Unwanted

Unwanted

Tony Bible

 It was late night when I heard the wagon arrive. Always at night. We were at home, our stuga, my daughter and I. The horses snorted, a squeaky hinged door shut, and the landing of feet crunched frost. Him again. I pulled my shawl closer ‘round my neck against the chill. At the hearth, I stirred porridge more quickly, wishing I was a witch, wishing to expel him, chastising myself at the same time with shame I couldn’t dispel, ever. Go away. It’d been more than thirteen moon cycles since his last visit. Harvest was over and a cold moon signaled harsh winter. Mercy, my daughter, 7 years old, wrapped in worn, but warm wool had dozed off to slumber on the hay in the corner. It was time to replace the straw. Discolored, it stank.

I couldn’t win against him, not royalty, not me. My Pappa served them, and so did I. I miss him. A Husbandman, he was, gentle and a skilled farmer who managed the crops of the kingdom’s serfs, working alongside them. My blood can be found in this ground alongside his. I was determined not to live out my life as him, albeit an honest living, more than I knew, knowing nothing of politick. In his eyes, I was the apple of his eye, but sometimes I’d look at him and see… sadness, and not know why. I think I know why now. I did as told. That’s what a loving girl does, what a servant does, what the daughter of a servant does.

***

When I was younger, boys came but were shooed off. My Pappa held title over their fathers, thus over them. More than once, I saw them flogged by their fathers for landing eyes on me.

I remember the sequence of visits over a few days den våren, heads rising from wheat fields to view their commanding Ägare. First the Hertug, adorning fine fur, colored trousers and a wide studded belt, the first and only time I’d ever see him. Then the Greve days after, and the Baron. Though their swords stayed sheathed, they still frightened me. After that, it was simple-minded Ridders demanding more than usual before the arrival of his eminence, the Konge.

Pappa worried, more in the days after. They didn’t linger long, but their influence did. Pappa’s voice was uncommonly harsh against others, even after sun fall, even to Mamma, and me. Still, I loved him. I didn’t understand what had changed but felt it. Something was coming. I didn’t know when, but it felt there wasn’t enough time. I worked before sunrise and after, next to others, frost, rain or shine. Nothing seemed enough. How much from the earth can you squelch? Reasonable, it wasn’t.

I’d pretended to sleep through the arguments Pappa and Mamma had. I can still hear them. It. The… desperation. I turned over and cried. I couldn’t do enough. I couldn’t stop them from whatever had divided them. I couldn’t free them from their masters. Worse, I didn’t know why. What happened? What changed? I braved opening my eyes. That face my Pappa had, and hers. It wasn’t him, and I never wanted to see it again. The sour, moldy smell of the old straw I slept on was sharp and pungent, like the curse of subjugation that had fallen on us. Enslavement had spread, each of us enslaving each other. I couldn’t sleep enough before rising to work in the fields.

“Sheaf,” I heard Pappa say in a weary voice moving to reap another patch. He worked on knees, sick, tired, his greatest energy already spent. He ran on… I don’t know. Distress? I said nothing and obeyed. The rough twine cut my blisters, and I cried but continued to work. He cursed and turned to scold me. It was unlike him, until he saw my red hands, and then, something came over him. He joined me on the soil, holding me tightly, in the tall wheat hiding both of us as we sobbed together. The wind and tall grain hid our weakness to the others. To this day, I still know not his burden.

“Jag är ledsen,” He repeated woefully. His embrace meant more. We gathered ourselves and finished the day. We headed home. Life was suffering.

I didn’t know it was the next day. It. The day that would change my life. I couldn’t wear a false face or phony smile, but somehow my Pappa did, lost and struggling when the royal entourage and Konge arrived. The nobility’s herald stepped out from his royal coach decrying title and attention. Flags waved a coat of arms and insignia of two gold lions with forked tails spearing three crowns on a blue banner. The herald’s apodictic call was not attuned to the world and certainly not to the folk of our gemenskap. Out stepped the Konge, and the younger version of him soon followed, the Kronprins.

He was my age, handsome, and charming. He filled my bosom with awe. I felt lighter, hopeful. Enamored, I lost something looking at him, but now I see it was taken from me.

They stood above all of us.

Guardsmen stood at attention with erect halberds in lines. I couldn’t comprehend how people could be so wealthy. Their intricate brocade shined like floral metal dyed in rich color. My simpleton wit can’t explain it, but it was grand, and I’ve never seen it anywhere else. It plowed my mind, soiled my thoughts. Now, I hate it, recognizing it for Draugr’s clothes.

The Prins looked around sighing. His presence was a chore, until he spotted me, and he changed, stood taller, and smiled. He put on his best face. His gaze rested on me, like the other men in the field. I looked down, not knowing what to do. My father standing next to me shifted.

His name was Prins Håkan. His dark, thick hair was styled neatly back but slightly tousled from travel. Striking deep blue eyes stood out against his light olive complexion. A well-defined jawline was still evident behind a well-groomed beard that enhanced his rugged yet polished appearance. His royal poise exuded health and charm.

My Pappa was called forward. With gaze lowered, he bowed deeply and spoke the Konge’s proper title with measured respect. I was proud but worried. After an exchange of questions about crop yield, and hushed side conversations with advisors, they stepped down to walk the land. My Pappa was the guide, but by no means considered a noble escort. The Prins was obligated to follow the discussion but had no speaking role. He kept looking back at me. I averted my eyes each time. A noble ordered us back to the field, our labor unfinished. It never finished.

