Bella at Midnight (7 page)

I
n those dismal years after we said good-bye (or rather did
not
say good-bye, but parted all the same), I thought often of that afternoon down by the river. It was how I always wished to remember him—not as he was that last time, when he broke my heart.

I was watching Margaret for Mother, who was busy with the threshing. We had gone to the riverbank with our baskets, in search of herbs for the making of simples for such maladies as rashes of the skin or aching joints or pain in the head. I have a good eye for plants—Mother has often said so. It was she who taught me which herbs to look for and how to recognize them, what were the seasons for each, and whether to pick them at midday or at night by moonlight, so they would have more potency.

The weather was fair and warm, so Margaret and I took off our shoes and sat in the grass by the side of the river, our feet dangling in the cool water. A flock of ducks were feeding on plants in the shallows, upending themselves in the process, heads down in the water, rear ends pointing at the sky. Margaret found this most comical; she was easy to entertain.

Then, over the sounds of wind and river and the soft conversation of ducks, there came a cry of “hoo-hoo!” I looked up and here came Julian, riding over the hill on the far side of the river. He reined in his horse at the crest of the rise and remained there, unmoving, his back erect, his head high, and a falcon upon his fist. I secretly wondered if perchance he was posing thus so that we might admire him and notice how he sat his mount so well (it was that big, black horse of his, the one with the important name). Certainly I was glad enough to admire him, if he wished. He did look noble indeed. I waved and called his name.

Just then a brace of hounds came thrashing through the high grass in our direction, straight at the ducks. At the same moment, the falcon spread her great wings and rose into the air, where she circled above Julian's head, awaiting his command.

Before I could draw a breath, the ducks had seen the dogs and erupted out of the water, filling the air with their cries of alarm and the thunderous beating of wings. Then the falcon struck, diving straight as an arrow at one of the ducks, grasping it tight in her murderous claws.

Margaret climbed onto my lap and hid her face, peering around now and again to see what more would happen. Across the river I saw Julian dismount and retrieve the prize from his falcon. Then he gave a command, and she perched back upon his fist again. I marveled at how tame she seemed, as obedient as one of his hounds.

“Prince Julian!” I called again.

“Princess Bella!” he answered. “Lady Margaret!”

Julian climbed back into the saddle and rode across the river, so as not to spoil his boots. Then he came and sat down upon the bank, a bit apart from us. “Be as still as you can,” he said in a soft voice, stroking the falcon's feathers. “Let her become accustomed to you.” She watched us uneasily with her large, dark eyes.

Slowly Julian reached into the hunting bag with his other hand and came out with a small leather hood, crowned by a delicate plume of feathers. I watched, amazed, as he slipped it gently over the falcon's head, covering her eyes. She ruffled her feathers, then, and grew still.

“There!” Julian said, grinning. “All is well. She thought you were quite terrifying, but now that you've gone, she feels safe.”

“But we
haven't
gone,” said Margaret.

“Ah, but she
thinks
you have. She knows the world only through her eyes. If she cannot see you, then you are not there. You can stroke her now, if you want. But be gentle.”

I guided Margaret's hand, and together we caressed her wing. She seemed not to mind and appeared completely docile. But I had seen her fly and hunt and knew her to be a wild and dangerous creature. And so it thrilled me to touch her and feel the softness of her beautiful feathers.

“Is she new?” I asked. “What's her name?”

“You always ask two questions at once, Bella! But as to the first—yes, she is new. A birthday gift from my father.”

“I had not known it was your birthday!”

“Well, it was. I turned sixteen. Now I am terribly old.”

“Did you go up to the palace for your birthday?”

“That's
three
questions now, and I have only answered the first!”

I bit my lip and crossed my arms. I would not speak,
ever again.

“To answer your
second
question,” he said, “before I go on to the
third
—I have named her Princess.”

“After me?” (Alas, I forgot!)

“That's four. Will you have me answer them in any particular order?”

“As you please,” I said. I would not say
another word.

“All right. Yes, I have been to the palace. And yes—though I know quite a lot of princesses, the one I was thinking of when I named my falcon was Princess Bella.”

I sat for some time not speaking, just to show him I could do it. Then I said, “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome. You have a lot in common. It seemed fitting.”

I started counting upon my fingers: “I am not a bird. I am not a fierce, wild creature. I do not have yellow feet or a sharp, cruel beak. I cannot fly, and I will
not
perch upon your fist!”

Julian exploded with laughter. I had not meant to be funny. “You are not a bird,” he agreed, between guffaws. “I cannot speak to the yellow feet and the other things.”

“Well,” I said, rather stiffly—once he had stopped gasping and sniffling and wiping his eyes as though the laugh had all but sent him to his grave—“your falcon is indeed beautiful. And since you have been
very
rude, and since you have raised the subject of princesses and claim to know so many, you must now entertain us by telling us all about them.”

“Sweet Bella, they are
nothing
compared to you.”

I blushed. “I am not truly a princess,” I said, “as you perfectly well know. I want to hear about the
real
ones.”

“I can't understand why—they are awfully dull. But if I must—let me see. There is Princess Berta, who is married to my eldest brother, John. As he is heir to the throne, Berta will someday be queen, and so she behaves in a very queenly manner.”

“Elegant and high-minded?”

“No, pompous, conceited, and arrogant. And before you ask if she is beautiful,”—I confess, I was about to—“she is bony and whey-faced with a large nose and a weak chin.”

