A Peasant Surprise – Chapter 1

by Carolyn Ann Aish

The young king paused as he approached the shack, built into the rock in a dugout part of the hillside. “Look at it! It’s filthy!” he said, adding, “I’m not going in there.”

“She won’t come for anyone else, Sire,” his chief adviser said, adding, “She wouldn’t come for your messenger last week.”

“Blast!” he said and cursed before he spat upon the grass beside his huge stallion. “Stupid hag.”

“Perhaps, but I shall go first…” the adviser offered, and dismounted.

“If she won’t come for a king’s messenger, Francis, why on earth do you think the old crone will come for you?”

He did not answer, but a young palace guard, mounted behind the king, did. “Sire, I’ll go in. I’ll force her to come! I swear I’ll kill her if she won’t come.”

“What good would that do for the king’s daughter?” Francis said with a growl in his tone. “We’ve lost our queen,” he said with a catch in his voice, “and we are about to lose our princess…”

The king squared his shoulders and reined his horse turning it, pointing it in the other direction, saying, “We may as well face it!—But, if my princess daughter dies, you’ll return here and kill the old hag, and burn her shack to the ground!—With her in it!”

Before the company could part their mounts to allow the king to ride to the front as was protocol, the soft, beautiful sound of mournful singing rose from behind them. As one, every man, including the king, turned to find visual contact with the owner of the voice. They sat, entranced, for over a minute before they saw the singer.

From the edge of the woods, a girl, dressed in a gown the shade of aqua sea-water, emerged. Carrying two covered baskets, she placed them down in the clearing. Then she continued her song, twirling and dancing so energetically that King Zareon closed his eyes. It made him feel giddy to look at her. The singing was so beautiful, lovely, but so mournful yet strangely comforting. Before his closed lids, the vision of his daughter, now so close to death, caused tears to gush, running down his cheeks. They blurred his vision as he opened his eyes. Still holding the reins, he lifted his right hand and blotted his tears on the richly embroidered cuff of his jacket. Gold threads pricked at his face.