Kore's Field Read online

  Oh, the barrage of nasty retorts I could have given him! But to snap and snarl would make me look bitter, and only a defeated princess would surrender to bitterness. Renewed by the strength of my anger, I drew myself up and, instead of responding to his question, placed my hand on his arm. I touched him just enough to feel the cool steel beneath my fingertips, then fixed my gaze on the temple.

  I felt him looking at me, his face carefully blank as he took in my crown of plaited wheat and the flowers sewn into my green gown. He studied my profile and then he, too, faced the temple without another word.

  Our walk to the temple was accompanied by music, which only ceased when we climbed the great pink marble steps and stood beneath the bower. Since Myrilla had no priest, our ceremony was conducted by a military officer, in the Itomian tradition. I was startled to see the officinal was none other than Kern, the man who had clipped my foot with his arrow, dressed in formal armor and holding a small scroll. If the whole business hadn’t been so dreadful I would have burst out laughing.

  Kern must have noticed my anxiety, for he gave me a small smile before taking on his role of distant stoicism. With his droning voice, he gave the same speech that was made at every Myrillan wedding, about Kore and the God of Souls. It was scrawled on a scrap of parchment, no doubt rescued from some forgotten room in the temple.

  “The gods call us to them,” he said, “just as the God of Souls called to Kore that fateful harvest day. We are to be imitators of the gods, that we may one day become gods ourselves. To wed the God of Souls, Kore had to die to her own wants and desires. She reminds us of this every year with the wheat, fruit, and flowers. Only a seed that has died and been buried can grow and bloom into something more beautiful than before. It is a painful process, but the reward is worth the cost. So it is with marriage. Both husband and wife must sacrifice their desires on the altar of love, each to benefit the other. Only then will these two truly know the love of the gods.”

  He read from the scroll, but his heavy dialect sounded so foreign to me I could scarcely understand a word he said. At the proper moment one of the Myrillan helpers held up the cask of grain, and I scooped up a handful to toss into the fire as a sacrifice to Kore. The prince did the same thing, asking for the God of Souls’ blessing. There was more music and then the hideously awkward moment where the prince and I had to join hands and kiss.

  The prince offered me his arm, leading me from under the bower and down the steps. The entire ceremony had lasted half an hour at the most; it was difficult to believe anything had changed. I expected some monumental shift, some presentiment to settle within me, saying, “Your husband is the king and you are now queen,” but it never came. I felt like the same Alyce as before. Alcestis was just a stranger with a queer name. As I walked with the prince I felt the same odd sensation as I had when I first stepped out of the pavilion; I looked down at my hand resting on the prince’s armor and hardly recognized it as my own. Grief squeezed my chest; I knew the crowd was shouting greetings and praises but I heard none of it.

  We proceeded to the wedding banquet waiting for us at the castle. Only the prince’s close friends were invited, though in his calculated generosity he made sure the people outside the gates received helpings of meat and wine as well. A feast of ridiculous proportions was spread across the tables of the great hall, no doubt provided from the prince’s wagons. Lamb and suckling pigs and roasted peacock, squash stuffed with sausage and a rainbow of vegetables and fruit. Wine was poured from generous hands and by the time puddings arrived (plum, cherry, lemon, rainberry, all sweeter than I’ve ever tasted) the newly installed court was rosy-cheeked and merry. As queen I sat at my husband’s right hand and carefully sampled every dish that was placed before me, hoping the food would settle my churning stomach. My one relief was that as soon as the ceremony had ended, the prince ordered my aunt and uncle into their new lodgings: a house of exile on the edge of the kingdom.

  I’m sure our wedding banquet included fine music and entertainment lasting well into the evening, but I remember little of it. I was sick with fear of the night to come. The knife that I’d hidden provided some consolation; it was the circumstances leading up to its possible use that I couldn’t bear to imagine. I was young and naïve, but I’d heard enough whispers from my maids to know that men could cause terrible pain in the name of marriage, and a wise woman was one who took steps to protect herself.

