Black as Ebony

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Snow fell softly, feathering a cold silvery wood and softening the spires of a stone castle; all was quiet and still- even the streams were frozen and made no utterance. Herds of famished deer roamed the plains, searching for some scrap of foliage to satisfy their hunger, and the sun hung numbly in the sky, like a polished, glinting pearl.

            A face was framed in the ebony wood of a window in the castle, a face so beautiful it took one’s breath away: but it was not enhanced by any false coloring of any kind, nor was it daringly handsome. Bedewed black eyes gazed out of a smooth, slim face, and lustrous black hair cascaded down her back, gathering in curls and glossy heaps here and there. Her eyes were dewy because she was thinking of the child she would never have, the child that would never ring out its laughter through the great hall. A single, crystalline tear slipped over her eyelashes and plummeted to her white hand where it burst with a splash; she started as if the tear had burned her, and carefully wiped her eyes with her hands, smothering her emotions under a guise of tranquility. She had heard the footstep of the king in the passage.

            He entered, sweeping his heavy, wolf-furred cloak and paused in the doorway: the king had been ever a cautious man, whether in hunting, warring, or common duties, and he waited now until the queen turned her fair face toward him before approaching her. Sinking to one knee, he enveloped one of her willow-white hands in his own strong brown grasp, and looked searchingly into her midnight eyes.

            “The apothecary says there is to be no baby, then,” he concluded, rising and pacing along the chamber.

            “I can never conceal anything, can I,” smiled his wife, although there was no merriment in it. “Aye, and there is no man so practiced and clever.”

            “Practiced in his cleverness he is, but clever in his practice- of that I am not sure,” grimaced the king, pressing a scarred finger to his forehead. “If he releases this information to the duke, I’ll have him placed in the stocks.”

            “Charity, my dearest, charity,” plead the compassionate woman. “Anyhow, the duke’s ears are so large that he shall hear of it whether we would conceal it or not.” Glancing askance at her, the king smiled behind his blond beard at her despairing wit. At that very moment, there sounded a derogatory knock upon the door, as if someone were striking his head against it.

            “If I know Hubert at all, that will be him,” remarked the king, striding across the room and opening the door to a skulking, large-framed man (it is a most unpleasant thing when a colossal man skulks, for it reminds one of a cringing bear attempting to hide behind its paws).

            “Your Honor,” greeted the duke, pausing to move his lips while trying to analyze his next statement, “I am most disconcerted to hear that the kingdom’s continuation of succession is in peril.” Here he broke off, and glanced uncertainly at the queen, whose cheeks were touched with pink and whose shoulders had drawn back as if a cold breath of air had entered the room.

            “I only wanted to mention,” he continued tentatively, “that we would be delighted if the king could attend a… a summoning of the higher court, and as the queen is most undoubtedly wearied, it would suit her liege to rest- that is, if she pleases so.” The king gave the duke a rather threatening look, and the other bowed rapidly and squeaked backwards out the door, stammering titles and reverences and bowing like a pump handle. Following his vassal’s hasty retreat, the monarch turned flashing green eyes to his queen, and muttered something about a double stocks display in the market square.

            “I suppose I must go,” the king conceded gloomily, sounding like a child preparing for its lessons. “You could come along- I could hide you in the back, where no candles are lit; no one shall be the wiser for it.”

            “Nay, I think not,” replied his wife, laughing for the first time in many days. “Though I am loathe to agree with Duke Ensington, I am a little fatigued.” Gently, King Orson removed his splendid cloak of garnet-lined grey wolf-pelt and spread it over her knees; she knew then that she would always have joy, whether she had a child to share it or not. He kissed one hand, and then tucked them both away beneath the cloak, remarking that kings needn’t be so selfish as to hoard away all the best outer-garments for themselves. Inwardly berating himself for bringing her to this frigid country, he rose to his full magnificent height, squared his Herculean shoulders and strode away to court.

            She watched him go, and shuddered with a sudden draft, shrinking her back against the chair behind her; it was true that transfer from Britain to Norway had been an astounding hardship for her- for the last two years, hardly a fortnight had gone by but that she was afflicted with some fever or ailment. And yet, she would never wish to leave the snow-crowned mountains of Norway, nor the churning rivers or brilliant skies of dusky blue, a blue one could almost feel against one’s cheek, like a mist. Remembering the vivid wild blooms of the midsummer, she gazed blindly down at her lap, the tears mounting in her eyes. As if in a painting, she saw the garnet cloak, redder than the brightest mulberry, draped over the dimpled snow which lay across the ebony window frame: the combination and meld was so beautiful she could scarcely breathe. If God blesses me with a daughter someday, she thought, let her be a harmonizing of summer and winter- hair black as ebony, skin white as snow, and lips red as garnet.

