Catherine and Josephine: Book One in the Goose Girl Series

By Denise Gwen

Lady Josephine, a foundling child, has to endure years of jealousy, watching as Princess Catherine has everything handed to her . . . the love of the kingdom, her father's high regard, and the finest tutors of the land dancing attendance upon her, all in preparation for her marriage to Prince Rasputin, who lives across the sea. And what of Josephine? Well, she was a foundling child, and someone will marry her . . . or not.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denise Gwen
• Release date: Jul 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005059538

Denise Gwen

Denise Gwen writes!!!

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Prologue

Germanica

B ring out the prisoner, the Master at Arms said, rapping his flagstaff three times upon the scaffold, and with every thump of the staff, the scaffold rocked on its moorings. Bring out the prisoner, he called out again.

The mob, tense, silent, now broke out with shouts. Aye, the prisoner, the prisoner. Bring out the prisoner.

Bring out the prisoner. The Master at Arms cracked his flagstaff against the gibbet.

Bring out the prisoner, a lone villager cried out.

As the echoes faded, the mob turned to the right to watch as an ox-cart rattled toward them across the cobblestones. A diminutive form huddled in the straw. A young boy, holding the reins to the black horse, guided the animal with soft supplications as it picked its way across the cobblestones. As the wheels jostled and pitched, the ox-cart tipped from one side to the other, tossing the prisoner inside from one row of slats to the other.

The black horse whinnied as it lost its footing and staggered, nearly upsetting the ox-cart. With a cry of alarm, the prisoner crashed against the wooden slats. As she righted herself, her once-beautiful face bore streaks of blood from the point where the rough-hewn slats scratched her downy soft skin.

A rivulet of blood crept down her cheek, intermingling with the tears flowing from her once-vibrant green eyes.

Her formerly luxurious red hair, which once framed her heart-shaped face, now hung down like a tattered curtain, all matted and disheveled. Her hands, bound in front of her with hemp, shook and trembled as she struggled to lift herself from the straw-lined cart floor. She wore a simple, makeshift gown of muslin. At the conclusion of the execution, the village women would tear the clothing off her pitiful, broken body, and carry the fabric to the washing room; there, it’d be scoured, mended, and ironed, and made over into curtains for the privy.

Nothing went to waste in this bare, hardscrabble kingdom.

The driver jumped down to assist the boy as he struggled with the horse and steadied the animal’s forelegs. Thankfully, the horse didn’t sustain any damage; not the same could be said for the young woman cowering against the stays. The driver jumped back up into the box seat and cracked the whip. As the black horse bore its inexorable way through the crowd, the villagers parted way on both sides. With the boy guiding it, the black horse dutifully pulled the ox-cart up to the scaffold steps.

The creature in the cart lost her balance once again and fell to her knees.

Kill her, a woman cried out. Kill the witch.

She’s a witch. She cast a spell upon the Prince, another villager shouted. Kill her.

Maim her.

The villagers swarmed the cart. They reached through the wide wooden slats to pull and prod at the supine girl. She whimpered as one villager savagely clawed at her arms, her nails leaving deep gouges in the girl’s porcelain-white skin. Rivulets of blood rose up from the gouge points and undulated down the girl’s arms. She cried out in pain as another villager yanked a handful of hair from her scalp.

Dear people, she cried out. What did I do to deserve such rough treatment at your hands?

A few villagers paused to stop and reflect. Others stopped their attack and looked at one another with confusion.

Enough, the Master at Arms cried out. Silence. He hammered the flagstaff on the floor with such fury the scaffolding rocked back on its foundation.

The black horse whickered nervously and pawed at the ground.

Stop, in the name of the law, the Master at Arms shouted. Stop, or I shall have you all beaten and flogged.

The villagers drew back, even as a few of them continued to hurl epithets and insults at the girl lying prone on the hay-lined cart. Others glanced uneasily at one another and shook their heads. The girl’s remark had twinged the conscience of a few.

Executioner, the Master at Arms said, his clear voice ringing through the courtyard. Bring the prisoner forward.

An enormous man, built entirely of muscle and bone, and wearing a black mask with holes cut out for his eyes, stepped forward and saluted the Master at Arms. Aye, Sir. The executioner then turned and walked down the steps to the cart. He pushed a few villagers aside as he unlatched the lock. Stand aside, stand aside, I say.

