“Run!” The shout was all that the girl needed as she sprinted down the long stone corridor with all the speed she could muster. Her head turned over her shoulder to look back as her governess faced the encroaching army with nothing but a dull sword taken from the decorative armor in the hall. Her heart lurched into her throat, gagging her as she turned away from the inevitable end to the woman who had raised her. She couldn’t think of an end at all.
The child – in that moment, she did think of herself as just a child – skidded around a corner and into a small enclave that had once held the coat of arms for the Fiennes family. Their dishonor left this nook barren and led to this massacre. It was a fitting place to catch her breath.
The glint of a sword as it poked into the opening of the enclave pushed the girl into action once more and her hand found and nimbly tugged the trigger for a secret entrance to the lower tunnels. Once a shelter during siege and attacks, they hadn’t been used for anything other than hide and seek for the royal children in a long time. Few recollected their mere existence now. Rosalie did.
The path opened and she darted through, praying the man with the sword had not seen her before the stone walls trapped her in. She couldn’t risk staying in that place to find out, and she sprinted for the exit closest to the stables. She had to get out of the city all together. The knights could not protect her father from the Fiennes’ assassination and they could not stop this usurpation. Her mother had been made prisoner and her brother she could only assume was still fighting. She had to believe that. He would call her home when the dust settled if he won the throne.
The mouth of the cavernous tunnel system was in an old stall that had been turned into an armory that was no longer used. Cobwebs and dust from her grandfather’s grandfather’s war gear hung to every item and the lady could not stifle her sneezes as she had always been instructed. Quietly and attempting to imitate the Gazers – the organization that watched and listened to the city for security and more effective crime prevention for the sovereign. They walked without making a sound and right now, that was what Rosalie needed to do.
Though her governess, in all her foresight, had insisted the girl don clothing more suitable for a servant, she was still in nicer leather boots and some fur-lined garments. They were not, however, as colorful or polished as she was used to, and the child hoped that that fact alone might keep her unrecognized in her escape. She pulled herself onto her horse as quickly as she could and cantered for the gates of the city. Wails echoed over the stone buildings and shouting rushed past her ears without meaning. Only when she reached the Wall and turned to look back at what she was being asked to leave behind did those cries of the villagers take shape.
Her father had not been a kind king. Many had been condemned to death or exiled for crimes which harmed no one. Lord Fiennes had suggested a trial for a man who had asked for shelter at the castle during a terrible winter, which had destroyed many of his crops. In hard times, the man offered little protection for those outside the capital city, and in good times, the taxes were so high they might as well have been a period of famine. The commons had turned against the royal family long ago and were yelling at the Fiennes’ guards that Rosalie was fleeing. The large men gave chase, but Rosalie was lighter in weight and so easier for her horse to carry. It also helped that she rode one of the fasted horses in all the kingdoms of this world.
Across the countryside they flew, heart pounding at, what the girl believed was the same rhythm of her courser’s hooves upon the ground. Each glance over her shoulder was a reminder that her life was changing and there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it. In the growing dusk, the towns in the valleys across which she fled lit torches and bonfires to celebrate the victory of “the people” over their unjust overlord. The girl wanted to defend her father, to demand that the treasonous words be penalized, but she couldn’t. Tears burned in her eyes at the knowledge that without any actions on her part, the subjects hated her. She was only 14 years old.
The slowing speed of her horse worried Rosalie in more ways than one. She needed to rest the beast, but she needed to find a place that wouldn’t be crawling with the new king’s guard to do it. The Forest of Myros lay about 500 meters away and she was fairly certain the soldiers would not enter that place, but she was resistant as well. Dark creatures of myth lay in that forest and legends told of a great shadow that haunted any who strayed into its heart. Once again she glanced behind her before urging the gelding into the woods.
They didn’t have to go far before the shade dropped like a veil behind them, blocking them from view, and Rosalie slid from the saddle. The horse trembled in fear and fatigue and whipped his tail around his legs. Only when the princess – or rather outcast, she was no longer welcome in the kingdom – collapsed to her knees did the gelding begin to graze and sip from a small brook.
Shouts from just beyond the edge began again within an hour, with protests from men the girl could only assume were of a lower rank being made to scout for her. They must have seen her come in. The gelding was still recovering from the exceedingly long run from the castle and grunted as his rider remounted and spurred him into yet another gallop, weaving between the trees. Less than a mile of this passed before Rosalie felt herself lurch, fly and crash to the ground hard. She flipped a few times and ended up hitting a tree to stop the fall. Her breath gone and unlikely to return for a while, the outcast turned her head to see what had caused the horse to collapse – broken leg or bursted heart – but the animal was nowhere to be seen.
A gleam caught her glance from the dirt by her feet, and she winced as she brushed it off. If not broken, her ribs were certainly badly bruised. Despite the discomfort, her fingers curled around the piece and she studied it with citrine-colored eyes. It looked quite like the coins used for currency, but instead of the brandished silver, this looked to be made of some yellow metal that Rosalie did not recognize. Without pockets, she put the coin in a small open pouch that was tied near her chest and slowly began limping through the woods.
She did not know this land, and nothing about it gave her a reason to believe she had entered another world. There were no shouts to be heard now, but it was a fool’s hope to believe that was because the men had stopped their hunt. She had to change who she was. If anyone asked her, she would lie. Rossa. She would be Rossa from now on. It was close enough to her real name to remember it, but no one would expect her to drop her noble name in favor of something so much more common.
That decided, she continued her walk, realizing now in her slowed pace the cotton-like feeling in her mouth. She needed water and though vegetation grew abundantly here, she had no idea where a nearby stream might be. She was surely walking in circles for quite some time before she stumbled across a small clearing in the center of which stood an old well.
The rope which would ordinarily hold the bucket was taut, hanging into the stone contraption and the parched child furiously tugged at it until a rusty pail leaked over her. In her hurry, she did not care that at least half of the water fell over her and into the soil so long as her thirst was quenched. Having a reserve of water was important though, is she was to continue her flight from her home. There was no telling when it would come in handy. Leaning over the well, Rossa began to lower the bucket down again, now lonelier than she had ever been in her life. When the bucket was about three arms-length down the well, the girl felt herself begin to slip and she let go of the rope to catch herself against the wall. Metal and stone met with a loud clang and a splash, and that golden glimmer once again caught her eye as the coin tumbled into the well, pinging against the stone as it fell. A sharp tug at the inside of herself –there was truly no other way to describe the sensation – helped her back to her proper stance, and then continued to tear at her soul painfully. Splish. |
