Chapter One: Interkingdom College
And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel and shining morning face, creeping like snail unwillingly to school.
- From Shakespeare's As You Like It
"Beatrice! Beatrice!" Her mother's voice was piercing, insistent; it found her by the palace gardens' shining lake, where she had been saying goodbye to the fish. She was going to miss them: especially Lancelot, with his mournful eyes and large, gaping mouth. With a sigh she air-kissed her watery pets a farewell that was less than dry (her eyes, alas, welled up with water) and, carefully holding up her skirts so as to not get them muddy, hurried to the front of the palace. Starcastle may not have been the largest kingdom in the world, but its palace gardens certainly ranked amongst the most intricate. Beatrice skilfully steered her way through the seemingly endless maze of flowers until her high heels clip-clopped on the cobblestones that paved the path in front of the palace.
"Finally," exclaimed her mother. Queen Nell stood in front of the assemblage of servants and ministers that had come to wish the royal offspring farewell before they embarked on their journey to the prerequisite royal boarding school. Though to an outsider, Nell's face looked composed, Beatrice could tell that she was on the verge of tears. If only it had not been a law of the Commons that all sons and daughters of ruling families must go to Interkingdom College when they reached the age of sixteen...Beatrice knew that Father had tried to pass an amendment in Parliament, but unfortunately it was of no use. Most families were more than happy to send their children away.
"Where's Benedick?" asked Beatrice.
"Your father's giving him some parting advice."
"'Neither a borrower nor a lender be,'" said Beatrice, grinning.
"Oh Bea," said the Queen, "please don't make jokes at a time like this."
"I'm sorry, Mother."
"I'd like to say something to you, as well." (Here she gave an almost inaudible sniff that told Beatrice that the flood would not be held back for much longer.)
"Yes, Mother...I'm listening."
"Beatrice...be obedient, even if you recognise the injustice around you. The world is full of injustice; but we must bear our grievances silently and with a smile. You must be strong: nothing should be able to break you; at the same time, you must be supple, pliant, beautiful in thought and in action. Never get caught up in vanity: though you are beautiful on the outside, that should never be the most important thing to you. Your mind: that is what you, and others, should value first and foremost. Work hard. Do not wish for what you do not have; be grateful, instead, for the things you do possess.
"Be courteous to all, even your enemies - nay, especially your enemies. Cherish your enemies at least as much as you cherish your friends, for they give you the chance to practise patience and compassion. Treat older people with respect, even if you see that they are fallible. Always put others first. And finally..." (here the Queen burst into sobs; Beatrice leant over to hug her, to comfort her) "...please write to me." These last words were said in a whisper. Beatrice hugged her mother tight, as though she never wanted to let go. And then she saw her father and brother descending the stairs, and she knew it was time to part. Her mother felt it too: gently, she extricated herself from Beatrice's grasp.
"Remember," she said simply, fighting back the tears.
"I will," whispered Beatrice; "I will."
As he walked past his army of staff, his red velvet cloak swirling behind him, King Redmond looked warm and distinguished. But Beatrice thought she detected a shadow on his face: she suspected Benedick had been impertinent. Oh Benedick, you and your high-flying ideas of creative genius...Beatrice smiled. Though he was her twin, Benedick could not have been more different. Beatrice fancied herself to be fairly level-headed, if at times passionate...Benedick, on the other hand, always had his head in the clouds, and sometimes it was quite difficult to pull him back down to her level of reality. Poor Father. The farewell spiel must have ended less than happily...
All the same, Benedick looked positively unruffled. In the middle of composing another epic poem, no doubt (he never finished them). Beatrice frowned: Benedick usually went crimson right to the roots of his (already red) hair after an argument...but now he was his usual pale self. Was it possible that something other than Benedick (heaven forfend!) had played on Father's nerves? Something froze within her. Last night, she had heard angry voices...was it possible...could it be that Mother and Father had had an argument? Glancing at her mother's pale, drawn face, she thought she saw something beyond the unhappiness of parting with one's children: marital discontent. Beatrice shuddered. Surely that couldn't be true? They had always been such a happy family...
"Beatrice, give this to the headmistress as soon as you see her," said her father, passing her an envelope.
Beatrice nodded, studying her father's face: the shadow had gone. Perhaps she had only imagined it; perhaps there had been no argument, no unhappiness.
"Now," said King Redmond, with a cheerful smile that belied his emotion, "off with the pair of you, or you'll be late."
"Yes, Father," murmured Benedick. With the awkwardness of a newborn calf, he leant over to hug his father; Beatrice couldn't help giggling. When it was her turn, she gave the King an affectionate squeeze - which he returned, with interest.