One elderly woman put her frail hand on his broad arm. Sir, why can’t the little girl be spared? She’s been so kind, so good to us.

Ach, I know not, the executioner said as he reached into the cart. The girl did not stir.

Aye, another villager said. What does it matter if she ain’t the true and royal princess? She’s been so good to us.

Aye, aye, a few villagers said, and an uneasy silence filled the air, where before there’d been shouting and the crying out for blood.

Never a sweeter soul, an elderly woman said. She put alms into my hand every market day.

Ignoring the villagers, the executioner reached inside the ox-cart and grabbed the girl’s legs. But then, with infinite gentleness, he pulled her out of the cart and into his arms. With the tenderness of a father toward a new-born child, he transported the limp form up the steps to the scaffold. There, he assisted the girl to stand upon the floorboards.

Let her go, a villager cried out. Ach, she’s not harmed anyone.

Yes, another villager said. She’s been as kind and as merciful as an angel to us. What of it if she lied?

The girl trembled, her legs buckled from beneath her, and she fell to the floor. The crowd grew silent, watching as she wept.

The executioner stepped forward and, with exquisite care, set her back upon her feet.

Aye, lass, he murmured into her ear. Now, stand tall. Don’t let them see as you’re scared out of your wits.

The girl nodded and this time she firmly planted her feet upon the wood floor of the scaffold. She swayed a little, but otherwise held her ground.

As the girl gazed out with mute misery at the silent crowd, the executioner exercised the centuries-old ritual of begging forgiveness of the prisoner, by dropping down to one knee, his head bowed. Please, young lady, I beseech thee to forgive me for the grievous harm I am about to perform upon your person.

I f-f-forgive you, she stammered, her voice a hoarse whisper.

The executioner remained in position a moment longer, then slowly rose to his feet. Only a few villagers, those standing close to the scaffold, noticed the tears streaking down his cheeks from under the mask.

I am satisfied with your forgiveness, he said stiffly. I am therefore prepared to perform my task.

Don’t do it, a villager said. Pardon her. Spare her.

Very well, the Master at Arms said, glancing out nervously at the dock. From his vantage point on the scaffold, he possessed an unparalleled view of all the activity occurring down the hill at the docks, and when he glanced out beyond the harbor, he noticed a pinprick on the distant horizon.

Did it signify? A ship from Provence?

The Master at Arms inhaled sharply, craned his neck around and looked up the hill behind him, but saw no movement from the castle keep. Only the King could issue a pardon. With a quickening sense of urgency, he spoke. Mistress Josephine, you have been tried before a jury and found guilty of the crime of treason against the people of Germanica.

Aye, she sighed, her head bowed.

Why won’t the King pardon the poor girl? a voice called out.

Aye, aye, other voices said. Let her go. Let her go. Spare her. Spare the poor girl.

Before a jury of twelve men of the realm, the Master at Arms said, louder this time, you were found guilty of the crime of treason.

Men stood in judgment over her, an old woman spat. Bah. What do they know?

And as you have committed such an offense, one that offends the sanctity of the crown, you are sentenced to be drawn and quartered as punishment for your offense.

Aye, that’s the way. A voice called out from the crowd.

The villagers murmured in disagreement at this outburst.

But in his kind benevolence, the King has commuted your sentence to a hanging.

The maiden stirred, but did not collapse to the floor. No, the executioner’s words had effected a restoration upon her spirits, for the maiden stood steadfast.

And now, upon the morning of your execution, do you have any last words you wish to say?

I do, the maiden said.

Then, executioner, please assist the prisoner so she may step forward and speak to the noble citizens of the realm.

Noble citizens, indeed, the Master at Arms thought with a sour relish as he gazed down with disgust at the assembled villagers. More ignoble than noble.

Very well, Sir, the executioner said.

The executioner took the girl by one arm and gently guided her forward until she stood at the edge of the scaffold. She faced the crowd bravely. A few gasped in shock at the sight of her, for her belly bore proof of the inner life within.

This inner life had proven to be her undoing; by engaging in sexual congress with the Prince, and by carrying his now-illegitimate heir, this child threatened the sanctity of the throne and of the succession.

If the child lived, there’d forever after be those willing to court the princeling’s favor in order to gain control over the throne.

