In the privacy of his sitting room, Maurice examines the contents of the pouch that Bae has brought back from Ramsgate. He and his wife are still in their dressing gowns and were enjoying toast and tea when their youngest daughter burst in, barely taking time to knock, and flung the pouch onto their little dining table. She's standing now with hands on her hips, so they know they'd better listen to her or there will be no peace.
"You blow the whistle through the funnel." Belle is frustrated in trying to explain how this works, but instinctively, she knows it does, it will. "The funnel will make the sound louder, carry farther."
Maurice is already toying with the whistle, ignoring the funnel. "It's broken." He looks at his daughter sadly, but her hopes are not diminished. She merely throws her hands in the air. "I told you, Papa, it's a special whistle. Humans can't hear it. Only animals—and ogres."
"I've seen something like this," Colette muses. "In the marketplace at Agrabah. A little horn that a man used to summon a cobra from a basket."
"I remember that. It's not the same. We could hear that horn," Maurice argues.
"But the concept," Colette argues back.
Belle growls, seizes the whistle and blows it through the funnel. Dogs throughout the courtyard begin to bark and howl. "See? There are sounds that only animals can hear. This whistle is one of them. We know that ogres have a much more refined sense of hearing than we do; they hunt by it. Their survival depends on it. We know, from the sheet music that's been recovered, that giants had a sense of hearing like that too. We think, Rumple and I, that the giants may have been the forebears of the ogres. Or maybe some powerful and annoyed sorcerer cast a curse on some giants, turning them into ogres. Whatever it was, we think this sound," she blows the whistle again, "will affect the ogres, possibly even more so than it does dogs. We think, if we blow the whistle loud and long enough, we could temporarily, maybe permanently, damage the ogres' hearing. Enough that our archers could get close enough to fire directly into their eyes."
"Thus killing them," Colette finishes. "It's an imaginative concept, but—"
"Are you asking me to risk one of my battalions to test an imaginative concept?" Maurice glares at the whistle.
"Not an entire battalion. Just a few brave soldiers. Locate a small herd of ogres, entice them into a canyon, where the sound will be further amplified, and then—" Belle blows into the whistle. "If the test works, have every tinker in the kingdom go to work immediately building these tools." She pauses a moment to let the vision form in Maurice's mind. "This is Rumple's research. And here's my contribution to the scheme: in the land of King Richard, there is an enchanted bow. An arrow shot from it will hit the target every time. We will buy or borrow that bow, let the fairies study its enchantment, and when they've discovered what magic makes it work, they will duplicate it."
"Enchant all the bows in our armory," Maurice calculates. He raises a bushy eyebrow. "I rather like that. But as for that—" he points at the whistle. "You want me to risk men's lives on the whim of a—what did you say his occupation was?"
Belle raises her chin. "A scribe and a scholar of the law."
Maurice snorts. Colette rests her hand on his forearm; in their long marriage, she's learned nudges are more effective than demands. "Belle has shown me some of this man's letters. He seems learned, intelligent and level-headed."
There's something more than Rumple's status that bothers Maurice: it's the way Belle has spoken of him. Over the two years of their correspondence, her tone has grown softer, her gaze as she studies his letters has grown fonder. Maurice has indulged it because Belle has never met the man and, given their circumstances, never will; besides, he's been too busy with the war to give much thought to his daughter's flights of fancy. He's left that to her mother, to sift through the suitors and at some point, arrange a marriage suitable for a future queen (and gods have mercy on the man who tries to rule over Belle).
"One squad," Belle urges. "Send one squad. Seven men."
"And an oversized whistle and a charmed bow," Maurice grunts. "Ridiculous."
But he doesn't retain that opinion for long. His meeting with his war council brings dismaying news that makes Maurice stomp up to his parlor, slam the door behind him, sink down on his bed and study the spinner's whistle.
Which is how it comes to be called.
"I'm afraid I no longer possess the bow you speak of," King Richard says as a footman fills his goblet with wine.
"It does exist, then. Not just a fable," the visitor inquires. He's a young major who's already won several medals, pinned on him by King Maurice himself, and he dares to hope that if he distinguishes himself throughout this war, a generalship will be in the offing. Sometimes, he even dares hope for more. Though in times of peace it would be unthinkable, the gratitude that a king may express to a loyal soldier sometimes allows social convention to be bent, and Major Gaston has noticed that the lovely princess has smiled at him more than once. Perhaps in the expectation of strengthening his bloodline, Maurice might be persuaded to bestow upon a war hero more than just a medal and a handshake.
