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There was a knock at the door. I placed my brush in my water pot and crossed the room, adjusting my rolled-up britches as I did so. Beyond the door, there he stood, leaning against the doorframe like he owned it. Because he did.
“Wally,” he greeted with a smile. It was his nickname for me. And I’m sad to say that I did not completely hate it.
“Using the back door now, are you? There’s a pun in there somewhere,” I said.
He breathed a laugh and strolled inside, purposely brushing my shoulder. I could smell him. So crisp and fresh. No one smelled like that in Cragdale. I was pretty certain I was one of the few who even owned a bath.
“The palace is not the same without you,” he said. He was sizing up my living quarters, inspecting my knickknacks on the shelves as if they were meaningful.
“So you’ve told me.”
His eyes meet mine. Green and bright. His eyebrows furrowed.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
I hadn’t moved from the door but my eyes had followed his every broad step. “You have a way of making a room look smaller,” I said with a tilt of my head.
His jaw dropped, aghast, and placed his hand on his firm abdomen. “Are you calling me fat?”
My lips lifted in a slight smile. I took a large step towards him, curtseying on the way down. “I’m calling you royal.” When I rose, I was an arm’s length away from him. “Prince Kaspar Loveborne.”
He gazed down at me, mirth swimming in those green pools.
Oh, did you think our little affair was over? On the contrary, dear reader, it had only just begun.
The prince looked like he wanted to touch me. Instead, he sighed and sank down onto my table. “It’s boring up there.”
I suppressed a smile. “Isn’t your new wife entertaining you?”
He rolled his eyes up at me. He paused for a moment, his mouth working to try and form words, but then he sighed again and shook his head. “No, that’s not fair. I was going to insult her. But she’s quite lovely.” He looked exasperated. He rose, needing to stretch and move around the room. “She’s nice. She’s tidy. She’s sweet. She’s caring.” I turned in a slow circle to follow him. He paused at my basin and looked to me. “She’s just not you.”
I tutted and rolled my eyes before strolling back to him. “Well, of course. There is only one of me. I’m a rare breed.” I threw my arms over his broad shoulders, needing to push up a little on my toes to reach. I was still tall and lanky, but he was taller and thick like a tree trunk, “if there were any more of me, well, the world would simply implode.”
“My father’s taking Lady Delphine on a hunting trip tomorrow. Some sort of bonding exercise to show her he’s not all business.” He placed his hands on my narrow waist. “Come see me.”
I raised my eyebrows. “To the palace? You want me to sneak into your rooms?”
He smiled softly down at me, his eyes flitting over my face. “Like old times. And wear your motley.”
To this, I dropped my arms and stepped back. He was still smiling like a dolt, inspecting my paint splattered tunic. He was wearing a simple red cotton shirt and britches. If you didn’t know he was the prince, the only way you would suspect it was by the way he carried himself. Chin raised, shoulders squared, eyes so strong yet vulnerable at the same time – like he knew the weight his title carried.
“So, let me get this straight. Not only do you want me to get into the most heavily guarded building in the kingdom – a building to which I have been personally banned from entering - but you want me to do all that covered head to toe in bells?”
His smile dropped. “I see how that could be an issue.”
“How about-” I placed my hands flat against his chest. I could feel the immense power underneath the thin cloth. “You come back here tomorrow, and I will greet you in your favourite motley?”
He ran his tongue over his teeth to suppress a grin and rubbed his thumb across my cheek where I now remembered I’d splashed paint on myself. “All right. Not to say that this look is not great.”
I pushed him back against my basin with a laugh. “You can leave now. You’ve already distracted me enough.”
“But I’m a good distraction, right?”
I steered him towards the back door. “Too good. That is what got us into trouble in the first place.” He could overpower me with ease. All he would have to do was put his weight against me, but he let me push him out the door. “Now, go be a good husband.”
He pouted like a child. “Fine.”
I shut the door on him and fell back against it, feeling fluttery and stupid with a grin too large for my face.
