Random Note: Saoirse pronounced Seer-sha.
Enjoy (hopefully)!
Bryony
The sound of the slap resounded through the room, and Bryony felt the hard metal rings on her mother's fingers draw blood. She staggered backwards, dumbfounded.
"Your insolence disgusts me! We did not bring you up to be like this, lowering yourself to the level of common scum, like a thief, like a filthy slattern!" The Queen's face was white with fury and she spat out the words. "You have brought shame upon this family. More shame than you, in your spoilt, juvenile mindset can possibly comprehend! You have marred this family's name by scandal!"
"Hush, Imogen, don't wake the twins!" King Cassius chided his wife, his tone soft as he looked at their newborn babies in their crib. Of course, thought Bryony bitterly, we wouldn't want to wake the babies would we? Never mind about the other child, she was always a mistake!
Imogen's voice was quietened, but was still steely when she addressed her eldest child. "A drastic situation calls for drastic measures, daughter. Your father and I have come to a decision. As you full well know, the punishment for crimes as extreme as yours – not only thievery but the possession of highly illegal substances and weapons, and stealing of objects from the Royal Palace itself" – here her tone grew even colder – "the typical sentence is fourteen years of imprisonment, and the... removal... of both your hands. We cannot make any special allowance for you. You are a criminal and we will treat you like a criminal."
Bryony's face paled sickeningly.
"However, we have been lenient. Despite how you have disgraced us, you are still our daughter. We have decided to halve your sentence to only seven years, and we will make sure you will not be wanting for comfort. Of course, your hands will stay intact. But you must understand, Bryony, that you are no longer suitable for the throne after such a scandal. You will be stripped of your title, your inheritance, and your lands. When you finish your sentence, you will retire to a convent, where you will remain and learn the true meaning of servitude and obedience. Your crown will pass to the twins, when they come of age, who will rule jointly. You may feel this judgement as harsh, but the people will see this sentence as a perversion of justice, special treatment even. It will cost us popularity." Her voice shook. "We loved you Bryony, and in return you've hurt us." She turned away and pressed her hand to her mouth, and Bryony, with a growing sense of guilt, could see her trembling.
King Cassius put a steadying hand on his wife's shoulder. "We still love you, girl," he said gruffly, but not meeting the eyes of his daughter, who was grey-faced and slack-jawed with shock, "But this is what's best. For everyone. You must face up to your responsibilities. The tower will be enchanted and heavily guarded. Escape will be futile. And don't think that fairy-witch of yours will be able to contact you. The spells have been casted specifically to prevent that." His face darkened at the thought of Elsinore. The King and Queen had never liked Bryony's fairy godmother.
When they had left Bryony sunk down in front of the mirror. Instead of her own pallid reflection, a dark, elegant figure stared back at her and flashed her a triumphant smile. "May the hearts of your people turn against you..." whispered the mirror.
3 months later
Bryony knew something was wrong.
The torches had not been lit, and no one had come to serve her food. It was three hours to sunrise, and no one was here.
"Oi, attention please!" Bryony yelled down the empty corridors. "Stop slacking, you don't want your prisoner to make a break for it!" No one answered. Bryony scanned the tower, and the training yard outside, but it was deserted. Despite the gathering sense of foreboding, Bryony decided to take advantage of this ample opportunity. For the first time in three months, it seemed she was utterly alone. "Seize the day, kid!" she muttered to herself, and never one to dawdle, fetching the sword she had been sharpening through sheer boredom for three months of confinement and a large quiver of arrows, she hauled herself out of the window. Perhaps the guards were on strike today; whatever the reason, if the shirkers had suddenly slunk off, all the better for her.
As soon as she was in the open air, a noise instantly hit her ears. It was the frantic sound of bells pealing, ringing over and over again.
Plague bells.
She didn't have time to consider the significance of it, because the telltale drumbeat of marching feet and clinking armour caught her attention. Her gaolers were back. She clung to the windowsill, and craned her neck at the dizzying drop below.
Seven years of stifling boredom awaited her if she backed out.
Broken bones, considerable pain, and a possibility of death awaited her if she let go.
She weighed her up her options logically. She'd rather take death. She jumped.
