The Rose Bride, page 13
Gold tissue, rose velvet, yards and yards of lace. Ombrine looked on from a gilt chair upholstered in black, scrolls and papers heaped around her dress and sheaves of pages on her lap.
As Jean-Marc watched quietly from the doorway, Desirée-as-Rose gazed at herself in the mirror, pushing back her blond hair just as he had done the night before.
“Give me that one,” Desirée said to Claire, pointing to a bolt of yellow satin. Claire was kneeling beside the lady with a pin in her mouth. She held a piece of vellum and a quill dipped in ink. She was making a dress pattern.
“Yellow? I think not, madame,” Claire said, shaking her head as one of her assistants picked up the bolt. “It will make you look sallow:’ She brightened. “I purchased a dress some time ago from a countess. It’s such a lovely shade of—”
Desirée stared at her as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “Are you disobeying me?”
“Rose,” Ombrine remonstrated.
“I want the yellow,” Desirée insisted. She held out her hand. “I had a closet full of yellow gowns before the fire. Give it to me. Now.”
Claire Marchand—who, after all, was the lady’s sister by marriage—jerked as if she had been slapped. “I only thought that—”
Desirée turned her gaze from Claire to Jean-Marc, noticing him for the first time. Color blossomed in her cheeks.
“M’excusez,” she murmured to Claire. “I’m a little tense. So much has happened:’ Her lower lip trembled and she bent down, taking the quill from Claire and fidgeting with it.
“She’s so worried about her sister,” Ombrine said in a half whisper. She turned and saw Jean-Marc. Immediately she leaped to her feet and swept a curtsy. All her lists and papers tumbled off her lap. “Your Highness. I didn’t see you there:”
Claire and her helpers scrambled to their feet as well, while Desirée curtsied atop the stool. He made a courtly bow in return.
“Bonjour, mesdames,” he said. “What is it that you’re so busy with?” he politely asked Ombrine.
“I’m taking an inventory of the household, sir.” She frowned at his raised eyebrows. “Ought I not? It was the way my husband trained me. I am showing Her Majesty how it’s done:”
Trembling, she began to gather everything up. Jean-Marc gently stopped her, laying his hands over hers. He was taken aback at how cold she was.
“Please, Mother,” he said, offering her the name as a token of his affection, “it’s kind of you to take such an interest,” And wholly unnecessary, but he didn’t tell her that. He had leagues of secretaries and men of the exchequer to see after his treasury. But he sensed she needed to do something useful to keep her mind off her grief.
“Desirée” had still not been found.
“What do you think, sir?” Desirée asked him. She gestured to the yellow. “Does it make me look sallow?” At her urging, Claire took the bolt and held it beneath Desirée’s chin. Both looked to the king for his opinion.
It did make her look sallow. But he said, “If yellow pleases you, you should wear it. You should wear a dozen yellow gowns.”
“But does it please you?” she asked.
“Oui.” He gestured to the other bolts and swaths of fabrics. “What else have you chosen?”
“Many satins, laces, and ribbons, for which I do thank you,” Desirée murmured. She hesitated and glanced at Ombrine, who looked uncomfortable.
Jean-Marc gestured for Desirée to speak.
“If you please, were not sure how to approach this subject with you,” she confessed. “But in the matter of my stepsister, were beginning to lose hope. We’re wondering about . . . about . . .” She swallowed back her tears.
Ombrine swept a graceful hand across her own black gown. “It’s a delicate situation, sir. Should the queen wear mourning for Desirée?”
He was moved. “Not yet,” he said. “We’ll keep looking.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Ombrine swept another curtsy.
“We’ll find her,” he promised.
“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise, Highness:” Ombrine touched her fingers to her chest. “Please forgive me:”
He wanted to tell his mother-in-law not to be so formal, but that would come in time. He crossed to her and gently raised her from her curtsy.
“After we’re finished here, were going to visit my brother,” Desirée told Jean-Marc. Her eyes gleamed. ‘All at once, I have a brother and a husband. Its like ... magic.” She grinned as if at a private joke.
