The Year of the Dead Rose

by Rachel Parsons

Chapter 12
Chapter 13, part 1
appear in this issue.

Chapter 13

part 2 of 2

James was equally startled by the presentation. Naked, Rhiannon looked like a wild woman, one who should be swinging from vines, caterwauling, and not ruling one of the five greatest kingdoms.

This effect was augmented by the creature next to her. Creatures, he corrected. He was used to naked servants in New Prydain, but here, in this raw realm, alternately cooled and heated by strange vapors that swept from the New Preseli Mountains, the sight of one struck him as barbaric. But then, everything about this mud-and-wattle, stone kingdom did.

This description would make a burgher from Arbeth Dactyl bristle, but it was so ingrained as a response to New Fairy by the citizens of New Prydain that if they came across a modern building, made of marble or concrete, with indoor plumbing and cauldrons on the roof, they would not be able to see it. Hence, the phrase, ‘As blind as a New Prydain merchant,’ as they were famous for bumping into things and for their selective blindness.

Branwen hugged Rhiannon, kissed her, and then slyly placed her index fingers between her companion’s enormous bosoms. She thought of squeezing them, but didn’t want to start an international incident.

She became aware of the woman next to Rhiannon, whose eyes were boring holes in her. Oh, so that is how it was. Branwen looked at the brunette appraisingly, wondering how best to poison her. Or perhaps just bathe her with vitriol. It would considerably alter her appearance in Branwen’s favor. Branwen had never known her friend to have a vitriol victim, of whichever sex, as an escort.

Rosalyn, for her part, was amusing herself with fantasies of regicide, done with whips until the flesh was entirely struck from Branwen’s bones. Or of a picnic where she and Rhiannon were drinking mead and watching flesh-eating salamanders eat aware the visiting queen, who would be tied to a tree with an apple stuck in her mouth, so her agony would not disturb the moment between companions.

“Oh, Rosalyn, this is Queen Branwen, my closest maidenhood companion and the ruler of New Prydain. Branwen, this is the woman who saved my life in New Dyved, my principal lady-in-waiting.”

Rosalyn resisted the urge to curtsy. When Rhiannon had learned of Branwen’s impending arrival, she bustled out of her chambers, with Rosalyn in tow. No time to search for garments.

Rosalyn wondered if she would ever again feel fabric against her skin. She had been in situations before where she had to parade naked in front of nobility, and in some, Rhiannon had been with her. But in those times, she knew the lust of her audience could be used to her advantage. This was the first time she had been naked in front of — well, let’s just say it: a rival. And a rival whose red leather riding britches, purple girdle, and mammoth fur partlet, made her look indeed a queen.

Rosalyn, who was attractive, was acutely aware of the difference in dignity between her and Branwen, and that Branwen was almost as tall as Rhiannon, had lovely blond hair, much favored by her friend, who had often wailed of her own black hair, as comely as it was. Branwen was a Valkyrie; Rosalyn felt like a dung beetle by comparison. She need not be naked in front of this person to feel inferior, but it certainly helped.

She could feel Branwen’s hate too. And then there was Rhiannon’s obvious delight at Branwen’s presence.

“Oh, I look forward to shopping with you, sister. But I am at a loss as to what we shop for, if you do not mind my reference to your indelicate state.”

Rhiannon smiled thinly. “It is on everyone’s minds, why not yours, sister? But we can go shopping for garments.”

“How?” Branwen was in wonder over this remark.

“You see my companion, Rosalyn? She is in need of garments. Until we can properly shop, she will be but meanly dressed.”

“Do tell,” said Branwen archly. “Meanly dressed as she is now, pray tell?” Meow.

“Branwen, don’t be cruel to my companion,” Rhiannon said. “Rosalyn has but just arrived, and nobody has dressed her.”

“She cannot dress herself? Then by all means, we shall do that forthwith,” Branwen said. “As soon as I wash the road from my person, we can have our tea to catch up, and you speak with James about heavy matters between our kingdoms.

