Rosie & The Forest King (9 of 9)
Epilogue
ONE YEAR AND ONE MONTH LATER, with the reborn nation rejoicing over their found king, people came from far and wide to glimpse the monarch and his bride on their wedding day. The royal coffers—once hoarded by a trio of hags—had been restored, as had the castle.
In record time, too.
Some said magic was involved.
But everyone heard music within. Both the king and his lovely consort sang regularly, much to the delight of the courtiers.
In the early months, there had been some confusion—difficulties, even—when men and women long thought dead were returned from the forest, where they had been enchanted as gnarled trees for two centuries. In the time they’d been gone, lands had changed hands, and there was considerable consternation over lost inheritances.
On the other hand, the sudden emergence of a band of Shakespeare-wielding goblins—who had once served the hags while disguised snowshoe hares—unified the people. Together, they drove the miscreants from their land and reclaimed copies of Shakespeare that had been stolen generations ago.
In his wisdom, and as a gesture of goodwill, the king commissioned several new sets of Shakespeare to be sent to the goblins—under the veiled threat that, should they ever return, they’d never read a word of the Great Bard again.
The goblins, led by one calling himself Daniel Smith, took this to heart and solemnly vowed never to return. And in a surprising turn toward domesticity, Dr. Smith took a wife within the first month of his restoration to goblinhood.
As the day approached, word went far and wide that the wedding of the king and his new queen would be open to any who wished to attend. It would be held outdoors to accommodate as large a crowd as necessary.
The ceremony was scheduled for 2 p.m., but rumors swirled about a 10 a.m. pre-reception—mostly for dignitaries. However, at the future queen’s insistence, a lottery was drawn to ensure that half of those attending the pre-reception would be drawn from the common folk. People were told to check their mailboxes for special invitations.
There was some excitement in Bridgeford, where a few locals showed off their winning invitations at the Tilted Lantern—the only pub in town. But out in the farmlands beyond Bridgeford, people tended not to pay attention to the goings-on of the ruling class.
Which made it all the more surprising when two men arrived at the modest home of Peter and Mary Marshall, a childless farming couple in their early forties, known for their meager but honest existence.
“Get the door, would you, dear?” Peter called from the back yard. “I’m up to my elbows in pig slop.”
“I can see that,” Mary said. “Or smell it, rather.”
She opened the door and stepped back in surprise.
“Peter,” she called again. “Get washed up.”
“What is it?”
“Two gentlemen. Want to speak with us.”
“Gentlemen? Ain’t no gentlemen ’round here,” Peter called back. “Tell ’em we ain’t buyin’ or sellin’.”
“No, no,” she said. “It’s a gift, dear. Come and see.”
Peter grumbled as he washed his forearms and hands in the shed basin. It had taken six trips to the spring to fill it, and now here he was, turning it cloudy with filth and dung.
When he returned to the common room—after much impatient urging by his wife—two men in fine clothing stood near his hearth.
“Of what service can we be?” Peter asked.
“Only this,” said the older of the two. “In two weeks’ time, you are summoned by the king to be at the castle by nine o’clock in the morning.”
“Summoned?”
“By the king!” Mary said, trying—and failing—to hide her excitement.
“Whatever for?”
“The king’s getting married.”
“Good for him, bad for her, I suppose,” Peter muttered.
The two gentlemen exchanged a look.
The younger one said, “I am of the opinion they both chose well.”
“Yeah?” Peter asked. “That’d be unusual for a king, now wouldn’t it?”
“How would you know?” the older man asked. “When’s the last time we weren’t ruled by three foul-tempered hags?”
“That’s fair,” Peter allowed. “But I heard things like that about other countries.”
The younger man handed over a formal invitation.
“Even so, the king summons you.”
“If I gotta be there by nine, means I have to leave here by six—earlier, probably five.”
“You can come the evening prior and stay at the White Terrace,” said the older man.
The younger handed over a second invitation—for a free stay at the most luxurious inn in the land.
“Blimey,” Peter said. “I’ll be hornswoggled.”
MARY HAD NEVER SEEN SUCH LUXURY. She’d read about it, of course, but never imagined she’d eat from gold-rimmed porcelain or hold a spoon polished so fine it caught her reflection. She was afraid to touch it, afraid she might break something and owe the White Terrace a month’s wages—or more.
Peter was more nonchalant. Extravagant, yes—but that was the way of high places, he supposed. One thing was for sure: that bed was the most comfortable thing he’d ever slept in.
At nine-thirty, they were escorted to a garden in the center of the White Terrace, a magnificent pastoral setting. The air was fragrant with wisteria and lavender. Musicians rehearsed in the distance, their notes carried on a soft spring breeze. Beneath a vine-covered pergola, Peter and Mary Marshall stood slightly apart from the guests, hands clasped, taking in the impossible beauty of the morning.
