Tillie and the Queen

by Karen Novak

Bur-umm.

A drummer precedes me.

Bur-umm.

His beat is stately, steady.

Bur-umm.

My steps keep time with his baton.

He is a boy, too young for this gruesome task. I am too old for it but remain abundant in my gratitude for the unhurried advance. Has any soul who ever walked these stones with chains about their ankles and wrists wanted to hasten their path?

Those I left behind in the cells still awaiting their sentences tell me that mercy is a measure of size in the wood pile. The more numerous the bundles, the hotter the blaze and therefore, the quicker the demise. From here, I see that my pyre boasts a medium build of larger branches, neither compassionately massive nor cruelly meager.

We reach the grasping edge of our destination. A pair of guards below lifts me up to the pair of guards above who lash me with ropes to the stake. They’ve done this too often. They take no care in their work and handle the task roughly. I am disappointed to realize I am worth no more this half-hearted commitment.

The hazel wood and oak piled about my feet lift a fragrance that graces me with memories of long-go autumns. Younger days harvesting grains and nights of country dances, goblets of wine, ballads sung around bonfires. Oh dear. Oh dear. What grand times!

My reverie breaks when a cheer arises like a raptor over the crowd. I fix my attention to the oncoming smoke and not to the torches’ flames. What a dull thing fire makes. Flame has only one mindless desire—to consume until it can no longer survive its being. I refuse to fear that which is so single-witted. My terror would be a delight to the King. I refuse to “Yes, My Liege” grant him such delight. I will not suffer for his pleasure.

While the bailiff recites my crime of loving life too much, I dare to meet the King’s eye. He turns away. What a wonderful gift it must be, that ability to not care.

“Have you any last words, sinner?” the bailiff asks of me.

“Many,” I say.

When I say no more, he signals the torch bearers forward. Everyone here is so dignified in their obedience.

The roaring torches’ greedy heat closes in to caress my face before it starts to lower. I keep my eyes open to see my ending. It is my final act of defiance. My body braces and then slumps in the restraints as it accepts the coming agonies.

The agonies do not arrive.

The crowd is stirring. A mighty voice tolls out over the gathered ghouls serving as the Court’s witnesses.

“Hold!”

The command of Queen Charis carries like a thunderclap. She stands, a magnificent presence, in her silk brocade glowing the softest tint of autumnal gold. Her generous ermine stole forbids the chill. I recognize the soft gold cloth. It is the gown she wore the night then-Prince James fell in love with her. It is the first gown I made.

The gathered courtiers, their breath restored, fold into immediate bows and part to clear her way to the King. Her Ladies and the Duchesses follow in her wake as an equally elegant retinue.

“Extinguish your fires, Sir,” she orders the King. “Your Majesty, you shall not burn Tillie Nicks this day nor any other. You shall never harm her blessed hands, heart, or head.”

The King pulls a face at his wife, the scowl of a frustrated lad.

“Why shan’t I burn her, Dear? The judges have fairly found her guilty of the heinous work of witchcraft.”

“It saddens us that you deny your Queen so small a wish. I will mourn our public quarrel here for years. I may never recover.” The scald of wet lye drips from her words. “Regard my gown, Sir. Have you ever seen such fine work? You would require a jeweler’s glass to see the stitches. Pure genius in design. You will release Tillie Nicks, and you will release her now, James.”

“She is a witch, Charis.”

“She is a wonder,”

“A menace.”

“A miracle.”

“Obscene.”

“Ours.” Her Majesty gestures to her party, individual paragons beauty. She gestures then toward their gowns.

“Consider, James, the play of color here, the originality of line, the sly drape of cloth. You see here nothing of witchcraft. This is talent and study and stylish restraint. These gowns are art as certain and profound as any sculpture in your palace halls. To destroy such a gift to the world would destroy me.”

“Yes, yes. You are a visionary as always, Darling. Your flair for theatre never fails, but I would thank you to remember that I am your husband and your King.”

“I would thank you to remember that you owe your Good Wife to Tillie Nicks, Sir.”

“I warn you, Love, that I am fearsome in my desires, and I desire the Sorceress Nicks back in hell.”

“I remind you that I am fiercely loved by the people, and I desire the Seamstress Tillie back at her needle.”

Hearing my name bandied about like a tennis ball incites me to interrupt.

“I beg Mercy,” I shout at them. “I am loathe to interrupt your highnesses’ admirable discussions, but these ropes choke off sensation to my hands—”

“Gentlemen of the Guard—” Queen Charis lowers her voice to ensure her authority before the gathered “—I command you to release Tillie Nicks. Unbind her this instant and help her down from that damnable stake. All faults will fall on me.”

“You go too far, Good Wife.”

“I go as far as Good allows, Your Highness.”

She drops deeply into a curtsy before him and then rises to lift her regal smile to the courtiers.

“Let it be known that Tillie Nicks is the Queen’s Dressmaker, and I protect her under my endorsement. Should any harm befall her,” she spoke now to the King, “the monstrous demon who carries it out will answer to me. Now let her down.”

With a quick snicker of a knife blade, my ropes fall away. The guards who earlier lifted me up, now lower me down until I am standing once more on the earth, my feet unshod, my nakedness thinly cloaked in this linen garment meant to burn away to reveal all. Queen Charis regards me with relief and the kindness that once upon a time earned my favor. She extends her bejeweled hand to me.

Head high I begin to move toward her. My legs are aching and wearied. Buffeted by the demands of the day and the cold wind, my balance falters. Queen Charis rushes to right me. She removes her ermine stole and wraps the heavy warmth around my trembling self. With her arm supporting my weight, she leads me past the Duchesses, the Ladies, the Courtiers, each of them a portrait of astonishment.

We gain a slow distance from the furious King, while among the crowd, murmurs of gossip begin darting about like lantern-frenzied moths.

Near the river, we find the Queen’s carriage where footmen hurry to open the door. She urges them aside. Her Majesty helps me up the two solid gold steps and into the interior of tufted-indigo velvet. On the seat, I find a simple gown of warm wool dyed in expensive purple, a pair of dark stockings, and sturdy slippers of fine thick leather.

“My driver will take you anywhere you wish.”

She removes from her finger a fiery trio of rubies set on a thick gold band and presses the ring into my hand. “This will keep you whole for the rest of your days. Your gowns will make you wealthy, if you allow yourself to accept for coin in return,”

“I am your Dressmaker,” I say. “How will I see to your needs if I am not here?”

She graces me with a gentle smile. Her eyes are bright with an excitement I’ve once before glimpsed in her.

“You have seen to my needs long enough. It is my turn to see to yours. Did you ever think a queen would owe you such a debt?”

I pat the back of her soft hand.

“What do you want of me, child?”

“I want you to live as happily as you can for as long as you can.”

On those words, the Queen, her eyes brimming, withdraws and softly closes the carriage door. I hear her tell the driver to take me as far as the distant sea if that is my command.

The carriage rolls forward, swiftly building speed.

I hear Queen Charis shout.

“Wait!”

I look back. Out the rear window, I see her with her skirts raised to her knees, running after the carriage. I build my gowns for running because a woman must always be ready to run. Alas, the carriage moves too fast. The Queen cannot catch up. Her now faint voice makes its way over the clip-clop of horse hooves nearing a canter.

“Please, Tillie—forgive me the slippers!” the Queen calls as though pleading for a mercy she does not feel she deserves.

I look down at my new leather shoes.

“There is nothing to forgive.”

I say this to the empty carriage. My voice will carry only so far.

Poor, dear Charis.

These many years have flown by, and she has yet to reckon that her long-ago slippers were designed to be ruined.

Why else would I have spun them out of glass?