Upon A Time

Chapter Seven

Ten more days passed in a blur. The stranger was still too ill to speak, but he was well enough to stay awake for short periods of time, and take small amounts of nourishment in the form of hearty broths, fresh milk, and wine.

Father had decreased the amount of medication needed to keep him unconscious and had instead switched to trying to manage his pain and discomfort by smearing salves on his stitches and making sure his bandages were tended.

Father had made it clear to Charlotte there were certain aspects of the stranger’s care only he was to manage, and that meant people were bringing their sick animals to the barn outside rather than Father going to them whenever possible, so Walter could be near in order to care for their guest as needed.

Charlotte often wore her new dress, but she had not yet worn the pure white apron. That felt as if it were something that should be saved for a special occasion, and so she borrowed one of her mother’s spare workday aprons instead.

She twisted her curls into a braid that would restrain if not totally smooth them, and wound the braid into a knot at the back of her neck.

Father had just left to make a call on a cow that could not be moved, as she was about to calf and having difficulty. Therefore, it was Charlotte who discovered that their guest was not only finally fully awake, but he appeared, for the first time, to be lucid.

“You’re not wearing black.”

Charlotte spun at the sound of the first words the man spoke. His voice was deep and fine, though each word was punctuated by the intimation he was in pain, and distorted by the stitches over his lip.

“Mourning has ended,” she answered, filling a cup with water from a pitcher near the bed and moving toward him with it.

“Mourning?”

“For the King, and His Royal Highness, the Prince,” Charlotte said slowly, watching as pain of a different sort became clear upon the poor wretch’s face.

“Then it was not all a nightmare,” he said, finding the strength to raise his good arm and push the cup away from his lips as Charlotte attempted to get him to sip from it. “How I had prayed.”

“How we all prayed it was a nightmare we’d wake from,” Charlotte replied, lowering her eyes and turning away. All of a sudden that eerie feeling came over her again, and she wondered. Still, no matter the true identity of her guest, his schedule of medications and dressing changes needed to be kept on schedule.

She began to wash her hands in a bowl on a stand beside the bed, dried them, and set about preparing a fresh batch of salve to apply to his face, just as her father had taught her.

“You are in pain,” she remarked, watching as his breathing grew shallow. “I should send you back into sleeping; it would be kinder by far.”

“No, no more sleep,” the man insisted. “I must…I must… ” He attempted to rise from the pillows, but searing pain from his injured ribs stopped him short. He had moved so suddenly and with such force it surprised Charlotte, and she gasped as he was rendered unconscious again by the agony.

“I tried to warn you,” she sighed, and as she watched his body go from tense to limp on the bed before her, she set about applying the salve to his wounds.

“I will be curious to hear what story you have to tell me when you are willing and able,” she whispered, certain now there had to be truth in her suspicions. There was no way it could be coincidence. Something about him told her she had to be right.

No matter who it was they said they had buried in that grave beside the good King, it was not the royal Prince. It couldn’t be, because she was certain it was the young Heir to the Throne himself who lay unconscious and still seriously injured on the bed before her.