The Princess Who Rode on a Mule Read online

  The Princess Who Rode on a Mule

  (A Take of Love and Romance)

  By Sheela Word

  Copyright ©2012 Sheela Word

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, excepting brief quotations in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  The Princess Who Rode on a Mule

  Princess Hadley and her mother and sisters were in the tower chamber, awaiting their maidservant. ‘Twas mid-November, and Hadley stood beside the window, watching a group of peasants toil in the kitchen garden far below. The men were clad in sheepskins, and the women in woolen cloaks. They stooped to pull up parsnips and toss them in a willow basket, pausing from time to time to exchange words.

  Rain began to fall. Hadley watched it stream down the window pane, then leaned her temple against the glass and closed her eyes. She seemed to feel cool drops upon her face, smell the damp earth, and hear the wild geese calling.

  “Come hither,” said Princess Joan, who sat by the hearth near Princess Ingrid and Queen Maud.

  Hadley smiled, but shook her head. “The women work alongside the men,” she said slowly. “’Twould be pleasant so.”

  “Methinks ‘twould be foul and damp,” said the Queen, tucking her thin hands into the folds of her cloak. The fire that burned in the hearth was a feeble thing.

  “In Cockaigne,” said Ingrid, “The air is warm and balmy e’en at night.”

  “Aye,” said her mother. “’Tis ever June.”

  “There is a mountain of bread,” said Joan, who was well-nigh famished.

  “And another of cheese,” said Ingrid, “With a river of mead between. And the capons cook themselves. And the wine doth pour itself.”

  “There is fruit aplenty,” sighed Joan.

  “Peaches, plums, and cherries o’erflow the bowl,” said Ingrid. “All of rare quality, with nary a blemish.”

  “Sumptuous furnishings,” said Joan, looking about the chamber, which was bare and comfortless.

  “Tables wrought of ebon wood, chairs of ivory,” said Ingrid. “Beds so vast that multitudes may couch together.”

  “And coverlets of down,” murmured the Queen. “Oh, to be in Cockaigne!”

  “Aye,” said Ingrid, and Joan nodded.

