I, Margaret

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

So... This is what I do when I'm bored.
I may as well put the story with it. Some got erased but here you are people.

The wooden shingles of the Maclocken estate crunched under Margaret’s boots as she inched along the wall of the second story. Above her, the condensation from the fog dripped from the second story roof. Beside her the wall offered a comforting sense of support. And below her, a steep slope invited fool-hearty travelers to take the fourteen foot drop to the lush grass of the Erish countryside.
It was, however, what lay before her that kept common sense from overriding determination. The shutters on her brother’s window stood open like arms waiting to enfold her. Inside, her father’s conversation with the doctor was obstructed by only the thick tapestry drawn to keep out the light. It was much easier to access than the two inches of sturdy oak that created the door that her mother currently guarded, most likely listening and weeping at the keyhole.
Women were not to be present while men were examined, even if they were siblings and sons. But at the age of fifteen, Margaret was hardly old enough to take any advantages that came with womanhood, so naturally she could not be expected to reside under the consequences of her kind. And even if she was, she had shared a womb with Kethann. She could hardly be expected to stay out of his bedroom while the likelihood of his future was discussed.
Her heart pounded, legs trembling from the messages sent by her mind of their peril if they collapsed and took a plunge from the heights. She pressed her back against the wall, turning one ear toward the opening where low voices murmured.
She could not understand her father’s words, but his tone only increased the drive to discover what no one would confirm. She pressed a finger to the tapestry, inching it slowly forward so there was a small gap for the sound to travel around.
“… cannot handle excitement…. keep things quiet….”
Her teeth grit as she twisted to press her face as close to the cloth as possible, hoping to distinguish shapes between the tight weave.
“It is essential that he does not strain the heart in any way.”
This sentence came clearly but more pressing was the swift steps that carried in her direction. Margaret jerked back, nearly loosing her balance on the roof when the curtain folded in on itself as her father removed the remnant of secrecy and safety.
“Margaret!”
Toryn Maclocken’s grip was accustomed to the steel hilt of the sword and was hardly any less gentle when it wrapped around her arm. She stumbled over the window sill as he hauled her into the safety of her brother’s room.
“When I shut and lock a door, there is a very precise reason for it,” Toryn’s voice stayed low, the way it always did when he was displeased.
Margaret’s eyes traveled from his face, to the doctor packing his bad, to the boy sleeping in the bed.
“If you would simply share with the family about Kethann, there would be no need for locking doors in the first place,” she said. “Is he dying?”
“That depends entirely upon how well he is cared for,” Toryn replied. “If he’s frightened at someone clambering through his window, his heart might very well stop right this moment. You know better.”
He nudged her toward the door, turning the key in the lock. He would shove her out and lock it behind her and then she’d have her mother to face. “You’re late for lessons.”

