A king once had a daughter so beautiful that, when she came into the great hall, even the candle flames seemed to stand straighter. Suitors were invited from many lands, arriving in velvet and fur, with silver belts at their waists and fine horses waiting in the court below. But the princess looked at each one and found something to laugh at. One was too tall, another too short, one too broad, and another too pale. And when a good king stood before her whose chin curved a little forward, she smiled and said it was shaped like a thrush’s beak. From that day on, he was called King Thrushbeard.
The old king heard every word. He did not raise his voice, but laid his hand on the arm of his chair and said, “My daughter, this shall not go on. The first suitable man who comes to my gate shall be your husband.” The princess lowered her eyes then, for the hall had grown very still. Yet a vow spoken by a king is like a bell struck in winter air. It carries far, and it does not come back unsounded.
A few days later, a traveling musician came beneath the palace windows. He wore a worn cloak, and his lute had been mended more than once, but he sang in a clear voice that rose through the courtyard. The king listened from above and said, “He is an honest man, and he came first. Prepare the wedding.” So …
6 chapters
