Dearest Rumple,
My father and I have had to make the sort of decision we detest, especially coming after years of war: to raise taxes. Again. You Ramsgaters have probably already heard this: we made a public announcement of it last week, preferring to be direct and frank about it, though some of our advisors recommended we try to sneak it in, creating a number of small additional taxes rather than increasing the property tax noticeably. My mother argued for this idea, by the way; "small nips rather than one large bite," she said, "will hurt less overall." And there is some merit, we felt, to the idea that creating a group of taxes, as King George has—merchants in Hamshire have been made unofficial tax collectors, in effect, by being required to charge a tax on all sales, and there are also new taxes on imported items, livestock and schools. The gray men, as you can imagine, argued strongly for this approach, claiming that it would spread the responsibilities of supporting the government across all classes. I, along with the majority of our advisors, however, argued that the poor need to retain what little income they're able to make. There are far too many living on the streets as it is, including those who were permanently disabled in battle and those whose farms were destroyed by ogres. In the end, after much deliberation and loss of sleep, and after listening to Mother's and my arguments, my father made the decision alone—it would be on his head alone, he said; and if the people never forgave him, the blame need not carry over to me when I inherit the throne. This business of financing a kingdom is the most miserable aspect of governance, my father says, because it there is no way to do it that will not cause long-term pain.
And so the property taxes will be increased by five percent. The nobles will complain the loudest but I fear it is the small households that will feel it the worst. Even you, my dear friend, with your small patch of land will have to dig deeper into your pocket to support your King. Believe me, my father did not take this decision easily. He knows that so many families are hungry now and an increased tax will take food from the table. But it is our hope that this increase will be temporary, two years at the most, and it is necessary. Not only to rebuild our villages, demolished in war; not only to provide medical care and housing for wounded veterans and their widows and orphans; but also to create a new economy for all of Aramore, as we shift our industrial spending from the tools of war to the tools of peace: schools, roads, training for the jobs that will be needed in the new world we hope to create. Within two years, we believe, this shift will be far enough along that those peacetime industries will be self-sustaining, building everyone's income overall, so that the government can then spend less and take in less.
In the meantime, however, tensions mount. The Council of Nobles has been meeting independent of us, first in secret, but now openly, and when they come to Ravershire for their monthly meetings they are well organized and well armed in their plans to undermine us. Time is on our side, my mother assures us; soon, as they see the results of our efforts, their hunger for our blood will wane. Father is not so confident; he has been meeting in secret too, with Midas and other leaders, to consider his options. Mother and I, meanwhile, are taking your counsel to heart: we have been "pouring honey," as you would say, on the heads of each and every noble house in the land, one by one, bringing them to Ravershire for teas, throwing balls for their daughters' comings-out, granting plum assignments for their sons. For a few, the most recalcitrant and the most influential, we have even gone to them. This is hardly ever done: you may be invited to visit the King, but the King does not come to visit you. But my mother and I make our "social calls" to those we most need on our side. We flatter, we charm, but we do not ask their support; that would be weakness, and if they smell weakness, they will take advantage. No, after we've flattered and charmed, we require of them their support. When we have them eating from our glove, we quickly slide the bit between their teeth and then we lead them by the bridle where we will have them go.
Mother excels at this work, and she teaches me painstakingly, but I am a slow learner. Like Father, I just don't have the patience. We are so grateful, Father and I, to have a woman of her skill in on our side. You have this skill, too, my Rumple, if only you would see it. I may be the Ogre Expert, but you are the King Charmer, winning over my father and his generals as certainly as you did Ely.
And me.
Yours always,
Belle
My dear Belle,
It's true there is some disgruntlement in Ramsgate over the tax increase, but your father's decision to waive the taxes on veterans' property has taken some of the sting out of it. And last year's harvest was satisfactory, so the general feeling is that we will muddle through. His Grace Duke Gorvenal visited our village personally to announce the new taxes and to assure us the increase is temporary and will result in lasting benefits for the entire kingdom. He stayed with us for three days, participating in our spring festival and giving out the awards at our fishing tournament. He even slept in the inn and drank at the Hog's Head, buying a round for all the customers, so his reputation with us is solid and we take him at his word. Of course, I take your father at his word, as well.
