Princess Ben Read online

  The queen stood for a moment, inspecting my new quarters and, I am certain, catching her breath from the climb. "We are pleased," she uttered at last. "We pray the princess shall use this opportunity to reflect on her newfound responsibilities. Would you not agree, Benevolence?"

  I longed to ignore her, but the woman's power, as she so brutally demonstrated, far exceeded my own, and oppressive though the room was, it was not a dungeon. Not yet. "Yes, Your Majesty," I answered without emotion.

  "Are you not grateful for this opportunity?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty." I dropped into a curtsy to avoid meeting her eyes.

  "Beatrix and her staff shall arrive presently to dress you for dinner. In the weeks to come, we shall be delighted to hear of your developments in restraint." With that, Sophia swept from the room. The door closed behind her with an ominous creak, followed by the final sharp click of a lock.

  ***

  As I had climbed the stone staircase more than half convinced I was en route to my execution, my initial reaction involved a fair measure of relief, for a sliver of pie is better than naught. The blankets on the pallet, worn though they were, appeared at least clean. With effort I released the corroded window latch, and the tumble of warm fresh air reminded me that all was not lost.

  As I dwelled upon the matter, however, I began to understand the true wretchedness of my situation. My farsighted ancestors had erected Chateau de Montagne at the seam, as it were, where Ancienne's gentle eastern slopes meet its vertical northern cliffs. The Peach Rooms I had been given upon my arrival to the castle overlooked lovely Montagne, and the mysterious and imposing richness of Ancienne, her skirts patterned with crofters' cottages, apple orchards, grain fields, and the snowy sheep that produce our noted woolens. This new room, however—and I am most generous in my use of the term "room," for it was much closer to a cell—had one window, of smallish dimensions, that faced north. Instead of fertile valley, I could see only the torrent of the Great River, the switchbacks built into the cliff far below, and the distant foreign mountains. I occupied, in fact, the castle's tallest tower, which explained the stifling heat that radiated from the cell's southwestern walls.

  I mulled on the tower-bound princess whose lover employed her hair as rope. My own curly locks—one of my better features, I will admit, better being a relative term—hung just past my shoulders, and barely draped over the windowsill. At this height, I would require leagues of hair and a scalp like a pachyderm's to support it. Besides, I reflected, scowling, I did not want a man coming to me.I instead required a means of departure.

  But that would be impossible. The queen now controlled my every move; I would eat, and dress, and depart this cell at her pleasure. Not one soul in the kingdom, certainly not the timid servant girl who cringed before Sophia, would have courage enough to find this cell and slip me food. Any illusions I retained that my life might be my own were gone forever.

  In the weeks that followed I suffered greatly, though some kind souls did extend small offerings. At dinner one night I found a raisin roll hidden in my napkin. Discreet as I sought to be, Queen Sophia must have sensed my delight, and by the following night she replaced the dining staff. Occasionally I would discover a sweet tucked inside my writing book, or on taking the hand of a footman I would find a small wedge of chocolate in my own. But all in all, her noose grew ever tighter.

  The situation collapsed completely at dinner one September evening. Perhaps it was the full moon that drove me to madness, or the gnawing, relentless emptiness of my heart. Whatever the trigger, the powder had been well packed, and my explosion, though shocking, was not altogether unexpected.

  As always, the queen and Lady Beatrix prattled. The queen dined in a gown of poppy red silk laced with gold, the fabric's unearthly shimmer reflecting the queen's own serpentine nature. Intent on eating with sufficient restraint that my portion not be further reduced, I ignored my companions as best I could, speaking only when addressed directly. As the second course, a bland pork loin baked in pastry, was laid before us, my stomach rumbled.

  Lady Beatrix tittered. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I am unused to this earthiness."

  "We do better to rise above such vulgarity," the queen admonished her lady while I seethed. How dare they describe me as vulgar, as if my belly's grumbling were within my control! Yet I set my jaw, determined not to reveal my aggravation.

