“A Royal Encounter (Part One)”

In Which Margaret Loses Her Pony ...

 

I remember well the day when Pumpkin disappeared. I was a week past my eighth birthday and the powers that be had blessed us with a fine end to summer. I had risen earlier than usual, hoping to get my ride in before breakfast. The pony had been a gift from my parents and, though we were still in the initial stages of bonding, I already adored him. How he got away was never fully determined; all that mattered at the time was the fact that he was not in the stable when I went to fetch him.

The hue and cry I raised as a result sent the house into a panic. We had few servants left; the young men had been lost to the war, fighting for the King at Worcester against the opposing—and victorious—forces of General Cromwell. Every day, my father worried that the property would be confiscated and himself thrown in irons. Hearing my screams from the yard, he had feared the worst and been relieved to discover that the cause of my distress was as simple as the disappearance of my pony. “We’ll find him, Meg,” he told me. “He can’t have gone far.”

My older brother saddled up to search the grounds. I spent the morning fretting and pacing the length of the gallery; when he returned at noon with no news, I burst into fresh tears and determined to set out on my own. “Go with her, John,” my mother said. “The last thing we need is for her to go missing as well.”

“It’s dangerous out there,” John replied, chewing on a chunk of crusty bread. “A troop of Roundheads have been sighted near the town.”

My parents exchanged dubious glances. “I don’t care!” I cried, reading their faces. “I must find Pumpkin!”

My mother shook her head. “Margaret,” she sighed, “you don’t understand.”

“No, Mama,” I retorted fiercely, “you don’t understand. I have to find Pumpkin. He might be hurt or frightened, and if the Roundheads find him, he’ll be in danger as well.”

“I’ll be watchful, Mother,” John promised. He flashed a reassuring smile at me. “Perhaps he’s headed back where he came from. We’ll try that next.”

I was devastated at the suggestion that my pony might prefer his previous owner over me. I talked endlessly of it to John as we rode together on his horse. John was fourteen and old enough to have joined the army had he not been lame in his left leg. He had cursed the infirmity even as our mother had praised God for it; he had wanted nothing more than to join the fight for the Prince of Wales. Only the Prince was not the Prince anymore; he was the King, and had been for the past two years. The battle fought at Worcester some weeks previous had been his last attempt at reclaiming the throne of England. The defeat had signalled the end of an era which my family would mourn for years to come.

It made no difference to me. All I cared about was Pumpkin.

“Let me down,” I said, wriggling in my brother’s arms. “If something spooked him, he might have run into the wood.”

“I’ve searched the wood, Meg. There was no sign of him.”

I struggled harder. “Let me down!”

John relented. I was the spoiled daughter of older parents and he liked me to learn my lessons the hard way. “I’m going this way,” he told me, turning his horse’s head.

“You go then,” I said. “I know my way.”

He regarded me with a smirk. “You’ll certainly have it, whether you know it or not,” he agreed. “What will you do if the army comes upon you?”

“I shall ask if they’ve seen my pony. I’m not afraid of them, Johnny. They’re just men. They’ve won the war; why should they care to make trouble for a little girl?”

“I’d advise you to keep a civil tongue as a precaution,” he said.

“I know my manners,” I reminded him.

“Very well, then,” he sighed. He put his heels to his horse and set off at a canter. I stood and watched him ride away, determined not to be afraid. Pumpkin needed me. I could not afford to crumble.

But I cursed my brother under my breath as I ventured into the shade of the wood. Being angry with him helped to hold the fear at bay, so I grumbled against his superior air and the cruelty of abandoning me in this wilderness. If something did happen to me, my mother would kill him and it would serve him right. Knowing John, however, I suspected that he had doubled back and was patrolling the area for my safety, perhaps even shadowing me as I followed a well-worn track through the trees. He was a wily spy; there was no sound to betray him. There was no sign of Pumpkin, either, and I began to curse him as well.

All was forgiven in the instant when I heard more than one horse approaching. I had given up the search for the moment, pausing for a bout of frightened tears which was not quite over. Drying my eyes with my hands, I turned, expecting to see my brother and a penitent pony. I was disappointed.

It was a small group of strangers: three men and a woman on a journey. None of them were remarkable but for the one man who was more finely-dressed than the others, and who carried himself with an air of nobility more assumed than inbred. I took him to be the leader of the group and made my entreaty to him. “Please, sir,” I said, forcing him to draw rein by stepping into his path, “have you or your companions seen a chestnut pony hereabouts? He won’t be harnessed and he has a white sock on his near forefoot.”

“Nay, child,” the gentleman replied, “the only horses we have seen are these. Stand aside now, or you’ll be trampled.”

“Then which way have you come, sir, so I know not to look there?”

He hesitated for a heartbeat. I caught the briefest of glances between the woman and the second man, and deduced that I was about to be told a lie.

“We are headed for Bristol, miss.”

The third man had spoken; the one riding behind the woman. I had not taken specific notice of him, but his voice drew my eye to his face. It was a wonderful voice, deep and calming—and speaking the truth. I knew by the way the others fell oddly silent. And his face was kind, the black eyes warm with sympathy for my plight. I was immediately soothed and did not know why except that he was the source.

“Are you looking alone for your pony?” the woman inquired.

“My brother has gone the other way.”

“And your parents?” she persisted.

“Waiting at home. It’s not so important to them. They have their own concerns.” I was speaking to the third man, my eyes locked on his. He should have been the leader; there was something naturally commanding about him. “Would you help me find my pony?” I asked.

His smile widened. He was young and handsome, dark like my father and brother. I thought he might agree to help if his master permitted. I hoped he would.

“We cannot delay further,” the first man declared. He, too, spoke to the third man. “Come along, Will.”

Will nodded and straightened up in the saddle. He rode tall, sitting his horse like a hero without making an effort to do so. The first man clucked to his mount and I jumped out of the way to watch them pass. They started off at a brisk trot, and in the seconds before his horse picked up the pace, Will doffed his hat to me. His thick hair was long and black. “I hope you find your pony, miss,” he said.

I curtsied as my nanny had taught me. “Thank you, sir. Have a safe journey.”

He chuckled as he passed by, spurring his horse to a canter to catch up to the others.

“Margaret!” It was John, calling from the other side of the wood. I turned and ran toward his voice, promptly dismissing the encounter in my haste to see Pumpkin again.

copyright 1999 Ruth R. Greig