Princess Guardian 0004

PRINCESS GUARDIAN ROUGH DRAFT, PART 0004
Version 0001, Dated 1-15-10

"I think she hates me now," Prince Martine said sadly.

"Given how hard she hit you, that is not outside the realm of possibility," Kayla sighed. She was pounding leopards-bane and parsley together with a mortar and pestle, mixing the crushed herbs with a small amount of flaxseed oil to form a thin paste, which she spread onto a handkerchief with a sliver of ice chipped from the castle ice-house. She squeezed the compress out to remove the excess water, then pressed it over the prince's eye, which was turning a very impressive shade of dark purple. "Hold this there until the swelling goes down," she said, "while I take care of the scratches on your arm."

The guest quarters at Prince Henri's estate were fairly nice, she had to admit: although the walls and floor were cold stone, they were hung with vibrant tapestries of many colors, and the woven rug was thick and soft, patterned in wide stripes of red and gold, giving it a warm, homely feeling. The furniture, although somewhat old and worn, was sturdy and well-made, and the red velvet cushions were freshly brushed, without any burst seams. There was only one bed, but that was no problem: she had not slept in a bed in many years. She would have to ask for a blanket, but she could sleep curled up at the foot of the bed, or sitting up against the footboard.

It was the prince that worried her: he had always been a rather serious boy, but he was being uncharacteristically mopey since they had reunited by the creek. Neither he nor Princess Eileen had said much more than two words to anyone, and they had not spoken a single word to each other since her spectacular temper tantrium - cum - attempt at murder. He hadn't even complained when she had brought out the dreaded hairbrush and begun to untangle the knots in his short blond hair, which usually brought forth a torrent of protests. It was unnatural how well-behaved he was being.

"I think," she said, at last, "that you will require a bath. It has been too long, your highness, you're practically caked in dirt." When even that failed to get a response, Kayla began to worry: perhaps he was ill? She pressed her hand against his forehead to feel for a fever: the prince shrugged it off and resumed moping and staring at the fireplace. "Very well, then," she sighed, and pulled the bell-cord by the door to call the serving-girl up to their quarters.

It was a testament to the efficiency of Prince Henri's domestic staff that it took no more than a minute before there was a knock on the door, and a young lady of about thirteen arrived, dressed in the prince's livery of red and gold, her round cheeks flushed with exertion: she must have run all the way up from the kitchens. "Milady?" she asked.

"What is your name, girl?" Kayla asked.

"Oh, my apologies, milady. I am Rose, the junior scullery girl."

"Well, Rose, the prince and I wish to take a bath," Kayla said. "Please have a bath drawn for us."

"Two baths, please," Prince Martine interrupted.

"Your highness, the king is coming here tonight," Kayla pointed out. "I would not have you appear before him improperly groomed."

"I am fourteen years old, Kayla, I know how to wash behind my ears. Two baths," Martine insisted.

Kayla understood. "Two baths, please," she said to the young maid, "and have an attendant for the prince to wash his back."

"I will attend to the young man personally," the maid said, bowing deeply. She glanced at the prince, and a slight flush came over her round, rosy cheeks. Kayla felt a protective urge rise up within her, but she bit her tongue. This was, she decided, something that Martine would have to deal with on his own.

Nonetheless, she decided that it was time for her to have a talk with him about servant girls, royal blood, and the complications that arose from creating royal by-blows. Once Rose had left to draw their baths, of course.

-----

As it turned out, she had little need to worry: the two baths were drawn on either side of a curtain placed in the middle of the bath-house, and young Rose was kept occupied drawing water and stoking the fire to get in any way close to Prince Martine while he was unclothed and taking his bath. Kayla and Martine were instead attended in their ablutions by a pair of stout, middle-aged women, who scrubbed them down none too gently, and made fussing noises over the Prince as they removed the layers of grime and dirt that tended to build up around young boys his age: it took three tubs worth of water to finally get him clean, and by the time they were finish, he positively sparkled.

