Mermaid

  She nodded, close to tears. This was why she had come.

  “We shall have his answer soon,” she said, looking down. And then back up at him. “And it will be for you to decide then.”

  He smiled sadly and reached out his hand to her.

  Nervous, she placed her hand in his, watched as he leaned forward and lifted her hand to his lips, the way he had in the garden. She shivered as his mouth pressed against her skin.

  “This is not how I envisioned my life, Margrethe. It is a strange journey that has brought us here, to this moment. Don’t you agree?”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  MARGRETHE WOKE UP the next morning feeling lighter than she had in days. He had not made any promises or declared his love, yet there was an opening.

  A chance.

  Margrethe berated herself for being so selfish. This was not about her happiness but about the good of the kingdom. She could do so little in the world, and yet she had done this.

  But still. He had not forgotten her.

  She lay back and allowed herself this moment, this one moment to luxuriate in that feeling.

  Margrethe looked over at Edele, who was asleep beside her. It was early. Outside, the sun simmered across the water, casting a sweet light over the darkness. There was an ache inside her. Suddenly she wanted to see him again. There was so much more she wanted to say to him.

  She dressed carefully, then left the room and told the guard outside where she wanted to go.

  “I am not sure that is safe for you, Your Highness,” he said.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “It is fine now. Take me there.”

  Reluctantly, he led her down the spiraling staircase, through the corridor, past the great hall, and up to the prince’s chamber.

  The door opened just as she approached, and Astrid walked out of the room, her hair loose and falling past her shoulders, and just the barest hint of shimmer on her skin.

  Margrethe stopped in her tracks. Their eyes met. Not knowing what else to do, Margrethe turned to the wall, her face burning, as the prince’s lover rushed past her.

  She stood with her forehead against the wall, her heart racing.

  And then she turned and ran through the corridors. All her high-minded ideals, and it had come down to this. This: that the prince was in love with her. Someone else. Someone more beautiful.

  Margrethe ignored the faces she passed as she ran back to the tower, and, when she reached the top of the stairway, she wanted to cry out with relief. She passed the guard and entered.

  Edele had just awakened and was sitting, sleepily, by the window. There was a fire crackling in the hearth. Outside, the sea was calm and clear.

  “Where were you?” Edele asked.

  “Just taking a walk,” Margrethe said, not meeting her eyes.

  “I asked for some wine, for us,” Edele said, “and cakes. I was not sure how you would be feeling.”

  “I don’t know,” Margrethe said. “I …” She shook her head, then burst into tears. Great, wracking sobs as the words tumbled out of her. “Yesterday, we talked. Finally. Talked. He remembered me, he did not forget me. He feels something still, I saw it. This morning I went to his chamber, I wanted to talk more, and then I saw her leaving. He spent the night with her, Edele.”

  “But, wait,” her friend said, wrinkling her brow. “That is not anything new. Right?” When Margrethe didn’t respond, she went on. “It will be different when you are married.”

  “I know.”

  “And it will happen. Everyone says so. That is the only reason your father is taking so long to respond. It will happen. And then you can be rid of her.”

  “I know,” Margrethe said. “It’s just hard. It’s just …”

  “It would be hard for any woman,” Edele said gently.

  “That woman,” Margrethe said. “She cannot even speak. She gazes up at him with those eyes, adoring, like a puppy. That is all she does, and he loves her for that.”

  “You will teach him.”

  “He seemed different, when I met him. But he was wounded, and afraid. He was not himself.”

  “But it shows what he might be, does it not?”

  There was a rap on the door then, and one of the servant girls walked in, carrying a jug of wine and a small platter of treats.

  “This will make you feel better,” Edele said. “Wine and sweets. And we can play cards. Yes?”

  “Yes.” Margrethe nodded. But she had no appetite, no desire for anything in the world except to be as far away from this place, from the prince and that woman, as she could.

  The servant girl lingered at the door nervously.

  “That is all,” Edele said, waving her hand, and the girl ducked out.

  Edele lifted a piece of cake and held it out to Margrethe. “Some sweets?”

  Margrethe shook her head. “No. Maybe I’ll have some wine later.”

  “All right,” Edele said, pouring a large glass for herself.

  Margrethe watched her, jealous of her happiness. She was loved. Loved. Edele. To some people, it came so easily. That day with the prince in the garden, she had thought that she, too, was one of them. The kind of girl men fell in love with and desired.

  Edele was choking. Margrethe snapped out of her reverie and looked at her friend in shock. Edele clutched her throat. Her face was turning red. She gasped out Margrethe’s name as she fell to the floor.

  “Edele!” Margrethe cried, leaping up and running to the door. The girl was waiting outside. “Get help, now!” she screamed.

  The servant ran to the top of the stairs, calling down to the two guards at the bottom. “Get the doctor!”

