Chapter 10

 

What a sight they must have made, Nick mused. The Charming Nobles, the three most eligible bachelors in the White Mountains, sitting in a tree, staring at a tower in the middle of the Black Forest.

They had been in their perches since just after first light. Though, so far, all they had to show for their efforts was a glimpse of the two women, one of whom Nick could only assume was Rapunzel, bustling about.

“It is good I am not a sentry,” Penn said. “This is utterly boring.”

“Someone must–” Nick froze when a long golden rope fell from the window atop the tower.

“Look.” Nick nudged Penn.

“At last,” Penn sighed. “I was ready to sell Bryan for some ale.”

Bryan hushed them. “Someone is coming.”

A woman emerged from the window, bag slung over her shoulder, and climbed down. They would not be able to see her when she hit the ground but their perch gave them enough of a vantage point to see where she came out.

If she emerged from this side of the tower.

Nick held his breath, listening for her footsteps inside the wall, trying to gauge where she would appear.

Then a groan of old, worn hinges echoed and the woman emerged through a door around the curve of the wall to their left. She turned, straining to push the door shut, which she eventually did, making a harsh crunch.

She turned away from the wall and headed off into the woods with very sure steps.

“Bryan,” Nick said, “can you follow her?”

Stopping only to give Nick a scathing look, Bryan headed for his horse. In a moment, he was off, following the woman almost silently through the woods.

“How does he do that?” Penn muttered.

Nick shook his head. “I know not.”

“Well, she is alone now.” Penn gestured to the tower.

Nick nodded and tipped his head to the side, glancing back at the window. The girl was there, pulling the rope inside. Her mouth moved and soft words echoed in the air, mutterings about a dress and fabric.

As she pulled the last of the rope inside, she put her hands on her hips. “I suppose I should get to work.” She turned away from the window, going deeper into the room. Her voice still tumbled down though much less clearly.

“So she is a loon,” Penn said, after a few more snippets of words slipped to them.

Nick glared at his friend. “Have you never spoken to yourself when alone?”

Penn grinned. “Never been one for being alone.”

Nick did not dignify that with a response.

He had to see if Rapunzel was, as Penn predicted, not in her right mind, or if she was merely a girl in a bad situation. To see if she would allow him to help her.

“I have to get in there,” he said, his chest tight with apprehension.

What if she did not want to go with him?

“And that is the rub,” Penn said, adjusting his perch, making the tree branch groan and the leaves shudder. “Getting up there is the most important part. How are you going to do that?”

“Call to her.” Nick climbed down the tree and was on the ground before Penn, heading for the wall and looking for the opening the woman had come through. Perhaps inside the wall, he would find another route into the tower.

Twigs crackled and bushes snapped as Penn joined him, following the wall.

When Nick came to the section opposite their earlier hiding spot, he ran his hands over the wall and pushed it in places, looking for the concealed entrance. Nothing happened. He was beginning to lose hope, when he shoved and the wall swung open , depositing him on his rump on the other side.

When Nick glanced up, Penn was applauding him, as any true friend would when one fell on one’s arse. He struggled to his feet and dusted himself off, giving himself time to let his cheeks cool. When he was as clean and composed as he was going to get, he joined Penn on the other side of the wall.

“Amazing painting on this wood,” Penn said, running his hand over the door. He pushed it back and forth, making the joints screech. Nick stopped him, for the noise echoed in the open space and grated on already raw nerves. Though made of wood, it had been so cunningly painted it seemed constructed of stone and blended almost seamlessly with the rest of the wall.

Even the seam of the door was jagged, like chunks of rock had been removed to create it, and filled in with the wood. Whoever had done this had gone to great pains to make sure the entrance was hidden from the casual observer.

“It is only painted on the outside,” Nick remarked, as he chipped a little chunk of paint off the wood.

“It is a good disguise–most would not see it.” Penn glanced at him. “Unless they stumbled upon it.” His eyebrow waggled.

Nick grimaced at his friend.

“And look at that,” Penn said.

Nick spun around. They stood in a garden, neatly sorted with rows of vegetables interspersed with sections of green plants Nick did not recognize, but Penn was pointing at the long, golden rope that hung from the window.

It swung in the breeze, just waiting to be climbed.

“What kind of rope is that?” Penn asked. “I have never seen one quite that texture.”

Nick held up his arm, barring his friend’s steps. “Wait outside. Signal if someone comes.”

“Of course, m’lord,” Penn said, sketching an elaborate bow. “As the future duke, you get to have all the fun.” He heaved a mock sigh, but said nothing more as he went through the door.

Nick approached the rope with caution, and it was not until he got closer that he realized it was not rope at all.

It was hair.

Long, golden hair bound in multiple braids and twisted together.

He looked up to the window. That had to be twenty ells. Could he really climb it? Would it hold him? He wondered how many horse tails it would take to create such a long rope. Eventually, with no other option–he had come here to get into the tower, after all–Nick took it, and it was soft and silky in his hands. It felt, undeniably, like hair. Why would somebody make such a rope? Shrugging off his doubts, he braced his legs against the wall and climbed.

It seemed an age–and a very strange one at that–before he reached the window. The hair…the rope was smooth and fine as opposed to the coarse fiber of his prior experience, and he found himself slipping a number of times before he got the knack of it. When he finally pulled himself to the ledge, he swung his legs inside and was met by a blood-curdling scream.

“No, wait, please.” He held up his hands, palms toward her.

“Who are you? What have you done to my mother?” Rapunzel stood before him, wide-eyed and shaking, brandishing a pair of scissors at him. His muscles slackened, and his arms fell limp at his sides. He did not move, could not move, though it had nothing to do with the scissors, or not wanting to alarm her.

She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her skin was pale and creamy, her lips rosebud red, her eyes as startling as emeralds in a field of snow, and her hair…Oh Lord.

He had climbed a rope of actual, living, growing hair. Attached to her head.

Rapunzel made a stabbing motion with the scissors. “Well?”

Right. She had asked him a question. “I have not done anything to your mother.” Sense returning to him, he dropped to the floor. He put his hands up and stopped where he was, trying not to look threatening.

She scrambled backward until she reached the bed, where she waved the scissors at him with one hand while fumbling under the pillow with the other, never taking her eyes off him.

“You must have, she only just left. How dare you!” Her hand reappeared, clutching a dagger.

This was not going as Nick had hoped. Rapunzel slashed wildly with the dagger, and–while she was far enough away that he was in no danger–she was obviously untrained and he worried she would injure herself.

The next time she lunged, he stepped into the charge and grabbed her knife hand, using it to turn her in a half-circle so that her back was to him. He closed the distance between them, grabbed her other hand and crossed both over her chest.

“I did not harm your mother. And I will not harm you. ”

The scissors fell to the floor, clattering on the stone and she let out a soft cry, twisting and fighting against him.

He kept her still in his arms.

“I do not believe you,” she said, stomping her foot, trying to hit his boot. He danced around, moving his feet out of her way, making the two of them rock back and forth.

“Your mother is fine, I promise you.” He released her and, keeping hold of the dagger, stepped back to the window.

She darted backward across the room. The rope of hair, which still hung out the window, zipped by his arm. “Why are you here?”

“I only wish to speak to you.”