Thirty-Five

 

Rosamond's head ached. In truth, everything hurt, but her head was the worst. Her arms, from her wrists right up to her shoulders, burned, and so did her calves. Someone doused her in liquid and she spluttered, jerking awake.

She could see the whole city square from up here, for she was level with the cathedral's arched windows, and only a little lower than the castle battlements. That did not bode well, for the only thing high enough to give her such a vantage point was the Midsummer Eve bonfire with the wicker figure tied to the top. Rosamond twisted her head, trying to see if she had guessed right. Indeed she had. She was tied to the effigy, and if she didn't do something, she would burn with it.

From the plague to this. No kingdom deserved to have a princess lay down her life twice for it.

"The witch is awake!" the smelly man shouted.

Fortunately, she could not smell him up here.

"You will rot in my dungeon," Rosamond called back.

"You have no power here, traitor!" the old woman shrieked.

It took Rosamond some time to work out where the old woman was. She stood atop the battlements, half hidden by the roses that had climbed the wall in their quest for sun. They would receive no warmth from Siward's grandmother.

"You are a witch, and a traitor. You seek to rule a kingdom that is not yours!" the woman announced.

Shouts of "Witch!" and "Traitor!" rose from the crowd that filled the square, all of them faceless now in the darkness. A faceless mob had no conscience, either.

"I seek to rule my rightful kingdom!" Rosamond shouted back. "I am Crown Princess Rosamond, daughter of King Almos and Queen Maria. His Majesty King Siward woke me from my enchanted sleep and brought me here so that I might rule by his side. This kingdom is mine, by right of blood and birth!"

The old woman hesitated, but she recovered quickly. "Imposter! I saw the princess's body with my own eyes, buried beneath the roses in a convent outside Hatar. She died fifty years ago, and you cannot be she!"

No. It was not possible. No one had entered that convent until the day Siward woke her. When Warin and Monika left, she had told the roses to enclose it completely.

That made the old woman...

"Monika!" Rosamond cried. All the people she had known in life had died, except for one – her loyal maid. "Monika, you of all people should recognise me. You were there when Queen Margareta gave me her crown!"

"Liar!" Monika shrieked. "You cannot be the princess, even if you look like she did the day she died. It is a trick of some sort, a spell only an evil witch could cast. And if you are not the princess, then you are the evil queen, who caused this kingdom so much grief. You killed our princess, cursed our land...and almost corrupted our king, but no longer! Tonight, you shall die, burned in the Midsummer bonfires like the devil-worshippers do to their own!"

Desperately, Rosamond tried to tell the vine on the wall to wrap around Monika's feet, to drag her out of sight so she would stop. Stop accusing her. Stop fighting her. Just...stop.

"Light the witch's pyre!" Fodor roared, thrusting his torch deep into the branches.

Stop them! Rosamond screamed in her head. Put out the fire. Don't let me burn.

As smoke rose up, obscuring her vision, she wrapped her hands around the pole behind her. It was green wood, still full of sap. She directed her thoughts into the dying sapling, urging it and all the wood around it to grow, to break the ropes tying her and help her down to the square.

It was no use. No tree could grow fast enough to save her, for all around the base of the pyre, a score of torches dipped to light the Midsummer blaze.