Read Snow White and Rose Red Online
Authors: Patricia Wrede
Snow White and Rose Red (2 page)
In the pages that follow, Patricia C. Wrede joins that long line of storytellers as she spins a tale of love and bears in Elizabethan England. Here, the two sisters of the fairy tale live in a woodland at the edge of Faerie, where their neighbor is the infamous Dr. Dee, real-life astrologer to Queen Elizabeth. Wrede stays faithful to the old Grimms’ story (and the older “Animal Bridegroom” tradition), while at the same time subverting the fairy tale in subtle and surprising ways. If, like me, you’re a fan of Wrede’s work, then you know what to expect from this premise: a witty and enchanting novel that perfectly evokes the Elizabethan period while making the magical additions to it seem as plausible as water or air. (If, on the other hand, this is your first Wrede book, oh, you have a treat in store!)
The novel was first published back in the 1980s, when Pat and I were ... well, let’s just say a bit younger than we are today. I’d always been crazy about fairy tales, and so I had the notion of publishing a series of novels based on these classic stories. Thus the Fairy Tales series was born, featuring books by wonderful writers such as Charles de Lint, Pamela Dean, Steve Brust, Jane Yolen, and others. When I approached Pat about contributing to the series, I’d already worked with her on other books (I’m proud to be able to say I published her very first novel), and so I was already a big fan of her work. I was thrilled when she said yes, and when she chose the “Snow White and Rose Red” story for retelling. I knew she’d create something very special with it ... and indeed she did.
It’s an honor to introduce this magical novel one more time, once upon a time....
Terri Windling
Editor, the Fairy Tale series
October 2008
Editor, the Fairy Tale series
October 2008
CHAPTER · ONE
“Once upon a time there was a poor widow who lived in a tiny cottage near a lonely forest. In front of the cottage were two rosebushes
,
one white and the other red. The widow had two girls who were like the two rosebushes; one was called Snow White and the other Rose Red. ”
THE WIDOW ARDEN AND HER TWO DAUGHTERS LIVED in a one-room cottage just outside the village of Mortlak, less than a mile from the river Thames. The walls of the cottage were wattle and plaster, with two small cloth-covered windows to let in the light, and the floor was of rough-hewn planks. In a fit of prosperity, the previous owner had built a hearth and chimney into the west wall, which reduced the risk of setting the thatched roof afire and added greatly to the winter comfort of the inhabitants.
The cottage lay hard by the forest, separated from Mortlak by fields and commons, and the villagers were content to have it so. For the Widow Arden was considered, at best, eccentric; some spoke openly of madness. A few of the townsfolk hinted at still darker things and professed themselves grateful that the parish church stood between their comfortable homes and the Widow’s tiny dwelling.
These latter rumors were given little credence by most of the villagers. Perhaps this was because the Widow Arden’s piety seemed too great to allow the possibility of witchcraft. Did she not bring her family to service every Sunday, morning and evening, without fail? Her dress was always modest and neat, if much mended. Her daughters knew their catechism with a thoroughness that was the envy of every youth and maiden the minister called on to recite during the instruction. If she eked out the pittance her late husband had left her by selling herbs and simples to her neighbors, who could blame her? She was not the only woman to do as much.
Those who bothered to concern themselves with such things felt that the real root of the unpleasant rumors was simply envy. The Widow Arden was a comely woman and not even the most censorious could call her daughters anything but lovely. Rosamund, the younger of the two girls, had inherited her mother’s rich, chestnut-colored hair and brown eyes. The elder sister, Blanche, had grey eyes and her hair was a much lighter brown. Both had perfect complexions, arched brows, and white, even teeth; both had slender figures and moved gracefully. It was not surprising that relatives of less fortunate girls murmured. The wonder was that talk was not more common.