  Still, when the bell rang at midnight, announcing our imminent departure, my insides twisted into a tight coil. I tried to look as though I didn’t mind the court’s callous jests and bawdy jokes, but my face remained stony. When the prince stood and offered me his arm I had no choice but to accept it, though I wanted nothing more than to shove it away.

  “We must bid you farewell, I’m afraid,” announced the prince to the court, smiling broadly. “My bride and I have important business at hand.”

  “I hope it’s more than that!” shouted one of the lords, to much laughter. I shuddered inwardly, cursing the prince for saddling us with such a wretched court. If they were always this silly and foolish I’d almost rather return to my prison tower.

  • • •

  For once I was thankful for Itomian traditions. We were allowed privacy our first night together; under Myrilla’s laws royal wedding beds were presided over by the entire court. But the prince put a stop to that at once. He had ordered the heavy curtains around the great bed to be torn down, saying the bolted door would provide more than enough seclusion for a man and his wife on their wedding night.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” said the prince, removing his armor and piling it carefully on a table near the windows. The curtains were loose to keep out the cool night air, and to prevent any breezes from disturbing my flowers. The prince folded his crimson cape and touched a creamy yellow rosebud I’d tucked into a crack in the mortar. “Pretty,” he said, looking around the room with approval.

  I said nothing, though I made sure to position myself close to the left side of the bed, where my knife lay hidden beneath the mattress. My head itched from the scratchy wheat of my crown; I pulled it gently from my hair and set it on the windowsill. I knew what was supposed to come next; I had to undress and slip into the fresh sheets like a willing bride. My hands started to loosen the stays in the back of my gown, but froze in refusal.

  Thankfully, the prince chose that moment to visit the adjoining bathing chamber, so I was able to coerce my shaking fingers into unwrapping the gown and draping it over the chair by the fire. My bare feet skipped over the cold stone floor and I pulled back the heavy bedclothes, still dressed in my shift. Goosebumps rose on my arms, though from apprehension or the chilly air I couldn’t be sure.

  A few minutes later the prince emerged from the bathing chamber without a stitch of clothing. I looked away at once, my cheeks flushed with shame. I heard him smirk as he said, “Does my nakedness offend you?”

  I did not answer, choosing instead to stubbornly adjust my shift before lying back on the pillows. I pulled the sheet up to my chin, loath that this idiotic prince should see any fleck of my skin.

  He ignored my silence and I lay as still as stone as he climbed into the great bed. The mattress shifted and the frame creaked beneath his added weight, but I kept my eyes glued to the ceiling. I was keenly aware of every whiff of air entering and leaving my lungs. The fingers of my right hand trembled slightly, ready to dart into action. I silently begged the gods for courage and swiftness. I knew I would die for killing Myrilla’s new ruler, but I would rather face an instant of death than a lifetime enslaved to a pagan.

  The prince let out a long breath and tugged at the sheets until they covered him to his liking. I turned on my side, moving yet further away from him, so he could see only my back and not my face. My muscles were so tense I could have been mistaken for a statue in the bed. The prince finally ceased his beastly grunting and thrashing, and the room fell silent. I slipped my right hand beneath the mattress, under the pretense of adjusting
the sheet. My fingers found the knife’s handle and closed around it. The bone felt smooth and cold. With tiny, undetectable movements, I ran my thumb over the edge of the blade and noted how well I had sharpened it. It would do its work well, I realized with grim determination.

  The prince grunted again and the mattress creaked as he rolled onto his side. Part of me knew that if he were intent on playing the part of a sinister husband, he would have done so already, but all my sensibility was quenched by panic. I knew nothing of decent kings—or decent men, for that matter—so when his arm brushed against my back I assumed the torrent against my body was about to begin. Squeezing my eyes shut, I ripped the knife from its hiding place and rounded on him with my arm outstretched, expecting to hear him scream in agony.

  Instead, he caught my wrist, the blade inches from his chest. I cried out and opened my eyes, surprised by his speed and his grip.

  “Drop the knife,” he said, as calmly as if remarking on the weather.

