Chapter Three

 https://www.amazon.com/Falcons-Crown-Kidnapped-Bruce-Schulz/dp/1300697121

Chapter Three: Rude Boys and Wooden Swords.

        To Fitzroi’s surprise Mikel and I walked past him without a thought to his reaction. He didn’t stop us though because Queen Tyra followed some paces behind.

        Mikel’s enthusiasm was infectious. We bounced along, hand in hand. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!” she said.

        I asked for what.

        “For making me one of your Ladies in Waiting,” she said.

        “I’m not very pleasant; ask any of the Fensland boys.”  

        She laughed at that. She was happy. I still wanted to escape.

 

        To find the Royal and Noble Baths one must journey past the practice field. Pages whose hopes lie in knighthood practiced there as did squires and fully-fledged knights. Four boys practiced with wooden swords. They were clumsy; if they’d had real swords they would have cut themselves.

        I wasn’t unsympathetic. I’d been there. When we’d gone into exile, my father insisted that I learn how to handle a blade against someone taller and stronger. He taught me well, and after his murder my brother had taken his place. But my sympathy died when one of them called me a golden-headed whore. That’s not all he called me, but it is what touched my pride.

       I stomped over to where the laughing boys stood and picked up a practice sword. As I said earlier, I have a large vocabulary of Fensland curses. I used a few, adding, “Do you know how to use that or not?”

        He did not, of course; I’d seen that. But I was a worthless girl from a worthless race. He attacked clumsily. This was easier than I thought. I blocked his blow and knocked his sword out of his hands. “Well?” I said. “Pick it up.”

        He did. I beat him soundly about the head and shoulders until he rolled into a ball. His butt stuck out, making a perfect target. I beat it with the flat of my sword until he was crying.

        “Stop! Right now!” Queen Tyra’s voice echoed off the castle walls. So I did, but not without adding another uncomplimentary Fens phrase that compared him to a sick horse’s rear end.

        I was certain she’d heard and seen everything. But she added, “Just what is going on here?”

        I repeated what he’d said, and I explained that they had all laughed.

        The now well-bruised boy winced as he got to his feet. “She’s just a servant,” he said.

        I started to retort, but Tyra raised her hand to silence me. “She’s just the Princess Falcon, Baroness of Fens and Forest.”

        “You,” she pointed to the boy I’d beat head to posterior, “Return home. Today.”

        He nodded stiffly, limping away.

        “You,” she pointed to me, “Bath, now.” But she smiled. I hadn’t expected her to be pleased that I’d trounced the foul-mouthed boy. But she was.

        As Mikel and I walked on, I heard someone say, “Majesty, I want that one.”  I turned to look. By his tunic badge this was the Arms Master.

        Queen Tyra nodded slowly. “Yes, I see that,” she said.

 

       The bath house was warm; steam rose off the water. A matron met us at the door. “I think you’re lost,” she said.

        “We’re supposed to bathe and become presentable and ...”

        “This is the Princess Tabitha Falcon and her attendant,” the Queen said. “They need it all. Everything. If you see it, cure it. ... I’ll return later.” Pausing before she left, she added, “Do what the bath girls tell you. No arguments.”

        We both nodded.

        At home, bathing was swimming in icy-cold water, or in the winter standing in a large caldron full of lukewarm water and sponging off. A bathhouse full of attendants used to seeing naked royalty was new.

        “Strip, Your Highness,” the matron said. “You too,” she included Mikel.

        Matron sighed, and motioned one of the bath girls over.” Do your best with their hair.”       

        “I’m Katra,” the girl said. She took a moment to examine me, walking a slow circuit, touching my hair and sighing.

        “Highness, how did you ... um get so dirty?”

        “It is Prince Robert’s fault,” I said through gritted teeth. I didn’t tell her about pig chasing and mud holes and such.

        She called for “the tub.” That proved to be a flat-bottomed, brass bowl large enough to stand in. “Close your eyes,” she ordered.

        I did. She poured a bucket of water over me. It was cold, and I shivered.

        “Keep them closed.” This was followed by another bucket and then a third. The cold popped my eyes open and covered me with goose bumps. The water swirled with mud. Katra smeared my hair with a handful of pinkish gloppy stuff. It was cloying, nasty smelling.

        “Eww, that stinks. Do you have to do that?”

