Delia Prance's Arc

Chapter 2 of 59

Delia crossed the river at dawn to see her new field. The grant sat folded in her apron pocket. But the field was not the open ground Nick had described. Waist-high weeds choked every row. Thistles gripped the soil. Bramble ran wild along the far edge. She could not plant a single seed until this was gone. She knelt and pulled one thistle by the root. Her hands stung. She pulled another. By noon she had cleared a patch the size of a blanket. The field stretched on, endless. She sat back on her heels and wiped sweat from her eyes. One woman with two hands would need a month. "You started without me." Nick stood at the field's edge. His fine coat was gone. He wore a plain shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow. He carried a scythe over one shoulder and a spade in his free hand. The second prince, come to pull weeds. She almost laughed. "You'll ruin your hands," she said. "Then they'll match yours." He swung the scythe low. Thistles fell in a long row. He did not slow. He did not speak. He worked like a man trying to outrun something. They cleared together through the afternoon. She dug roots while he cut. When she paused, she opened her worn herb book to a marked page. She checked each plant she pulled against the drawings. Some weeds she saved in a basket. Bindweed for a wash. Dock leaves for stings. Even the choked field held medicine, if she knew where to look. By dusk the ground lay open and dark. Four rows, then eight, then the whole field bare and ready. Delia stood in the center and turned slowly. She had a place to grow now. Flowers for the nobles. Herbs for the sick. The empty beds by her cottage would fill from this soil. Nick did not share her smile. He leaned on the spade and looked back toward the palace. "There's news," he said. "A steward rode out this morning. He counts the crown land. Every field. Every acre my father plans to sell." He met her eyes. "He'll reach this one soon." Delia's stomach dropped. "The grant. You signed it." "I did. My name is on land the king wants to sell to strangers." His jaw set hard. "When the steward finds a cleared field with your name on the deed, he'll ask who gave it. Then it goes to my father." The cold came fast. She had won her ground. She had also made it visible. A weed-choked field drew no eyes. A planted one would. "So we hide it?" she asked. "No." Nick shook his head. "You can't hide a field. We answer for it first, before he does." He looked at her. "That means going to the palace. Tomorrow." Delia gripped her herb book to her chest. The field was hers. Keeping it would cost far more than a day of thistles.