This, more than anything else, had signed the death warrant.

And yet, she’d been well loved. Many still remembered the acts of beneficence and charity she’d performed over the past eighteen months, and a little of this awareness caused the crowd to grow silent.

A few villagers looked up at her, their eyes filling with tears.

They’d once loved her. They’d looked upon her with love and admiration, and, yes, great love. They’d loved her.

A few women turned away and wept.

Some of the men looked down at the ground with shame and embarrassment. Yes, she’d committed treason, but they’d come to love her for her many acts of kindness and her charity and her goodwill and her love of the people.

For, after all, had she not been a most splendid princess?

The girl lifted her head, gazing out at the villagers assembled before her. Good people, she said, her voice rough at first, but as she continued to speak, her voice gained in strength. Please forgive me for the trespasses I have committed against you. With a trembling lip, she added, I meant none of you any harm.

Treason, a villager cried out. You’ve committed treason.

Hush, cried out the others.

I pray you will forgive me for the trespasses I have committed against you, she continued, for I did not intentionally mean to commit these sins, nor to cause you to lose your love for me.

The village women wept.

I meant to live well, and I meant to live happily with the Prince. Further, I meant to continue to carry out my acts of goodwill and charity throughout the realm, for all the days of my life upon this great green earth.

The crowd died down and grew silent.

In her bare feet, she stepped close to the edge of the scaffold stage, so close, her little toes peeped over the edge. I loved you all, and believe me when I say this to you. This past year has been the happiest of my life. For the first time in my life, I was treated with respect, humility, and affection. By all of you. By each and every one of you. And for that, I shall remain eternally grateful.

Save her, a villager cried out. Save her. She does not deserve to die.

In the hair’s breadth of a second, the will of the entire assemblage of villagers changed instantly.

Aye, save her. Spare her life.

Spare the girl’s life.

She was an angel to us.

She tended to my sick mother.

She nursed my husband back to health.

She gave alms to the poor, and she was kind and good.

Much kinder and much more beneficent than the Prince.

The Master at Arms noticed the ship, which had earlier appeared as a mere pinprick on the horizon. It drew closer to the harbor, the ship doubling, then quadrupling in size, until at last it filled up the entire sky, a magnificent battleship, regal in size and with cannons pointing at the village green.

The crowd murmured, an ugly stirring growing from within its ranks, and with it waves of repressed anger and resentment.

Out of the corner of his eye, the Master at Arms noticed the ship docking. Sailors scurried around, tying ropes to the pier, throwing a gangplank up to the ship’s entrance, shouting up at the sailors onboard. He sensed something bad happening. He cast an uneasy glance at the executioner, who nodded. The executioner stepped forward and gently guided the girl back to the rear of the scaffold, where the noose dangled from a beam high above their heads.

This is wrong, a villager cried out.

What did she do to deserve such an awful punishment, a villager cried out in anger. She was kind and true.

She tended to my sick child.

The executioner dropped a burlap hood over the girl’s head and laced the stays at the back of her neck. The crowd cried out in alarm.

Hurry now, the Master at Arms said.

Gently yet firmly, the executioner guided the young girl toward the noose and to the place on the floor where she needed to stand, just above the drop plank. The crowd thrummed with anger. A few villagers began climbing the steps.

Save her, the women cried to their men as they climbed the steps with pitchforks.

Stay where you are, the Master at Arms shouted at the men. If any of you interferes with this hanging, I shall have you brought before the Sergeant at Arms and tried for treason.

Aw, guvnor, one of the village men said. T’aint treason to try to save a young girl.

"I said silence," the Master at Arms said.

The villager looked down at his wife, who continued to implore him to intercede. While they talked, the crowd grew silent, but the rumblings of anger swelled and grew.

And then an entirely new voice, one not heard in the crowd earlier, shouted out from a casement window in the castle keep, high above their heads.

Save her. Oh, please, dear God, save her. A lone female stood at the casement window, reaching out her arms as if to implore the Master at Arms to stop the proceedings.

The villagers craned their necks around to gaze at the beautiful young woman with flaming red hair. She leaned out of the casement window, tears streaming down her cheeks. Save her. I implore you all. Please, save her.

The executioner gently nudged the prisoner into position until she stood directly over the trap door. He reached above his head for the noose, pulled it down, and draped it around the girl’s shoulders. It resembled a terrible necklace.

