The Chatelaine

by Emily Gilbride

Part 4

16

 

A few moments later, Cinderella peeped round the door. When she saw that the mistress had left, she came in. 'They're all so clean they shine!' She smiled proudly through her tears. 'She'll see, I'll learn how to do everything – you'll show me, won't you, Cook? – I'll work really hard, and – and I'll be so good you won't recognise me.'

The woman nodded, and smiled at the girl's enthusiasm.

'Yes, Cook? You'll help me to please her?'

'Oh, I'll help you all right.'

'You will?'

'Aye. A daily thrashing will help you and please her for a start.'

The girl's face went white. 'Daily? You mean I need to be thrashed every day?'

'Oh, yes. It's the most important thing. From that, everything else follows. And it will certainly please the mistress.'

'Well – all right, then.' Her hands slid up under the smock and onto her bottom. 'Yes. I mean, please. Because I don't want to be got rid of, I want to stay here, even if the master isn't my father and that was just me being stupid ...'

The cook ignored the hands. The lass must be in a lot of pain. Still, she'd get used to it. Was getting used to it already, you could see that. 'Being stupid. Yes.'

'Yes. She says I'm not a boy, I never was. The master thought I was, poor man, he thought I was his son, but someone played a cruel trick on him somehow with me. And when he realised I was just a girl with – with a thing – he cast me aside, of course, said he never wanted to see me again. He didn't have to disown me, I wasn't his to disown, though I'm so stupid I really believed I was. I'm not even his daughter, which was what I thought – that was just a dream … and he has two beautiful daughters now. I'm not anything. But that's all right, and I'm lucky because the mistress is kind and she says I can stay here although I shouldn't really as I'm a trull – what's a trull? – and a trouble-maker, but I can, so long as I'm good and I work hard.'

'Well, if that's what she says ...'

'It's better, isn't it. Better to know. Oh, I'm so glad she's coming here! And the two girls – '

'Not "girls", dear. You must say "the two young mistresses". Don't forget again.' She glanced at the cane, which was still lying on the table.

Cinderella's red eyes followed the glance, saw the cane, and looked back at Cook in sudden fear. Surely she'd been thrashed enough for today? She realised she had her hands on her bottom again and whisked them out. But the cook seemed only to be waiting for her to go on with her story.

'Mm, sorry, yes, the two young mistresses – especially Miss Eliza, she's nice – though I'm sure Miss Jemima is nice too.'

'And what did she say about getting rid of you?'

'She just said I had to please everyone, and if I didn't she would get rid of me, to a new master or mistress. Can she? I mean can she really do that?'

She would simply tell the master that the child had run away, the cook realised. He wouldn't care: it would be a relief to him. But she didn't say what she thought. What she said was, 'I don't understand. Are you calling the mistress a liar?' She picked up the cane.

'No! Oh no, Cook, no, please, of course not. I just ... I was just thinking, you know, who wants an ugly girl with no breasts and a thing between her legs?'

The cook flexed the cane, the muscles in her forearms flexing with it, the whole giving (as indeed it was intended to) an impression of irresistible power. She flexed the cane again and again, this way and that, softening it, then bent it double and held it like that. 'No one,' she said, and smiled.

The girl watched in horror. Her hands slid back up inside the old smock and began gingerly stroking her bottom, while her huge terrified eyes hung on the cane.

It reminded Cook of killing a calf.

She always felt sorry for calves.

'You say you want to be good and work hard from now on, and the mistress said the same, to keep you busy and out of mischief, so let's find a job for you to be getting on with while I go upstairs and have a nap.' She looked round. 'You can scrub this floor for a start, and when you've finished that – you can scrub it again, that's the best thing. And keep on scrubbing it till I come down. All right?'

'Yes, of course. I'll make it really clean, you'll see!'

'You'd better.' She swished the cane through the air. 'And I'd better order a new cane. This one's wearing out. Several new canes, in fact.'