  But as she stood beside the casement, Hadley fixed in her mind’s eye a field of winter wheat, green and gleaming in the sun.

  ~~~~

  King Valentine of Glerny was oft called “mad,” for he was capricious and improvident. He had succeeded his father to the throne some twelve years earlier, against much opposition, and had begun his reign by taxing his subjects so harshly that they nearly rebelled. As the years passed, he became increasingly unfit to rule, and the nobles of Glerny gradually expanded their holdings until they acquired dominion over much of the land.

  Within the palace, however, his Majesty’s will prevailed. Queen Maud found her wishes opposed even in the most trivial of domestic matters. If she bade the servant bring a round of cheddar to table, his Majesty sent it back and vowed he must have ruayn, and if ruayn was her choice, he declared it “vile” and called for cheddar. Worse, when seized by a fit of choler, he would rail against her for hours, even in company. He oft upbraided her for bearing him no sons.

  And yet at times the King showed his wife and daughters much affection. His humors were as variable as the weather, and none could guess what he might say or do. The Queen, for her part, never spoke ill of her husband, but kept her own counsel. Nor did the Princesses say ought against their father, although they lived in daily dread of his whims, which oft caused them hardship.

  When Ingrid was eighteen, King Valentine forced her to wed an elderly Duke. The Duke was so much in his dotage that he scarcely could place his seal upon the marriage contract. The Princess became a widow within six months, and the King’s men quickly claimed her husband’s estate, dispossessing all rightful heirs, and constraining her to return to Court. She was now twenty-one, but she yet wore black and made a show of continued mourning, lest her father compel her to wed again.

  Princess Joan, who was twenty, had also suffered from his Majesty’s tyranny. A year earlier, she had become betrothed to a young nobleman for whom she felt much affection. King Valentine was delighted with the match at first, but as time passed, he began to look darkly upon the youth and at last denounced him as a traitor. Poor James fled from Glerny, lest he be imprisoned, and Joan had had no word from him since.

  But Princess Hadley, whom King Valentine termed “Mistress Clodpate,” was most often called upon to deal with her father’s worst excesses. He sent for her when he was filled with mad elation, for at such times, he trusted no other to pour his wine. Many a night, she sat silently by, her head nodding, whilst he raved of the conquests he would make, the empires he would build, and the glory that would be his after his enemies were laid to rest. When sleep overcame him at last, she wiped the spittle from his face, combed the crumbs from his beard, and bade the servants carry him to his chamber. Then she trudged to her own bed, and slept soundly until cockcrow.

  Hadley was seventeen, but seemed younger, for she was short of stature, her hands and feet were small and plump, and the brown eyes that gazed out of her freckled face were as round and innocent as a child’s. Her dress, too, was often plain, and she wore her light brown hair in two plaits wrapped about her head and crossed and tied in front. She little resembled her mother or sisters, who were tall and dark-tressed; nor did she have the golden locks and pale complexion that marked her father’s kin. She was so unlike the others, in fact, that she was sometimes taken for a serving maid.

  Her nature, likewise, was mild and calm, although she was sometimes unexpectedly willful. Her mule, for instance. She had purchased it from a farmer some two years past, and would accept no other mount. If her father bade her to ride a palfrey, she obeyed, but managed the creature so ill that she scarcely gained any distance. When his Majesty railed at her stupidity, she begged his pardon humbly, but insisted that her limbs were too little or the horse too large. She then forbore to ride at all, until such time as the King had forgotten his edict against the mule, whereupon she quietly resumed riding it.

  Her movements and speech were slow, and the King was not alone in deeming her dull-witted. Certainly Ingrid and Joan learned their lessons more quickly and could retail them with greater fluency. But Hadley, her tutors observed, had a prodigious memory and was willing to ponder a complex matter until she had thoroughly grasped its essence. “Though her sisters rival Roger Bacon,” one young tutor jested, “Princess Hadley is like to Thomas Aquinas.”

  The Princess gave no thought to her own repute, and did not repine if she were held in low esteem. She seemed to accept all treatment, good and bad, as her due. Indeed, she had always been thus…until the babe was born.

  ~~~~

  ‘Twas All Hallow’s Eve, the last day of October. Jenny, one of the palace chambermaids delivered up a son. The poor girl was unwed, but the child’s father, awed by the auspicious day of birth, vowed to marry her ere the babe was baptized.

  Yet King Valentine, learning of the birth, became strangely excited and vowed that he himself had lain with the maid and sired her child. The babe, he said, should henceforth be known as Stephen, Crown Prince of Glerny, and the maid should become his bride. When his attendants besought him to remember his Queen, the King commended them and said they had preserved him from perdition.

  “For,” said the King. “If a man hold many wives, his heart shall be led astray. Our Queen shall go to the Tower forthwith that we may not lay eyes upon her more. And her daught
ers shall attend her.”

  The servants dared not openly disobey his Majesty. However, the household Steward quietly saw to it that their royal Highnesses were taken not to the Tower of Glerny, which was situated some ten furlongs from Court, but to a chamber in the palace tower. And there they remained still.

  ~~~~

  A maid brought provender and candles to the tower each morn. She had not yet come this day, however. Nearly five hours had passed since cockcrow.

  “We shall starve, methinks,” said Princess Ingrid. “Or worse.”

  But at last they heard the turning of the key, and Mistress Susannah came in with a light step. She set her basket by the hearth, as was her wont, then stood with her arms akimbo, and peered into each of their faces with a gleaming eye.

  “Speak, I pray thee,” said the Queen, while Ingrid uncovered the basket with a quick movement of one slim hand. “What wouldst thou say?”

  “Naught of consequence,” said Susannah, shaking her curly head, with its round lace-trimmed cap. “And yet….I’ll be bound he shall na’ wed her.”

  “Shall not wed her?”

  “Nay. He hath seen her and cried ‘foul.’ She were a comely wench, but now she seems to have the dropsy. A kerchief rims her face from ear to ear, and her jaw be slack, and her face as cold and pallid as a turnip. And the babe is a red and peevish little imp that none would wish to own.”

  “Poor Jenny,” said Ingrid, biting into a custard tart. “The babe ails too, you say?”

  “Mayhap. But methinks my lord Steward hath had a hand in this.”

  “What can be thy meaning?” asked Joan. “Of a surety, Master Cope did not make them ill!”

  “I know naught about it,” said Susannah, laughing. “His Majesty shall have you back again anon, and then you may look to your pots of paint and powder. But be not over-careful in your counting—”

  “—Listen!” said Joan suddenly, and when the others stopped speaking, they heard it too—a strange and piercing, ceaseless cry.

  “’Tis murder!” cried Susannah, her blue eyes round as saucers.

  The cry ended with a “Haw! Haw!” of a sudden, and then there was silence.

  “’Tis my mule,” said Hadley, who was still at the casement. She turned and smiled at the others. “Master Cope hath led her through the garden, I know not why.”

