Once Upon a Time: The Villains (24 page)

The comb stalls in mid stroke. “Are you telling me you’ve never cleaned up after yourself before?”

Why does that shock him? I am a princess. “Of course not. Others have always seen to my needs.”

“We must correct that oversight.”

I do not like the sound of that. After he braids my hair and pins it up, he shows me the pail and a rag and demonstrates how I am to clean. It takes me all day to get the job done correctly. He doesn’t help at all, though he is ever eager to point out a missed spot. He just sits outside scraping away at the skins and talking to the pig.

The next day, my beggar husband brings me an armload of reeds. “What are those for?” I ask.

“As you well know, our needs are great. It is time you earned your keep.” He dumps the reeds on the table and begins to teach me how to prepare the reeds and weave a basket. When he is satisfied that I understand what to do, he leaves.

I try. I really do. I wish to show him my worth is more than in my lineage. I twist and fold and weave the reeds. They nip into my hands making them bleed. I bite my lip to stop from weeping. When my husband comes in, he sees the cuts covering my palms and grabs my hands. “This will not do. I have a better idea. Even you can spin.”

The next day, he brings me wool and shows me how to spin. After a while, he leaves for the market. At first, it is much better than basket making, but by luncheon, my fingers begin to freely bleed as the wool cuts deep into my tender skin.

By late afternoon, my husband returns with a package tucked under his arm. “What is this?” he demands as he notices the blood-soaked yarn. “It is ruined! What kind of woman cannot even spin? Clearly I made a bad bargain in taking you to wife.”

I can hold back my tears no longer. My hands hurt more than my feet ever did. He groans and binds them, all the while muttering to himself. Finally he asks, “What are we to do? I suppose it shall have to be earthen pots and jugs. Even you can sell those without hurting yourself.”

My sobs falter at his pronouncement. “A market woman? I cannot sit in the market where everyone can see me.”

“And why not? Do you fear your pale skin turning brown in the sun?”

I fling my hands before my face as if to ward off a curse. I hadn’t even thought of that! I am in a true panic now. “I-I just can’t. Please don’t make me.” If anyone from my father’s kingdom should happen by, I would be mortified. They would laugh and carry back my humiliation to all.

My husband shrugs. “It’s either the market or starve, for no one is in need of a minstrel these days. We need do what we must to survive.”

He made us sound destitute. But we weren’t. He’d just gone hunting. “What of all those animals you caught? We have plenty of meat.”

“I just sold the meat to the butcher and the skins to the tanner.” He pulls out the package and shows me what is inside. Clothes. Plain, brown and serviceable. “You needed a proper dress and I new trousers. These took all we had. We have just enough for a few pots which we can sell.”

I am horrified by the thought, but I see no way out of our dilemma. That evening, he brings home a collection of pots and jugs he’d bought from a woman deep in the woods. The items are well crafted and some even attractive. The next day, he sits me in a stall and leaves me to it. As painful as this endeavor is, I do my best. The night before, I had dissected the dress I had worn from my home and attached a few of the delicate ribbons to the plain brown one I now wear. The added ornamentation cheers me, and I hope the little spot of luxury will draw the women to my stall. My plan works. I receive compliments on my dress as much as my wears. By noon I have sold every pot and a few ribbons I had brought along. With the money I’ve made, we will not be without for some time.

I rush home, overjoyed at my success. My husband is out front, sharpening a garden tool. I dance around him, dropping coins into his hands and laughing. He is all smiles and laughter and praise. Without thought, I hug him. He grows very still. I pull away. We regard each other awkwardly. My heart is full — with pride and a sudden affection for my husband. He has given me a purpose. That’s all. I am only grateful.

He rises and says, “You have done well. I shall take part of the money and buy more pots. When the time comes, you can sell those and with that money we shall be set for winter.”

I agree, for I have finally found my worth. In the meantime, I tend to the house, prepare meals and mend our clothes. I learn to milk a cow, tend a garden and play a simple song on the lute. Once a week, my husband helps me wash my hair, and combs it free of knots. I beg him to shave his beard, which has grown grizzly, but all he’ll allow is a trim.