The smile that had appeared fleetingly on the girl's wet swollen face vanished. The fear returned to her eyes. She clutched at her bottom. Did new canes hurt more, cut more, than old ones? Suddenly, her tummy rumbled. 'Can I have something to eat first? Please, Cook. I'm hungry. I haven't had anything.'

'I'm not to give you meals any more, dear. Mistress's orders.'

Cinderella stared at her incredulously. Then remembered it was rude to stare. She shrugged (secretly) and went outside. She looked round through her tears, saw the pump and thought that might help. Once again she held her head under the stream of cool, refreshing water, and once again – after a quick, nervous look round – pulled her skirt up and splashed handfulls of cold water over her bottom. Then without returning to the kitchen – it wasn't fair! – she fetched the ring and clambered over the wall into the wood and so to the path that led to the forest.

Her grandmother had not offered her food, either.

 

She was nearing the river when she heard a sudden piercing screech, followed by a series of howls that made the skin creep on her back. She dropped to the ground, terrified.

The howls seemed diabolic.

They were coming closer.

Why wasn't she at home, doing the floor? They were right! She was wicked!

Blind panic seized her, and she fled back through the forest, desperate only to get away from whatever it was that was following her, chasing, hunting, on horseback, a black stallion, galloping, crashing through the night, through the forest, a huge black lash uncurling behind her, the thong about to whip round her neck, holding her, strangling her, burning her ... Then she jammed her foot under a root, tripped and fell flat on her face, and lay there winded and trembling.

But as she waited, eyes closed, body braced, she realised that the awful cries were in reality screams of pain. Kicking herself for her stupidity, she raced back to help, and arrived, panting for breath, at the source of the sounds that had so frightened her; only to find a large black and white dog with one foot pinioned by the cruel teeth of a heavy gin. Murmuring softly to calm the struggling animal, she knelt down and tried to open the trap. She couldn't do anything until the dog lay still, but then she managed to free its bloody paw. She sat back on her heels and waited. Nothing happened. She spoke to it again. This time, it picked itself up and limped slowly away.

It was the backward glance it gave her as it was about to disappear from view that made her follow it, hurrying now to catch up, and not paying attention to where she was going, until she saw among the trees a hut that she had a never noticed before.

As she watched, the door opened and an old man emerged, leaning on a stick.

She followed the dog towards him.

When he saw the blood dripping from the paw, he cried out and led it into the hut.

She waited nervously by the door.

'Is it all right, sir?' she enquired, after a moment.

'All right? Of course she's not all right, girl! She, not it. Her foot is badly injured. Come in. Sit down. Over there.'

He bathed the dog's paw with a blue liquid, then opening a small pot that filled the room with a strange aroma, gently smoothed on an unguent.

'You are old,' he chided, as he worked, 'and you should be wise. But no! You walk into a trap a pup would have avoided. Well, it will heal. And who is your pretty friend?' He looked round at the girl, then came over to her and took her hands in his. 'Thank you, my dear,' he said. Then he saw the ring on her finger, and held her hand up closer to his old blood-shot eyes – though the grey pupils were bright and alert, she noticed.

He looked at her again, more attentatively. 'Who is she indeed? I am honoured to have you in my humble dwelling, my lady. Please forgive my manner before. I did not know who you were.'

'Please,' she blushed, 'I am no one. A common serving girl.'

'But, my lady ... whatever you say.'

'Could I have some water? Please?'

He fetched it for her, in his best cup, and she protested. 'Really, sir, I am but a kitchen maid, and used to fetching and carrying!'

'My lady – '

'My name is Cinderella. Simply Cinderella.' She sipped the water. 'And now I must go.'

She rose, stroked the dog's head, and went, calling from the door, 'Goodbye, and thank you for the water.'

'Goodbye ... Cinderella.' He sat and considered. Certainly she was ragged and dirty. And her face was bruised, and looked as though she had been crying. But she didn't speak like a common girl. And that ring! Ah, there was a great mystery behind his charming young visitor. He patted his dog, and chuckled. 'My friend, this we know: she is both lovely and loving, and that in itself is rare enough.'

