The walk to Lewes was as pleasant a stroll as Bridgette ever remembered. Leisurely, they made their way through gentle plains and pleasant hills. The bright Sun eased her heart, and a warm breeze caressed her face. Lazy white clouds drifted in the sky, hanging like cotton balls. Bickle hummed a merry tune, and when asked, he taught Bridgette to sing along. The lyrics were plain and pretty: “Da da dee, none’s as happy as me,” he sang. “Twickle, bickle, lickle hey, now isn’t this a just fine day!” At school she’d be tempted to call his singing “lame” but as it was, she found the simplicity comforting, like a long-forgotten lullaby.
Gradually the Freeland Meadow gave way to signs of civilization. They came to a plot of land marked off by a short wooden fence. On the other side was an orchard of apple trees. Bright red fruit dangled from the branches.
“Apples!” Bridgette said.
“Would you like one?” asked Bickle.
“Would that be okay?” she asked.
“I don’t see why not,” said Bickle. “Etiquette is that anyone can pick from the outside row. Those further in belong to the farmer, and taking them would be stealing. I am not fond of stealing: it’s a breach of etiquette. Don’t you agree?”
“Of course,” said Bridgette. Nimble as a leaf, she slipped over the fence and plucked an apple from the branch. “Would you like one, Bickle?” she asked.
“Kind of you to offer,” said the little man. “Yes, I think I’d be glad to join you for a bite.”
She handed him the one she had picked, and took a second for herself. She squeezed it in her hand, testing its freshness, and deciding it was firmer than any from the supermarket. She took a bite and discovered that it was crisper and sweeter than any apple had the right to be.
“This is delicious,” she said.
“I’ll tell Mr. Apseed next time I see him,” said Bickle. “He’s proud of his orchard, both for its apples and cider.”
“My father likes cider,” mentioned Bridgette, as she casually swung back over the fence, as graceful as a ballet dancer. “He never drinks beer or liquor, but he loves his cider.”
“It’s a pleasant enough drink,” said Bickle. “Do you drink?”
“I’m too young.”
“Ah,” said Bickle. “We will have to keep that in mind.”
They were about an hour’s walk from the city. They passed farms on both sides of the trail, some with well-tended fields, others with herds of sheep and cattle. In the plot closest to town, a young man filled a basket with strawberries, sweating from the effort of laboring in the hot sun.
As they passed, the young man looked up with bare wonder on his face. He rushed up to the fence, delicately balancing his basket in one arm. “Good morning, Mr. Wa,” he called out.
“Good morning, Peter,” called out Bickle.
The farmhand’s chin trembled as he beheld the travelers. His eyes shifted to Bridgette. “Who is this beautiful Lady who comes with you?” he asked.
Bridgette started to answer, but Bickle hushed her with a wave of his hand. “Etiquette,” he reminded her. “The Gentleman introduces himself to the Lady. Not the other way around.”
The farmboy trembled, as if Bickle had warned him away from a great mistake. Humbly, he took his hat off and pressed it to his chest. “Good afternoon, mi’lady,” he said. “My name is… mah…my…mahhk… D-d-dahr-”
“Peter,” corrected Bickle.
“Peter,” repeated the farm hand, shivering. “Yes, Peter. Peter. My name is Peter.”
Bridgette took a step back. She had never seen such an anxious boy before. Except for Bernard, who once tried to ask her something then ran away.
“Good afternoon Peter,” she said.
Bickle took over. “Allow me to complete the introductions. Peter, this is Miss Bridgette Mittison.” He leaned forward intently. “She is from Earth,” he whispered.
Peter looked at her with awe in his eyes. “You are?” he asked, staring at her with desperate fascination.
Bridgette smiled, trying to put the anxious young man at ease. . “Is that so rare?”
“N-n-no.” answered Peter. He then glanced at Bickle Wa, as if for guidance. “I mean, yes, yes! I haven’t seen an earthling since- how is London?”
“London?” asked Bridgette, surprised to hear it mentioned.
Bickle made a curt gesture and pursed his lips. Peter looked down at the soil. “I mean,” he continued quietly, “I’ve never met an Earthling before. Never been to Earth. Never met an Earthling.”
“Then why London?” asked Bridgette.
“I mean uh,” said Peter. “Dunno, I heard of it once, long ago. Long ago when I-”
“Peter, please!” said Bickle. “Let’s not trouble the young lady. Let her enjoy her time here.”
