Some Saturdays, the prince would drill me questions.
Tell me about your parents.
Do they touch each other in front of you?
Are they kind?
Do they hold you when you feel poorly?
And the questions broke my heart a bit each time, because in them I could see my prince's complete bewilderment about family, and love, and outward signs of affection.
I would tell him stories about Da hugging on Mother. About how she would swat at his hands and protest for him to leave her be, but her cheeks would bloom pink, and she would never really let him get too far away before giving in with a brusque, "Oh, all right then," and laying a kiss on his smiling mouth.
I would tell him stories of Mary, and how she would read to me at night, curled up under the blankets with a lantern keeping it bright, keeping us warm. She was quiet—we both were—but where my head lived in the clouds, Mary was observant and kind.
I would tell him about the parties in the servants quarters: ale slopping over mugs, warm bread broken with a crunch, steam rising from the center. Stomping, dancing, music until the sun threatened to rise.
"I would hear this long into the night," he said, gazing at me. "I would hear the celebration, and wonder whether you were still awake. Whether I could sneak out in disguise and join you."
"I would always welcome you, my Lord."
~~
The first time the prince and I touched was accidental. He'd gone to swat a spider from my skirts the same time I had, and our hands met, smacking.
But after, he reached for my fingers, twining his in between without comment, without ceremony, and we laid back in the grass and stared up at the sky.
We'd been eleven that day, and it was as innocent as a smile.
He pointed skyward. "That cloud up there looks like a horse."
"And that one is a tree, heavy with fruit."
"Cathryn," he asked, turning to look at me with startling green eyes. "Do you have a lot of friends?"
After giving it more thought than perhaps he'd intended, I answered: "I have a lot of people, but you and Mary are my only friends."
It felt like a confession, and my cheeks blazed with embarrassment.
He nodded, saying quietly, "I have a lot of people, but you and Uncle are my only friends."
YOU ARE READING
No Fury
FanfictionThe prince was born in his mother's lavish rooms three days before I emerged on the dingy floor of the ale house. He's a royal . . . she isn't. But the secret friendship that began in childhood grows into something much deeper -- and much more dang...
