The late afternoon sun washed its way through gathering clouds to dimly light the courtyard as a harvest breeze pushed gathering dark clouds towards the castle. Rosamond and the other servants all hurried to assemble in the courtyard. The portcullis creaked and groaned as long rusted chains lifted it for the approaching tramp of armored feet and the plod of laden hooves. Prince Robert's black coach led the way, his entourage followed across the stones of the courtyard. The time had once again come for the taxes to be paid to the crown.
Rosamond huddled in line behind the older servants, peering for her first glimpse of the Prince. From the time she had came to the service of Sir Galvin at fourteen years she had always marveled at the royal tax procession. The large black horses trotting heavily through the gates, the lines of seemingly tired soldiers marching, their spears raised to their armored shoulders. Then, the all black coach would stop at the steps to the hall, and the door would open and then she would see him, that ever so handsome son of the king. His curling black hair, his piercing green eyes, his red and black velvets surrounded by his flowing cloak that would billow as he leapt from the black door of the coach. Sir Galvin would nervously welcome his guest to his house. This was the only man who made Sir Galvin nervous. Rosamond was never sure why, but thought it was because not only was he the royal tax collector here to put poor Sir Galvin to poverty, but also he was the second son of the king. Rosamond had always giggled a bit about his dread of this time of year, and what he would always mutter when she served him his breakfast, just as he had done this morning, muttering quietly to himself, "Another fertile field falls fallow, today," he said. He had said that for five harvests since she had come to serve here after her parents had died in a fire in the village.
The wheels of the carriage stopped and Rosamond leaned her neck past the older maids who all seemed to keep their eyes lowered in these moments, as if they did not wish to be seen, and doing their best to thwart Rosamond's efforts to glimpse the royal guest. A polished black boot burst from the carriage door without waiting for the footmen to open it. That boot landed hard on the broken stones of the small courtyard just as thunder boomed softly in the distance. Rosamond felt the small soiled scarf that lay loosely over her long braided blonde locks as a sudden swirl of cold wind swept over the courtyard.
She stuck a hand up to catch it from flying away when she noticed that those prying green eyes were locked tightly on her soft blue ones. At once, she felt the wash of cold air and the flood of crimson heat to her cheeks; quickly she lowered her eyes and cowered back into her position in line. This was the first time he had actually looked at her, never before had she seen such eyes, and they fell upon her clutching at a dirty rag that served as a scarf over her head. The embarrassment was intense; no doubt, she would be scolded later for it as well.
Sir Gavin, who bade him enter before the approaching storm arrived, greeted the Prince. Prince Robert smiled and clapped a red velvet gloved hand on Sir Galvin's shoulder, and allowed his subservient host to escort him into the hall. As the two nobles disappeared, the courtyard began to break up from its formal ranks, the servants scurrying off to duties and soldiers slogging off in other directions. The heavily laden wagon, pulled by aging strained horses clinked from the contents of gathered treasure, the regal coach prancing off to welcome care, all dissipating, as Rosamond stood stunned. Only the first cold drop of rain splashing her face shook her into motion, scurrying off to the kitchen to prepare for the feast as the wind whipped dark clouds closer to the curtain walls.
Rosamond had just barely pushed her way into the scullery door when her arm was seized and she was pulled off to a corner, crowded with freshly plucked and hung chickens buzzing with flies. She looked right into the age weathered and shriveled face of Mary, the head housekeeper, who's fingers dug into her arm savagely. "You foolish little girl," the old woman spat into Rosamond's face, "haven't you ever heard the tales about that. That man?"
"Ow," Rosamond protested cocking her head to one side and stomping a foot, "Mistress Mary, that hurts." Rosamond pulled her arm free of the old crone's grip and rubbed her arm with her hand. "Child," Mary began slowly in a trembling voice, "his highness is in league with darkness." Rosamond looked at the floor, turning her head to one side ignoring the old woman's spinning of wild tales she had heard scores of times. The words seemed silent and Rosamond could think only of the way the Prince's eyes had plucked her from the crowd. How handsome he was in his regal black velvets and billowing cloak.