  I grit my teeth in pain. His hand was crushing my bones, I was sure of it. I tried to pull away but he just held tighter. “You’re hurting me,” I gasped.

  “Not as much as you were planning to hurt me. Drop the knife,” he repeated, firmly.

  Again, I squirmed, but it did no good. Candlelight danced along the blade as it trembled in my weakening grasp. Tears welled in my eyes and I let the knife fall from my hand. It dropped onto the soft bedclothes with a muffled thump, and the prince instantly released me. He snatched away the knife and set it beside the candle.

  “Have you got any other blades hidden in here?” the prince asked in a flat voice. “It’ll be better for you to tell me now; I won’t be so merciful if I wake in the middle of the night to find you poking at me again.”

  I glared at him, all my fear replaced with reckless anger. “You’re a monster.”

  “You are hardly the first to say so. Answer my question, wife.”

  My voice shook with rage. “I will never be your wife. There are no other blades in this room but if you try to touch me again I’ll tear off your arm. I swear it.”

  “You have the same charm as your uncle,” he muttered.

  “I’m not joking. Come one inch closer to me and I’ll scream.”

  “And who will save you? Every person in this castle is under strict orders not to enter this room tonight.”

  I said nothing. I knew he was right. He was King of Myrilla and I was his wife. I had duties to fulfill. He could do anything he liked to me and I’d have no choice but to bear it. Hot tears rushed to my eyes and I swallowed a hard lump in my throat, steeling myself for the pain and humiliation sure to come.

  The prince watched me for a moment, then sighed in annoyance. “Don’t worry. You needn’t fear for your precious virtue. I’ve got it right here.”

  With one fluid motion, he grabbed the knife from the table and threw back the sheet. Before I could scream or back away or respond at all, he reached down and, with a careful flick of the blade, nicked the back of his knee. Bright blood dribbled from the cut and onto the clean mattress. I stared at the growing stain, confused, until he wiped the knife clean and returned it to the table. He drew the sheet over his body again, covering the red blot, and turned away from me.

  “There. It’s done. Now no one will know we’re not truly wed,” he said. “Marrying you was the price I had to pay for Myrilla. Nothing more.” He pulled the sheets up to his shoulders and smirked. “Trust me, Alyce, I’d tear off my own arm before I’d ever bring myself to touch you.”

  Chapter 5

  I woke the next morning to pink skies and sunlight shining in my face. With the scent of rosemary and sweet flowers and the lemony light filtering softly through the window, I felt a rush of joy. The beauty of the room seemed to reach out and touch me. The delicate petals and leaves brushed my skin and lips; the mere proximity to their loveliness almost made me feel beautiful. Then the prince shifted on his side of the bed and the joy vanished. For a brief, wonderful moment I had forgotten the previous day’s events; at the reminder I felt ashamed, different, tainted somehow. The flowers withdrew their perfume and the sheaf of wheat grew faded and dull. I had betrayed my people by marrying a barbaric prince; I could never enjoy even the simplest pleasures again.

  I lay cold and still as the prince stirred beside me. I kept perfectly silent, listening to the unfamiliar movements of a bedmate rising from sleep. I heard him shuffle across the stone floor and slip into the adjoining chamber to empty his bladder. While he was gone I surveyed the room with a critical eye. The flowers looked pretty, but the arrangements were not particularly special. The wheat slumped listlessly, the delicate vines I had so carefully wrapped around the bed posts were coming loose, while the rosebuds I had inserted into the cracks in the stone wall had indeed opened, though half the petals had fallen onto the floor. It couldn’t have looked more pitiful for a bridal chamber.

  “Good morning,” the prince mumbled as he emerged. I shut my eyes once more, not wanting to see his naked form again.

  “Alyce?”

  Still I said nothing. His servants would arrive soon to dress him, I silently reasoned, and he’d be out of my sight in the next room. Once he departed I would sweep up the scattered petals and fallen wheat berries, lest anyone else witness my embarrassment.

  “I know you’re awake,” he said, interrupting my plans. “Do you want to know how I can tell?”

