3
Penelope sighed deeply, quietly, and watched her reflection in the cheval glass, watched her lady Mistress Spinnet slide a comb through the heavy mass of her long brown hair, adding the finishing touches on the ensemble with which the Princess was to wear to meet her husband. Her stomach was a churning tide of nerves, the anticipation and hope a deadly combination as she knew the reunion ultimately depended on the good will and amusement of Lord Wood. Penelope had had three years to build a cold patrician façade and thus the tears that wished to flow freely were forbidden to come, not even in the privacy of her chamber or in front of those of unquestionable loyalty like Alicia Spinnet—the Princess would not tolerate weakness in her person, not when her family and people depended on her as a mark of strength. It was becoming a desperately difficult burden however, which made this visit with Percy all the more important.
It had been thirty days since she had last seen her husband.
The castle was their home and their prison; the Prince and Princess were housed in separate wings, the better to batter down their defences, the better to catch either of them breaking their own oaths due to emotional torture and thus release all from those self-same oaths. The oaths kept everyone safe and Penelope would rather betray her heart than the small folk and servants that depended on her spine of steel. There could be no tears for royalty even when her beloved and her young son were used as pawns to keep her subservient.
"This dress is lovely, Your Highness," Alicia praised with genial cheerfulness, a cheerfulness Penelope knew was entirely for her own benefit as with most Mistress Spinnet's tongue was dabbed with sarcastic wit and repugnance, a privately welcome change from the terror or bitter apathy most of the staff had adopted. Survival could be ugly but it was as it had to be.
"Beauty means little these days," she sighed again, smoothing a hand down her soft lamb's wool tunic, the blue complementing the cream sheen of her spun silk dress. "I would much rather have an appearance of luck than simply an appearance." It could have been construed as cruel to say so. In three years of occupation there had only been one message sent by the King and Penelope had been inclined to hand that over unopened to Lord Wood as soon as it had left the poor Page's hands. The boy had been killed in front of her—though few had knowledge of the fact—an apparently needed lesson in how easily her own child's life could be taken away. It was hard to imagine good prospects at this point.
"We often must make our own luck, Your Highness," Alicia murmured innocently, prompting Penelope to turn around, an unsettled expression briefly flashing over her face before a heavy pounding on her boudoir door made them both start, hands grasping for then quickly dropping away from the comfort of a shared clasp or squeeze of solidarity.
"Come along, Highness. You paramour awaits!"
Penelope locked her jaw momentarily, a sudden image of ripping the eyes from the owner of the most despised voice nearly staggering her. Lord Roger Davies: the knife waiting to strike, the swollen abscess, the all-seeing eye. Her shadow. She swallowed and pulled back her shoulders, prepared to face his lecherous stares and insincere visage.
"At once milord."
He was waiting with offered arm as soon as she crossed the threshold and, as refusing held repercussions Penelope would never consider, she laid a cool hand over his velvet doublet and moved into step along with the villain's easy stride. She did not initiate conversation, did not blush or affect any sign of discomfort at the sensation of Roger's eyes clawing over her bare throat or sloping bosom—the Princess would give no encouragement to what she knew to expect anyway. Alicia trailed behind, far enough not to incur Lord Davies' annoyance or to disrupt her Lady's stoicism for which Penelope was grateful.
"Are you dressing to impress, Highness?" he raised an eyebrow, lips supremely smug as if baiting a small animal, confident in the end result. Oh how she despised his mocking voice! "It's been quite a while since Perceval's even seen a woman. Such dedication to your attire is a misplaced extravagance." It was not a simple slight against her husband or her style. Roger meant to imply her love had received no healing attention, no care at all in the last month, but Penelope was unfazed.
"An extravagance would be to wear my dowry jewels to simply enter another wing," the elegant royal made her own not-so-veiled snubs. "That would most assuredly be a misplaced endeavour."
Though the three Lords persisted in emulating a charade of courtesy—though she was pained to admit that Diggory seemed a pawn to the other two—they were nothing but thieves and murderers, having confiscated anything of visible worth soon after their coup. Jewels, crowns, and the like that were left were brought out only for balcony addresses to the populace. She fought the grimace as Roger halted their progress.
"I would have to disagree, Highness." Penelope's features were blank as he raised a free hand to remove a non-existent piece of something from her tunic, fingertips grazing over her neckline, lingering. There was no philosophical discourse coming and the Princess put another lock on her temper hoping Alicia would do the same. "Such a desire would mean seeking out one of my brothers in arms…or myself." There was a flash of teeth, a brush against her inner wrist and then a slow squeeze. "It would never be deemed a misplaced endeavour to pursue my company. Or have I been too subtle in my attentions as of late?" There was no time to generate a suitable retort as Alicia quickly cleared her throat.