  At last the queen nodded for our plates to be cleared. Lady Beatrix, I could not but notice, had barely touched her food. "Your Majesty," I spoke, "forgive me, but I worry at the distress the chef must experience to see his labor slighted so."

  The queen glared at me. "How often each night must we instruct you that we do not dwell on food?"

  "Well," I retorted, the devil at last possessing me completely, "some of us do!" With that, I leaned across the table, snatched up Lady Beatrix's tart, and stuffed it into my mouth.

  My efforts at mastication aside, time appeared to stop, though when I finally swallowed—the pork, being tough as well as bland, required no minor amount of exertion—I could discern the ticking of the great clock behind me. Beatrix, and the staff as well, observed me with silent horror.

  Again the queen sighed. "For some time we have anticipated such a transgression from those who were never taught to control their basest instincts. Arise, Benevolence."

  Still swallowing bits of tart, I did so. Sophia motioned to a footman. "Hold her right hand steady. We would not have her flinching."

  "I flinch at nothing!" I proclaimed, remembering my brave soldier father. I resolved to do him honor, wherever he might be, and I boldly flourished my hand.

  The queen's eyebrows rose, but she said nothing. Instead, standing, she pulled from some hidden pocket a short leather strap, and, setting her jaw, began at once to beat my palm.

  The pain was extraordinary. It took every fiber of my being not to snatch my hand away, cram my burning fingers into my mouth, and run sobbing from the room. I bit my lip, trying to think of my mother, of summer days, of soft kittens and fairy tales.

  Finally she halted. With a heartfelt sigh, I commenced to sit.

  "We are not finished, Princess. Turn your hand, if you please."

  Again, with control I did not know I possessed, I held out my hand, palm down. Immediately as the lashes fell welts began to form. My fingers, swollen already, grew pink and then deep red. When after a seeming eternity the beating ended, I did not move, so desperate was I to deny that this inflamed and agonizing appendage was actually attached to my person.

  Readjusting the train to her gown, the queen settled herself. "How courteous of you, Benevolence," she said, lifting her wineglass, "to await those of higher rank."

  I eased into my chair. For a moment my fury blocked the anguish. Soon as I moved, however, the pain returned in force.

  The meal continued. For some time no one conversed, as Sophia's focus was elsewhere and no one, of course, may speak before the queen.

  Determined not to display any suffering, I struggled as best I could with knife and fork. The queen, I noticed, consumed three glasses of wine rather than her usual one. Occasionally a true emotion would cross her face, escaping that icy façade. And the emotion I saw most frequently—or that I chose to so interpret—was disappointment. I had not been broken.

  This realization gave me the strength to survive that interminable dinner.

  At last the footmen cleared the roast and presented each of us a small cake, frosted and gilded until it resembled a precious porcelain ornament. From experience I knew that however lovely the exterior, the center would be as dry and tasteless as old wood, and that the entire dessert could better serve as doorstop than victuals. But beggars cannot select their sauces, and well did I recognize that my next meal would not come for many hours. Taking the daintiest, gentlest (for breaking this crust was no mean feat) forkful that I could manage, I began to eat.

  Across the table, the queen and Lady Beatrix continued their useless dialogue. The queen, I noticed, h
ad two bright circles of color in her cheeks, and Beatrix, following her mistress's lead on wine consumption as on all matters, spoke more piercingly than usual.

  Sophia turned to me. "Benevolence, you must join us. Insignificant as our conversation may seem, a queen's greatest responsibility is to learn the art of speaking well while saying nothing."

  "Forgive me, Your Majesty," I replied docilely. "But I was taught that a queen's greatest responsibility is to bear her husband a child."

  A veritable broadsword of silence crashed down upon the room.

  Queen Sophia folded her napkin and placed it at her side. "Your left hand, please."

