The Rose Bride (13 page)

“Mais non,”
Claire told the king. Her eyes were shining. “That is the miracle, Your Majesty. If you please, Reginer came into your court
after
the death of my lady. He has never seen her.” Jean-Marc himself had ordered all painting and sculptures of Lucienne to be put away, for he could not bear to look at them. No one but the priests and Jean-Marc himself were allowed to see her effigy.

“Even so, sire,” Marchand told him. “I have never seen the likeness of Her Late Majesty. My wife informed me that this lady resembles the late queen, may she rest in peace, only after I completed the portrait. I swear that I have painted the woman of the roses exactly as she looks:”

Jean-Marc’s lips parted. He looked from Marchand to the portrait and back again. He felt more than he had ever felt in his life—love, despair, and more love. It hit him all at once just how much he had missed Lucienne. It was as if, drowned in loss, his grief had muted all his emotions into gray. But he saw now that each one had a color. His grief was deep purple, and his love, a deep shade of pink. Rose-colored. The colors danced and shifted like the pieces of glass inside a kaleidoscope and it was dizzying. He thought he might faint.

He was silent for a long time. He could hear the others waiting for him to continue. He knew they
would willingly wait all day and night, if need be. He was the king.

“Who is she?” he asked.

“I know not,” Marchand informed him. “I found her in the graveyard in a village,”

His scalp prickled as he gazed at the woman. “Graveyard? Is she a ghost then?”

‘No ghost, sir. She was tending the roses:’

“What village?”

“It’s near my father’s
château,”
he said. His face fell. “I had thought to visit him but I did not go:’ His forehead knit, and his shoulders drooped. “I lost heart, sir, and then when I met this young woman, I was moved to return at once and paint her.”

The king stared at the painting. Monsieur Marchand’s dealings with his father were his own affair. But surely this woman was a gift from Artemis herself. Had she not promised him love, if he would only hope?

“Take me to her. Let me see her for myself,” the king ordered.

Monsieur Sabot cleared his throat. As the king glanced at him, his advisor reluctantly shook his head.

“With all due respect, my liege, you know that I, among all your advisors, have pressed you to entertain matters of the heart. Every part of my soul rejoices in this miraculous appearance, for I, of course, knew the queen, may she rest in the arms of the gods, and I concur that this beauty is her twin. Nothing would please me more than that you should meet her:’ Monsieur Sabot hesitated.

“And yet?” Jean-Marc said.

“The mobs continue to gather at our gates. And you heard the reports of your spies. The Pretender has finished training his soldiers. Hell march any day. You must remain in the castle and prepare for an attack: He took a deep breath. “This may be a trick to lure you out.”

Monsieur Marchand caught his breath. “Surely,
monsieur
, you do not accuse me of playing traitor to my liege lord.”

“Indeed not,” Monsieur Sabot assured him. “It is just . . . perhaps a lady who resembles Her Majesty was put in your way.”

“So that he would paint her?” Claire Marchand asked. “That makes no sense. Who could guarantee that my husband would be moved to do so? Besides, he never knew Her Majesty:

“Perhaps I could search for her myself,” Monsieur Marchand suggested. “I used to live near that village.”

“Hélas,”
Claire Marchand murmured. “I fear for you, my husband, if war is coming.”

Monsieur Sabot bowed over his leg and said, “Send me, milord. I knew your lady. Once I find this woman, I can bring her to the palace, if indeed she resembles Her Majesty so closely.”

Jean-Marc stared at the portrait. “Go at once,” he said.

Moving farther and farther away from Ombrine and the
château
, Rose followed the white doe into the
forest that held such terror for her, now that she was convinced her stepmother meant to kill her. The trees swallowed up the sunlight, and the doe’s soft glow showed Rose the way among the thick roots and brambles. Thunder rumbled. They continued on. Thunder rumbled again.

And strangely, the ground shook.

The doe looked at her. The ground shook again and again; the thunder was so loud it buffeted her ears.

Then she realized that it was not thunder she was hearing. It was the sound of drums.

Her blood froze.

“Soldiers,” she whispered.

The doe lowered its head as if to say,
Even so
.

On the slope below, footfalls pounded. A hundred. Two hundred. The trees shifted and weak sunlight filtered in. Endless rows of armed men in dark green shirts, metal breastplates, and helmets marched past. One soldier held a white pennant. It was emblazoned with an elaborate dark green P.

