The Exile

He stood outside the door, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. He had come straight from the prison, still dirty, his collar torn from where a soldier had grabbed him during the arrest. But there was no time to waste. He had to say good bye and it would have to be brief.

Her brother opened the door, embraced him despite the state he was in and invited him inside. He refused, of course, but he appreciated the gesture. He did not need to enter the house and sully the smooth marble floor with his filthy boots. He only needed to see her, to see her one more time before he left, and the porch would do for that. 

“Is she here?” he asked his friend, who nodded and turned, calling out her name. And when she appeared behind him, in a dress as white as the snow that blanketed the landscape outside, the gold ropes of her hair falling over her shoulders, he felt for the first time in all of this that he just might cry. She pushed her brother gently out of the way, repeated the invitation to come inside, then stepped outside into the cold when he shook his head. 

“Are you all right?” she asked, holding up her hand as if to touch the bruise he knew was blooming on his cheek. 

“Yes,” he said, stepping back. Her hand fell to her side. “They roughed me up a little but just to scare me. I don't think they wanted to hurt me.”

She just stood there, silent in the cold. She has no coat, he thought, forgetting that he didn't either. 

“Let me see it,” she said, holding out her hand. 

He paused for a second, then held out his left hand, palm up, to show her the blue mark on his wrist, still raised and raw. Just a blue vertical line, an inch long, its smallness belying its significance. 

Her eyes filled with tears as she held his hand in hers. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice small and strained. “It’s all my fault.”

“It’s not; don't say that,” he said, taking his hand away and shoving it behind his back. This was why he had to come. He had to leave her well, in a way that allowed her to move forward. “You did nothing wrong. You must believe that.”

“I wasn’t careful,” she said. “If I hadn’t kept that note–”

“Don’t,” he said again. “It was inevitable, I suppose, that I could not hide forever. I don't blame the servant who betrayed me either, really I don’t. He was afraid and I don't expect him to have lied for me. And the king has been merciful, in a way – Father will keep his title and his lands and Mother will not be arrested. But they have told me it would be best if I left the country, and I know what that means. I have no choice.”

“What?” She put her hand on her heart. “You are leaving?”

“I will head north, across the border, where a mark like this means nothing,” he said, holding out his wrist again. “I will make a new life there. I will overcome this. I have told my parents and I will tell you too – you must not worry about me. I have a feeling that I will be all right.”

“Of course we will worry about you,” she said, frowning. “It’s not fair. I don't believe you are cursed, and I never will. Never!”

“No, it’s not fair,” he said. “And it means so much to me to hear you say that you don't believe it. Really, it does. But I need you to promise me that you will try not to blame yourself, and that you will always, even if you find yourself the queen one day, count me as a friend.”

“I promise,” she said, shaking her head. “But I will never be the queen. I will never look at him again, not after this. Not after what he has done to you.”

“It means a lot to me,” he said to both sister and brother, “that you both knew and never held it against me. I will never forget that.”

And then he turned and walked away down the long drive, his boots crunching on the snow, holding his left wrist in his right hand. He could not linger; the sun was past its highest and all he had was this one afternoon. The mark had begun to sting again, as if his skin was protesting against the injustice of it, the unfairness, as she had said, of what had happened. For nineteen years he had lived the life of an ordinary noble child, enjoying the privilege of his birth, largely protected from the outside world of soldiers and priests and curses and the king’s decrees. His parents had tried to train it out of him, but it made no difference how many hours they strapped his left hand to his side – when he was released he would use it again, to eat, to play, to draw pictures with sticks in the sand. They had kept him at home, knowing that discovery would mean exile for all of them, and when he was older had sat him down and explained. He had never forgotten that day, the weight that had descended on him as he had stared at his left hand and realised that the world out there would see him as an abomination, a curse, a judgement from the devil. But I am not! He had wanted to shout to anyone who would listen. I am not!

Loath to allow him to make friends with other children who might reveal his secret, his parents had kept him isolated. But they had made an exception, only one. The brother and sister, children of the neighbouring estate, were his only friends. Now he was leaving them and his family forever. The sadness of it burnt like bile in his throat. 

It took only twenty minutes to get home. Mother and Father were there, ashen with worry. “We were afraid,” Mother said as she clung to him, her eyes red and raw from a week of crying. 

“I know, Mother,” he said, clasping her arms and looking into her eyes as if to share his strength with her. “But It’s all right. I am leaving the country tonight and I will be all right. I promise.”

“You never told us,” she said, her voice shaking. “You never told us about the girl!”

“There was nothing to tell,” he sighed. “She is beautiful and perfect; no one can deny that. I wrote her a little note once, just a little note telling her how lovely I thought she was, and she kept it. I could not know that she would catch the eye of the king.”

“Or that he would investigate every detail of her life,” growled his father, his frown deeper than ever. “As if he could only marry someone who had fallen straight from heaven, never touching the earth at all!”

“Well he found her stain,” said his mother, bitterness mixing with the sadness in her voice. “And then he found yours.”

“I know I am not cursed,” he said, shaking his head. “So do you, and so does she. That’s all that matters. There is life beyond this, Mother. I will live, and I will live freely. Will you trust my determination to do that, and not mourn for me?”

“I will try,” she said, weakly, holding him close. “My sweet boy, I will try.”

He waved farewell to them only a few hours later, from the back of his horse as he turned at the end of the drive. He would never see them again – he knew it with a certainty that had settled during the long, cold nights in the prison. He would never see any of this again – the snow-covered mountains, the stark brown lines of the orchards waiting for spring, the stately silhouette of the great house that was the only home he had ever known. In his saddlebags he carried supplies for a journey to another life, to a world where his curse did not exist. His leaving freed his family and his dear friends to live here, in this country which despite this injustice was still their beloved home. 

As he rode away he thought about the king, about the young man not much older than himself who sat in the palace right now, wondering perhaps if he had lost her forever. He did not hate the man who had taken his life from him. He might have, for a while after he had been arrested, in the days that he had sat in darkness waiting to hear his fate. But he could not, after all, blame the man for following the traditions of centuries, for the belief he had inherited from the generations before him. They did, after all, share something in common – they had both loved her. They had both been captivated by her sweetness and her beauty, by her cleverness and her quiet integrity. He smiled to himself as he spurred his horse on over the rocky path towards the next village. She had said she would never be queen, but if she did he knew she would never tire of doing good, of using any power and influence she had to make her country a better place. Perhaps it would be a good thing if she forgave the king for what he had done to her friend. He should have told her that.

Too late for that. Too late for anything else. There was only forward, to the village tonight and the next one the day after. The sun was setting as he crested the hill and saw the faint glow of it below him. There was no more today, only tomorrow. No more hiding, only a little running, for now, and then freedom. As he rode he worked hard at packing everything away inside a compartment in his mind and in his heart. His older siblings, all gone to the army or married now, the sweet nieces and nephews he had swung in the air and spoiled with sweets. The fields and barns he had overseen with his father, the rolling green of ripe corn in the summer, the wagon loads of sweet-smelling hay. The colours of Mother’s roses, the tinkling of the fountain in the courtyard of their home, the sweet smell of Father’s cigars. The good times with his friends next door, both the brother and the sister. The first stirrings of tenderness in his heart one day as he had watched her walking in the garden, the shy smiles they had shared just a few, brief times. He parcelled up his memories, his heritage, his old hopes, stowing it all away where it could not hurt him. 

The village ahead glowed brighter now, beckoning him on. He looked down at his hands on the reins, making sure that his sleeve covered the mark, then pulled his soft hat low over his face to hide some of the bruises in shadows. Everything, everything was behind him. And he did not look back.