Thorny Read online

  Thorny

  The Smothered Rose Trilogy

  Book One

  By

  Lelia Eye

  THE SMOTHERED ROSE TRILOGY: THORNY

  Copyright © 2014 Lelia Eye

  Cover Illustration and Design by Marrin Sampson, Interface Graphic Design, Inc.

  http://interface-graphic-design.com/

  Published by One Good Sonnet Publishing

  ISBN: 0993797709

  ISBN-13: 978-0993797705

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic, digital, or mechanical means, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, and information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  In memory of my mother,

  who defended me and protected me

  with the purest and most beautiful

  kind of love.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to recognize everyone who has helped me with Thorny. My heartfelt thanks go out to:

  Kitt, whose brilliant eye for story structure and character development will never cease to amaze me.

  Ashley, who made suggestions in response to my call for help that really made me think about just what I was trying to do.

  Marrin Sampson, whose vivid illustrations and cover designs are very much appreciated.

  My brother Pete, whose criticisms, though rarely straightforward, were always valid and worth consideration.

  My partner-in-crime Jann, whose writing suggestions and assistance with publication and motivation can never be valued highly enough.

  And finally, my husband and daughter, who allowed me the precious time I needed to write.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  1. The Boy Who Cried Wolf

  2. A Howl of a Good Time

  3. The Dog Prince

  4. Fairly Lonely

  5. The Rose

  6. As Long as It Takes

  7. Animal Instincts

  8. Black Sheep

  9. Big Feet

  10. A Rose and Thorns

  11. Fleece as White as Snow

  12. Water Girl Wants

  13. No Beast

  14. Moon Madness

  15. A Thornless Rose

  16. Feeling Week

  17. Deathbed

  18. Paradise Glimpsed

  Social Media

  Excerpt from On Wings of Air

  The Smothered Rose Trilogy Continues . . .

  For Readers Who Enjoy Pride and Prejudice

  About the Author

  Chapter 1: The Boy Who Cried Wolf

  I was lying in the bed of the one that I loved, my fur matted with blood, as I waited to die.

  I wasn’t looking for a light to guide me down a tunnel, and I wasn’t frightened. My beloved had left me, and nothing could be worse than that. My life had already ended.

  But maybe I should start at the beginning. And where was that? Well, it all began with a creature whose fleece was as white as snow.

  * * *

  I stared at it.

  It stared at me.

  I yelled.

  Its ears twitched.

  I waved my arms and shouted, “Hyah!”

  The stupid creature bleated and ran a short ways off, turning to look at me in confusion. I shook my head and growled under my breath. I had tied a rock to the ewe’s hindquarters, and it hadn’t even batted an eye. My hunting dogs back home had hated that, and they always gave a manic reaction worth watching, but sheep were as boring as they looked.

  Trying to rile up sheep was like trying to make a stone smile—you could finally stop making jokes and draw a smile on the rock with charcoal, but all your effort up to that point made it seem a feeble victory. You were better off not even trying.

  There was never a victory to be won with sheep. They were sort of like rats. But instead of fur, they had wool, and instead of scurrying around, they ambled along. Still, they were as vile and disgusting as rats, if not more so. At least rats didn’t sit and stare at you, plotting to invade your sleep and hop over fences ad infinitum.

  I brought my shepherd’s staff up and stabbed an imaginary dragon with it. “Die, foul beast!” I proclaimed in my best hero’s voice. Then I lowered the staff and lifted my lip in disgust. This was stupid. There were no dragons here. No, that would be too much excitement for a sheep-kissing town like this.

  I missed being back home. I would much rather be hunting or holed away with a book instead of watching woolly beasts chew grass all day. Even my French lessons had been a better use of my time than this. I would have given my best hunting dog just to be back with Pierre, listening to him say in exasperation, “I shot the chatte is not amusing! It does not make sense. You cannot mix two languages in such a fashion. C’est pas bon!”

  At least I understood Pierre. I certainly didn’t understand commoners. For one thing, on the rare occasions when they actually took baths, they used this nasty lumpy soap made of sheep’s fat. Perfumed soap would have been a far better purchase than silly things like hammers and bolts of cloth . . . and maybe then they wouldn’t all smell like sheep.

  But no. Instead of taking the time to bathe, they spent the whole day doing things like farming.

  There was certainly a lot of that sort around. I wanted to take them aside and explain that I hadn’t farmed a day in my life but had always had plenty to eat and plenty of time to devote to reading and even learning another language. But they would have been too dense to understand. Just like they were too dense to realize that the king they were constantly bad-mouthing had better things to do than worry about droughts and failing crops.

  “Baa,” a black sheep said loudly, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Oh, stop your woolgathering and go give a bag to the little boy who lives down the lane,” I muttered. But my cleverness lost on the dumb beast.