The crowd streamed forward, pushing on the supporting legs of the scaffold, making it rock. The prisoner stumbled, caught her balance, and stood upright again.

Stop it now, good people, the Master at Arms cried out. Or there shall surely be consequences to your actions.

Save her, the girl wailed from the casement window. Tear down the scaffold.

The executioner tugged on the noose to ensure its hold. He stepped back and, without any further preamble, pulled the lever down.

The trap door snapped open and the prisoner screamed out as her body dropped below the scaffold. Owing to the natural flexibility of the rope, her body bounced back up through the trap in the floor, then dropped down again, her bare feet dancing on air.

A scream of anguish rose up from the shipyard docks.

The body grew still.

Stop, I command you, shouted a man of regal bearing as he ran up the hill from the shipyard. Stop this execution.

But he’d arrived too late.

The crowd grew silent.

In the hushed silence, the crowd heard the straining of the rope as the prisoner choked. The fall had not broken her neck. She’d strangle to death, this one.

The executioner drew out a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. A dreadful business, a dreadful business indeed, he whispered.

Pray to God, the Master at Arms whispered fervently, this will end the conflict.

I don’t know, the executioner said, as the older man of regal bearing pushed his way through the crowd and ascended the scaffold steps, a look of rage in his eyes. I think our troubles are just beginning.

God help us all, the Master at Arms said.

Aye, the executioner said, but God is not with us, I fear.

The feet quivered one last time, then drew still.

1

Provence, twenty years earlier

J osephine, look who’s here, Lady Agatha, Josephine’s nursemaid said as the front door to the nursery opened and Queen Mathilda walked in.

Josephine, who’d been playing with her dolls, set them to one side and smiled up at the Queen. She got to her stubby little feet and ran to the Queen and wrapped her arms around her waist. Mama, oh, Mama, I’m so glad to see you.

The Queen stiffened. Don’t call me Mama, child.

Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot.

Oh, your Majesty, Lady Agatha said, Pay no mind to those idle gossips.

Nonetheless, Lady Agatha, the Queen said, looking over her shoulder. She turned back around and smiled. It’s all right. Nobody heard you. Now, you may kiss my hand.

Josephine did as she was bade, taking the Queen’s right hand and kissing it tenderly. The Queen, her right hand extended to accept the kiss, her left hand on her gently swelling belly, smiled down at the tiny girl. I’ve been longing to talk to you, my little Jo, for ever so long.

I shall leave you two alone, Lady Agatha said, to enjoy your talk.

Very well, Lady Agatha, the Queen said, and thank you.

Lady Agatha dropped a quick curtsey and left the nursery.

Josephine, my petite Cherie, come over here to the window seat, sit down with me and let us talk.

But of course, Ma—I mean, your Majesty.

A sound at the door. The Queen jumped with alarm and gazed at the person who’d just walked into the nursery. That’s fine, Lady Damascus. Thank you so much. I’m perfectly fine and want to be alone with my little Josephine.

Josephine gazed up at Lady Damascus. The lady-in-waiting stood for a moment, trembling, irresolute. Are you sure, my Grace? Especially in your condition, to be left alone for long periods of time.

I am perfectly fine, Lady Damascus, the Queen said, this time in a steely voice. Please leave me be.

A look passed between the two women, a look that Josephine, no doubt, was not meant to see. And yet, she did see it, but she did not understand what it meant. At last, with a heavy sigh, Lady Damascus turned and left the nursery.

The Queen uttered a shaky laugh. Well, then. Now we can have our cozy chat.

Keeping hold of the Queen’s hand, Josephine guided her over to the casement window overlooking the park. The Queen sat down upon the box-seat built into the stone wall and Josephine attempted to climb up onto her lap.

Oh, no, my darling, oh no, my sweet, the Queen said. My darling, there is no room on my lap anymore.

Josephine looked disconsolately at the Queen’s belly and sighed. Aye me, how I long for the day when your belly is slender again.

The Queen chuckled. As do I, my dear, as do I. She patted the cushion beside her. But you may snuggle up beside me, my dear.

I don’t like you this way, Josephine said, scrambling up onto the cushion beside the Queen. I want you back, all to myself.

Yes, Queen Mathilda said softly, soon, very soon, my sweet, you shall be able to sit upon my lap once again.