“Like the birds that attacked the Pretender,” Jean-Marc agreed. “Surely, the gods favor us,”
“Surely,” she drawled. She giggled behind her hand.
“Why are you so amused?” Jean-Marc asked her. His brows raised. “Do you have a secret?”
“Of course she doesn’t,” Ombrine cut in. “A queen tells her husband everything. She is loyal and faithful, and her lord’s to command. Is this not so, Rose?”
Desirée’s smile faded. She cleared her throat and said, “Even so, Maman.”
“Your Highness?” It was one of Jean-Marc’s councillors, standing diffidently in the doorway. The king’s respite was over. It was time to return to affairs of state.
“Ladies, I’ll away,” he said.
The roomful of women curtsied again.
As he turned, Desirée said in a loud voice, “I think I should skip the yellow. You’re quite right, dear sister. It does make me look sallow.”
Jean-Marc smiled to himself and left to join the privy council.
Keeping to the trees, Rose found the statue of Artemis at the head of the reflecting pond, where she had met the king that morning. Meeting him had shaken her. She could think of nothing but him. Now that she knew his scent, she smelled it everywhere and when it was free of Desirée’s odor, it wove a powerful spell on her. It was intoxicating. It made her daydream of being his bride. Of living in luxury and joy with him, and with her brother.
And with children.
The larks sang like him. The sun glowed like him.
I must find the herd, she thought, seeking comfort. I must not be alone in this. She pawed the ground and bleated. No one answered.
Perhaps they had abandoned her because she had dared to approach the king. She didn’t know, but she went in search of them. Her nose worked to detect their scents, but Jean-Marc’s scent was too overpowering.
As she wandered, she came upon a road. A ram shackle cart pulled by a sway-backed horse stood in the mud. Behind it, a shrieking woman in tatters and rags ran with her arms stretched toward a little boy no more than ten years old. He was sandwiched between two men in livery, and heavy chains weighed down his thin arms.
“It was a loaf of bread!” she shrieked. She stumbled in the mud. “All he took was a loaf! We are starving!”
“It was theft,” the taller guard said over his shoulder. “If you worked your fields, you’d have plenty to eat:”
“1 have no husband to work the fields! Jacques is all I have! We do the best we can!”
The tall guard said nothing, simply yanked on the chain and dragged the boy along. The boy slipped in the mud and fell and the short guard kicked him in the side.
“On your feet!” he bellowed.
“Jacques!” the woman screamed. She ran faster. “Is this the way the king treats his subjects? If it is, better we should have another king! Better that the Pretender had won the day!”
Both guards stopped. They turned. The tall one looked at the short one and a malicious smile broke across his face.
“You know, I’ve need of a cart and a horse he said in a low voice to the other man. He dropped the chain and sprinted toward the woman. “You’ll be hung for treason for that! And all your goods taken by the Crown!”
“Maman, run!” the boy shouted.
Without pausing, the woman threw up her hands. “Au secours!” she cried. “Help a widow and her orphan!”
Without thinking, Rose broke her cover. She dashed onto the road and charged the tall guard. He tumbled facedown into the mud.
The short guard broke into laughter while the other one sputtered and flailed. Sighting him down, Rose saw murder in his eyes. She read violence in his scent.
Danger! Run!
She nudged the woman, who seemed to understand that Rose meant for her to flee.
“Not without Jacques!’ she told Rose. “My boy, save my boy!”
Rose wheeled around and headed for the short guard and the little boy. The guard’s eyes grew huge, his mouth dropped open and he sank to his knees in the muck. He let go of Jacques’s chain and lowered his head.
“M’excusez,” he murmured.
Rose looked down at her mud-streaked legs. Beneath the filth, her fur was white. And it was glowing.
She knew then that she was on the goddess’s business.
She slowed her pace and raised her head, glaring down at the man. Fumbling, he fished in his pocket and produced a key. He unlocked the manacle and made a show of releasing the boy, who bobbed his head at Rose and ran straight for his mother.
