She was almost asleep when the herbalist began a story, and Thursey imagined the prince in this story as pale as their own prince must be. Geddebeuf folded lankily over his stool and seemed to gather her in and weave a spell around her so she was lost at once to the tale.
"A king, while hunting in the enchanted swamp, followed a stag, which vanished into a garden in the center of the dark place. The king opened a door into the garden and found himself among trees upon which hung leaves of gold; and there were plants that bloomed diamond flowers. As he picked a rose, a long thread spun out from it and wound around him until he could not move. Then suddenly a dragon appeared, roaring and blowing fire, and it said it would free him only if he promised to bring one of his daughters to be his wife.
"The king returned home sorrowfully, and when his children asked him what the matter was, he told them. The two elder daughters were angry and refused to go to the dragon, saying their father should have stayed captive. But the youngest daughter quickly said that she would go, and the king took her to the dragon as he had promised.
"The dragon met them on the road clad in gold and splendor and escorted them to the palace; and the wedding was very grand indeed. After the wedding the king returned home laden with many gifts.
"Now every day the dragon left the palace, after instructing his wife never to enter a particular room. But one day she did enter it, and there she found a pit, and a young prince at the bottom of it, groaning with pain. She knew she must rescue him, and when she had thrown him a rope and helped him out, she tended to his wounds. In three weeks' time the prince's health was regained. Then she sent him forth from the palace before the dragon should discover him missing from the pit. She begged him to find and bring to her a large gold chest that could be opened from inside. She could hide in it, and the dragon, thinking her lost, would sell the chest so he would not be reminded of her. ..."
Thursey was lost in the princess's adventures after the chest was brought, and she sighed with relief when the princess was at last united with the young prince. I wish, Thursey thought, I wish real life could be so sweet.
That night in bed she did not paint pages for the story of "The Dragon," she wrote it down so she could think about it first. Then she took out the thirteen books from beneath her mattress and spread them in front of her. She took up "Tattercoats." She had made the cover out of tiny scraps of cloth to form a true coat of tatters. The background was blue for the sea, the sky, and for the grandfather's tears; the blue ran through every page like a theme of music. White geese marched in the blue borders, and the gooseherd's clothes were blue, his skin as brown as his wooden flute.
"Tattercoats, Tattercoats," the servants chanted. They laughed at her rags and dirt, they laughed at her bare feet and made her run away. They made her hide in the brambles and cry.
No one cared [or her, she had no parents, only a grandfather, and he sat all day in the tower and cried rivers of tears. For when Tattercoats was born her mother died, and the grandfather shut himself away and would not see Tattercoats. His white beard grew long and hung out the stone windows like flags waving, and his tears made a salty pool on the floor.
Only the gooseherd was her friend. He played a merry tune for her, he danced for her, he made her laugh and sing.
The little flute appeared on many pages, for it was with the flute that the gooseherd performed his enchantment that helped her marry the prince. In one picture Tattercoats and the prince faced each other on the meadows as the gooseherd played his flute for them. That the gooseherd disappeared after the wedding always made Thursey unaccountably sad.
"Tattercoats, Tattercoats, your grandfather weeps." She replied, "He has chosen to do so." "Tattercoats, Tattercoats, the gooseherd is gone." "The gooseherd, too, has chosen. The sky is blue, the sea is bluer. The sun is warm and I am a princess. For I have married my own true love, and I have found my fortune."
If it occurred to Thursey that there was really no relationship between marrying your own true love and having a fortune showered upon you, she didn't bother about that. In a story you might as well have both, it was make-believe anyway.
But if I had to choose, she thought. If I had to choose . . . she stared at her ragged dress hanging from its hook, and her ragged mended sandals on the shelf, then put the books away. How would I ever have such a choice, except in a made-up story?
Chapter Three
RUMPETS blared. The sharp rhythm of hoofbeats echoed through the village, and the villagers and crofters stood before the shops holding their hats in their hands, their children pushing between their feet. Then they all began to cheer.
First came the archers mounted on bay geldings, then the foreign marshal on a mare the color of storm skies, then the inner marshal, the fat chamberlain, the king's steward, then the chancellor and the clerks, all beautifully mounted. Then the king himself, riding a steed so golden and fine that the sun on him quite dazzled the eye. What a handsome king he was, dark of hair and tall; how straight he sat his stallion.
Behind the king came the carriage of the queen drawn by six gray horses harnessed in a row. A postillion dressed in red livery was mounted on the second horse, holding the reins and brandishing a whip. The wheels of the carriage were carved, the archway of its roof was carved and painted with flowers in gilt and red and blue, and inside one could see tapestries and embroidered pillows. The windows were hung with cloth of blue silk, and the queen herself, her fair hair piled into a high coiffure, smiled and waved and looked in the best of health.
"Though she is still pale," someone said. "Not very. Look at her smile, like joy itself." "The loveliest smile in the world." And the people knelt as the queen passed.
"The prince is in there with her, I can see him reclining against the pillows."
"The prince, long live our prince." "A look—one wave—let him speak to us!" A figure detached itself from the cushions opposite the queen and a pale, wan face peered out, smiled just barely, and retired.
"He is weak, it has been a long trip." "But he's the prince, we must see the prince." "At the ball . . . they say he will lead the ball, that the cure will be complete by Easter." But the crowd's disappointment was great, an ailing prince could not be taken lightly. One day he would be king.
Thursey stared at the pale cheek and felt a twist of pity for the prince, and thought of the tale of the prince in the pit, and the golden box. Then suddenly all such thoughts were driven from her head as she stared at the end of the procession.
Behind the queen's carriage came her ladies, each borne in a low litter, a horse in front and a horse behind carrying it between them, and each litter brightly painted. There were twelve of these, and behind them rode fifty knights dressed in silver mail. But it was not these that made Thursey stare. Nor the clerks that followed, nor the valets nor the grooms.
It was the goats that came last in the procession— and the goatherd.
Those goats were as white as snow. Their curling coats seemed spun of the finest silk; and the billy, in the lead, had horns so long and twisting they might have been the horns of some magical animal. The nannys' smooth faces were the faces of angels. Their unfathomable eyes shone golden and their tiny hooves seemed hardly to touch the ground. One billy and eleven nannys, and one young man to herd them. He was dressed in clean rags and carried a willow staff.
He was a comely young man, and when he passed Thursey her heart tilted and she gave him a quick, bold smile—partly out of devilment, but mostly because she couldn't help herself. He looked so friendly and nice. His cheeks were tanned and his stride long and easy as if he had spent his life in open places and cared little for false manners. She stared at him and liked him, and she smiled.