  And then there was commotion, men running into the room, a doctor, who ran to Edele and took her in his arms.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Mermaid

  THE ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT ON MARGRETHE AND HER lady altered the whole mood of the castle. All the tensions flowing under the surface were brought into relief at once. The king ordered that anyone involved in the crime be hanged immediately. Edele survived, but she had to stay in the infirmary for a few days, recovering from the poison. The servant girl who’d served the wine quickly confessed her involvement and named the noble who’d engaged her, and, in the end, four nobles and two servants were hanged behind the castle.

  Lenia watched with the other ladies-in-waiting as the criminals were led to the scaffold, their faces covered in hoods. She watched as the executioner came out and slipped the nooses around their necks, and as the trap door opened and the criminals dropped. The sharp crack of their necks, their swinging bodies—she took all of it in, watching for their souls. Like in a shipwreck at the bottom of the sea.

  Before, the king had been content to allow Margrethe to stay in the tower, waiting for the decision of the Northern king. Now he made a great show of including her in activities, and Margrethe watched from his side as the traitors swung from the scaffold.

  And more reports were coming in, every day, that the Northern king was relenting, and that the details of the marriage alliance were being discussed.

  Lenia could walk only with great effort by now. Her body was heavy, unbearable.

  It was monstrous, this fish growing inside her, flopping and twisting in her womb. Her legs, already so painful, were heavy and awkward, and she dreamed every night of the sea, thought longingly of the days when she’d had no legs and no womb, just her powerful, sleek, perfect tail pushing her through the water, the thick skin that never felt pain. Her sister’s eggs glittering from the rocks, whole and perfect.

  One afternoon, as Lenia lay resting, the curtains drawn about her bed, there was a knock on the door. One of the servants answered, then came back and drew the curtain.

  “It is the prince, my lady.”

  He walked in and made his way to the bed. She watched him as if he were a stranger, someone she’d heard about in a song. He was as handsome as ever. Strong. It seemed unbelievable that this was the man she’d
seen dying in the water, that she’d carried for countless miles in her arms. Her body had been indestructible then.

  Now she could barely move. Christopher stood over her, the torch lights burning behind him, magnificent.

  He would be a hero in his world, she saw, a great leader.

  “My love,” he said, sitting on the bed beside her, pressing his palm to her face. She moved into it, that warm skin. Even now she could feel his hot blood. “Are you well?”

  She nodded.

  He stroked her face. “And our child? The healer says this baby has grown more quickly than any child she’s ever seen. A warrior, he will be.”

  She smiled, gesturing that the baby was kicking her, and he placed his palm on her belly to feel.

  “But, Astrid,” he began, sighing, and, despite the shift in his voice, she thrilled to hear him use the name he’d given her, “I fear that I will not have a choice about this marriage.”

  It was as if he’d put his hands around her throat. As if her heart was splitting—as her tail had split, and as her tongue had been cut out of her mouth, leaving a bloody pulp. She had never known so clearly how words could be like swords, slicing through this fragile skin, yet still he sat next to her, with his beautiful face, those eyes staring into her, full of sweetness and despair.

  “My father has just received word from the North. It is a happy day for this land, my love, but for me it is bittersweet. I would have liked to have married you.”

  She nodded, barely able to breathe.

  How could this have happened?

  How could she convince him to marry her and not Margrethe, when she had no voice?

  “You understand what is at stake here. Many lives, the peace and security of our land. Margrethe was brave to come here. And she is …”

  He paused, and Lenia knew he wanted to protect her from the other truth: that Margrethe was the woman he’d told her about.

  That he thought it was Margrethe who had saved him.

  That he loved her, too.

  She wanted to scream.

  “I will take care of you,” he said. “I will make sure our child is well provided for … You will have a good life here.”

  THE OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT of Princess Margrethe and Prince Christopher’s marriage came a few days later. The marriage would take place without delay, in five days, just after the signing of a formal peace treaty between the Northern and Southern kingdoms. No one wanted to risk waiting any longer than necessary, given what some perceived as the extreme tenuousness of the alliance.

  King Erik was on his way from the North, along with a party from the Northern court. There would be a great celebration.

  LENIA WAS SITTING in the chapel when the official announcement of the wedding was made. The cheers coming from the great hall below told her all she needed to know.

  It is time, she said, feeling her great belly.

  The moment for tears had passed. She knew she was caught now in the sweep of history, and it was only she who could save the child growing inside her. In six days, she would turn to foam. The morning after Margrethe and Christopher were married, Lenia’s heart would break and she would become foam at sunrise, and return to the sea.

  Her heart, she was sure, had already broken.

  But this body, this child—maybe there was still some hope, for her child. She knew she had to save this child.

  She went back to her room and pretended to be in great pain, writhing about in bed and gripping her belly. Agnes was sent for immediately, as Lenia knew she would be. When the old healer arrived, Lenia motioned for the servants to leave the room, which was normal enough during such an intimate examination. When they left, she grabbed Agnes’s arm.

  “Help me,” she mouthed, rounding out the words with her lips, staring intently into the old woman’s face.

  “What is it? What is wrong?”

  “I am dying,” she mouthed. “I will die. Help me.” She put all her energy and feeling into the thought: I am dying. Help me save my baby.