Rose stayed as she was. She didn’t move until she heard the wheels of the rickety cart.
“Merci, merci bien!” the woman cried.
“Please don’t hurt me,” the guard whimpered to Rose.
What can I do to you? she thought incredulously.
“We won’t follow them,” he cried. “I swear it.”
Rose was bemused. Hadn’t Elise encouraged her to act with justice and mercy once she was a great lady? And so she had, in a most unexpected way.
I thank you, Artemis, she thought as the two men stared warily at her.
With a flick of her tail, she bounded away into the safety of the woods.
I have challenged men, she thought. I stood firm. I did not run.
Then she stopped glowing. Her white fur turned brown and she was an unremarkable doe again.
She went once more in search of her herd.
And as she traveled, Rose saw terrible things existing side by side with the lavish royal court: The strong oppressed the weak. The rich robbed the poor. The kings own guards bullied the peasantry; his tax collectors took more than they should. Too many fields were either completely barren or choked with weeds. Houses were tumbling down.
Did Jean-Marc not know? Did he not care? Why had he let these things happen? There was nothing of love in this.
Why did she need to ask how these things had happened? It was the way of the world of men. Similar things had happened to her. Perhaps deer lived a better life, closer to the perfection of the gods. Perhaps that was why Artemis loved them so.
Perhaps it would be best to remain in the forest and give up her human journey.
With that thought in mind, she looked for her herd.
TWELVE
As Rose continued her search for the herd, she came upon Reginer’s château again. The royal newlyweds were visiting him, an occasion of joy.
“My brother, my dear brother; Desirée cooed as she stepped from the ornate litter that had transported her to Reginer’s home. Ombrine had ridden in a second one. Jean-Marc sat astride a fine black steed.
Several guards and a lady-in-waiting came with them, carrying several jewel-encrusted goblets covered with golden saucers. From her vantage point, Rose could smell the liquid that two of the goblets contained: wine laced with sulfur and something else—something foul.
Rose watched until the front door closed. Then she trotted around to the side of the house, to the leaded glass window where her portrait still stood. She saw her reflection. She was a plain brown doe.
Reginer and his wife, Claire, made obeisance as Jean-Marc, Ombrine, and Desirée entered Reginer’s studio.
“I brought you something to celebrate our reunion,” Desirée said. Rose could hear her through the window. At her signal, the lady-in-waiting glided forward with a tray. On it sat five goblets. Desirée lifted the tainted goblets and held them out to Reginer and his wife. “Its an old family recipe.”
No! It’s poison!
Rose clopped the earth and laid her ears flat. She bleated with fear. She couldn’t stop herself. It was the deer part of her, reacting to danger. She pranced backward, away from the window. Her heartbeat roared in her ears. She smelled her own fear.
Danger, run! her deer self exhorted her. Escape!
She pictured the Marchands dead. Her terror escalated into panic.
What can I do? What can I do?
She whirled in a circle. She told herself to charge the window. She circled around and around, dizzy and out of control.
Artemis! she cried.
Then she bolted for the stable. She raced through the open gate and charged inside. A little dog bolted from its bed in the hay and faced her down, yipping in a high, piercing voice. The horses complained, chuffing and whinnying.
She harried the dog, darting toward it, bobbing her head. The dog yipped more loudly. The horses kicked at their stalls. They threw back their heads and neighed.
“For the love of the gods, what is wrong?” Reginer demanded as he strode into the stable. “What is this deer doing here?”
Relieved, Rose prepared to face him. Perhaps she could communicate with him, make him see who she was.
But as she turned, she smelled Desirée.
Rose darted through the stable and out the other door. She fled into the shelter of the trees and turned, watching as the Marchands’ little dog burst out of the stable followed by Reginer.
“Monsieur Pierre,” he remonstrated the pup as he scooped him up.
Desirée appeared, laughing; the dog growled at her and bared his teeth. He lunged as if he would tear out Desirée’s throat.
“Monsieur Pierre! Tais-toi!” Reginer said. He huffed. “What was a deer doing in my stable?”