In view of the fact that this was the only thing the queen had ever asked for, she was granted her plea: not quite a year passed before she gave birth to a rosy-cheeked infant who had hair black as ebony, skin white as snow, and lips red as garnet. Unsurpassed joy filled the king’s heart for but a moment, however, for his wife- the key to his heart, his dearest confidant- died almost immediately after the naming of the child. Duke Ensington seemed undismayed and even expectant of this event, which simultaneously grieved and agitated King Orson, and the monarch decreed a day of complete mourning in which every subject was required to sustain utter silence and dress in garb of black. Little Snow White (for that was the princess’ name) was dressed in white attire, however, for it was her day of welcome as well as a time of sorrow.

            From her mother, Snow White inherited the thick locks of rippling black hair, and from her father, the green eyes which could look so innocent one moment and impudent the next; neither of her parents were able to give her a trait for which she was well known, however- she had to create it for herself: a merry spirit inhabited her, one which endeared everyone to her. It is said that her laugh was like a bird’s warble, and it could be heard ringing throughout the castle, sometimes to the chagrin of the duke. At her first service with the local bishop, she was, after all, only two, and when a priest walked doggedly past with a swinging censer, she giggled entrancingly, causing all but the king to stare at her in disapproving astonishment; her father merely smiled behind his beard and pulled her closer to him. Since that incident, she had learned to curb her natural gaiety and laughed only outside of services, but Duke Ensington was yet unappeased. His primary interest lay in the succession of the throne after King Orson died, and he was determined to make the king’s life a short, sweet span: the only blemish that might thwart his plan was this daughter, this Snow White who would inherit to be Queen. Maddened by these disheartening prospects, he would slink away to his richly furnished quarters and pretend to read massive, ponderous books whose pages bulged out of the covers. At last, he arrived at a solution, and decided to put it into execution as soon as possible.

            In the meantime, Snow White had been slowly growing up, and was now at the inquisitive age of seven: not a room of the castle remained unexplored by her wandering steps, and she had established many a friendship with the servants. The cook and the scullery maid would give her morsels in exchange for news of the upper quarters, and the huntsman would display his catch in return for her vivacious smile.

Many children would have become egocentric and spoilt by this attention, but Snow White seemed only enhanced by it: a faint line of gypsy blood coursed through her veins, and the heady pulse of this breeding caused her to dance willingly whenever asked. She could finish a Welsh jig, breathing tumultuously and laughing at the same time, and if her father requested a Norwegian folk dance, she would immediately whirl into the next variation. Nothing appeared adequate to subdue her spirits, except Duke Ensington, and that was only because he made her uneasy, and she was annoyed by anything that made her uneasy, including sparrow livers for breaking fast*. In a general summary, however, she was a friend of everyone; someday, her kindness would save her life.  

*breakfast

            Informed that she was betrothed to a young lad- son of Lord Ghoran who was captain of her father’s army and hersir** to the king-, she felt true fear for the first time: who was this boy, and why must she wed someone who had grown up with a sword in his fist? Surely he would be an uproarious individual, fascinated with gore and army strategy, and more interested in cleaning his blade than anything else. She altered her view after meeting him at a Michealmas feast, and decided that perhaps he might ascend to his honor and duty with admirable chivalry; she told him so, lifting her chin optimistically as if she were approving a dish for mid meal. He, a healthy arm’s length her superior in height, looked down with amused grey eyes and tried to be serious, succeeding only in a crooked frown.

            “I am honored to be addressed by the crown princess, and would do anything to further mine reputation in her eyes,” he announced gravely, striving for an unrehearsed air and failing entirely.

            “Your reputation would be furthered if you would stop talking in that gloating way,” said Snow White, flushing over her affront.

            “Jolly good, I should be glad to,” he replied, relieved, and they were instantly comrades. Seated behind the festival dais, King Orson and Lord Ghoran watched with pleasure, and clapped one another soundly on the back, vowing repeatedly that the wedding should occur within seven years, at the most. Neither gave heed to Duke Ensington who sat immobile at his place of honor, sipping frozenly at his wine goblet and tasting nothing; his black brows drew together for one moment of forgetfulness, and then were again pulled taught in a blank stare of indifference. His time had come.

*lead warrior

Delicately, the woman spat into her hand and saw her reflection as clear as ever; swiftly, she prodded some brilliance into her slender cheeks and folded up the few straying strands of golden hair. She was swathed in a gown of purple that was so steeped with pigment that it appeared almost black, and white gold ornaments hung from her wrists and long neck. Her eyes were a fathomless forget-me-not blue, and her lips a blood red, belying her to be of flawless Norwegian origin, with not a drop of alternating blood in her; having lived in the mountainous kingdom all her life, she was no longer affected by the frigid Northerners nor the driving snow. As the gale roughed up her luminous face, she merely drew her rabbit-furred wrap against her cheek and flung her hair rakishly over her shoulder, mocking the attempts of winter’s teeth. The sleigh that bore her whistled fiercely over the packed snow, swift as an arrow from a bow, slicing toward King Orson’s very heart.

