My Unfair Godmother (13 page)

Nick said, “What fairy tale do you suppose we’re in?” Before anyone could answer, a knock sounded on the door. A booming voice yelled, “In the name of the king, open up!” 117/356

Sandra let out a whimper and clutched her throat. My father stood up. His gaze darted around the room, searching for a weapon.

Nick and I didn’t move. “How many fairy tales have kings?” he asked.

“All of them,” I said.

Nick shook his head. “Hansel and Gretel didn’t have a king. So on the bright side, our parents won’t take us out to the woods to lose us when the food runs out.”

My father walked to the door, muttering angrily.

“Don’t be so sure about that,” I told Nick.

Whoever was at the door banged on it again. “Open up, I say! It’s the king’s men!”

“The king’s men,” Nick repeated. “Humpty Dumpty. That’s not so bad.”

My heart was racing. “Yes, it is. That fairy tale never made sense.

Some big egg guy falls off the wall and all the king’s horses try to put him back together again? How exactly do horses do that? They have hooves, not fingers. Probably the reason the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again was because the horses trampled the pieces first.”

Dad put his hand on the deadbolt, but didn’t unlock it.

Sandra joined him at the door, nervously shifting her weight.

“Kings are usually good in fairy tales, aren’t they? They probably just want to know why our house appeared in their village out of the blue.” Dad let out a worried breath, but opened the door. Nick and I went over and peeked around him to see what was happening. Half a dozen men stood on our lawn. Even more sat on horses on the road.

They wore chain mail and red surcoats—the uniform of the king’s men. A boxy carriage sat at the end of our driveway, but it didn’t have windows so I couldn’t tell if anyone was inside.

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The knight closest to us had a bushy, black beard and a crooked nose. He turned a pair of hostile eyes on us. “You are the miller?”

“The Millers,” my father said. I could tell he was surprised a stranger knew this detail about us.

The man glanced at Nick and nodded. “Millers. Very well.” He gave my father a condescending smile. Several of his teeth were missing. “And pray tell, are you the selfsame miller who told patrons of the Bear’s Paw Inn that your taxes are too high?” My father shook his head and put his hand on the doorknob. “No, you’re confusing me with someone else. I’ve never been to the Bear’s Paw Inn.”

Several of the knights laughed. Not happy laughter—taunting laughter.

The bushy-bearded man scoffed. “Everyone’s been. I’ve been there myself. And what’s more, I’ve heard that when you’ve had a few pints, you have quite a lot to say about the king’s management of England.”

“You’re mistaken.” My father motioned to our home. “I only arrived here today.”

The bushy-bearded man put one hand on the doorframe. “This manor is most interesting. Quite a home for a man who thinks his taxes cut too deeply. You have larger glass windows than the king’s palace. How does a humble miller afford such luxuries?” Without waiting for my father to answer, the man pushed his way inside. Several knights followed him.

“The rugs are enormous,” one pointed out.

“Behold the furniture,” another said incredulously. “Have you ever seen the likes?”

The rest of the knights pressed past us, peering around in amazement. Several walked into other rooms. I suddenly saw the 119/356

house from a medieval point of view. Cupboards full of glass dishes in the kitchen. Dressers and closets brimming with clothes. Sandra’s necklaces, rings, and earrings sitting in her jewelry box. Robin Hood had said we were all rich in my city. By medieval standards, he was right.

The bearded man let out a snort. “Overtaxed, indeed. To the con-trary, it seems you haven’t been paying your share.” Our family had gathered closer and closer as the men walked in.

Now my father put his arms protectively around Sandra and me. “I’m sorry if I haven’t paid enough. You can take whatever you think is fair.”

The bearded man’s lips thinned into a humorless smile. “Rest assured, we shall. And we shall tell the king of the wealth you’ve amassed here.” He put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “He might wonder if you’re a trustworthy subject. So I ask you, do you swear an oath of loyalty to King John?”

King John? I tried to remember my history in order to put us in a time frame. How many King Johns were there in England?

My father hesitated, then said, “Yes, I’m a loyal subject.”

“And you are a man of your word?”

“Yes,” my father said again.

“You are not one of those foul peasants who still laments King Richard’s death?”

Oh no. I could think of only one John who came after a King Richard. “Richard the Lion Heart?” I asked.

