One Silver Summer Read online

  Sass gazed about her, shivering slightly. This wasn’t some movie set, but real. Bows and arrows. Kings and queens. Blood and battle.

  Alex grabbed her by the hand and led her toward the shelter of a last remaining stone turret.

  “Come in here. It’s a cracking view. You can see three hundred and sixty degrees from the top.”

  They stepped inside, hand in hand. The tread of their boots echoed slightly and Sass’s hand trailed across a bulging stone wall. The smell was damp and almost earthy.

  “Be careful. The floor, and especially the steps, are uneven, and at the top it just falls away where the ramparts have crumbled in places.”

  “Is it safe?” It didn’t sound it. “I’m not a fan of heights.”

  “I very much doubt it,” he grinned, “but it’s stood this long and I want to show you.”

  He let her go first up the narrow circular stairwell, his hands on her hips as if to catch her if she fell. She stepped up through the darkness with her heart in her mouth, one step at a time toward the light, and emerged molelike and blinking.

  “Oh wow!” She clung to the edge and gazed at the view.

  “Watch your step. Here, let me give you a hand.”

  The vertiginous drop seemed to plunge away to the coast path below, and below that, the sea crashed on the rocks.

  Alex pointed past her ear. She wanted to hang on to his hand again, but instead his fingers seemed to slide down her arm and past her ribs to her waist. She’d never really noticed her ribs before and for a second, Sass felt a giggle rise up in her. Giddy, dizzy, light-headed with it all.

  “To the left of you is Trist. Look, down there in the valley and ahead of you is the English Channel.”

  Sass thought that the golden rooftops of Trist looked like some Celtic crown against a tapestry of green. She let her gaze travel across an iron-blue shield of sea.

  “Behind us, not so many miles away, is Tintagel, birthplace of King Arthur.”

  She shivered. “The once and future king. I thought he was a myth?”

  “All legend is based on some sort of truth.”

  “So you’re not the first royal to hide out in Cornwall?”

  “No! There’s always been a war or something going on in my history. It’s how we got to where we are.” He looked oddly comforted at the thought.

  “Maybe in the past, they just got away with more?” She thought of all the press Alex must get, and the haunted look in his eyes whenever he mentioned his other life.

  He kissed her ear. “No. They got imprisoned, or beheaded, or died horribly in battle, which is far less likely to happen to me.”

  “So all this land is Trist?”

  “Yes. Took a few hundred years. Battles. Marriages. Deaths. And, I imagine, a good bit of luck and family in high places.”

  High places meant skyscrapers to Sass, and she hadn’t had much luck with family. No history peeking through paint cracks for her. Would she ever tell him about Mom? Soon, but not now: not while she was on top of the world. She couldn’t even begin to think about the rest of Alex’s legacy. It just made her dizzier. Anyway, she didn’t have to, not right now, did she? It was like hearing about stars and planets; the theory of a universe that she ought to be interested in, but that truthfully scared her. Who wanted to be reminded that they weren’t so much as a speck of dust?

  Sass turned into Alex’s arms and pressed against the hardness of his body. He wrapped himself around her and lifted her on her toes. When he kissed her, it was long and slow, lingering until she lost herself in his touch.

  “Shall I tell you the story of Tristan and Iseult?” His nose touching her earlobe.

  “Who?” she replied. Though in her head, she could already hear the soft tread of a slipper and the rustle of a cloak and gown.

  “Tristan was the nephew of King Mark of Cornwall.”

  She lifted her face.

  “Was he handsome?”

  “Tristan? Yes, very. He was a young knight sent to Ireland because King Mark wanted to marry a beautiful Irish princess called Iseult.”

  “Why are they always beautiful?” Sass sighed.

  “Err … Because she’s a princess, in a legend.”

  “I bet she was blonde, or a redhead. They’re always redheaded, the fiery ones.”

  “You’d rather she had hair like yours?” He reached forward and tucked a strand, stuck to her lip, behind her ears.

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “Just for you, then. They called her … Frizzy Izzie.”

  Sass grinned and let his voice sink in.

