Michael Sullivan: The Rose and the Thorn

“You’ll be wanting Tamarisk, Your Highness?” Ian asked from somewhere in the stable’s main entry.

“Of course. It’s a beautiful day for a ride, isn’t it? Tamarisk likes the cooler weather. He can run.”

“Your mother has asked you not to run Tamarisk.”

“Trotting is uncomfortable.”

Ian gave her a dubious look. “Tamarisk is a Maranon palfrey, Your Highness. He doesn’t trot-he ambles.”

“I like the wind in my hair.” There was a certain flair in her voice, a willfulness that made Reuben smile.

“Your mother would prefer-”

“Are you the royal groom or a nursemaid? Because I should tell Nora that her services are no longer needed.”

“Forgive me, Your Highness, but your mother would-”

She pushed past the groom and entered the barn. “You there-boy!” the princess called.

Reuben paused in his scraping. She was looking right at him.

“Can you saddle a horse?”

He managed a nod.

“Saddle Tamarisk for me. Use the sidesaddle with the suede seat. You know the one?”

Reuben nodded again and jumped to the task. His hands shook as he lifted the saddle from the rack.

Tamarisk was a beautiful chestnut, imported from the kingdom of Maranon. These horses were famed for their breeding and exquisite training, which made for exceptionally smooth rides. Reuben imagined this was how the king explained the gift to his wife. Maranon mounts were also known for their speed, which was likely how the king explained the gift to his daughter.

“Where will you be going?” Ian asked.

“I thought I would ride to the Gateway Bridge.”

“You can’t ride so far alone.”

“My father got me that horse to ride, and not just in the courtyard.”

“Then I will escort you,” the groom insisted.

“No! Your place is here. Besides, who will raise the alarm if I don’t return?”

“If you won’t have me, then Reuben will ride with you.”

“Who?”

Reuben froze.

“Reuben. The boy saddling your horse.”

“I don’t want anyone with me.”

“It’s me or him or no horse is saddled, and I’ll go to your mother right now.”

“Fine. I’ll take … what did you say his name was?”

“Reuben.”

“Really? Does he have a last name?”

“Hilfred.”

She sighed. “I’ll take Hilfred.”

Reuben had never sat a horse before, but he wasn’t about to tell either of them that. He was not afraid, except of making a fool of himself in front of her. He knew all the horses well and chose Melancholy, an older black mare with a white diamond on her face. Her name matched her temperament-an attitude that reflected her age. This was the horse they saddled for the children who wanted to ride a “real” horse or for grandmothers and matronly aunts. Still, his heart was pounding as Melancholy followed behind Tamarisk, something she would do even if Reuben wasn’t on her back.

They passed out of the castle gates into the city of Medford, the capital of the kingdom of Melengar. Reuben hadn’t had much education, but he was a great listener and knew Melengar was one of the smallest of the eight kingdoms of Avryn-the greatest of four nations of mankind. All four countries-Trent, Avryn, Delgos, and Calis-had at one time been part of a single empire, but that was long ago and of no importance to anyone but scribes and historians. What was important was that Medford was well respected, well-to-do, and at peace, and had been for a generation or more.

The king’s castle formed the central hub of the city, and around it cart vendors lay siege, circling the moat and selling all manner of autumn fruits and vegetables, breads, smoked meats, leather goods, and cider-both hot and cold, hard and soft. Three fiddlers played a lively tune next to an upturned hat placed on a nearby stump. Lesser nobles in cloaks or capes wandered the brick streets, fingering crafted baubles. Those of greater means rolled along in carriages.

The two rode straight down the wide brick avenue, past the statue of Tolin Essendon. Sculpted larger than life, the first king of Melengar was made to look like a god on his warhorse, though rumor had it he was not a big man. The artist might have aimed at capturing the full reality of Tolin rather than just his appearance, for surely the man who defeated Lothomad, Lord of Trent, and carved Melengar out of the ruins of a civil war had to have been nearly as great as Novron himself.

No one stopped or questioned Reuben and Arista as they rode by, but many bowed or curtsied. Several loud conversations actually halted when they approached, everyone staring. Reuben felt uncomfortable, but the princess appeared oblivious, and he admired her for it.

Once they were out of the city and on the open road, Arista increased their pace to a trot. At least his horse trotted, which was an unpleasant bouncing gait that caused the sword Ian had given him to clap against his thigh. Just as Ian had mentioned, the princess’s horse did not trot. The animal pranced as if Tamarisk wished to avoid soiling his hooves.

They continued along the road, and as Reuben’s comfort with the horse grew, so did a smile on his lips. He was alone with her , far away from Ellison and the Three Cruelties, riding a horse and wearing a sword. This was what a man’s life should be, what his life might have been if he’d been born noble.

Reuben’s fate was to join his father, Richard, in the service of the king as a man-at-arms. He would start on the wall or at the gate, and if lucky would work his way up to a more prestigious position like his father had. Richard Hilfred was a sergeant in the royal guard and one of those responsible for the personal protection of the king and his family. Such a title had benefits, such as securing a position for an untrained son. Reuben knew he should be thankful for the opportunity. Soldiers in a peaceful kingdom led comfortable lives, but so far life in Essendon Castle had been anything but comfortable.

In a week, on his birthday, he would don the burgundy and gold. Reuben would still be the youngest and weakest, but he would no longer be a misfit. He would have a place. That place would just never be on the back of a horse riding free on the open road with a real sword strapped to his belt. Reuben imagined the life of an errant knight, roaming the roads as he wished, seeking adventures, and gaining fame. That was the future of squires-their reward for stealing apples and beating him.

This ride might be the highpoint of his life. The weather was perfect, a late afternoon in fall. The sky a color of blue usually only seen in the crisp of winter, and the trees-many of which still had their leaves-were brilliant, as if the forests were ablaze but frozen in time. Scarecrows with pumpkin heads stood guard over the brown stalks of corn and late season gardens.

He breathed in the air; it smelled sweeter somehow.

Once they were down the road, the princess looked behind her. “Hilfred? Do you suppose they can see us from here?”

“Who, Your Highness?” he asked, amazed and grateful his voice didn’t crack.

“Oh, I don’t know. Anyone who might be watching … the guards on the walls or someone who may have put her needlework down in order to climb the east tower to look out the window?”

Reuben looked back. The city was obscured by the hill and the trees. “No, Your Highness.”

The princess smiled. “Wonderful.” She crouched low over Tamarisk’s back and made a clicking noise. The horse broke into a run, racing down the road.

Reuben had no choice but to follow, holding on to the saddle with both hands as Melancholy made a valiant effort, but the nineteen-year-old pasture mare was no match for the seven-year-old Maranon palfrey. The princess and her horse were soon out of sight and Melancholy settled to a trot, then slowed to a walk. Her sides were heaving, and nothing Reuben tried urged her to move any faster. He finally gave up and sighed in frustration.