The Rose and the Thorn Read online

  “I don’t want anyone with me.”

  “It’s me or him or no horse is saddled, and I’ll go to your mother right now.”

  “Fine. I’ll take… what did you say his name was?”

  “Reuben.”

  “Really? Does he have a last name?”

  “Hilfred.”

  She sighed. “I’ll take Hilfred.”

  Reuben had never sat a horse before, but he wasn’t about to tell either of them that. He was not afraid, except of making a fool of himself in front of her. He knew all the horses well and chose Melancholy, an older black mare with a white diamond on her face. Her name matched her temperament—an attitude that reflected her age. This was the horse they saddled for the children who wanted to ride a “real” horse or for grandmothers and matronly aunts. Still, his heart was pounding as Melancholy followed behind Tamarisk, something she would do even if Reuben wasn’t on her back.

  They passed out of the castle gates into the city of Medford, the capital of the kingdom of Melengar. Reuben hadn’t had much education, but he was a great listener and knew Melengar was one of the smallest of the eight kingdoms of Avryn—the greatest of four nations of mankind. All four countries—Trent, Avryn, Delgos, and Calis—had at one time been part of a single empire, but that was long ago and of no importance to anyone but scribes and historians. What was important was that Medford was well respected, well-to-do, and at peace, and had been for a generation or more.

  The king’s castle formed the central hub of the city, and around it cart vendors lay siege, circling the moat and selling all manner of autumn fruits and vegetables, breads, smoked meats, leather goods, and cider—both hot and cold, hard and soft. Three fiddlers played a lively tune next to an upturned hat placed on a nearby stump. Lesser nobles in cloaks or capes wandered the brick streets, fingering crafted baubles. Those of greater means rolled along in carriages.

  The two rode straight down the wide brick avenue, past the statue of Tolin Essendon. Sculpted larger than life, the first king of Melengar was made to look like a god on his warhorse, though rumor had it he was not a big man. The artist might have aimed at capturing the full reality of Tolin rather than just his appearance, for surely the man who defeated Lothomad, Lord of Trent, and carved Melengar out of the ruins of a civil war had to have been nearly as great as Novron himself.

  No one stopped or questioned Reuben and Arista as they rode by, but many bowed or curtsied. Several loud conversations actually halted when they approached, everyone staring. Reuben felt uncomfortable, but the princess appeared oblivious, and he admired her for it.

  Once they were out of the city and on the open road, Arista increased their pace to a trot. At least his horse trotted, which was an unpleasant bouncing gait that caused the sword Ian had given him to clap against his thigh. Just as Ian had mentioned, the princess’s horse did not trot. The animal pranced as if Tamarisk wished to avoid soiling his hooves.

  They continued along the road, and as Reuben’s comfort with the horse grew, so did a smile on his lips. He was alone with her, far away from Ellison and the Three Cruelties, riding a horse and wearing a sword. This was what a man’s life should be, what his life might have been if he’d been born noble.

  Reuben’s fate was to join his father, Richard, in the service of the king as a man-at-arms. He would start on the wall or at the gate, and if lucky would work his way up to a more prestigious position like his father had. Richard Hilfred was a sergeant in the royal guard and one of those responsible for the personal protection of the king and his family. Such a title had benefits, such as securing a position for an untrained son. Reuben knew he should be thankful for the opportunity. Soldiers in a peaceful kingdom led comfortable lives, but so far life in Essendon Castle had been anything but comfortable.

  In a week, on his birthday, he would don the burgundy and gold. Reuben would still be the youngest and weakest, but he would no longer be a misfit. He would have a place. That place would just never be on the back of a horse riding free on the open road with a real sword strapped to his belt. Reuben imagined the life of an errant knight, roaming the roads as he wished, seeking adventures, and gaining fame. That was the future of squires—their reward for stealing apples and beating him.

  This ride might be the highpoint of his life. The weather was perfect, a late afternoon in fall. The sky a color of blue usually only seen in the crisp of winter, and the trees—many of which still had their leaves—were brilliant, as if the forests were ablaze but frozen in time. Scarecrows with pumpkin heads stood guard over the brown stalks of corn and late season gardens.