  “Are you in pain?” Agnes asked, bending down, pressing her palm against Lenia’s belly.

  Lenia shook her head. She had to make her understand.

  Agnes examined her and could not hide her surprise at the state of Lenia’s body. “You seem to be doing fine, dear girl. I do not know how, but you are having the most rapid pregnancy I’ve ever seen. And you seem more than healthy. If I didn’t know the facts, I’d think you were ready to give birth now.”

  Lenia nodded. She took Agnes’s hand, pressed it on her belly, and then gestured down, to indicate the child leaving her body. Agnes’s hand was hard and cold and small in her own.

  If my child is not born before the dawn breaks on the morning after the prince’s wedding night, it will turn to foam. Lenia shut her eyes, visualized it. Her own body dissolving, her baby dissolving with her, both of them becoming foam and drifting out to sea.

  Help me. My child must live.

  Agnes crossed herself then, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You want to get rid of it? My dear, it is much too late for that, and this is the prince’s child.”

  Lenia shook her head.

  She moved then, pushing Agnes aside, stood from the bed and went to the great jewel box on the table by the window. She opened it, and it gleamed with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. All the prince’s gifts to her, ancient family heirlooms mixed with pieces he’d had jewelers make especially for her, sapphires to match her eyes and rubies to match her lips.

  Lenia scooped out a handful of them, then turned back to Agnes, opened her palms.

  Agnes looked from Lenia’s hands to her face, then back again. “I do not understand what you need. You are healthy.”

  Lenia dropped the jewels into Agnes’s hands, closing her fingers over them and nodding. And then she pointed to her belly and made gestures with her hands and arms, showing her child being born and growing up to become strong and healthy, human.

  Help me.

  “Do you want … you want me to help you birth your child?”

  Lenia nodded and pointed to the sun, holding up four fingers to indicate the number of days.

  “You want to give birth to your child early?”

  Lenia nodded again, tears flowing down her face now.

  Please.

  Agnes shook her head. “You want to give birth to your child before he marries the princess. That is it, isn’t it? I hope you are not planning to do anything foolish, like harm yourself. I know that you love him, that it feels like the end of the world now, but I am an old woman, and I promise you: no man is worth taking your own life.”

  Lenia nodded. Yes. She focused every bit of feeling and power inside of her. Please. Something strange happened as she stared into Agnes’s eyes. For a moment she was back again in Sybil’s cave, holding up her face as Sybil floated next to her, bringing the knife down to her tongue.

  Agnes looked at her strangely. “What is it?” she asked. “Do you see something?”

  Lenia shook her head. Agnes stood in front of her, with her pale eyes and wise face. But for a moment, Lenia could have sworn she’d seen Sybil in her. The gleam of melted pearl, the shimmering pink of her hair. That same heavy sadness.

  Was Agnes—had she been—one of them?

  Lenia shook the thought away.

  The moment passed, and Agnes let out a great sigh. “I don’t understand why you think you must do this,” she said, “and I don’t recommend it. But somehow, you are far enough along. I don’t know how, but you are. I think … I think you will be safe, and I trust you have your reasons.” She opened her hands and placed the jewels back into the box by the window. “I will take one ring for this,” she said, plucking up a ruby ring and placing it in her pocket. “Otherwise they will accuse me of robbing you.”

  Lenia smiled gratefully, as relief flooded through her, as intensely as any human emotion had since her arrival.

  “Now,” Agnes said, clasping her hands together, “I have herbs that you can
take, to bring on labor.”

  She turned back to her bags and began collecting an assortment of herbs, which she then slowly ground together with a mortar and pestle as Lenia watched, fascinated.

  When she finally approached Lenia, her face was dark. “I am giving you a powder,” she said, “and you must take it every night for three nights, with your food. On the fourth night, your baby should come from your belly. It is not a guarantee. Your body knows when it is ready. To try to trick it … this is a risky thing. If there is any way you can wait, I would advise you to do so. I will pray for you.”

  “Thank you,” Lenia mouthed, taking the packet from Agnes’s hands.

  After the old healer left, Lenia sat down on the bed, holding the powder with one hand and stroking her belly with the other.

  Please, she thought, and then she made the thought a prayer and released it. Please be safe, and whole.

  She closed her eyes and imagined: a child, her own child, with arms and legs and hair, soft human skin, a voice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Princess

  THE CASTLE WAS IN AN UPROAR AS EVERY SERVANT AND every courtier prepared for the wedding of Prince Christopher to Princess Margrethe, and the arrival of King Erik and his court. Everyone seemed thrilled by the upcoming wedding—everyone, that is, except the bride herself.

  Margrethe could not help but feel heavy of heart, even knowing that she had prevented enormous bloodshed and sorrow, even knowing that this was only the beginning of what she might be able to do in the world. She was more romantic than she’d realized she was, and she blamed Gregor and his stories. All those old Latin stories. If only he had limited her to the Greeks, she thought, she would have been far better off. But she wasn’t: she wanted the prince to love her, passionately and truly. Not just marry her because he had no choice. Not marry her while being in love with someone else.