Peter looked back at Bridgette. “I’m sorry ma’am,” he said, rubbing one of his dirt covered hands across his watery eyes. “If you need anything, help… or… or, or, or…-“
“Peter!” said Bickle again. “You’re being rude to Ms. Bridgette, and I won’t have it.”
“It’s no problem,” said Bridgette. “I’m not offended.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wa.” said Peter, fumbling with his hands. Realizing he still carried the basket, he lifted it up. “Would you like some strawberries?”
“I’d love some!” Bridgette said, reaching out. She took three bright, juicy strawberries. Peter watched eagerly as she took them, his eyes filled with joy.
“I hope you like them, mi’lady,” he said. “I must get back to work.” With that, he scuttled away to his picking.
“He’s a good boy,” said Bickle approvingly. “But terribly awkward around people.”
“Why is that?” said Bridgette. She didn’t fear Peter, she didn’t think. But she found him more than a little curious.
Bickle pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Many orphans have had very difficult childhoods,” he said finally. “Poor Peter spent years as a poor, lost boy without help. But now he has a job and a place to stay. And it’s not likely he’ll get in trouble with the strawberries.”
“Why did he mention London?” asked Bridgette.
“You’ve not been there?” asked Bickle.
“I’ve never been to England in my life,” said Bridgette. “I’m an American. From Plainsview, Nebraska.”
“It could be that you’ll meet someone here who will meet you and tell stories of your beauty. And someone will hear the tale, and ask another visiting Earthling: ‘Have you ever been to Plainsview?’”
“Who’s come here from London?” asked Bridgette.
“Many people,” said Bickle. “It’s a famous Earthling city to us.”
Bridgette smiled. London was the capital of England, so it seemed reasonable that Shard would get its share of visitors from there. In fact, it made her feel quite special to anticipate being the first guest from Plainsview.
Soon they arrived in Lewes proper. It was a calm and pleasing town, with peasants selling their foodstuffs on vendor stands, barefoot children in simple clothing playing tag, and matrons haggling over prices. As the Sun sank down towards the horizon, those who did a hard day’s work headed to the tavern for an afternoon drink.
“Can we go in too?” asked Bridgette. The apples and strawberries were sweet, but not filling. “I’m awfully hungry.”
“You want to go in there?” asked the little man. “I thought I’d be hosting you for tea in my place.”
“I’m sure your house is wonderful,” said Bridgette. “But I want to see people.”
“As you wish,” said Bickle.
Bickle seemed to stick out a little - or did he? Most of the locals walked higher than him, but in the Windsong Tavern there was a mix of tall and short. All mingled, drank, and laughed with each other. Bridgette wasn’t sure if Bickle was a gnome of some sort, or just a very short human, but no one found him unusual..
They sat at the end of a long common table. Bickle directed her with a gesture, and Bridgette gawked, wide-eyed at the bustling crowd. “Do you care for drinks?” asked her little friend, “Or food?”
“Food, please,” said Bridgette. Bickle called for the serving girl, and within minutes they were served with steaming bowls of chicken stew. It tasted heavenly.
“So, are you enjoying your visit so far?” asked Bickle.
Bridgette tapped her fingers on the table. “I am,” she said. “But it feels like a vacation.”
“How so? Is that bad?” the little man leaned forward, his brow furrowed in concern.
“Nothing,” said Bridgette. Her family visited Paris once, and what she remembered most was being fed three meals a day. That’s how the tour handled things: Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner, each in a different restaurant, each an excruciating two hours long. She felt rushed out of every famous landscape they visited to hurry to the restaurant for another grueling meal. When she got home, Bridgette ate nothing but cereal for a week.
Looking about the inn, she took in the sights. A red banner hung from the wall, showing a picture of a woman surrounded by flames, with storming rain clouds above. Next to it hung a heavy shield with two swords crossed behind it. The innkeeper was a portly man with white hair, pouring portions of stew into a series of bowls, which the serving girl brought to the patrons.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“That’s Darus Flour,” said Bickle. “He was a Baker once, and sold his bread in the street like all the other vendors. But he found enough money to build this place, and it’s now the center of the town.”
“How did he find the money?” asked Bridgette.