  ~~~~

  Master Cope was prodigiously large. He stood, mayhap, twenty hands high and weighed eighteen stone or more. His feet resembled two loaves of bread, and when he walked, he rolled from side to side like a sailor.

  None could remember precisely how long he had been at Court, but ‘twas said that during the battle with Dunclyden, some ten years past, he had been captured from the enemy and held for ransom. He was a lad of fourteen, then, and his father was reputed to be a valorous knight, who (alas!) fell in the field ere he could redeem his boy. The youth was soon pressed into service at the Palace of Glerny, and if he longed for his kith and kin, he did not show it, but was ever cheerful, bold, and easy. While he was young, he was naught but “Robin,” for he styled himself so, and did not give a surname; but when he was made Steward, the King said he must be called “Cope” after the Steward who had come before.

  Master Cope had always been a favorite of his Majesty, and he in turn was loyal to his liege, and did not regard his humors, nor the sharp words or blows that sometimes fell, but endeavored to do all that was asked of him.

  But now as he led Princess Hadley’s mule through the kitchen garden, out into the courtyard, and back again, his thoughts were troubled. “For I know not how it shall be in the end. Tho’ today they be reconciled, mayhap tomorrow he shall cast them off again....Zounds! What a noise it makes!”

  After the mule had been taken thrice past the large bay window fronting the Great Hall, the King came out into the courtyard, confronted his Steward, and demanded to know what he was about.

  “’Tis a puny creature,” said Robin. “Yet strong in voice. Mayhap you have heard its cries, Sire.”

  “Aye! And been affronted by them!” said the King.

  “In truth, it mourns loudly. The groom upbraids it for affrighting the horses. But I pity the beast. ‘Tis worthy when its mistress is nigh. But now that she is gone, its spirits are much oppressed.”

  “I see what thou art about,” said the King, with a dark look. “Nay, I’ll not cuff thee! Do not cringe and caper, thou great oaf! Let her be sent for an’ you think it right. Aye! And her dam and sisters too. For I would have my Queen.”

  ~~~~

  At supper that night, the King was in a merry mood. He jested often and bid his company to celebrate the return of fair Queen Maud and her daughters. The courtiers simpered, bowed, and raised their glasses. The Baron of Comberlane, who had arrived at Court that very morn, made an eloquent speech of welcome to “our fair Highnesses.” His voice was so deep and strong that even Robin Cope, sitting at the far end of the long table, heard every word.

  “’But ‘tis not the same,” thought Hadley, who was seated near the King. “Though I sup from plate of gold, I am no Princess, save by my father’s sufferance. Henceforth, I am ‘Hadley,’ ‘Maid Hadley,’ and nothing more.”

  ~~~~

  The next few days passed quietly. The King kept to his chamber, for he had a great dread of illness, and many at Court had become afflicted with the catarrh. Maid Jenny arose from her bed, wed the father of her babe, and was seen no more at Court. And Princess Hadley, who loved best to be out of doors, spent many hours in the palace garden, even when ‘twas cold and damp.