 

 

 

17

 

When she reached the river, it was almost dark, and to her surprise he was in the water, swimming, waiting for her. She pulled off her smock and slipped in, unnoticed.

She loved to swim along through the weeds on the river bed, and she did so tonight, until she was right under him; then daringly tickled his stomach before swerving to one side and emerging from the water, laughing. He made to chase her, but she dived down into the depths and he gave up. Then he saw her again near the bank, waving and beckoning gaily. He splashed across towards her, but again, as he put out his hand, she plunged and was gone.

Next time, determined not to lose her, he stayed put and summoned her to him. She came, slowly, submissively, smiling at his discomfort. He remained unmoved till she had drawn up to his lips and kissed him, then he took her in his arms. Again she slipped down and away, like an eel, but this time he was quicker. He threw himself headfirst after her with a great splashing and bubbling, and managed to catch hold of one ankle as she darted off.

He found himself being pulled through the dark water as he hung on, determined not to lose her, but unwilling to force her to the surface by her foot. He felt uncharacteristically tender, caressing her foot as he held it, gently but securely. He could feel her laughter along her leg: perhaps he was tickling her.

Suddenly they broke the surface, and he put his hands on her shoulders to hold her there. Pouting and smiling at once, she gasped, 'You're a beast! Making me laugh! I nearly died – and little you would have cared once you caught me, as long as you held on to me like a fish!'

He tilted her face up to his, kissed her softly, and replied: 'My wild love, I should hold you close in death, as I would I could in life, and the passing waters would sing softly of pale lovers locked in each other's arms for ever more.'

She gazed up at him, half in awe, half wanting to laugh again, then suddenly turned her back on him, trying to hide herself. But as he caressed her shoulders and neck, she found her bottom pressing into his groin and felt prodding into her, prodding between the cold but still swollen cheeks, the rigid rod she had glimpsed on him once or twice but never ever imagined she might touch, might feel thrusting against her. It thrilled and paralysed her. She let him go on kissing her back, let the thrusting thing go on playing at entering her, but when he tried to turn her, she said, 'Please ...'

He released her, and she sank down gratefully into the water, then floated on her front and looked up at him. He was standing up to his waist in water.

He saw the love in her eyes, but also sensed her fear. He found himself looking down along her slim white back once more and saw that she had been thrashed again.

He dropped to his knees in the water so that his face was close to hers, and took her head in his arms.

'You have been "naughty" again,' he breathed.

'Yes.' She smiled shyly.

'It must not continue, my love.'

'I'm sorry. I'll try to be good.'

'No, no, you silly girl! I mean it is intolerable that they should – that they should – !'

He looked so concerned and angry that she laughed. 'It's nothing. It's you who's being silly.'

'I? Silly? If I say it is intolerable, then it is intolerable! Does you father do it?'

'No.'

'Then tell me who does.'

'No.'

'No?'

'No.'

He suddenly kissed her again. 'Who are you?' he asked.

She didn't answer.

'Are you of the White Ladies?'

White Ladies?

'At least tell me your name.'

'Cinderella.'

'Cinderella?'

'It's a nickname,' she smiled.

'It's pretty. But it – '

'It's part of me. An important part.'

'Then I adore it, of course. Tell me how old you are.'

'No. But – ' she suddenly realised – 'it's my birthday tomorrow!' She laughed delightedly, and kissed him.

'How old will you be?'

'Guess.'

'Eleven.'

'No, silly! Seventeen! You just said that because I'm thin. Well, I may not weigh much, and may look no more than fourteen, but eleven?'

'Not "thin", slender, petite ... And yes, I agree: thirteen, fourteen. But seventeen? Well, I shall bring you a present – and such a present! Let me see ... I don't know ... What would you like?'

'Just to be allowed to love you. What more is there?'

'Seriously! Think of something – anything!'

'If you mean it, then I think I should like something warm, but pretty, to wear when we meet here, so that we can walk together in the forest when it is too cold for swimmimg.'

'My darling. I shall dress you in satins and furs! Pretty? You will be elegant! More than elegant! You will be exquisite! Unique! And we shall walk together in the moonlight every night.'