We had tried to stay away from each other. Honestly, we had. We had lasted all winter. It helped that I had turned into a house cat, hardly leaving my rug by the fire long enough to do pretty much anything, and Kaspar was occupied with marriage training – which apparently meant learning how to live with a woman. It seemed very unnecessary. Kaspar was a gentleman, naturally charming and careful, but King Cedric was acutely aware that if Kaspar were to be an undesirable husband, it would reflect badly on himself and the kingdom. Cedric needed to keep King Oldin happy. And so, if he had to spend days reiterating to his very capable son which fork was to be used at each serving and how to greet and compliment his new wife, he would.
But then the spring had come and I was able to step back outside. I had watched him marry, the one time I was allowed to enter the palace again. I was seated as a guest and wore my normal formal clothes, a tailored gambeson gifted to me by the king himself, despite Kaspar requesting I wear my motley for ‘old time’s sake.’ I was sat on the third row and Kaspar’s eyes had skittered across me just before they were pronounced man and wife.
It had been a beautiful ceremony. The party had continued well into the next morning. Kaspar had pulled me aside in those early hours and surprised me with a kiss before I even had a chance to pull away. That kiss opened a door I thought had been closed forever, and being the professional fool that I was, I didn’t shut it when it should have been locked and bolted.
So, there I was, having an affair with a married prince... and loving every moment of it.
I sat back at my table and continued my painting of the new and improved sign the for Cragsdale blacksmiths. His favourite animal was the boar and so he wanted a painting of one on his sign even though it had nothing to do with the name of his store. But he was paying me so who was I to complain?
Once I had finished what I was being commissioned to paint, I slid all of that boring stuff to the corner of my workstation and wiggled open my stiff, secret drawer. Inside were all the little things that held some sort of value to me and me alone. The bell that had fallen off my first motley, a dried daffodil Kaspar had gifted me after our first fight – one that I cannot remember, it was probably over something trivial. But the making up afterwards? That I do recall. There was also the eggshell from the time I had taught him how to make a boiled egg. On the battlefield, Kaspar was one hell of a fighter and the man knew how to break an opponent’s ribs in jousting tournaments, yet you should have seen the fear in his eyes when I suggested he cook me dinner for once. Watching him try to understand how a stove worked as I sat back on my bed sipping nettle tea is a memory I will cherish forever.
Alongside the bits and bobs was a roll of parchment. I carefully pulled it out and unravelled it on my workstation. After plonking weights on either side, I smiled down at my masterpiece. This was a painting I had been working on for months. Whenever I had the urge to paint and I had no customers, this little beauty came out of hiding. It was a scene much like Kaspar’s wedding to Lady Delphine. He was dressed in the same deep, ruby red with the shimmering gold detailing, but standing by his side the vision in white wasn’t Lady Delphine... it was me, of course. And let me tell you, dear reader, I look marvellous in a ball gown. My hair was pinned up from my face. Lips red with rouge. My slender neck bedazzled with a choker of jewels. A little too salacious for a wedding? Perhaps. But it foreshadowed the night to come. Where on our wedding night, in our marital bed, Kaspar would rip those jewels from my throat and punish me for causing such controversy in the most welcomed of fashions.
It was all just a fantasy. We were never even going to hold hands in public, never mind taking his hand in marriage. Whimsy was an infectious thing. It would coil around my spine like a seductive snake and send a shiver through my entire being. My fingers pinched my brush and I willed my hand to stop shaking as I added highlights in Kaspar’s hair, almost white from the shine of the sun through the huge open windows that surrounded us. Flowers poured from the beds beneath them. Huge, ghastly pink peonies crawled up the stone walls and towered over the both of us in a monstrously beautiful arch. I used the same white of Kaspar’s hair to add to the centre of those huge, unfurled buds.
My brows furrowed. The flowers were so open, petals flung back like welcoming arms ready to embrace a lover. That bombilating fancy that had danced inside me shrieked and my heartbeat pattered for a frantic moment. A little gasp escaped me at the shift under my paintbrush. The once blooming bud had shrunk into a tiny, insignificant thing – so tightly sealed it looked like a young, ripe berry beside its brothers and sisters.
