A Tale of Two Kingdoms

Chapter Three-1

Chapter Three

Some days after Yolande had been told about the witch, she was visited by a doctor. He examined her and pronounced that she was suffering from malnourishment. Yolande was certain that although the food was not good, she had eaten enough of it to stay healthy. She thought she knew what was coming next. The question was, how to respond? The dim outline of a plan was forming in her mind.

The following day Prince Igor came in person. “We are seriously concerned about your well-being,” he said. “The doctor has made up this cordial for you.”

Yolande thought the prince must believe her a simpleton. She decided to play the part. “Thank you,” she said. “I did not realise that you had my well-being at heart.”

He produced a small bottle and poured it into a glass, then put it in her hand. Yolande had no belief in spells or potions. Confident that it was nothing, she took the glass and drained it. The prince looked at her carefully to make sure she had swallowed. As if to oblige, she held her mouth open. It was empty.

“I trust I shall find you changed tomorrow,” the prince said.

Half an hour later Yolande felt violent nausea. She went to the chamber pot in the corner and vomited. Two minutes later she vomited again. Whatever was in the potion did not agree with her. Whether it truly had magic properties, she would never know. But her plan had in any case been to pretend that it did. When the prince appeared the next day, she greeted him warmly. Don’t overplay it, she said to herself, or he will smell a rat. But she smiled and appeared pleased at his presence.

“How do you feel?” he enquired anxiously.

“Much, much better,” she said. “I must thank you.”

The prince smiled. He spoke with Yolande for several minutes. Then he went in search of Bick. The assistant looked terrified, fearful that the potion had not worked; or worse still, that it had had a terrible effect on Yolande. Instead the prince did a little jig. “It’s working,” he cried. “I’m sure it’s working. Where’s that old hag?”

“She’s gone, sire,” said Bick. “I gave her the money you said to pay her, and she left.”

“Where did she go? I must thank her.”

Inquiries proved fruitless. The witch had gone for ever. The prince did not care. “She would have only asked for more money,” he said to Bick. “It’s a good thing she’s disappeared.”

When the prince visited Yolande the next day she was more cheerful than ever. “I do so look forward to your visits,” she said. “It’s dull being on my own all day. Won’t you come more often?”

The prince was delighted. The next day she asked him if her hood might be removed. “I so long to see you, prince,” she said.

“I’ll think about it,” the prince said. He knew the effect his appearance generally had on young women. But the following day Yolande seemed so cheerful and welcoming that the prince produced the key that unlocked her hood. He slid it off from her head and stood there smiling. Yolande had prepared herself for this moment, or thought she had, but the prince was even uglier than she had feared. His hair was wild and unkempt, his beard straggling, ill-cared for. His face was covered with red blotches; his nose was bulbous, and several of his teeth were missing. Yolande thought that even such a voracious libertine as her sister would hesitate to f**k such a man. She looked away, then forced herself to look back and smile. If her plan was to work, she would have to control her emotions.

“Will you unlock my hands too?” she asked, holding out her manacles.

Igor did as she asked. She stood there, rubbing her wrists, wondering what would happen next. She was all too aware of Igor’s eyes roaming her naked body. He came closer. She could smell him, a rancid odour of unwashed clothes, of sweat and grime. She braced herself for the touch that she feared was coming, the grope of her breasts, or a hand between the legs. But instead Igor spoke.

“We must get you some clothes, princess,” he said. Then he turned and left. Soon the maidservants appeared, carrying dresses and other things. They were smiling, happy that things were going well. They helped her choose a gown, cut lower over the bosom that she thought decent, but at least it hid the rest of her body. Yolande found a pair of shoes she liked.

That afternoon Igor returned. She smiled at him, though it felt more like a grimace. “I have something of importance to discuss with you,” he said.

“Yes?” she responded. She had a good idea what it would be.

“I have long thought that our two kingdoms should have a closer relationship. It is a hostile world out there. Small countries are easily picked off.”

“That is why they need strong armies,” said Yolande resolutely.

“Undoubtedly so. But alliances, even mergers, are a more certain guarantee of strength.”

“Perhaps. If you can trust them.”

“Certainly they are,” said Igor. “And an alliance between your country and mine would be ideal.”

Yolande was silent, though it was obvious what was coming.

“If I were to marry you, our countries would be joined with the strongest possible bond,” Igor said.

“So your proposal is simply an affair of state?”

Igor blushed. “No, no,” he said hurriedly. “You are a very beautiful woman. I should adore to make you my wife.” He went down on one knee. “Please say you will be mine,” he said.

Yolande found this embarrassing. “Please,” she said. “A prince such as yourself should kneel to no one.”

Igor got awkwardly to his feet. He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Marry me,” he said.

Yolande took her hand away. “This is so sudden,” she said. She didn’t want to sound too keen; that would arouse suspicion. But she had to keep him interested. “Perhaps you would allow me a day to consider the implications of your proposal,” she said. “It does me great honour,” she added, inwardly amused by how easy it was to string him along.