“Why, I don’t rightly know,” said Bickle. “Some say he went off on an adventure and made his fortune that way. Others say that he helped a great knight who was near death, and was handsomely rewarded.”
“You ask me,” interrupted one of the other diners, an elderly woman with a deeply lined face, “Darus got his money the old fashioned way!”
“He married it?” asked Bridgette with a smile.
The old woman laughed. Bridgette could see that she had only a few, gnarled teeth. “Hard work!” she said. “Though you have a good mind there, pretty.”
Bickle made a face. “So in the end, it’s not like he rubs shoulders with the nobility. But he built this place without a loan from the money lender. Maybe he earned it? Stole it? Took it as a bribe? What do you think, Bridgette?”
Looking at Darus, Bridgette saw the grey haired man still working as hard as ever. When he had a break from pulling stew out of the big cauldron, he grabbed a broom and swept the floor. “He certainly seems to be a hard worker,” said Bridgette. “He isn’t resting on his laurels, like he would if he had taken the easy way. I’m guessing it was hard work.”
Bickle nodded with a smile on his face. “So it was, so it is, so it shall be.”
Darus made his way by their table as he swept the floor. He gave a friendly nod when he passed near Bridgette. “Good evening, milady,” he said.
“Good evening, Mr. Flour,” she said. “The soup is wonderful.”
The innkeeper paused for a moment, and looked at her with his careworn face. “You enjoyed it?” he asked.
She nodded. “I appreciate all your hard work,” she said.
Darus Flour didn’t seem like a man who often smiled, but he smiled now. He straightened up to his full height, his hand resting on his broom like it was a knight’s lance. He bowed to her. “Thank you,” he said, in a voice bursting with pride. “Your appreciation fills me with joy.”
She smiled politely. After his flourish, he pulled up his broom and resumed his sweeping with great satisfaction.
“You truly are a kind person,” said Bickle.
Bridgette grinned. Everyone was so polite here! “Do you know everyone in Lewes?”
“Just about,” said Bickle. “I’ve been here all my life. I could tell you about people’s husbands and wives, their children and parents, even their grandparents in many cases. Is there someone you’d like to meet, perhaps?”
“How can I know who I’d like to meet, when I don’t know of anyone?”
The tips of Bickle’s lips curled into a smile. “True, so true,” he said. “Perhaps I should ask about what type of a person you’d like to meet.”
Bridgette blushed and looked away. “Oh, I couldn’t,” she said.
“Oh I know that look,” said Bickle. “That’s a girl who wants to meet a handsome boy.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” said Bridgette. “One who’s cute and exciting. Do you know anyone like that?”
“Possibly,” said Bickle. “Not on the top of my head, but new people come to Lewes all the time. Are you enjoying your meal?”
“Oh yes,” said Bridgette. She brought another spoonful of chicken stew to her lips.
A creaking sound filled the taverns as the entrance door groaned open. A new man stepped into the Windsong, one quiet foot stepping before the other. But though his step was light, the door closed behind him with a loud thud. A hush fell over the tavern as all eyes turned to this mysterious stranger. He wore a heavy cloak about his shoulders, concealing him in black. A heavy hood hung over his features, darkening his face in shadow. Even his hands were clad in black gloves His boots were soft, but solid, stained from hiking through miles of wet ground. He wore a heavy pack over one shoulder. And less any mistake him for a helpless wayfarer, he also wore a sword and scabbard by his side. He quietly stepped to the bar, turning to meet Darus Flour who hurried back to the counter to greet him.
“Can I help you?” asked Darus.
“Tankard of ale,” murmured the stranger, in a soft voice.
“Anything to eat?”
The stranger paused for a moment. “Whatever you’re serving is fine,” he said.
The tavern was silent as Darus filled a mug and set it before the man. Bridgette watched as he lifted the tankard to his mouth. Only his lips were visible from the shadow of his hood… the rest was dark, mysterious, and could be anything.
“Who is he?” Bridgette whispered to Bickle.
The little man squinted his eyes, puzzled. Blushing slightly, he pulled a small pair of spectacles out of his coat pocket. He put them on, narrowed his eyes, and shook his head. “I don’t know,” said Bickle. “I’ve never seen him before.”
Returning to her own meal, Bridgette watched out of the corner of her eye. The stranger sipped at his drink, a little hunched over as if the mug was the only thing in the world to him. But she sensed his tension. He was on edge, alert, and all of this could very well be a front.
