6
William

IN THE SOFT light of evening, William again strode toward the garden shed. Above him, the clouds hung soft as wool, a shade darker than the rest of the sky. Black sheep, he thought, and smiled. Some people thought that black sheep were a mark of the devil, which was nonsense. Under all that wool, they were just the same jaunty creatures as the rest of the herd. As William reached the gate, he heard footsteps and stopped short. Who would be following him here? He turned quickly so as not to give away the cub’s hiding place. Then he manufactured a smile.

“Good evening, Princess Mary,” he said, nodding to Mary’s nurse, a woman of questionable authority who stood rubbing her hands. “Are you having an enjoyable stroll?”

“I want to find him!” Mary cried. “I want to find him right now!”

For a moment, William thought she was talking about the wolf cub, and his heart thudded wildly in his chest. Discovery by Mary and her nurse would surely mean death to the creature.

“But Princess Mary, it’s past your bedtime,” chided the nurse. “Save playing for the morrow.”

“I don’t want to wait until the morning. I want to play, now! My brother promised to play mumchance with me today and he should keep his word! I wish that cunning woman would give me a ring and I’d make him come to me.”

“We should be starting back …” faltered the nurse as relief swept over William. They had no idea of the hidden animal close at hand.

“Doesn’t anyone know where that bad boy is?” Mary asked. William’s mouth twitched to hear her refer to her older brother in these terms. To Mary, the Duke of York was merely an irritating sibling, not the royal prince next in line as king. When William did not answer, Mary asked, “Cat got your tongue?” and looked at him slyly.

“Hush,” said the nurse. “No need to talk of sorcery, Mary.”

“I’m sure Prince Henry didn’t mean to break his promise, wherever he is,” said William.

“Everyone talks about sorcery!” said Mary. “That cunning woman they caught in the village is going to say who stole the communion cloth. And then they might catch the thief. Or they might hang him. Do you suppose I’ll be allowed to see, if they hang that thief until he is dead as a doornail?

William smiled at this phrase and then felt his stomach lurch. How cruel it was to watch people die. He had become so used to the traditions of nobility in these few short months that for a moment he had forgotten his true feelings.

“And I wonder if the communion cloth will ever be found,” Mary prattled on. “It was a pretty one, with lots of ’broidery on it.”

“Embroidery,” corrected the nurse.

“Look,” said William, trying make his voice sound inviting, “I’ll walk you back to the hall. Maybe there’ll be some sugared almonds left from dinner.”

“Well … do you think so?” responded Mary, reluctant but hopeful. “Do you really think there’ll be some?”

“I don’t know, but we can go and see. I’ll race you!” William called, catching the grateful eye of the nurse and then running ahead, but slowly, to give the child a chance to catch up.

“And the prize will be a story!” she cried, passing him. “Last one has to—” here she stopped to breathe heavily “—to tell me a story!”

There were sugared almonds, and Mary took quite a large handful, thought William, looking at the nurse whose attention was taken by one of the menservants asking about her day off. Everyone’s affairs were so public here in court, and William blushed to hear the flirtation of a woman old enough to be his mother. Not that she didn’t have a right to tend to her relationships. It was just that he preferred not to hear about them.

“And now the story!” said Mary, curling her legs up under herself on the hard bench.

I’d rather fall in a ditch and be bowled with cabbages, thought William. This could take all night, as Mary always had questions that elongated every tale most painfully.

“Very well,” he said, in the most cheerful manner he could muster. “What would you like the story to be about?”

“One of your brothers or sisters. Tell a funny story about something bad that happened to them!”

William nodded. Mary always wanted stories about his family. It seemed as if the little girl was trying to make up for her own lack of siblings, with Margaret away in Scotland and Henry busy in his position as Prince Regent.

“Well, there’s the tale of Charlotte and the Shoes,” he began.

“Is it going to be a funny story?” Mary interrupted.

“Yes, there are funny parts in it.”

“And it’s serious, too,” said Mary. “Make sure it’s going to have something bad in it.”

“Absolutely, there is a difficult situation here for Charlotte,” said William, patiently.

“Go on, then,” said Mary. She had the same demanding tone as Prince Henry, but in a child her age, it was rather comical. William suppressed a smile, and began.

“This story is about how Charlotte does not reckon Frank Hopkin among her friends, as she loves him not since the day when he left her in the mud.”

“In mud?” interrupted Mary. “Is this the serious part?”

“Yes, Princess,” said William. “But let me tell it through, if you please, or I might miss something.”

She nodded at him to go on, and he did.

“It was a few years past, when Charlotte was a small maid of eight years and Frank Hopkin was a great lad of thirteen.”

“Charlotte is eleven now, so that means it was exactly three years ago!” said Mary triumphantly.

“Yes,” said William. “We had gone blackberrying with the Hopkin family, they being neighbors, and Frank, like the imp he was, led the girls home a long way around, and through some thick, dark mud. His sisters made out all right, but Charlotte’s shoes did stick, and, being stronger than her, the mud pulled the shoes from off her feet.”

Mary laughed and then reconsidered. “But this is a serious part, too,” she said.

“Yes,” agreed William. “The mud wrestled the shoes from off her feet so that she wept to think of what Mother might say.”

“Did your mother scold about things like that?”

“She did, and still does,” said William, and then saw a shadow pass over Mary’s brow at the thought of having a living mother who cared about what you did. He pressed on.

“The Hopkin girls did manage to avoid the mud, but poor Charlotte floundered in stocking feet, again stuck fast, her shoes by now some distance away. Frank Hopkin stayed to laugh at her a while, and then did kick up his heels and run for home so that his own made-up story might arrive in his defense, before the story his sisters would tell.

“Charlotte screamed and roared but it was of no effect. She was left sticking in the wet mud until word came to me, and I ran to find her in this woeful plight. She had pulled off her stockings, being that they were the second thing stuck after her shoes, and now she stood ankle deep with mud fastening her bare feet to the place she stood.”

“Oooh!” said Mary. “And did she get a whipping?”

“She did not,” replied William. “I informed Mother that it was ill of Frank Hopkin to leave her thus, as he was elder and should be of better constitution.”

“And what about Frank Hopkin?” demanded Mary.

“Charlotte decided that he would never be her true love, and so I think he was punished enough,” said William, smiling.

“Quite right,” said Mary. “I would never grace Frank Hopkin with my attentions, even if he were of royal blood.”

“Very wise, Princess,” said William. He turned to escape but Mary danced in front of him.

“That was a good story!” she cried. “Another!”

“We’d best leave the storytelling until the morrow,” said William, looking at the nurse who had apparently come to collect her charge. “The sun is quite finished with us and it will soon be time for bed.”

“I hate bed,” said Mary, and the nurse took her hands to lead her away. “See you tomorrow, William!” she called. “I hope you have another story about that Frank Hopkin. He is my favorite of all the ill, naughty, evil, and abominable imps I have heard of lately. I marvel much that he was not at all repentant!”

“Perhaps someday he will mend his ways,” replied William.

“But not very soon!” said Mary. “There are other stories about him, are there not?”

“I believe so,” said William, feeling a bit weary at the thought. “I shall have to think on it.” It struck him that if someone were to create a book of such stories, it might keep Mary satisfied for a good long time, where she could read and reread to her heart’s content. It would be a book for enjoyment, not for learning, and although he had some thought of writing an epistle about farming someday, with collected letters to farmers that advised on modern agricultural techniques, he had never considered any other kind of writing, or its value. Something to think on, he repeated to himself. Definitely something to think on.