"Take care, both of you," said Queen Nell softly, embracing both siblings one last time. And then they stepped into the carriage; then the trumpets sounded; then, with a clatter of hooves, they left home for the first time.
They had been travelling for about two hours. The air whizzed past them; it was an empowering feeling, thought Beatrice, to have the wind blowing in your face. Her brother, however, felt otherwise.
"Bea," he moaned, "could you please close the window? All that fresh air is suffocating me..."
"You are joking, aren't you?"
"No..."
"But you usually love the fresh air!"
"Bea," said Benedick, gently pulling her away from the window so that she had to look at him, "I would have thought that, having grown up with me, you might know by now that an artist's temperament is extremely changeable?"
"Yes, changeable like the weather," cried Beatrice, wriggling out of his grasp and clambering back to the window.
"Come - back!" exclaimed Benedick, trying to pull the window closed.
"Never!" returned Beatrice, grinning.
"You little scoundrel, Beatrice..."
"Stop that, Benedick, it tickles!" panted Beatrice, laughing uncontrollably.
"Not on your life!"
Just then, the carriage hurtled to a halt, and they both fell backwards onto the red velvet seat.
"What happened?" asked Beatrice, climbing over to peer out the window.
"Beatrice, get down!" hissed Benedick, pulling her away. The sound of voices stung the air: harsh, deep, discordant voices. The twins kept out of sight.
"This looks like a royal carriage," growled one of the voices.
"No - no," squeaked their driver, "I promise you...it's not...we're really quite ordinary..."
Hard, cruel laughter filled the air. "Ordinary? We'll see about that."
Benedick squeezed Beatrice's hand; they both lay, frozen, on the floor of the carriage. Highwaymen! Benedick had read about them in the papers...thinking back, he was half-surprised that they didn't have guards with them for protection. He gulped; his throat was so dry that it hurt.
The sound of approaching steps - Beatrice breathed in sharply. There was a spine-chilling "click" as the door opened.
"Well, well, well," said a voice, "what have we got here?"
But before Benedick could do anything, Beatrice had leapt up, a revolver in her hand (where on earth had she got a revolver?). "Stay away," she said in a low voice, "or you'll be sorry."
The highwayman - rotund, dressed in a faded doublet, with a small black mask threaded around the eyes and grizzly red stubble surrounding his leering smile - laughed.
"I wouldn't laugh if I were you, sir," said Beatrice with an air of authority: "I am an extremely accurate gunwoman." (This is true, thought Benedick - she always hits the middle in shooting practice.)
The highwayman and his nondescript cronies burst into loud, hoarse laughter. "A gunwoman!" Their laughter made such a crescendo that Benedick thought his ears would explode.
"Yes!" said Beatrice shrilly. "Now would you kindly let us pass..."
"Oh ho ho," said the main highwayman, "not so fast, missy. We'll let your carriage go, of course...but you are coming with us!"
"Yes," cheered the other men, "she's coming with us! A royal hostage!"
"Oh, really," said Beatrice, a corner of her lip curling upwards contemptuously, "well I wouldn't be too sure if I were you."
"Bea! Bea!" whispered Benedick helplessly - "Don't wind them up, you'll get us both killed!"
"Shh," hissed Beatrice, "I know what I'm doing!"
"Firstly, though," said another of the men - tall, grimy, with sandy brown hair and eyes that shone through his mask's slits - "...the loot."
And with a shared cackle, the bandits moved towards the back of the carriage, where they would no doubt plunder the suitcases. But just then, Beatrice fired her gun into the air, and rising up on their hind legs, the horses broke into a frenzied gallop. Poking her head out the window, Beatrice looked back at the highwaymen, who had been knocked to the ground by the carriage's sudden motion, and gave them the royal wave.
"That will teach you," she called, "to mess with a princess!"
Mrs Levy, headmistress of the Interkingdom College for Young Ladies of High Birth, rapped her knuckles against the table. The latest arrival had not yet arrived: Beatrice of Starcastle. Late. Lateness was frowned upon in high circles...
Just then there was a creak as the door opened (Mrs Levy made a mental note to get it oiled).
"Princess Beatrice, Ma'am," said the butler, standing by the door as a girl of about sixteen entered the room. She was dressed in pale blue taffeta, finely sewn, with peacock feathers embroidered over the chest. Those were surely real emeralds and sapphires worked into the pattern! But it was her hair that made an impression on Mrs Levy. Hair the colour, the bright, luminous colour, of carrots.
