Beauty (8 page)

‘Soldiers will have searched it already, and no doubt wrecked anything of any use. They’re rarely the most subtle of men.’ They turned a corner and suddenly Petra recognised where they were: the large market square that sat at the heart of the common people’s part of the city. The huntsman led them towards the monument in the middle. ‘And I might not know where he’s been hiding, but I have a good idea where we’ll find him.’ He pointed at the lines scratched into its surface. ‘Someone was alive all this time. If it was him then the best hunter in the world won’t find him. He’s had a hundred years to explore this city. He’ll know every nook and cranny and secret space in it. But people can’t hide forever and this Rumplestiltskin must know that at some point he will be spotted by someone. What would you do if you were him?’

Petra looked at the lines which grew more unsteady with each marker of time. ‘I would want to get away. Before the queen got too organised again.’ She pulled her cloak tightly round her. ‘But where could he go?’

‘We got in. I imagine he saw us. If I was him I’d try that spot in the forest wall first.’

‘But the forest closed up again behind us,’ she said.

‘Which is why we have a chance to catch him. And then maybe the forest wall will be kind enough to let us out again.’

‘Good luck getting the prince to leave,’ she muttered under her breath as they moved on again, at a faster pace this time. ‘He’s completely under her spell.’

P
etra was out of breath and slightly sweaty by the time they’d followed the road to the city’s edge. Here and there they’d ducked out of sight from passing groups of soldiers, but none noticed them, and they made so much noise as they approached that there was plenty of time to find a good corner or shadows to hide in. The huntsman studied the high matted wall of the forest and then smiled. ‘Look,’ he whispered. Petra followed his gaze. A bronze coin sat in the thick grass. ‘A marker. He must have left it here after we came through. Remind him where the place was.’ He looked around, scanning the area in the gloom. ‘Over there,’ he said, nodding towards a cluster of weeds and overhanging branches. ‘We’ll hide there until he comes.’

She had no real desire to press herself against the forest wall again – the memory of how it had tried to suffocate them on their way in was still fresh in her mind – but she stood behind the huntsman and did as he did. The perfume which enveloped them from behind was almost overwhelming, as if every plant and flower had a place in the wall. There was oak and sandalwood, lilies, lilac and apple blossom mixed with blackberry and the crisp scent of thick green leaves. For a moment, it almost made Petra giddy.

‘When will he come?’ she whispered.

‘Dawn, I think. He’ll want more light.’

As it turned out, it was not a long wait. After twenty minutes or so a dark silhouette scurried into view and, peering out between the branches, Petra knew it was the man they sought. He was tall and perhaps fifty years of age, and wore a crimson jacket that had seen better days. He had a heavy-looking knapsack on his back from the top of which the tip of a spindle poked out. Petra held her breath as he came closer to them, muttering under his breath and scanning the ground until he reached down and picked up the coin. In his other hand he carried a small axe and, after slipping the coin into his pocket, he began to hack at the thick greenery in front of him.

Petra barely felt the huntsman move. He dropped to a crouch, below Rumplestiltskin’s sightline, and moved silently out from their hiding place, working his way in a circle so he came up behind the man. The trees rustled as the axe beat into them, and with the sky slowly lightening a flurry of leaves danced around Rumplestiltskin while he tore at the wall, focused entirely on his task. Behind him the huntsman came closer, slowly and steadily, no sudden movements to alert his prey, until, with only two or three feet separating them, he lunged forward, fluid and agile.

It happened so quickly that Petra barely had time to gasp before the huntsman had spun Rumplestiltskin around and in his moment of shock, taken the axe from him. The man let out a low moan and slumped against the forest wall. Petra stepped out from her hiding place.

‘You,’ Rumplestiltskin said, his voice clear in the still dawn as he looked from the huntsman to her and back again. His eyes glistened and shone with despair. ‘What did you do? Why did you wake her?’

‘We need to take you back to the castle,’ the huntsman said. ‘This is not our business. You and your peers can resolve it.’ Petra was surprised by the kindness of his tone.