I don’t know how, but the Prins separated himself and approached me with two guards. It felt like all eyes were on me, even the Almighty. Close to me, he was taller than I had supposed.

“Can you show me,” Håkan said, “how’s it done?” I glimpsed his eyes quickly.

“Ja, your majesty.”

“You may call me Prins.” His tone changed pleasantly. “Or Håkan.”

I curtsied then reached for the nearest scythe with bandaged hand. He came to me at once and gently grabbed my fingers. I dared a look at him, longer this time. His mouth was open in a state of surprise then closed.

“Have you no gloves?”

“Never have, your majesty. None of us do.” He removed his, made of fine leather and tailor made with gold embroidery, and placed them in my hands, then folded my fingers with his, cupping mine to secure them and lingered a moment. His hands were firm, warm, smooth, and clean.

“Your majesty, my highest thanks, but no.”

“I insist,” he said.

“They’ll be… stolen.” His chin raised.

 “Leave us.” Apprehensively, the guardsmen walked away leaving us alone on the dirt path near the field.

“Tell me your name, my lady.”

“Una.”

“Lovely.” He squeezed my hands softheartedly before releasing them.

I never showed him the reaping. I answered his questions, which were many, about our labor, simple queries I thought he should already know, and probably did. I remember his inquisitive, interested tone and him looking at me. I couldn't tell if he learned anything but there was desire in those eyes, that was certain. I don’t know how much time passed, but the sun changed positions, and I grew thirsty. Before leaving, Prins Håkan smiled and said something to my Pappa. I only saw Pappa’s eyes shift, bowed as he was. They left as they’d arrived and all fieldhands gawked until the armored caravan topped the hill. That day ended as strangely as it began for me. I asked Pappa what the Prins told him. He wouldn’t answer. No tool would pry his lips open.

To my surprise, Prins Håkan returned the next day on horse with a guard, whose presence seemed to bother him. He was smiling. My Pappa was in the fields. He was glad, as was I but I was ashamed of my clothes and dirty home roofed in aged thatch. He invited us to the castle. I didn’t understand for what, but I’m not versed in such things. I stayed quiet not knowing how to speak to him. We walked the land again. He talked, questions mostly. I answered only when spoken to at first. When he asked about the gloves he’d given to me, I shied. I’d given them to Pappa since he was working the fields. He nodded not seeming to care but took the opportunity to hold my hands again. He looked at them as a klok gubbe, ready to heal them. Of course he couldn’t. He was too young for that wisdom. He had no black books or apothecary. That starry night, I daydreamed gazing at the dancing green ghosts of fallen warriors guiding souls to Valhalla, curious if they could take my mortal earthbound spirit.

I will never forget that trip to the castle. Passing the distant mountains, I saw the Útanlands for the first time: ice black fjords, impenetrable snowcapped cliffs, magnificent broken gray rock mountains subdued only by an infinite crystal blue sky. I asked Pappa, “How is it the waterfalls are white, the inlets black, the mists gray and ocean blue, yet when you drink from the river with your hands, the water is clear?” He didn’t know. There was much time to pass, and Pappa talked to me. He warned me not to do anything I didn’t want, especially with the Prins.

Arriving at the castle, I didn’t think anything so tall. My chest never felt so full of fresh air. How did one live so high? I couldn’t understand why we were there, but Pappa and Mamma suspected. It was only a matter of time before the Prins and I were alone. I wasn’t ready but wanted it nonetheless.

I remember walking home sore but happy. I’d never been so happy. My dreams soared. I was unable to think anything else. He loved me. Then.

***

I answered the door before he could knock. Håkan was older now. He stopped, looking cold and pensive, and sighed, as if already tired of me.

“What bribes have you brought this time?” He looked over his shoulder troubled by my loud voice and his guard’s prying ears, but they knew. They had to know after all this time. He gestured inside and I relented.

“Not so loud. She slumbers.” He removed a purse from his furred dölja and placed it on a leaning table. He didn’t acknowledge me but turned immediately to her sleeping on the hay, her mouth agape deep in slumber. His face pained. I hadn’t seen that before.

“She’s grown. Pretty.”

“She’ll have my hands someday.” My Pappa’s gloves—I prefer to think they’re his, not the Prins’—lay on the table next to me, years old, stretched with white cracks, torn in places, frayed threads, hardly useable but still served some purpose. They looked like dead severed hands in the flickering shadows of the hearth’s flames.

“She’s better off without you,” I said.

“Are you?” Still, his back was to me.

“I’m tired of this pain. Years of it.” I said for myself and stared coldly at the fire. I added more wood and stoked it angrily with jutting motions. The cold Northern wind shook the shutters.

I know why he gave up on me. He’d explained it passionately many times. A peasant isn’t royalty, and that wouldn’t change. The Konge wouldn’t allow it. I knew I was wrong to lay with him. Why can’t he admit the same?

I looked at Mercy sleeping. It’s every girl’s dream to be a princess but I won’t let it be hers. I will tell Mercy, she has royal blood but will never be royalty.

“The Konge, he’s—,” his voice hitched, his head lowered. His whole body quivered, and he let out a small yelp, but recovered. He turned to me, his red eyes wet with sad hope. The pretentious airs of royalty were gone, and he was the boy I fell in love with. “My pappa died.”