Chapter 3

© Copyright 2005 by Elizabeth Delayne



Like a princess sentenced to her tower, Stephanie stood at her window and looked over the kingdom to the mountains of Lore, and wished that perhaps she could see beyond, to the forest of dreams. What would it be like to run away, to slip into the dark woods of the forest beyond ... and disappear?

She turned away from the window, wishing ... and worried, unable to look at a freedom that could never be hers. The stained glass window on either side of her projected a red light. Each was fashioned in the scene of a garden. She reached up, traced a finger over the crafted glass.

The windows had been her mother’s, and had been given to Stephanie almost in consolation.

Your mother loved these windows.

Though of her ... you will never know.

They were beautiful, the colors used bright and hopeful, the roses detailed extraordinary. Stephanie put a finger to a petal and sighed. To be outside of this structure—twas only a wish..

Lady Dennison had spoken with her father; so had her sisters, who’d heard about the incident from their beaus. Her father had called her in.

”You have blossomed into a lady of the court and are of marriageable age yourself. It is time to take that place in the kingdom.”

“But Father--I did nothing wrong.”

“Never-the-less. It has long since passed the time that you retreated from those girlish ways.”

She bowed her head and wrapped her arms around herself. If only Malcomb could come live within the castle walls with her.

No—it seemed that such a thing wasn’t something a princess should do. He wasn’t a little dog of the court, but a mongrel, as Lady Dennison scolded, suitable only to the workers and stable hands.

But he was hers.

If she didn’t get out from within the walls, she was sure she would go mad. She longed for the company of her new companion, but she’d sent her away ... again. The companion she’d had for her entire life had been handed over, like everything else, to her sisters. What good was a new companion, one you didn’t know, who didn’t know you ... one who was afraid, in trivial games, to play ferociously and to try to win ... because you were a princess.

She was in the kitchens, Stephanie remembered. She’d asked the night before as Mary had helped her dress for bed. Her aunt was a cook, the head cook. She answered each question she was asked, but never offered anything more. No stories, no vibrancy.

Stephanie had never been into the kitchens, but she knew they were beyond the great hall. The servants brought in the food from that direction each night.

It was probably another place princesses weren’t allowed, but she would just go to see and to find her maid.

Whom she had sent away.

She heard the crowd before she entered. At the door she stopped and stared. The room was stone. In the center was a large stone table, covered vegetables. Meats hung from hooks in the ceiling.

There were peasants crowded into the room. Those in clothes of the field, soiled by their life and labor, stood in the center—two men and several children. Around them, the cooks bustled from fire to table. They were talking so fast—like the peasants in the stables. It always fascinated her.

Stephanie watched, fascinated. A small child, not more than a babe, toddled over to her. Tears streamed down his dirtied cheeks as he looked up at her, held up his arms.

Something inside her moved—in pity, in love. She stooped down, lifted him in her arms, and held him to her shoulder, as she’d seen some of the women of court do for their little ones. He was warm, and he smelled ... different.

“It will be okay, my darling,” she whispered.

Then she became away that the room had quieted, that they stared at her. She looked back, around, until a short, plump woman in a kitchen dress came over and drew the child from her.

“Is there something you needed, milady?”

“I was looking for Mary.”

“I am here.”

Mary seemed to materialize from the other side of the room. She scooted between the men and hurried over. The men in peasant dress turned, took the children—including the babe—and headed out the door. The children turned back toward the women as they were pulled out the door, giving fleeting goodbyes.

“These were your families,” Stephanie murmured. “They do not need to leave—not on my account.”

“Truthfully, milady, they were not suppose to be in here.”

She looked around at the faces, and for the first time, saw the fear.

“I won’t tell,” she reached for Mary’s hand, gave it a squeeze. “I promise you, I will not tell.”

It was as if the whole room let out a breath of relief, like they had all been holding it, waiting, wondering.

“We can go now.”

“Would you introduce me first to your aunt? Show me your family, Mary, so that I may know them.”



The troupe from Darbenton rode slowly and carefully, without speaking, with the herds of animals surrounding them. Soon they would part company and it would be only a small company of soldiers dressed as peasants that continued the journey.

The rest would scour the land, seeking even more information. Then they would meet up in Fairingham.

Justen rode to Luther’s rear, unwilling to continue the verbal training. Could the young prince know ... did he remember ....

He was to be a peasant. How hard was it to be a peasant? He spent time in the village, did he not?

His brother had doubted him.



You’ll have to rub off the royal polish.

Royal polish.

The fact was Albert didn’t seemed so much worried for him as much as he doubted. He hadn’t said it, but it had been in his tone.

Take care of yourself.

As if Albert expected him to come back injured or not at all. Serious Albert. Serious, pious Albert.

The ministers had taken their time, going over detailed information to bring him up to date about what they knew about Fairingham. Justen smirked. Even their information was years old, based on a relationship between the two kingdoms that quite possibly no longer existed.

Yet they’d been firm in their questioning. They wanted his word as prince that he would keep to the course, that he would remember the kingdom of Darbenton.

How could he forget the great and mighty Darbenton?

His job was to gather information, to make his presence known only if Luther considered such a move wise.

He wondered even, if he really had his father’s support.

Luther stopped then and held up his hand, cautiously at his side. Justen looked around as the troop quietly came to a stop.

Then he realized their silence. They stood at the natural gate to the Forest of Dreams.

The trees were bent over the clearing, forming an arch for the entrance to a path that was traveled regularly by the merchant class. It led to Fairingham by the mst direct route and was widely traversed, guarded and safe.