‘You’ve made it your business,’ Rumplestiltskin wailed. ‘
You
woke her. It was so close. After all this time, so long a time, a hundred years of waiting. It was so close. And then you woke her.’

Petra kept her distance. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting but this complete emotional desolation wasn’t it. Not after what she’d seen of the other ministers. But then, this man had been awake for the hundred years they’d all slept. What would that do to a person?

‘After everything I lost,’ he whispered, his eyes filling with tears. ‘Everything I foolishly gave up. And then you
woke
her. And now everything is just as it was before.’ He looked up at the huntsman. ‘You stupid, stupid strangers.’

And then he broke. His shoulders slumped further and as he wept a low moan erupted from him carrying in it a hundred years of loneliness and despair. It was a terrible sight. She’d thought he would beg them to let him go, plead for his life, ask to be saved from whatever punishment awaited him at the castle, but instead he was resigned to it. Looking at the small axe he’d brought with him, that was now tucked into the huntsman’s belt, perhaps he had never truly believed he could cut his way free.

The huntsman, clearly moved by the man’s plight, stepped forward to put an arm around his shoulders, and Petra was so focused on the scene in front of her she didn’t hear the footsteps rushing up behind her until it was too late.

Suddenly, she was jerked backwards by her red coat, and as strong arms roughly held her she felt cold, sharp steel against her throat. She let out a short yelp and the huntsman turned, Rumplestiltskin forgotten.

‘You’ll give him to me now.’ The voice was gruff and the breath that hit her cheek was stale. She could feel a metal breastplate against her back and she wriggled slightly to try and break free but his arms were strong. He stank of sweat.

‘Why don’t you release the girl then, soldier?’ the huntsman said. ‘We’re all on the same side here. We were bringing him back as instructed.’

‘He’s not going anywhere. I’ve got my orders. There are more men behind me.’ His grip on Petra tightened and she struggled to breathe. ‘Kill him now and we might let you both live.’

‘Let the girl go. She’s done nothing.’ The huntsman took a small step forward and held up his hands. ‘You do what you have to. But I’m not killing a man in cold blood.’

‘Stay back.’ The soldier – Petra guessed from the tension in his body that he was young and nervous under his bluster – pressed the knife harder against her neck. Too hard. A sharp pain upon her skin and she yelped again, knowing the knife had nicked her. Warmth trickled down her neck. Blood.

The huntsman froze. And then, from nowhere, it came, bounding over the huntsman and leaping towards Petra with a terrifying, angry growl.

The wolf.

It filled her vision. Thick blue-grey fur over a vast, muscular frame. This was no ordinary wolf, like those who scavenged her grandmother’s goats. This was ethereal and earthy at once. It was twice the size and its fur shone so brightly that even in the dead light of dawn it seemed to glow. It flew through the air before her. Eyes that burned yellow and sharp teeth behind bared black lips. Claws extending from enormous paws. It was rage. It was fury.

Just before it hit her, Petra thought it was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. And then the air was gone from her lungs and she was on the ground.

T
he ball had finished an hour or so before, but the prince and Beauty couldn’t bear to part company just yet. The prince was sure he should be tired, but the sheer elation of having found love kept him wide awake. Although they had kissed, many times now, there was an innocence about her that stopped him suggesting they go to her rooms despite the throbbing desire he felt for her. He’d wait for their wedding night and then he’d take her gently and sweetly and their love would not be sullied by haste. She was so pure. After all the serving girls and wenches he’d shared his time with he was now almost ashamed of his past earthy encounters. Perhaps he should have kept himself pure for her. But then princes were supposed to be men of the world, and it was right that he should have experience: she was queen, but he would be master of their bedroom.

As night inched towards day they walked arm in arm, pausing here and there as she pointed out paintings she loved, or pieces of ornate sculpture she had commissioned, and slowly she showed him around her vast home; a castle equal to his father’s own in wealth and lavishness. They paused in the kitchens where the night bakers had made fresh bread for the morning, and Beauty’s kind words to them made the men blush as she praised them in their work.

