Bee and Temp

The castle was under siege. The fire in the East Wing lit up the sky with an eerie orange glow. The wind blew; invisible, dancing, imps running through the dark trees. Beatrice stood on the North Tower, her fair, delicate hands clutching the rough stone, pushing the blood back into her palms. Her face, illuminated by the invaders’ torches that were hoisted high on their shoulders. A breeze carried the jeers and catcalls of the surrounding crowd from the village. She closed her eyes; if she couldn’t see it, it wasn’t there. It couldn’t be there. This wasn’t possible.

With the denial firmly in her mind, she leaned over the battlement, refusing to believe, solidly rejecting this impossible. Her hair whipped around her face. Thin brown eyebrows furrowed, pretty face twisted in concentration, Beatrice slowly winched open her eyes; one at a time. The sight that greeted her was the same. She could do nothing.
“Oh blame!” She muttered, “Hugo!” She turned. A sweep of the small platform revealed no one; he had abandoned her. Beatrice felt a stab of fear. She would make sure Daddy fired him. No one abandoned Princess Beatrice Ealimia Sperias III of Cansian and lived, much less retained their position in the royal house.

Bloody raiders. She thought angrily. This night of all nights!
That night was going to be the defining moment for Beatrice. Prince Harold was visiting from Bunting and, from the word in the castle, was on the verge of asking for Beatrice’s hand in marriage. This was extremely important because the harvest from the village went bad that year and the villagers could barely pay the taxes. With Bunting’s power and influence, the stirring rebellious mood could be mopped up in a day. That night, this night was going to be the night in which her parents’ dreams coming true. Land and power and money were all within their grasp. No one had asked what Beatrice herself thought of the marriage, but then again, that never mattered.
Tears of rage welled in her eyes. Didn’t the villagers see that the royal family was not the enemy? Her father protected the village and kept them controlled. He only took their surplus and gave them someone to serve and look up to. He gave them so much. And this is what the royal family received?

Disgusted, Beatrice thrust herself away from the edge and hurried to the trapdoor that led to the staircase, twisting away beneath the flagstones. She would talk to Daddy and he would dismiss Hugo, make the raiders leave, and everything would be well again. That’s right, she thought. She would marry Harold like a good daughter should. With much grace and tact, she heaved the heavy door from the floor and slid down into the dark stairway, only marginally dirtying her powder-blue evening petticoat. Trying to feel dignified, she hurried down the roughly cut stairs.

Beatrice was never comfortable in the dark. That was why she had brought Hugo with her to the North Wing. This staircase was notoriously dark and the walls were strangely acoustic. Every noise from outside the tower was magnified and yet, nothing could be heard if you stood outside the stairway. So no one could hear you scream and yet, you heard every voice searching for you. It was times like these, in the dark and shadows, alone, that Beatrice feared. She increased her pace, trying not to make a sound. All around her, She heard the noise of the struggle. Screams and wails and dull slicing noises echoing through the tower. Beatrice felt her imagination start to whir. Dark shapes began to take form in her mind in the stairway above her. They took hideous design and shape and started to creep down the stair to the breathless girl running away. A sob escaped her as Beatrice speed down at full tilt. In her panic, Beatrice failed to see the very real figure to which she was running towards.

At her speed, it is impossible to stop and keep your balance, so as Beatrice raced toward our second protagonist she crossed the five-stair limit in which she could have stopped.
So at full speed, Beatrice’s foot connected with the outstretched leg from the shadows and she fell, with hardly an idea as to what had happened.

Arms grabbed her from behind, wrapping around her waist, yanking her back. She lost her breath and could only sag against her restraints in shock. Her attacker breathed out in relief. Of course, this sudden hug lasted only a few heavy breaths before Beatrice regained her bearings.

