8) Salamander
She woke naked on the hearth in the deep silence before dawn. The stones were cold, but the dying fire still warmed her face. The salamander regarded her dispassionately. It seemed bigger.
"As we agreed, healing of your body and forgetfulness, for a time. When your memory returns, you will have fire enough to do what you know is right." Bronwyn tried to make sense of the words.
"Forgetfulness?" She sat, stiff and a little sore, and felt the stickiness of blood on her arms and breasts. Looking down at her bare body, she fought nausea as she saw the blood staining her limbs and torso, though she was not injured in any way she could see or feel. She stood carefully, and the feel of blood between her thighs made her dizzy. The bed was a wreck, sheets crimson and brown with blood as well as expensive dyes. Her blood, she realized. "Oh," she said, understanding washing over her.
Suddenly unable to bear the feel of drying blood on her skin, she rushed to the bathing room and filled the tub with water as hot as the spigots would produce. Using the rich soaps and scrubbing sands, she scoured her body once, then again, draining the filthy water away and refilling the tub. When it seemed she might finally be clean, she scrubbed herself once again for good measure before washing her hair and submerging herself fully, holding her breath against the cooling water until she thought she would burst. Her skin glowed red from the heat and the washing, but when she emerged she was better able to think, better able to put together how she would approach the day, and determined that she would escape somehow.
Wrapped in a thick robe, she left the bathing room, skirting the ruined bed without looking at it, and built up the fire. The salamander crawled between the burning logs and basked in the heat. A muffled bark brought her to the wardrobe. When she opened it, the little dog tumbled out, anxious and excited to see her. She petted him until he trembled with ecstasy, finally sending him off to explore while she looked through the contents of the wardrobe. She chose a day gown of deep blue crepe, edged in the finest of delicate white lace, barely able to believe that she herself would wear the thing. She pulled it out and hung it from the door, examining it carefully. She quickly realized that she would not be able to fasten all of the hooks and laces alone, but was rescued from having to entertain herself further by the arrival of the maid.
The woman brought a tray, not of food, but an assortment of vials and unguents in cut glass pots, starched bandages folded neatly on the tray. She entered quietly, her eyes lingering on the bloody bed, and paled dramatically when she turned and saw Bronwyn standing, apparently whole and unharmed, next to the wardrobe. A spreading bruise peered up from the girl's white collar on the unburned side of her neck, and Bronwyn quickly picked through the medicines on the tray, selecting marifleur ointment for the burn and a familiar sharp smelling clove preparation for the girl's bruises.
"Unbutton your collar, dear. When we've finished with you I'll need your help dressing, and breakfast." Bronwyn had to unbutton the collar herself, the maid was stunned beyond speech or action, her eyes haunted as the new queen tended her injuries.
"Breakfast is served only with the King and his advisors and the rest of the court, Your Highness," the girl finally said, pulling her collar closed.
"Even better. We should probably hurry." Bronwyn smelled the ointment again. "Did you buy this from the Mayor's kitchen?" The girl nodded, confused as Bronwyn smiled.
"It's still very early, Your Highness, you would likely be the first to arrive." The plan began to form in Bronwyn's mind, and she smiled sweetly at the servant.
"All the better. Please, if you would, when we're in private, call me Bronwyn. May I know your name?"
"I'm Rebeka. My Lady Bronwyn, I think that blue would fit you, but His Majesty prefers white dresses on his Queen."
"Well, if he wanted me in white, he should not have given me such a selection of colors," Bronwyn answered tartly, hardly able to believe her sudden courage. "The only white gowns in that wardrobe are fit for children of invalids, and I'm neither." Rebeka's hands trembled on the hooks and lacings, but she quickly finished the task of dressing the young queen. The maid glanced often at the bed, but Bronwyn's limbs were smooth and white, unblemished by bruise or laceration.
When they were finished, Rebeka led Bronwyn through the maze like halls of the castle, down long staircases and to a large dining room. The king and his advisors had just arrived, and the advisors all stood immediately when the Queen arrived. Bronwyn walked with slow grace, the pull of fate steadying her legs against sudden anxiety and the unfamiliar weight of yards of fabric. The king stood more slowly, his eyes steely and guarded as his Lady wife approached the table.
"Your Highness," he greeted her, and Bronwyn realized that he didn't even know her name. "How good of you to join us."
"Good morning, Your Majesty, my lords. I could hardly miss, of course." He extended his hand to her and she accepted it, meeting his eyes calmly.
"I trust you slept well?" The advisors all looked on in stunned silence, watching the interplay like doves among hawks.
"No, indeed, I did not, Your Majesty. I didn't think you would need to be reminded of the vigorous entertainment of our wedding night." She smiled sweetly at him, and then seated herself gracefully. The little dog, having hidden himself in her skirts, sat resolutely on her feet.
"Your dress is becoming, Your Highness," he remarked. "I prefer white, though"
"Of course, Your Majesty. I prefer the blue." She delicately heaped eggs and toast on her plate. "Lord Chancellor," she looked to the man on her left. The Lord Mayor had once entertained Lord Fredrick Wilhelm, Chancellor to the King, for an evening. She had liked him very much when she waited on the table that evening. "If you would pass the cream, I would be grateful."
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"Certainly, Queen Bronwyn. You need only ask." His eyes were lively and his smile genuine. The King's fingers were a bit too tight on his fork, his words a bit too forceful as he discussed the business of the kingdom with his chief counselors. Bronwyn kept up her bland but firm manner, though a part of her screamed every time he casually touched her or spoke to her, and she shut that part of herself away to cower simply because he sat so near. When she was addressed, she answered demurely, and smiled at kindness and refused to respond to the veiled courtly cruelties that were occasionally directed at her. She found that she could not eat the food before her, and instead discreetly fed it to the eager mouth waiting beneath her chair. The tea served to her was finer than anything she'd ever tasted, and warmed her a bit.
