While Beauty Slept (26 page)

“A strange choice of wife for a man of his stature,” Queen Lenore noted. “The deRauleys may be lords of their lands, but their territory is small and their fortune smaller.”

“Prince Bowen is hardly one to marry for love,” I said, then immediately regretted my biting tone. I had never told the queen of his attack on me. But she did not seem surprised by my evident dislike.

“More likely,” she said dryly, “the woman is with child and he was forced to marry at the point of her father’s sword.”

I remembered Prince Bowen pawing at my skirts, telling me I was his to command. The hatred in his face on the day of the Royal Assembly. I could not escape the suspicion that this alliance was part of a larger scheme. And from the troubled look on Queen Lenore’s face, she thought the same.

“Isla gives no explanation?” I asked.

Queen Lenore shook her head. “The rest is remembrances from when we were young.”

Isla had given up everything to follow her husband, and I wondered if writing that letter was a form of escape from her present diminished circumstances into the days of her youth. I knew that her departure had left an ache in Queen Lenore’s heart that I could never fully heal, and I wondered if the fear of losing me as well was the reason she was so hesitant to encourage my courtship by a townsman. Were I to marry a man who lived at the castle, I could remain at her side, and it was not long after she received Isla’s letter that she asked the king to grant me a small dowry.

“I want you to have every advantage when it comes to your future,” the queen told me with a reassuring smile. “You’ve grown quite pretty, you know, and there are many fine men at court who will consider you a serious prospect once there’s money involved.”

Though she had never disparaged Marcus in my presence, the jab at him was clear. I could not help contrasting Marcus’s careful avoidance of any talk about our future with the overpowering, reckless desire that Petra and Dorian had for each other. Her submission to him, I soon learned, was not a momentary lapse of judgment. She had opened her body to Dorian’s caresses because he had given her something in return: a promise of marriage.

We were sitting before the fireplace in the Lower Hall, enjoying the relative quiet of a Sunday evening, when she told me they were planning to wed. I hugged her and offered my congratulations, feigning a joy I did not feel.

“Dorian asked me not to say anything, but I knew I could trust you,” Petra said, giddy with delight. “Marrying me means defying his father, so it must be done quietly.”

Dorian’s father, Sir Walthur, was a sober, hard-nosed man, one unlikely to be swayed by young lovers’ pleas. Having risen from a relatively humble background to a position of great importance, he would be furious at the thought of his son marrying so far beneath him. But it was pointless to warn Petra of the obstacles in her path; she knew them better than I did.

“If Dorian’s father cuts him off, he must find a place in another lord’s service,” Petra went on. “He does not want to announce our intentions until such arrangements have been made. But it has been difficult, carrying such news in secret.”

“You needn’t have secrets from me,” I said.

Petra shook her head. “I won’t. Not anymore.”

And yet I kept secrets from her. I did not tell her of the look Dorian and I had exchanged in the North Tower. I did not tell her my doubts about his fidelity or describe the scene I had observed in the kitchen the day before, when Dorian ran his finger audaciously through a bowl of batter and held it upward, asking which of the giggling kitchen maids would sample a taste. She had seen his flirtatious ways for herself. If she forgave such behavior, I must do the same or risk losing her friendship. Still, I wondered, as I had so many times before, what manner of man Dorian was underneath the golden exterior. Lust alone could not have induced him to make an offer of marriage. Taking Petra as his wife would ruin his prospects at court and embarrass his family. He could be making such a sacrifice only for love.

Would Marcus have taken such a risk for me? The sorry truth was that I did not know. For my eighteenth birthday, he presented me with a braided leather bracelet in which he had carved our initials. I told him I would cherish the bracelet, and I did, pressing it against my lips as I lay in bed at night, imagining his strong fingers working the leather until it yielded to his commands. With the changeable nature of youth, I had begun succumbing to the lustful cravings I had once derided as a weakness in others. In my fantasies Marcus’s lips moved from my mouth to my cheek, then to my neck, then on to the swell of my breasts in a tumbling progression of breathless discovery. Such liberties could be taken only once we were married, or formally engaged at the very least. But Marcus did not raise the subject. And I felt a shameful relief that he had not.

Deep down I could not help comparing Marcus’s tender affection to the ardor I had seen on Dorian’s face when he touched Petra. Once, to my belated horror, I dreamed of Dorian lying beside me, his hands entwined in my hair, murmuring wicked promises of what he would do next. Was Marcus capable of such passion? Or had I fallen in love with a man who was largely a creation of my own longings?

Queen Lenore and Flora believed I could be more than a shoemaker’s wife. Though I hated myself for harboring thoughts so disloyal to Marcus, I began to wonder if they were right.

Ten

A PROMISE MADE

I
t was Flora who unwittingly nurtured my worries about marriage to Marcus, and it was she who just as unwittingly inspired me to bring matters to a head. Over the course of our meetings, she had begun to show me some of her more exotic concoctions, and each new discovery only increased my appetite for more. None of what she revealed could be called magic, but there was wonder in it all the same: how a simple mixture of crushed herbs and seeds could calm a rash or a syrup of honey and rose water ease an aching throat. I was soothed by the satiny feel of a fine powder against my fingertips, entranced by the colored liquids arrayed on the shelves. Flora herself seemed rejuvenated by her role as teacher, and she guided me with a new, zealous vigor, as though her talents were enhanced by my admiring presence. For the first time, I could see her as Millicent’s equal, a woman capable of miracles. Though her eyesight was poor and her hands occasionally trembled, at her core she maintained a quiet strength. She may have suffered; she may even have toyed with madness. But she had not succumbed. She had taken the defense of the kingdom on her frail shoulders, and she would not release that burden until her secrets were securely in my care.

