Author's Note: Another Creative Writing assignment. This one was supposed to allude to a nursery rhyme. I chose The Queen of Hearts... if you've never heard it, look it up... but the basic story is that the Queen of Hearts makes some tarts, and the knave of hearts steals them clean away. The king gets them back and has the knave beaten "full sore" for his deed. My question was this: why did the knave steal the tarts? Thus, this story was born...

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The Knave of Hearts

D. A. Giehl

On the ground, he stared through the window to dizzying stars. A dull ache pulsed just below his temple, and a metallic taste in his mouth mingled with saliva and made him feel sick, but still he kept his gaze on the faraway sky.

"Filthy knave," the shadow behind him growled. "Foolish, foolish servant--what sort of man steals from the queen? What man, who wishes to keep his dignity?"

Silence, for the servant boy knew he'd had no dignity to defend from the beginning. The shadow struck again; the blunt staff whipped out in a blur and sent the boy sprawling against the wall. Yet he uttered no cry and would not look up, even as blood trickled from his scalp. With his wrists bound behind his back, the boy could do nothing to wipe it away.

The shadow bit his lip in suppressed rage. "First you try to steal the surgeon's bag, right under my nose! I had no evidence then and let you away once more. But now…" The shadow's grin glinted in the window's light. "…Now you've stolen from the royal banquet table. Took a whole meal's worth clean away. Do we not feed you enough? We would give you scraps if you begged, but stealing the food of royals…"

The servant had heard this conviction before and did not wish to hear it again. On that summer's day, the queen had called a banquet. The servants were not told of the occasion--why would they be? An invitation was out of the question. So the banquet had been set in the grand hall, alone with the servants that scrubbed the dishes and cleaned the floors. The boy had seen the food, steaming there on the table, warm and welcoming. Roast beast and cranberries and ales of all sorts. He knew his mother hadn't tasted such food in years, and soon she would never have the chance again.

He'd been certain nobody was watching. He was alone, save for the bucket of water and puddle on the marble floor. The food beckoned, and he took armfuls and ran for the servant's quarters.

But he had been seen.

The prince, standing in the shadows, smiled.

"You're lucky I did not tell my father of the other things you've done," the shadow went on, "or your punishment would be worse, knave. I've only been told to beat you full sore… and make you swear to steal no more."

Tongue sliding over his lips, the servant boy said nothing. He leaned his head back against the wall and looked above to the barred dungeon window; the dusty light brightened his eyes.

"Vow you'll steal no more, knave."

I can promise nothing. He did not know what she would need next--the boy knew he may need the surgeon's bag again, to see what medicines lay within--medicines that would only be given to royals, never to sickly servants. And she may need food as well. Perhaps not the queen's banquet, but the daily soup was not enough to keep her well. I cannot vow.

The shadow stepped into the window's rays of light; his crown glimmered and his eyes were full of hate. "What say you? Vow to steal no more!" The boy dug his teeth into his bottom lip and glared up at the prince. "Damn you!"

Another blow and the servant fell sidelong, head thudding against the cold floor. Lying there, he watched blood drip from his forehead to the ground and taint the stone. Still he was silent, even as the prince stood above him and gave a dry laugh.

"Have you gone mute? Or will you sooner die than speak these words?"

The prince's strikes came stronger then, one after the other, throwing the boy back and forth, to the floor and against the wall. The boy did nothing more than grunt and whimper--crimson dripped into his eyes and his hands were slick with it; his back was bruised and he scraped his shoulders all along the ground. He bit his lip until it bled.

Finally the prince ceased and stood panting with the rod trailing from one hand. The boy lay crumpled in the corner, dirtier than he'd ever been.

"It is simple, knave," the prince hissed. "You vow not to steal, and this stops. What holds you back? Why have you not learned…? There must be something--no one, not even filthy servants, is this willing to die."

The servant coughed and spat.

"Perhaps that's it--perhaps you want to die." The crowned one grabbed the boy by his collar and held him high into the light from the window. Grinning like one who'd just discovered the secret to ruling the world, he put the stick to the boy's neck and pressed him to the wall. Legs dangling, the servant's eyes widened.

"You die, then. If nothing else will get you to vow… you have nothing to live for."

No!

The boy kicked and struggled, twisting his hands behind him against their bindings. He coughed and flailed, but the prince only pushed harder against his neck, eyes narrow and face split by a slit of a grin.

I can't--! If I die, no one will look after…

Blood pounded in his head and the corners of his vision fizzled black. Tears of pain and hate blurred what he could see; the prince's face warped until his grin seemed to be six feet across. Still the strangling staff did not release him.

Mother…

With all the air left in his lungs, the servant screamed.

Falling away, the staff's end tapped against the stone ground as the boy crumpled, choking on his own ragged breath.

"Vow."

He knew any protest was useless--it had been useless from the beginning. What prince would hear the pleading of a servant? The boy could have committed any crime--from stealing the queen's crown to her petty tarts and still be beaten full sore without a word for his own defense. Servants could have no reasons for any crime against the crown--and who would have ever heard the knave of hearts' cries?

Trembling, the servant wept and his lips formed the desired words: "I will steal no more."

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End Note: Yes, I -do- have an addiction to writing about servant boys. Note that I was only allowed to allude to the nursery rhyme, not continue on it--thus the tarts are only mentioned and not the focal point of the knave's deeds.

Thank you for reading, and please review!