The Pretender!

The white doe turned brown again. A massive brown buck dashed from the forest and trotted up beside her. Another joined her. Then another. Soon half a dozen stalwart deer emerged from the shadows, keening beneath their breaths as they formed a protective circle around her. The doe gently butted her side, and all the deer began to walk up the slope. Rose climbed with them; then, when they reached level ground, the deer broke into a trot. Barefoot, Rose tried
to keep up. They crashed through the undergrowth, flattening it for her. They bent back tree limbs so she could pass unharmed. The little doe bleated at her—
whee, whee—as
if urging her to hurry.

They burst out of the forest, past Rose’s garden. Ahead, the outline of the
chateau
rose against a storm-tossed sky. The roof was ablaze. Flames licked the clouds and smoke boiled from the upper-story windows.

“Au secours!”
Rose screamed.

The deer pressed her onward. Surrounded by a dozen soldiers on horseback, a glittering coach sat below the stony terraces. Six ebony horses with braided manes clacked their hooves on the pitted stones as they whinnied and reared. The coachman, straining to control them, did a double take when he saw Rose and the deer, and shot up straight to his feet.

“Monsieur Sabot!” he shouted. He gestured to Rose.
“Mademoiselle!
To me! Come to me!”

On the terrace above, the front door to the burning
château
burst open. Ombrine and Desirée emerged, laden down with hats and cloaks. Each staggered beneath an oversized bundle, coughing and waving smoke from her path.

A tall, gray-headed man carrying a large black velvet hat and an ornate walking stick came after them. As he caught sight of Rose, he froze. He gaped at her, then gestured with his stick at the coach.

“By Father Zeus!” he bellowed.
“Alors!
To the coach,
mademoiselle!”

The herd of deer wheeled off, hooves clattering on the gravel. Two of the riders galloped over to Rose and dismounted.

“Pardon, je vous en prie,”
the taller of the two said to Rose. He took Rose’s little basket in his gauntleted hand and passed it to his fellow. Then he gazed down at her feet, which were cut and bleeding, and lifted her up in her arms. He smelled of sweat and leather, and his breastplate was cold. Uncertainly, she put her arm around his neck; his heavy metal boots crunching the gravel as he carried her to the coach.

The waiting footman yanked open the coach door, his face pale. “If you please,
mademoiselle
, quickly,” he said.

Rose’s escort climbed up the two steps and deposited her carefully against the padded leather seat. Her elbow brushed a wooden chest placed between her and a window covered with black-and-gold velvet.

“Mademoiselle,”
the man added, passing her basket to her. Bewildered, she settled it in her lap.

To her great alarm, Ombrine and Desiree tumbled in soon after with their large bundles. They reeked of smoke. The old man followed. Once all were inside, one of the soldiers slammed the door shut. After an instant, the coach took off as Rose lifted the velvet curtain. The
château
was blazing. She was cut to the quick and hot tears spilled down her cheeks.

“I am so sorry,” the old man said. “It was put to the torch to prevent the Pretender from taking it. Such is war:”

“Ah,” Rose said, weeping. Memories washed over her. She thought of her mother and Elise and, far more dimly, her father. And of the story of Ombrine and Desiree Severine. This was the second house they would lose to fire. Surely that would make them harder and meaner. But as for Rose herself, her grief softened her, and as she smelled the death of her house in the smoke, she wondered about the little creatures who must have lived in its walls and foraged in it gardens.

Adieu
, she bade the house, the gardens, as the coach pulled away and the image receded.
Farewell, all
.

“I am sorry,” the man said again. She had no idea who he was and assumed he was a neighbor, come to save the Marchand women.

The wheels clattered on the uneven stones, jostling Rose and her fellow passengers. Desiree was staring at Rose in shock, as if she had never seen her before. Shadows darkened Ombrine’s face. But her spine was ramrod straight and her knuckles were white.

The old man turned to Rose. His eyes widened in his wrinkled face, and tears welled. Rose drew back slightly, grateful for the shield of her basket.

“It
is
you,” he said, sweeping off his hat with a courtier’s grace. “Zeus is mighty indeed:”

“Comment?”
Rose asked. She gripped her basket tightly. “Please, sir, what do you mean?”