'Just something simple, my love.'

'Nonsense!'

'It's time I went.'

'You look cold. Are you sure you will be all right?'

'Of course.'

'Be early tomorrow. I can't wait to see you in the clothes I shall bring – though you couldn't look half as beautiful dressed as you look now, in the water …' he kissed her, 'naked.'

'Now you are being naughty.'

'Oh, my love, look after yourself for me!'

He stood up and looked down at her again. She saw his eyes rest on her bottom. 'I'll try not to get beaten,' she laughed up at him, 'as it hurts you so much!'

He moved round and kissed her bottom tenderly, as he had done the previous night. 'That a girl like you, so sweet and innocent – '

'And wild ...'

'A little wild – '

'A little?'

'Hm ... Well, perhaps the wildness is best not mentioned in this context.' She sensed the smile, waited, felt him kiss her again, so gentle, so comforting, and again, on the other cheek, his lips, his tongue, kissing her better ... Then with a quick 'Good night, my love,' he rose and turned away and she watched him walk off down the bank to where he must have left his clothes and his horse.

 

When she got home, Cook promptly boxed her ears, and as she stood there holding them and crying with the shock and the pain, told her the mistress had been looking for her. She had gone home, but had left instructions that Cinderella was to be thoroughly thrashed first thing in the morning. 'And,' said the Cook, 'you have rather more than a wee beating to come from me, too. What about my floor? Wee beating – what am I talking about? The days of wee beatings are over. A second thrashing to come from me.'

A second thrashing? 'I – I was hungry, and – '

'And the old Lady gave you some supper and looked after you, I'll be bound.'

'No!'

'No? You mean you told her you weren't allowed to? Well, that's something. So you still haven't eaten all day?'

She nodded, still holding her ears. Cook had very hard hands.

'Well, in that case, perhaps I'll let you off the thrashing I should by rights have been giving you now, as soon as you came in – but you clean the kitchen table and lay places for me and Betsy to have our supper – now! Fast! And make sure you get this floor done to my satisfaction in the morning after your thrashing, or you'll get your second thrashing in the morning, after all. Now move!'

'Oh, yes, Cook! Thank you!' And she hurried to do as she'd been told. At least she wasn't going to be thrashed again this evening, as she knew she richly deserved to be.

 

 

 

18

 

The next day (Fleur's birthday), early, the old mistress came into the kitchen.

Cook was giving her the thrashing the new mistress had ordered as punishment for slipping away the previous evening. Cook hesitated, wondering to do.

The old lady signalled her to go on, watched for a moment, then withdrew again without a word.

Cinderella had not seen her.

When the thrashing was over, the poor girl was given no time to recover and stop crying but was set immediately to scrubbing the kitchen floor – the task she had failed to complete the night before. Then, when she'd finished that, and was kneeling there feeling pleased with her work (and pleased with herself because she had got over the beating and stopped crying faster this time, so she must be getting more used to it), Cook decided the floor was still filthy, and Betsy agreed, so she had to start all over again.

It was while she was busy doing the floor for the second time, and trying desperately to do it better, that the new mistress arrived in the kitchen. Cinderella didn't see her, either, at first, as she was scrubbing under the table, but she heard Cook snap 'Cinderella!' She glanced round, frightened that she had done something wrong, saw that Cook had jumped to her feet, but before she could move, she heard the mistress say, 'No, stay where you are, child ...'

She was on her hands and knees, her shoulders and head under the table, her bottom sticking out. She stopped scrubbing and stayed as she was.

'Stay still ...'

She felt her skirt being lifted, knew that her bottom was out in the open for everyone to see, but felt only a second's embarrassment: after all, it had been out while she was being beaten not an hour before ... The mistress was inspecting her, she realised; she prayed that her cheeks still looked bruised and swollen enough.

They did.

'She'll do,' said the mistress. 'Now I want her kept like that.'

Cinderella felt the skirt fall back into place and started scrubbing again.