  He breathed in the air; it smelled sweeter somehow.

  Once they were down the road, the princess looked behind her. “Hilfred? Do you suppose they can see us from here?”

  “Who, Your Highness?” he asked, amazed and grateful his voice didn’t crack.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Anyone who might be watching… the guards on the walls or someone who may have put her needlework down in order to climb the east tower to look out the window?”

  Reuben looked back. The city was obscured by the hill and the trees. “No, Your Highness.”

  The princess smiled. “Wonderful.” She crouched low over Tamarisk’s back and made a clicking noise. The horse broke into a run, racing down the road.

  Reuben had no choice but to follow, holding on to the saddle with both hands as Melancholy made a valiant effort, but the nineteen-year-old pasture mare was no match for the seven-year-old Maranon palfrey. The princess and her horse were soon out of sight and Melancholy settled to a trot, then slowed to a walk. Her sides were heaving, and nothing Reuben tried urged her to move any faster. He finally gave up and sighed in frustration.

  He looked down the road, helpless. He considered abandoning Melancholy and running, for at that moment he could travel faster than the horse he was on. He didn’t know what to do. What if she had fallen? If only Melancholy could gallop as fast as his heart.

  Plodding to the top of the next rise, he saw the princess. Arista was on her horse, standing at the Gateway Bridge, which marked the divide between the kingdom of Melengar and their neighboring kingdom of Warric. She spotted him but made no move to flee.

  At the sight of her his panic vanished. She was safe. Looking at her mounted near the riverbank, Reuben decided the ride there was not the best time of his life—this was.

  She was beautiful, and never more so than at that moment. Sitting tall in the saddle, the wind splaying the luxurious gown across the back and side of her horse. Her long shadow reached toward him as the setting sun bathed both, playing with Tamarisk’s mane and the silk of the dress the same way it played with the surface of the river. This moment was a gift, a wonder beyond words, beyond thought. Being alone with Arista Essendon in the setting sun—her in that womanly dress and he on horseback armed with a sword like a man, like a knight—was a perfect dream.

  The thunder of hooves shattered the moment.

  A group of horsemen burst out of the trees to Reuben’s left. Three riders raced down on him. He thought they would collide with his horse, but at the last moment they veered and raced by, cloaks flying behind them. Melancholy was startled by the near miss and bolted off the road. Even if Reuben had been an expert rider, he would’ve had trouble staying in the saddle. Caught off guard, and unfamiliar with the motions of horses, he fell, landing on the flat of his back.

  He crawled to his feet as the riders made straight for the princess and circled her, laughing and hooting. Reuben was not yet a castle guard, but Ian had given him the sword for a reason. That there were three didn’t matter. That his ability with a sword could best be described, even in his own mind, as embarrassing, did not give him the slightest pause.

  He drew the blade, sprinted down the hill, and when he reached them shouted, “Leave her alone!”

  The laughter died.

  Two of the three dismounted and drew swords together. The polished steel flashed in the low sun. As soon as they hit th
e ground, Reuben realized they were no more than boys, three or perhaps four years younger than himself. Their features were so similar they must have been brothers. Their swords were unlike the thick falchions of the castle guard or the short swords of the squires. They held thin, delicate weapons with adorned handguards.

  “He’s mine,” the largest said, and Reuben could hardly believe his luck that the other two stayed back.

  To defend the princess from ruffians, even if only children—to have her watch me fight for her honor, to be the one to save her. Please, Lord Maribor, I can’t fail… not at this!

  The boy approached all too casually, puzzling Reuben. Shorter by a good five inches, thin as a cornstalk, and with the wind at his back, he struggled to keep his wild black hair from his eyes as he strode toward him, a huge grin on his face.

  When he came within a sword’s length, he stopped and, to Reuben’s amazement, bowed. Then he rose, sweeping his sword back and forth, such that it sang in the air. Finally, he took a stance with bent knees, his free arm behind his back.