We have settled into an easy routine. My eyes stray to his more than not, and I quickly look away, deriding myself for my interest in a beggar. I am a princess; he a beggar. To love him would be a mistake. I want to be near him and make excuses to draw close. I think he sees my struggle, for he has a sad look about him that was not there before.

Nearly a month and a half later, I set up my wares in a corner stall situated in the shade. I see no reason to destroy my creamy complexion for a few pots. I had not been there more than a moment when a drunken soldier plunges into the marketplace, ramming his horse into my stall and shattering my pots into a thousand pieces. The money scatters along with the shards within the crowd. When I’m finally able to clear a path, the money is gone. I pick up a shard of pottery and look around. No one looks my way. It’s as if I’m invisible. Everything I had is suddenly gone.

My heart tightens in my chest as I think of my husband. What will he say? He already regrets marrying me. What more could I do to incur his displeasure? Without him, I am lost and utterly alone in the world. Covering my face with my hands, I run home and fall upon the bed.

Hours later, my husband returns with a hare slung over his shoulder. He peeks in and sees me. “Done already? That was better than the first day.”

I turn my face away and he drops the hare just beyond the door and comes inside. “What is the matter wife? Why no jumping and dancing?”

Swallowing is difficult. I do not want to say what I must. With tears blurring my vision, I tell him what happened.

“Gone? Everything gone?” He sags onto the bed, elbows on his knees and places his head in his hands. “What fool sets a stall filled with earthenware on the corner where all manner of beast and man can cause harm?”

“Me,” I say past a thick throat. “I am that fool.”

He sighs. I wipe at my cheeks that refuse to stay dry. His hand finds my back and he rubs up and down in a gentle rhythm. “You are inexperienced. It is my fault for not teaching you better.”

“No. It is my fault. You should have sent me away when you had the chance. I am good for nothing.”

“Not so. You have turned into quite a potato peeler. So much so that today I inquired at the castle, and they are in need of a kitchen maid.”

I turn and look at him. I have been nothing more than a burden the moment we wed. A smarter man would have abandoned me long ago.

He clears his throat and adds, “Listen to me, wife. Winter is near. We have no stores. If you take this job, they will feed you and house you free of cost.”

House me? “We won’t be together?” He is abandoning me after all?

“I see little choice. I can go without, but I cannot stand by and see you suffer. I visit the castle often in winter. They grow bored and long for entertainment when the weather turns harsh. If you go there, we will see each other…if that is your wish.”

He’s not abandoning me, but asking me to do this for my own safety. I don’t know what to say. My heart quivers with an unfamiliar sensation, like it is breaking, yet mending at the same time. I slip my arms around his torso and breathe deeply of his scent, taking comfort in the familiar odor of pine and smoke. I had thought him unclean when we first met, but that is no longer so. I now know he smells of honest labor and the outdoors. It is a scent that makes me feel safe.

“I do not wish to go,” I say against his neck.

He pulls me closer, cradling me in his lap. “Will you do it for me?” he asks against my temple.

I nuzzle his neck and sigh. “I will do anything for you. I-I love you.”

He takes my face in his hands and gazes into my eyes. His are a startling shade of blue. They make me think of laughter and summer and unending tenderness. Slowly, he lowers his lips to mine. The kiss is gentle and sweet and I long for more, but he pulls away, saying, “We have no time. Someone else might take the position if we don’t hurry.” He places me on my feet and rushes me out the door.

The castle soon looms in front of us, bold and big; its very existence now threatens my happiness. I pull him to a stop. I’m quivering, shaking worse than a pig in line for the slaughter. “Promise me that as soon as spring arrives, we will be together, forever.” I’m being silly, but deep down I fear he is extracting himself from me and will soon forget I ever existed.

“By then you may find someone else more appealing than a beggar.”

My heart constricts. I shake my head. “Never.”

He kisses my brow. “Then I promise. I will visit you and you will visit me. This is only temporary. Do you believe me?”

I nod and throw myself into his arms one more time. I feel the steady beat of his heart against my cheek and dare to hope that soon our circumstances will improve and we will be together again.

Cuddled and kissed and with coos of encouragement ringing in my ears, I enter the castle grounds and find the kitchens. In all the years I lived in splendor, I never dreamed of exploring the ways and means that made my life of ease. Yet now I find myself immersed in a virtual army of people. The thud of knives, the clang of pots and the shouts of people assault my ears. I have entered a world far different than any I’ve known so far, and I feel all my doubts and insecurities rushing forward.