When she'd finished, she was sent upstairs to scrub out the rooms the ladies would be moving into, one of which had been her own, long, long ago, in another life. How silly she had been then. And how confused. It was so much better living as she did now. What did it matter if her bottom hurt? Her mind flew to her young man in the forest. Why hadn't she asked him his name?

'Out of the way, girl! Quick! Unless you want that pretty little foot crushed.' One of the men moving the heavy furniture in nudged her foot aside with his own as they set down a big cupboard. He gave her a grin, then noticed her tear-stained face as she smiled back. 'In trouble, are we?'

'No, no, it's nothing, sir.'

He gazed at her: she had been beaten, was in a lot of pain. 'Such times are times for dreaming, Flower; so dream. Only the good times should be lived and felt.' He winked at her as he followed the other men out of the room.

She helped with the furniture, then when it was all in place she polished it all. She cleaned the window panes and hung fresh curtains. And finally, finding herself alone, returned to the kitchen, exhausted.

Cook and Betsy were having their meal.

Realising how hungry she was, she waited, embarrassed. After a moment Betsy told her to bring two cups of ale. 'And be quick about it.'

'Yes, Miss Betsy.'

When she brought the ale, Cook told her she could clear away the plates. All they had left were chicken bones, and when she got them outside she found they had been picked clean. She threw them in the bin, recoiling from the stench, then did the washing up.

She had nearly finished when the bell rang. Betsy ran to answer it, then came running back shouting, 'Cinderella! The mistress wants you. You didn't do the windows properly, they're still dirty, and she wants the furniture gleaming, and – oh, I don't know! Hurry!'

She ran upstairs and started working again, this time with the mistress hovering over her, nagging and slapping and exclaiming at her clumsiness and laziness and stupidity ...

It wasn't until nearly sundown that the mistress left for her own home, and Cinderella was finally able to slip away and escape.

 

When she reached the river, he was nowhere to be seen. She decided to wait in the water, and was pulling her smock up when she saw the old man whose hut she had visited the previous day. He was walking towards her, waving. She hastily pulled the skirt down again, and waved back.

When he reached her, he bowed and kissed her hand. 'My lady ...'

She couldn't believe it.

'Come with me, please. An hour since, a young man rode along here on a white stallion. He was leading a dapple-grey palfrey, and on either side of the palfrey's saddle hung two large chests. My lady, he was the man you are seeking.'

Understanding nothing, she allowed the old man to lead her away from the river in the direction of his hut.

'Seeing me, he rode up and dismounted. He asked me to stay with the palfrey until a fair-skinned damsel with autumn hair and eyes like the blue of the sky on a summer's day, should come looking for him. My lady, he said you would be wearing his ring, so I knew it was you. He had urgent business to attend to, and begs you to excuse him. He will see you without fail tomorrow evening. And he hopes you will be pleased to accept these few simple birthday gifts.'

'Oh, sir – '

'Do not call me "sir", I beg you. I am your humble servant.'

'But ... Oh, I don't understand.'

'I brought the palfrey to my hut for safe keeping, and dragged the chests inside ... Here we are. Go on in, my lady, and examine your gifts. I will wait outside.'

She stepped in as she had been bidden, patted the dog, who wagged her tail in greeting, and gazed wide-eyed at the two brass-bound boxes standing in the middle of the floor. Gingerly, she unclasped one and raised the lid, then gasped, and lifted out the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. Beneath it was another, and another, and another, each more beautiful than the last.

She held one up to herself, and suddenly realised it was cut low to show off the breasts.

The others were the same.

Sadly, she put them back and closed the lid.

She opened the second box, and her face lit up again as she pulled out a maroon velvet cloak edged with silver fur, and a matching dress, this time with no decolletage, but a fur collar and fur-trimmed sleeves.

She glanced out. The old man was sitting gazing into space. In sudden excitement, she threw off the old grey dress and slid luxuriously into the velvet one. Delighted with it, she gazed down at herself, then threw the cloak over her shoulders, pulled the hood up over her head, and impulsively called the old man.

He stopped on the threshold, mouth open. 'My lady,' he breathed.

