While Beauty Slept (36 page)

I fell asleep with Dorian’s arms around me, cocooned in the sturdiness of his body. Awakened at dawn by a gentle kiss, I opened my eyes and saw Dorian standing beside the bed, already dressed.

“I’m off to muster the men.”

“So soon?” I asked, groggy.

“There is much to be done.” Then, softening, he said, “Will you be seeing me off?”

“Of course,” I said.

Dorian hesitated, looking at my bare shoulders, the curve of my breasts beneath the cover tempting him to return for a final embrace. I ached with longing. He had not even left the castle, yet I already missed his warm, solid presence.

“I will look for you,” he said at last, bowing his head in farewell. The husband who had whispered to me in the night was gone; Dorian was now a warrior, ready to face his destiny.

The soldiers departed with great ceremony from the front courtyard. A raised platform had been erected so the queen and her ladies could take leave of their men on horseback face-to-face. The walls were ringed with a crush of people; it seemed every inhabitant of the castle, noble or servant, had gathered to watch. Queen Lenore carried herself with dignity, as always, surveying the commotion impassively from her gilded chair. Only her dark eyes revealed the melancholy that had taken an ever-increasing hold over her. Rose sat beside me, but she could not keep her body still; her feet tapped under the front of her skirt, and her eyes moved restlessly across the scene.

The sharp call of bugles rang out from the back courtyard, where the army was gathering. Voices hummed with anticipation, and Rose’s fidgeting stirred up my own nerves. The heralds were the first to march through the archway, their steps keeping time with the rhythm of their horns. They were followed by the flag bearers, walking six abreast, each proudly brandishing the king’s coat of arms. Dorian had told me that these standards were of great importance during a battle, as they marked the position of each commander during the fighting. Dorian would be leading the king’s cavalry, and I wondered which of these bearers would ride alongside him.

With clanging armor and stomping footsteps, row after row of soldiers in full battle dress emerged before us. The courtyard echoed with rapturous cheers. A few of the men waved and shouted out ribald suggestions to girls who caught their eye, but most marched solemnly and wordlessly past us and out the castle gates. I saw many faces I recognized, footmen and craftsmen who had asked to take up arms in the king’s service. Some I had known since they were boys. And others, so many others, from loyal families who had traveled from throughout the kingdom to join our cause. Crowds lined the path that led into town, and their shouts soared up to join ours as the army paraded past them. Beside me, Rose’s voice grew husky with cheering; only Queen Lenore remained silent.

Last to emerge were the king and his knights. They rode the finest horses from the royal stables, bred for speed and strength, draped this day in the royal colors. The animals jerked at their reins impatiently as the men steered them toward the viewing platform. These were the favored few who would be leading the charges, urging on others with their own bravery. Their servants followed behind, as ready to tend to their masters on a muddied field as in a bedchamber.

Only a few locks of Dorian’s deep gold hair escaped from the front of his helmet, but I would have known his broad frame even if his back had been turned. Upon sighting me he flashed an elated smile. At last he found himself in the position he had trained for his whole life. My heart swelled with pride. Never had I been happier to call him my husband.

The king rode up to Queen Lenore and pulled his horse to a stop. She rose and presented him with a handkerchief embroidered with her family seal. He touched the cloth to his lips before tucking it under the front of his saddle. Then, breaking with the formality of the proceedings, he clutched his wife’s hands and kissed them. A deafening roar broke out from the crowd; no doubt a similar sound had been heard when King Ranolf first embraced his beautiful new bride so long ago. Queen Lenore’s eyes welled up with tears, obscuring what might be her last view of the man she had once loved so deeply. Years of threats had sapped them both, and that moment gave me hope that some remnant of their old affection still remained.

The king turned to Rose, who threw herself into his arms. He allowed his face to fall into his daughter’s auburn hair, and his hands cradled her back. It recalled an image of heartbreaking clarity: those same hands cupping her tiny body on the day she was born, smiling with gratitude when other men would have been raging against fate. Gradually, gently, he pulled away from Rose’s grasp and lowered the front of his helmet. This signal of resolve sent observers into another round of cheers, but I wondered if it was done to hide his expression after such a leave-taking.

The king’s followers moved to take their places behind him at the gates. Dorian suddenly veered off and pulled his horse in my direction.

“Elise.”

Surprised to be singled out, I walked to the very edge of the platform, so he would not have to shout his words.

Dorian’s face softened into the same pensive expression I had glimpsed the night before. Stripped of his jaunty self-confidence, he appeared older, yet also more at peace.

“You’ve been a better wife to me than I deserve,” he said. “I may have given you cause to regret your vows, but I have never regretted mine.”

Flustered, I shook my head quickly, suddenly wishing I had thought to give him a token of my favor.

“When this is over, I’ll do better,” he said. “I don’t expect you to believe a change will come easy, but I will make myself worthy of you.”

I waited for the guffaw that would signal an elaborate joke at my expense. It did not come. Dorian took hold of my sleeve and drew me toward him, brashly kissing me on the lips before everyone. My face flushed with both shame and pleasure, and I buried my head in the curve of his neck, as I had so often in the privacy of our room.

How I wish I had told him! What joy it would have given Dorian to know he had fathered a child. Instead, noting the scandalized glances of the other ladies-in-waiting, I looked downward modestly and said nothing. Rose quickly turned her face forward in a vain attempt to deny her eavesdropping. The horns sounded as King Ranolf took his place before his men at the gates. Dorian dug his feet into his stirrups and urged his horse toward the men whose lives he commanded.

And so I watched my husband brace himself for bloodshed, praying with my whole heart for his safe return. For all his failings, he would be a proud, affectionate father, and I wanted my son or daughter to have what I never did.