“Lessons don’t matter!” Margaret pleaded. She was a failure at social graces and had no interest in learning them. She pointed to the boy on the bed. “This matters!”
“There’s nothing you can do about this.” The door opened with her father’s dismissal. “Obey me and go. We’ll talk when you return.”
“Lessons don’t matter!” Margaret pleaded. She was a failure at social graces and had no interest in learning them. She pointed to the boy on the bed. “This matters!”
“There’s nothing you can do about this.” The door opened with her father’s dismissal. “Obey me and go. We’ll talk when you return.
Margaret’s throat worked as she passed her mother to gather her lunch from a servant. The basket banged against her skirt as she stepped into the yard.
It was a short walk from the main house to the training grounds. There a squadron of soldiers parried in the rings. There was something comforting in the noise of iron striking nails into a horse’s hoof, the taunting of the group watching the fighters. The smell of leather and cooking fires.
A few men nodded toward her as she passed, one calling out, “You’re late, lady Margaret. You’d better run!”
“Yes, I am late, Rothonal.” Margaret turned her steps toward the man with a smile.”Which I am sure is why you will forgive me for taking your horse.”
“My horse?” The man’s eyebrows rose. “My horse?”
“Yes,” Margaret reached for the animal’s reins. “You’ve gotten it ready for me, I see. It was very kind. I’m sure you can get another should you require use of a mount.”
“I can, my dear.” The man held the animal steady while she swung astride. “You just make sure you and horse get safely back. I have no desire to be whipped for loosing an animal.”
“I’ll treat him like my own child!” Margaret answered, prying the straps loose from the man’s hand.
She pushed the horse into a trot while Rothanal made a show of quoting a prayer of protection, clasping a fist to his head,
The curls bounced around her shoulders as she kept the horse at a brisk pace that simultaneously energized her and threatened to spill the contents of her basket.
Every last girl had disappeared inside the doorway of Mistress Lavith’s room before she entrusted her steed to a servant’s care. Brushing the creases from her dress, she sucked in a breath as the darkness of the interior swallowed her.
There was an usual amount of movement in the hallway as servants rearranged portraits and scrubbed the boards that lined the bottom of the walls,
Veshath hopped on her cousin, patting the extra seat beside her as Margaret located the room where all eight girls of consequence took their lessons.
“Did you hear?” the girl whispered even before Margaret got close enough to hear anything. “King Dougherah is coming to visit Master Drageth.”
“He’s coming to see my father,” Margaret replied.
Though the king’s interests lay closer to poetry than plotting warfare, his duties often brought him to their estate which served as a basic training ground before the soldiers were moved to the more experienced levels.
“Weeding them out’ her father called it. Deciding which boys to keep and which to send to entertain the king’s court.
Undaunted by her lack of awe, Veshath leaned closer while defeating the purpose by raising her whisper. “He’s bringing his sons!”
Margaret’s heart picked up. She had never formally met Prince Galaphy. Their relationship remained as a peasant who only saw the boy from a distance. But it was the plurality of the words that caught her attention.
She glanced sideways. “Prince Terrant?”
Veshath’s voice squeaked as she nodded. “He’s turning twenty and he’s going to reveal himself as the prince.”
Margaret’s stomach fluttered as the girl grabbed her hand. “Oh, isn’t it exciting? After all these years of guessing which soldier he is. I’ll bet he’s Mathorn.”
Margaret shook her head. “Mathorn is too old.”
“He could have been lying about his age,” Veshath argued. “Just to think we could have been talking to him all these years and never known it. What sport!”
Margaret had often thought of it, trying to guess herself or bribe soldiers to tell her. She’d gotten a few different answers and even had several claim to be the prince.
His age was really all that could give him away, for a man who had lived within the ranks since he was a child, was well able to fit in. Many of the soldiers did not know who he was.
Perhaps her father did, but he was suck a stickler for the secrets kept within the ranks.
Even if Terrant was an ugly, dull toad, it would be a relief to have the mystery cleared up. He couldn’t remain anonymous forever, for even though he wished to be treated as a common soldier, the fact remained that he was a prince.
“When?” she whispered as Lady Lavith entered, armed with a basket of embroidery to torture Margaret.
The woman rose her eyebrows until the room developed the silence required by the teacher. When everyone was all but holding their breathes, the woman said, “Girls. I need your undevided attention. I have a most important introduction for all of you.
Veshath squirmed, feet pressing under the couch as her body went ridged with excitement.
But it was not the prince everyone dreamed of meeting.
It was a girl. She could not be called plain for she was quite pleasant complexion. But if one were called to define which feature lent her beauty, they would be hard pressed for an answer.
Her mouth was small and straight, her eyes brown but not particularity large or any color that made them stand out. Her hair matched her eyes - not light or dark or mixed in with any interesting highlights.
Her clothing, however, immediately drew the eye, for her dress was created a shade of blue that could not be found on any Erish market place. It’s looked as though the sky itself had fallen around her shoulders. Her bodice was tailored tightly around a petite waist that disappeared into a skirt that flared in full folds to the floor. Her hair hung in a dozen braids, that cascaded down her back before they looped again, their tips disappearing back into the gathering at her nape.
It was clear that she was not Erish even before she opened her mouth to butcher their accent and language.
“Girls this is Setta Makiver. She is the daughter of Gharon an ambassador from Kathonia.”
The girl curtsied and said in the simplest and most formal phrase possible. “I am pleased to be here.”
At least, that was what Margaret thought the girl meant to say. What had actually come through the narrow lips was, “I am pleased to be a horse.”
Chuckles and a few smirks rippled through the Erish.
Setta flushed though she didn’t seem to understand her mistake. Her voice was heavily accented, pronouncing her vowels as though they had all been pushed to the front of her mouth and her R’s sounded as though she was spitting instead of being properly rolled. It was a sound that Margaret could not duplicate even when the soldiers who spoke the language of Kathonia had taught her their tongue.
But she ventured to give the girl an answer in the Setta’s native language, butchering the accent and rolling the R’s when she said, “And we are pleased to have you here.”
Relief and interest poured into the girl’s eyes as they flickered to meet Margaret’s.
Several girls scooted forward on their chairs, surveying the two. “What did you tell her?”
Margaret only raised her chin as the teacher motioned the girl to sit and Setta chose the empty spot next to her.
After that, Margaret spent an hour poking her fingers with stitches that Mistress Lavith claimed were entirely too long and the only interesting thing that happened was when the servants dropped a painting in the hallway.