She threw off the hood and tossed back her hair, laughing.

'Does it become me?'

He seemed struck dumb.

Laughing again, but a little nervously this time, she made to remove the cloak. Quickly, he slipped behind her and lifted it from her shoulders. 'Allow me, my lady.'

'Please,' she said, as she stepped out of the cloak. 'I have told you.' She turned and faced him. 'Call me Cinderella.'

'Yes, my lady.'

She laughed at him and he smiled back at her, as delighted as she was.

'Let's see what else there is here.' She pulled out, one after the other, gloves, a white satin cloak, boots, a muff – exclaiming with pleasure at each – several pairs of shoes including a pair embroidered with spun silver, and finally various petticoats, silk stockings, and other lacy things that made the poor man turn his head away in embarrassment.

She saw his discomfort, and reluctantly laying them back in the trunk, closed it and apologised.

But he was staring at her. Why?

 

 

 

19

 

She felt faint.

He saw her turn deathly pale, and sway. He caught her round the waist and led her over to his bed. Amazed at how light she was, he lifted her onto it, and fetched smelling salts. He watched anxiously as the colour slowly came back to her cheeks – which he saw now, looking at her closely, were bruised – and her long black eyelashes fluttered, then opened.

And the first thing she saw was that this man, too, loved her. Her eyes filled with water, but trying to smile, she brushed away the tears. 'I'm all right now. I'm just being silly ...' She tried to get up.

'Stay where you are, for a while at least.' He looked at her tenderly, full of concern. 'Have you eaten today?'

'Yes, of course.' She couldn't meet his tired, old eyes. 'No, I haven't,' she confessed.

'Tell me about yourself, my dear.'

He was so kind and wise. Suddenly she seized his hands and, weeping from sheer relief, opened her heart to him.

He just sat quietly, listening, at first. When she paused, he said 'Go on, my dear.' He fetched her some bread and a bowl of broth. She was shy to eat in front of him, but he made her do so, and go on speaking while she ate.

When she'd drunk the broth, he took the bowl. 'Go on.'

She told him everything – though of course not mentioning the silly idea she had, the dream she had, that she had once been "Fleur". And when she'd finished, she cried: 'It can't go on, you must see that!'

He looked at her. 'Oh yes, I do see that. You have been very bad.'

She stared at him. His eyes were cold now. Not the eyes of a friend.

He'd been changing all the while she was telling the story, and she'd only just realised. She felt cold suddenly, her stomach clenched, her heart pounded.

'Do you – do you think – do you mean I should go back to being a boy again?'

He stared at her. 'No. No, you are a girl now, and must try to forget completely that you were ever a boy. If you were ever a boy.'

'Sir, I – '

'What made you think you were a boy?'

She squirmed under his stare.

'Take off those fine clothes. They were never meant for one such as you.'

The grey eyes were so hard now it was impossible to believe it was the same man.

She stood up to do as she'd been ordered. The gown undid all the way down the front. She was going to be standing before him naked, she realised, as she slowly undid it – but that was what he intended. She turned her back, let the gown fall, stepped out of it. Stood still.

She could feel his eyes running up and down her body, assessing her, feel them resting on the cheeks of her bottom, wondering just how well beaten she was kept.

'Turn round.'

She turned, letting the robe fall to the floor as she covered herself with her hands.

'Pick that gown up, girl! It's worth a hundred times more than you are!' He watched her bend and do so, fully naked before him now. 'Fold it. Put it away in its box.'

'Yes, sir.'

No more shyness now. When she'd finished, she stood before him, relaxed, hands at her sides. Whatever he wanted of her, it did not matter. Not any more.

'Your new mistress is in the right of it. You are just a girl with a rather unpleasant deformity. And you have been playing tricks on various young men – '

'No sir!'

'Be silent. You have clearly not told me the whole truth. Who would in your situation, when such behaviour could lead to the whipping post and the stocks, if not the stake? But don't ask me to believe that this last and most important one, the young man in the wood whom you handled so skillfully, was the first ... ' He snapped his fingers at the ring she was wearing.