These shifts hadn’t happened for quite some time. At least, not to this magnitude. There was a reason I was able to charge what I did for my signs and murals. No one thought twice about throwing their coins my way when they saw the effects my illustrations had on the general public. Thankfully I seemed to have some sort of control of my gift. It had taken some years to figure out where the line was. How much was too much? How much was just enough to make people stop and stare and question what their own eyes captured before smiling, shaking their heads and dismissing the whole thing as folly.
Mirabelle had helped me with my experiments. She was the only one who knew about my special talent. That day I had drawn those fishes on the banner for the King’s Procession had been the first time it had happened. It had gnawed at me like a tickle in the back of my throat, easy to ignore while distracted but all I could think about when sat alone with my thoughts. Like the good friend she was, she hadn’t mentioned the fish, but instead I had ambushed her one day some weeks later and I had dragged her up to our den. She had frozen at what I had presented to her. For a moment, she just stood there, eyes huge, breath shallow.
I hadn’t been able to sleep the previous night and had sneaked into our den and painted. Painted a lot. Painted everything I could think of until I ran out of paper. The Treagers were not best pleased that I had used my months worth of paper so quickly.
The floor was covered in pictures of animals, people, trees and buildings. I had also drawn things from my imagination- things with huge wings, spiked tails and fangs. But I had destroyed them. Ripping them apart and screwing them all into an ominous ball in the corner. I still didn’t know what this gift of mine meant. I didn’t know the limitations. It was best to stay cautious.
There was always a slight chill that drifted through all the rooms of the inn. Our windows weren’t the best and when drunkards smashed them through, they were usually hastily ‘repaired’ with a plank of extra floorboard. This meant that all the rolls of paper floated and shifted slightly as the breeze shot through the uneven wooden slats of the flooring. The images themselves also danced in a way that I will always struggle to describe. The pictures didn’t move, but they seemed to contain energy. The light would hit them in ways it shouldn’t. That breeze would ruffle the fur on the backs of the animals I had drawn. Whiskers sometimes twitched. Eyes glinted.
Mirabelle suddenly jerked and turned to run back out of the room, but I was behind her. I grabbed her shoulders and spun her back round to face my creations. She squirmed in my hold.
“What... what is this?” she breathed.
“I don’t know. But...” My eyes roved the pictures tacked on the walls. The gems glinted with worth, with possibilities. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“You drew these.” It wasn’t a question. Mirabelle was familiar with my work.
“I can do... something. I don’t know what it is but it’s something.”
A soft laugh escaped her and the wonder in it sent my heart fluttering. “It’s definitely something.”
From then on I had painted things for the inn. Mrs. Treager loved framing my works and hanging them in the rooms. Patrons would always compliment them, saying that they really ‘brought the whole room together,’ whatever that meant. And when Mirabelle and I weren’t purposefully making their stay unsettling with our pranks, they often swooned at how well they had slept as the framed stag kept vigil above their bed.
I left the painting out on my desk to dry and cleared away my materials. The painting lay dormant, but that didn’t stop me imagining Kaspar’s miniature bend and plant a soft kiss upon my blushing cheek. Maybe one day I’d master my gift and be able to mimic such a thing.
Two years have passed and I still cannot, if you were wondering. But thank you for rubbing that in.
Once everything was clean and washed and wiped down, I changed out of my paint splattered clothes and redressed into a simple pair of striped woollen britches of the Kalmador colours, which my dear friend Alta had embroidered beautiful vines of golden filigree down the sides after I had chucked them at her with a huff, exclaiming that they needed her magic touch. She was marvellous with a needle and thread. She will always be the only person I trust to buy garments from. It is why all the garbs I own now have been torn apart and hastily sewn together by my own hand. Every piece of clothing is a mockery of what it once was. Not that many eyes fall on me now, so I bear my outward appearance no mind.
Writing that down struck a chord in me. I really am barely a shadow of who I once was, aren’t I? How tragic. If I had been told by someone that there would come a time when I would happily wear trousers with one leg longer than the other and a smock made of three old night shirts, I would have laughed in their face. But now? Four moons have passed since I last changed my undergarments, and I don’t see myself stepping out of them any time soon.
