Frantic, I screamed William’s name. Pushing through the
forest of legs, I searched for him, but he had disappeared.
Fear overtook me. It was too loud, and the streets were
crammed with far too many people. Turning every which way,
I couldn’t spot William’s red jacket. I found myself breathless
from fright. My hands clenched the flower stems, afraid to lose
them as well.
Far away from me, the little lost girl, a man announced the
arrival of the king. The news passed through the crowd, leaving
silence in its wake.
Trumpets sounded and the sound of hooves on cobbled
streets echoed through Jarn.
All of the people around me knelt, the knees of trousers
brown and wet from the mud and excrement that covered the
stone lane. But I, a little eight year old, stood with my muddy
chin lifted and back straight, staring straight at the heavyset
man on the beautiful black horse as he passed.
His brown-eyed gaze swept over his subjects, uninterested
until they settled on the proud girl. When he saw me, he tugged
gently on the reins. His monster of a horse was remarkably
placid and halted as his rider directed.
He appraised me for a moment before speaking. “Why
don’t you bow to me, child?” the king inquired, his voice confident. It had a note of honesty to it, as if he were genuinely curious and sought to know why.
I stared defiantly into his eyes, the flowers in my hands
lending me their strength. “My father told me that a king’s a
man, just like every other man, and he taught me never to bow
to a man unless I find him deserving of it.”
16