  Then the boy lunged.

  His speed was alarming. The tip of the little sword slashed across Reuben’s chest, failing to cut skin but leaving a gash in his smock. Reuben staggered backward. The boy advanced, shuffling his feet in a strange manner that Reuben had never seen before. The movements were fluid and graceful, as if he were dancing.

  Reuben swung his sword.

  The boy did not move. He did not raise his blade to parry. He only laughed as the attack missed by an inch. “I think I could just stand here trussed to a pole and you still couldn’t hit me. The lady should have found a more able protector.”

  “That’s not a lady. That’s the Princess of Melengar!” Reuben shouted. “I won’t let you harm her.”

  “Is she really?” He glanced over his shoulder. “Did you hear that? We’ve captured a princess.”

  I’m an idiot. Reuben felt like stabbing himself.

  “Well, we aren’t going to harm her. My fellow highwaymen and I are going to ravage her, slit her throat, and then dump the wench in the river!”

  “Stop it!” Arista shouted. “You’re being cruel!”

  “No, he’s not,” the one who hadn’t dismounted said. He wore a hooded cloak, and with the setting sun at his back, Reuben couldn’t see his face. “He’s being stupid. I say we hold her for ransom and demand our weight in gold!”

  “Excellent idea,” the younger of the two brothers declared. He had already sheathed his sword, pulled a wedge of cheese from his pack, and offered it to the mounted one, who took a bite.

  “You’ll have to kill me first,” Reuben declared, and the laughter returned.

  Reuben swung again. His opponent deflected the attack, his eyes locked on Reuben’s face. “That was a little better. At least that might have hit me.”

  “Mauvin, don’t!” the princess shouted. “He doesn’t know who you are.”

  “I know!” the boy with the wild hair yelled back, and laughed. “That’s what makes this so precious.”

  “I said stop it!” the princess demanded, riding forward.

  The boy laughed again and swung his sword low toward Reuben’s feet. Reuben had no idea how to counter. He thrust his blade down and in fear pulled his feet back. Off balance, he fell forward, driving his blade into the dirt. Rolling to his back and scrambling to his feet, he discovered the boy held both swords. Again laughter erupted from them all—except Arista.

  “Stop it!” she shouted again. “Can’t you see he doesn’t know how to use a sword? He doesn’t even know how to ride a horse. He’s a servant. All he’s ever done is split wood and carry water.”

  “I was only having some fun.”

  “Fun to you maybe.” She pointed at Reuben. “He really thinks you’re going to hurt me. He isn’t playing.”

  “Really? Because if that’s true, then he’s pathetic. Honestly, if that’s the best he’s got, why in Maribor’s name did Lawrence send this sod as your escort? A real highwayman would have killed him with the first swing, and you’d be tied to his horse while a ransom note was sent to the castle.”

  She scowled. “If you were real highwaymen, Tamarisk and I would have left you in the dust. You’d be coughing and spitting as we raced away.”

  “Not likely,” the mounted one said.

  “No?” The princess leaned in close, and with a whisper in Tamarisk’s ear, the horse lunged as fleet as a deer and ran back up the South Road toward the city.

  “Get her!” the mounted one ordered. Kicking his own horse, he chased after.

  The boy with wild hair tossed Reuben’s sword to him. Then he and his brother climbed atop their horses and rode after the fleeing princess, who, just as she’d said, left them all in a rising cloud of dust.

  In an instant, Reuben was alone. His only consolation was that the princess wasn’t in danger. Arista obviously knew the three, which furthered his humiliation. The only thing worse than being beaten by a younger boy and having them laugh at him in front of the princess was that she had defended him.

  Can’t you see he doesn’t know how to use a sword? He doesn’t even know how to ride a horse. He’s a servant. All he’s ever done is split wood and carry water.

  Reuben stood there, staring up at the fading light and watching black clouds roll in like curtains across a stage. Tears slipped down his cheeks. He never cried, though he’d been beaten many times. He’d become used to pain, to revilements, but this was different. Reuben had always suspected he was useless; now all doubt had been removed. Whoever they were, he wished they would have killed him—at least then he wouldn’t have to live with the shame.