The village is divided over whether it was a wise decision to make a treaty with the giants. Most who lost a loved one in the war believe that we should have slaughtered the last of the ogres when we had the opportunity. It's not always revenge that drives this belief: sometimes it's fear that the ogres will rise again. I find myself in the odd role sometimes of speaking on behalf of your father; the village seems to think that, having served under him, I speak for him. I preface all my answers to their questions with a firm qualifier that my opinion is mine alone, but sometimes my disclaimer is ignored. What I try to make clear to all who challenge the treaty is that the ogres no longer exist, not in Aramore, not anywhere.
Some will never be convinced. From my own experience, I know that the capacity for forgiveness does not reside in some people. But in time, I am certain, most will come to feel differently about the giants, as they did about me.
I trust you are well, and safe, and finding contentment in resuming your royal duties and satisfaction in resuming your school. I think about you in everything I do.
Rumple
Dearest Rumple,
A letter from Governor Janshai arrived today (with another drawing from our shared child, this one of Bae and Morraine). Upon arrival in Maelyss, Janshai sent out inquiries throughout the seven civilized nations to ascertain the whereabouts of any existing ogres, if any (he is certain there are none, that when we broke the curse, any ogres anywhere would have turned back into giants, but he wants definitive proof to reassure us humans). He has had responses from two nations so far: no ogre sightings.
He also sent out word that any tribes of giants living anywhere are invited to join his tribe in Maelyss. So far he's had no answer; he really doesn't expect one, as he believes the Dark One killed off all tribes but his. After much deliberation, my father, the Generals and I decided it's best to not to share this part of Janshai's news with anyone else, especially the Council of Nobles. It would cause needless upset; there is already such fervor for revenge that to suggest there is even the slightest possibility of bands of giants coming together to form a nation would create a panic. If Janshai's belief is disproven—if any other tribes of giants emerge—then we will release that news to the public. But I've pored through every history of the giants and Merdock the Mage, and I've found nothing that suggests Janshai is wrong in what he told us about the curse. It seems that Merdock was as thorough in his curse-casting as he was ambitious: he considered himself in competition with his predecessors and wished to go down in history as the most powerful of all Dark Ones.
I suppose I should be relieved that there are no other giants in the world, but instead, I find myself mourning for them and praying for their future. What must it feel like, to know that your people are on the verge of extinction? How much more important it is that the rebuilding of Maelyss is successful and quick, and that enemies, pestilence and plague are kept at bay. Janshai's tribe must survive, and right now, the chances are poor. There are only seventy of them, and of those, only twenty children. What anxiety that must produce, that the future of their entire species rests on so few. But Janshai tells us they have a strong faith that they lean on, so they are hopeful.
Although it is another two weeks before the ambassador exchange takes place, Captain Fendral and three others set out for Maelyss today, driving wagons filled with farming implements, seed, canvas and tools. I slipped a small stack of storybooks into their crates; the children of Maelyss need some entertainment. My father is so proud of these volunteers that he rode out with them, parting company from them only when they reached the edge of Avonlea. Some of our citizens, led by the Bishop, walked alongside the volunteers. It was, the Bishop said, a political statement, meant to support the King, as well as a religious one, meant to promote forgiveness. It was a stirring sight: priests, old folks and veterans, cheering for our volunteers and singing "O Aramore"; children waving flags and drawings of what they imagine the giants look like. I wish you had been here to see it.
I wish you had been here.
Yours,
Belle
My dear Belle,
Even as my son and his bride scamper about, collecting the things they will need for their life in Maelyss, saying goodbye to friends and being feasted by them, and by people who barely know them, a sort of a heavy quiet has settled over the neighborhood. We three parents who are about to be parted from our only children keep our hands constantly busy, sewing and mending clothing, sharpening tools, wrapping nonperishable foods, and packing, packing, packing, fitting and refitting everything that must be taken, most of what should be taken, and a little of what could be left behind but what will provide comfort and memories of home. But even as we work, we fall silent, saddened by our impending loss. Two years is such a long time.