The shirt I threw on was forest green with the same golden embellishment around the collar as the trousers. I ran a comb through my hair, fighting with the dried paint trapped in the ends, and slung my satchel over my shoulder. The blacksmith’s new sign was swaddled in a scrap of canvas inside like a newborn baby. My baby. My creation.
Cragdale centre was the bustling mess that it always was at just past noon in midsummer so I instantly regretted not throwing on a hat. I could already feel my scalp tightening as it boiled under the sun. Despite the gentle heat, I pulled at my collar so it covered as much of my neck as it was able to. It was sunny days like this when my skin positively glowed like I was some sort of ghoul.
The workers and shoppers rushing past me all had that sheen across their brows, dark stains between their shoulder blades and hair slick around their ears. The sun treated their skin differently. Sunkissed was the expression. The sun bathed them and altered their complexions to something warm and healthy looking. For me, on the other hand, the sun’s rays seemed to brush against me then bounce right off me in horror. I never turned a nice shade. I would go from ghostly pale to painfully red and then back again.
When I first moved down to Cragdale, the townsfolk would linger around and openly gape at me. I had ‘royal skin,’ they would say. Surprised, elated gasps would shoot from their mouths when they grabbed at me. ‘Cold as marble,’ was a common statement, ‘like a living statue.’ I would have revelled in their wonder if it hadn’t added to my feeling of complete displacement. Ever since I was a child, my skin had been called ‘sickly.’ It wasn’t until I was given a place in the palace when I discovered that paleness was actually an attribute that people longed for. It was a show of wealth and nobility, because, why go outside in the sun when you could order someone else to go out for you? So my skin only further proved that I had been destined for greatness since the day I was born.
But at this point, the novelty of my appearance had worn off which was also unsettling in a different sort of way. I blended in now. I was one of them: a simple commoner. A simple commoner who just had a personal visit from the prince himself, mind you.
Blacksmith Jerome was the sweatiest of them all when I knocked on the post of his open-fronted shop. He didn’t hear me way back at his furnace, dunking something he’d just heated into a barrel off water. The hiss that came from the motion almost sounded animalistic – like an angry snake. Not a boar. Still not a boar.
I knocked again but I knew already that I wouldn’t be heard. So I opened my satchel and pulled out the sign, holding it in front of my chest like the poor sods that held up advertisements for sales outside the more crammed in parts of the market. How else would people know there were must-have bargains under the bridge down past three dingy side streets?
Finally, my painting caught Jerome’s eye and he placed his cooling whatever-it-was down on his anvil and lifted up his goggles. He blinked hard several times then pulled off his thick gloves and smoothed his dirty hands down his dirty apron as if to appear more presentable.
“Incredible!” His voice boomed as he made his way to me through his cluttered shop front with ease. He towered over me. The man was big, with round shoulders and muscular forearms. But the way he looked down at my creation made him appear like an awestruck child. His soot-covered face was bright as he studied the sign, an open-mouthed smile stuck in place. He reached out to touch the boar and there was that twinkle in his dark eyes, like he expected to feel wiry fur and not wood. “You are a miracle worker, Wallace.”
I grinned up at him. “So you like?”
“Of course! It’s magnificent!”
Life lesson: get all the compliments in life as you possibly can. Collect them and hold them close, you never know where life will take you. There may become a time when fond memories are all that keep you going.
Jerome reached out to grab the sides of the sign but then paused and pulled his eyes from the painting to ask softly, “May I?”
I lifted it to him and his smile somehow grew bigger as he took it.
“Does it meet your requirements?” I asked.
“Absolutely! It is almost too fine a piece for a dump like this. Wait there, I’ll get your money.” He took the sign with him, holding it protectively against his chest as he slipped behind the dirty rag of a curtain at the back of his shop.
When he returned, the sign was gone, most likely hidden in the back. I did wonder whether he would actually nail it to the front of the shop, so exposed and open to thieving hands. He dropped the remaining half of my fee into my open palm and I quickly dropped the coins into the inner pocket of my satchel.
