Princess Tamsin and the Stuck Drawbridge

On the night of the royal feast, Castle Brindlemoor glowed like a lantern on its hill. Every window shone gold, and the smell of roasted chestnuts and leek soup drifted down the stone corridors.

But outside the great gates, the whole kingdom stood waiting. Farmers in their best waistcoats, children clutching paper crowns, and old grandmothers with baskets of honey cakes all stared hopefully at the drawbridge, waiting for it to come down.

But it did not move. It was stuck fast, drawn up tight against the gate like a sleepy eyelid that refused to open.

Inside the great hall, the king tapped his fingers on the table and the queen smiled a very tight smile. Guards hauled on the chain, but the drawbridge stayed stuck fast against the gate. Nothing happened.

'It has never done this before,' said Gruff the guard captain, mopping his brow. He tugged his bushy moustache, which he did whenever he was worried.

Princess Tamsin, who was supposed to be sitting politely, had already slipped from her chair. She patted the screwdriver tucked in her sash and gave a deliberately terrible curtsy.

'Excuse me,' she whispered. 'I think I know where the trouble is hiding.'

Tamsin tiptoed down a winding back stair that smelled of dust and old candle wax. Each step creaked a different note, and she knew them all by heart.

She slipped through a tiny door behind the kitchens, where the air was thick with the smell of warm bread. Lottie Fiddle, the little cook in the tall white hat, looked up from a bubbling pot.

'Your Highness!' said Lottie, flour puffing from her apron. 'Where are you off to?'

'To mend the drawbridge,' said Tamsin. 'Keep the soup warm for me.'

The night air outside was cool and silver. Tamsin crept along a narrow ledge beside the gatehouse, her slippers gripping the mossy stones as she had done a hundred times before.

Below her, the moat lay still as a black mirror, and across it a thousand faces looked up in hope. A little boy waved a paper crown at her.

Tamsin did not wave back. Waving was for balconies. She was looking at something far more interesting: the great iron hinge where the drawbridge chain met the gate.

Tamsin shuffled up to the great hinge and peered at it in the moonlight. It was as big as a wheelbarrow, rusted orange, and wedged with something small and dark.

She pulled the screwdriver from her sash and poked gently. Out popped a very old, very stubborn acorn, which a squirrel must have tucked there last autumn.

'Aha,' said Tamsin, holding the acorn up to the moon. 'So you are the culprit.'

But the hinge was still stiff, and when she pushed, it gave only a tired little groan.

The hinge needed oil, and Tamsin had none. She chewed her lip and thought, which was the thing she did best when standing still was impossible.

Then she remembered the beehive baskets on the market stall below, and the jars of golden honeycomb the grandmothers had brought. Honeycomb was waxy and smooth, and it smelled of summer.

'Please,' she called softly down to the crowd. 'May I borrow a little honeycomb?'

An old woman in a green shawl chuckled and sent a small jar up on a rope. 'Fix it, dear,' she called. 'We are very hungry.'

Tamsin dipped her finger in the jar and spread soft golden honeycomb all over the hinge, working it into every crack and curve. The sweet smell mingled with the cool night air.

She pushed the lever with her shoulder. It squeaked once, a tiny mouse-squeak, then a low groan, then a long, loosening sigh, like a sleepy eyelid finally blinking open.

Above her, the great chain rattled and began to run. The drawbridge shuddered, shivered, and started to tilt toward the water.

Down, down, down came the drawbridge, as slow and graceful as a bowing swan. It touched the far bank with a soft, wooden thump, and the whole kingdom cheered.

Children raced across it with their paper crowns flying. Farmers tipped their hats. The little boy ran straight up to Tamsin and held out his crown.

'You fixed it,' he said, grinning. 'You are the best princess ever.'

Tamsin looked at the crown, then at her honey-sticky hands, and laughed. 'I only used a little honeycomb,' she said. Then she waved up to the old woman in the green shawl, who smiled and began sharing the rest of the golden honeycomb with the hungry crowd, one sweet piece at a time.

Back in the great hall, the soup was still warm. Lottie Fiddle had kept every pot simmering, and steam curled up toward the rafters like happy ghosts. Beside every bowl sat a small dish of golden honeycomb from the market, and everyone licked their fingers happily.

The king rose and raised his goblet. 'To Tamsin,' he said, 'who found the trouble, and fixed it before the soup went cold.'

The queen was smiling a real smile now, not a tight one at all. 'Perhaps balconies are overrated,' she murmured. Beside her, Gruff the guard captain gave his bushy moustache a happy little twirl.

Tamsin slid into her chair, the acorn tucked safely in her pocket, and sipped the warmest, tastiest leek soup she had ever known. Outside, the drawbridge stood open, swaying gently, as if it were humming.