The man turned and sneered in my direction. “The Lion Heart.

You’d best not let King John hear you speak so. He’s king now and his brother’s accolades went with him to the grave.” 120/356

I couldn’t breathe. We weren’t in a fairy tale at all. We were in the story of Robin Hood. With a bad ending. King Richard had died? I’d always thought he came back to England and overthrew his brother.

I took quick, deep breaths. Why had Chrissy sent me here?

My father’s grip on my shoulder stiffened. Apparently he was coming to the same conclusion I’d reached. Clover had said we could go home when the fairy tale ended, but when would that be? At the end of Robin Hood’s story?

The bearded man stepped toward me. Two men at his side moved with him, closing in on us menacingly. The bearded man reached out and took hold of a strand of my hair, wrapping it between his gloved fingers. I wanted to push him away, but the swords hanging at the knights’ sides made me reconsider. I stood there stiffly, waiting for him to stop.

My father’s words came out unsteadily. “Leave my daughter out of this. She has nothing to do with my taxes.” The man didn’t let go of my hair. “I’ve also heard reports of your other boasts. You claim your daughter is the fairest maid in the land—a jewel, a treasure.”

I pulled my hair out of the man’s grasp. “Trust me, my father has never said any of that.”

The man stepped even closer. His voice was soft, like the hiss of a snake. “Oh, but he has. He says you’re so talented you can spin straw into gold.”

A startled gasp sprang to my lips before I could suppress it. I was in a fairy tale after all:
Rumpelstiltskin
. Somehow the stories had been combined and I was the miller’s daughter.

Wow, when Chrissy messed up a wish, she did it in a big way. Not only could I not turn things into gold, but I was now in a fairy tale 121/356

where the king was going to execute me if I didn’t turn a room full of straw into gold thread.

I tried to make the man see reason. “Spinning straw into gold is just a saying, like, ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’ Clouds don’t really have silver linings, or it would rain money, wouldn’t it?” The man didn’t smile at my joke. I pushed on. “Spinning straw in-to gold is making the best of a bad situation.” Like this one. “People can’t literally do it. You must know that.” The bearded man narrowed his eyes at me. “Are you calling your father a liar?”

The knights that flanked us drew their swords, which seemed to indicate they actually didn’t want more input from me in this conversation.

“If your father lied about your abilities to spin straw into gold, he might have lied about other things too, perchance about his loyalty to King John.” The bearded man leaned closer to me. His breath smelled like rotting vegetables. “The penalty for disloyalty is death. So I’ll ask of you again, did your father lie when he claimed you could spin straw into gold?”

Sandra let out a sob; an intense, shaking fear lived in that noise.

“He doesn’t lie,” I said.

The bearded man took hold of my arm. “Then the king would be pleased to see your talents himself. My men shall escort you to the castle forthwith.”

The bearded man wrenched me away from my father and pulled me toward the front door.

Sandra let out a wail. My father stepped after me, grabbing hold of my arm. “You can’t just take her.” 122/356

A few of the men advanced toward us, swords drawn, showing that they
could
just take me. I yanked my arm away from my father.

“Don’t try to stop them. They’ll hurt you.” My father followed me anyway. “It’s only a fairy tale,” he insisted, like that made the weapons less sharp.

The men dragged me out the door. Over my shoulder, I called back, “The fairy tale never says what happens to the miller. I’ll be okay. You might not be.”

My father stopped following me then. I saw my family for one more moment: Dad, Sandra, and Nick, framed in the outline of the door with stark worry permeating their faces. And then I was hustled into the wooden coach, and one of the king’s men slammed the door shut.

The coach was sparse and dark inside, more like a prison than any of the carriages I’d seen in picture books. What light there was came in through several inch-wide gaps in the wallboards. Two rough-hewn benches sat on either side. No cushions. No backrests. And the wood looked full of slivers. I was glad I’d changed into jeans. At least they offered more protection than my pajamas.

A guard climbed in and sat across from me, smugly resting a knife on his knee. “You will stay seated,” he told me. I noticed he was missing several teeth too.

Without warning, the horses moved forward, making the carriage lurch drunkenly down the uneven dirt road. Out of the gaps in the back wall, I watched as my house, so odd-looking next to the wild trees of the forest, grew smaller and then disappeared.

