Mermaid_ A Twist on the Classic Tale - Carolyn Turgeon [29]
And then, to Margrethe’s astonishment, the king himself stormed into the room in a sweep of pomp and fury. His presence filled every crack and crevice, like an assault, like a hand around her throat.
King Erik was a tall, bearded man, with gray hair and weathered, battle-hardened skin. He seemed always on alert, aware of every movement around him. His eyes were deep set and the color of coal. Once, he had been renowned throughout the kingdom for his good looks. Her mother had told her stories about him from their courtship, when he was a dashing young prince who’d won her hand in a jousting match, but there was little left now of that long-ago charmer.
“Margrethe!” he called.
Edele breathed in next to her as Margrethe stepped forward from the stairwell, terror coursing through her. Hiding had become second nature to her, and now here was her father and his men, revealing her to everyone in one fell swoop. The person she’d been all these weeks dismantled in an instant.
What was he doing here?
Trying to remain calm, she walked toward him. “I am here,” she said, feeling the others’ eyes burning into her.
The king saw her then, focusing in, clearly surprised by her appearance as she stood before him unadorned, in her novice’s habit, her rich, dark hair out of view. His relief was palpable, but then he immediately turned his attention away from her and to the abbess.
“What have you done?” the king yelled, before the woman even had a chance to kneel at his feet. “I send my daughter to you for protection and you take in the son of my enemy?”
Margrethe looked from her father to Lens and Henri, confused, and saw them drop their eyes. She turned to her father. “I do not understand. I have been safe here—”
“The man that these women took in and housed in the infirmary was Prince Christopher, of the South. We’re taking you from this place immediately. Our enemies know you’re here. It’s only through the grace of God that you’re alive now.”
“My liege …,” the abbess began, clearly as shocked as Margrethe was.
Margrethe just stared at her father, his fury like a wall in front of her. “How do you …?” she began, stumbling over her words. For once she could not call on her royal training and was at a loss.
“We’ve received reports that he returned to his father’s castle,” the king said, “some days ago, on a horse given to him by this convent.” He nearly spat the last words.
Margrethe’s head spun. Prince Christopher. She’d heard stories about the Southern king’s son, already legendary though he’d come of age only a few years before. At her father’s court they’d spoken of his temper, his passion, his facility with words—though always as a warning. They said he was a sensualist who surrounded himself with women and food, and she’d heard all the stories about life in the South: the feverish dancing and lovemaking that lasted late into the night, the great feasts that went on for days, the tables overloaded with salmon and pheasants and capons and veal, candied figs and oranges and dates and lemons, cakes and tarts and spices coated in sugar, the endless vats of wine. She’d heard about the fountains scattered through the castle in which naked slave girls bathed, the flowers that were shipped in from the east and that burst from every room, the elaborate art that hung throughout the castle and lined all the roads leading to it, full of unholy scenes from myth and folklore. Her father’s religious adviser preached such things as examples of all that they had been fighting against in the war.
Her mind filled with him, the image of him—this prince, this son of her father’s enemy—spread out on the beach, under the mermaid, him lying in the infirmary, that shimmer on his skin, him standing in the snow in the garden, waiting. No wonder he had been in such a hurry to leave.
“Go search for any sign of him, anything he left behind,” the king instructed his men, who obeyed immediately, scattering from the room.
The abbess