Once Upon a Time: The Villains (21 page)

“I wish I could say the same.”

My father sputters, all hope dashed when he hears my words laced with irritation. “What is wrong with him?”

“He has an eye twitch that I find most annoying. What if it is genetic and our children are born with the misfortune? I could not possibly inflict such a deformity on your good name, Papa. It is too horrible to contemplate.”

I quickly move on.

The German nobleman frowns at my quick departure and my father is forced to give him the sad news. He takes it less well than most. He growls and gnashes his teeth, audibly. Gauls. Their temperaments always find trouble, and if none is about, they find a way to stir it up.

As the first row of men leave the hall and the second row steps forward, like a line of soldiers readying for battle, my father frowns at our less than auspicious beginning. “Careful you do not start a war with that wicked tongue of yours.”

“They would not dare. They fear you too much. They want your good graces and will suffer any amount of denigration to get it, as is proof by the eagerness this next group comes forward. They have heard my remarks, but look at them. Silly pompous creatures. There is no need for worry.”

“You risk too much.”

I did. I have never spoken so forwardly to my father before. But this is intolerable. How much will I be forced to endure until he gives up this ridiculous notion?

But my father’s will is made of hotly forged iron. He will do whatever it takes to see me married. “
Ma petite
,” he says in his most endearing fatherly voice as he sweeps a stray lock of hair from my cheek, “a man can only take so much abuse.”

I push his hand away. “It is in your power to stop the abuse.”

Anger glitters in his eyes as he drops his hand. “I know what you are about. It will not work. There will be a man for you here. I know it.”

It is hard not to applaud my father’s conviction no matter how misplaced. He cannot force my hand any more than I can force him to accept the inevitable. My parents love me too much to compel me into marriage, and I love my freedom too much to enter into one. I peer beyond the approaching mass and count two more lines. My suffering is far from over. I determine to hack through this chore as quickly as possible and step forward.

“Too long in the shanks,” I comment on the next noble, some prince from somewhere. “I shall not be forced to endure his graceless, disjointed mannerisms. I want a man, not a monkey.”

An uncomfortable wave of chuckles washes over the assemblage as I move on, ignoring the horrified look on my victim’s face. The next, an earl, is so short as to look up at me. Did I honestly have to comment? I threw my father a disbelieving glance and was rewarded with a hopeful nod. I sigh my frustration. “It is too much to bear. He is by far too stout and short to have much wit or winning ways. Never.”

On I fly, disbanding the dreams and commands to secure an alliance with astonishing ease. The second row leaves red-faced and rejected and the third takes its place, though I notice with much less enthusiasm. I smile to myself. This is more fun than I had imagined. They are so proud, so easily deflated; it is as if I have a calling from on high to set them on their ears. Yes. This is not just for my benefit, but for theirs. No man should be so arrogant who has only had the good fortune of being born into privilege.

I pounce on my next victim, his face as pale as death, “What is this? Will you have me marry the grim reaper?” I declare to all, shivering mildly for effect.

The next nobleman appears so embarrassed, he looks like a flamingo, glancing here and there and everywhere but at me. “Too pink and…fluttery. I do not trust a man who cannot control his nerves, or who is best served to me plucked and roasted.”

The men I have yet to meet stifle their laughter. How easy it is to laugh at another when you have yet to feel the sting. I smile. Their time is nigh. I eye my father. He cannot complain for he suddenly sees the man through my eyes and reluctantly agrees, but he casts me an admonishing look as if to warn me to control my tongue. I find I am in rare form; the insults and condemnations spring from my mouth. I haven’t the will to stop them.

“This one’s nose is so bulbous and purple, it is a miracle the gardener hasn’t tried to harvest it to make plum jam.” On I troop.

“And this one. Really, Father. His head is too big and his hair too prickly. He looks more porcupine than prince.”

The line is quickly diminishing. I step to the next and can’t stop from plugging my nose. “This one smells of onions. Do you wish me to marry him or sauté him?”