Rosamond's day dream was interrupted by a sharp stinging pain on her left cheek and the loud snap in her ear as Mary slapped her face, snapping her back to Mary's attention. "Do you really think, girl that a man like that would even look at you if he were a man? A man like that only looks at young girls when he thinks she has a hidden fruit for him to pluck! I am embarrassed to serve in the same household as a whore like you!" With that, the old woman pushed past Rosamond muttering to herself about lost souls of foolish girls. Rosamond turned slowly and followed the old woman rubbing the sting from her cheek as she approached the hot blasts and reddish glows of the kitchen.
The next couple of hours were a blur of activity as Rosamond scurried about with the others making sure that all the finery was set at the table, all the goblets were filled with Sir Galvin's finest wines, the great hall's fires were stoked and ready. Rosamond carried a pitcher of wine and stood at her place in the shadows waiting to serve the table. She could hear the rattle of wind drive rain beating on the window behind her, and the roar of thunder as it shook the heavens above the hall. Finally, in this moment of peace her thoughts turned to the list of wives' tales she had heard whispered by sad old women to frighten young ones about the Prince.
It was said he was a wild philanderer by some. Still others said he was nothing more than a thief and a murderer. Still more told of him being the flesh of the devil, seeking out naive young virgins to steal their souls, feast on their purity and turn them into witches. Rosamond had to hide her lips with her hand and stifle a giggle at the madness of these tales. Sadly, the older women actually believed the wildest of tales. "Silly old cows," Rosamond giggled silently to herself.
The feast proceeded normally; his highness never even laid one of those piercing green eyes upon her. She never got near the head of the table. Rosamond noticed that the prince did seem to drink a great amount during the feast, and seemed in a merry cheer, until he rose to make his exit. Then he scowled at his subject host, Rosamond had seen a glowing reflection of his eyes full of malice as he glared at Sir Galvin. A very close thunderbolt flooded the hall with its blazing whiteness for a split second; the sight caused Rosamond to spill a few drops of wine, leaving a deep burgundy stain on her butternut apron.
The next few hours were of a more usual drudgery; Rosamond did her part of washing soiled crockery, stacking things, scrapping grease from pots. Rosamond was not a lazy servant, but kitchen chores were not her favorite. It was hot and filled with foul smells of fetid meats, coupled with tedium, and all crowded into a mass of sweating bodies shuffling past one another all seeking their own chaotic path past dying fires, racks of meat crawling with maggots, spilt and spilled sacks of grain, over stones covered thick with layers of grease and soot. "Far more sanitary in the pig's sty than in the ovens," one old woman had told her years before. Rosamond was forced to agree.
It was long after midnight when Rosamond finally collapsed into the small straw covered pallet of her cell that she shared with three other women. Exhausted and somewhat disheartened after tonight's feast she quickly fell asleep to the sounds of Kirsten and Gwyneth crowding into one pallet with their sinful giggles barely suppressed.
No sooner, had Rosamond's cheek hit her hard gain filled pillow then she seemed to be dreaming. She was out in the storm, the icy droplets pounding her flesh and streaming over her scarf and dripping own her long braid of hair. Lightning lit the sky and thunder shook the ground. Her eyes strained to see the sky swirling with shades of nude women a flight. Circling high in the heavens over the crumbling castle walls, they were all shrieking, some balling, some moaning, some laughing madly, some writhing in torment others panting like she dogs in heat. However, she could hear no sound from their lips, though some seemed to plead with her, others looked as if they were shouting a frightful warning. The scene was madness in her mind. A tiny part of her wanted to run from the scene. But a greater part of her wanted to dream of her prince, dark and handsome, as that part of her seemed to take hold in her mind her dream faded into a peaceful blackness that seemed to go on forever. Then out of it, snapped open tow giant, blazing green eyes that seemed to look straight into her soul.
Rosamond sat bolt upright in bed, the thin moth eaten blanket clutched tightly to her breasts. When she came face to face with old Mary who was kneeling beside her pallet, "Excuse me child for disturbing you, but his highness is in need of a chambermaid, my dear." Rosamond blinked and shook the images from her mind, though they had already vanished and she wondered why her heart was racing, even more than why Mary had woke her, of all people.