  “Tristan was sent to Ireland to win her hand for his uncle. He had to pay tribute by facing his uncle’s rival in combat. He defeated the guy, but was injured by a poisoned arrow.”

  “Don’t tell me, she healed his wounds?” Still joking but listening.

  “She did, and they fell for each other.”

  Sass smiled and closed her eyes, feeling him breathe.

  “They couldn’t run, so they returned to Cornwall. Both knew their duty.” He paused on the last word.

  “King Mark of course wanted to marry Iseult. And he did. At first, Tristan tried to stay away from her, but he couldn’t because he loved her too much. They met in secret, in a tower like this … until King Mark found out. There are always spies. He could have put them both to death, but he didn’t; he let them live, banishing Tristan forever.”

  Sass gulped. “And?”

  “They lived out their separate lives till on his deathbed Tristan sent a boat for Iseult. He’d married too, but had never forgotten his first love. He asked for the sails to be white if she came, black if she didn’t. But Tristan’s wife found out … and it all went wrong. Tristan and Iseult died shortly after … of broken hearts.”

  Sass curled inward. Silence between them. Everything came down to what was black and white when nothing ever was.

  “That’s so sad.”

  “Not entirely. Legend has it that two trees grew on their grave, a hazel and a honeysuckle that became so entwined, they could never be cut down.”

  A large blob of rain landed between them.

  “Come on,” said Alex, looking at the sky. “We should check on the horses.”

  They climbed back down to where Bo and Dancer were still grazing. He left them a while longer and sat down next to her in the shelter of the wall, his knee resting against hers.

  “I’ve brought you something,” she said, shrugging off her bag. Sass had almost forgotten.

  “You have? What is it?”

  “It’s nothing, just something to eat. Are you hungry? I made it.” Pride in her voice. She and Mom hadn’t gotten very far with cooking.

  Sass took out the small tub. It had gotten a little shook up inside. Taking off the lid, she held it out.

  “Brownies. From me to you, to say thanks.”

  “Whatever for?” He looked surprised but pleased.

  “For”—she waved a hand around her—“for all this … for being my knight. I don’t know. Just … thanks.” She ducked her head, hoping she didn’t sound too stupid.

  Alex took a piece from her, careful not to drop it or let it crumble. He took a bite and couldn’t speak, his mouth was so full. He broke a chunk off and shared it with her. It was warm and gooey, and it tasted good.

  “You’ve missed a bit,” he said. Her tongue went to the corner of her mouth, but his thumb got there first and wiped the smear softly from her lip.

  “I think your American brownie just won.” He caught her eye, and Sass knew she’d be seeing chocolate sweet-swirling in her sleep. It was a moment when they could have said or done anything. Told each other everything.

  A rumble of thunder split the sky. The weather had broken as if shaken from its daze. Dancer threw up his head, snorting down his nose, and Alex jumped up to catch the reins.

  Sass dashed the crumbs from her lap, crestfallen as Alex offered her his hand.

  “We better get going. It can be foul up here, and the
y’ll only wonder where I am.”

  The kiss on her cheek promised another time.

  The rain came down as they rode. It swept in across the steep hillside and the horses tried to turn their backs to it. Dancer was skittering sideways, and even Bo skidded and slipped. Alex kept trying to shout advice, but Sass couldn’t hear him anymore, unaware he was taking her a different way back.

  Alex had come to a decision. Rather than stopping at the meadow to leave Bo, they’d go back an easier route and ride on to the house. It would be safer than this. The squall would have made the way they’d come too slippery in the wet, and Dancer, even with Bo by his side, would lose it if lightning struck. They’d follow the curve of the ridge until it sloped down to the village road. It was the longer way home and they’d come in the front, but perhaps that was right, given what Grandma, and his parents, were about to find out. He owed it to Sass to tell them about her. She deserved to know what she meant to him. He couldn’t say the words, but he felt them, and it was time. If he’d shouted I love you a thousand times, the wind and rain would still have ripped them away before anyone heard them. Wet to the skin, Sass’s clothes hugged her body, while Bo plowed on, oblivious to Dancer skating beside her. The mare’s white coat was pewter to Dancer’s wet slate, their manes slicked to their necks.