  By the time this strapping ended, we were both of us visibly wheezing, mightily as we tried to hide it. The effort of eliciting a cry—unsuccessful, I am proud to relate—had raised beads of perspiration on Sophia's upper lip. I myself bit my cheek so strongly that I tasted blood. Finished, we returned to our seats, dabbing our mouths with our napkins as though attending to a drop of gravy. As no one else survives to bear witness, allow me to aver that I was as ladylike in this gesture as Queen Sophia herself.

  Finally, following ices and cordials, the queen rose. Lady Beatrix and I obediently followed. Without a word the queen left the banquet hall. As had become our practice, I accompanied her, for she alone could admit me to my "room."

  Normally as we walked the corridors together, the queen would point out the failures she had not had opportunity to mention during the meal itself: I clinked my water glass against my wine; I thanked the footmen too heartily; and, always, I did not join the conversation. Tonight, however, she did not speak once. Word of our struggle—of my beating, to be frank—must have galloped through the castle, for footmen stood frozen to hear every word. Alas, there was none.

  Within the queen's apartment, her young maid cowered, acutely aware of the unearned scolding she would doubtless soon receive. Unable to open the stairwell door with my swollen hands, I had to wait, curtsying, for the queen. She flung it open and preceded me up the stairs, puffing visibly. Moonlight flooded my cell, and in the light I could observe Sophia's chest heaving with effort. Normally she wished me good night, though with enough coldness to cancel the courtesy. Tonight, however, she did not speak but only slammed shut the door with a resounding clang.

  My sobs drowned out the click of the lock. Alone at last, I collapsed, clutching my miserable hands as I had longed to all night. I had not water, even, to bathe them! My battle with the queen had taken every particle of my strength. I could not repeat it—could not even bear the thought. And yet she would sit as regent for years to come, until I reached my majority, the particulars of which she alone had power to determine. Should she wish, I could remain under her cold and bloodless thumb for a decade or more. I was alone—completely, utterly, bitterly alone, barely able to bend my aching digits. My mother was dead, murdered by our enemies as part of some oblique master plan; my father, wherever he be, showed no sign of returning. Even Lord Frederick, so solicitous on my first dismal day in this place, had departed for points abroad, his return date undetermined. It was I, a plump and heartbroken girl, aligned against a woman who had every indication of being Satan himself.

  I sobbed for I do not know how long. No matter how I prayed, no fairy godmother appeared. No elf or leprechaun or world-weary wizard materialized to provide the secret weapon against my foe. I remained alone in a mouse-infested cell, empty but for a pallet and the nightdress into which I now had to struggle.

  Getting into the nightdress was not to be the problem; it was struggling out of my gown that overwhelmed me. Normally a handmaid arrived following the queen's departure to unfasten my layers and attend to my corset and stockings. She would then, under the queen's orders, take my evening-wear with her on the absurd assumption that I might escape my tower, and the further absurd assumption that, once escaped, I would object to being seen in my nightclothes.

  Tonight, however, I was alone. The queen must have forbidden her from attending me or the maid had sense enough to avoid Sophia's fury. Either way, I heard no tread to indicate I would soon be released. Exhausted to my core, I craved sleep. But even if my fingers had worked, I could not have removed the constricting and obstinate garb in which I had been clad.

  Utterly defeated, I lay my head against the cold stone wall of my prison and sobbed anew. Moonlight cast a daunting sliver of shadow across the floor, but I paid it no heed. I craved only resolution. Even death, harsh as this may sound, seemed apt. Then I might join my mother in the afterlife. I lay my aching hands on the wall, intent to push off, to move to the window and leap out. And then—

  The wall beneath my left hand gave way. It did not collapse, should that image come to mind. Instead, it simply, in that instant, abandoned all pretext of solidity.

  In the many years since this one unforgettable moment, I have struggled to explain this experience, how best to convey its utterly terrifying foreignness. Imagine descending a staircase. Arriving at the bottom, you confidently stride forward—but you have miscalculated. Another step remains, and instead of touching solid floor you flail through the air for a life-saving handhold. And though you fall only two hand breadths at most, the terror of that one helpless moment remains, poisoning your consciousness, for some time afterward.