The man next to him chuckles, setting his cheeks jiggling with mirth. I step in front of him. “This one’s jowls are too fleshy. Pray, sir, do you hoard your food in there or is it a disease for which we should all be leery?” His face falls in embarrassment and I move on, triumphant in my progress.

I make my way to the last row and am introduced to a nobleman from some obscure kingdom. His dark good looks are intriguing, but not appealing enough to interest me. He bows, sweeps my hand up in a dramatic flourish and plants a wet — like a dog lapping at marrow buried deep within the bone — lingering kiss on my knuckles.

I gasp and snatch my hand away. “Too bold, Papa!” I snap. Even he cannot deny that claim.

“Tut-tut!” my father says and points to the door. As the nobleman stomps away, my father looks down the line at the remaining men. Only two are left. I straighten my shoulders and willingly move on, my father sluggishly follows. His despair is apparent. “This is—”

I don’t give him the chance to say. “His head is as bald as a baby’s bottom. I should confuse him with our child and diaper him instead of the babe. I cannot accept.”

The man scowls at me, but holds his tongue as the men before him. They dare not speak ill of me, for to enrage my father would be a mistake none would live long enough to correct.

The final suitor stands straight and tall. He has a full head of luscious blonde hair and startlingly blue eyes. Beautiful eyes. His bearing is confident, and his manner polite. He wears his nobility with grace, a kingly grace. He bows to my father, and then to me. “Princess,” is all he says.

My father smiles and bows in return. Straightening, he says, “I have saved the best for last, daughter. May I introduce—”

I throw my hand up, cutting him off. My father knows before I say anything. He winces, in fact. “Nay, Father. Not him. He has…” I search the nobleman’s face, his stance, his clothes and find nothing to mock. Panic seizes me. My father’s breath stalls in his throat. My gaze climbs over the stranger’s features and latches onto the man’s strong, prominent cleft chin. I smile, not warmly, but triumphantly. “He has the most glaring defect of all. A crooked chin, like a thrush’s beak.” I giggle. “Nay. I cannot even look upon this one.”

“By hound-in-hand, daughter!” my father shouts. It is the first eruption of anger I have seen from him in my whole life. I step back, jolted from my indifference. Have I pushed too far? I can hardly think I have. My parents love me. They have never held back anything I want.

As the last of the men begin to file out, my father says, “I have presented to you the cream of nobility and you snubbed them all. What is it you want?”

He sounds sincere, but how can I say it any better than I already have? “If these men are the best, then I should think you’d have no problem settling me on the lowest born man, for I see very little difference between the two. Men are men. They all want is a pretty bird they wish to keep in gilded cage. I want my freedom.”

“By heavens, you try the saints!” he yells. His eyes reflect a melding of hurt and anger I have never seen. Thrusting his hands against his hips, he suddenly appears bigger — larger than life. It is as if he fills the room with his presence. It is the king in him I witness now. My father has left and is replaced by the fierceness of the all powerful. “If that truly be your opinion of honorable, decent men, then I shall grant you your wish. The first beggar, be he young or old, to come through our door shall be your husband.”

An empty threat. I straighten my shoulders and stare up at him, a cold, hate filled stare. He will not go through with his threat. My mother would die before she allowed him to abuse me so. He knew it and so did I. Without a word, I turn and leave, not giving my father a polite farewell as I push aside the remnants of the noble men I defiled with my unkind wit. All I wish is to escape.

My irritation doesn’t last long. Though it is the worst argument I’ve ever had with my father, I know we will be falling all over ourselves by eventide, begging each other’s forgiveness. It is always the way.

In the stables, I order my horse saddled. It is done immediately and without question. I must escape the castle until all the noblemen have gone. I cannot abide the sight of them, indolent, privileged and bored. And to think I might have been shackled to one if I hadn’t stitched each of their flaws so tightly. I am confident that hurt pride will keep them from offering themselves again.

My horse is readied and I mount. Before long, I fly through the open gates and into the wild. I am rapturous as I explore the woods and hills and rivers and dales of this rich, unbounded land. It is as it has always been — unhurried, relaxed — and I shall always be its appreciative admirer. Nothing shall remove me from the life I love. Once again, my freedom is mine. A six month reprieve is my reward for this day’s work. Six months to live my life my way. Six months to do what I will, when I will it. I am my own keeper. I need no one to make me happy.