When, Mama? Josephine asked plaintively.

The Queen looked as if she wanted to reprove Josephine again. She glanced briefly toward the door to the nursery, then sighed and shook her head. I don’t know why they fuss at me so. It’s perfectly reasonable for you to want to call me mother.

What are you talking about, your Majesty? Josephine asked.

Nothing, my dear, nothing.

Oh.

The Queen’s brow contracted and she appeared to gaze at something far, far away, beyond the reaches of the stone walls. Deep in thought, Josephine watched her worriedly, when the Queen’s thoughts would return to the nursery, then, her features cleared, and she gazed down tenderly at Josephine. I shall give birth soon.

When?

Soon, my child, soon, very soon. The Queen reached forward and tucked a stray curl behind Josephine’s ear. Now, my sweet, what did you and Mr. Reginald, your tutor, work on today?

I’m learning my letters, Mama. Oh, wait, I mean, your Majesty.

Very good, very good, the Queen said, but then she let out a weary sigh and sank back against the cushions.

Mama? Josephine asked fearfully. Are you quite well, Mama?

Yes, my darling, but Mama does grow tired so very often these days.

Josephine gazed at the Queen with adoration. The Queen had made Josephine’s life possible, and she knew the story of her first arrival at the castle—an orphan babe in a wicker basket, the basket set down upon the stone step outside the kitchen—as well as she knew how to play the pianoforte, which was very well indeed.

If Queen Mathilda hadn’t just walked into the kitchen when Josephine was left in a basket on the stoop, and started to cry, who knew what her fate may have been? Tears of love filled her eyes, but the Queen chose this moment to close hers and turn her head away.

What troubles my dear, sweet Queen?

Josephine owed her life to the Queen, and it pained her every time she saw the strain behind the Queen’s eyes. The Queen concealed it from everyone else, but Josephine saw it. Something troubled the Queen, her smiles came less readily than they once did. Ever since she told Josephine of the arrival of a new child to the nursery, the Queen had appeared distressed and worried. She visited the nursery often, and always protested herself to be in the very best of health, but Josephine saw the tightening of the Queen’s lips, the dark shadows below her eyes, and she wondered. The Queen appeared to be strangely preoccupied and distant.

I wish this baby would hurry up and be born, Josephine said. Then I will get my mama back to myself again.

The Queen smiled wryly, her eyes still closed. Don’t you know, my child, how much busier I shall be once the baby is born? You are still the only child in the nursery, but everything will change when the baby arrives.

Aye, Mama, but Lady Agatha says you’ll be using a wet nurse, and then you and I can play again all we like.

The Queen’s eyelids fluttered open and she gazed at Josephine. A wet nurse, eh? Is that what Lady Agatha says?

Yes, indeed, Mama.

Ah, the Queen said, an edge of asperity in her voice, I see how it is. Lady Agatha decrees all. But then she smiled. She means well, I suppose. She just wants me back in the King’s bed, sooner than later, and producing more male heirs.

Josephine gazed up steadily at the Queen, hoping the Queen thought she understood every word. Whenever the Queen engaged in her grown-up adult talk, it broke Josephine’s heart to realize how little she truly understood. Why did a wet nurse make the difference between the Queen sleeping in the King’s bed, or not? Josephine shook her head. Oh, it was all a hopeless muddle. She pressed on. Then, once the baby is born, you and I can play again, Mama, and I can sit in your lap again, as before.

Yes, my darling.

Josephine looked up into her mother’s eyes and saw a frown. The Queen looked so troubled. A piercing fear lanced through her and she wondered what worried her dear adoptive mother, the Queen? For she looked so sad, so very, very sad.

Mama, what is wrong?

Oh, sweetheart, the Queen said, brushing her fingers across her cheeks, here I am, in the nursery, where I am always so very happy, and instead of focusing on you and on my time with you, I’m fretting over nonsense. As Josephine watched intently, the Queen did indeed appear to recover her spirits, for her blue eyes shone with a sudden light. And further good news, my sweet. After this baby is born, the King says I may formally adopt you.

A swell of joy filled up Josephine’s heart and burst open. Really, Mama?

Yes, really.

A wave of love washed over Josephine and she squeezed her mother’s hand and kissed it fervently. "I shall be so