When the meal was finished they all rose together, and the King turned to his bride, taking her hand in his. "My day is full, but I will join you again tonight," he said, his grip tight enough to bruise. With an artificial calm that she'd learned in serving the daughters of the Lord Mayor, she smiled up at him, inclining her head gracefully in a demure curtsey.
“If it pleases you, Your Majesty,” she was unable to keep an edge out of her voice. The Lord Chancellor laughed.
"What an enchanting girl! My King, I think perhaps the joke's on you. She's going to bewitch all of us like little birds, and we shall eat lentils out of the ashes if she asks."
The words hung heavy in the air for a moment. Witchcraft was a serious crime.
"That's nonsense, Lord Wilham," the King grated out. "My Queen is not a witch," The King released her hands and turned on his heel to leave, his guard appearing silently to escort him.
"As you say, Your Majesty, of course." The old chancellor looked at her speculatively. She curtseyed deeply and left by the same door she'd used to enter, opposite the door the King had used to exit.
Rebeka was waiting for her, accompanied by a pair of guards Bronwyn had not yet met.
Bronwyn took in a deep breath, held it a moment and then exhaled slowly. "Are there gardens here, Rebeka? I would like very much to walk in the open air." She knotted the corners of her napkin with the bread she'd not eaten into a pouch of sorts, with the thought that perhaps she would be hungry later.
"Certainly, Your Highness, your guards will take you, and I'm sure one of the Ladies would be honored to accompany you. May I take that to your suite?" Rebeka indicated the napkin. Bronwyn surrendered the food to the maid, blushing slightly. "Will you take luncheon in your rooms?"
"Yes, if that won't cause you more work." Rebeka smiled demurely and curtseyed.
"Your Highness, it will be no trouble at all."
The rest of her day was surprisingly pleasant. The Lady Wilham, wife of the Lord Chancellor, joined her in the gardens, regaling Bronwyn with endless stories of the court. Bronwyn knew that the lady was also scrutinizing her closely, and did her best to conceal her growing unease about the night to come. It was obvious that escape would not come easy, and even thinking about leaving made her faintly ill at ease. She did not see the Princess at all that day.
The bed was replaced and remade by the time Bronwyn returned to her suite for luncheon. Lady Wilhelm made her excuses, the guards locked the doors behind her, and Bronwyn ate most of the bread and cheese on her tray before feeding the rest to the little dog. She fell into an exhausted sleep on a richly brocaded divan in the sitting room.
She dreamed of the Inn where Gilda Oldroot had found her, and of the old woman's sharp words to the men there about the risks in taking a witch against her will. She tasted the bitterness of the draught again, and the dream turned to darkness, and blood, and a sweetness she couldn't name. The sweetness was yet on her lips when she woke, and sunset bled through the cut glass window, and she heard the king's boot-heels on the floor.
The days that followed were very like the first. She would wake on the hearth, naked and covered in blood and worse, aching and exhausted. The salamander and its brood watched over her newly healed body, and they grew fat and powerful on her tears; always they gave her healing and forgetfulness of the hours she spent with the King in the night. She bathed before Rebeka came to help her dress, and she breakfasted with the King and his advisors. Because the King had publicly declared that she was not a witch, the clergy could not challenge her, even if they had been inclined to do so. She always wore any color but white. As the days passed almost every servant in the castle found an excuse to wait on her at least once. The King's advisors cautiously began to like her, and unlike any of the king's previous wives she showed no inclination towards frailty or illness. Something of the weight of dread lifted from the atmosphere of the castle, and even if abuse did not cease or even lessen, it seemed that everyone was stronger.
In the long afternoons, if she was allowed time to rest, Bronwyn slept and dreamed of the witch, Gilda Oldroot, and the cook who had taught her a bit of herb-lore and healing, and sometimes of the salamander. In her dreams the little fire thing entertained her with stories of magic, real magic, and of its cousins the dragons. She watched as a maiden found her faithless swain in the arms of another and threw herself from a bridge into the river, and for many nights Bronwyn watched over the girl’s ghost as it tormented the young man until he too finally threw himself into the river to escape her keening voice and wet clawed hands. Sometimes she wandered through the woods, and a spotted weasel or a blue-grey hawk with barred wings showed her the ways of small creatures hiding and flying and living in the land. When her heart was heavy and her spirits weary, she would come round a bend in the trail, and a clearing would open into golden sunlight, a small stone cottage set back from the stream. She never saw who lived there, but it was always a comfort to step out into that golden light.
As she dreamed, she found she could change things, nudge things here or there. A boy planted beans at the foot of a towering cliff, and Bronwyn set them to growing with a whispered word, til finally they reached the top of the cliff in a mighty vine. The boy started climbing, and Bronwyn woke to the feel of the salamander’s tongue on her face.
Each night, the King came to Bronwyn's rooms, and her anger and loathing of him grew stronger. Each morning she reappeared whole and un-marked at breakfast, and his determination to dominate her became an obsession beyond the activities of the marriage bed. By royal decree, she was required to attend every court function and his every public appearance within the capital. He left occasionally for days at a time, hunting wild game or other sport, and those days Bronwyn was locked in her tower room.
Janette hated her stepmother, and vented her spleen on the servants who grew to like Bronwyn. The girl whispered vicious rumors among the ladies of the court, smiling at her stepmother when her father was present, sneering with petty scorn when he was not. Despite the child’s antics, Bronwyn came to love her stepdaughter, seeing the pain where others saw cruelty.