He was isolated too. He sat near a bearded farmhand.. But within a couple of moments, the neighbor decided he’d rather do without the stranger’s company, and wordlessly walked out the door. People nearby pushed themselves away. Soon, there was no one within five feet of him. Even Darus didn’t stay close any longer than was necessary. Either he smelled bad, or he gave people a queasy feeling.
Finally, two men that Bridgette scarcely noticed took action. They had been sitting at a corner table in the back. But now they stood and walked towards the stranger with purpose. They wore swords as well, and heavy leather jerkins with an emblem on it… a woman surrounded by flames below and rain above. A quick glance of her eyes ensured that it was the same as the symbol on the hanging banners.
“Who are they?” whispered Bridgette.
“Ah, them?” squeaked Bickle, the color draining from his face. “Nothing but the, ah, lawful servants of our glorious Queen, the Scarlet Tempest. Pray, don’t attract their attention, and we’ll be much the better off.”
The two men approached the stranger. “You with the hood. Show your face,” said the first man.
“I’d rather not,” the stranger said in a soft voice.
“That wasn’t a request,” said the second.
“It’s just so cold out, and I’d like to keep warm as much as I can,” said the stranger.
The first ran out of patience. Reaching out, he pulled back the man’s hood. The stranger was a remarkably handsome man, with sandy hair, brown eyes, and firm features. He was young, not yet in his 30’s, yet had the experienced eyes of one much older.
“So it is you, Alain!” cried the first.
“Oh hardly,” said the man, with a wide and toothy smile. “It’s a fluke really. I’m a complete stranger who just happens to resemble the noble Prince Alain. I have no connection with him at all, truly.”
Bridgette rose from her seat. She could sense trouble coming.
“Alain is an outlaw!” shouted the second. “You are under arrest.”
“I told you I’m not Alain,” said the man.
Scooting to the side, Bridgette quietly sidestepped to the display by the tapestry. Two more steps, and it would be within reach.
“Either you’re under arrest for being Alain,” said the first, “Or you are under arrest for supporting a traitor.”
“Supporting a traitor?” said the stranger. “How is that?”
“Alain is no longer a prince,” said the first. “All who refer to him as such are to be charged with treason. So ruled our gracious queen, the Scarlet Tempest.”
“Your own words condemn you,” said the second.
The man raised an eyebrow. “My word, it becomes hard to travel when I must learn of the Queen’s new edicts every time I sit down for a drink. Pray, let me finish here, and I will come with you.”
The officers stepped back and touched their hands to their sword hilts - wisely, it turns out. For as the stranger lifted the mug to his lips, he lifted it extra high and cracked it down on the forehead of the first of his accusers. He then reached towards his own sword as he backed off to seize the space and time to draw his weapon.
But the officer pulled out a dagger, not a sword. Needing little space for his smaller blade, he charged forward, grabbing the stranger’s sword arm. Restrained so, the cloaked man could not draw his own armament. Instead, he grabbed the guardsman’s arm with his left hand, wrestling for control of the dagger.
“Leave him alone!” shouted Bridgette.
“Sit down girl!” said the officer, turning his head. “Or I’ll arrest you for…”
He stopped when he realized that Bridgette wasn’t helpless. She had plucked one of the decorative swords from the display, and held it before her. I must be quite a sight, she thought, what with her golden hair and limber body, confidently holding a weapon she had never touched before.
“Like you know the difference between the hilt and the point!” sneered the guardsman. He stepped forward, slashing his knife.
With a twist of her fingers, Bridgette scraped across the man’s jerkin. She cut it open, and the lower half fell to the ground. He reddened, first in embarrassment, then rage. He lunged forward, his dagger flying towards her throat.
But Bridgette spun and twisted the sword around. The sword flicked about like a part of her, and the officer hesitated, dazzled by the display. With one more motion as smooth as a dance, she slapped the flat of her blade hard across his fingers, smiting him with sharp pain. Howling, the dagger spun out of his hand, landing on the floor. Bridgette kicked it away, and held the point of her sword against the man’s throat. “Give up,” she said. “Or there will be blood.”
The man spat. “I don’t know who you are, but to help an outlaw is to become an outlaw! The Scarlet Tempest will hear of this!”