  He could mock and cajole all he liked, but I wouldn’t let him bait me. I let out a long, slow breath through my nose, resolutely ignoring him.

  He moved throughout the room, his thick accent slowing his voice as it carried across the stone. “You’re much too still,” he observed. “When a person is truly asleep, their muscles alternate between relaxation and tension. You should shift and move every now and then, and vary your breathing. Let out a little whistle or snore through your nose. You’re concentrating so hard on trying to look like you’re sleeping that any fool can tell you’re not.”

  Furious, I opened one eye to see him standing at the foot of the bed with a huge grin stamped on his witless, foreign face. I ran my eyes over him, unimpressed. Instead of calling for the servants to dress him like a true prince would, he had clutched at the first clothes to meet his hand and thrown them onto his body.

  His tunic mussed his golden hair when he pulled it over his head. “Aren’t you going to wish me a good morning, too?”

  I kept my face neutral. I could smile and perform and convince the entire kingdom I was a happily married queen when needed, but in the privacy of our own room I owed this fool nothing. He was dying for me to speak, to ask him why he was dressed and on his way out the door at such an early hour, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I just closed my eyes and let my head fall back on the pillow.

  “I’m going to visit my chief herdsman,” I heard him say. “He keeps the flocks on the southern face of the mountain. I’ll return in an hour or so.”

  I thought I heard him snicker one more time as he left the room, shutting the door behind him, but it could have just been the wind rustling the wheat piled on the sill.

  • • •

  My first several days married to the prince continued this way. Each morning I woke with the sun and waited for the prince to dress himself and leave for the mountain before getting out of bed. I kept very much to myself. Occasionally I ate with my maids, but other than that I barely saw anyone. I felt so embarrassed, so defeated, that I could hardly bring myself to walk the castle corridors. The prince was never unkind to me, nor was he benevolent; he merely treated me like a shadow. Something always present, but only noticeable on certain occasions. I couldn’t bring myself to call him “king,” as it reminded me too much of my uncle. Instead I referred to him in my mind as “the prince.” Be assured, I was never so disrespectful to call him a mere prince to his face. In the rare occasions when we had to speak, I simply called him “sir.”

  I avoided him whenever possible; I suspect he was doing the same to
me. The most time we spent together was in the throne room, where we devoted each afternoon to receiving supplicants. Mostly farmers, all trying to take advantage of the prince’s unfamiliarity and settle disputes in their favor. The prince patiently heard them all; he sat in my uncle’s great carved throne, with me in a little chair to his left, and administered his justice. I say his justice, because that’s precisely what it was. My opinion was neither welcome nor solicited. When we shared our evening meals in the great hall I ate little and said even less. At night we’d return to our chamber together, but almost never spoke. He’d take down his bow from where it hung over the fire and polish it carefully and eventually we would make our way to the bed like strangers.

  During this time, I developed two habits I never expected. Like all other habits, I suppose, they began out of a need followed quickly by a desire to fill that need however possible. Sometimes the filling is healthy, sometimes it is not. A man needs to feel calm and emboldened for an unpleasant task, so he drinks wine until he forgets his troubles and can smile once more. A woman needs to feel important, so she makes herself look beautiful and snares whichever man first crosses her path, no matter how unsuitable he is. I needed to feel I still had a voice, an identity. Like a foolish girl I had thought Myrilla’s fall in battle would lead to an opportunity for a position of power. Instead I had passed from one imprisonment to another, and was nearly going mad from it. Something had to be done.

  So the first habit, which may sound strange to you, Reader, was that I started visiting the temple nearly every day. I don’t even know what planted the idea in my mind—my aunt and uncle had not visited on a regular basis—but when I woke on the third morning of my marriage to the prince I felt so suffocated and desperate that I took a leaf from the prince’s book and dressed myself, setting out for the temple just after sunrise. The guards paid me no notice; no one stopped or questioned me as I passed through the castle gates. On my walk to the temple I felt like a ghost of old Myrilla, surveying the few wheat fields and orchards that had survived the invasion.