Just Ella (11 page)

“Your Majesty,” I began. “I have been thinking—”

He chuckled.

“Always a dangerous thing for a woman to do,” he said. “Especially one as beautiful as you.”

I reconsidered my desire to break the news gently. He deserved to be slugged. I raised my chin and decided to be nice anyway.

“I—I know you won't like hearing this, but I must tell you. I can't marry you.”

I held my breath and watched the prince carefully. His expression didn't change. My words didn't seem to register.

“What?” he asked.

“I want to call off the wedding. I can't marry you. I, well, I'm very sorry, but I just don't love you. I thought I did, but it was just infatuation, I guess. I honestly don't even know you—”

The prince clapped his hand over my mouth. He made no effort to be gentle. It hurt. Then he turned and spoke over my shoulder.

“Jeedens,” he hollered at the chaperon behind us.

“Wha-what? What do you wish, Your Majesty?” The ancient servant jerked to attention. From his flustered demeanor, I could tell he hadn't heard what I'd said. Perhaps even he had found the conversations between the prince and me too boring to listen to. I saw his eyes take in the sight of the prince holding his hand over my mouth and then, as if a curtain fell across his vision, I could practically see him making the decision not to notice. No wonder he'd managed to stay in service to the royal family for so long.

“You may leave now,” the prince commanded.

“Yes, Your Highness. Yes, Your Majesty.” Jeedens gathered up his robes, but stood for a moment looking confused.

“Go back to your room,” the prince said. “You are dismissed.”

Only when Jeedens had scrambled out the door did the prince release his grip on my face.

“You can do that?” I asked in amazement. “Dismiss the chaperon—just like that?”

“I'm the prince,” Charming said.

“But aren't we breaking some rule, being together alone?” I persisted.

Prince Charming shrugged.

“I'm the prince,” he repeated. “My family makes the rules. We don't have to follow them if we don't want to.”

I wished I'd known weeks ago that we didn't have to be chaperoned. I remembered my old daydreams: The prince and I, alone together, cuddling and whispering. Intimate. Maybe if we'd had that from the beginning, I wouldn't be breaking the engagement now. Maybe . . . I looked at the prince carefully. His stunning blue eyes looked only cold and empty to me now. If we'd had intimate conversations from the beginning, I probably would have wised up and broken the engagement sooner. Or never agreed to be married in the first place.

I rubbed my face where he'd gripped too tight. The prince crossed the room and made sure the door was closed.

“Anyhow,” I said when he turned around, “I don't want to cause a scene or make problems or hurt you—but I don't think marriage is a good idea for us. You can have your pick of girls, and you deserve one who will love you. One you love.”

The prince stared at me.

“What are you talking about? You're my betrothed. You
will
marry me.”

“No,” I said. “I will not.”

The prince stood still, looking puzzled. As masterful as he'd been with Jeedens, he didn't seem to know how to deal with me. He came over and clutched my shoulders.

“Don't ever say that again!” he commanded with an emphatic shake.

“Whether I say it again or not, 'tis no matter,” I said defiantly, pulling back from his grasp. “The fact is, I don't want to marry you, and I don't see why you would want to marry someone who doesn't want to marry you—”

“Stop it!” the prince shouted. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

I was put in mind of a three-year-old throwing a temper tantrum. The prince might as well have been holding his hands over his ears and chanting, “I can't hear you. I can't hear you. . . .” Thinking of the prince as a child only irked me more.

“Look,” I said, standing up. “I wanted to handle this in a . . . in an adult manner. But under the circumstances, perhaps it would be best if I just left. I'm sorry things didn't work out differently.”

I began walking toward the door. The prince caught me halfway across the floor. He grabbed my waist from behind.

“No!” he screamed. “You can't!”

I still had some thoughts of dignity. I didn't struggle.

“Let go of me,” I said, ice dripping from every word.

He whirled me around so forcefully, I stumbled and landed on the floor.

“Get on the couch,” he panted, looking frantically from me to the door. “Sit on the couch. Stay there.”

