Prologue
The first messenger had arrived hours ago and the kingdom was waiting breathlessly for the army's return.
As night fell the first pinpricks of torchlight became visible across the horizon, a long winding snake of fire unfurled like a maidens braid as King Frederick's army came closer and closer into view. The army had been triumphant and the people waiting on the ramparts of the castle hooted and hollered for their king and kinsfolk to return. The castle quaked with anticipation.
The preparations had started after the queen met with the messenger, and continued even now. The fires in the dining hall and the king's study were lit. Sizzling hunks of meat turned slowly by the sooty hands of kitchen boys on long iron spits in the great hall. The heavy aroma of the feast to come permeated each room of the castle, from the lowest dungeons to the highest towers.
Scattered herbs, lavender, rose, and sundry flowers were thick underfoot, their scents wafting up to the guests as they made their way into the great hall. Brynhild, though, was at ease in her solitude, keeping to her tasks. She had allowed herself one quick look out of the window of the tallest tower, pulling aside the tapestry to view the procession as they made their way into the city gates. She only needed to see him once, to reassure herself, that all was well, and when she had that glimpse, she returned to her daily work, cupping the acorn size bump of her abdomen, and tampering her longing down.
After the first messenger departed from his audience with the queen, Brynhild had retreated to the garden. She pulled the necessary ingredients up from the earth, gathering handfuls of fennel and sage for the roasting pork. The onions in the field were as big as her closed fists and she gathered as many as she could into her quilted knapsack for the boiling pot. After she retreated to the kitchen, she scored an ear of lettuce with her hunting knife until the leaves were as thin as eyelashes. She also crushed cinnamon and nutmeg into a marble mixing bowl and blended it into the pitchers of spiced wine.
When the bustle of the castle became too much for her, she retreated to sanctuary of the queen's chamber, sighing at the blessed relief of the solitude. She scattered rosemary under the bed, rubbing the leafy stalks into her cupped hands, trying to displace the lingering stench of the vegetable and soup pot she had helped with earlier.
She swept her hair away from her face, the black curls falling down her back like a waterfall at midnight. As the first battalions of wayward and homesick soldiers crossed the gate, she went to the princess crib, swaddling the tiny baby in her arms. This child—Frederick's daughter—was a sweet natured girl and she slept on in Brynhild's arms despite the clammer and commotion going on in the household below. This child could not understand, as Brynhild did, that her father was finally home.
She stroked the child's warm tender skin from her forehead to the bridge of her nose. Her eyelids were as delicate as moth wings.
"There now, my darling."
The countryside was cut open by the inky blackness of night, and somewhere, far below her, Frederick was dismounting from his horse, entering the castle, searching.
"My darling," she cooed to the sleeping child. "My own, sweet, darling."