"It does. It belongs to my most loyal and true subject, Lord Robin of Locksley." Richard sips his wine, and that is a signal that his guest may drink as well. He raises an eyebrow at the burly young man, who downs the entire goblet in one gulp, apparently unschooled in the art of wine tasting. Well, the Enchanted Forest's is not as old a culture as Sherwood Forest's, so Richard will forgive him. Besides, King Maurice is a significant ally.
"Will you help me to borrow or bargain for it?" Gaston has already explained his reason for needing the magic bow.
"Provided you use it as you said, and return it unharmed and unaltered. Better yet, let the fairies come to Sherwood, so that bow can remain in Robin's possession as they study it."
Gaston wipes the turkey grease from his hand and reaches across the table to offer a handshake. This gesture is uncouth in so many ways, it's downright embarrassing, but the boy doesn't realize that. Still, Maurice is a significant ally. . . .
Smothering a groan, Richard shakes the offered hand. "It's a deal."
Fendral's squad has volunteered for the assignment. Fendral has already had a long talk with Bae about Rumple's idea, and having met the spinner himself, the guard knows him to be of sober mind and sound judgement. More importantly, Fendral has his heart set on a captaincy, and a battle victory would do the trick. Most importantly, Bae stepped forward before anyone else and offered to accompany any guardsman who would lead the experiment. If the boy will put his young life on the line just to test an idea of his father's, the idea must be pretty trustworthy. Bae has demonstrated himself to be bold but not foolhardy.
Seven guardsmen and one squire ride into the hills, following the latest battlefield reports to locate a small herd of ogres. This herd consists of nursing and pregnant females and small children, which gives the guards some pause. "If this works, we'll be killing babies," one of the soldiers complains. The squad establishes a cold camp upwind of the herd, and as they drink from canteens and chew on hardtack, they study the enemy below. "We have to do this," Fendral urges. "Don't think of them as women and children—they're not human. Think of what they would do to our women and children, if we don't win this war."
Still, they sit on the hill, hiding in the trees, throughout the day, deliberating. Their minds are made up at nightfall when the earth shakes and a large male ogre approaches, a bag slung over his shoulder. He whistles and the largest of the females, knocking children and smaller females aside, comes to his call. He drops the bag at her feet, bites her ear, then growls and stomps back into the night. The female tears the bag open and the children crowd around, chattering, yipping and shoving each other. The ogre queen kicks out at whatever is in the bag, then gives a big belly laugh as the prey run, scattering chaotically in different directions, and the child ogres take pursuit. When a young ogre catches one of the victims, the queen smacks the ogre aside and claims the catch for herself, tearing off a leg and popping it into her mouth whole. With a great smacking of lips and chomping of teeth, she consumes the prey. When she has finished her snack, a free-for-all ensues, the other ogres pursuing and consuming the spoils of war: six naked humans.
"All right," Fendral says, "let's do this." This time no one argues with him.
Her Highness' birthday is fast approaching. Under the circumstances, Belle and her parents believe it would be more appropriate to celebrate privately and quietly; what would the people think, after all, if their royals partied while just a day's ride away young men and women died in defense of the nation? And the royal family quite agree; they are in no mood for celebration, mourning the years of war leading up to this day, fearful of the days to come, and reluctant to hold out hope that the Whistle Experiment might prove a turning point. There will be no public celebration of Belle's birthday this year, Maurice informs his staff—and then is informed in turn that plans have already been made for a ball, and invitations have been sent out to nobles far and wide. It is for the good of the country, the gray men insist grayly: a party will prove to the common man that the royals are still in charge, still confident, still to be trusted—and more importantly, a ball will perhaps finally, finally result in the one great gift Belle can give her people: the security of the royal lineage. For Belle is turning twenty-seven and it's well past time for her to select a husband from any number of suitable bluebloods. The public, so the gray men claim, are very worried by Belle's spinsterhood, for her remaining years of fecundity grow short. In short, Belle is instructed, it's her duty to party.
Belle openly complains that this celebration will make her family appear insensitive, selfish, foolish, wasteful; Maurice reminds the gray men that they have overstepped their bounds, because it should be her decision how she wants to recognize her birthday. Colette purses her lips and orders the gray men out of the Great Hall so that she can speak to her family privately; when they've bowed out, she huffs at the arrogance of these useless courtiers, then calms down and points out that with invitations having already been extended, the party must go on. Belle's dance card has already been filled with the names of princes and lords who would be greatly offended by a cancelation—men with important treaties in their back pockets. The party will proceed, though Colette will oversee the preparations to ensure that they are modest and economical.