Sheer numbers assured a certain victory for our troops, we told ourselves that summer. Sir Hugill, Rose’s future husband, had raised an army of hundreds from his lands, and other nobles from throughout the kingdom joined up in support. On an open field of battle, the size of our forces would have had the clear advantage. But the reports we received told of skirmishes and teases, for the deRauleys and their followers were wise enough to avoid direct engagement. They tricked the king’s lookouts into reporting false positions, then robbed the army’s supply train while the troops were mustering elsewhere. They preferred to do their killing in stealth, without honor. Messages to and from the soldiers were delivered only occasionally, but the few lines I received from Dorian were sobering.

“Two of my men cut down by arrows today,”
he wrote in a rough, uneven scrawl.
“I have yet to see the enemy I came to fight.”
The letter ended with promises of victory, not love, but I had not been so foolish as to expect such declarations. That he had taken the time to write at all was a mark of his affection.

It was easy for dark thoughts to take hold in those days. The grand rooms and wide passageways sat eerily empty without the shouts and heavy footfalls of the men who had gone off to fight, and I retired each night to a bedroom that felt hollow and lifeless without Dorian’s boisterous presence. The uncertain times dampened Rose’s willfulness, and she no longer complained of boredom or begged for dancing after dinner. Dutifully, she consulted Sir Walthur for news of the war and requested a map be drawn up so she could follow the army’s progress. But she had not entirely abandoned her secret wanderings. One day when I pointed out mud on the hem of her skirt, she admitted she had been to St. Elsip’s harbor. I scolded her on the dangers of mingling among the unsavory characters who frequented the wharves, but she waved away my concerns.

“I felt drawn to the water, Elise,” she said. “Perhaps it was the sight of all those boats, so full of possibility. Can you imagine sailing off for a land you have never seen? The thrill of not knowing where you will be next month—or next year?”

“I sleep better knowing exactly where I will be next month,” I said tartly. “In my own comfortable bed.”

She laughed, yet a certain melancholy hovered over Rose in the following days. As is so often the case, I did not recognize the depth of her discontent until I looked at her life through an outsider’s eyes. Some months after the troops had marched northward, my niece, Prielle, came to the castle bearing the news of my aunt Agna’s death. It was not unexpected—she had been in poor health for some time—yet I took the news hard. Another tie between me and my mother had been severed, and though Aunt Agna was not of an effusive nature, she had welcomed me in at a time when I had nothing, and for that I would always be grateful.

I ushered Prielle into the Receiving Room, though it was usually reserved for visitors of higher rank. She gave an account of Aunt Agna’s last hours, and when I asked how her mother was coping, Prielle grew unusually evasive. Gently, gradually, I drew out the truth: The family’s cloth trade had been badly damaged by the closing of routes through the north, and relations between her parents had grown as strained as their finances. I had long suspected that my cousin Damilla’s husband was one of those men who consider wife beating a necessity rather than a choice, and I feared that a fall in the family’s fortune would only shorten his temper. But what could I do? Prielle was only sixteen, still a ward of her parents, and I was hardly in a position to take over her care.

“You are so lucky, Elise.”

I remembered hearing those same words from Rose, long ago, when she spoke of my marrying Dorian for love. “My father was a difficult man,” I told Prielle now. “I know what it is to cower in a corner during a fight.”

“No, I mean I envy your life here. Surrounded by such lovely things.” Prielle’s eyes gazed in wonder at the tapestries and the gilded furniture, sights I had long since taken for granted. “I would give anything to live as Princess Rose does.”

And she would give anything for your freedom,
I thought. At that moment it seemed a cruel trick of fate that these two young women should have been born in circumstances so contrary to their natures: Rose, with her quick mind and strong opinions, would have made a splendid merchant’s daughter, while Prielle’s gentle manner and appreciation of beauty would have been prized in any royal family.

“Her life is not as easy as you imagine,” I said carefully. “We must all do what we can with the position we have been granted.” These, too, were words I had once said to Rose, though Prielle was more likely to heed them. “I hope you will remember that I am here as your friend, should you need me.”

Prielle squeezed my hand in gratitude, and I offered a tour of the Great Hall and the castle garden to distract her from weightier topics. But I could not look at Prielle—that sweet, innocent girl—and not fear for her future. Without Aunt Agna’s stern presence, her parents’ enmity would be given free rein. I was helpless, however, to affect any change in Prielle’s circumstances. My influence at court, such as it was, could not be wielded in her favor; she was of too humble a family to serve as a lady-in-waiting yet too educated and refined to be hired on as a servant.

I hugged her fiercely as we bade each other farewell, hoping the press of my fingers might instill some of my strength into her delicate body.

“We must not allow fear to quash our spirits,” I said.

I said it as much for myself as for her. Concern for Prielle had now been added to my worry for Queen Lenore, and Dorian, and all the soldiers who served with him. Prielle smiled tentatively, an action that revealed a burgeoning loveliness. Her still-immature body had the angularity that comes with rapid growth, but once her face and figure filled out, she would be quite beautiful. Perhaps that would be enough to win her a good marriage, despite her family’s precarious situation.

I attempted to greet each day with hope rather than dread, yet the same could not be said for Queen Lenore. Charged with ruling the kingdom in her husband’s absence, she increasingly sought guidance through prayer with Father Gabriel rather than in conversation with the king’s advisers. Sir Walthur muttered in frustration that the monk might as well be given a seat in the Council Chamber, and he stealthily managed most affairs himself, without the queen’s knowledge. Hoping to effect a reconciliation between them, I urged Queen Lenore to attend a meeting of the council.