She hesitated, but only for a few seconds, then slipped it off and handed it to him.

'Do you know whose ring this is?'

'Yes, it's – '

'I mean do you know who he is.'

She blushed. Why did she always have to be so stupid, as well as everything else? She shook her head. 'No, sir.'

'I thought not. You don't even know his name?'

'No, sir.'

'And he just knows you as Cinderella.'

'Yes, sir.'

He thought about it, then said suddenly: 'You can go now.'

She was shocked. She looked at the open chests on the floor. He followed her gaze. 'You'll leave that here. Just put your own smock on and go.'

She looked round for it, found it, and pulled it over her head.

'And hurry, run,' he said, his eyes, she knew, back on her bottom, 'or there'll be another well-deserved thrashing waiting for you when you get there.'

She wriggled it down over her hips, then turned and stood once more before him.

'But – but sir, what should I do about – ?'

'Come tomorrow. He'll be expecting you, and you have to break with him, not leave him to hunt for you. After that, we'll see.'



 

 

 

20

 

Next evening, she walked slowly through the rain towards the old man's hut. Her smock clung to her. She had been through another hard day helping her young mistresses move their things into their rooms. She had tried desperately not to start off on the wrong foot but they had both been in terrible moods and every tiny upset they had taken out on her.

The old man was out so she quickly hung her smock in front of the fire to dry and began to dress. The feel of the silks and laces against her skin thrilled her. She put on the velvet dress, then sat down and pulled on the boots. Everything fitted perfectly. Then she threw the cloak around her, pulled up the hood, and ventured out once more into the drizzle. She couldn't remember ever feeling so warm and comfortable.

When she reached the river, she found him on his horse waiting for her. She ran towards him, her hood falling back off her head, and when he saw her he galloped over with a shout of joy. She found herself lifted up into the air and set before him on the horse like a child. So, like a child, she threw her arms round his neck, and hugged and kissed him. His hand slipped under the velvet skirt and up over her thigh. She blocked its path frantically with her own hand, pressing down on her skirt. He moved his hand down over her flank, round under the soft, tender part where the backs of her thighs and her bottom and the cleft between the cheeks all became one, and left it there, fondling her, playing with her ...

Later she found they were riding across an open meadow. She didn't know where they were. She didn't care. He let the horse walk slowly on and on, and she was in heaven in his arms, her head on his shoulder, tenderly kissing his warm neck whenever he withdrew his lips to see where they were going. It must end, it must end, she knew, but she banished the thought from her mind.

After a long time the horse stopped. She looked round. They were back. She saw the river pock-marked by the rain, and she clung to him, unwilling to relinquish her place in the arms of the man she loved so much and needed so desperately. He held her tight, and over and over again they kissed and reiterated their love for each other. Then they just sat on and on, utterly happy, refusing to bring the magic hour to an end.

At last, he put his hand into a pocket in his belt and pulled out two glittering earrings. He moved her away a little and held them up to her ears so he could see. 'You are so, so beautiful. These are my birthday gift to you.'

'But – but all the other things?'

'The clothes the Qu- my step-mother sent.' He gazed into her upturned face. 'I always think of your wondrous eyes, and so: hanging clusters of sapphires and diamonds, set in silver. Will you put them on?'

'I cannot.'

'But why not, darling? For me ...'

'My love, you will make me weep. You know I would do anything, anything, for you. But my ears are not pierced.'

'You mean you have never worn earrings?'

'Never.'

'How strange you are, and how rare! Unique ...'

They embraced passionately once more, then he lifted her down.

'Good night, my darling!' He wheeled his horse round and galloped away.

'Good night, my love,' she cried after him, but her voice was lost in the darkness and rain that enveloped her as she stood alone by the river once more.

And suddenly thought: Why did that man call me Flower? The man with the furniture …

It was what Princess Morgana had called her, during the time she'd been a scullion, a real boy, a chimney-sweep, at the Castle of Damsels.

A strange name for a boy though. And it reminded her of something else …

  

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