“It’s too fine for the likes of us,” Peter muttered, tugging at his collar.
“Hush,” Mary whispered. “We’re here because someone wanted us here. I don’t know why, but I’m not asking questions.”
Peter frowned. “Don’t feel right.”
She turned to him. “It doesn’t feel wrong.”
They were still holding hands when they heard a voice behind them.
“I hoped I’d find you.”
They turned.
The young woman approaching wore a gown of lavender blue and green, trimmed with fine gold thread. Her dark hair shimmered in the morning light—but it was her face, those eyes, the tilt of her smile, that stopped Mary cold.
“You’re the bride,” Peter said, blinking. “Aren’t you? You’re to be the new queen?”
“I am,” she said gently. “Come, sit with me on this bench. I want to talk with you.”
“Are you the one what invited us?” Mary asked.
“I am.”
They sat beside her, uncertain, overwhelmed by her grace and beauty. But her smile was warm, and when she looked at them, they felt at ease—though Mary’s breath caught. There was something about that smile. Something achingly familiar.
“Not meaning to be ungrateful, Your Grace,” Peter said. “But we’re just farmers. Country folk. We don’t belong here.”
The young woman looked at each of them in turn, her eyes kind. They felt the calm of her gaze settle over them like a gentle cloak.
Peter found himself thinking maybe the man had been right. Maybe the king really had chosen well.
“Eighteen years ago today,” the future queen said, her gaze lingering on Mary, “you gave birth to a little girl.”
Mary gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. Tears sprang to her eyes, unbidden.
Peter rested a hand on her shoulder. His jaw worked hard, but he said nothing.
“She was taken from you when she was just three,” the young woman said softly. “By a nursemaid who was no nursemaid.”
Mary nodded, the tears now falling freely. “She was supposed to watch our Rosie. Just while we worked the garden. But she left. She took our toddler and the basket and vanished.”
“This basket?” the young woman asked, setting it gently on the bench between them.
Peter leaned in. “Why, I’ll be… May I?”
“Of course,” the future queen said.
He turned the basket in his hands, slowly and reverently. “I recognize the mistakes. I made this with my own hands. It’s just a picnic basket, but we used it for her cradle.”
The young woman’s voice trembled. “Really? You made it?”
“Wait,” Mary whispered. She blinked hard. “Just—wait. Wait.”
She took a deep breath and leaned forward, peering at the young woman’s face. She stared deep into her eyes.
“Dear God,” she breathed. “It… it can’t be! But I know those eyes. I know them.”
“What is it?” Peter asked.
Mary didn’t answer right away. Her fingers trembled as they reached out, brushing the side of the woman’s face.
“Look, Peter,” she said softly. “Look at her. Really look.”
The young woman’s smile widened—just slightly. A familiar crookedness, a glimmer of hope.
“My name is Roselyn,” she said.
Mary reached for her, hands trembling as if trying to gather back all the years at once. Her expression wavered—sure, yet afraid to believe it.
“I am your daughter,” Roselyn said. “I’m your Rosie.”
Mary sobbed, the truth crashing through her like a tidal wave.
She opened the basket and pulled out an old leather-bound charmbook, worn and faded. She placed it gently into her mother’s hands.
“This is yours,” she said.
Mary opened it, and her breath caught. On the inside flap, in careful but faded ink, was her name: Mary.
Below that, in fresh ink, the book read:
This book belongs to Roselyn Marshall.
If found, please return to Peter and Mary Marshall, Bridgeford.
Mary touched the letters as if they were sacred.
“We thought you’d drowned,” she whispered. “Or worse.”
“There was no trace,” Peter said. “That woman said you wandered off. Then she was gone, too. I searched the riverbank for weeks.”
Peter sat down hard on the bench. He looked like a man who’d forgotten how to breathe. He placed his hand over his heart as great big tears rolled down his cheeks.
Mary reached forward and took Roselyn’s face in her hands, studying it one last time. Then she pulled her close, pressing her face to her shoulder.
Rosie closed her eyes and held on tight.
Peter rose and wrapped them both in his arms.
No one spoke for a long time. The wind whispered through the pergola. Somewhere nearby, a bell tolled. The grass at their feet became well watered.
At last, Roselyn stepped back. She brushed her mother’s cheek with her thumb, her own eyes bright with tears.
Then, with a smile both radiant and steady, she said, "A girl shouldn’t get married without her parents there, should she? Now… let me introduce you to my future husband."
Rosie’s song, Singing Still.
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.
This is officially one of my favorite twisted fairy tales!! It reminded me of Shannon Hales rendition of Maid Maleen, called Book of a Thousand Days. I love how you included old nursery rhymes! They brought back fond childhood memories☺️
I loved every bit of this story!! I especially love Dan’s ending, and Roselyn finding her parents. It feels like a combination of Little Red Riding Hood, Sleeping Beauty, Rapunzel, and Beauty and the Beast.