The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Princess sank down to the ground and groaned. Everything hurt. The ground was wet, and it wasn't long before the dampness began to seep through her skirts until she got the unpleasant feeling she'd wet herself. She shifted, so that she was sitting on her knees instead, which complained bitterly about their mistreatment.

She'd spent the previous night crashing around in the dark, almost falling into a shallow stream as she struggled to haul herself up its steep banks. Her mud-slicked shoes were unable to gain purchase on the sodden ground and in the end she gave up, allowing herself to slide back down into the water. She followed that stream until she lost all feeling in her toes, the water icy despite the warm night, her feet slipping over the wet stones that littered the river bed. More than once she fell, so that her palms burned with cuts and scrapes. She kept going though, the thought of Sir Hilton's hounds baying at her heels was enough for that.

Around dawn, the Princess scrambled up the bank and lay panting in the morning sun. She closed her eyes, feeling the sun warm her eyelids and wondering vaguely how long it would take for her gown to dry out. She must have drifted off, because when she next opened her eyes, she found herself staring up the largest pair of nostrils she had ever come across. They snorted, blowing foul breath over her face, before moving on to the grass clod by her side. The Princess edged herself away from the skinny leg, not really fancying being trodden on by a tonne of still walking beef.

Scrabbling to her feet, she panted. Her hands were covered with mud. After a moment's consideration, she wiped them over her hips, but that only made matters worse. She hadn't been so filthy since her hunter had thrown her into a ditch last summer, when her father had stopped at Hoxleigh on his annual progression. Then the master of the hunt had jumped off his own horse and run over to assist, pushing a small flask of whiskey against her lips before helping her stagger to her feet. She'd emerged on his arm, laughing at the state of herself. It was easy to find the humour with the knowledge that there would be warm furs and hot water waiting for her back at the palace. It wasn't quite so amusing now. She rubbed her hands together, trying to rub off the wet earth, but it smeared across her skin like thick paint.

She patted the beast, a touch awkwardly, across the shoulder as it munched away, and thanked the various gods that she was standing at the right end of the cow when it lifted its tail and did something the Princess was convinced should only happen behind closed doors.

Her stomach rumbled. Her dinner the previous night had been a disappointing one, and there would be no Lady Jain carrying in a tray of freshly baked bread, yellow butter and cooked fruits to break her fast that morning. She eyed the cow. She'd seen it done, of course. After long rides she'd often slide down from her horse at a likely looking farm and watch as one of the milkmaids drew up a three-legged stool and pulled a wooden bucket into place, her hands working deftly until a cup could be dipped in and emerge full of frothing milk, so thick it was almost cream.

It didn't look that hard, just a matter of getting the rhythm right. She looked at the udders doubtfully. She was sure it was all a matter of confidence. No good being shy, you just needed to grab hold and get on with it. Except, she didn't have a three-legged stool, or a bucket for that matter. There seemed to be something almost indecent about doing without those accoutrements.

Deciding that her gown could do without the extra layer of mud she scanned the field. Surely there must be a farmhouse or something of that sort near by. No doubt there would be a friendly farmer's wife who could supply her with a hearty meal, and perhaps even provide her with a horse to see her on her way. The storybooks were filled with lost princes taking shelter in barns, by rights as a princess, she should be supplied with the same hospitality.

As it turned out, she didn't need to look hard, because there, climbing over a rotten stile was the farmer. He even had a bucket in his hand. With the back of her hand, she tried to push back the hair from her face without getting any more mud on it, and found her most gracious smile to bestow on her most dear and loyal subject.