I stood up. I should have known better, but I blurted, “You can't make me.”

The prince's frenzy increased. His eyes darted around the room.

“You have to!” he insisted. “As prince of the land, I command you to stay on that couch until I return.”

I started walking toward the door. The prince looked stunned, as if no one had ever disobeyed him before. He pushed me back onto the couch, holding me there with the weight of his body. “Just—until—I—can—find—someone—to—tell—me—what—to—do,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

That did it. I might have continued trying to appeal to reason—what little he had. I would gladly have sat still to discuss the matter between us. But it infuriated me that he had to ask someone else how to accept my refusal.

“Get away from me!” I yelled, trying to shove him back.

He pushed me down again. Soon we were fighting as shamelessly as two ragamuffin boys vying for a crust of bread in some back alley. The prince did not defend himself well. Even as I punched him in the stomach, he protested, “You can't do that! Princesses don't—Ladies don't—”

I managed to extricate myself from his hold, but as I slipped away, he grabbed at my skirt. I heard the fabric give way. I turned around to see that he held a long strip of one of the ruffles of my petticoat. He held the fabric up in the air, and both of us stared at it in shock. I felt a jolt of shame. How could things have turned so ugly? I looked at the prince, wondering if he had the same thought. Maybe we could laugh about this, and resolve everything that way. But the prince kept his eyes on the torn cloth. His expression changed. I swear I saw the idea occur to him; the look of craftiness traveled over his face so slowly it was like watching a sunrise.
I could have escaped then, while he was thinking, but I was too intrigued by the notion that the prince might be having his very first original thought. What would it be?

And then, when it was too late for me to react, the prince reached out and wrapped the fabric around my wrists, knotting it tightly. When I started to protest, he tore off another ruffle and tied it around my mouth. I struggled, but the prince was far stronger than me, and now he was determined too. In seconds, he had my ankles bound together as well.

And then he left, latching the door firmly behind him.

For a long time after he left, I couldn't seem to comprehend what had happened. We had fought. Prince Charming had tied me up. How could that be?

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, my mind a jumble.
So much for breaking it off gently,
I thought. The humor helped my mind clear, but I couldn't laugh. What would happen next?

I listened for footsteps in the hall outside, but there were none. He wasn't coming back. But no one else was coming to rescue me either.

“Help?” I tried to scream, experimentally, but the gag was so effective, I could barely hear myself.

Well, it might have been the wrong person who heard you anyhow,
I thought. I looked down, taking stock. The ties were cutting into my wrists and ankles, and one of my knuckles was bleeding. Probably I'd scraped it hitting the prince. But if that was my worst injury, I was still capable of rescuing myself.

I sat up and managed to push myself off the couch into a standing position. I could feel the blood rushing from my head, and I swayed—dangerously so, considering that my ankles were tied tightly together. But I stood my ground and felt steady again in a moment.

The door was almost twelve feet away, but I was certainly capable of hopping that far. I'd figure out what to do about the latch when I got there. I bent my knees and sprang up—once, twice. . . . On the third hop I landed on my ripped petticoat and went sprawling across the floor. I was struggling to get back up when the door opened.

“Princess—” It was Madame Bisset.

I winced.

“I know, I know,” I muttered. “Very unladylike.” Of course she couldn't hear me through the gag.

Madame Bisset turned, and the prince and one of his advisers followed her in. I'd seen the adviser before at dinners. He was a sturdy, sensible-looking fellow named Twelling, who always seemed to bring up more practical points than any of the others. I dared to have hope.

Twelling and the prince scooped me off the floor and set me on the couch. Neither they nor Madame Bisset sat beside me. But Twelling gently removed the gag.

“My hands and feet are tied too,” I reminded him.

Twelling had the grace to look embarrassed.

“I'm aware of that,” he said. “But we need to . . . settle this first. I understand you and the prince had a lovers' spat?”

His choice of words astounded me.

“It was a lovers' spat,” I said carefully, “the way the Sualan War is a friendly disagreement.”