The man with the loudest voice sees me and motions me forward. “You are the beggar’s wife?”

I nod.

“Celeste!” A chubby woman with rosy cheeks appears at his side. “Take this one and show her what to do.” He turns away and resumes his command.

Celeste grabs a bucket and takes me to the butcher table. The massive wooden structure runs the length of the kitchen, by far the largest table in the castle and the smelliest. “Collect the scraps in this bucket. There are more along that wall,” she says, pointing at a row of buckets, some already brimming with discarded scraps. “Make sure none fall for they are for the poor and the King’s dogs. When the men are done cutting, scrub down the table and floor.”

She thrusts the bucket in my hands and hurries away. I look at the table and all its gory adornments; Cow tongue, goat innards, sheep bladder and yards and yards of intestines not to mention the mounds of fat the butchers are cutting away from the meat. I have no idea what is considered scraps and what is not.

Hesitantly, I pick up a slimy unrecognizable part of some beast with the ends of my fingertips. It’s warm and squishy and completely disgusting. A shiver slips down my spine, and I glance over at the butcher unsure if I’ve chosen the correct lump to discard. He nods and I drop it in the bucket. On down the table I go, choosing this piece and that piece until I reach the end. I look back and see a mound of scraps have reappeared.

One of the butchers laughs and says, “You’ll have to work faster than that if you wish to stay.”

I must stay. I cannot disappoint my husband again. Squaring my shoulders, I begin the process again. Faster I go. By the end of the day, my two finger pick up has turned into a sweep of the hand. As the butchers clean their knives, I sluice down the table with well water and scrub the marred boards clean. With a frayed rag, I mop the floors until not a spot of blood can be found.

Weary and raw from my labors, I am shown a pallet where I collapse. A few moments later, another kitchen maid joins me and is soon snoring. I don’t complain. I’m grateful just to lie down. Tears prickle my eyes, and I stare at the whitewashed walls, wondering what my husband is doing and if he is well.

Routine sets in quickly. Rise early. Work. Eat. Work more. Eat. Then go to bed, but only after I and the other kitchen maids have thoroughly cleaned the kitchen. A week into my new position and the head cook calls us to attention. “It is with great delight that I announce to you that our favored and noble king has chosen a bride.” The kitchens erupt in happiness. The cook clears his throat. “I need not tell you the significance of this occasion. It is up to us to make our king’s wedding the most elaborate and spectacular event of the year. From this day on, there will be nothing but work, work, work!”

Groans fly whisper-soft from many lips at his pronouncement. Memories of grand balls and festivals sift through my mind. All were glorious and filled with pleasure. Not once did I think of the work that went into making such an event possible. Was I truly that oblivious?

A sudden thought captures my heart. This will be the first chance I will have to see my husband, for surely he will perform at the wedding. I return to the butcher table with a spring in my step. Even the sight of squiggly, smelly entrails cannot damper the excitement that bubbles within me.

Day after day, we labor from sunup to sundown. The head cook says I am progressing well and puts me directly under Celeste. I follow her around, learning the subtleties of the culinary world. I can’t help but think my husband will be pleased. I have so much to show him when we return home.

Finally, the day of the wedding arrives and a glittering procession of lords and ladies fill the hall. Myself and the other kitchen maids take turns peeking out at the assemblage. We are dazzled by the sight, for the castle has been turned into a faery tale wonderland. Lush greenery is woven throughout as if the guests stand in an enchanted forest. The last earthy blush of autumn flowers generously grace every available surface while a host of candles light up the hall, washing the entire scene in soft yellow tones. It is magical.

From the girlish sighs coming from my companions, I know this is every woman’s dream wedding. It could have been mine. Oddly, I am no longer sad. I love my husband and am content. One of the maids pulls back and we all shift for the next person in line to move forward. Doing so, I feel the small pots I’ve stuffed in my pockets sway dangerously. Each one is filled with a small measure of the feast the cook has given us as a gift from the king on this special day. I chose lamb pie, gingerbread and sweet goat milk. I cannot help but worry that I might spill, and thus have nothing to give my husband when I see him.