“Of course,” he replied. She suspected he had feared an outright refusal. She didn’t like to think about what might have been the consequences of that. She knew how he had treated poor Isobel and Yseult; doubtless there were countless others. She loathed this creature, but to secure her escape she must dissemble. The next day she gave him her answer. She said that she would consent to marry him on one condition, that she would have equal status in the joint realms. “We shall rule together,” she said.

She didn’t really know why she had said such a thing, since she had not the slightest intention of going through with what he had proposed. It was a purely instinctive response. For a moment she thought he would demur, but after thinking for a while he said that this was acceptable. Yolande thought he did not have the slightest intention of honouring his word. But then, neither did she.

The hood and the manacles were taken away, and Yolande continued to wear a dress. Prince Igor regretted that he was no longer able to enjoy the sight of her naked body, but in view of the prize to come that was a small price to pay. It was decided that the marriage would take place in a week’s time. It could not be sooner, Yolande said; she needed a wedding dress and other items which brides required. Igor promised to take care of it. In truth, she needed time to make preparations of her own. Igor sent up Isobel and Yseult to take her measurements; each was an accomplished seamstress, it appeared. Yolande was preoccupied, giving monosyllabic responses to their eager questions about the style and material of her dress. But in the evening she got the chance to firm up her plan. A boy brought up her dinner. On the tray was a white linen napkin, wrapped around a knife and spoon. She told the boy to fetch another chair; the one at the table was unsteady, she said. While the boy’s attention was focussed elsewhere, she secreted the knife in her sleeve. When the boy brought the chair, she complained that there was no knife inside the napkin. He protested that she was mistaken, that a knife had certainly been provided.

Yolande slapped the boy hard on the cheek, a stinging blow. “Do you know who I am, wretch?” she snapped. “How dare you say I lie!”

The boy put his hand to his face, shocked, then bowed his head. “I am sorry, my lady,” he said. “I shall fetch a knife.”

By the time he returned Yolande had hidden the first knife in a crack in the wall. The boy apologised again.

“Count yourself lucky I do not report you to your master,” she said. “I do not doubt he would have you whipped. Or worse.” Yolande felt some pity for the boy, but she wanted to make sure he did not mention the incident to Igor. Over the next two days Yolande spent much of her ample free time grinding the knife against stones in the wall. Gradually she honed the edges till they were razor-sharp, and filed the tip to a lethally sharp point.

Even if she did not intend Igor to survive the marriage, she would prefer that it did not take place at all. Her plan was now settled. She began to flirt with him, giving him to believe that she felt increasing desire for him. Several times she said it was hard having to wait so long for them to be “joined in the flesh”, as she put it. She saw the lust glinting in Igor’s eye. One evening she grasped the nettle.

“Prince Igor,” she said, “I know it is common for the affianced to wait until marriage before consummating their union. But we are not common people. We are the highest in the realm. Surely we may choose for ourselves and not have to follow the vulgar herd. I long for the moment when you will take me in your arms. But I have often thought that the wedding night is not the best time for consummation. The ceremony will be long and arduous, then there is the feasting and drinking, and I know that men sometimes find their desire flags after all this.”

“Not mine,” Igor said boastfully. “I’m always ready for it.”

Yolande shuddered inwardly. “So you do not desire me enough to wish to anticipate the wedding?” She smiled, doing her best to play the coquette, though it was not a role which came naturally to her. Igor drew nearer, too near for Yolande’s comfort. But it was difficult to keep him at arm’s length while encouraging his hopes of having s*x with her. Suddenly Igor made a lunge. She tried to avoid him but he managed to grab her and attempt a clumsy kiss. At the last moment she turned her head and it landed on her cheek. She forced him away.

“Sir,” she said, “you are too importunate. But let us make a tryst. In two days’ time, in the evening, will you not come to my cell and lie with me? I shall be ready then.’

“Why not now?” said Igor in a sulky voice. He didn’t like being denied.

Yolande made what she hoped was a look of modesty and embarrassment. “Prince, I hesitate to speak of women’s matters. But there are certain times of the month…”

“Oh,” said Igor. He had a horror of such things. “But you will be well in two days?”

“I am certain of it,” said Yolande. Igor soon made an exit. He imagined that he could smell her condition, unaware that he was the one giving off odours.

Yolande set about perfecting the last parts of her plan of escape. At first, when captured by the brigands, she had hoped either to get away through her own efforts, or to be rescued. But no easy opportunity for escape presented itself, and no rescue had been forthcoming. Instead, Yolande had formulated, over the weeks and months, a strategy which had come progressively into focus. Now, on each of the following two days, she saved a little of the food which was brought to her; she would need sustenance for her journey. She spent a lot of time looking out of the window, estimating how far down it was, and which way was east, towards the Deep, Dark Wood. Screwing up her eyes, she thought that in the distance she could see a field in which horses grazed, but she could not be sure.