  They reached the main road, where Alex looked left, then right, before striking out on the tarmac, two abreast for safety. It was only a hundred or so yards to the front gates just around the corner.

  Hunched against the rain, they came out of the bend, and Dancer saw them first. He planted his feet and balked, spinning around with his head in the air, and Alex only just held him.

  Cameras.

  It took awhile for the huddle of TV vans and reporters to realize who was coming up behind them, but the clatter of horses was too loud not to draw attention.

  “It’s him,” came the collective clamor. The words he hated most, and suddenly they were all around like hounds at a kill. Dancer was up on his haunches cantering sideways and Sass looked bewilderedly across at him, hanging on to an agitated Bo. Alex reached across and took her reins, struggling to keep his own. Grateful for Bo’s steadier bulk, Dancer glued himself to the older horse, and together Alex and Sass were able to kick on, Alex acutely aware that they were adding to whatever drama was unfolding. What had his parents done now? He gritted his teeth, rougher with Dancer than usual.

  “Get on with it!” he hissed to the horse with a sharp slap to his neck with the reins.

  What were cameras doing here?

  The answer came next.

  “Sir, sir. Is she the one? The girl on the beach?”

  “What?”

  “How did you meet Saskia Laura, Your Highness? Did you meet her here, or in the States?”

  “How the … ?” Dumbfounded again.

  The pack turned on Sass with quick-fire questions that she couldn’t possibly answer.

  “Is it true, Saskia, that you’re ‘happier’ with the Prince ‘than ever before’?”

  “What’s your reaction to those pictures from the beach?”

  “Where’s the dress from, the one you bought specially?”

  And the best saved for last.

  “What was it that first drew you to the prince: his good looks, his position, or his horses?”

  Sass gaped like a fish. A floundering, flapping, wet fish. “I … I … What are you talking about?”

  Alex thought she might fall. Questions elbowed and jostled in his mind about how the press knew so much, but he’d figure that out later. He wheeled around and, reins in one hand, leaned out of the saddle and shoved away the long lens thrust in Bo’s face. Then he pressed Dancer forward and sideways, stroking his neck when he went, physically blocking Sass from any more intrusion, his foot rammed in the front of a TV camera.

  “Sass, kick on. Just go! I’m right behind you.” Dancer spun wildly as Bo pulled away, but Alex held his ground, cantering on the spot as foam flew from Dancer’s sweated-up neck.

  Half an hour later they made it back onto the yard in a sorry spray of mud and water. Figgy looked up first, strode across, hands on hips. A ship in full sail.

  “Alex! Where in god’s name have you been? Your grandmother’s waiting, look!” Figgy thrust a crumpled newspaper in his hand. “I’ve been going nuts. You didn’t say where you were going, or for how long, and … what on earth are you doing with Bo? She’s meant to be retired. She’s not fit. Look at the state of her.”

  She glanced up at Sass and her eyes narrowed as if to say, “Who’s she?” but stopped herself in time.

  Alex dismounted, his boots squelching as he landed. His voice had gone. Nothing left to say. Amy appeared from the feed room, her eyes popping out of her head. With a sharp nod from Figgy, she took Dancer from him, still staring at Sass, who had slid awkwardly to the ground. Bo waited with her head lowered, steam rising from her wet coat.

  Alex ran up Bo’s stirrups and took off her old saddle. He walked the mare to her stable with Sass stumbling behind. The only sound was the plink of water running off a gutter.

  “This isn’t what I wanted.” He was shaking hard.

  “That’s okay.” Sass whispered, avoiding the obvious question. “You didn’t make it rain.”

  She looked away, twisting her hair. Was she playing dumb? How could the papers have possibly known … unless she told them? Her name, where she came from. He shook out the paper. Even the color of her eyes …

  The girl he thought he could trust.

  The girl he’d been ready to love.

  Pressure built in his head until he thought he’d explode.