The persistence of the rumors was due in part to the Widow’s supposed dislike of marriage. Had the Widow merely shown no inclination to remarry the villagers might have accepted it, but she had also rejected several flattering offers for her daughters’ hands. The younger girl was now rising sixteen and neither she nor her sister was so much as betrothed, which many felt went beyond the bounds of reason. There was also the uncomfortable fact that the Widow and her daughters could read and write, and not only honest English, but Latin as well. Such learning was appropriate for the Queen (God save her), but in lesser women it smacked of presumption. It was certainly not something any of the villagers wished to encourage in their own families.
“Your daughters shall ne‘er he wed, an you continue in this froward fashion,” Mistress Townsend told the Widow one clear fall afternoon.
“There’s time and plenty to fret,” the Widow Arden replied peaceably.
“You should think on it!” Mistress Townsend said. Mistress Townsend was a stout, grey-haired woman, widely known for her piety and good works. It irked her that the Widow Arden seemed unconscious of any need for charity, though she was all but penniless. She had therefore formed the custom of calling at the Widow’s cottage, in a subtle attempt to bring her to acknowledge the difficulties of her situation and so provide an opening for Mistress Townsend’s beneficence. Since the Widow politely declined to accept her services, Mistress Townsend had resorted to proffering advice. So far, the change in approach had not been notable for its success.
“Why is that, Mistress Townsend?” the Widow asked in a tone of mild curiosity as she carefully measured a length of thread.
“Because you’ve cause and more to be uneasy. Look you, ‘tis no simple thing to find a husband for a dowerless girl, be she never so comely, and I fear your daughters have greater defects than lack of dower. I hope you’ll not take my plain-speaking amiss.”
The Widow looked up from her mending. “Pray, say on.”
“Blanche and Rosamund are overlearned for most men’s taste,” her companion said, pursing her lips as if the very words were distasteful. “Nor is Rosamund so mild-spoken as she belike should be. ”
“And is that the sum of your complaint?”
“That and their lack of dowry must concern you first and most chiefly, yes,” Mistress Townsend said judiciously. “But were they my daughters, I’d fear as well their heedless wanderings in the woods. ‘Tis danger enough to live near the forest’s edge, but you let your children walk there as if they were armed and weaponed as the Queen’s guard! I tell you, harm will come to them one day; that, or ...”
“Or what?” said the Widow.
Mistress Townsend lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Or there’ll be those who speak of witchcraft, and not softly.”
“I see.” With meticulous care, the Widow folded the foresmock she had been mending. She set it aside and turned a level gaze on Mistress Townsend. “And what would you have me do?” she asked in a gentle tone.
“Why—why stop them,” Mistress Townsend replied, momentarily disconcerted by the Widow’s steady regard. “Keep them at home, if you’ll not see them wed as yet, or find them places in some gentle household, where they may earn their own way. I know of several London merchants who would—”
“I’d strangle my daughters with my own hands before I’d send them to that vice-ridden plague pit!” the Widow interrupted. “You’ve said enough, Mistress Townsend, and more than enough. Blanche and Rosamund go into the forest because I send them, to gather the herbs I need. They know the forest well; if I’ve no fear for their safety, you need have none either. As for their learning, if it keeps them from bad husbands I’ll thank Heaven and wish them twenty times as wise! Now I must go to tend my bees, and so I give you good day, Mistress.”
Mistress Townsend found herself ushered gently but firmly to the door. So stunned was she by this unaccustomed turn of events that she did not think to resist until she was outside the cottage. Muttering balefully, she lifted her skirts and began the walk back to Mortlak. The Widow Arden stood at one of the windows, peering through a hole in the cloth covering, and watched the other woman out of sight. Then she shook her head, and went out to tend her bees and wait for her daughters’ return.
The two girls were not long in making their appearance. They came into the kitchen garden from the forest, just as the Widow finished inspecting the straw shelter by the chimney that was to house the bees for the winter. Rosamund ran ahead, as was her custom; she held her willow basket carefully to keep from spilling its contents. “Mother!” she called. “Look! We found elderberries and wild onion.”
