Archive of Our Own ^beta

First she braided her hair so it’s out of the way. Now Zarabet is busily braiding ropes out of the bedsheets.

Her father knows her all too well. As pleasant as she’d been last evening upon meeting her bridegroom for the first time, he’d evidently discerned her distaste for the man and taken steps to ensure that she would be remain available for today’s wedding.

In theory, locking her into one of the high tower rooms ought to keep her where they want her. The only window is forty feet above the ground, and below it is a narrow strand of rocks and the rushing Kellibec River.

Zarabet’s childhood was spent exploring the castle and surrounding lands. She’s familiar with the jagged rocks, knows that in the area in question: a tall man could rest one hand on the castle wall, extend his arms and have the palm of his other hand over the waters of the Kellibec.

She doesn’t plan to climb the rope all the way down to the strand, though. Her plan is a bit more dangerous than that. The thing to do, she’s figured, is to get into the river, and let the current carry her downstream to the jetty, where she can abscond with a boat. She’s sure if she can get halfway down, then she can bounce against the side of the tower, until she goes out far enough to dive into the water.

Yes, it’s a risk, but given a choice between breaking her neck and spending the rest of her life with the Lord of Marrlako, Zarabet feels no qualms. It isn’t so much that he’s even older than her father. No. He’s a stoat of a man, with piggy eyes and an affected manner of speech. He’d taken shockingly liberties with her when Father’s back was turned, putting his hands upon her in an all-too familiar way.

What sort of man does that to his wife outside the bedchamber? And since I’m not his wife yet, he has no right at all to do such things!

His rich clothing may disguise his ugly nature, but to Zarabet it is quite plain. There is something unnatural about the man--perhaps it’s the oddly florid tone of his face powder, or the wig he wears--that, she suspects has been given a rinse of saffron to achieve its ostentatiously golden hue. Under his cologne, there’s a strong musky scent like a rutting buck. In short, there is nothing about him that Zarabet finds favorable.

She measures the rope, stretching her arms and counting each length as about five and a half feet. She’ll need more, there needs to be enough extra to secure it to something inside the room.

The sun is not far up, she’s relieved to see. From outside the window, Zarabet can hear some of the familiar early morning noises, and it reassures her. She has time to add the extension to her rope and make her getaway before the ladies of the court come to prepare her for this afternoon’s ceremony.

The heavy linen sheets make very good ropes, and they will make a very nice ladder. Zarabet has selected pieces of kindling from the woodpile to serve as rungs--she has limited faith in her ability to make her way down a smooth--or mostly smooth--rope, not to mention hanging on while she swings out over the river. This way, she’ll have proper hand-and-foot rests, and a bar to hold while she achieves enough loft to arc out over the rocks and into the river. She’ll be like one of the troupe of acrobats that came to court that time.

At last the ladder is finished to her satisfaction. She ties it to the drapery rod above the window--a sturdy length of well-forged iron--she’s quite certain that it will bear her modest weight with ease. For a moment, she straddles the cold stone sill, reviewing her plan. It has to work, that’s all there is to it. She secures the sack she’s fashioned from one of the pillowcases around her waist--she managed to bring a few things from her own chambers before she’d been hustled to the tower--and she’s as ready as she’ll ever be. Time to go….

The rungs are not as evenly spaced as Zarabet would like, but they’re still better than no rungs at all. At least, since this is the back side of the castle, there’s no one to watch her erratic decent, groping her way from one wobbly platform to the next, until her feet are on the final bar of wood. Next, she has to lower herself, to grasp that rough piece of kindling while she tries to get up enough momentum to fly out over the deadly rocks and into the merely dangerous river.

She looks down.

Oh dear.

Now that she’s down here, she realizes the rope isn’t quite as long as she’d like it. She’s probably twenty or twenty-five feet up, still, but she’s close enough to see that the Kellibec is rushing past even more quickly than usual. There must have been storms in the mountains to feed it. She ought not be so surprised, she chides herself. It is late spring, after all.

Zarabet crouches, carefully shifting her weight, not wanting to overstrain her arms with a sudden drop.

It’s not so different from swimming at the lake, she tries to counsel herself. Grabbing that knotted rope, swinging out over the cove and letting go. All right, so it’s rather higher up. You can do this--you have to do this.

She kicks off against the castle wall, a weak arc--if she let go, she would definitely shatter on the rocks below. Another kick, with a little more outward swing this time. There’s a splinter digging painfully into her palm, but that will be the least of her worries if she doesn’t get more bounce. Another push--better! Her hand is screaming protest.

Desperately, she folds her legs like a frog’s and gives an almighty kick with all her strength, because she can’t hold on any longer.

Zarabet soars outward, well past the rocks. As she realizes that she’s going to make it, she has just time to take a deep breath and extend her arms to dive. Then the icy water closes over her head. The cold of it shocks her.

After being awake all night repudiating her unsuitable bridegroom and working on her plan, she’d been weary, but now she’s as clear-headed as can be. She’s made it this far, it’s going to work!

A few strokes, and she breaks the surface. The sack has worked its way to her back…it’s not light, but she’s a strong swimmer, and has no intention of letting it drag her down. She’s well out from shore. The jetty is visible in the distance. The current is helpful, pushing her along--it’s mostly a question of steering and not calling attention to herself.

There’s no activity around the jetty, she’s relieved to see. Now to find a proper conveyance. It would be asking for trouble to take a big boat. That one, though, for one or two people, should be just the thing.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a voice thunders.

Her heart sinks. It’s Old Fredley (as opposed to his son, Young Fredley). He does this and that around the grounds, and it’s her bad luck that he’s turned up here, now, when she’s so close to being away.

“I’m taking this boat,” she says, determined to make it so.

His leathery face cracks in a grin. “Are you? Not going to marry yon fine lord in the nooning?”

“I’d as soon marry the great boar in the swine-yard.”

Old Fredley barks with laughter. “Can’t say as I blame you there, Your Majesty. D’you know what he did when they arrived yesterday? There was a cartload of apples that just came up from Tarcher’s orchards--we hadn’t room to store them all last winter, so they held ‘em for us--and he snatches up the biggest one without so much as a ‘by your leave’. His horse tried to take it--pity the beast that has to carry that tub of guts!--and his Lordship smacked his steed’s muzzle cruelly and screamed for a groom to take the beast away and see to it. Not a fit man for our Princess Zarabet, I said to myself. Nor any other woman of good sense.

“So nay, I’ll not say a word if you want to head downriver and escape your…official duties. As it happens, I’ve got a sack here with some victuals, here you go, and I wish you the best of luck.”

“Thank you, Fredley,” she replies, genuinely touched. He’s taking a great risk, helping her.

His face has resumed its usual taciturn expression. He shrugs off her gratitude but bids her to wait for a moment. The old man collects a few items from nearby boats and adds them to hers: a fishing kit, an oilcloth, a lantern and oil, a boathook and a coil of rope.

In minutes, she is on her way. After waving farewell to her unlikely accomplice, she turns her face to the river ahead. No wedding today, she thinks gleefully. The Lord of Marrlako will have to console himself at the trough--no doubt the feast is already being prepared--and she feels sorry for the serving wenches he will undoubtedly attempt to molest.

That’s no longer her worry. Zarabet smiles. She is free.

…..