“Ugh,” I said. “How disappointing. Does she have no admirable qualities?”

“Her pedigree is impeccable. A princess twice over, by birth and by marriage.”

“Have you nothing better to offer?”

Julian sighed. “There is Princess Alana, wife of my brother Gilbert. He was intended for the church, being the second son. But it soon became clear that he was not suited for the priesthood. He is not devout, for one thing, nor is he much of a scholar. In truth, my brother Gilbert is rather weak-minded. And so naturally my father chose him a wife who is very pious and reads philosophy all day. How they bear each other, I cannot imagine. And no, not beautiful either. Are you bored?”

“Is there not a third princess? You have another brother.”

“Laurent has no princess. He went into the church in Gilbert's place. And
I
, as you know, have
two
princesses, and they are the best of the lot.”

“Julian?” I said, a new thought having suddenly come to me. “Will you not soon have a real princess of your own—now that you are sixteen and so very old? Will your father not find you a wife?”

“I suppose one day he is bound to find me some tedious, prune-faced duchess with a huge dowry and the right political connections. But as he has not thought overmuch about me heretofore, perhaps he will
go on
not thinking about me for a while longer. Like as not, I will go off to war and die in Brutanna before ever he gets around to it.”

“Oh, horrible!” I cried. “Do not say such things!”

“Well, it was
you
who brought up the prune-faced duchess,” Julian said, grinning and rising to his feet. The dogs, which had lain contentedly nearby, drying themselves from their swim in the river, now leaped up and wagged their tails excitedly.

“I never said ‘prune-faced,'” I corrected him. “Don't go!”

“Princess Bella—Lady Margaret—I must. I promised my other Princess a day of hunting to sharpen her skills, and all I have allowed her is a single duck.” Julian mounted his horse and carefully removed the hood from Princess's eyes. Then he smiled down at us, all set to ride away.

“Prince Julian,” I said. “You will come back soon?”

“Princess Bella, I could not stay away.”

I
woke that morning while it was yet dark, too excited to sleep. My uncle had given us leave to go to the Middleton Fair, and though the master of the horse would accompany us (to keep us out of trouble, and to buy some new horses for the duke's stable), I did not think even
his
long face and gruff manner could spoil our fun. Not with all that tasty food and special ale—and the jugglers, and acrobats, and fire-eaters, and Gypsy fiddlers, and so many trinkets to buy!

We set out before dawn, the master riding in the lead, stiff and unsmiling as ever, and in his wake a pack of boisterous boys on the cusp of manhood, eager for a bit of excitement. We had left early in hopes of making some headway before the roads became congested, but we were too late. Already they were filled with wagons and handcarts and wheelbarrows and horses and sheep—indeed, it seemed as though every village in the region had emptied itself out onto that road, and that all the world was going to Middleton Fair!

We wove our way through the traffic as best we could, waving gaily and calling out greetings to those we passed. By the time we reached the boundary stone of Middleton, the sun was well up in the sky and our tunics were coated with dust from the road.

We stabled our horses at the edge of town and continued on foot, though our progress was slow because of the crush of people. The master of the horse urged us to stay together and to be wary of pickpockets; they were sure to be about in such a crowd, with all of us pressed together as we were, and everyone carrying money to spend at the fair.

The narrow streets were lined with stalls selling all manner of goods—honey and hides, copper pots and salt fish and finely woven cloth. Tailors and carpenters and cobblers were there, ready to make you some new clothes or mend your furniture or resole your boots. There were sticky sweets to buy and some exceptional ale, made especially for the fair. But the master of the horse was eager to get to the paddock before the best horses had been sold, so he would not allow us to linger, gaping at the stalls and entertainments. “You shall have time enough for that later,” he said.

We had a new boy with us that day, Rolf, a haughty and pompous lad who had taken it upon himself to keep order among the other boys. The smallest infraction of the rules, the most innocent prank, the slightest oath would earn us a reprimand from Rolf. And how eager he was to go running to the master with tales of our transgressions! Not surprisingly, nobody liked him much.

Now, as we made our way through the crowd, Geoffrey lost his balance and collided with this boy, throwing him in the path of a pretty country girl. She would have fallen had Rolf not reached out and caught her in his arms. He was mortified by this encounter and blushed scarlet, apologizing profusely. The girl blushed also and, wresting herself from his awkward embrace, accepted his apology and went upon her way.

I noticed Geoffrey grinning and winking at his friends. Not a minute later, the poor lad was once again shoved into the way of a passing lady. Again he reached out and caught her as before. But there was no pretending it had been an accident this time, so uproarious was the laughter of the other boys. The girl pulled away from his grasp and cuffed him hard upon the cheek.

Rolf turned toward Geoffrey in a rage. “Shame on you!” he said, to which we responded by laughing all the harder, slapping our thighs and holding our stomachs. The master of the horse was not amused by this sport. He grabbed Geoffrey by the arm and led him through the crowd like a felon on his way to prison.

We arrived at the paddock at last, and the master looked over the horses, finding several that he deemed worth buying. And so, while he was discussing terms with the seller, we sat upon the fence and watched the crowd.

Most of us were of an age, fifteen or sixteen, and had been promoted from page to squire. Our training had become more strenuous and challenging, and we would soon begin serving my uncle in battle. The prospect of danger and adventure to come had stirred up strange new feelings in us, and we were strung as tight as lute strings. Perhaps that is why we were so rowdy that day and inclined toward manly bravado. It did not take much to send us into wild bouts of laughter.