When it was just our two families, what we planned to send with our children would fill a handcart. But as Morraine and Bae went round making their farewells, the pile grew with goodbye gifts. At first, these were things deemed necessary for young pioneers journeying to an uninhabited land, but then Forthworth changed the whole tenor of the giving when he and Rulf appeared at my gate with five goats. Belle, the value of this gift was equal to a season's income for Fort's family, but he and Rulf shepherded the goats into the pen where I keep my two sheep. "To take on your trip," Fort said, and Morraine said this gift was far too generous, and it was: two goats would have kept a young couple well supplied with milk and cheese.
"There's babies in Maelyss. They're gonna need milk," Fort said.
We realized then that the goats weren't meant for Bae and Morraine, but for the benefit of the giants. We were left speechless, for, as you will remember, Fort and his wife Beryl lost two of their sons to ogres, and Rulf lost an arm. For them to give so much to their enemies—it still leaves me speechless. Bae and I then took Rulf and Fort to the tavern for a thank-you drink, and as we talked about the gift, I came to realize just how wise my friend is. Because he is so large and has spent his life working in the fields, people believe him to be slow of mind. Perhaps a slowness of mind is beneficial: slowness gives a man time to think ahead. That's just what Fort was doing when he rounded up five goats. By providing for his former enemies' children, he is ensuring an end to the enmity. For what father could hate or fear a farmer who provides milk for his children?
Others in the tavern heard us as we talked, and on the next morning I woke to find five baskets on my lawn, filled with food, dishes, cloth and tools. There were even six tankards that I recognized from the tavern. There was no note—even now, so few in Ramsgate can read—and no one stood by to explain, but the size of the donation was in itself indication for its intended use: two small humans could not use all this.
When Bae and Morraine join the other ambassadors in Avonlea next week, they will be riding in a wagon driven by the local freighter, with baskets and a spinning wheel in the bed. Trotting alongside them will be five goats and two sheep, driven by a spotted dog that Luke raised from a pup.
Bae says surely no prince ever felt so rich.
Yes, many in Ramsgate still cry out for revenge against the giants. Many are angry with His Majesty for making peace instead of seeking "justice." But some have forgiven, and some, like Fort, are brave enough to make that forgiveness public knowledge. I would give my eyeteeth for courage like Fort's.
Rumple
Dearest Rumple,
What an emotional day! At the dawning of the day, out on the field where our soldiers practice for war, a huge tent was erected, a tent three times bigger than any we've ever had, because it had to accommodate our giant guests. Under the tent an array of tables and chairs were set up: four of the tables were three times as big as the rest, for they were meant to seat the giants. Winding in and out among the tables were footmen bearing pitchers of water and ale, decanters of wines and pots of tea; then behind them, more footmen bearing trays laden with bread, butter and jam; bowls of pea soup and leek soup; pork pot pies; fried oranges and dried apples.
As we do when we host a ball, we hired footmen, cooks and maids from neighboring estates: they arrived last night and went straight to work preparing this feast. It will be late tonight when they return to their homes, exhausted, but their pockets heavy. It is lucrative to work at the King's festivals; it is also a mark of distinction, to be handpicked by your lord or lady for this service. The nobles seek to outdo each other, setting their servants in competition, house against house: at the festivals you will hear one blueblood brag to another, "That's my man Giles, serving the wine. His Majesty's butler Ulrich appointed him the task, as there's no more knowledgeable sommelier in Aramore." Or "Those capons were prepared by my Tessie, from a secret recipe handed down through five generations of our cooks. Delectable, are they not?"