Nibbling on hot croissants they wandered back into the heart of the castle and through the ballroom that had so recently been full of music and dancing. He pulled her close and they spun, laughing like children, across the floor until they reached the far door and paused to kiss. She was so natural in his arms and he ran his fingers down her face, brushing them across the tops of her breasts and listening to her sigh and shudder slightly with pleasure. She wanted him too, he could see it in the slight parting of her perfect lips and the haze in her eyes.

‘I love you,’ she said softly and then smiled.

‘I love you too.’ And he did. She was perfect.

From the ballroom, she led him into the library, all the walls lined with thousands of books which filled polished mahogany and oak shelves. As shafts of sunlight cut through the windows, Beauty ran from one shelf to another pointing out her favourite stories from childhood; princes who slayed dragons on the Far Mountain, pirate tales from the eastern seas and other tales of love, magic and adventure. As she giggled and promised him that they would read these stories together one day, to their own children, the prince spied a small door in the corner, virtually unnoticeable among the beauty and colour of the books around it. It was wooden, mahogany like the shelves, and as he opened it he was sure he heard the tinkling of distant bells. He looked up to see wires running from the hinges and up into the ceiling. A servants’ bell? But why here? This was an in-between place, nowhere you would stop and require refreshments or a fire lit. Why would you? It was simply a narrow corridor. Was the door left over from some conversion years ago? Had the corridor once been part of a different room? He stepped forward, curious.

‘Beauty,’ he called back to her. ‘What’s down here?’ The corridor was unadorned with any portraits and there was only a plain oak door at the other end. He walked towards it, not waiting for her, and lifted the heavy iron ring handle. He turned it and pushed, but nothing happened. The door was locked.

‘I never come down here.’ Beauty’s voice sounded small, all humour gone from it, and he looked back to see her frowning slightly at the other end of the corridor. ‘Why don’t we go now? I’m tired. We should go to bed.’

The prince crouched slightly and peered through the keyhole. It was dark but he could just about make out the red of the walls and what looked like heavy black curtains. Gold glinted here and there. ‘I think it’s another ballroom,’ he muttered, before straightening up and turning back to her. ‘And you’ve never seen it? How can that be?’

She had started to tremble a little and her mouth tightened. ‘I don’t want to be here.’

‘But aren’t you curious? Surely you should know all the parts of your castle. You are the queen, after all.’

‘I said I don’t want to be here.’ The trembling was becoming more visible and as Beauty backed away from him, she tugged at her hair, pulling strands free from the carefully arranged curls piled on her head.

‘What’s the matter?’ What was suddenly upsetting her? Had someone died in this room? One of her parents perhaps? ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, rushing towards her. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

He reached for her, but she stepped away from him. Her eyes had glazed slightly and he wondered if she even knew he was there. ‘Beauty?’ he said.

‘I don’t like it here,’ she muttered, and then, without warning, she slapped herself hard across the face.

The prince was so shocked that for a moment he couldn’t react at all. Bright red finger marks stained her smooth skin. Only when she lifted her hand to do it again did he reach forward and grab her wrist to stop her.

‘What’s the matter with you? What is it?’

She hissed at him and struggled to pull away, the trembling turning to shuddering so strong that the prince thought she might be about to have a fit. Perhaps that was it. Her breathing was coming faster and she hugged herself.

Rapid footsteps came across the library, and the first minister rushed towards them, his robes flowing behind him. ‘What are you doing here? Why did you open the door?’

‘I didn’t . . . I just . . .’ the prince didn’t know what to say. The older man pushed him aside and wrapped his arm around Beauty. ‘Is she okay?’ the prince finished, feeling helpless. She clearly wasn’t okay. Not only was she having the strange physical symptoms but something was happening to her hair. The two blonde streaks at the front were darkening and the rest was somehow getting lighter.

‘I’ll look after her.’ The first minister blocked the prince’s view. ‘Go back to your apartment. Stay there.’ He spoke sharply, his words cutting through the prince’s shock. The only man who’d ever spoken to him like that was his father. ‘Do not come out until I come and say you can. Do you understand me?’

‘What’s happening?’ the prince asked. He felt like a child again.

‘The Beast is coming,’ the first minister said quietly. ‘Now go.’