            The Duke Ensington had known that if there were ever a more deplorably selfish woman, she would have been outlawed long ago as an offspring of the demons: however, he thought that her beauty would be the pivotal point in aiding in the king’s decline. The Romanovs had Rasputin, and King Orson had Helgathe, his radiant, devious Delilah.

            Upon being informed of Duke Ensington’s plot, she, honoring her long comradeship with the wily noble, submitted hastily to his orders and concocted a potent beauty elixir, with which she doused herself dutifully. The uncomfortable aspect of this elixir was that whoever wore it had a mesmerizing control over whoever beheld her, and the receipt for the mixture was quite simple: only the heart and liver of a young girl, effective for seven years of ravishing fairness. After her enhancement, Helgathe quitted her rudimentary abode- a proper witch hut, set deep in the wood of the enchanters- and traveled by sleigh to the palace.

            Mid-morning meal had just been disposed of when she arrived, and, as the wind had abated some, the doors opening from the great hall into the courtyard had been thrown open; a cat-like breeze explored Snow White’s face, ruffling her silken hair and igniting her cheeks with a tinge of red. King Orson sat despondently at the head of the party, his heavy brow shadowing his face and concealing his eyes in a daytime dusk; a drained silver goblet was held poised in his hand, its stained rim tilting forgotten toward his mouth. Suddenly, the blinding doorway of sunlight was broken by a figure draped in billows of diaphanous fabric, and as all of the members of the court blinked blearily, a seraphic voice was heard.

            “I have come to pay respect to the king, my jarl, and my liege,” Helgathe called out, stepping deliberately into the muted light of the hall where she ceased to be a form burning the eye and became once again a ravishing Lady.  Her vivid eyes glimmered with liquid fire, and every curve of her face was perfect in its mold; although her hair had been bound up in a dyed leather band behind her head, she had successfully allowed most of it to escape its constriction, and it now fell heedlessly in cataracts of gilded waves over her shoulders, ending just above her knee. A hand that was poised like the wing of a dove reached out in supplication, revealing the slightest bit of her blue-veined wrist before the column of her slender arm disappeared into her sleeve.

            “What does this grand anarchist mean, bursting upon the king with uncalled audience?” demanded Lord Ghoran, struggling up from a miasma and shielding his eyes. “King Orson, you know that all who come before you must be escorted.”

            “Your Grace, Duke Ensington assured me of your kind and benevolent nature,” countered Helgathe gently, glaring privately at the captain. “I traveled here in a desperate state of mind, praying that you would hear my plaint: I am a subject of yours, and therefore deserving of a little protection, I hope.” Rising to his feet, the king bowed his head in concession, a wondering look moving over his face. She observed with satisfaction that he was by far the tallest and handsomest among the sickly nobles, and her coquettish smile did not escape the monarch- nevertheless, he did not correctly interpret it.

            “My abode has been ransacked by men from the East, and though they are gone now, I do not trust them to stay away. As your subject, I fled my land and came to seek shelter here, for the Duke offered to put in a conciliatory word, as my father was one of your own warriors, born and bred within the walls of your fortress. Oh, great and mighty King, might you extend your generosity to shield me from future attacks?” Concluding her plea, Helgathe let her speech expire with a wistful sigh, feigning exhaustion from having to ward off feverish Mongolian raiders.

            Resolved after beholding such a moving and impassioned spectacle, King Orson gallantly assured her that she would receive every attention and comfort necessary, and that the steward would immediately escort her to a private chamber, where she could remain for the time being. Needless to say, it was hardly a se’nnight* before the entrancement began its crushing effect, and the king was overpowered every moment she was in his presence. Lord Ghoran tried to dissuade him, having heard rumors, and furiously presented the excellent argument of Helgathe’s commonness, reminding his ruler that the law stated that the Queen must be descended of royal blood.

*week

            “I shall demolish the law, then,” replied the king, hoarsely.

            “That you shall, if you wed that minx!” roared the captain of the guard, opposite him, his grimy features traced with yellow from the candlelight. Orson’s face fell dangerously, his golden beard twitching with perturbation, but the other’s inhibition only seemed to grow.

            “By King Eirik the Fairhair, if you are bound to her, she will poison this entire kingdom! I pray you, do not do treat this matter so rashly.”

            “But it is not only myself I consider,” protested the infatuated monarch. “Think of my daughter, think of Snow White, who is to someday ascend to the throne with your son at her side: should she not have an example before her, and a nurturer? Must she also be

withheld from happiness?” Filled with misery, the captain bowed his grey, weathered head and rested his thick hands upon the oaken table before him; his dear friend had been consumed by a venom so beautiful that he welcomed it and drank the wormwood with a smile on his rugged face.

            “So be it,” muttered the man, defeated. “Your word is law, and I cannot choose for you.”