Violently Sensitive — A Dark Retelling of The Princess and the Pea

In the dim, suffocating haze of the castle laundry room, steam hung thick like a storm cloud waiting to burst. The door creaked open, letting in a slice of brilliant morning sun, and through it barged Tessa, her elbows and knees slicing a path through the fog, an enormous basket of linens threatening to topple from her hip.

“One more, girls!” she hollered, dumping her burden into the broiling water, her sinewy arms plunging in right after.

Myrtle, pale and drenched, glanced up from her tub with a smirk half-concealed by damp hair.

“Morning, Tessa. Pregnant again, are you?”

Tessa flicked scalding water at her in reply, laughter bouncing off the stone walls.

“It’s this sauna that keeps me fresh, not the lads!”

Amid this banter stood the older woman, her hands turning the heavy mangle with mechanical rhythm. She chuckled, her chuckle carrying the sharpness of someone who’d seen life twist both linens and people alike.

The morning passed in gossip and grunts, the three women engrossed in their labors until Tessa paused, squinting at a sheet stained too dark, too saturated.

“There’s quite a bit of blood on this one.”

Myrtle looked over, brows raised.

“Another miscarriage?”

The older woman motioned Tessa to the mangle, flattening the cloth with practiced fingers. She examined it, her green eyes narrowing.

“No… too dark, too high up the sheet.” She twisted the fabric. “The menses is here, lower down.”

The three exchanged heavy looks, jaws tight, hearts heavier.

“Just clean it,” the older woman ordered.

Tessa’s hands attacked the stain with ferocity, her lips twisted in disdain.

“It’s nearly every week now,” she muttered.

“It’s mindless,” Myrtle started to say, but the older woman cut her off with a stern “Clean it.”

They knew where the stains came from.
They all knew.

Up in the castle’s tower chamber, a delicate woman — the Princess — suffered bruises beneath her silk, wounds covered not by ointment but by expectation. Each sheet told stories the palace preferred to bleach away.

Myrtle cleared her throat.

“It’s been over a year since she came.”

“No, just seems like it,” corrected Tessa. “She arrived last August. It’s only spring now.”

The memory of the Princess’s arrival was sharp: a proud, soaked figure from a violent storm, mud-streaked to her elbows, her back straight despite the rain plastering her hair. She spoke softly, yet assuredly — too regal to ignore.

“They should have seen it then, that she was no fraud,” Myrtle said.

“But there has to be the Test,” the older woman scoffed.

The Test. A pea, buried under twenty mattresses. A fable about sensitivity, but in truth a display of power, humiliation masked as tradition. The Queen, desperate for an alliance, orchestrated the ordeal with a painted smile. The Prince? He watched, silent and smirking, enjoying her torment.

Tessa remembered changing the bed the next day — the Princess’s agony evident with every limp step she took, her lip bitten raw to stifle cries of pain. The Prince, hands in pockets, observed with detached curiosity, satisfied.

“Just a little prick,” Tessa spat bitterly.

“Tess!” Myrtle scolded.

“Oh don’t deny it. That ‘pea’ was just a cover.”

And so, with the Test passed, the marriage was sealed. A political victory. The servants were fed, a fiddler hired for their dance. But they all remembered the bride, limping, her body mottled with bruises, the blue-black blush climbing her skin, unhidden despite the finery.

By winter, the kingdom’s fortune improved — trade routes reopened, soldiers reinforced borders, prices of flour and fish steadied. But still, no heir. The Prince grew impatient. Then came the storm in February, thunder outside, screams within. The Prince’s frustration found its outlet in fists and fury. The Princess’s body bore the evidence — washerwomen knew, because they scrubbed her blood from the sheets with increasing regularity.

“Can’t she ask for help?” Myrtle wondered aloud.

“Shame,” the older woman sighed. “Maybe she has no one. Far-off lords don’t send aid for a daughter they’ve married off like livestock.”

Silence. Then a different kind of remembrance — their own resistance. Years ago, Tessa’s poker had met the head of the older woman’s abusive husband. A quiet coup in the night. No justice but their own, but peace thereafter.

“Our little coup de grace was good, wasn’t it?” Tessa chuckled.

“Enough was enough,” the older woman smiled faintly. “We built peace for ourselves. And our daughters won’t know that horror.”

As the last sheet was rung out, the labor done, the older woman declared:

“Tomorrow is Sunday. You’ll visit your fiddler, Myrtle?”

“His name is David,” Myrtle huffed.

“Good at fiddlin’, though?” Tessa teased.

Myrtle rolled her eyes, but a smile played at her lips. They washed the sweat from their faces, stepped out into the May sunshine.

“Come by for apple wine,” the older woman offered. “If it’s any good, I’ll send you both home with a jug.”

Three women, arms linked, carried laughter and resilience into the sun, even while the castle walls still held shadows.

Moral of the Story

Not all bruises wash away, but sisterhood and resistance leave their own lasting mark — the quiet power of women standing together when no one else will.