As Colette summons the staff, Maurice links Belle's arm in his own and takes her out into the gardens. She's redfaced and ready to fight, for she assumes her father will attempt to placate her—he gives in to the gray men far too frequently, in her opinion. But no lectures come; instead, Maurice brings her in on the plans for the Whistle Experiment, pointing out that it's the first hope Aramore has had in a good long while. Maurice is keeping the plan secret from the public, at least until the concept has been proven, but the troops all know about it. "If it fails, we lose little in money or lives," he explains, "but we could lose a great deal in our soldiers' morale."
"At least it puts us on a new path," Belle argues. "One that takes advantage of the only strength we have against the ogres: our intelligence."
"It is an ingenious plan," Maurice agrees. "Tell me more about this man who thought of it."
Belle launches into a description of everything she thinks she knows about a man she's never actually seen. So enthusiastic is she that she doesn't notice the small smile forming on her father's lips.
"And his family? Who are Rumplestiltskin's parents?"
Belle blushes, realizing she's been caught. The way she described her collaborator, he could only be a nobleman, one with an impressive education and a position of leadership in his village. Belle pretends to admire a rosebush as she murmurs, "I ah, he's, ah. . . peasant."
"Pardon me, sweetling?" Maurice leans closer.
"Peasant." She raises her chin in defiance. "He's a peasant. No 'connections,' as we would expect them. His only family is a son who's a squire for our Home Guard. Rumple is a fine father and a talented spinner." She points at Maurice's tunic. "You're wearing his work. You have been for years, everything your tailor has made for you."
Maurice falls silent and Belle fills the void with descriptions of Rumple's accomplishments in his community, serving the villagers as a legal counsel and a scribe. Maurice nods thoughtfully in answer to Belle's insistence that these are important roles and that it's far more impressive for a peasant to rise, through dint of hard work and native intelligence, than for a blueblood to have his role in life handed to him on a silver platter.
"Besides, there's no law against a royal befriending a peasant," Belle spouts.
"Nor against a royal of Aramore marrying a commoner," Maurice says slyly. "Your grandfather made sure of that when I began courting your mother. There is a difference, however, a small one, but significant: your mother's people were common but extremely wealthy, so it was a bit easier for the nobles to accept her as a future consort. After all," he chuckles, "she had better gowns and jewels than any of them."
Belle gnaws her lip.
"Belle, my darling, my father permitted me to marry your mother, not because of her wealth but because of her strength. He knew what few do not: the king must always think about the welfare of all his people, but he needs someone by his side who will always think about his welfare. Not the welfare of the people, nor the nation, nor the crown, but his alone. Someone who sees him as a man, who, when they're alone, speaks to him as a man, not a king. Someone who will be his true partner in life, correcting him when he's wrong—in private, of course—and filling in the gaps in his own character. I knew from the moment I met her Colette would be that one true partner for me, and my father saw it too. I can wish no greater future for you, sweetling, than to find your partner. Anything less and your time as monarch will be misery, and the kingdom will suffer for it."
Belle smiles brightly, but a frown creases her father's brow. "You're a very headstrong person, Belle, and that's what the kingdom needs. But it will be an ongoing battle if you choose a commoner for your consort, and a peasant. . . ."
"Papa, why do you bring this up? I said nothing about marriage. I was merely answering your question about a friend."
"I recognize that gleam in your eye, daughter. It was the same one I had in my eye when I realized I'd fallen in love."
Belle sputtered, "But I've never even met Rumplestiltskin."
"You may find that to be true. If so, your heart will break a little when you come to know the real man. Or you may find that you've come to know him far better than you would have if his correspondence with you had been limited to writing his name on your dance card."
By orders of his officer, Bae has taken refuge away from the rest of the squad. He's hiding in the brush, within eyesight of the soldiers, but well back from the edge of the hill. He's protecting the cache of surplus weapons; as a fighter calls for one, he'll dash forward to supply it, then return to his hiding place. If there are wounded, they will be dragged back to the brush and he'll tend to them. It's not the most heroic job, but it's pretty important nonetheless. Next year, when he turns seventeen, he'll have a bigger role—if the war is still going on.
He glances up at the reddening sky. The sun is sinking. The squad has only a few minutes to attack before darkness falls, robbing the humans of one of their most valuable resources: their vision. He watches as Fendral waves an arm toward the west and the second-in-command, Gaunt, dashes around to the west of the hill. Another wave from Fendral and Gaunt raises his amplified whistle to his mouth. Bae sees the lieutenants' shoulders tighten; he assumes they're blowing the whistles, although he hears no sound.
