7. The Hostler and the Liar Meet
"And I can't stand him!"
-Singin' in the Rain
Helena of Patach lived in a small, rocky kingdom by the shores of the Eastern Sea. The kingdom, called Hillith by its inhabitants, is not set down in any history book, and perhaps never even existed. But what is existing? People who don't exist still manage to vote regularly in many municipal elections, especially in Miami.
Helena of Patach was not concerned with existing, municipalities, or Miami, which she had never, and would never, hear of. Helena of Patach was concerned with a stable hand named Art. She did not like Art, for several valid reasons. He was cheeky. He smelled always of horses. His eyes were greener than they had a right to be, and he was from Littell, the country to the south of Hillith, so his accent was atrocious. And he knew her secret—was one of the few who did.
She had been eleven when they'd met; he, fourteen. At eleven, Helena was gangly, awkward, and ugly, with heavy dark eyebrows and thin, watery blond hair. Visitors to Patach often remarked behind their hands about the difference between Helena and her older sister, Olivia, who was delicate and beautiful, with shining golden hair and gentle features. Their temperaments were vastly different, too. Olivia was the perfect lady; modest, humble, quiet, and kind. Helena was loud, rude, clumsy, and often fiercely angry about something or other, not to mention the bane of her father's life.
Lord Robert of Patach bore no great love for his youngest daughter. He had been able to look past his first child Olivia's failure to be born male and so an heir, and lavished much love upon her pretty golden head. But he had never forgiven Helena for costing her mother her life in childbirth. And on top of that, having the nerve to be born a girl! It didn't bear thinking about.
And so though she fiercely denied it, Helena was lonely—exceedingly so. There was no one near her age in the castle, and she was forbidden to play with common children, the wiry dirty younglings of Patach's village and farmsteads. Olivia, frustrating as her perfection might be, was her only companion—but Olivia had just been married off to the handsome but brainless young lord of Campton, and Helena was deprived of even her maddening older sister's company.
She wandered about the castle aimlessly. There was nothing to do. She could go sit with the ladies of the castle and practice her needlepoint, but the idea was about as appealing as rolling in the manure used to fertilize the fields. She could bother the cooks, but the last time she had spent too long in the kitchens it had been reported to her father, and Lord Robert did not look kindly on his daughter lazing about the kitchens like a pet dog.
Then she remembered Champion, the pretty little moor pony she had received for her eleventh birthday the week before. It was a beautiful little creature, all big brown loving eyes and shaggy russet hair. She could go for a ride. No one would noticed she was gone, and she loved to ride all alone, the wind in her hair and her nostrils, eyes shut against the streaming sunlight, pretending just for a heartbeat that she was free.
One problem. She mustn't be spotted by anyone who knew her. She was not, technically, allowed to ride by herself (although that had never stopped her before) and the trouble she could get into if she was seen was enough to give even a reckless eleven-year-old girl pause.
But she had circumvented this hazard before. Slipping up into her chambers, delighting in the slightly guilty, naughty feeling of doing something she oughtn't, she set about her escape. Discarding her pretty, uncomfortable silk gown in an eye-smarting shade of pink, she dug under her straw tick mattress until she found her boys' clothes—patched breeches, a shirt, boots, and a cap big enough to stuff her hair into and shadow her face if anyone looked too closely.
It was easy enough to sneak out of the castle—she'd done it before. There was a store room on the second floor that no one ever went into. If she could get there without being seen, she could very easily make it out the window onto a tree that grew close to the castle walls, and she wouldn't have to pass any guards. It was foolproof.
She slunk around the halls until she reached the store room. Thanking her lucky stars that Patach didn't have a moat, she clambered out the window and onto a nearby branch. Sliding across the branch, she shimmied down the trunk until she could drop safely to the ground, and wondered, not for the first time, why something as fun as climbing trees couldn't somehow be "proper."
Reveling in her freedom, she ran across the fields to the stables, not even caring if someone saw her. No one cared about one lone peasant boy. She reached the low, musky buildings and headed for Champion's stall, intending to saddle the little pony as quickly as possible and set out for the high meadow at a gallop. But as her eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness in the stable, she saw a figure moving across the scuffed floor.
She squinted at him. She knew all the stable hands, and this boy was a complete stranger to her. None of the hands had golden hair like that, or were that young. This boy didn't belong, and he was heading into Champion's stall!
No stranger touched her pony without permission. Forgetting who she was supposed to be, she marched up to the stranger and planted herself in front of him, hands on hips.
"Who are you?" she demanded in her most lordly voice.
He straightened up slowly and looked at her, a warm smile spreading across his face. Helena's eyes widened. His hair was unkempt, finger-combed back from his face, with a few strands hanging in his eyes. It was mostly golden, with streaks bleached nearly white. His eyes were the color of summer leaves; a few freckles dotted his perfect nose. He was tall, very tall, though he didn't look more than a few years older than her, and broad in the shoulder, though not too filled out otherwise. His smile was warmer than the sun.
Helena trembled internally. Her scowl deepened. She didn't know what this new feeling was, and she didn't like it.
"My name is Art," he said, his voice halfway between a boy's and a man's. "I'm the new stable hand." He had a broad Littellan accent, but no commoner's twang. Helena supposed they didn't have a commoner accent in Littell.
She didn't move. "No one informed me of a new stable hand's coming," she challenged.
His smile tilted, swerved, became almost a smirk—not quite enough to be considered disrespectful. "And I'm sure they tell you of all the goings-on here, milady."
She opened her mouth to fire back a sharp retort. "I don't care what you—" Her mouth stayed open, though words suddenly stopped coming out. He knew she was a girl. And he had called her "milady," which meant that he realized…
"Do you know who I am?" she asked, trying to sound like she was still in charge of the situation.
He ducked his head. "Little Lady Helena, Lord Robert's younger daughter," he replied simply. "Although I am surprised that my lord lets his daughter run about the stables dressed like a common village boy…" His grin revealed that he suspected Lord Robert knew nothing about Helena's current location or attire.
Helena had lost her scowl, but she regained it quickly. Her little hands curled into fists. "And if you know what's good for you, you won't say anything to him about it…or anyone else."
Now both of his eyebrows shot up. "Are you saying you'll fight me?"
"You don't think I can?"
He shook his head. "You're ten. I doubt it."
Helena tossed her head like a high-strung pony. "Number one, I'm eleven. Number two—"
Without warning, she stepped in and delivered a one-two punch to the older boy's stomach. Art gasped for air as he doubled over, the wind knocked out of him. Quickly, Helena shoved him onto his back and stood over him triumphantly, fists cocked.
Art wheezed several times, trying to inflate his lungs again. When he was properly recovered, he started to laugh. Hard. So hard that tears squeezed from his eyes. Helena began to wonder if he was mentally subnormal.
As his laughing slowed, Art pushed himself up into a sitting position. Helena took a step back.
Art looked at her softly, a strange look for someone who'd just been decked by a girl three years younger than him, and before she could stop herself, Helena found herself wondering how his eyelashes got so long and full. He spoke, and there was a friendliness in his voice that Helena had never heard, in her father or sister, in the servants, anyone.
"Oh, little lady," he said with a twinkle in his green eyes. "I think we're going to be great friends."
And Helena, baffled, could think of nothing to do but run from the stable as fast as her skinny legs could take her.