To prove this to myself, I go into town and peruse the marketplace. Its lively colors and loud shouts draw me into its heart. Everyone scampers to me, calling me to this booth, then to that one. I tease one merchant after another into thinking I am interested, and then I suddenly leave. Their faces fall when I do not buy their tawdry trinkets. I do not care, for tomorrow we shall play the game again and there will be renewed hope that I may buy something then. Today I am here because I can be here; because I have nowhere to go and nothing that I must do.

I am free.

Night threatens day and I ride back to the stables. My maid scurries over to me; her face is flushed and her eyes pinched with distress. She curtseys and whispers, “Your father demands you come posthaste, my lady. Your mother is in a state, for he is in a foul mood.”

It must be near the supper hour. I am probably late, which always has an ill affect on my father’s disposition.

“Never fear,” I say, giving my horse a pat and whisper of praise before I turn to my maid. “I shall wriggle a smile from him before sunset and harmony shall visit my mother once again.” I lead the maid back to my room.

That evening, not a word nor a look nor a smile from my parents pass my way. I feel as a leper must. It is a feeling I have never known in my life and I do not like it.

For three days, I try to win my parents’ favor and fail miserably. Father is in a snit and mother gazes at her lap in sallow misery. I cannot imagine why they are so indisposed toward me. It is not as if what I did were so bad. Did they not raise me to speak my mind? To be a princess of discriminating tastes? Was it not they who taught me one cannot expect silk to rub alongside burlap and not get snagged? I have only saved myself and them from a life of ugliness. Surely they see the value in my prudence.

On the fifth day, when the hour to dine approaches, I take special care and change into a soft lavender gown inlaid with silver threads and polished abalone shells sewn along the bodice. My dark hair, tangled from my day’s activity, is tamed into an intricate coil at the back of my neck and my shoulders and décolletage are dusted with lavender powder. I look and smell like spring. What parent would not be pleased with me as their daughter?

I enter the dining room; its glittering brilliance soothes me. I cannot fathom the builder’s imagination that created my home, but I am grateful for it. My father paces the length of marble; his heels click noisily against the hard polished stone. When he sees me, he does not smile, but goes to stand by his seat. I am not put off, for I have begun to expect nothing less, though I had hoped for more. I, myself, have ordered the meal. It is with bated breath I wait to see whether my efforts will mollify his mood and turn him into the loving father I know him to be. Once he relents, my mother will quickly follow.

I curtsey and take my place at the table, smiling warmly at my mother. She does not look at me. My smile falters. Their persistence is certainly noteworthy if misplaced. I have done nothing that any other woman has not longed to do before me. I vow not to let their churlish natures disturb me one more minute. My gaze passes over the table, and I notice a fourth place setting across from me. A twinge of concern niggles at my brain. Something has happened that I know nothing about. Only a week earlier, that would never have been the case.

My father sits, and after a curt blessing, the dinner begins sans our guest. Not a word rises, nor a congenial look passes between us. Not even a quick nod to relay that he is pleased by the roasted pheasant and mincemeat sauce. How much longer can this impasse last?

I am silly to worry. He needs time to come to terms with my decision. My gaze slips to the empty place setting. It is obviously for someone close, for my mother would never begin our meal otherwise. Édouard must be visiting. He is late, as he often is, which of course has further irritated my father. My parents simply favor a quiet dinner. Though I wonder at the prudence of my continued silence. Has my attitude and vow of silence lengthened our argument? I decide to be magnanimous and offer the first words of reconciliation. “The pheasant is moist, and the flounder superb. Don’t you think so, Father?”

His jaw flexes and he lays his eating utensils down. His mouth chews, and I wait for what will soon be a loving reply. Instead, I’m greeted with his hand slamming flat against the table. I jump in my seat, as does my mother.

“Three years!” he yells. “You have vexed me at every turn. No father has been so accommodating. No father so patient. No longer, Daughter. My patience is at an end, do you hear?”