“Pleasure doing business with you, Jerome. If you need anything else, or anyone you know is in need of some signage, you know where to find me.”
“Oh, don’t you worry. I think I will be the talk of the street once my customers get a look at your masterpiece.” He grinned.
We shook hands and I felt the slight jerk of his muscles at the touch of my cold skin, but the pleasant softness of his gaze didn’t falter.
The brightness of the sky above was starting to make me feel a little lightheaded. I took a casual detour to the fountain where washerwomen were hurling and beating last week’s washing, laughing and gossiping among themselves. The stone statue in the centre was a mimic of those women. The curvaceous lady was washing her body with a large jug, wearing nothing but a sheet of cloth that clung to her in all the right places. The water landed on her shoulder and rippled down her body into the pool below.
I sat on the stone edge, ignoring the protests from the sharp bones of my rear as I leaned over and splashed the cool water to my face.
I staged shows here on occasion. The fountain sat in the middle of a large, paved square. It was the perfect place for little skits. In those glorious moments, the townsfolk would stop in their tracks and linger, drawn in by my dancing and jibes. These same red-faced washerwomen would stand by and watch me for so long they would have to drop their baskets by their feet before the weight of them dragged them down. Some would even sit, cross-legged on the flagstones; chin’s resting on propped up dry, chapped fists.
But now? Now they don’t even lift their eyes to regard me as I perched beside them, tugging at the front of my shirt to stir some sort of welcomed breeze. It appeared that I was a different person in my motley. In the palace, I was always the fool. It didn’t matter if I was performing at a banquet or simply wandering about the grounds: the King’s Fool; the Court Jester. Do you understanding how powerful it feels to have your occupation be your name? There is nothing quite like it.
Here in Cragdale, I was the town jester when I was up there giving them a show but once it has ended, I was just Wallace Treager, gathering up my props. Like a lit match dropped into the fountain, my audience would lose interest in me and get back to their day. Just like that, I blended in once again.
I stood and continued on my meandering route home, pulling at the strap of my satchel so it didn’t knock against my sore behind. The little cottages were less clustered together as I made my way to the edge of town. I hardly ever walked this way, and I’m not sure what possessed me to do so on this particular day. I had no more signs commissioned so I may have been subconsciously seeking new work.
Fields rolled out ahead of me, dotted with muddy pens full of pigs, cows and chickens. The air felt clearer without the clammy heat from close bodies and the smoke from chimneys. Clearer, yes, but not exactly pleasant. The stinging scent of manure replaced the sweat.
As I continued on my merry way along a dirt path by a squat, little farm house, I was finally noticed.
“Well look who it is, Mr. I’m-too-good-for-Greymarsh himself,” came a voice I instantly recognised. I spun and found her standing in a doorway, a basket hanging in the crook of her elbow. Her hair was still as straw-like as I’d remembered, but it was long now and was piled in a messy nest on top of her head.
I smiled broadly. “First of all, I never said that.” I strolled over to her, “and second of all, how long have you been living here? How have I never seen you?”
“Moved here a few summers after you left. Greysmarsh just wasn’t the same. There wasn’t enough work in the Clover for Father so we moved up here,” said Mirabelle. “I don’t get out much. The farm takes up most of my time.”
My gut twisted a little. This was the first time I had thought about the Treagers since I moved and the realisation made my heart grow cold. “So, the inn’s not doing well?”
She shrugged. “It wasn’t as busy as it used to be but they were getting by. Don’t think they’re falling apart without you.”
She was smirking and speaking light of the past but seeing her was bringing a lot of things back.
“Were you mad at me for leaving?” I blurted out even though I was not really sure if I wanted to know the answer.
Her mouth twisted and she looked down at the eggs in her basket for a short moment. “Yes.” The word was weighted with shame. Her eyes found mine again. “But I didn’t blame you. If it had been me, I would have made the same decision.” She smiled that tight smile she had worn when I told her I was leaving. “So, what’s it like, living in the palace, being waited on like royalty?”
I smiled at the arch of her eyebrow, and then shook my head. “I’m not the court jester anymore. But it had been fun while it lasted.”
