Twenty-Nine

 

Despite grimacing in pain more than once over the course of the day, Sir Chase never complained. He laboured as hard as Rosa did to keep the fire burning, the distillate flowing, and the casks moving into the cellar.

She considered telling him she usually used magic to lift the casks, but as he was already halfway down the stairs to the cellar, she didn't think he'd hear her, so she let him continue. Well, until she'd heard him swearing loudly.

"What's amiss?" she called, hurrying inside after him.

"The size of your cellar! You have enough space and supplies here to feed a whole castle through a siege, and yet there is nothing more than a tiny cottage atop it?"

Ah. "This was once the seat of an ancient king, who built a mighty fort in the forest, the home of his gods. When conquering invaders came from the south, he made an alliance with them. Their builders and architects took apart his wooden halls and walls, finding the weaknesses they could exploit in other, similar forts that held their enemies, and rebuilt his in the style of their own brick and stone palaces, so they might winter in comfort and safety in between campaigns.

"Eventually, the southerners headed home, carrying the wealth of the king's neighbours, but leaving the king his share, and the palace. The southerners never returned – my grandmother said they lost their own city to invaders, while they were out waging war here – so the king ruled alone. One of his descendants moved the capital to somewhere more convenient for trade with the northern cities, and the forest was allowed to conquer the castle."

Chase nodded. "Then why is the cellar still here?"

She hadn't thought to ask that question when she'd first heard the tale, but then Grandmother had captured her imagination with tales of battle, kings and princes. Then, she hadn't known how slowly a house fell into ruin, or how the upper parts collapsed into the cellar until...

Rosa wiped away a tear, chiding herself at thinking of her parents' house, when she should be thinking about this one.

"The kings left much of their wealth hidden here in the cellars, ordering the stones of the palace to be pulled down and carted to where the town is now, so that none might stumble across the king's treasury by accident. A cottage was built atop the entrance, home to the High Priestess dedicated to protecting the grove...and the king's people from the wrath of the forest gods."

She managed a wry smile. "Grandmother once told me the High Priestess was chosen from among the king's daughters, for the gods demanded no less than royal blood be shed at their altars for granting the king their favour. She laughed and said that meant we had royal blood, too, for she never would have been chosen as High Priestess without it. If it is true, then perhaps I am a princess, too." She stuck her nose in the air, trying to look as haughty as Piroska. "But as I have yet to hear of a princess who milks goats, I won't start wearing a crown any time soon." Or ever, she added silently to herself. Though she had played with some rather corroded ones in the back of the cellar when she was a little girl.

No need to tell the knight that the old king's treasury still hid in the secret chambers beneath his feet. Forgotten by all but herself, now.

Chase climbed the steps and stood before her. "That is a pity. A circlet of fine silver, studded with rubies, would keep your scarlet hood in place in the winter, but for summer, a fillet of gold set with sapphires the icy colour of your eyes, I think, holding back your hair so that all might see your lovely face and lose themselves in your eyes as I have. I should write a letter to the king, come spring, commanding he honour your beauty as it deserves."

She met his gaze squarely. "You're mocking me, Sir Knight. What would your princess think, if she knew you said such things to me?" She turned and headed back to the fire, for while he'd been stoking her ire, the flames were in need of feeding.

Behind her, she heard him mutter softly, "She is not my princess, and may never be." A sigh with the weight of the world upon it accompanied his words.

Her heart went out to him – for he loved a woman he could not have – but she didn't stop to offer her sympathy. If he'd meant her to hear, he would have spoken louder.

Let him think he kept secrets. Like the pain in his eyes as he hefted the next cask. The man would not be able to draw a bow on the morrow, and another day in bed might help him heal completely.

She'd give him a cup of the freshly fire-distilled mead when all was done, to help ease him into sleep tonight. She might even drink a cup herself.