It was a heady thought. And it was an honor, I came to realize, that might never be mine if I married Marcus. Would a humble craftsman’s wife be entrusted with the safety of the heir to the throne?

On the day after Petra told me she was to marry Dorian, I spent the afternoon with Flora, helping her sort through dusty boxes she had pulled out from a storage trunk. Distracted by jealous thoughts, I paid Flora little attention until a few muttered words caught my ear: “‘Forever the color blue / Shall signal a love that’s true.’”

I turned abruptly. Flora was holding a small vial that held a vibrant blue powder, a shade that called to mind the sapphires that studded one of the queen’s favorite necklaces.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“Ah, it was a song, long before your time. This made me think of it. It is a mixture of crushed flowers that some call Lover’s Delight.”

“A love potion?” I asked, surprised.

Flora tipped her head sideways and widened her eyes in exaggerated innocence, a faint echo of the coquettish looks she must have perfected years ago. “You know there is no such thing! My cures affect the workings of the body, not the mind.

“However,” she added slowly, drawing out the moment for maximum suspense, “if one inspires love, one may receive it. Imagine a woman who is painfully shy. She is tongue-tied in the presence of the man she favors, afraid to draw his attention. Imagine she drinks a tonic that brightens her cheeks and raises her spirits. She becomes self-assured and therefore desirable to the man who once overlooked her. Is that magic?”

Something in the way Flora recounted her story made me suspect she was speaking of herself. I had been curious about Flora’s long-ago romance ever since hearing of it from Lady Wintermale, though I was never bold enough to raise the subject myself. In conversation Flora could be as skittish as a colt, pulling away unexpectedly from even the most innocuous subjects. I would have to tread carefully.

“What does it feel like?” I asked. “Once you’ve taken it?”

Flora gazed at me, carefully considering her next words. “It feels,” she said at last, “as if you’ve swallowed joy.”

She rolled the vial in her hands, gently detaching the powder that had stuck to the sides. “I tried it only once. I have lived with the consequences ever since.”

I waited in silence, afraid that intrusive questions would scare her off.

“His name was Lorenz.” She spoke calmly, as if recounting a tale told to her long before. “He didn’t come to court me, of course—he was intended for Millicent. Everyone knew that the elder sister must marry first. I suppose I brought it all upon myself, with my foolishness. He was so dazzling, you see, so charming. He sang more beautifully than my father’s minstrels. I craved his attention for myself, if only for a few hours. So I crushed the flowers and sprinkled them into my drink one evening at supper. And my shyness fell away, and I looked at him openly across the table, and he looked at me, and Millicent was forgotten. Would you believe me if I said we fell in love that instant?”

I nodded. “I believe such things can happen.”

“Lorenz went to my father and begged for my hand. He had money, a title—my parents could make no objection. Had Millicent agreed, we would have married. How innocent I was, to think she would give us her blessing! She fumed and raged and accused me of stealing him solely to humiliate her. My mother took my side, but Father wavered. And then Millicent was attacked.”

“Attacked?”

“She claimed that Lorenz, in a rage, had forced himself upon her. Not one person who knew him thought him capable of such an act. But my father had no choice. His duty was to protect his daughter’s honor. Lorenz was sent off in disgrace. My parents forbade all contact between us, and I was confined to my room until he was gone. A few weeks later, he died.”

“I am so sorry,” I said gently. I had never heard her speak for this long, and the effort was clearly taxing. She sighed deeply before continuing.

“His family made it out as an accident, but he had taken his own life. Hanged himself from an oak tree on his estate. My family thought it proof of his guilt. ‘An innocent man fights to clear his name,’ Millicent told me. ‘Only the guilty resort to suicide.’ As if she were satisfied that all had worked out for the best. For months I tortured myself, trying to work out what had happened. The man I had known was kind and gentle. Had there been another side he kept hidden? I did not think it possible. But if my judgment of his character was correct, it could only mean that Millicent had ruined a man simply for the satisfaction of besting me. How could I think such a thing of my own sister?”

I pictured Flora as a young woman, still beautiful, pacing her lonely room, tormented by thoughts of Millicent and the man she loved, agonizing over who was to blame. The betrayal had marked her for life.

“In the end, I found, the truth did not matter, for the result was the same. Lorenz was dead. And I could not imagine a life without him.”

The agony of that loss still lingered in her girlish voice, her sorrowful eyes. I reached out for her hand and squeezed it lightly. The touch brought her back to the present day, and she looked down at the glass vial, sitting on the table between us.

“Is there a reason this interests you?”

I saw the same cunning alertness I had once seen in Millicent; like her sister, Flora had the ability to instantly gauge a person’s deepest, most hidden desires.

“I have wondered, every day since then, what would have happened if I had not swallowed that powder,” Flora said, staring at me intently. “When it comes to matters of the heart, the answer is best found within yourself, not in a bottle.”

Within myself. Was the ache I felt for Marcus’s touch the longing of true love or no more than shameful lust? Could I marry him and still fulfill my duties to the queen and to Flora? No potion could ease my way to the truth. I must force a resolution by my own actions.

Flora turned back to her bottles and began humming a lilting melody that seemed vaguely familiar. Then I remembered: It was the same tune I had heard on my first visit to the North Tower, coming from behind the closed door of this very room. Flora had told me the man she loved had a beautiful voice. Was this a song he had sung to her, embedded in her memory as an eternal reminder of all she had lost?

The arrival of spring had allowed Marcus and me to resume our meetings in town, and on the following Sunday he suggested an excursion to the hill overlooking St. Elsip’s harbor. However, an unseasonably oppressive heat descended upon us as we made our way upward, and the warmth brought out the putrid smell of the rotting food and waste floating atop the water. It was hardly the setting for romantic confidences.