        “The ladies of the court like it,” Katra explained. “It removes dirt and oils from your hair. You’ll like the result.”

        From somewhere behind me Mikel said, “Oh, I like it. This is nice.”

        “Nice” is a swim in the Fensland waters ... except you have to pull the leaches off your legs afterward. On the whole, though, I’d rather deal with leaches than this smelly glop. I welcomed it when another bucket of cold water rinsed the foul suds out of my hair.

        “Sit.” Katra pointed to a stone bench. I obliged, and in moments Mikel joined me. “That was fun,” she said. But I wasn’t having fun.

        There’s no other word for it. Katra tortured me. With a comb. Every yank of it pulled on my scalp. I gritted my teeth and ignored the tears. She made some rude comment about a rat’s nest. A snip with shears took off inches. “There,” she said. “Much better.”

        A second bath girl came with a bowl of warm, perfumed water. She tapped my feet, indicating the bowl with a glance. I let my feet sink into the water. “What is it with all this stinky stuff?” I asked it but didn’t expect an answer.

       My feet were scrubbed with a brush; my toenails nipped back with small scissors; a rough stone was rubbed against my heels; and a rude remark made about my feet. They were ‘peasant’s feet,’ the bath girl said. “But we’ll have you looking like the princess you are in no time at all.”

        Mikel and I were led to the bath – finally – sinking into it up to our chins. Now, this was ‘nice.’

        Bath girls joined us. One lifted my arm and started to sponge me with more nasty smelling goo. “I can wash myself,” I said. “I’m not a helpless babe.”

        The bath girl was plainly shocked. She started to say something, but whatever that was turned into, “of course, Highness.” And that was followed with a pleased smile.

        In short order I was sparkling clean, probably cleaner than I had been since my first post-birth bath. And I was drowsy, near sleep. I looked at Mikel, and she was asleep. I followed her into the lands of dreams and oblivion. I do not know how long we slept; we were awakened by a gentle shake and a whispered, “Baron Threadneedle.”

        “Who?” I asked, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

        Baron Threadneedle was middling high with a big, round face and eyes crinkled with laugh lines. He brought three assistants – two boys and a youngish woman – who struggled with piles of dresses.

        I sank into the bath water until it lapped against my nose. One of the bath girls laughed at that, but they brought a blanket holding it up to block man and boy’s view. “She’s modest,” one of the bath girls said.

        “I have six daughters,” Threadneedle said. “Girl children hold no mystery for me. But modesty is refreshing among the nobility. ... Come girl, let me measure you.”

        Wrapped in a soft cloth that covered me from chest to knees, I hesitatingly stepped toward him. “Come, come,” he said. “I won’t bite.”

        He snapped his fingers and the girl assistant handed him a length of cord tied in evenly spaced knots about a man’s thumb’s width apart. “Hold out your arm,” he said. His address was gentle; his tone like that one uses with a skittish horse. I did as he asked and he measured my arm from pit to fingertip. I jumped at the contact.

        “Ticklish?” he asked.

        I nodded.

        He measured me from collarbone to knee, then around my waist. “You’re a tiny one,” he said. “I guessed at your sizes.” He included Mikel in that comment. With that he flicked his fingers at one of the boys. “Take those back. We won’t need them.”

        Rummaging through the remaining dresses, he pulled out a dark blue, long-sleeved dress. I had two dresses to my name. One lay in a muddy heap on the floor, and the other remained at home. Neither fit me. One was too short, the other was too large. But this dress was lovely. He held it against me. “This will have to do until I can make you something better.”  

        I couldn’t imagine better. “It’s lovely,” I whispered. I was in awe.

        For Mikel he had an equally lovely yellow dress with pink trim. I felt like the princess I was supposed to be. And then there were the shoes. I was barefoot when Prince Robert kidnapped me. I had seldom-worn wooden shoes at home. These were soft leather with a low heel, dyed a rich red. And they actually fit.

        Queen Tyra watched the whole affair, nodding her approval.

        “What are we supposed to do with this?” The bath matron, her nose wrinkled, held up my soiled dress.

        “Burn it,” Tyra said.

        “No! It’s mine! It’s the only thing of mine I have here!” I was emphatic, almost screaming. My reaction startled everyone.

        “Whatever comes your way here is yours,” Tyra said. “I swore to that.” She paused. “Have it laundered and patched. Return it to her.”