Their uniforms ironed, their boots shined, their backs stiff as a board, the footmen bent at the waist, balancing heavy trays with one gloved hand while the guests scooped up the delicacies. Their Majesties, (that's Father, Mother and me) seated on a dais, were served first, of course, and we sat with stiff backs too, our hands folded neatly in our laps as we waited for all to be served, and we spoke quietly to the guests on either side of us. There were fifty guests altogether, an uncomfortable mix of giants, nobles, and generals, and a visiting prince or two; over the course of the breakfast, which lasted four hours, we were entertained by poets, jugglers, musicians and (by my request) a storyteller.
You know me, Rumple. I am bored silly by these feasts. But this one was different, because we were welcoming the incoming ambassadors: sixteen male giants and fourteen females, all adults (two years from now, if this program has succeeded, the giants may send a family or two). And we were bidding farewell to the outgoing ambassadors: six soldiers, five farmers, a goatherd, a well-digger, and seven builders. I suppose I should say "former soldiers," since these men and women will be doing peacetime work, cutting roads, erecting houses, making shoes and clothes. As protocol dictates, these commoners were seated at the far end of the tent, safely out of range of the nobles, who were seated, in order of rank, at the King's table. My father violated protocol a bit by seating his three generals at his table, but the gray men have become used to this: my father has always honored his military thus.
At the second table were the giants. We have learned that, before the curse, most of them were farmers (you may remember Barric the beekeeper; he volunteered to come here, having been informed that we keep bees at Ravershire). One of them was a scribe, however, and I am anxious to meet with her; she will document this grand experiment. They call her not by her birth name, but by her title: Mithmere, which means "memory" in the ancient language of the giants. I like the name; it sounds cheerful.
By protocol, even though we were honoring the ambassadors, the Royal Family was expected to remain seated, speaking only to those at our table. I could see the twinkle in my father's eye, however, so it didn't surprise me when, after the second course had been served, he rose and strode, in no uncertain steps, toward the giants' table, where he shook hands and spoke several long minutes with each, even the women (angonizingly long, for the nobles; I heard some of them whisper, debating whether this breach of manners should be permitted, though Dalibor put an end to it by snorting, "Did you expect otherwise from His Majesty? Remember who his father was.") He then sat with them (a footman had to scurry to bring an appropriately sized chair for him) and ate from a plate in his lap (since he couldn't reach the table) and chatted through the second course. Twice he rose to call the room to order and propose a toast to the health, courage and generosity of spirit of the volunteers, both giant and human.
As the final course (sliced cheeses, sugared almonds and honey-mustard eggs) was being served, he rose again and strolled over to our ambassadors' table. Here he sat for more than an hour, and drank many times to their health (too many, Mother complained when we retired for the evening). This gave me the opening I longed for: I too went to the giants' table and chatted a while, securing their promise to come and teach classes at my school (we'll have to meet outdoors, since the giants can't fit in the castle, but the children will love that). Mithmere and I, in consultation with Janshai, agreed to work together to write a history of the giants; I hope to distribute this book throughout the seven civilized nations when we've finished. I think all the peoples of the world should do the same, to foster understanding.
As my mother, chin up, gathered her skirts, brushed past the bluebloods and came to speak with the giants, I moved along to the human ambassadors' table. I made my rounds, but as soon as I could I came to Baelfire and Morraine. Your son leapt to his feet to fetch me a chair before the footman could blink twice—what a gentleman you've raised, Rumple. His manners, unlike those of the nobles, are natural. Morraine and I easily fell into conversation, until, too soon, my mother appeared by my side, asked to be introduced, then after a few moments of chitchat, urged me back to the head table, for it was time for my father's speech.
At noon, the army brought forth ten well-provisioned and well-packed wagons, as well as riding horses for our five departing soldiers (Bae showed off the saddle you had given him, as well as the sheep and the spinning wheel, and the goats from Forthworth and the dog from Lucas. Bae said he was quite moved, especially for the two sheep, because he remembers how long it took you to save up for them; and Morraine said she considers it an honor to have your wheel, and a sacred responsibility to take care of it so that someday their children can spin from it.) I had to turn away at this, because a Princess isn't supposed to cry in public (though as we waved goodbye to our intrepid volunteers, Mother and I and even Father had to blink away tears).