"Pray sit down, child," said Mrs Levy, in that cold, formal tone that she used to strike fear into the hearts of her schoolgirls. Beatrice did as told; but Mrs Levy fancied she saw a defiant streak in those emerald-green eyes. "How was your journey?" asked the headmistress. This was the question by which she determined the character of new inmates.
Princess Beatrice smiled slightly. Mrs Levy did not like that smile. There was something impish about it. "My journey was fairly tolerable, Ma'am," she said gravely. Mrs Levy drew a sigh of relief: this was the established answer. The tone of voice could, perhaps, have been a little less dramatic, but all in all, satisfactory.
But then Beatrice added, "Though we had to stop several times due to vagabonds, highwaymen and beggars. It seems there is something rotten in the state of Commons." Mrs Levy's mouth opened in astonishment. Any mention of the lower classes was explicitly against decorum, and the criticism of state! - But then, they were rather free-thinking in Starcastle. Mrs Levy pressed her lips together. School would break her. That was what school was for.
"I bring a letter from my parents," said Beatrice.
"Thank you," replied the headmistress, taking it. "Pigeon will now take you to your room. I trust you will find it comfortable and convenient."
Beatrice bowed her head. "I'm sure I shall." And, with a sparkle of the eyes, she rose from her seat, and followed the butler out of the room.
As soon as they were out of sight, Mrs Levy took her crystal-embedded letter opener and cut through the royal seal. The paper inside was light, thin, and white as snow. Made from trees, she supposed. Very progressive indeed. Still...nothing like the old parchment.
Dear Mrs Levy, read the letter,
We are sending you our daughter, who, as she is now sixteen, is now obliged by law to attend Interkingdom College. However, we ask that she should not be impelled to attend sewing, dancing, and etiquette classes, but rather allowed to spend this time studying the classics of literature, philosophy, and mathematics. We trust this shall not be difficult, as we understand the Interkingdom Library has a room full of books on each of these subjects.
Kind regards,
King Redmond and Queen Narcis Etherella of Starcastle
Mrs Levy stared at the paper in her hands for a moment. This was unheard of! Disgraceful! Never had such a thing happened to her in her twenty years of teaching at the institution. She felt her heart beating faster in her chest. What manners! Breathing deeply, she crumpled the paper in her hands. It gave no resistance. It was fragile, much more fragile than parchment. It crumpled easily.
"Nobody tells me what to do," said the headmistress aloud. And she threw the paper into the fire, watching with strange pleasure as it dissolved in the flames.
"This is your room, Princess," said Pigeon, in that quaint, mildly peevish tone peculiar to butlers. "The porter will be here shortly with your things."
Beatrice stepped into the room, her lips warped by a repressed smile. Then all of a sudden she burst out laughing.
Pigeon blinked several times, like a dazed owl. "Is...everything all right, Princess?"
The girl collapsed onto the frilly pink bed, still laughing like a wild thing. "Yes," she said, "everything is fine. It's just - I wonder, are all the rooms like this?"
"Like - what, Princess?" asked Pigeon, slightly ruffled. He had never been thus interrogated in his life.
"All bows and lace. Airs and graces. Frills and what-nots."
"What?"
"-Nots."
Pigeon cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. "All the rooms are the same, Princess. Mrs Levy fitted them all up herself with great taste. You will not find more elegant rooms in Europe."
She only snickered. "I'm sorry, Mr Butler, but I don't find this elegant. Over-the-top, elaborate, saccharine, yes...but not in the slightest bit elegant. There is elegance in simplicity, Mr Butler, not in artificiality."
"Pigeon," grunted the butler.
"Where?" said the princess, peering out the window.
"Pigeon. That's my name," said Pigeon crossly.
"Oh! Sorry, Mr Pigeon."
"Will that be all, Princess?"
"Yes, yes, you may go." And, as he turned to leave - "Columbidae."
"What's that, Princess?" Pigeon was by now positively frowning.
"Columbidae. That's the family pigeons come from. Within the order Columbiformes?"
"If you say so, Princess. Goodbye."
"Bye." She bit her lip, smiling. Poor man. Perhaps she shouldn't have teased him. Perhaps she shouldn't have shocked him by speaking her mind. But then, after growing up in the dignified simplicity of Starcastle Palace, this room felt ridiculous. She hadn't been within two miles of such baubles since she was five.
Stretching out on the bed, she hummed quietly to herself the song of the toreadors. And then, as if by a miracle, a second voice joined her, harmonising her melody perfectly. She turned to look: it was coming from outside, but she could see nobody. She leapt out of bed with the energy of a gazelle. The voice grew louder, and suddenly a tousled dark head of hair appeared, framed by the open window and the vines curving round it. It was her cousin, Prince Waldstein, with what looked like part of the garden growing inside his brown linen shirt.