"The Prince is waiting, Your Highness. Milord."
"Thank you for reminding us Mistress Spinet." Roger's eyes were as cold as well water as he turned slightly towards her lady-in-waiting and Penelope had an urge to tell the woman to run fast and far. Instead she swallowed more of her pride, stepped back, and replaced her hand on his arm.
"Shall we continue?"
There wasn't even a nod before they proceeded once again down the corridor, taking the next right…in the direction of her solar. "Are we taking a scenic promenade?"
"Do you wish to?" Roger's lips curled. "Your son is waiting for you."
Penelope felt her insides freeze. No. No, Arthur was playing outside with Neville—under the watchful gaze of severely armed guards but playing nonetheless. She was supposed to see him at dinner. "Yes, I summoned the dear Prince to play a hand or two of whist. He'll find it enjoyable and I hoped it would take the worry off your shoulders, Highness." If she had not known better Penelope may have confused that mocking tone of his for true sincerity. "None truly know the dangers inherent in this world until tragedy strikes. Wouldn't you agree?"
Thirty days since she had last seen her husband thirty days since she had last seen her…
"Of course. Milord."
4
"She wants what?!"
There was a whack and Alicia grasped her arm, giving Katie a sullen yet remorseful glare. "Sorry, sorry," she whispered, not sounding very sorry but knowing the necessity in keeping her harridan mouth quiet. "But I'm not giving The Witch a lock of my hair!"
Neville worried his salt and pepper hat, rolling the thick tweed material between his calloused, work-weary hands as he watched the two intimidating women warily. His eyes were downcast but his ears were perked, listening for the sound of heels stopped around corners, of the clatter of cutlery from a servant passing through; even a man as naturally congenial as he knew not everyone could be trusted and that war made people desperate for any sort of edge.
A gardener would never be considered a threat by men who killed with impunity, never considered intelligent or worth suspicion, and while his pride—and body—had taken many blows since the Catchpole Occupation, Neville would always be grateful that the Lords thought him too stupid to be involved with plans of espionage. Unlike everyone else who worked for the royal family he still had the freedom to come and go and whatever he could do to help he would. Even if it meant conversing with Luna Lovegood, The Witch. In a kingdom like theirs that welcomed all kinds of personas, The Witch had been crowned with a mystique both dreaded and revered. Cannibal, prophetess, spell caster, mad: the blind woman had been labelled with monikers a hundred times over—most of which had to be lies, Neville reassured himself repeatedly, or the Weasley Kings would have banished her ages ago. That was the true root of the problem. Age. The Witch had been an object of apprehension in Catchpole since the time of his forefathers, though her countenance remained that of one no older than himself. And as far as the elders were concerned this kind of witchcraft could only be brought about by a follower of the Black Arts. Mistress Bell had taken more then her own safety into jeopardy on a recent visit to The Witch, but Neville trusted these women he had seen give so much of themselves since King William's soldiers marched out.
"There's no time to argue Alicia," Katie's voice was hushed but firm. "If hair is what it will take to help Princess Ginevra then I'll shave myself bald and so will you! As it is now Lovegood is only asking for a lock from each of us, Princesses and Prince Arthur included."
"Are…are things so dire?" Neville ventured, slowly donning his hat. The status quo was currently acceptable was it not? He blushed hotly, suddenly feeling terrible for such callous thoughts. He didn't have the likes of the Lords breathing down his neck.
"There is no ease from the sleeping sickness Neville," the woman's eyes were filled with a dread resolve, "none that I can offer in any case. Hope is passing us all by and I will not let the Princess' life pass with it." She slipped a hand into the large front pocket of her grubby apron, lifting free a tightly rolled piece of light blue fabric that even a peasant like Neville could recognize as a section of the late Queen Mollina's wedding gown. Alicia's mouth dropped and Neville was about to protest but Katie shook her head and pushed the item into his grasp. "Give him some of your hair Alicia and be quick about it, we haven't time for your squeamishness!" The other maid glowered then reached up to tug a thin lock from the back of her head. There was a grunt and a wince but she passed it over without an argument.
"What—what do you wish of me?"
Katie gave him a kinder look but it was only momentary.
"She will not hurt you Neville, I swear it, but you must bring this to her with all speed."
As he looked down at the material in his hands, a fabric worth more than his home, Neville swallowed.
"They say she eats strangers who venture into her hut."
The blond became incredulous then shook her head with a sigh.
"Bring The Witch dinner then and perhaps she'll be merciful."