I tell you all this, Rumple, because I wanted to assure you (though I imagine you already know) that Father and Mother fully appreciate the sacrifice these volunteers and their families and their communities are making, in the name of peace. Their welfare will be our concern every moment of every day for the next two years, and when they return, we will call for a kingdom-wide day of celebration.
I mentioned Dalibor earlier: you will remember, he is Gaston's father, and he bore news that brought me some relief, though consternation: Gaston is engaged to marry Aurora, daughter of King Stephan of the Green Mountains. Aurora is a friend of mine, from our doll days, and I know her to be perceptive and outspoken: how she allowed herself to be conned by Gaston, I have no idea, though I suppose it has something to do with money and political alliance. I fear for her and as soon as I finish this letter, I'll go to Mother and ask to be permitted to visit Aurora. I aim to get to the bottom of this. I hope, in fact, to upend this vile plan.
If I may be a little bit selfish, or at least, protective of my people, Dalibor reported that Gaston will resign his commission next month so that he can take up a role in Stephan's court. I'm sure Darain will be glad to see the back of him.
I have a secret hope, Rumple. I'm sure you've guessed it. Sometime before our heroes return to Avonlea, I hope to visit them in their Maelyss home. I hope to see firsthand this brave new community. I hope Ely will remember me.
Yours,
Belle
P. S. Thank you for the rolls! Delicious!
Dear Belle,
Your letter stirs my emotions more than any novel could. I thank you and your parents for honoring the volunteer ambassadors with a grand feast. I'm sure Morraine's eyes were large as plates throughout the entire day, for she'd never seen a city before, let alone a royal festival. The last thing Bae said to me before they left was that he was confident in the success of this venture, because it's the right thing to do. He promised to represent His Majesty to the best of his ability and to make Ramsgate proud.
It was harder than ever to let him go after that.
Quiet as our neighborhood is, the village itself is shifting. With money raised by passing the hat from house to house, a friend of Bae's has gone off to study at the Academy Medicina. When he completes his classes, he will apprentice with a physician for three years, after which, Ramsgate will have its first doctor.
Rulf has left as well, for Bogamir, where he will work in an inn. He hopes to establish his own one day. Fort, Luke and I gather on Friday nights at the Hog's Head to commiserate. "The Old Farts Guild," Luke calls us.
A local carpenter has agreed to build a spinning wheel to my specifications; I am working on a design that I hope will take some of the strain off my leg and back. To raise money for this wheel, I am teaching reading to seven children, so I suppose you could say Ramsgate now has a school of sorts. The children come from all walks of life—the son of the tavern swamper attends, paying for his tuition by mucking out barns. This pleases me, to teach the children of laborers as well as those of artisans, but I am dismayed that there are no girls in my class. It has taken many years to convince Ramsgate of the value of literacy, but none yet, except Luke and Gretchen, have seen fit to educate their daughters. In fact, some are quite vocal in their opposition: give a girl a book and she'll never pick up a broom again, they cry. I can see reluctance in the eyes of the parents who send their boys to my class, a fear that education will separate them from their families as well as their peers, make them arrogant and ambitious, discontent. Make them want to follow Morraine, Bae, Borin and Rulf out of Ramsgate.
Luke, Fort and I understand this fear. We live it. Will our children, once educated to the world, come back to us? It's a hard thing to let our lambs go, but we ask ourselves, would it not be harder to tie them down? And we are proud to bursting of their bravery.
Thank you for the book on animal husbandry, which I shared with Fort. He immediately asked me to read him the chapter about tending wounds, for the new billy he bought has quite the temper and has given the nannies some grievous bites. As for me, I honed in on the chapter about the care of older animals. Midnight has slowed down in her old age, her eyesight dimming and her reflexes not as quick, so I had hoped for advice that might rejuvenate her, but the book had no information about cats. As she is the oldest cat in Ramsgate, no one here can offer guidance, so I am experimenting. I sewed a toy for her and I set aside an hour each day on chase-the-mouse games.
Would you select for me next some picture books suitable for children learning to read?
Rumple