The Princess and The Pirate

Elsewhere in the city, Jacqueline was admiring her nearly completed wedding dress. The Princess was in a local shop, eager to see the people again, but was happy the seamstress had closed it to visitors. The townspeople revered her; she was something of a resurrected saint. Neglecting her religious duties when she was younger meant she didn’t quite understand the whole “sanctus bellum” business, and there were some pretty gruesome figurines and stained glass windows she could have done without seeing.

Nevertheless, they threw flowers and asked for blessings. She kissed the devout and restored faith with her touch. It was surreal.

Everything felt slightly strange. Little things felt odd, like having servants again. Her four ladies-in-waiting, like a gaggle of geese, were laughing and being merry. It was weird having handmaidens again who oozed exuberance because it was expected of them. The pageantry was foreign to Jacqueline all over again.

“Tell us what he said again, just once more!” one cried, threading lace through Jacqueline’s bodice, trying to hide the scar left behind from the crossbow bolt.

“Oh yes, please!” came another who was assisting with her shoes.

Jacqueline ran her hand over the long, slanted scar that decorated the front of her chest. It was less pink now but still completely distracting to her. People said it was hardly noticeable but it was quite remarkable to her. None of the other ladies at court had such blemishes.

Then, she saw the ring on her finger. In the center was a pearl, secured in an elaborate Celtic knot. On either side were two sapphires, held together by pieces of white coral.

“He said that he lived for the ocean. He lived to be on it, near it, or even under it if the time came, and that he felt the same about me.”

The girls giggled and the Princess smiled, rolling her eyes. “And I said, ‘You’d be under me when the time comes?’ To which he replied, ‘I’d be under you, on top of you, and maybe standing up when the time came.’”

“He’s so dirty!” exclaimed one of the ladies, shocked, but laughing.

The older seamstress poked her head out from the bustle of the dress, silently scorning the dirty, unladylike story. Pirates! Surely her ancestors were spinning in their graves.

“Ladies, leave the girl alone,” she said with pins in her mouth. “M’lady, if you would please take these and slip them on, we could try them with different shoes,” and the old woman handed the Princess off-grey, striped stockings.

Jacqueline took the soft material and stepped off the pedestal. The long, bunched up train of her dress followed, dragging on the floor. Bows were precariously pinned in place and glittering rhinestones caught the afternoon light as the Princess disappeared inside a changing room.

Off to a great start, Jacqueline had sat squarely into a straight needle and gave out a small yelp at the unpleasant surprise. Gripping the stockings, she lifted up the ridiculous amount of ornate dress fabric, trying to find it in the back of her thigh. Why were dresses so cumbersome?

“Be mindful of the pins!” shouted the seamstress as the bell above the entry clanged, the door opening behind them.

“I’m sorry, but we’re closed for the time being,” the seamstress said, looking to two nuns and a friar who had just entered. The seamstress’s shop was an unusual stop for such guests, although weddings fell in their area of expertise. The friar was humbly dressed. He lowered his burlap hood, revealing his cleanly shaved head. The nuns beside him were dressed in heavy black cloaks, trimmed with red. Their necks and the hair on their heads were hidden. Only their solemn, plain faces were visible.

The man smiled sweetly, waving his hand meaning no offense. “Peace be with you, my children.” He said it softly with a smile at the corner of his friendly lips.

His accomplices threw their hands from their sleeves, the women flicking silver streaks that only gleamed for a moment before hitting their targets. The seamstress held her throat, silently collapsing to the ground.

The handmaidens gasped, dead before they could even get to their feet, crumbling onto one another lifelessly like dropped dolls.

Jacqueline pulled the straight pin from her flesh, a lone bead of blood following. Noticing the quiet, she lifted her head up, red hair cascading over her bare shoulders, and listened. Had they gone to get lunch? Tea, maybe?

“Hello?” she asked, with nothingness replying.

Opening the door, the Princess instantly saw the pile of women in the center. She rushed out, trying to navigate with a fistful of the bulky dress in her hand. It took all her effort to avoid tripping in her heels as she avoided the loose folds of fabric.

Panic seized her. Was it disease? An act of war? How could it happen so quickly?

“Ladies! Ladies! Wha—” Jacqueline was snagged backward and lifted straight off her feet. She breathed in the fumes of a cloth that was quickly pressed against her face. Squeaking and kicking, she grabbed the wrist that held her but looked to the shop door.

“Breathe deep, my queen,” said a male voice in a soft whisper.

The two nuns brought in a large box, like a trunk used for traveling. A stagecoach waited outside, black and gold, ordained with the trimmings of the church.

“Be silent,” whispered her captor, tightening the fabric around her face.

Obediently, she did just that. The Princess passed out in the friar’s arms, collapsing into dead weight.

Holding Jacqueline up, he dragged her over to the box as the sisters opened up the trunk. It was larger than a standard box with holes stabbed into it, blending in with the bumpy, aged leather exterior. It was never meant for transporting clothing.

“Help with her feet,” he commanded as one nun grabbed Jacqueline’s ankles, throwing off the heeled shoes. She threw them away, letting them smack and scratch against the shop floor. Her counterpart grabbed her wedding dress train, laying it inside first.

The three of them curled the Princess’s body inside the box, tying her wrists together and tying the fume-laced cloth over her mouth and nose like a bandana.

Safely folded inside, the three of them shut the lid and secured it with a heavy iron lock. The trio crossed the air above the trunk, blessing its cargo and the journey ahead. “For Father Cordinae and Sister Novice, may their righteousness guide the order in these dark days,” they said in unison.

It was a team effort to lift the trunk, but they left, closing the shop door behind them. They mounted the precious box on top of the carriage. The two large black mares in the front snorted and neighed nervously at the additional weight.

“How long will this take?” asked one of the sisters, tightening a strap across the box. Her voice cracked slightly as she asked.

“The estate isn’t too far,” the friar replied. “We should be back in time for the Sabbath.” He paused for a moment as he read the sister’s unsatisfied expression. “Do I detect a hint of hesitation in your voice?”

“We’re delivering a woman to a man…” she said as she looked over the box, “…alive.” It was a strange, ominous request. Assassins were skillful executioners, not errand-boys.

“God knows best. We prayed for a sign from our deceased father and this comes.” The friar held the sister’s hand comfortingly. “Who are we to fight providence?”

She said no more, averting her eyes to the road. Who was a servant to question gifts from God?

He then took his place at the front and grabbed the reins while the sisters politely sat inside the coach. The man first kissed his winged crucifix and cracked the leather sharply, the carriage speeding off.