What to do? Only two options came to mind: He could continue to curse his braggart father as he had done for the last quarter of an hour or so, or he could begin to think what life might be like without his head. Rather short, he imagined. If only his father had not made that stupid boast in the tavern yard. If only the prince had not been passing by with his entourage of noble ladies and gentlemen, falcons on their wrists and laughter on their lips. If only the prince had not taken it into his head to make a grand offer — and an ominous threat. If wishes were horses, his mother would have said, then we would all ride with the nobles. At the moment, Freawine preferred to imagine that wishes might be doves that could carry him far from this tower room and his troubles. He sighed and looked at the spindle in his hand. The situation was hopeless. “Mother,” he whispered, “what should I do?” But hers was the silence of the grave. Her fears had changed everything since the day she bore him, the day she made an impulsive decision.