“What happened?” She stepped outside, looking up into my eyes. I was a head taller than her now. She hadn’t grown much in our time apart.
A part of me wanted to tell her. It was Mirabelle. She was my best friend. Even after all our time apart, conversing with her like this, I knew we were still as close as we were. And we never had any secrets from each other. Seeing her, I felt like the child I was back then. Back when we made up routines in our den in the inn’s loft. The words were on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to tell her about the prince. I wanted to gush and gossip and laugh and cry. But I had made a promise to Kaspar.
So, I just shrugged, wincing slightly at the tightness in my chest. “Apparently I wasn’t the right fit.”
She pulled a face. “Excuse me? Does the king have no sense of humour?” Then she stage-gasped. “Have you lost your spark?”
I mock gasped back, throwing my hand to my chest for good measure. “How dare you even suggest such a thing!”
We both laughed and my heart soared at the sound. And then we were laughing at our own laughter. Our gazes locked and I could see my thoughts reflected in her eyes. Some things don’t change. Our laughter turned into throaty cackles and Mirabelle had to press her palm to the doorjamb to keep her balance.
After a long while, we wound down, coughing and heaving as we struggled to regain our breath. My ribs hurt, and I pressed my hands against my sides to ease them. She rested her head against the doorjamb and watched me fondly, her eyes raking over me, taking in what I had become. She was wearing a floor-length smock of a dusty grey. She still had a petite, boyish figure – sharp shoulders and flat chested. And beautiful. Still beautiful. Her cheeks were rounder now, flushed pink from laughing.
“So, what brings you down here?” she asked, her eyes drifting across her land.
“I live in town now.”
“Oh?”
I smiled. “I never walk down this way. Now I know why my feet brought me here.”
Her light eyebrow quirked up, intrigued.
“I found you again.”
Her lips split into a grin. “It’s almost like we are destined to be together.”
“The Treagers were right all along. This is clearly a sign. We must marry at once.”
“Your dress cannot be nicer than mine. You will not outshine me on my wedding day.” She mock scowled.
“Our wedding day, darling,” I replied in my most charming, gentlemanly manner. “And I am not promising anything, I have an incredible dressmaker.”
“Oh you do, do you?” She folded her arms. “Can take the boy out of the palace but you can’t take the palace out of the boy.”
My heartbeat stuttered and the falter must have shown on my face because Mirabelle’s forehead creased slightly.
I laughed, but it came out weak and pathetic. “It appears so.”
I could see that she had questions, but Mirabelle knew me well. Even after all this time apart, she knew not to pry.
“I saw a mural in town a few weeks ago,” she said, changing the subject. “I knew you were close by. I would recognise your work anywhere.”
I knew which mural she was referring to. A majestic stag and two golden eagles in flight crowded the side wall of a tavern that faced the town square. It was a beautiful piece – if a little garish. The king had commissioned me to paint it after the wedding nuptials and the official joining of Kalmador and Ullswood. The Stag representing Kalmador, and the two eagles were the crest of the Ullswood.
“It’s quite a piece,” she commented.
I smiled bashfully. “Oh, that old thing?”
“Your... talent, it has bloomed since I last witnessed it.”
“Indeed.”
A shadow passed over her features. “You are being careful, aren’t you, Wallace?”
My insides quivered slightly but I laughed off her concern. “Of course, it’s just a painting. People know no better. I make a living off it now. So if you are in need of any signs, I’m the man for the job.”
She watched me for a moment and then seemed to push the matter aside. She looked back into her home.
“Mother and Father are out right now,” she changed the subject. “But they would love to see you.”
“I’ll make sure to pop round sometime.”
“You’d better. Here.” She threw something at me and I caught it right before it smacked me in the face. I unfurled my fingers to reveal an egg. Mirabelle pushed herself off the doorjamb with a smile. “You’ve still got it.”
I threw it softly into the air and let the egg land carefully on the top of my hand, in the groove of my knuckles, before flicking it back up and catching it with my fingertips so she got a good view. She applauded and I bowed, my satchel swinging to my front and ruining my chance at a graceful exit.