A huge booming sound rocked the coach. Desiree screamed and grabbed onto Ombrine.

“They’re attacking us!” she shouted.

“Oui,”
the man replied grimly.

Battle cries and more explosions pummeled the coach, followed by a steady
thunk-thunk-thunk
.

“Are those arrows?” Ombrine asked. Her voice was almost calm.

The man’s silence was his assent. “We have a loyal armed escort and our coachman is very skilled,” he said.

“What of the footman?” Rose asked.

“The soldiers will shield him.”

“My daughters are my life:’ Ombrine pulled Desirée close as she reached forward for Rose’s hand. Rose stayed as she was, her fingers around her basket handle. “If harm should come to either one of them . . .”

“What if they capture us?” Desiree cried. “And ... and have their way with us?” Her eyes gleamed.

“Desiree,
please,”
Ombrine said in a falsely demure singsong tone. “There is a gentleman present.”

“But what if they
do?”

“They shall not,” the man replied. “Surely the gods watch over us:’ He turned to Rose, his eyes searching her face. A single tear slid down his cheek. “This is beyond the ability of one to fathom. She is the very like:”

Rose licked her lips and glanced at Ombrine, wondering if this was something of her devising. If this man was to be her accomplice, unwitting or not, in some kind of trap.

“This is my stepdaughter, as I have explained,” Ombrine cut in. “Rose,
ma chérie
, it seems that you sold some of your exquisite purple roses to the royal
court painter. He was so taken by your loveliness that he painted your portrait. And now the king wishes to meet you:”

Rose gaped at her. Heat washed over her cheeks. “I did meet a man,” she began. “In the village graveyard.”

“You sold him some purple roses,” Ombrine continued.

“For nearly a hundred
sous!”
Desiree put in. Then she grimaced as her mother shot daggers at her. “Or so I recall your telling us:”

“Indeed, I never did tell you,” Rose said boldly. She would not heap a lie upon her lie, not at this point in their game. Ignoring Desiree, she turned to the man. “I pray you, sir, explain to me what is happening:”

“Rose,
ma petite,”
Ombrine said. “Show respect. This man is ... significant.”

“You ... are not His Majesty the king?” Rose asked.

He shook his head. “I am Edouard Sabot, chief advisor to His Majesty. And it is as I told your stepmother,” He couldn’t take his eyes off Rose. “One may have heard that Her Majesty, the late queen, died of childbed fever some years ago,”

The coach bounced and rocked. Horses whinnied.
Thunk-thunk-thunk
. Men shouted. One screamed in pain. Or terror.

“Monsieur.”
Rose balanced herself by grabbing onto the box. “Please, I beg of you, continue:”

“What’s in there?” Desiree demanded, pointing at the box. “Jewels?”

“Weapons?” Ombrine asked.

The man gazed at the box. “The late queen passed away, taking her little son with her, and the king fell into deep grief. His enemies have made much of his single state—and his lack of heirs—and I, among many others, have begged him to remarry. But his heart would not permit it.”

“Until he saw your portrait,” Ombrine said in the same falsely pleasant tone. “And now he is besotted with you, Stepdaughter.”

Rose’s lips parted. Her brows went up as the man nodded.

“You are the living embodiment of Her Majesty Queen Lucienne,” he told her gently. “You could be her twin:’ His gaze traveled over her face, her hair, her hands gripping her basket. “Indeed, you could be Lucienne herself:”

“And that is why ... His Majesty ... sent for me?” She trailed off, utterly astonished.

He said, “In that box, there is a gown for your first meeting with the king. Lucienne’s own seamstress sewed it overnight with her servants, with many, many prayers that the gods were giving you to the king. I brought it with the hope that I would find you and I have.”

He smiled. “Father Zeus is merciful. When we arrive at the palace, you may change into it then:’ He cleared his throat. “There is more I wish to tell you. About your family. As I mentioned, the woman who created the gown was seamstress to the queen. And her husband is your—”

But at that moment, a huge cry rose up around the coach. It wobbled and shook and the right side dipped as the left side rose up off the ground. Desiree screamed as her mother slammed against her and the two crashed against the wall. Monsieur Sabot slid into Rose, pushing against the box. Her head smacked wood; she saw a bright light, and then all went black.