  One day it did not rain, and Hadley went riding with Ingrid and some courtiers. Her mule soon lagged behind the others’ mounts, but she did not mind. It gladdened her to feel the wind upon her cheek, and see it ripple through the fields of wheat. She heard a lark stretch its throat in song, and tipped her head back to gaze at the sky, which was flecked with small clouds, but still bright blue in patches.

  When she came to a clearing, near a small wood, she stopped for a moment. The Tower of Glerny was visible in the distance. It held no prisoners now, and there had been no executions for many a day. And yet…someday there would be another. King Valentine was oft moved to anger, and his successor might be crueler still.

  “When father dies,” she thought, “There shall be strife and bloodshed amongst the nobles, until one prevails. The Baron of Comberlane or Lord Vardis, mayhap, shall be crowned King. The Baron cares overmuch for riches, but Lord Vardis is e’en more wicked.”

  In the clearing, she watched three men and a woman collecting firewood. Two lads were pushing a boar into its pen while an old man exhorted them to “Heave him in,” and a cottage stood a little way off, with smoke coming from its roof.

  Presently a trader came out of the wood, carrying a heavy pack over one shoulder. When he saw Hadley, he set his bundle down, and called out, “Good Lady, dost thou attend at Court?”

  The man was neither old nor young, neither tall nor short. He was clean-shaven and his brown hair was close-cropped, in peasant style. He wore a wool tunic of simple make. Naught about him was singular, and yet she could not look away. Mayhap ‘twas the keen expression of his gray eyes, mayhap the determined set of his chin, mayhap the force of his stride, as he came nigh.

  “She be deef and dumb,” quavered the old man, who was hobbling towards them.

  The trader slipped one hand inside his woolen mantle and pulled it out again, with the fingers clenched tight. He shook his fist, and there was a sound as clear and pure as birdsong. Hadley’s brown eyes opened wide.

  “She hears well enough,” said the trader, opening his fingers to reveal a small silver ornament.

  “Be ye daft!” exclaimed the old man, shrinking back.

  “’Tis a bell,” thought the Princess. She had seen its like in books.

  “Niver touch it!” shrieked the old man.

  The trader held up the bell, and Hadley grasped it by its pretty, gleaming loop, and shook it twice or thrice.

&
nbsp; “’Tis very little,” she said at last.

  “’Twas once bound to the leg of a hawk. In Dunclyden, there are bells as large as a man that make a prodigious sound, but none can be heard more clearly than this wee thing….Nay, keep it, daughter.”

  Hadley smiled. “Where is the hawk?” she asked, as she wrapped the bell in a handkerchief and tucked it into the purse at her girdle.

  “She outdistanced her master long ago….But now I would have you serve me,” said the trader, slipping his hand again into his cloak, and withdrawing a parchment scroll. “Prithee convey this to the King. Tell his Majesty ‘tis from Tom Browne.”

  “I have no means to carry ought. ‘Twill be crushed and soiled.”

  “’Tis no matter,” he said, thrusting it into her hand. “Thou art a good lass. God speed.”

  He walked away then, retrieving his pack and disappearing into the forest, while the old man stared after him with rheumy eyes. Hadley thrust the parchment under the horn of her saddle, and picked up the reins of her mule.

  ~~~~

  The Princess had not travelled more than a furlong ere Robin Cope drove up in a royal coach, and bade her climb inside. “These are parlous times, your Highness,” he said. “‘Tis not meet that you ride alone.”

  He tied her mule to the rear of the carriage, and Hadley climbed up to sit beside Robin on the coach box, clinging with one hand to the paper the trader had given her.

  Master Cope eyed the parchment with disfavor. “I have heard of such papers,” he said. “Cast it aside, I pray thee.”

  Hadley shook her head, and Robin said nothing more, but hit the horses a light clip with the reins that they might go forward. The mule trotted placidly behind.

  When they approached the palace, the Princess gasped, for it seemed to her that hundreds of peasants were standing near the gatehouse, women and children as well as men. “I know not why they are idle,” thought Hadley, “for ‘tis not a Feast Day.”

  Robin tried to turn the coach, but the mule balked, threw back her head, and made the uncanny noise which so appalled those who heard it.