"Walden!" she exclaimed, running over to him. "Walden, what on earth are you doing here?"
"Shh," he said, carefully climbing into the room. "Is there anybody listening behind the door?"
"No - no, I don't think so," said Beatrice, more softly. "But the porter's supposed to come soon."
"In that case, I'll be quick." He gave her a bear hug, brushing some sharp twigs against her in the process. "Bea, I'm here on a mission."
"On a -"
"Mission, yes. For the Royal Secret Service."
"Oh!" Beatrice looked rather confused. She hadn't heard anything about her cousin joining the Royal Secret Service...
"You know the story of the twelve dancing princesses?" he said. "Well someone's trying to re-enact it here, we think with criminal intent."
"But - no one ever told me you were - "
"First job," said Walden, smiling. "Don't worry, old girl, I'm going to be subtle about it. Got a place as an undergardener."
"Hence the Green Man look."
"Hence the Green Man look," he confirmed, grinning.
"Do your parents know? Do my parents know?"
"N-no," he said, "not exactly."
"Waldo!" she said reproachfully.
"For heaven's sake, you know how I despise that name. No one must know, absolutely no one, not even Mama. The story is that I've run off with some gypsy girl."
"But - "
"Trust me."
"But...I know," she pointed out.
"Well...yes. But I thought you might be able to help me."
"Help you?" She smiled. How exciting that sounded!
"A bit of inside information. You know the deal." He gave her a wink. "Now I'd really better go, before that confounded porter - "
Just then they heard voices in the corridor. High-pitched, girly voices.
"Run!" whispered Beatrice desperately, helping him back out the window. He clutched at the drainpipe, but just as Beatrice's door opened, the piping gave way - and he went crashing down to the ground.
"What was that?" cried Beatrice's three visitors in unison.
"It's nothing - I'm sure," began Beatrice, but the girls had already rushed over to the window.
"Oh look! A gardener sprawled over the ground!"
"Do you think he's hurt?"
"What's that metal thing on top of him?"
"He must have been attacked!"
"Funny to attack someone with a drainpipe, don't you think, Alice?" This was spoken by a tall, dark-haired girl; her voice carried the chill of frost. She was obviously the eldest of the three. "Princess Elise of Mayorbridge," she said, turning to Beatrice and curtseying. Beatrice hurriedly returned the curtsey. "And these are Princesses Alice of Laudum and Therese of Novaria," continued Elise, indicating each with her silk-gloved hand.
"How kind of you to visit me," said Beatrice, remembering her etiquette though her heart was still beating fast.
Elise did not condescend to reply to this. "We will have to report it, of course," she said, walking back over to the window with arched eyebrows. "It is standard procedure to report, anything that is found amiss, you see."
"Q-quite," stuttered Beatrice.
There was a groan: the figure below had begun to move.
"Do you think he is in great pain?" asked the fair one - called Alice, thought Beatrice, making a mental note. Solicitous, kind; perhaps a little inclined to fainting spells and such. Not like the tall one.
Elise now proceeded to exit the room; and Beatrice thought she heard the strangest thing. It sounded as if Elise said, "He will be when I'm done with him." But of course, she must have imagined it. Such an attitude could not be possible even in the most unpleasant person!
As the door closed, the second girl - Therese - turned to Beatrice -
"And what's your name?" When Beatrice told her, she crinkled her nose slightly, and said, "That's an odd name!"
"It's from Much Ado About Nothing," said Beatrice, the colour growing in her cheeks. "By Shakespeare?"
"How very peculiar..."
"I like it," said Alice, as if she was confiding something important.
"You like everything, Alice," said Therese. Alice bit her lip. "Welcome to Interkingdom College, Beatrice."
"I-I'd much rather you just called me Bea."
"Bea?"
"Like the buzzing bee?"
"Sort of. It's a nickname."
"How quaint!" exclaimed Therese. Beatrice had a feeling she wasn't going to like her very much either.
"And you can call me Ally," said Alice, evidently to Therese's disapproval: for she, also, left the room, claiming she had some study to do.
"So how do you like it here?" the petite, blonde princess eagerly enquired as soon as they were alone.
"It's...very interesting," said Beatrice, leaning out the window. Mrs Levy and Elise were pulling a stammering Waldstein off the ground, drainpipe and all. "Very interesting indeed."
Author's Note: Hope you liked it. Even if you didn't, please review - it makes a huge difference to me and the way I write. Any comments and criticism, whether positive or negative, are greatly encouraged. Thanks, Igi
