9. The Hostler and the Liar Part Ways
"What's good-bye?"
-Hook
"Ow!"
Helena jerked her hand away from the needle, staring at her thumb as a drop of blood welled up at the tip. "Stupid needlepoint…" she muttered, before jamming her thumb into her mouth and sucking on it. She glared back at the sampler she was working on for her dowry.
Ha! A dowry. She had to laugh. Who in their right mind would marry her? Perhaps people whispered about her sudden "blossoming" and "loveliness" when she passed them, as if she didn't have ears. Perhaps almost all of the young men around the castle had tried to tumble her more than once. Perhaps even she had noticed that there was now a figure on the girl in the looking glass, and heaps and heaps of lovely golden hair, and a softer, fairer face.
Still, no one would marry her once they met her.
She'd take care of that.
Her father had big, fancy ideas about marrying well, into a noble or rich house. She had big, fancy ideas about marrying…well, not for love, because she didn't believe in love…but for something rather more palatable than an ugly, fat old moneybags with a stinky old title. Like someone handsome, intelligent, and kind, with a pleasant laugh and all of his teeth. Someone she could live with without throwing herself out of a window.
However, all of the suitors her father had brought around for her had absolutely none of the qualities she was looking for. She sighed angrily. All she wanted was a smart, funny, handsome, brave, interesting, devoted, and honest man! Was that so much to ask?
Maybe it was. Maybe men like that didn't exist. She thought idly of Art and wished she hadn't. He'd grown from a halfway-handsome boy to an impossibly handsome man, broad of shoulder and long of leg, with shaggy hair the exact color of the late afternoon sun. He teased her less, now, and avoided her, not speaking to her unless she spoke to him. And she spoke to him as little as possible.
Their fencing lessons had ended three years ago. At fourteen, Helena was simply not able to slip away the way she once had. Her sister had often sent for her at Campton, and Helena was subjected to "lady lessons"—learning how to sit, how to stand, how to walk, how to eat, how to drink, how to speak, how to breathe…everything in the world, and then some. Perhaps her sister's influence had assisted in her change, for Helena was completely removed from the horrific child she had once been—on the outside. On the inside…well, she was still Helena.
The thundering of hooves outside roused her from her thoughts. She looked out the window to see a small group of horsemen approaching, several of them knights. Leaving her needlepoint to collect dust on the flagstones, she flew down the stairs and out the door.
Her father was already there, speaking with the foremost knight, who had dismounted. She was close enough to hear their conversation.
"It's war, then?" her father asked, his voice terse.
"Caenor's been encroaching on the border for months," the knight replied. "He's gone too far this time."
Her father stood up straight. "I am ready to serve," he announced boldly. The knight nodded.
"Thank you, Sir Robert." Helga gaped—she'd almost forgotten her father was a knight! She wondered if he would be killed in the war. Oh, well. Either way it probably wouldn't affect her life very much. The war itself probably wouldn't affect her life—she lived nowhere near the front. She smiled to herself. She wasn't as paranoid as Art—
Art.
Helena's blood ran cold in her veins.
In a dream, she heard the knight continue speaking to her father. "Do you have any servants, any serfs of fighting age?"
"Quite a few," her father replied. "I have a stable boy here, an exceptional lad…"
"Fetch them," the knight ordered one of his company. The knight dismounted and headed for the serfs' village.
Helena didn't wait to hear any more. She fled around the castle, her skirt held tightly in her hands, her useless little slippers pitter-pattering in the soft earth. The knight's words reached her ears…
"…lovely daughter you have there…"
Then he was drowned out by the thunderous roar of Helena's heart.
She found herself at the stables before she knew it, blinking in the half-gloom. A figure lifted a small bundle onto his shoulder and turned. It was Art.
They stared at each other for a minute. It was so silent Helena feared he could hear her heart pounding. His eyes were unfairly green.
"You've heard, then," she said, trying to keep her voice light and failing miserably. He might die, she thought wretchedly. He might die and never come back. And why do I care?
"Yes."
"You were right."
"Yes."
Why wouldn't he say anything else? The idiot. She pulled herself together.
"Well…good luck."
"Thanks."
His brusqueness was irritating her. "Well, be off with you, then!"
"Fine." He walked past her, his shoulder brushing hers. She trembled, and felt angrier for trembling. She whirled and shouted after him.
"I just hope you know they won't make a general out of some poor, stupid stable hand!" she informed him.
He stopped, still facing away. Then he turned and came at her with such speed and intensity she thought he might strike her. His bag dropped to the floor, his hands came up to her face, and suddenly…suddenly…
He was kissing her.
Helena froze, unsure of what to do. Should she push him away? Should she kick him? Should she just kill him where he stood?
Or should she kiss him back?
Before she could make up her mind he had pulled away, was taking slow steps backwards. Her cheeks were burning where he'd grabbed them; her lips were numb. He stared at her, but her brain had stopped working when he'd first touched her.
In one fluid, catlike movement, Art picked up his bag and ran out of the stable.
Helena didn't know how long she stood there, with the smell of the horses and the hay and Art's clean, fresh scent in her nostrils. She knew the horn from the company outside blew; she knew that the sound of retreating hooves and footsteps echoed around her. She knew that she thought, for most of that long, eternal moment, that she might possibly be dead.
And when the first tear touched her cheek, and she felt its wetness, and she realized that she was, after all—unfortunately—not dead, there was only one sensible thing to do.
Helena went up to her room, locked the door, and cried for three days.
You are too good to me, honestly. Thanks to everyone for the reviews! And I'm glad to hear that it's not confusing…although it might be soon (just keep an eye on the chapter titles to figure out where we are). I'm not trying to dumb it down, but before everyone was like "What the heck is going on?" and after I posted that you were all like, "No, we understand perfectly, PI!" I think it's a conspiracy to make me loose my mind completely. (Too late!) Annnnyway…
Rachael West: Good luck with the screenplay—I'm sure it'll be as awesome as the rest of your writing. Thanks for the reminder! I had my mommy tape it 'cuz I don't get cable…and the tape ran out right before the raunchy, hastily-aborted Miles/Stella sex scene (which was, when you think about it, just gross…I mean, Miles' dad is reading it to his son…). Boo-hoo…oh, well, I'll get the rest at Thanksgiving. Don't tell me spoilers!
Athena Lionfire, DropsofJupiter: Wait and see…you're both kind of on the right tracks…sort of. Kind of. There's something there. Yeah.
Snow Lane: Thanks! I fixed it on my computer…if I ever stop being a lazy bum I'll fix it on ff.net. So you know it'll never get fixed.
Everyone else, thanks for reviewing! I bring you a bonanza…TWO chapters at once! Plus more Queen's Treasure (gasp!) and more of my new story, Home For Christmas (which is just oodles of fun…shameless plug). Catch you on the flip side!
-PI