Archive of Our Own

The large beast, Rouge, named for the hue of his rich brown hair, was testy and highly preferential. The old stable master nearly lost a finger to him the year before. The steed only minded his rider and you discovered; yourself. 

Last year when Albert screamed over his bitten finger, you rushed in to check on him and calm the huffing horse. To both your surprise, the creature heeded and even gifted you a light flick of its wet tongue.

Since then, you’d been charged with feeding and tending to the beast. The task was easy to fit in among your work; you swept and cleaned the stalls, sometimes you brushed the horses. It was mostly dull but calming work, if not a little smelly, but you prized it above the worse duties throughout the royal household.

“Oi, it’s time,” Albert called and you leaned the broom against the wall.

You swept around in your patched skirts as he stood at the door with the royal crest carved into it. He slid open and you whisked inside before him to distract Rouge as he followed. The horse sniffed your outstretched hand and nuzzled your palm. You pet along his long snout as he sniffed the top of your bodice.

The horse sniffed as Albert plunked his stool down and you hushed him. You ran your fingers along the sides of Rouge’s head and whispered to the beast. His dark eyes met yours and he let the stable master lift his foot. As he began to sand down his hoof and clean out the muck, the horse became restless.

“O’er the hills and up the river, Knock your bow and fill your quiver. Up on the bow and under the sail, Give us a cry and give us a wail…”

You sang lightly as the spring breeze flowed in from the slightly open door and the horse tilted its head into your hand. Rouge calmed as he often did when you sang, though you never thought your voice was very nice until you met that creature. You continued as the stable master focused on his work and hummed along softly.

You started a new tune as Albert moved to the next foot. You fed Rouge a handful of oats as the sunlight shifted through the slats of the stable and the afternoon wore on. 

As Albert began hammering on the shoes, it grew harder to keep the horse still and your voice rose above the metallic tink. You raised your voice just a little and scratched his ears.

“I’ve never heard that one before,” the deep voice frightened you with its vaguely familiar lilt and your song died in the air.

You turned around to face the king and swallowed down your surprise as you knelt. Albert quit his hammering and slid from his stool to pay his respects to his liege. King Clark stood in the doorway, his jeweled fingers on his hip as he looked over the scene. He waved you to your feet as he took a step inside. As you rose, Rouge rested his head on your shoulder and the king’s eye was caught by the gesture.

“I did hope to have a ride before tomorrow’s hunt but I see that is not possible,” he said.

“Your majesty, I was unaware--” Albert began.

“It does not matter, I will wait until the morrow,” he neared and you stepped aside as he came closer. Rouge raised his head and touched his nose to the king’s as he approached, “I am certain my steed has caused you enough trouble.”

“Strong-willed but admirable,” Albert resumed his seat and carefully lifted a hoof.

“Like his master,” the king mused and he glanced at you from the corner of his eye, “he prefers you… your voice. It is quite lovely, I must say. Might I request a song?”

“As you wish, your majesty,” you pressed your sweaty palms to your plain skirts. 

You’d never spoken to the king before, rarely even saw him and only at a distance. You stared at the chain that hung from his shoulders as you weren’t so brazen as to look him in the face.

“As I wish,” he toyed with the words on his tongue, “do you know The Knight of the Sky? My father preferred that one… he had a star embroidered on many of his capes for the very reason.”

“I think I recall it,” you murmured and cleared your throat.

“At your pleasure,” he ran his fingers through Rouge’s main and caught a tangle.

You watched his hand and mustered your voice. You were never much for words outside of singing and you did that often to pass the time. You followed the tune in your head and began.

“‘Neath the ebon silk, Suit as pale as milk. The knight he rides, The world astride…”

It was easier to keep the melody once you began. The king continued to pet Rouge but you felt his gaze on you still. As you finished, he dropped his hand from the horse’s neck and received a light needy nip in response. He ignored it and neared you. You shied away but did not step back, afraid to insult him and unsure of how to behave.

“Very nice,” he praised, “I do have another request.”

“Your majesty,” you peeked over at the pillar beside the door and teetered on the balls of your feet anxiously.

“There are some envoys I must host in the coming week. A private dinner… I was inclined to send for the royal minstrel but I have found him to be overly indulgent in his cups,” he explained coolly, “perhaps you might find it within your tasks to lend your voice to the appointment.”