Then suddenly there's a sharp cry of pain from the camp below, followed by another and another. Some of the soldiers look distressed. "It's the babies," he hears one of them protest to Fendral. "The whistles are hurting the babies."
The soldier kneeling next to the protestor gives him a small shove to get him to shut up. "We got to. Think of our babies."
Fendral raises his arm in the air and the squad stands, arrows nocked. He lowers his arm and arrows fly. Bae has to struggle against the urge to creep forward and watch the battle, but he has his orders, so he stays put. He has to gauge the outcome of the attack from the posture of his squad and the cries and growls echoing off the rocks below. Fendral signals for another volley and he gets it. The hill shakes with the reverberation of thunderous footfalls as the ogres flee, tripping over rocks in their blind rush, crashing into trees and each other. The fall of their bodies reminds Bae of the fall of cut trees. Clouds of dust rise from the valley floor as Fendral calls for a third volley. "The eyes, men, aim for the eyes," he shouts, but the content of his order is unnecessary; everyone already knows an ogre's sole weak spot. The lieutenant's shout serves more as an emotional boost than an instruction.
The noise fades into the distance and Fendral waves Bae out from the brush. Just in case, Bae grabs a bow and slings a quiver over his shoulder before he comes to stand beside Fendral and peer over the edge of the hill. The valley is empty, though littered with broken trees, rocks and arrows. "Did we get any of them?" One of the soldiers squints through the dust. Fendral points to direct the man's attention to a cluster of boulders, which now bear the body of an infant ogre. Someone's arrow had flown true, but no one claims it.
"Bring the horses," Fendral orders Bae, then tells the men they will leave immediately and travel as far as they can in the moonlight, lest any of the ogres, now confused and lost, stumble back to this valley. "When we reach Tergeron, we will stop at the outpost and send a message to the King." He glances at Bae. "There is a pigeon master at the outpost who will send the message. He can send one to your father as well."
Bae grins before running off to fetch the horses. He knows exactly what his message will say: simply "It worked."
Rumple clamps a hand to his mouth and moans as the sheriff rides up on a horse borrowed from Fort. The presence of the horse indicates that whatever the sheriff has come for, it's urgent, so Rumple has a fair idea what news the man bears. Rumple drops down to bench just outside his open door and waits heavy minutes as the sheriff hitches the horse to a tree and walks up the yard. He stares at the ground, watching an ant carry a crumb to its mound.
"Stiltskin," the sheriff begins, and Rumple dares to raise his head with a modicum of hope. The use of the friendlier nickname instead of Rumple's entire name suggests the message isn't a formal one. Still, Rumple won't breathe until the message is delivered.
The sheriff sits down on the bench and withdraws a scrap of paper from his cloak. He passes it to Rumple, who searches his eyes for a clue to the contents before taking the paper. The sheriff can't read, but Rumple knows he will have had his son, who can, thanks to lessons from Bae, read the scrap aloud before borrowing the horse.
Rumple forces his gaze to the paper. He reads it three times to make sure. He's expecting words like served his King faithfully, died honorably in the line of duty, but instead there are just four words, wonderful words that make Rumple whoop and impulsively hug the sheriff. "It worked. Love, Bae."
"What worked?" the sheriff wonders, disentangling himself from the hug.
"A business deal that Bae made years ago has come to fruition," Rumple grins. "Sheriff, how would like a cup of tea for your troubles, and an apple for the horse?"
As soon as the horse and rider have been fed and sent on their way, Rumple takes down his box of paper and his bottle of ink, and he sits at the table to write a letter of congratulations to the Princess. Boldly, he addresses the letter "Dearest Belle." He feels their relationship has turned a corner, just as the war has, and he prefers to think of her as a person rather than a title, a collaborator for his ideas and a partner for his plans. . . .as a woman whose hand he might hold as they walked in the moonlight.
He uses all the paper in his box to tell her the stories of his life. He's never written of himself before, never assumed she would be interested; besides, they had much more urgent matters to communicate. What she will do with his revelation, he can't guess but he has a harebrained hope she'll reciprocate with stories of her own. He will need to buy more paper at the market tomorrow, and it will be four days before the postal rider arrives and can pick up the letter to deliver to her. During that time, he may well find an excuse to burn the letter, or more likely, postpone the decision to tell her about his past and leave the letter in the basket to send later, much later, eventually never.
But for the moment, his heart feels lighter.