  He wiped his face with dirty hands and looked around. As night approached, mists formed near the river, and lights flickered in the windows of distant farmhouses. Melancholy was gone. She had either chased after the rest or just knew it was time to head for the stable.

  Reuben Hilfred dropped the borrowed sword back into its sheath and walked home.

  He was tired by the time he returned. Checking in at the stable, he found Melancholy and Tamarisk safely in their stalls. Having his heart broken, taking a beating, putting in a hard day’s work in the stables, then walking miles in the growing dark had left Reuben with little strength. Still, he paused partway across the courtyard to look up at the castle—and the tower.

  The beautiful autumn day had turned into a dreadful fall night. A wind had risen along with a full moon, but it was masked by dark clouds. Black witch fingers of tree branches waved against the murky sky, and leaves torn from their limbs fluttered across the yard. The night turned cold, and torches whipped with the gusts. The night had a quality about it at harvest time that Reuben found disturbing. A sense of death pervaded every corner, and soon the snows would come like a blanket to drape over the dead. With that thought on Reuben’s mind, he looked for any telltale sign from the tower’s window. Still no light.

  He was struck with the familiar mix of emotion—relief certainly, but also disappointment.

  Slipping into the barracks, Reuben was met by a dozen snoring men. Boots worn during the day aired out, their scent joining company with the odor of sweat and stale beer. Reuben and his father shared their own room, but the space wasn’t luxurious. Previously a storage closet, it barely fit their two cots and a table. Before Reuben had arrived, it was a better perk, a reward his father had received in service to the king.

  A lamp still burned when he entered.

  “Get supper?” his father asked.

  Not a word about where he had been. His father never asked such things, and it was only recently that Reuben began to find that odd. The old man was on his cot, his boots off, sword belt, chain-link, and tunic neatly stored on the hooks and shelf. His waist belt and the three leather pouches he always looped through it lay neatly beside his bed—always within arm’s reach. Reuben knew that one pouch held coin and another a whetstone, but he didn’t know what was in the third pouch. Richard Hilfred lay with one arm hooked over
his face, covering his eyes. The same way he slept every night. His father had not shaved in the last few days and dark stubble, thick as bristled fur, shadowed his cheeks and chin. His hair, originally black as charcoal, contained a dash of gray frosting. Reuben’s was dirty blond, which got him thinking about what Ellison had said about his mother.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  His father’s arm came down and the old man squinted at him. “What happened?”

  A question? Since when?

  “Nothing,” Reuben said. He took a seat on his cot, aware of the irony that the one time his father showed an interest, Reuben didn’t want to share.

  “Where’d you get that sword?”

  “Huh?” He had forgotten all about it. “Oh—Ian made me take it.”

  “Take it where?”

  Four questions in a row. Is this interest, concern, or just because my birthday is coming up?

  His father’s temper was always short this time of year. Reuben’s birthday was the only day Richard had ever visited him during the years he lived with his aunt—once a year, every year without fail. Never a hug, his father usually yelled at him, with liquor on his breath. When his aunt died and his father brought him to the castle to live, Reuben had cried. He had been eleven going on twelve, and Richard Hilfred thought that was too old for tears. His father beat him. Reuben never cried again—until that evening when he watched the princess ride away, taking his hopes with her.

  “The princess insisted on going for a ride,” Reuben explained. “And Ian made me escort her.”

  His father sat up, the wood of the cot creaking. He didn’t say anything for a long time, just staring until Reuben felt uncomfortable. “You stay away from her, you hear?”

  “I didn’t have a choice. She—”

  “I don’t want excuses. You just keep clear, understand?”

  Reuben nodded. He learned long ago not to argue with his father. Sergeant Richard Hilfred was used to dealing with unruly men. He gave an order and it was obeyed or teeth were knocked out. That was how discipline was maintained in the ranks, in the barracks, and in their tiny room.