“Now, dear,” she said, addressing Rosalyn, “I know how anxious you must be, as but a few of us can stand scrutiny in your present state, your companion being one of them, but you will be naked but for a little while longer.” She said this in such a catty voice that Rosalyn wanted to tear her eyes out.

“My companion, Rhiannon, likes me in this state; it doth please her.” Rosalyn said this in a tone of wounded dignity and was gratified by the glare that greeted the remark. It confirmed what Rosalyn suspected, that Branwen was more than a companion to Rhiannon.

Her first task, then, was not to learn how to be a principal lady-in-waiting. It was, rather, to learn how to undermine Branwen in Rhiannon’s eyes and make sure that the only woman to share her bed was Rosalyn. She had seen the way Rhiannon returned the admiring looks of males they had encountered on their way to the Great Hall. But men she didn’t mind; men would never be to Rhiannon what Rosalyn could be. A man would always be a man and would go to places that Rhiannon would not want to go, now that she had a choice. Rhiannon might bed a man, but she would come back to Rosalyn’s arms to complain about him. A woman was quite another matter.

Rhiannon went off with Branwen, leaving Rosalyn fuming. She stalked back to Rhiannon’s bedchambers; rang the bell with enough strength that the chord fell off. Dulcimer came in.

“Aye, mistress?” Dulcimer did not know she was addressing her replacement in rank, but she could tell that Rosalyn was the queen’s favorite, and acted accordingly.

“I need clothes. And nice ones. Befitting a lady. Where can I get such on a winter’s day?”

“There is a tailor in the palace Bazaar, at the leeward corner of the Bailey. He used to be who her highness would turn to when she hankered for new clothes in the winter. He has refused to leave, saying that even though the princess is in a sorry state, he is too old to change. He would welcome the attention.”

“Then fetch him for me.”

“I do not fetch,” squeaked Dulcimer. “Not for the likes of you.”

“Am I supposed to go to him? It is bitterly cold.”

“Then go about naked,” sniffed Dulcimer. “I am sure your and my mistress would prefer it that way.”

Rosalyn thought so too, but she had learned, on the streets of New Dyved, to hide what people wanted from you, to be able to take it from them, and reveal it when you desired, to the detriment of their self-control. It would be such with Rhiannon, as well as it had been with her clients from the streets. Rhiannon was her true companion, but a companion controlled by her need for you was better than a companion that was not.

Irritated at Dulcimer’s manner, Rosalyn asked, “Would you address the princess this way?”

“You are not her. And although you are her current favorite, I will not do your job for you.”

“You are angry that I am replacing you?”

“No. You have just told me of this. It matters not; I am a servant to the Osets: if they wanted me to slop swine, or eat the end product of those beasts’ digestion, I would do it. But I do not like you, and it would be my pleasure if you continue to be humiliated and cold.”

“Why don’t you like me?”

“You are vulgar and but a whore. Your accent is vulgar; I would not be surprised if you would scratch your butt in public. You are not noble; the servant and companion of a princess should be of the aristocracy.”

“But could you not, just this once, treat me as one of them? Your kingdom is frightfully cold in winter.”

“If you dislike our kingdom so much, then go back from whence you came.”

“I cannot go back.”

“Then be thankful that our mistress has taken you in. Now, I weary of your whining; go get yourself some clothes, or suffer. It is as one to me,” Dulcimer sniffed.

Rosalyn sighed. “Just point me in the direction of this Bazaar, then.”

“As you wish, mistress.” The honorific was spoken with renewed irony.

Great. Her servants hate me; my rival for her affection is royalty and looks like a goddess. Oh, woe is me. Rosalyn, thinking these dour thoughts, nonetheless put her plan in action to be first and foremost in Rhiannon’s thoughts, feelings, and dependency.

Rhiannon had told her how helpless she had felt without her. That would be her ticket from now on. Rhiannon would continue to be helpless without her, for she would have the help she needed with her. Bracing herself for the gauntlet of stares and frost, Rosalyn went to the erstwhile royal tailor.

To be continued...