  In the stable, the downpour slowed to a patter on the roof. Sass glanced at Alex, who refused to meet her eyes. His face was a mask of disappointment.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked, a hesitant hand on his arm.

  “Nothing.” He shrugged her off.

  “Yes, you are! I can tell. You haven’t said a word since we met those reporters.”

  “I was thinking”—his voice icier than she’d ever heard it—“that I was going to introduce you to my grandmother because I thought it was important. Now it seems I don’t need to.”

  Sass froze at his words. “Why? What do you mean it’s not important?”

  “I mean that the press will have told her everything already and more … Saskia Laura? You heard them at the gates.” His words were tinged with a sarcasm that she thought she’d forgotten. He thrust a newspaper at her, which she fumbled, and watched as it fell to the ground in a scatter of wet pages.

  Was that a photo of her? Sass knelt down. The front page lay face up and was taken from a distance from high up on the cliff top. Not that it mattered because the camera had zoomed in so close. She was standing on the beach with her back to the lens, holding hands with Alex in his shorts, her dress gaping open in the breeze for all to see, her zipper flapping undone. She could trace her spine all the way to her waist, her face grew hotter each second. “It wasn’t like that,” she whispered in her head. She turned to the headline, feeling sick already, and got sicker. Sick to her churning stomach.

  Our handsome sixteen-year-old future king has been consoling himself after his parents’ split, not in the arms of his “devastated” English girlfriend, blonde heiress Plum Benoist, who visited him this weekend, but on a beach in Cornwall with a scantily clad American, who cast aside a new dress to frolic half naked in the waves with our future king. The Daily Sun can exclusively reveal that the long-limbed lovely with “extraordinary blue eyes” is mystery mermaid Saskia Laura Emerson, who a source reports is “happier than ever before.” Since playing truant from his prestigious school, the rebel prince has so far spent the summer unwinding at his grandmother’s country estate: riding, shooting … and, it seems, fishing.

  Meanwhile, speculation grows of an imminent official announcement by Buckingham Palace of the divorce of the Prince and Princess of Wales.

  Like father, like son? Young love, or
love rat? You decide. Follow #palacealex.

  How could they possibly know so much, let alone twist it all like that? Made more real in black and white: her name, her head, her body, her thoughts. And—Sass flinched—Plum Benoist, the girl she’d seen in that magazine in the salon. Had she visited Alex here? He’d never said a word.

  Alex stood tall before her. Tall, straight, and unreadable. He glanced away.

  “I didn’t speak to anyone, Alex! You do believe me?”

  “Then how does the press know so much, Sass, if you didn’t tell them? Where you’re from, how you felt. More than you’ve even told me!”

  He spat the word felt. Past tense. That wasn’t right.

  “Saskia Laura’s my name, my mother’s too for that matter, and it is how I feel …” Sass quivered. “But I’m not the one who told them!” She felt the anger boil up inside her; how dare he accuse her! This boy who all this time had kept his English girlfriend!

  Alex was looking at her with something like pity. She didn’t want his pity! What did she want? Honesty, maybe? Though that seemed impossible, given who he was. She strangled a sob. When it was just the two of them together, everything was easy, and the rest just kind of melted away.

  “You don’t understand.” The fire in his eyes burned her. “In my world, secrets are important. They’re like the best and the worst, but the more they mean to me, to you, to us, the more we risk. We find each other, but the world sees an opportunity. You can never tell the press anything because stuff will get twisted that can’t be controlled.”

  He kicked at a pile of straw and Bo swung around, afraid.

  A little voice cried out in Sass’s head that wouldn’t be quiet.

  “Stuff happens anyway, Alex! You can’t control it any more than hold back the tide.”

  She should know.

  Alex took her by the hand, roughly now, and they left the stable. His fingers tight around hers, almost tugging her through the dripping archway. As they came out, she gazed up at Trist House, close enough to touch, the place she’d glimpsed from a distance. The house was huge, beautiful and disapproving, and Sass’s head swam with the scent of wet lavender and roses. As for Alex? He was pulling her up the front steps. What was he doing?