Still, it was not concealed.

The dense woods beyond the forest of dreams were full of mystery and legends, tall tales and beasts of darkness.

The fiercest hunters met their right of passage beneath the canopy of trees. Justen’s father had entered the forest as a youth, hunting for the animals.

He’d returned empty handed, wiser, and appreciative of the wonder he discovered within. Danger and beauty, darkness and life--an inner struggle away from the outer world. He talked of it on the quiet nights, when the sky was almost empty of stars, and the world was silent. Justen had sat at his knee and listened.

All broad explanations, Justen thought, for a world of dreams.



The great hall was a large room made of smooth stone. There were tall, sweeping windows and the armor of valiant knights from the past. Tapestries, larger than a group of ten people hung on the walls from floor to ceiling. In the center of one of the walls was a fireplace. On days it grew warm and the fire was snuffed out, even an adult could stand in it’s center and reach their arms up to try and touch it’s crest.

The royal family sat down at the table for the mid day meal. The table was long, made of wood. The royal family and their guests were invited to sit along with them. Today it was just her father and lord and lady Dennison, down the long table from where she sat across from her sisters. The knights, normally honored at the table, were out enjoying a day of tournament—practicing for the days of the wedding when they would meet Gouten’s finest head on. The rest of the table ran long and gloomily empty.

The beaus were gone again, Stephanie realized and nearly sighed with relief. Why they would come in and out of the castle so quickly in their visits, she had no idea. She was just relieved. At meals they seemed to demand attention. They were boisterous and haughty.

Her sisters giggled, her father remained silent.

Stephanie stared through the fire and studied the kitchen frenzy. Through the flames she could watch the seemingly chaotic organization of the cooks, but when the servants came through the door, their stride was as formal and smooth as if they had left a room of soothing rest.

Across from her, Francisinna and Mellianna talked again of the wedding, of all they had to do ... of the decisions they hadn’t made ... and those Stephanie was pretty sure they had already made multiple times.

“You have yet to see our dresses, or to choose your own.”

“You’ll have to look respectable.”

“Something just right ... to make you look older.”

“Like a princess.”

“Instead of a—“

Stephanie became aware then that her sisters were talking to her as she practically stared right through them. She only became aware of it at that moment as, from down the table, her father cleared his throat to stop whatever Francisinna had been planning to say.

Like a stable hand.

Like a maid.

They had thrown those rebukes at her before. She didn’t prance around in their boisterous clothing selections, but then, they never invited her to come, included her in the festivities, only rebuked her for not.

“Oh, stop pouting,” Mellianna tossed her golden curls back and out of her eyes. “We all know what you would rather be out with the stable hands.”

“And we know what vile things stable hands do,” Francisinna lifted a long eyebrow, a skill she had perfected.

Stephanie’s hands curled around the edge of the stone table. “They did nothing—I did nothing wrong.”

“Oh, we heard about it.”

“From your beau?” Stephanie retorted to Mellianna’s terse remark.

“Stephanie.”

She glanced down the table at her father’s quiet command. She hadn’t realized how loud her statement had been. She looked down at the food before her on the table. Really, she couldn’t eat. Not when her stomach rolled.

“They were quite ... defiled at what they saw you doing.”

“I did nothing!” She stood from the table, trembling. “Did they tell you they surrounded me, frightened me, circling around me like—“

”Stephanie!”

”Liar!”

“I did no such thing. I did nothing. Lady Dennison—“

She turned looked down the table, and saw the look like stone in Lady Dennison’s eyes. No, she would not stand up for her. There was no telling what she had told her father.

No telling what her father believed.

“Enough,” at the ragged cry, she looked at her father, saw his eyes. “Tis enough that you bring disgrace to this castle. You will not bring it to the meal.”

“But father—“

He turned his head, looked at his food. His voice carried softly down the table, cold and withering. “I suggest, Stephanie, that you recant yourself to your sisters, or retire from this table.”

She glanced at Francisinna and then Mellianna. They were triumphant. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t bring herself to speak.

Not when they thought ... spread, such vile things about her.

Quietly, she turned, and left the table.

Her heart fallen.

Her father no longer her triumph.



The animals were herded on with armed guard in peasant dress, even as Justen and Luther slipped into the forest. Justen looked back, listened to the steady roll of the wagons heading on by road, the turned and headed into the dense quiet.

The foliage above them was thick, the air cool and the light only a scattered sprinkling of patches in the canopy of leaves. As they rode on, silence fell around them. Like Luther, Justen kept his hand on his sword and his eyes open and ready. However, he wasn’t looking for battle. He was looking for the animals he had heard of all his life.

Animals of beauty and grace, of the hunt and of peace. Animals of legend, honor ... the stories of kings.

And yet, the forest remained quiet.

Justen noticed Luther’s frown.

“Where are the animals?” he asked when they stopped at the edge of a bubbling brook. The water was crystal clear and shimmered in the dim light. “It’s like a grave—no sound, no life.”

Luther looked at him and for a moment Justen feared Luther would answer not. He seemed distant and aloof—not the knight who had led the way hours ago, and further from the boy he’d known as a child.

“Something is awry in the forest,” he said at last. “Even if the animals were to stay hidden, you would hear the echo of their voices, their footsteps. There’s nothing, no call of the bird, no prance of the paw.”

Justen wished then that he had the knowledge. He knew the hunt, the call of the wild, but he could not fathom the answers—not when he wasn’t even sure of his questions.

Luther lifted his reins and moved on into the shadows of trees.


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