The ladies were no less strident towards her. "You have such a nice figure, milady, you should take better care of it," one of them complained, while scrubbing a porous rock over the callouses on her hand. "Body trim as a whistle, with tits like those, if I'd had your body I wouldn't waste it getting into fights and scarred up like this." She sniffed as she ran a finger over the pale, pink scar on Kayla's forehead, the one over her left eye.

"My scars are proof of my valor in battle, and I bear them proudly," Kayla insisted.

"Well, that's all well and good for men, but scars never caught a lady a wife. And you're well past marrying age, milady, one can't afford to pass up a good opportunity, or short-change oneself, for that matter," the old woman sniffed.

Kayla didn't respond. She had to admit, the old hag had a point.

-----

By evening, they were washed and scrubbed, their hair had received a well-needed trim, and new clothes were laid out for them to replace their shabby disguises. A fine doublet in deep purple with gold trim had been found for the Prince: possibly one of Henri's older garments, or maybe specially procured from some village tailor just for this purpose. New hose had been laid out to replace his laddered and patched leggings, and a wide ribbon of purple silk gathered his hair back in a braided queue. Thus transformed, he no longer resembled the peasant girl Martzia, which had been his disguise for so long: he now looked the part of a Prince of Caledon: slender, regal of bearing, and tall for his age.

It was Kayla's garment which was the trouble. "This dress," she pointed out, "fits very closely, and the neck line is cut very low."

"It is the fashion these days, for ladies to accentuate their bosoms with close-fitting bodices," Rose had explained. She had been assigned to assist Kayla in getting dressed: mostly to keep her away from the prince, and she seemed disappointed in her assignment.

"It does more than accentuate, it practically assaults," Kayla said, grimacing, as she looked at herself in the mirror. "If I breathe wrong, I'll spill out of this thing and show my tits to everyone. It's obscene."

"Milady, that does beg the question," Rose wondered. "When you first met the Princess Eileen, you were disguised as a man. How did you. . ."

"How did I hide these damnable things?" Kayla finished the young girl's sentence for her. "It was. . . difficult, to say the least. When I was younger, some wide bands of linen bound around by chest would suffice, but even that doesn't work all the time nowadays. A short cape over the shoulders, however, generally hides that which the binding cannot." She gave herself another turn in the slim mirror and shook her head. "It will have to do. These skirts, on the other hand. . . bring me some needle and thread. There is some tailoring to be done."

The operation was fairly simple: a long slit was cut into the side of the skirt, between the folds, and the edges were hemmed off to stop them unraveling, and a garter was strapped around her upper thigh, and a dagger tucked into it. Thus modified, she could easily reach and draw her dagger if the need befell. "I wish I could take Illumina with me, but I suppose that if the men are not allowed to bring their swords to this meal, I had better humor them."

The object in question lay on the bed, across her other clothing: it was a long sword with a hand-and-half hilt, with a blade three fingers wide at the hilt and tapering to a narrow point. A deep fuller was cut into the center of the blade, with runic letters engraved and filled with gold: its one ornamentation, for the cross-trees were simple iron, and the pommel had no jewels nor gilding, only a heavy, fig-shaped bulb weighted with lead. It was no ceremonial costume blade, but a tool for fighting and killing, and from the wear upon its ebony-wood hilt, the weapon had seen much use indeed.

She took a moment to draw the weapon from its leather scabbard and inspect the blade: it had picked up a few new nicks from the battle with the brigands, and she took a moment to smooth them out on a whetstone. The edges were starting to dull, and she would have to have them sharpened by a professional swordsmith soon: there was only so much she could do with a whetstone, and it was well past time for the blade to receive a true edge, from a master. She returned the blade to its scabbard and put it back on the bed.

"Well," she said, at last, "I suppose we had better get going. Best not to keep the king waiting."