  My stomach growled, and I winced. I was hungry, but eating a shepherd boy’s food was like stepping into a deathtrap. It would not be long before one of the villagers’ wooden forks lodged a splinter in my tongue, if the spoons didn’t do it first. Someone needed to explain that the only proper cutlery was that made of gold or silver. Why in the hay blazes anyone would ever want to stick a tree in their mouth was beyond me.

  I brought my staff up as an imaginary rifle and sighted the sheep along it. I made an impressive-sounding boom and feigned a kickback before lowering it again with a loud sigh that only the sheep were around to hear. Even the props for this job were lame—just a shepherd’s crook. Wasn’t I supposed to have a horn or something to blow the sheep out of the meadow? Didn’t they know that?

  And why was I in such a lousy situation? It was all because my father was a stickler for tradition.

  I had said, “Father, I don’t want to go.”

  He had said, “For generations, our forefathers have been sent to live among commoners at age fifteen to learn more about them—”

  “But for three years!” I had complained.

  “You’re going,” he had said. And that was that. Even if it did mean putting your tongue in danger of becoming a pincushion, it was his way or no way. End of story.

  There was no special treatment allowed whatsoever—not even to protect your tongue, which was ridiculous—and it all had to be done in complete anonymity, save for an overseer. Unfortunately, that meant wearing commoner garments.

  When my overseer had handed me a pile of rags and said, “Here are your clothes,” I had stared at him skeptically.

  “Don’t I need to be fitted for my new outfit?”

  “Uh, no,” he had said, scratching his chin.

  “You made a mis
take. These are old rags that haven’t been cleaned and starched properly. There’s no gold thread in them, no—”

  My nervous overseer had interrupted: “No, uh, that is what you need to wear.”

  “I’ve dressed pigs in nicer clothing than this.” (I wasn’t lying. Once I had stuffed a boar in a dress and watched chaos ensue. Boy, my rear had burned after that one.)

  My overseer had pulled at some of the dark blond hair sticking out from beneath his hat. “I’m—I’m sorry, but this is how it must be.” Not as stern as my father had been, but just as determinative. I would not be getting my way, no matter who I was.

  As if rags were not bad enough, I had lucked out by getting the absolute worst job out there—one which would have bored even the dullest peasant to tears. It would have been far better to be a blacksmith’s apprentice. I could have made a good-looking sword. I could see it in my mind’s eye: a couple pounds of my hammer . . . and then voilà! A masterpiece! The world would praise me for lending my prodigious talent to such an enterprise.

  “What an impressive artisan you are,” they would say. “I will take half a dozen before noon.”

  Now, that would have made for an interesting day. But of course I wasn’t given a job like that.

  “Be glad you’re doing something safe and easy,” my uncle had said. “You could have been given hard work like blacksmithing. Just think of this as a pastoral vacation.”

  I had wanted to kick him in the shins. I hated sitting around either doing nothing or helping ewes deliver their lambs (I swore the cursed things multiplied faster than rats). These sheep were so far from interesting that I nearly fell asleep just looking at them.

  Like always, they were grazing on the bright green grass that I had—in my utter boredom—plucked many blades of myself. Below the hilly pasture, the village was visible. It was optimistically called “New Fountain,” but it was simply your typical rowdy village, with no real fountain in sight, just dirty pigs and dogs running around instead of players putting on shows and minstrels singing their songs.

  On the other side of the great green sheep manger, opposite the village, sat a forest that was supposedly filled with all sorts of nasties, including the wolves I was supposed to watch out for. They called it the Devil Beast’s Woods, like they expected demons would be jumping out any second with packs of wolves at their feet.

  Though I had hunted deer and wild pigs before, I had never seen a wolf in person. Still, I had read many stories about them. One thing the books agreed on was that they avoided human settlements. As a result, I was certain the villagers’ worry that the flock would be entirely consumed by wolves was unfounded.

  It was based on this belief—and my insurmountable boredom—that I did something juvenile. But in my defense, the first time was an accident.

  After hours of staring at a fuzzy mass of black and white and resisting the urge to count my charges, I had begun to pretend that my staff was a sword . . . and that a wolf had come to eat my flock.

  “Wolf!” I had cried out, stabbing at the air. “You shall not eat these fuzzballs if I have my way with you!”

  Well, my cry evidently carried down into the village, and while I had laughed at my imaginary foe’s death throes, a swarm of villagers came running up the long hill to save a flock that didn’t need saving.

  I had stared at them, dumbfounded, until an old man named Redmoss had stepped forward and said, “You cried ‘wolf.’ Where is the beast?”

  At the time, I was a bit embarrassed, and I had explained that I was simply pretending there was a wolf. The villagers had returned home with much grumbling after that, except for Redmoss, who had stayed behind to deliver a lecture on responsibility and some other stuff that I ignored.

  My embarrassment had quickly turned to anger. They had no right to lecture me of all people, though I couldn’t tell old Redmoss that. I didn’t even want to watch their filthy sheep! The creatures could stuff themselves down wolves’ bellies for all I cared!