Now, Beatrice knew that many people thought she was only a pretty face but in fact, Beatrice was very talented in strategy. It was improper for a girl to be interested in those kinds of things, so Beatrice generally kept quiet. If she noticed some flaw or weakness in one of her father’s battle plans; it was not her place to question. If she saw a likely ambush position from her window, her lips remained closed. A female tactical advisor? Unthinkable.
But, left to her own devices, Beatrice could do any unbecoming thing she wanted. Usually, Beatrice was alone, unless she chose. And with that time, she honed her tactical skill. For fun of course. No scandal.
Her developed skill awoke a few seconds before her mind and started to receive the idea that the perfect stranger had pinned her up against a wall. By the time Beatrice had recovered from the shock, she had a fully-fledged plan. Sketchy of course, but a plan none the same.

The stranger lifted his head as she lifted hers. Their eyes met and by the end of the night, all that Beatrice would remember of the stranger was that brief glance of blue and hair of spun gold that could be seen through the cut holes of the cloth bag over his head. He looked hardly older than Beatrice herself.
In one swift movement, Beatrice pulled her knees up to her chest and lashed out, catching her attacker in the chest. He reeled back, caught off guard and fell over. By the time he had scrambled to his feet, Beatrice had disappeared down the stairs, letting the momentum carry her.

Her attacker muttered something about Good King William, never trusting a drunken friend from the past with nothing to lose, and vicious girls that sound innocent and harmless when you’re talking about them, before lurching down the narrow stairs after Beatrice.
As the aformented Beatrice shot out of the stairwell, she abruptly wheeled to the right. Dashing through the hallway, she turned another right and entered a bedroom. She looked around and confirmed that this was, indeed her mother’s bedchamber. Beatrice lit the oil lamp on her mother’s dressing table carefully; her fingers shook so much, she could barely light the match. She grabbed one of her mothers’ many mannequins. Holding it hostage, She ducked behind the nearby dressing screen. Setting the mannequin down, carefully facing her, Beatrice started to undress.

* * *

“Blast.” The young man breathed, bent over, trying to catch his breath. Who would’ve known that the girl would be so fast? At that, who would’ve known she would actually put up a fight?
He straightened and glanced around; looking for any clue to where the girl might have gone. Taking the cloth bag from his head and stuffing it in his bag pocket, the attacker thought rationally. Well, technically, there were two halls; one, left, the other, right. It was a 50/50 chance. The young man knew that he didn’t have much time. He scrunched up his eyes and pointed his index finger at the right hall. Switching between halls to the rhythm of the chant, he whispered, “Ip, dip, apple, pip. You, are, not, it!”. With a glimpse at his index finger, Beatrice’s attacker jogged around the corner into the right hallway.
He ran lightly with a skill of a hunter stalking deer. His worn leather shoes made a soft pattering noise as the attacker hurried down the hall, fuming silently.
As he passed the open bedchamber of the queen, he surreptitiously glanced inside. The room was dark, thrown into shadow by one oil lamp that rested on a dressing table. It perfectly outlined a woman, presumably the Queen herself, being undressed behind the dressing screen. The attacker felt himself flush a deep red and quickly moved on, subconciously underestimating the cunning of the girl he pursued.

* * *

After she had dressed and undressed three times, Beatrice looked out from behind the screen. The room was empty. No footsteps in the hall. She was alone. Beatrice let out a deep sigh of relief and then drew a breath of anger. Not one, but two heads would fall tonight. How dare he accost her? Didn’t he know that she had the power to dismiss a servant who so much as touched her hand? Oh, how this man would pay!
Beatrice quickly pulled the stiff petticoat over her head. She knew that the Throne Room was nearby. Trying to tighten her petticoat and biting her lips to bring out color, Beatrice hurried out of the room to look for her father.

