While Beauty Slept (28 page)

Eleven

THE TRUTH WILL OUT

I
wrote to Marcus, inviting him to the castle to meet Mr. Rees and hear of his future prospects. To my dismay he greeted me at the gates not with an embrace but with a terse nod.

“I have no intention of groveling before the castle shoemaker,” he said sharply, and I was alarmed by his unexpected coldness. I had left him foolish with love after our last meeting. What had changed?

I insisted he accompany me inside, to an alcove just beyond the Great Hall, where we would be somewhat hidden from the comings and goings of the castle’s inhabitants and visitors. It was the sort of place where Marcus once might have taken advantage of the semidarkness to slip his hand into mine and sneak a furtive kiss. Instead he glared at me with an expression halfway between anger and bewilderment.

“How could you accept such a bargain on my behalf?” he demanded.

“It is a great honor! The queen has made the offer out of affection for me. You should be grateful.”

“Grateful to start over as someone else’s apprentice? When I have just been admitted to the Merchants’ Guild?”

“I am sure you would not start as an apprentice,” I said, but he cut me off with an adamant shake of his head.

“You cannot understand, can you? How much it means to me and my father that we have our own shop, that we have made something of ourselves. My father worked all his life to ensure that I would never have to answer to a master.”

Dazzled by the majesty of court life, I could not imagine anyone choosing to forsake it. How blind I was, not to see that Marcus’s self-sufficiency, the quality that first drew me toward him, also guaranteed that he would never follow me into royal service. I did not understand that a modest man can also be a proud one, unwilling to do what others might perceive to be in his best interests if it conflicts with his own deeply held beliefs. Marcus had always been so kind, so accommodating, that I underestimated his will when it counted most.

Thinking him still capable of being swayed, I tried again. “It would be an easy life for you here. You’ve told me you never know from month to month how much money you will make. There will be none of that uncertainty here, and I am sure the queen will see that the pay is generous.”

“Oh, yes, it will be a comfortable living,” he said. “But for how long?”

“The queen is not fickle in her affections. Once you prove yourself—”

“That is not what I meant,” Marcus interrupted, looking quickly to either side to make sure we were not overheard. “The queen may protect those she favors, but who is to say how long her word will be obeyed?”

I was shocked. I had heard of men being imprisoned for publicly disparaging the king.

“You cannot say such things,” I hissed.

“I am hardly the only one,” Marcus said. “The king’s position will never be secure as long as his brother has a claim to the title.”

Prince Bowen. I could imagine farmers such as my father proudly exchanging tales of Bowen’s exploits while sourly rejecting the prospect of a woman taking the crown.

“The complaints most likely will come to nothing,” Marcus assured me. “The queen may even bear a son, now that she’s proved herself fertile. But you must see, a life at court is no guarantee of prosperity or safety. I’d rather take charge of my own fate.”

It was a motto that might have been my own. How could I fault Marcus for having the same yearning?

“We are agreed, then,” Marcus said, taking my silence for assent. He smiled, relief flooding across his face, and my heart ached. His trust in me was complete. And undeserved.

“You must come to supper soon, so we may tell my parents together,” he went on, his voice eager. “When might you be granted permission for an evening off?”

“You have not told them of our betrothal?” I asked, surprised.

“Not . . . not yet.” His stammer betrayed him; there was something else he was afraid to say. I fixed him with my best no-nonsense stare, and he rubbed his hands across his cheeks and back around his neck, a gesture he often resorted to when gathering his thoughts.

“You remember that day, in the woods?”

I blushed at the thought; how could I not? But Marcus did not join me in conspiratorial remembrances. Hurriedly, he spoke on. “I told you that path leads to a tannery. The tanner has a daughter, his only surviving child. Some years ago he and my father agreed on an alliance. . . .”

Even then I did not understand. “A business arrangement?” I asked.

“Of a sort,” he said, looking downward. “Sealed by their children’s marriage.”

“You are promised to another?” I asked, stunned.

“There is no contract,” Marcus objected. “This is why I never spoke of it, for fear you would misunderstand. Hester and her father have no formal claim on me.”

“Hester? So you know her?”

“I have met her a few times. But I feel no affection for her, I swear.”

He reached one hand around my waist to pull me toward him. A group of chambermaids appeared around the corner in a clatter of pots and brooms, and we froze as we were, Marcus’s eyes staring searchingly into mine. Curiously detached, I avoided his gaze as the women passed, and then I leaned forward, cradling my face in the curve of his shoulders. How easy it was to melt into his sturdy body, allowing the touch of his fingers along my neck to chase away thought in favor of sensation.

Marcus spoke quietly, his breath rippling the edge of my cap. “Once my father sees us together, how happy we are, he will understand.”

This could be mine forever,
I told myself.
The feel of this embrace, the kindness of this man who cannot bear to see me hurt.

“I love you, Elise,” he said, caressing my lips with his. “Never doubt my love for you.”

I did not. The doubts were mine to bear, unspoken.

With the feel of Marcus’s kisses still fresh, I sought refuge in the castle’s chapel. It was surprisingly simple, given the rest of the building’s majestic sprawl, but to my eyes the room’s modesty heightened its holiness. A statue of the Virgin Mary stood to one side of the altar, and a gold cross hung on the wall behind, but otherwise there were none of the jeweled adornments common to royal churches. When sunlight streamed through the tall, narrow windows, burnishing the cross and bringing it to blazing life, it was as if God himself had reached down to bless us. I knelt before the altar, praying for guidance. I could continue to serve Queen Lenore or I could become Marcus’s wife, but not both. Whichever path I chose would cause pain to someone I loved. Deep in my heart, I knew that the answer must come from within; I had little faith in signs. But I was wrong.