“Where is your stable boy? Your groomsmen?” Desirée asked.
“I gave them all leave to attend a feast with the kings horsemen,” he said.
Scrabbling against Reginer’s chest, the little dog lunged at her again.
“How ferocious,” she drawled, amused. Rose’s face still hovered above her own. Could no one else see the magic?
“I’ll take him inside,” Reginer said.
Reginer went back into the stable, leaving Desirée alone. Rose shrank back as Ombrine joined her. The two stood close together.
“Stupid dog,” Desirée snarled. “I’ll poison him too:”
“Hush, my love,” Ombrine said in a low voice.
“Let it go. We have what we want. You are queen and it seems that Rose is truly dead. No one has found her.”
Desirée’s smile sent chills down Rose’s back. She had to close her eyes and look away, so that she wouldn’t bleat or stamp the ground.
“Our god is great,” Ombrine continued. “He saved us, did he not?”
“With all those birds,” Desirée said. “Jean-Marc believes that Zeus sent them. Or Ares. I can’t keep it straight. He’s so gullible.”
“The Marchands are not, however. The painter’s been looking at us strangely. I think he suspects something.” She sighed. “So it was with Laurent. He saw Celestine in me. He wanted her, not me. Murmuring her name, while I changed his filthy bed linens.”
“There, there, Mother,” Desirée said. “If not for him, we would not have met Rose. And it was she the king wanted.”
“And he has her, thanks be to the God of Shadows.” They put their foreheads together and smiled. “All that money she had squirreled away, rotten girl. It paid for our full acceptance into the Sorcerer’s Circle. And now we can make men see us as we wish them to. Truly a dream come true for any woman.”
“Yes, the king sees what he wishes to see,” Desirée concurred. “But for how long, Mother? And what if others see something else? Someone else? Me?”
Ombrine laughed, low and clever and evil. “Why do you think I took that inventory? We’ll take little things no one will miss and pay the Circle for more spells, more power. No one will touch us. Ever.”
“No more starving. No more rags,” Desirée exulted.
“I’ve been thinking that perhaps the god took Rose as payment. If so, he has favored us twice over. We are certainly blessed:”
“Oui,” Desirée said cheerily as she adjusted the cuff on her fine gown.
“Now, come, let’s make sure Reginer Marchand drinks his wine.”
No! Rose took an unthinking step toward them, panicking when she realized what she’d done. But they didn’t see her.
With a second step, they would.
She caught her breath and forced herself to stay rooted to the spot.
Just then, Reginer’s wife, Claire, came out of the stable. She was holding two of the golden goblets.
“Ooh, that dog,” Claire said, with a moue of apology as she held them upside down and shook them, as if to illustrate her point. “He got loose and ran all over the studio! And I’m afraid he knocked over the wine,”
Rose was startled. She remembered the two times she herself had dumped out Ombrine’s proffered goblets. Was the goddess still at work?
“What a pity.” Ombrine reached out and took the goblets. “We’ll have to make some more.”
“Indeed,” Desirée said.
The week of feasting ended and life for most in the Land Beyond went back to normal. But for Jean-Marc life extended into a state of bliss. He was a husband again and he hoped to become a father soon. In the evenings, he would return from his long day as king to find “Rose” standing at the balcony, gazing up at the stars with a faint smile on her face. In the mornings, the sun glimmered through her blond hair and dusted her creamy skin with gold.
With the queen by his side, Jean-Marc resumed the custom of dining with his nobles. After the death of Lucienne, he had usually dined alone. Now jesters and acrobats came to court. Minstrels and troubadours sang of love in the greenwood. His life was full to bursting, just like his heart.
Of an evening, he would stroll alone by the reflecting pond and think about the journey his heart had taken. The early death of his mother, Queen Marie, had cast a shadow over his childhood, and Lucienne was the sunshine that turned dour youth to happy manhood. Then her death sent him to a land of utter blackness, and sorrow was the only house where Jean-Marc could lay his head. Grief became his sanctuary.
