moves his horse closer to me and stares down at me with a curious expression on his face. “
You.”

“Yes, he is mine, so no one touches a hair on his head, or I kill them.”

One of the guards, wearing what I now realise is armour, pulls his sword a finger’s width from its sheath. The prince raises a hand to stop him.

“Are you threatening me?” he asks.

My heart quickens with panic, but I decide to stand my ground, so I straighten my back and smooth my skirts. “No, I’m simply stating a fact.”

My words hang in the air as I wait for the prince to respond. His eyes narrow at me. At any moment, I expect him to order his guard to cut off my head.

His laugh breaks the silence. “Have you heard that? The lass is stating a
fact
. Well, I’ve not been spoken to like that in... well... never. Now, please do not tell me your name is Ellen.”

“No, it most certainly isn’t. Thank the gods. I wouldn’t swap places with that ninny for all the sticky pastries from the bakery.”

The prince shares a glance with his guards. “Are you saying my future bride is a ninny? She’s not... She’s not ugly, is she?”

I gather my skirts to walk away. “Oh, she’s not ugly, not really.” I turn and head back towards the village. The prince kicks his mount on to follow me. “Not if you like that kind of thing. You know... sturdy.”

“Sturdy?” he repeats. His expression freezes in horror. “Is she a heavy lass?”

“One may say... stout, perhaps.” I glance across at the prince, revelling in his discomfort.

“
Stout
? Oh gods above, she’s a pig, isn’t she? Father assured me she was the most beautiful girl in the village. But, well, no offense, but looking at you hasn’t given me much hope.”

I suppress the urge to stick a stinging nettle under his horse’s tail and watch him deal with
that
. “Some people think that a person’s personality is what matters.”

“Does she have a good personality then?”

“Oh no,” I reply. “She’s horrible.”

The prince pales as we head back into the village. I must look quite a sight, walking next to the prince covered in mud. Ellen stares at me with cheeks bright vermillion. I’ll be in trouble later, but the look on Ellen’s face is worth it. If only I’d found Anta. He’s still out there alone, and the thought makes my stomach churn.

T
he miller bustles to the front of the crowd. “Your Highness, what an honour it is to finally meet you at last.” He bows low, almost sinking to the ground.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Prince Casimir replies. “If you’ll excuse me one moment, I must thank this young woman for escorting my party from the Waerg Woods. We had lost our way after being distracted by an enormous white stag. You see my father is a very keen hunter, and he has been looking for an exquisite kill to mount in the ballroom... Oh, I am sorry, I am rambling on. Anyway, thank you once again.”

All eyes drifted to me at the mention of the white stag. My cheeks warm, and I mumble a few words to accept his thanks and move away, scuttling back to my father’s seat.

“What happened? Why have you ruined your mother’s dress?” he says in a harsh whisper.

“I fell. I’m sorry, Father.” I uselessly wipe at the stains with my hands. “I never meant to. I was worried about Anta. I thought something bad was going to—”

“Hush now, Mae. The miller is presenting his daughter.”

I quiet, not because I’m particularly interested in Ellen or the prince, because I can’t help but wonder how he will react after I joked about Ellen’s appearance. The crowd parts, and Ellen steps forward. His Highness dismounts from the white horse so that I get my first proper look at him. He is taller than I’d imagined, and he stands with a straight back, which makes him appear even taller. The decorative tunic he wears is thick and puffy on the sleeve, making him appear bulkier than he is. One of his guards takes the horses, while the other stands by his side, one hand on his sword. It’s odd that he hasn’t arrived with a larger party. I don’t know much about royalty, but if the prince is as important as people say, I thought he would have more protection.

Prince Casimir gestures to his guard. “Come now, we’re amongst friends. There’s no need for such measures. Stand at ease.”

The crowd break into a brief moment of applause. Someone shouts out
Long live the prince
. I roll my eyes as His Highness stands up straighter with pride. He’s unbearably smug in front of an audience.

The guards nod and back away. Prince Casimir seems satisfied, and he moves closer to the miller. “Now, I must meet your lovely daughter.” He swallows with a gulp. “Is she... around?” His eyes roam through the crowd, looking for the ugliest amongst the throng. His smile fades as he spots the blacksmith’s burly granddaughter. She is delighted his eyes have found her and offers a girlish wave back, turning Casimir’s cheeks bright vermillion. “Is... that... her?” I snigger into the sleeve of my dress, and Father elbows me in the ribs with a frown.

The miller follows Casimir’s gaze. “Good heavens, no! No, no, this is my daughter.” He waves Ellen forward with a flourish.

And suddenly my prank is not funny anymore. Casimir’s eyes fill with a sort of watery, hazy blur that reminds me of Father’s expression when he thinks of Mother, and his body remains very still. Casimir’s jaw drops, and he clears his throat to speak. “I... well... I... You’re a delight, Miss Miller. I wasn’t... Hmm, you must excuse me for one moment.” Prince Casimir coughs into his closed fist. His eyes never leave Ellen’s.

A boy will never look at me the way he looks at her—as though she is the only woman to ever exist, as though the crowd has faded and she stands alone. Never. And I didn’t realise I wanted one to until that very moment. A shudder of disappointment works its way up my body, from abdomen to burning cheeks.