“Not another word!” said Bridgette. “Now get out!”
The man climbed to his feet and fled to the door. “This isn’t over, whoever you are. Next time you face Fricklan, the dice will fall differently!”
With that, he left. Bridgette felt the thrill of success pulse throughout her body. I did it! I didn’t know I had that in me! And the thrill became ecstasy when the handsome stranger grasped her hand. “I thank you, beautiful maiden,” he said. She felt his hot breath, and her heart pounded with excitement.
“But you placed yourself in grave danger, all for my sake,” he continued. “And that is a heavy burden I must carry. They know where I am, and I must run. Farewell.”
“No!” she said. “Take me with you.”
He nodded, just once, not taking the time to argue with her. Grasping her hand, he raced out the door. Bridgette practically flew at his heels to keep up.
“Hey!” yelled Bickle from his seat. “Wait for me!”
Fleeing from the Inn, they ran from Lewes. The stranger led her down little used roads. Once they were out of sight of even the most remote of buildings, he veered left and ran straight into the woods until the road was hidden from view. Bridgette kept up, running farther than she ever had in her life. She felt only a slight tire from the exertion, easily overmatched by an anticipation of romance.
“Here,” he said. “We should be safe. For now.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
The stranger smiled. “I thought you knew. I am Prince Alain Trueheart, rightful heir to the throne that was usurped by the Scarlet Tempest.”
“You’re a prince?” she gasped, feeling a new surge of warmth.
“A prince in exile,” he said. “That makes me little better than a highwayman. But unlike the bandit, I can hold onto the hope that I can reclaim my throne.”
“Who is the Scarlet Tempest?” asked Bridgette. “What did she do to you?”
“She is a witch,” said Alain, with distaste, as if the very word felt bitter. “We didn’t know all at once, of course. My father was a widower. In his old age, his loneliness overpowered his wisdom, and he could not resist the charms of that fiery woman. My father’s funeral was but a fortnight after his wedding, on a night so dark that even the moon hid her light. My brother Pacel was heir to the throne, but the Scarlet Tempest claimed to be with child. Claiming the infant in her womb would be the next king, she announced that she would reign as regent until the child was born and grown.”
“That’s mad!” said Bridgette, horrified.
“By all acts of law and precedent, you are correct.” said Alain. “But we did not know the extent of her powers. The Scarlet Witch commands fire and water: red flame, and thundering storms. Yet she conceals another power, a terrible sword in the charming sheath of beauty. The council, bespelled one way or the other, accepted her claim. Pacel raised an army of men loyal to the Trueheart line, but when they met her in battle, they were faced with magic; an ocean of flame, and a storm of lightning that killed them to the last. My family was accused of treason, and I had to flee for my life. This was years ago, and she never gave birth to any child. Her claim of pregnancy was a sham. Yet still she reigns, as there is none with the strength to take her off the throne.”
“Is there no hope?” asked Bridgette.
“Little, but that is far more than none,” said Alain. “The Queen’s cruel ways has nurtured discontent in every land she cannot personally visit. When she strides before people, her charm sways them over. But she cannot be everywhere at once. I find allies among those who know her wicked deeds, and can no longer be swayed by her honeyed words. We are making allies, and once we defeat this treacherous woman, I can rebuild the kingdom of Shard to its former grandeur.”
Tears swelled within Bridgette’s eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “You must have suffered so.”
A look of deep tenderness came over Alain’s face. When he spoke about the Queen, his face was indignant and brave. But now that Bridgette wept, he grew gentle. “Don’t weep maiden. I was a rich and spoiled lad when I was a prince in the Ruby Castle. Now I have seen the land. I have suffered, and seen suffering. I would make a far better King now than I would have before this misfortune. And you give me hope. I have never seen a maiden as brave or fair as you.”
He made no move, but Bridgette could not resist the love flowing into her heart. She thrust herself into his arms, embracing the prince in a warm hug. He pulled her close, his strong arms holding her tight. She smelled the well-worn leather of his travelling clothes, the musky smell of his riding cloak that has seen use and travail. “May I kiss you?” he asked.
“Please,” she whispered. He leaned forward, and touched his warm lips to hers. Bridgette was flying, lost in the joy of this magnificent, romantic moment. As she floated, fully in love with her dreamy prince, a thought flashed through her mind.
Wait until Ash and Karen hear about this!