Her fall was broken by the enormous thorn bush beneath the window. Biting back the stream of swear words, she forced herself to stay in the briars as soldiers clanked past her prickly hiding place. Their expressions were solemn and they wore the thick black armband of official mourning around their forearms. With a feeling of sick horror, it began to dawn on Bryony what all of this might mean.
"Excuse me? Unhand me, common oaf!" shrilled an indignant voice. An effeminate looking young man in velvet knickerbockers emerged into view as he was dragged off a stallion. "You heard me the first time! I've come to deliver the Princess Bryony from this hideous hovel! I'm King Edwin, her cousin. My coronation was this morning, anyone who's anyone was there. Apparently you lot didn't make the cut. I can see why, with a face like that!" The young ponce smirked, "This plague is simply dire I agree, but Mummy insisted I take this ghastly little country in hand, now that Aunt Imogen and Uncle Cassius have popped their clogs. Dreadful shame, but one must soldier on!"
The guards looked at the young man with universal disgust. Bryony gaped in shock. "Show some respect to the dead, you prancing little ladyboy!" one snarled, "The royal family are barely in their graves and yet you don't even deign to wear a single shred of black like the rest of us, Sovereign or not!"
Edwin stared at them, affronted. "Don't be so ridiculous, I can't wear black! Only pastel colours suit a complexion as delicate as mine!" This appeared to be the last straw. With growls of "you smarmy little git!" and unrestrained rage, the guards simultaneously launched themselves on their new King, dragging him off the horse and beat him to a pulp. It took everything Bryony had to stop herself from leaping out and joining them.
When they finally tore themselves away from their hapless victim, Bryony limped out of the bush, picking out thorns out of every area of exposed flesh.
She tried not to think of her parents, festering dead under mounds of earth. She tried not to think about the tiny corpses of her twin brothers, whom she never got to know. She never even knew their names. She tried not to think about how aunt and uncle had immediately swooped in and positioned their sop of a son on the throne the very day after her parents had died. "A plague upon those you love most..." Oh she was under no illusion that her parents had died of natural causes. She reached up and gripped the pendant around her neck. All this for one piece of jewellery. And it was her, Bryony's, greed, really, that was the cause of all this. She had to find a way out of this. She'd deliver this pompous tosser back to his Mummy and Daddy, and leave him in the palace she used to call home. He could have her throne any day. She didn't want it the accursed thing. She would leave this kingdom and Elsinore's curse behind her, and good riddance.
"Thanks for the 'rescue', pansy boy," she muttered contemptuously, slinging the bloodied body unceremoniously onto the saddle. "But next time leave that stuff to women who know what they're doing. Let's take you home."
She felt suddenly overwhelmed with grief. She was a homeless orphan, whose parents had died presumably the day before and no one had deigned to tell her. This was no way to find out, to hear it from the careless words from the mouth of the poncey chit of a boy who had supplanted her. She wanted to break down and cry for her parents, rip out all her hair and scream in misery, because she missed them so much. But now was not the time. And to make matters worse, due to her parents stripping her of her title, she was now no better than a peasant. All her life, she had wanted that freedom, but now with no home and no family, it hit her hard. Now having broken out of the tower she was on the run, not only against the law, but hunted by a merciless fairy who could appear at any time and sentence her to a grisly end, and hounded by a curse that would probably only culminate with her death. And the best part was, it could only go downhill from here.
Saoirse
The worst part, worse even than the dank little dungeon cell, with its dripping barred walls and foetid air, worse than the screams echoing from the Torture Chamber, worse than the pervading sense of failed vengeance, and the looming memory of Prince Edwin's smug face; was the drug they force-fed her that took away her magic. It made her feel nauseous and sleepy, and she couldn't even work the simplest of spells. She felt the sobs stick in her throat.
The only thing they could not take away from her was the vial of poison she had ferreted away. A Hemlock, foxglove, and belladonna infusion. Although she had plenty of enemies to save it for, this was reserved for herself.
Her grim daily meal was pushed through a flap in the door. Bread and some sort of mashed root vegetable. "Meat's too expensive to be wasted on prisoners!" cackled her toothless gaoler through the barred peephole on the door, "Especially not for prisoners who are going to be executed tomorrow!"