* * *

As usual, King William was in his Throne Room. The Throne Room was his favorite place to be in the castle. The mix of candle wax and hushed voices mingled in the spice of incense and dull glow of gold. His throne was solid gold, draped with red satin with a large red curtain hanging grandly in the back. The effect was daunting and gave the occupant of the throne the eye of every person in the room. It gave the King a lift and a sense of power. He tried to visit it any time he could and claimed that to remain the seat of power that his seat should remain in a powerful place, namely, his throne. So that was where King William received the news from his flushed daughter of the attacker in the castle and her petty complaints of her manservant, Hugo. William had long tired of hearing of how many of Beatrice’s friends could go anywhere they wanted because they had a manservant or menservants in plural. King William had learned long ago that anything his daughter said or did should be dealt with in secondary to whatever he was doing or got someone else to deal with her. Over the years, Beatrice had turned into, to put it delicately, a big spoiled brat. Many of her servants and especially the cook, wanted to knock some sense into the girl and this, the King knew. He tried his best to keep the peace and endure the increasingly difficult and demanding child.
This was a new low though; Beatrice had pretended to see things when she was younger to grab attention. Everyone had thought that that phase had gone but somehow, the siege had stirred everyone in different ways. King William did believe the Hugo situation but this man? An attacker, maybe assassin? Please. There were more important things.

“-and so I ran all the way here and, oh, it was so frightening, Father.”

“I’m sure Bee, hmmm, yes.” King William answered distractedly; studying battle plans with his Royal War Advisory Team and munching on a croissant.

“Daddy, I want him executed, that man assaulted me!” Beatrice whined, “I want Hugo dismissed. I should like a glass of lemonade and, Daddy are you listening to me?”

King William sighed heavily, massaging his temples.

“Bee, there’s more important things going on right now.”

“But Daddy, he assaulted me and I didn’t know him and he frightened me and Daddy-“

“Sir,” one of his Advisors prompted, “about the rebellion?”

“Daaaaddy!” Beatrice whined.

“Sir?” Another Advisory started to ask, “Sir, I think-”

King William pinched the arch of his long nose. Voices spun around him, Beatrice’s among the loudest. Her voice twisted through his head. It had been a long night. And King William just wanted to sleep.

“Daddy!”

“Beatrice!” King William rumbled. The room fell silent.

“Daddy?” Her eyes were searching, “Daddy?”

“Beatrice, get out please. Now.”

“Daddy-“

“Just get out of here.” King William had had enough with his unruly daughter and he felt the judging stares of his servants. He stood, enjoying the dramatic effect. He knew what he looked like and what he rarely used, he used now.

“Go to bed Beatrice. Come, let us retire to the council room.” He motioned imperially to his crowd of advisors. They huddled together in a tight pack snatching glances at the princess. No one had ever spoken like that her before and they were not sure of how she would react. The advisors decided to ignore it; the king’s personal matters were not their own.

Beatrice, meanwhile, stood in the same position long after her father left, shock frozen upon her face. She felt shaken to the core and deeply humiliated. As well as she knew that people didn’t like her, she always thought her parents loved her no matter what she did. The closest she could compare her feelings to be how she felt when she grossly miscalculated in one of her tactical games. Abruptly ashamed and lost. Of course, in her games, Beatrice always had Hugo stand her soldiers back up and she could push ahead. But, now, now, what was she going to do?

Beatrice couldn’t think of anything strong enough to react with. She felt a major blow to her ego and for the first time she felt vulnerable. She knew that she should move. She felt the gaze of the candle boy near her and shot him an angry glare. He snapped out of his relaxed and curious position and stiffened under her scrutiny.
“What are you looking at?” She said furiously, brushing tears from her cheeks. The candle boy shook his head violently. She opened her mouth to say more but instead dropped her head and ran out of the throne room-

-into the arms of the shadowy arms of the young man. A rough kerchief that covered her mouth and nose muffled Beatrice’s scream. The young man pinned her between himself and a shallow alcove with strong vice-like grip, keeping pressure on her face. Beatrice felt a stab of panic before her vision clouded and felt herself slip away in a vinegary darkness.