Page 5 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
Ceridwen burrows deeper into the cushions, her own eyes fluttering. It’s no insult that she grows tired as I speak. It was a gift when she was sick—one I will never stop being grateful for. Sometimes I think the only reason I was given a tongue to tell these tales is to amuse my sister, or put her to sleep.
“The very next morning, when the other knights retire, Owain slips from the palace,” I continue. “He saddles his mount and rides for three days and three nights, his armor no protection from daggers of rain, until he happens upon a great black castle on a hill. Owain meets no resistance as he enters, the strangeness of which he is tooyoung to question. He doesn’t understand that the castle has been waiting for him, waiting for his blade. The warden sits at a long table before a rotten feast, the remaining chairs vacated by long-forgotten party guests. Their shadows still dance on the walls, though there is no firelight to cast them. The old warden has little to say. Why would he? A young man has come; there’s only one thing he wants, and he will take it. The fight is ill-matched. Owain is strong—a knight to the greatest king in the realm. His sword is another limb he uses as precisely as his hand, and the warden is slow. He falls to Owain’s blade and dies without a word.”
I lean forward slightly, catching my sister’s eye. She pushes herself up, reminds me that she’s listening. Good, the next part is for her.
“That’s where the trouble begins.” I shrug, tossing a hand toward the window. “From the shadows come those twenty-four women. Each more beautiful than the last, gowned in silks of every color and heavy with jewels. Owain has not considered the truth of his prize. He’s thought only of the delight of having twenty-four pretty faces surrounding him and not the cost of protecting them, or of their happiness. One, the warden’s widow, the Lady of the Well, catches his eye. She’s the most beautiful, of course, and she issues Owain a decree.”
I sit up, back ruler-straight as I adopt a voice I perfected by imitating Lady Branshaw when she comes into town.
“‘The house and all those who reside within are yours now, sir,’ says the lady. ‘You must honor both as my lord husband once did.’ So, she marries her husband’s murderer before he can wash the blood from his hands. Three years pass, dull and static in this unchanging castle with these indifferent women, until one day, as they had for Owain, the doors open. A guest has arrived. Owain near weeps with relief when his good old king, Arthur, sweeps into the great hall. He cannot remember if he’s left the room at all these past years and he won’t miss this chance.”
I jump up from the bed, sweeping my arm grandly. “Owain leaves. He takes a spare horse from Arthur’s party and rides away without looking back. For another three years he wanders Wales with nothing to his name but a sword and his horse. There are adventures to be had, and plenty: beasts to slay, other maidens to woo. But there’s this great, gaping hole in chest”—I press my hand to the same place on myself—“and no glory can fill it. Do you know why?”
Ceridwen’s lips curl up and she catches my eye. I wonder if she knows the answer and why I want her to say it.
“You tell me.” She toys with the corner of her pillow. “You have the silver tongue, Sabrina.”
She must know, I think, and she’s making me work for it.
“Because he had already found his great glory,” I say simply. “He had found an honorable woman, a home, charges who depend on him. This is the lot of men. It stands at odds with proud natures and roaming spirits, but marriage is a duty that cannot be shirked. So Owain returns to the black castle and takes his wife, and the twenty-three women, back to Arthur’s court. The women marry knights, bringing joy to the castle and the lives of their husbands, and years later, when the embers are low and Arthur is sleeping, Owain tells the story to another young knight, who gets his sword the next morning and sets out to find a great castle with an old warden and twenty-four beautiful women within.”
Ceridwen grins. “Men don’t learn, do they?”
I suppose that is the other lesson to take from the tale, but I’m left wondering if she noted the parts about marriage and duty. I’d be more interested in the haunted castle if the story was told to me, but great journeys like that are out of reach to us. We’re only girls, after all. We don’t get to go on the grand adventure and learn it’s better for the kingdom if we get married and settle down. For us, marryingisthe adventure, and if I have my way Ceridwen will marry some rich man who can shoulder all our worries. Dad told me to look after thefamily, and I will. I have my duty, just like Owain, and Ceridwen has hers, too.
“Have you thought about getting married?” I ask as I’m putting our brush and ribbons away.
“Was that story supposed to convince me it’s a good idea?” She laughs. “I don’t see much appeal in marrying a brave knight only for him to leave me behind at the castle.”
“What else are you going to do?”
Ceridwen stiffens, crosses her arms. “You think any man in this horrid little town would make a good husband?”
That’s a point to Ceridwen. Too many men died in the mines, and the ones that are left are very young, irresponsible or just plain horrendous. The only desirable bachelor in town is John Branshaw, the earl’s son, and though he has a fancy for Ceridwen, I think he needs a good slap.
“We know how to use the train now. That opens up a whole new world. I…”
I trail off, staring at the wall. I want to let it go, to let Ceridwen carry on in peace, but I can’t. We only have so much money, and everyone needs to help.
“It would keep us afloat,” I tell her. She can try to find a different way to shoulder our newfound burdens, if she wants, but marriage is no more than a business transaction. I’d do it myself, if I could.
Ceridwen’s lips pull up briefly into the smallest, saddest smile I’ve ever seen. “I know. I’ll try.”
“But no one mean,” I assure her. “It’s not worth that much.”
She nods, and I know we’re both thinking of Gran’s long-gone husband.
Again, Ceridwen says, “I’ll try.”
My sister lies back down and I pull the blankets up to her chin—autumn is here, winter already nips at her heels, and I’ve lived enough winters to know what real fear feels like. I rememberCeridwen last year, cold and shivering though sweat beaded on her brow. Her eyes darted behind lids that would not open, no matter how much I begged or prayed. But if she stays here, warm in our room and tucked tight into bed this winter, Ceridwen will be fine. She’ll live, she’ll be strong enough to marry next summer. Maybe, I hope in some secret part of my chest, she’ll even get better.
“Gran hasn’t cried, either,” Ceridwen tells me.
I blow out the lone candle, plunging us into dark. “She’s cried enough for one lifetime.”
Ceridwen sniffs and her hand shoots up to wipe her eyes. I pretend I don’t notice.
She drifts off to sleep first, while I lie awake thinking until her ring catches my eye. It’s sitting between us, taunting me. It’s not fancy. Whoever gave it to her isn’t rich enough to be her husband. My hand shoots out and slips the band from hers. I ram the ring onto my own finger, where it gets stuck tight and fast, but as I hide my hand and the theft beneath my pillow, a smug satisfaction warms my stomach. I’ll return it in the morning, I will, but in my dreams I get to look like Ceridwen, and pretty things come to me, too.