Saoirse's head jerked up suddenly. "Congratulations, sweetheart!" the gaoler gave her a gummy leer. "King Edwin has decided to bring forward the execution dates of all the royal prisoners as a special treat! A present for his new bride! They say he valiantly rescued the Princess Bryony from her false imprisonment as a thief, and bravely fought off a band of thugs who were holding her captive. He's got the battle scars to prove it! Of course he needs someone to soothe his aching limbs, if you know what I mean, and she's just the ticket!" The gaoler gave her a wink and doubled up with a rasping laughter that turned into a hacking cough. He shambled away, wheezing.
Saoirse sat back down, stunned. She thought she had been left here to rot indefinitely, or at least to have a trial. She had thought she had time. She lifted a shaking hand to her lips and drank. She caught her reflection in the pitcher of water. The albino. The ugly stepsister. Long white hair framed a narrow white face, pale skin stretched too tightly over sharp cheekbones, large, feverish pink eyes staring hungrily out of her face.
Now the ugly stepsister would meet her fate, the fate that was always reserved for the unwanted, ugly characters in every fairy story. She was a leper. A pariah.
Her mother, Iseult, had been a witch, just like her. She had caught the eye of handsome King Dorian on an excursion from the neighbouring kingdom he ruled, and it had been her bad luck. Of course when he had had his fun with the pretty young village witch, he had gone back home to his fiancée. Their fine children, their little Gabriel, Ninette, and Edwin, would never know of their impoverished elder half-sister across the border. He never bothered to tell them.
Iseult had not been very affectionate, but she had taught her daughter everything she knew, and nurtured her magic. Iseult performed healing spells, and brewed love potions. But she could do dark magic too. She could wreak curses and make poisons. The villagers called a her a Healer, because they needed the potions she made, but it was clear what she and her daughter really were. Saoirse was the albino, the freak; the adults whispered about her, the other village children shunned her. "She's a witch child," they muttered, "An ugly, unnatural thing. Should have been drowned at birth!" It was only out of respect, and predominantly fear, of her mother, that they left her alone.
Eventually the witch-woman married again, to a widower, who was in Saoirse's opinion, a weak and watery man. She'd never had a father, and hadn't intended to start needing on now. But it was Lucinda, her step-father's daughter from his previous marriage, who Saoirse really detested. She was perfect. Sickeningly saintly, with blonde hair and blue eyes, who everyone unfailingly doted on, and couldn't take a harsh word without welling up into tears. And every time Saoirse saw her she wanted to punch her in the face. So Saoirse became known to everyone as the ugly stepsister, and not just that but cruel too; how poor dear Lucinda suffered at the hands of her stepmother and stepsister!
Of course they had both bullied Lucinda, after all, who wouldn't? What a spineless drip! Always whingeing and sighing! Then when Saoirse and step sister had respectively had their seventeeth and nineteenth birthdays, Prince Gabriel with his famous 'common touch' came to mingle with the people to help keep up good relations in his cousin Bryony's kingdom, just as his father had done before him. And just as happens in the best fairytales, Gabriel fell in love at first nauseating sight with Lucinda and demanded that he whisk her back to his kingdom.
But Lucinda had to have her revenge for years of scrubbing doorsteps. She denounced Iseult as a witch, and as Saoirse stood in the main square watching her mother scream and writhe in the flames, she vowed to have her own revenge. But that hadn't worked out too well.
She may have been a bastard, but when the news of the royal family's death was announced, and Princess Bryony's abdication, she knew as the eldest child of King Dorian that Edwin had stolen her throne. She would kill him and have the crown for herself, and then she would order for her guards to bring her her unlucky prey, and watch the pain on Lucinda's face as she first had her husband killed, before meeting her own slow, torturous death.
But Saoirse had never been able to make her gristly fantasies reality. Her suffocation spell as she had stood over Edwin had been cut short with an inelegant clout over the head from his bodyguard.
And now here she was. Execution was the punishment for Treason. Execution was the punishment for witchcraft. Execution was the punishment for attempted murder.
Either way, by tomorrow evening, she would be dead.
And she needed anyone, anyone at all, to rescue her.