“Your majesty?” you said curiously as your voice piqued.

“You might sing for my company. I would compensate you of course and I could provide any instrument you require? Or perhaps a player? I have many in the castle, lute, harp, horn…”

“I am but a stable hand, your majesty--”

“She might be deferred for that night,” Albert intoned as she stood, “at your leisure, your majesty.”

The king nodded and backed away as he looked around the stable and Rouge kicked his newly shoed foot.

“So it is arranged?” he asked but kings rarely asked questions.

“As you wish, your majesty,” you repeated as you gripped a fold of your skirt. The idea of singing in front of more than horses made you squirm.

“As I wish,” he said gaily, “I will send an attendant to fetch you when the time comes…” he stopped to pat Rouge again, “he bides you well, I fear at times, he detests even me.”

“He can be a pleasant horse, your majesty,” you said.

“Can be,” he smiled, “I suppose he is like any man, that way.”

He turned and went back to the door and paused as he glanced back in. Albert packed up his mallet in his wooden box of tools and bowed his head to the king. You bent in a similar display of abeyance.

“Good day,” the king left you with the courtesy as you and Albert replied with brittle ‘your majestys’.

When you could no longer hear his footsteps you turned back to Rouge as he snorted impatiently. You reached to caress the beast and Albert carried his tool box to the door.

“Be mindful not to do anything that might displease the king,” he girded as he stopped just outside, “he is a man who sees slights in the smallest of instances.”

“I would never--”

“You’re a sweet girl but… the rich, they are not like us,” he continued, “they are dangerous… heartless even.”

You watched him go as you numbly kept your hand on Rouge and thought of the unexpected twist. Nothing ever happened in the stables, nothing more exciting than a loose shoe or good kick to the stomach. 

Well, it was often said that the spring often brought opportunity.

👑

As you swept the scraps of dirty hay out of the last stall, you were disturbed by a tap on the wooden pillar. You looked up at a liveried servant then glanced around in confusion. The castle servants only came down to the stables when a hunt was in order and rarely were they dressed in the king’s colours. 

He said your name, a wrapped parcel tied with twine in his hand.

“Yes,” you answered softly as you stilled the broom.

“The king sends this. He requests that you attend his receiving chamber at the hour of compline,” he stated evenly, “and that you dress accordingly.”

“Many thanks, sir,” you took the package from him.

As swiftly as he came, he was gone and you were left with the parcel in hand. You took it out into the space between stalls and set it atop an old crate. You kept on your work until your nose was itchy from the dust and the last of the old straw was gone.

You emerged into the sunlight with the package as Albert strode back from the yard where he’d been running one of the mares. He was slick with sweat in the pre-rain humidity. He saw you and stopped the horse before she could trample you.

“What is that, girl?” he asked as another hand, Mercer, dragged a bag of oats from the storehouse.

“The king sent it,” you shrugged, “I would’ve forgotten had he not sent a servant down.”

“Forget? That would be the most egregious insult,” he blustered, “you go, I’ll have Colin finish your work. I cannot have one of my hands keeping the king waiting.”

“I am not due for some time--”

“You are filthy, you cannot attend to the king covered in dirt,” he jabbed his finger in the air, “did your mother never teach you how to present yourself?”

“Yes, Albert,” you said evenly, as you always did when he got himself worked up.

“Go on,” he chuckled and shook his head as he led the horse past you.

You hugged the soft parcel to you and headed around the rear of the stable and towards the lower entrance of the castle. The doorway puffed with steam as the launderers boiled their cauldrons and twisted out the water into the grass to hang the linens over a line. You slipped past them and continued down the corridor of servants’ chambers.

You entered your shared accommodation, several straw mattresses which were piled over in the night hours. Your own, you shared with three other girls and in the summer, it was almost preferable to sleep on the cool stone rather than against the warm bodies of your cohorts. 

You sat and untied the twine as the package was cradled in the hammock of your skirt. You uncovered the dress, dyed a pale shade of blue and embroidered at the cuffs with white thread. It was nicer than anything you’d ever owned or worn. Beneath, were a pair of matching slippers softer than the hard soles and hide on your feet.

You took the pale from the corner and went down to fetch a load from the well. You hauled the water back and used a cloth to wiped the dirt from your face, neck, arms, hands, and in those creases which tended to sweat. 

