A Tale of Fur and Flesh by Giselle Renarde

“What a troll!” Lally said to herself as she read. Her pensive longing to know more about mother was interrupted by the thought of these words being written by Offal, her father’s devil of a councillor. Where did he plan to record her many competencies? Yes, Queen Gwladys had been beautiful, but beauty was hardly an accomplishment. What of her peace-keeping efforts in times of war? What of the ties she established with neighbouring nations? Her mother had been much more than a pretty woman with long golden hair. If councillor Offal wished to compose a history of her parents’ reign, was it too much to ask that it be accurate?

Before reading on from the unfinished manuscript, she peeked out into the stone hallway. She hadn’t heard anyone afoot, but last time Offal caught her rifling through his private affairs, she felt the lick of his boot against her backside. She couldn’t be too careful. Of all the castle-dwellers, he was the cleverest and thus the greatest threat.

“Buttercups,” Lally recalled. “And acorns, and mushrooms…”

On the afternoon of Sunday May the Ninth, the beloved queen, the king, and their princess daughter went searching the forest for edible fungi. Stricken by a springtime cold, Queen Gwladys was congested and her vision blurred. She plucked a seemingly harmless mushroom from the base of a Larch tree. Dusting it against her skirts, she sunk her teeth into the mallow top. Soon after, her stomach began to burn. The queen felt quite incapable of supporting herself. Her loyal husband, perceiving his wife’s illness, lifted her from the spongy soil and carried her home. There, the ailing queen was put to bed.

All conjecture, of course, unless Offal had been hovering in the rafters of mother’s bedchamber during that private moment. Lally still remembered the blood her mother coughed into her handkerchief. She envisioned the scene from outside herself now: golden-haired child throwing plump arms across her precious mummy’s waist, wiping her tear-stained face across the down duvet. She tried so hard to be a brave girl until mummy got better.

“My cherished daughter, there is something I wish for you to have,” mummy whispered. It was a secret only for them to know. In Lally’s little hand, she placed an enchanted walnut. It looked just like any other walnut, but contained a secret that could only be revealed when the perfect time arose.

“But when will it open?” Lally whined. She hadn’t realized the immensity of the gift, nor the severity of her mother’s illness. “I want the secret now, mummy. Please show me what’s inside.”

“I can’t, my darling,” her mother replied. “The secret gift is yours now.”

Lally hated this memory. Its persistence goaded her, like a crowd of hecklers urging one toward a precipice. How could she not have seen what was coming? Yes, she was young, but she should have known.

The blackness of death hovered over the queen’s bed, its foul stench penetrating the chamber. Queen Gwladys called her husband to her side and whispered to him, “I am a most fortunate of wives. How worthy a husband have I! You, who have sat at my bedside and spoken kind words to me. Galyn, my love, you deserve nothing less than the best of all things. I bid you promise, if you ever wish to marry again, take only a wife who possesses my great beauty. Take only a wife who has just such golden hair as I have.”

Foul rumour! Her mother was never so vain; she wouldn’t have said such a thing. Lally didn’t believe it for a second. At any rate, how could her father ever grow to love another as he loved his queen? Impossible! Unthinkable!

Grasping his wife’s enfeebled hand, the king vowed to abide by her final wish, for he was resigned never to marry again. And when the promise was made, the queen closed her eyes and beckoned the blackness of death to sweep her from this earth.

Lally cried when her mother departed. She cried until the days turned to weeks. She cried until pain was a bleak recollection and sensation closed its doors. Numbness took over. Had it ever released her from its icy grip?

As much as Lally mourned her mother in those days, she missed her absent father equally. And yet, King Galyn never emerged from his chamber. One Sunday morning, when she was twelve years old or thereabouts, Lally tapped at her father’s door. “Pray, let us journey out to the woods as we did when mummy was with us,” she suggested. The fresh air would do him good. Lally spent a great deal of her free time in the forest.

Within her father’s chamber, there was no sign of life.

Lally tapped again. “Pray, father, let us journey out…”

“Leave me in peace, my pet,” father moaned. “I am in no mood to see you.”

In no mood to see her? His own daughter? Confusion boiled in the princess’s twelve-year-old blood, rising up her legs, all the way to her pounding temples. Her fingers curled into fists until her nails pierced her palms. In that one moment, four years of sorrow transformed into rage as fierce as fire.

When dinner was over-salted, she hurled her plate at the cook. If she erred in her needlework, she cast it out the window. In the village, she pushed small children in the street. Their silly smiles mocked her, she claimed, and the little monsters were always underfoot, begging for food or gold. The Kingdom of the South grew to despise the petulant princess. The servants of her castle feared her. As the years went by, Lally’s unpredictability increased. The kingdom never knew what minor mishap might set her off.