Other houses came into view as we rode—shacks, really. Things made of mud and straw. Homes that a big bad wolf—or at least a severe storm—could blow right over. People came out to watch the carriage go by. The women wore ragged gray dresses and dirty aprons.

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Children, their feet bare, ran alongside the horses, waving at the procession. I wasn’t just a prisoner. I was entertainment.

The guard sat silently, regarding me without pity. I kept looking out through the gaps in the wall, paying attention to every landmark in hopes that if I escaped I’d be able to find my way back to my home.

And then those hopes fizzled. I wouldn’t be able to escape. The miller’s daughter was trapped in different rooms in the castle for three nights and the only way she kept from being killed was by making bargains with Rumpelstiltskin. That wouldn’t be so bad, I supposed. I already knew his name, but part of the fairy tale involved me marrying the king and giving birth to his son.

That was not something I wanted to do, especially since King John was the evil king from Robin Hood’s story.

How could Chrissy have sent me here? I asked for the power to create gold, not to go to some fairy tale where a creepy little man spun it for me. Under my breath, I called her name, but she didn’t come.

Hours went by. I didn’t have a watch and couldn’t see the position of the sun, but my stomach told me lunchtime had come and gone a long time ago. Finally, the castle came into view. I saw it during a turn in the road—a sprawling stone castle that peered over a hefty wall. The horses jostled the carriage up to it, then we went through the gates, and stopped in front of the stables. My guard prodded me out of the carriage.

I stepped out into the sunshine, blinking. Before my eyes even adjusted to the light, the man with the bushy beard took my arm and pulled me none too gently across the courtyard.

We went inside the castle and down large drafty hallways. The castle smelled of food, smoke, and something dank and mildewed.

Straw was strewn over the floor. I hadn’t expected that, but nobody else seemed to think it was unusual. Servants and soldiers came and 124/356

went without a second glance at the straw, although everyone I passed gawked at me like I was a circus-grade oddity.

I suppose it was strange to see someone wearing jeans and a bright turquoise shirt. No one wore pants here. Even the men wore tunics and leggings. Besides the red surcoats the guards wore, everybody’s wardrobes seemed drab and colorless—shades of brown and gray. Had these people even seen the color turquoise before?

The bearded man took me up a set of uneven stone steps. They curved upward in a steep circle without any sort of railing to hang onto. After we’d gone up three floors, he towed me down a dim hallway. Torches hung on the wall, but they only emitted feeble patches of light.

A sentry was posted outside a wooden door. As we walked toward it, the bearded man said, “Inside your room, a pile of straw and a spindle await you. If the straw isn’t spun into gold by morning, the king will assume you refuse to use your talents to help him and he’ll sentence you to death for treason. Unless”—he gave me an oily smile—“you want to recant your earlier statement and proclaim that your father lied about your abilities.” What a horrible thing to do to a person—he was making me choose between my life and my father’s. I met the man’s eyes. “I don’t have anything else to say to you.”

“Very well.” The man gave my arm an extra squeeze. “I’ll let the executioner know.”

We reached the sentry. I couldn’t see his face clearly because his helmet rested low over his eyes, and a long metal piece covered his nose. I could tell he was young though, and his square jaw seemed familiar somehow. I didn’t dwell on it. The bearded man opened the door and gestured for me to go inside. “Perhaps the king will have 125/356

mercy on you,” he said, still managing to make the sentence sound like a threat. “Often, the fairer the maid, the more mercy he has.” I gave the man what I hoped was a brave smile and stepped inside the room. The door shut behind me with a thud, and then I heard the scrape of a bar being slid across the door to lock it.

I was a prisoner in a foreign land and time. The thought made my breath catch in my throat. I was not as brave as I wanted.

I glanced around the room. A waist-high pile of straw stood in the middle of the stone floor. Next to it, a lone stool waited. I didn’t see a spinning wheel, but something that looked like a wooden top sat on the stool—a hand spindle. Across the room, a narrow, glassless window let in light and fresh air. It was a welcome thing now, but I knew when night came, the shutters on either side of the window wouldn’t do much to keep the cold out. Perhaps that was why a couple of dirty blankets lay in the corner. An unlit torch hung on the wall by the door.