“Well done,” the Widow said. “Yet thou shouldst not shout thy news from half a mile away, nor run so heedlessly about. Thy harum-scarum ways will bring thee rue, my Rose.”
Rosamund blinked at her mother in surprise. Then she set her basket on the ground and sank into an exaggerated court curtsy, her eyes demurely lowered. “I pray you, pardon, Mother,” she said in dulcet tones.
“Wretched child!” the Widow said, laughing. “Cease thy foolishness and tell me where thy wandering feet have taken thee today, that thou hast returned with such uncommon treasures.”
“We went into the forest, Mother,” Blanche said, coming up beside her sister. “Westward and south a little, along the brook where the rushes grow.”
“You did not cross the Border?”
“At this season?” Rosamund said indignantly. “We’re not so foolish.”
Blanche studied her mother, and a small line appeared between her eyebrows. “Mother, why so many questions? Is something amiss?”
“I fear it,” the Widow replied, “though I am not sure. It may be but the knowledge of my own folly which makes me so uneasy.”
“What folly’s that?” Rosamund asked in a skeptical tone as she picked up her basket.
“Mistress Townsend called today.”
The girls looked at each other. “That one!” Rosamund said disapprovingly. “Thou shouldst not listen to her gloom.”
“She meaneth good,” Blanche said with a reproving glance at her sister, “but thou shouldst not let her overset thee, Mother.”
“‘Tis not Mistress Townsend’s tongue that’s broken my peace, but my own,” the Widow replied.
“Hast sent her off at last?” Rosamund said, looking up with a hopeful expression.
“I have, and with such words as must ill please her. And so I think that for some little while you must do your berrying in the meadow and not the wood.”
“But Mother!” Blanche said in shocked surprise. “The coriander jar is barely a quarter full; it will not last the winter! And thy supply of more uncommon herbs is lower still.”
“What matters that, an thee and thy sister are taken up for witchcraft?” the Widow retorted. “You’ve work enough outside the wood to occupy your fingers. ‘Tis not forever,” she added, seeing her daughters’ downcast expressions. “I only wish it seen that you are busy with other things than herbery. There’ll be time for gathering ere winter comes.”
“A pox on Mistress Townsend and her tongue,” Rosamund muttered.
The Widow frowned. “Rose! Thou‘lt spend an extra hour with thy prayer book tonight for thy ill-wishing. And in the future, set a better guard upon thy tongue.”
“But, Mother—”
“Do as I bid thee! Take thy basket inside and sort it carefully, and in the future stay away from the forest until I give thee leave.”
Rosamund’s lips set into a stubborn line. Blanche touched her elbow and motioned toward the cottage. Rosamund looked at her sister for a moment, then sighed and picked up her basket. Together, they disappeared into the cottage.
The Widow watched until the door closed behind them, a tiny wrinkle between her eyebrows and her eyes dark with trouble. She had good reason for her concern. Women had been taken to the ducking stool or worse for words as casually spoken as Rosamund’s had been. The Widow Arden had set on her daughters the most powerful protections she knew, but her skill had no power over the wagging tongues of mortal women. However vague or idle Mistress Townsend’s words had been, the Widow Arden could not afford to take them lightly; the line she and her family walked was already all too narrow.
For in the forest that backed the Widow’s cottage lay one of the shifting borders of Faerie, and it was in that strange and shadowed land that Rosamund and Blanche gathered the rarest of the herbs their mother needed. Because the girls were maidens and still young, they could cross the border into Faerie with relative safety, but the Widow had charged them not to wander too far on the other side.
The girls, well aware of the perils of extemporaneous exploration, had always obeyed this stricture implicitly, and it was as well that they had done so. Less than a league from the border they so often crossed, in a stand of ancient oaks, stood the palace of the Faerie Queen herself, and there were those among her court who were not pleased with its proximity to the mortal world.
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