Despite his accuracy, she hated to see her childhood spelled out in the letters of Offal’s hand. Even in adulthood, the rage flowed through her. “How dare you?” she howled, tearing the pages from their binding. Tears welled in her eyes before splashing against the pages. “You presume to judge the actions and emotions of an orphan? Of one who is so uncared-for her own father will not look upon her?”

She ripped out every page so he could write no more. She broke his quills. She spilled his ink. What gave him the right to record her life for all to read? What did he know of her? When it was replete of pages, Lally hurled the book’s leather casing across Offal’s chamber. It struck an unlit oil lamp, which fell to the ground without hesitation. Its crash resonated so loudly she paused in place, sensing a set of eyes fixed on her from the entryway. He was there. She knew it.

Trying to pry the malicious smirk from her lips, she turned on her heels. There he stood, as predicted, in the centre of the doorway. Her blood ran cold as she watched him slowly cross his arms in front of his chest. Physically, he was a pale and stringy sort. Nothing to fear. So why did she always seem to crumble in his presence? Summoning her courage, she spoke to him with innocent sweetness. “Good day, councillor Offal. Tell me, how fairs your manuscript?”

“Wipe that grin from your face, child.” It irked her, that he addressed her so even into adulthood. Saying nothing of the mess of papers and quills, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the hallway. His grip was unexpectedly strong for one so lanky. She made no attempt at escape. A sense of pride inflated her royal chest as he walked her along the stone corridor. A familiar craving wrapped itself like slithering fingers around her waist. She would have to wield this power over one of the villagers when Offal was finished with her. There was bound to be a young shepherd ripe for the juicing, if she searched the fields long enough. Councillor Offal fixed his dark gaze straight ahead as he strut forward. It was a shame, she sometimes considered, there wasn’t anybody closer to home who might satisfy her whims.

He led her in the direction of her father’s chambers. There was a reluctance in her step. Perhaps, if papa was upset by her actions, he would open up and tell her so. “Please pardon the intrusion your highness,” Offal said to the door, “but your daughter has become quite problematic. She has been in my chamber and destroyed a personal possession. She frightens the villagers when she is out and, pardon me for saying so, but there are rumours circulating…” When Offal glanced down at her, she was sure he knew all about her affairs. Perhaps they were to be the next chapter of his manuscript. She steeled herself against the strangely seductive quality of his dark hair and eyes. “We are all concerned about the girl’s behaviour,” he went on. “Perhaps if you would speak with her…?”

Lally’s heart awakened. It thumped in her chest at the thought of seeing father again. Ten years apart was such a very long time. For a moment, she thought she saw a glimmer of light slip from the king’s chamber door. If only she could only see him again…

The door did not open. At last a response came to the councillor’s request. “If you can handle the politics of my kingdom, you can certainly handle my daughter’s distemper.”

Distemper? Thunderclouds hung like a dark crown over Lally’s golden head. As much as she cherished the sound of her father’s voice, his words were maddening. It had been a full ten years since her mother’s death, and that cowardly man was still cooped up in his chamber feeling sorry for himself. The king was of no use to anybody. Lally was a grown woman now! Disillusion. That was the word for it. What need had she for that bloody useless man? None!

Her heart fell to its knees as Offal’s hand fell from her arm. Turning from him, she ran for her chamber. She slammed the wooden door with such might her massive tapestry fell from the wall, landing with a thud on her dressing table. In the mirror, Lally’s gauzy pink gown provoked her fury. Look how it clashed with the deep red blush of her neck and ears. That cheery shade mocked her foul mood. How she despised it! As she stood before the mirror, her plate of half-eaten lunch caught her eye. She grasped the meat knife. With rage surging through the muscles of her arms, Lally slit her sarcastic skirts until the layers of silk and crimolines hung in shreds from her waistband. She tore the wretched sleeves from her gown, exposing the naked flesh of her arms to the cool air of her chamber. Only the bodice of her dress remained, along with tatters of silk and crinolines. Father would be mortified to see her thusly attired, but the act of destruction significantly improved her disposition. Now her clothing echoed the very wretchedness of her emotions.

Yes, this was far better. Now she looked as miserable as she felt, except that her dress was still pink. Girlish bloody pretty pink! Tying her knife against her hip with an errant strand of silk, Lally set out to the woods in search of dark berries. Mulberries would dye her creation the colour of midnight, of wretchedness, of death.