“Ah, yes. Well—” Twelling cleared his throat. “I see that things got a little out of hand. But you are the prince's intended, and he loves you, and when you made your little threat about the wedding, well, of course he felt a little panicky. Now, just what is it that you hoped to gain? A grander dress? More of your family invited to the wedding? Different food at the wedding banquet?”

I swallowed hard, struggling to be diplomatic.

“The prince must not have understood,” I said. “I'm not trying to gain anything. I want exactly what I said I want—to cancel the wedding. I don't want to marry him. I didn't an hour ago, and I certainly don't now.”

So much for diplomacy.

“But you see . . .” Twelling bent down and actually patted my hand. “What you want isn't, ah, isn't
possible.
Do you understand that word?”

I was too insulted to nod.

“You see, no one can call off a wedding to a prince. Especially not to a Charming. It just isn't done.”

“I'm doing it,” I said.

“You little—” Madame Bisset stepped forward. Twelling gave her a meaningful look. She ran her tongue over her lips. “I mean, my dear princess. I don't know what prompted this, but surely you aren't in your right mind. You haven't been yourself since the tournament.” Madame Bisset looked right and left, at Twelling and the prince. “She fainted. Perhaps she was too embarrassed to mention it to you,
Your Highness, but she was unable to leave her bed for the rest of the day.”

“Only because you did everything but tie me down!” I protested. “If the prince had been there, maybe he could have taken care of it for you.”

The prince moved toward me, complaining, “See, that's the kind of thing she—” Twelling laid a warning hand on his arm. The prince stepped back and shut up.

Twelling and Madame Bisset exchanged looks. Twelling cleared his throat yet again. I decided that that could get to be a very annoying habit.

“Well, we do have a dilemma here, don't we?” Twelling asked rhetorically.

“No,” I said. “There's an easy solution. Just let me go. Cancel the wedding, have another ball, and pick someone else to bear your precious,
beautiful
children.”

Twelling frowned. He pulled Madame Bisset and the prince to the side, and they conferred in whispers. I heard only scattered words: “. . . the humiliation . . .” “. . . family history of instability . . .” “. . . but will it work?” The prince didn't seem to be saying much. I remembered Mary's witticism about him: “He wouldn't know how to get out of bed in the morning if he didn't have advisers telling him which foot to put on the floor first.” What kind of a fool had nothing to say about whether or not he was going to marry someone who'd rejected him? Shame washed over me. I had little room to make fun of him. How intelligent had I been, agreeing to marry him in the first place?

After nearly a quarter hour of whispering, Twelling strode
to the door and left briefly. Madame Bisset and the prince were silent in his absence. When he returned, the three of them spoke only a few seconds before returning to my side. The prince and Twelling hung back. Obviously Madame Bisset had been selected to speak for all of them.

“Princess,” she said in a deceptively soothing tone. “It is clear what's happened here.”

I waited. She cleared her throat. Was Twelling's bad habit contagious?

“You have been under a great deal of strain, adapting to castle life,” she said. “Perhaps those of us teaching you have been at fault, for failing to realize just what a delicate creature you are.”

Delicate? I'd like to see Madame Bisset try to carry the sixteen buckets of water it always took to fill Corimunde and Griselda's bathing tub. I'd like to see her haul fifty-pound bags of potatoes home from the market, without stopping once to rest. I'd like to see her scrub and clean from dawn until midnight with no food but a bowl of porridge. I was so busy trying to think of the exact right example to prove that delicacy was not my problem that I almost missed her next words.

“We—your beloved prince, Sir Twelling, and I—we want to ensure that you return to your former health and vigor. When you do, I'm sure you'll realize the error of your ways, and thank us for not indulging your foolishness. . . .”

She patted my arm. Something stung my skin, and for a second I was distracted, puzzling whether I'd been pinched by her ring or—surely not!—a less-than-perfectly manicured nail. I couldn't
focus on her next words. Then I couldn't focus on her face.