  I had stewed over the matter for a few days afterward, growing angrier and angrier, until I had cried out “wolf” a second time on purpose. About half as many villagers had come that time, and they seemed even more infuriated at the sight of the obviously docile sheep than they had been the first time.

  Redmoss had stuck his finger in my face and said: “Sonny, I’m going to make sure Gaheris Beauregard gives you a beating that leaves you standing for weeks! Then we’ll see if you’re still so quick to use your tongue.”

  I had given him a knowing smile and let his words pass over me. Beauregard would hesitate to hurt a fly. Furthermore, he happened to be the overseer who knew I was more than just a shepherd boy, and he would eat his fingers before he would attempt to beat me. While Beauregard was a wealthy merchant who actually owned some farmland and had some influence, he wasn’t a noble. I was safe from any physical manifestations of wrath from him.

  I yawned and stretched, my eyes passing over the sheep before I turned and paused. A beautiful girl was staring at me.

  Straightening my posture, I gave her a slight nod before turning back to the flock. But despite my calm and collected behavior, my heart was knocking against my ribs.

  She was the merchant’s daughter . . . and the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Her hair fell in strawberry-blonde locks down her back and all the way to the ground, where it then continued to flow in an impressive fashion that always left me wondering how long it really was. A few braids of it would probably be long enough to help you climb a tower—I could see myself calling for her long locks to fall down already. (Not that I would actually climb a tower. Humans were given feet instead of wings for a reason.)

  As a result of her unusual choice of appearance, she was always followed by a servant who carried her hair and kept a train beneath it to prevent it from dragging in leaves and dirt. Today, the train was scarlet, to match the red that trimmed her white dress. I found myself wishing I could trade places with the hair-bearer and reach out to touch those blonde locks. Were they as soft as they looked?

  But more impressive than the voluminous hair that trailed the ground—though it seemed impossible for anything to top that—was the perfect beauty of her face. Her face was soft, with skin that was nearly as white as snow, cheeks that were flushed just the right shade of pink, and lips that were almost as red as blood. Her eyes were intense and gray, with a tint of blue to them, like the ocean just before a storm. As for the rest of her, well, her form seemed so delicate that it always surprised me that a breeze didn’t carry her away.

  Labelle, they called her. The Beauty.

  And what a desirable beauty she was. In fact, she was the most interesting thing about this place. I had yet to speak to her, but I often found her staring at me from afar. I figured her father had broken the rules and told her my true identity. I hadn’t seen his two stepdaughters or his wife looking at me, though, so it seemed like she was the only one he had told. Or maybe she just realized I was the only good-looking thing in this town.

  I prodded a sheep’s behind with my foot before casually turning to glance at Labelle and see if she was still watching me. She wasn’t, but she had moved a little closer, her hands filled with the flowers she had gathered. There were many wild-flowers dotting the hillside in random patches, like bits of paint that had dripped off a few giant paintbrushes. I didn’t care for most flowers, so I had never been attentive to those surrounding me, but if Labelle liked them, perhaps it was worth paying closer heed to them. I looked down at one by my feet and shrugged to myself. Well, at least I could pretend to be interested when she was around.

  It suddenly occurred to me—that was a perfect first move. I took in a deep breath. Yes, I was going to do it. I was going to finally talk to her.

  Watching as she picked up a white bloom, I asked: “What kind of flower is that?”

  She jumped in surprise at the sound of my voice and looked up at me. “Oh! Umm, it’s a bellflower.”

  Great. First words were
over. Now what? “You must really like flowers.” Score one for inanities.

  “I do.” She smiled down at the bundle.

  Think. I couldn’t understand why this was so hard and why the blood was coursing through my veins so quickly. “You know they last longer if you keep them in the ground.”

  “But then I can’t see them at home.”

  “Get a potted plant.”

  She laughed. “I might do that.”

  I gestured with my chin. “Pull up a patch of grass and stay awhile. I could use the company.” That wasn’t too bad.

  She beamed at me, and I had to take a step backwards. That smile could have stopped a dragon in its tracks . . . and reduced it to begging for a scratch under its chin. “All right,” she said.

  Her hair-bearer arranged those bountiful locks and then stood away at a respectful distance while Labelle and I sat on the ground and talked.

  “I love sheep,” Labelle said as a lamb came over to investigate her. She reached out and rubbed its woolly head.

  I don’t, I thought. Out loud, I said noncommittally, “They’re not as active as dogs.”

  “Every animal has its own beauty,” she commented.

  She needed to get her eyes checked, as there was nothing beautiful about sheep. “Do you like having long hair?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Yeah, I do. It gives me a sense of self a little apart from my general looks.”

  That didn’t make sense to me—the hair was part of her looks—but there was no use in trying to make much sense out of what girls said. So I asked: “Does your father like it?”

  “Yes. He says my mother always wanted me to have really long hair.”

  “Did she have long hair?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember her very well, and my father doesn’t like to talk about her.”