  Such was my sensation. Moreover, I did not suffer it on a staircase, where one has experience with such momentary crises, but against a solid rock wall.

  I leapt back in horror, my heart in my throat. What had I felt? In the moonlight I could perceive clearly the wall's rough stones, with the same mass and substance as the mountain itself. In fact, in the nocturnal illumination their origin was obvious, for Ancienne stone always glitters slightly.

  I must be mad. My hands were damaged, obviously. I knew not what I felt.

  Sheepishly I stepped forward. I touched the spot where my head had rested. In the most literal sense, it was rock solid. My right hand continued along the wall. Inflamed as my fingers were, the rock registered in unique and painful ways, all of them substantial. With great care, I reached out my left hand, still throbbing from the beating. I touched rock ...rock again ... and then before my disbelieving eyes, my arm plunged to the elbow into the stone.

  Again I leapt back. I examined my arm. Except for the beating, it appeared normal. But hands do not penetrate rock!

  Determined now, I slapped the masonry. But my fingers touched nothing—perhaps at best the skimming effect of silk; certainly not stone. Again my arm disappeared to the elbow. With enormous control, panting with effort, I held it there in place, suppressing panic at the sight of my absent limb. Deliberately I moved my arm. It moved—it moved as an arm should move. The space, solid as it appeared, felt empty. I brought my right hand over and slipped it in until my other arm, too, was elbow-deep in solid stone.

  Not daring to breathe, I dragged both arms to one side. Almost at once they hit a vertical barrier, undetectable to my eyes. My fingers slipped down this smooth impediment, which felt for all the world like a doorjamb. Up I continued, until standing on my toes I felt a "lintel" (so I dubbed it) above my head. No visible sign, however—rock and masonry had no relation to this smooth, tactile solidity. Dizzy with confusion and exhilaration, I ran my rock-bound arms along this lintel, swirling them about. Almost at once I located the other side of the doorjamb. There. I had found three sides of a doorway, as cleverly disguised as a moth on a tree. I stood, a swollen hand out of sight on each side of this mysterious and baffling portal.

  My pulse rang in my ears. Cautiously, as a swimmer tests the waters, I extended my foot, still in its beribboned dinner slipper. The stone engulfed my shoe and ankle, the hem of my gown disappearing into the stone.

  The ground on the other side felt solid.

  What had I to lose? Who would miss me, should this end in tragedy?

  With a deep breath, I stepped through.

  Part Two

  IN WHICH I MAKE SEVERAL UNUSUAL DISCOVERIES

  SIX

 
Coward that I am, I squeezed my eyes shut, and so experienced intensely the sensation of cool silk. Finding myself on the far side of the portal, puffing in relief at the stone beneath my feet, I forced one eyelid open. Before my nose was another wall of stone. Reaching out, I touched rough-hewn masonry and crudely applied mortar, all blanketed with the dust of age. In fact, excepting the dust it matched exactly the walls of the staircase from the queen's reception room to my cell. With a jolt, I realized that just as that horrid stair occupied the tight space between two walls, so did this most peculiar roomlet.

  Dim moonlight filtered through the secret portal. On the far side of the doorjamb my cell and bed appeared clear as day. As I peered about the roomlet's gloaming, I espied an ascending flight of steps built between the walls, so matched in appearance and construction to the staircase from the queen's reception room to my cell that without question they had been constructed by the same hand. Yet whereto did this flight lead? My tiny cell occupied the highest floor of the highest tower of Chateau de Montagne. Above was naught but slate roofing and sky.

  For some time I chewed my lip. It made some sort of sense—should something as irrational as this experience ever be labeled sensible—that a doorway such as this would lead to a secret corridor, and what else is a staircase but a corridor improved by elevation? The dusty little roomlet in which I now stood otherwise served as no more than well-disguised closet. Dearly might an emperor or Midas pay for a closet so perfectly hidden from spies and thieves, but it had no purpose in a barren cell. No, doorway and staircase were but a conduit to the unknown.