You shook out your shift and pulled it back on. You pushed your arms through the sleeves of the blue dress and found it fit rather snugly and struggled to tighten the laces as you yanked at the top just behind your neck. The attire was much more structured than the wool handed to servants.

You fixed your hair as best you could and slid your stockinged feet into the dainty slippers. You stepped back out and peered down the corridor to the light that limned around the corner. The sun was starting to set and you turned down towards the staircase you rarely climbed.

As if time had been watching you, the bells of the tower rang to signal compline as you emerged on the higher floors. After some directions from a chambermaid in a stained apron, you found your path to the king’s chambers. A guard in golden mail and armor stood without and you greeted him with a meek and nervous smile which was like more quiver of your lip.

“I… I am to sing for the king’s company,” you said, “sir.”

“You are the bard?” he narrowed his eyes and hit his elbow on the door three times.

An attendant, the very same who brought you the dress, opened the door from within and peered out with his short but pointed nose.

“The singer,” the guard grumbled.

“Ah, yes, there she is,” the rotund attendant adjusted his cap and pulled the door further inward, “the lute player is stretching his strings now.”

He ushered you within and shut the door behind you. A man with a lute sat on a stool, his instrument on his knee as he tested each string. You looked around the large receiving chamber, a table draped in rich burgundy and shining dishes. The chubby man cleared his throat and clapped his hands at you.

“You will stand there and sing,” he pointed not far from the lutist, “you may drink from that pitcher,” he pointed to a brass jug beside a wooden cup, “and you will remain silent otherwise.”

“Yes,” you nodded and took up your place.

You folded your hands and glanced around again. The paintings were framed with gilt-coated wood and fine ornaments decorated every surface; a naked woman forged in gold with small sapphires for eyes, a horse of polished ivory, and a large stag’s head just above the door. Its dark fur was unlike you’d ever seen before and the white line down its snout added to its peculiarity.

“When the king enters, you lower your eyes and your chin. Curtsy for me,” the attendant demanded.

You blinked and fidgeted. You bent your legs but weren’t sure what else to do. He sighed and came around you.

“Kick your leg back,” he nudged your skirt with his foot, “bend more… head down, hold your skirts like so.” He stepped back and you held the pose, “that’ll do… you may stop.” You stood straight and he snapped his fingers at the lute player, “up.” “Play better sittin’ down,” the player made no move to rise, “ah, you know I been doin’ this long enough, I know how to kneel for the king, yea?”

The round man frowned but said nothing else as he was ignored further for the pluck of the strings. You watched the attendant stomp away and he strode up and down the table as he eyed the cutlery. You carefully poured yourself a cup of water as you felt entirely unready and your mouth was dry with nervousness. You drank deep and set it back down.

A single knock came at the doors and they suddenly opened as two other attendants appeared to stand against them. You gulped and quickly tried to recall your instructions. You bent your head and your leg as the king entered, his deep voice carrying as he chattered to the lords that accompanied him.

The lute player rose and bowed and you only remembered to drop into your curtsy as the chair legs scraped your musical companion sat once more. You looked up at the three lords and the king sat at the table, the doors remained open as trays were brought in and set upon the tablecloth. 

You stared dumbly until a sharp clap brought you back to the present. The round attendant scowled at you and hissed, “sing.”

The lutist shifted on his chair and you heard his soft cue, “Abelard’s Tune.”

He began to play and you took a deep breath. You remembered the words easy enough, the chorus repetitive and simple. As you began, the king looked over and smiled and his fellow diners followed his gaze. His shoulders were straight and proud.

“Fine singer, is she not?” he asked.

“Very fine, indeed, your majesty” the grey-haired man with the curled mustache replied, “rather gloomy tune however.”

You focused on the lyrics but caught some of their conversation. It was hard as your own voice filled your head and you doubted you should be listening.

“Ah, but should we not be mournful, a pity my wife was drawn away,” King Clark bemoaned, “perhaps on the morrow she might grace us with her presence.”

“We would be most honoured and humbled to have her,” the lord with the darkest hair and thick accent replied, “another fine lady, your majesty. The finest.”

“Indeed,” the third with the thinning orange hair added, “but we are more than blessed for your own company, your majesty.”

“Oh, well, I’ve not made my demands yet, lord,” the king snickered, “perhaps then you might eat such niceties.”