There was once a princess locked away in a tall tower. Kept away from all who might claim her beauty, covet her loveliness, take her virtue. And then one day there was a prince, fair and tall and from whose tongue slipped silvered words, who climbed the tower to rescue his prize. His white palfrey waiting patiently at the foot of the tower, back broad and legs strong enough for two. At last, nails cracked and hands blistered, he hauled himself over the crumbling ledge of the window, rolling inside and ending on his knees before the feet of his bride. “Princess! I am here to rescue you!”
“Now then”, said his bride. The prince looked her over, noting the lines at her eyes, the grey in her hair, the broadness of her waist. “Who sed I need rescuin’?” She pointed to a dirty mat by him. “Wipe tha bloody feet.” The golden crown shining on top of shining golden curls didn’t give her a minute of pause, and after a lengthy pause he did as she said.
She still moved with grace, though slowed by clear age, and the prince felt his heart sink as he watched the woman he’d been dreaming of take slow steps away from him. She looked back at him, those eyes still sharp and clear as they met his own.
“D’ye want a cup o’ tea?” She gestured to a table, marked with scratches and worn down with lines, as if she had spent countless hours sat on the single rickety chair, tracing a pattern into the wood over and over again. He took a cautious seat, feeling the chair shift and give as his weight settled into it. Her hands shook a little as she set the small kettle going, silence broken only by the clattering of ceramic until the kettle began to sing, filling the small space with a thin whistle. She set his cup down in front of him, before wandering over to the window, staring out at the world she was so set aside from. The quiet resumed, and the prince noticed just how empty it was. Silence in his world was the wind, and the creak of windows, and the chatter of his subjects as they bowed before him. The low conversation of courtiers slowing as he came closer. Here, it was like even the wind had been bespelled away, not a single breeze stirring a single curl on her head, every stone brick of the cracked tower bound to secrecy.
It was silent.
The prince didn’t think he’d ever been so uncomfortable in his life. The tea had come from a cardboard package, the water straight from the tap and into a mug stained indelibly with past drinks and patterned with half a faded love heart too bright for the subdued room. He pushed it away from him, breaking the rules of hospitality drilled into him, and looking around the room, sectioned away with bedsheets and blankets, kept clean but cluttered. And everything as a single. The salt shaker without the pepper. A pot without the plant. A lonely couple’s mug. Somewhere in the rest of the world, the other half of her heart. He wondered if she had a single pair of matching socks.
“Ah’m not what yer expectin’, huh.” She softened the “r”, stretched it like taffy around her tongue, playing with the sound as if she’d forgotten exactly what it should sound like. “Yer no’ the ferst t’come through mah window, and yer no’ the ferst t’be disappointed.”
“It is true, princess”, he saw her wince, “that you are not the lovely creature I’d heard rumours of. Perhaps I am at the wrong tower. Would you be able to point me in the direction of the trapped bride?”.
She snorted, and it was his turn to wince. “Bi’ presumptuous o’ yeh. I were lovely wunce, had mah dreams an’ mah ambitions.” She lifted her arms and slowly span for him, the old grace lingering in the lines of her body as she moved, eyes closed and a small smile on her lips as she pictured the old days. The sharpness in her eyes had softened, though as she looked upon him it came back into the focus, wrinkles around her eyes deepening as her eyes narrowed. “Yeh eva disappointed yer family?”
The prince didn’t let himself think of his father, of his people, of the women who warmed his bed, a different lady for every day of the week. “No.”
“Then yer lucky. Ah’ve bin ‘ere decades now, jus’ cos I didn’ want t’get married.” She took his mug from him, pouring it down the sink and for a mad moment, the prince found himself wondering what the plumbing must look like in her tall tower. “Ah didn’ wan’ the other half o’ mah hear’, didn’ wan’ t’live for someone other than mahself.” She stared down at the half heart, thumb tracing the lines. “A’ least, no’ like they wanted.”
The prince saw his future, high up and cold and alone in the shining reflection of the mug, and he felt the cloth and stone and clutter close around him like it was trying to trap him there. He staggered from the chair, striding to the window and looking at a ground that seemed to be receding, the white speck of his horse sinking away from him.
It was only when he felt the gentle pressure on his back that he realised how hard he’d been breathing, gasping for each breath. She touched him like she was remembering how, figuring out the position of her hand, how much force to use, what movements to soothe. He turned around, sobbing into her chest, her arms enfolding him as he clung onto the rough material of her dress like a life line.
He was embarrassed when it was over, stepping back and looking away as his face flushed brighter than the tears. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”
She waved the apology away. “Nae worries, son.” The term brought another lump to his throat. “Yeh don’ have t’try so hard. Yeh can be yerself.” She stepped into a curtained off section, the brief opening revealing yet more clutter, a neatly made bed almost hidden behind a stack of books. When she came back through, she held a rope ladder in her hands. He helped her tie it to iron posts embedded deep into the stone, and he tried not to show apprehension as he looked at the flimsiness of the materials and the vastness of the drop. The rope seemed to be made of separate strands, each shining and golden, so the ladder looked like it was formed from strands of spun gold, and he thought back to the rumours he’d heard of this trapped princess, of the legends surrounding her. He gave it a tug experimentally, and she gave a short laugh. “Don’ worry ‘bout it. Ah’ve bin down tha’ more times than yeh’ve had hot dinners. Yeh’ll be reet.”
“But you still come back here? To your prison?”
She shrugged. “Gotta mek the best o’ what yeh’ve bin given. Besides, it’s mah home now. Though ah am thinkin’ o’ getting’ a pulley pu’ in, mekin’ an elevator. What d’yeh think?” She gave a low laugh, the sound almost alien to the prince as he contemplated a life where he made the best of what he had been given.
He nodded. “If you do, can I come back to visit?”
The princess beamed, the loveliness of yore back as her face lit up. “Yeh’ll always be welcome. Yeh know where t’find me.” She gave him a light push towards the ladder and his life. “Do me a favour, eh? Keep spreadin’ the rumour. It’d be nice t’ have some more company, an’ more come back than yeh’d think.”