The following day the castle was shaken by devastating news, setting in motion a course of events that made clear where my loyalties lay. The king’s face was heavy with grief when he informed us his cousin, Lord Steffon, was dead. A hunting accident, the messenger had said, in a forest beyond the mountains, where the lord had been visiting his sister and her family. A stray arrow had felled him instantly. Lord Steffon and the king had come of age together and enjoyed a camaraderie close to brotherhood. The loss of such a favored companion would have caused heartache enough, but King Ranolf raged that the death was no accident, that it was part of a treasonous strike against him and his reign. Lord Steffon, he vowed, would be not only mourned but avenged.

Buried beneath the castle foundations was a dungeon, reached from a heavy iron door near the stables. I had heard the place described as a desolate, airless pit, and the castle guards who rotated through prison duty grumbled when their turn arrived—no one went willingly into such a place. Once I had happened to walk by when the door was opened, and all I could see were a few rough stone steps, leading down into utter darkness. It was down those steps that Lord Steffon’s three men-at-arms were dragged, arms bound tightly behind their backs, feet stumbling, their faces drawn with fear.

A crowd of us watched in silence as Sir Walthur announced that the men who accompanied Lord Steffon on his ill-fated hunting expedition had been charged with murder and treason. After he strode off into a huddle with the other advisers, I watched two of the castle carpenters wrestle with a bundle of long wooden rods and planks that they were attempting to fit through the prison doorway.

“What are they doing?” I asked one of the guards standing nearby.

“They’re building a rack, on the king’s orders,” he said.

Innocent that I was, I did not know what a rack was and how it might be employed. The guard was happy to dispel my ignorance, and I wish he had not. In the following days, I could have sworn I heard the screams of those terrified men cutting through the layers of stone to beg salvation from the torments they suffered. All three protested their innocence to the last, even after they were sentenced to hang in St. Elsip’s cathedral square.

Most servants happily accepted the king’s permission to witness the execution. I chose to stay behind, sickened by the day’s air of celebration. King Ranolf’s public humiliation of his own brother—announcing the queen’s pregnancy on the very day Prince Bowen expected to be hailed as heir—had shown he could be ruthless with those who insulted his honor. But I had never thought him cruel until that day, when he condemned three innocent men to death. The soldiers who were to hang had served Lord Steffon for years; many of those who would watch them die had ridden beside them, eaten with them, laughed at tales of their adventures. How could anyone believe they had intended to harm their master? What purpose would their deaths serve?

In search of solace, I wandered the empty garden. Seedlings had begun sprouting from the herb beds, and I wondered if I would be here to see the plants spring fully into bloom. The thought of life continuing here, without me, was inconceivable.

“Elise.”

It was Flora, who had appeared in her usual silent manner. Had I not known the true benign nature of her powers, I might have believed her capable of appearing and disappearing at will.

“Is it done?” she asked.

I could sense that she was as troubled by the soldiers’ fate as I was. I glanced up at the sky, where the sun sat almost directly overhead.

“By now I suppose it is,” I said. Then, emboldened by Flora’s gentle, sympathetic stare, I said bitterly, “Three men dead, and for what? A bow pointed the wrong way in a dark forest. A mistake anyone might have made!”

“No, not a mistake,” Flora said quietly. Her face was weighted with sorrow in the same way the king’s had been when he announced his friend’s death; never had I been reminded so vividly that they were blood relations. “The arrow pierced Lord Steffon’s heart. It was intended to kill.”

“I cannot believe it of any of them!” I argued.

“Nor can I.”

Flora began to pace, the hem of her skirt tracing a path in the dirt. “The arrow that killed Lord Steffon was tipped with a dark green feather. None of the king’s men carry such arrows. It was intended as a message to the king. And to me.”

I remembered the bold green dress that Millicent had worn when she cursed Rose. The strange green figurine she had pressed into my hands. The green velvet cape she had so often tossed over her shoulders with a dramatic flourish.

“Millicent?” I asked in horror.

Flora nodded, her expression mournful.

“But how?”

“She has ways of making others do her bidding. You know that as well as anyone.”

Stung as if rebuked, I stiffened. But she did not mean it cruelly, simply as a statement of fact.

“Did you tell the king of your suspicions?” I asked.

“Ranolf has never put great stock in my counsel. He agreed that Millicent might have instigated the plan, but he was sure that one of Lord Steffon’s men shot the fatal arrow. He was willing to hang them all rather than risk one guilty man going free. But I believe that the culprit was someone else, someone who took care not to be seen. The king ordered men to Brithnia a few days ago, in secret, to hunt down my sister, but she will be gone by the time they arrive. I do not know where she will seek shelter next or what form her revenge might take, only that she will never give up. That is why I need you, Elise. To continue my work after I am gone.”

“Do not speak of such things—” I urged, but she cut me off.

“I must. I do not know how much time I have left. Were I to die tomorrow, Millicent would know. And she would come for Rose.”

She halted her pacing before me, and I saw for the first time that she was truly afraid. When she had promised the queen she would keep the royal family safe, we had believed her. Now I saw the cracks in her certainty, the doubts that had begun to torment her. And I was terrified.

“I cannot,” I whispered, my face crumpling with shame. How could I possibly be trusted to hold off a woman such as Millicent? A woman intent on evil, who could twist my mind to her own desires?

“I would not wish this burden upon anyone,” Flora said wearily. “But you are the only one I am sure of. I am so very tired, Elise. I do not know how much longer I can stand against her.”

Should I shy away from this duty, I would hold myself forever responsible if Rose or Queen Lenore came to harm. I thought of the queen’s face, aged in so short a time, and my promise never to leave her side. I imagined Rose sickening, wasting away before my eyes.
No,
I vowed.
I will not allow it.