While Beauty Slept (39 page)

“Yes, I am here.”

“I am so sorry.”

I shook my head, anxious to reassure her. “Hush. You have no amends to make with me.”

Each sound was an effort, coming out through ragged breaths, as she summoned the will to utter a final warning.

“She is coming. I cannot stop her.”

Fifteen

TILL DEATH DO US PART

W
e expected the end of the war to be announced with fanfare and rejoicing. Yet I have always found that the most life-altering events pounce without warning. As a girl I woke from a feverish dream to find most of my family dead. Years later I began one day a spinster, only to find myself betrothed by supper to a man I barely knew. And it was not so long ago that I had fallen asleep imagining the feel of a tiny baby’s hand, then awakened to find my sheets awash in blood. So it was with the tidings that finally made their way to us from the north, mere hours after Flora had been laid to rest in the crypt of the royal chapel.

Later I learned that the confusion was the fault of the guards. Only the youngest and least skilled soldiers had remained to defend the castle, and those given the night watch had fallen asleep at their posts by dawn. The riders’ presence was not noted until they arrived at the front gates and shouted to be admitted. The men were so ragged and their horses so ill used that the ancient gatekeeper, half addled and suddenly torn from sleep, thought them brigands and denied them entrance. Then a voice rang out, and the gatekeeper knew it for the king’s.

Following the pattern set by years in service, it was my habit to rise early, and I had just finished dressing when I heard cries from beyond my window. I peered out and saw two grooms leading a pair of panting horses through the doors of the stables. It was an unusual time for visitors, but I gave it no further thought until I stepped into the front room and heard footsteps clattering through the hall outside.

I looked out the door and saw Anika racing toward me. She would have continued past had I not grabbed her by the elbow and demanded to know the cause of such commotion.

“The king has returned!” she cried, her eyes bright with panic. “I’ve been sent to the kitchens for hot water.”

I released her sleeve, speechless with shock. The bread I had planned to eat for breakfast dropped from my hand as I rushed to the stairs. By the time I reached the royal apartments, I was running. I staggered through the door of the queen’s sitting room only to stop so suddenly that I almost fell from the effort. There, before me, stood Queen Lenore, still in her sleeping gown, her hair falling in waves down her back. Before her, on his knees, was the king, clutching her body as a drowning man clings to a branch held out as salvation. Had it not been for his fur-trimmed tunic, embroidered with the royal seal, I would not have known him. His neat beard had grown out to a scraggly mass of tangles; his skin was red and weather-beaten, his eyes closed and sunken.

Queen Lenore stared at me, her own eyes wide with panic.

“I will fetch someone to tend to the king,” I said calmly, my voice belying my fear. The king’s attendants had ridden north with him; had any returned? And what of Dorian? I was about to ask for news of my husband, but Queen Lenore stopped me with a sharp glance, and rightly so. The king looked as if he could barely speak.

“I will tend to him.” Queen Lenore reached out carefully with one hand and pressed it gently against the king’s head. “Fetch clean clothes. He cannot be seen like this.”

“Of course.” I heard scuffling behind me, as servants and attendants gathered in the hall to await orders. “Shall I close the door?”

The queen nodded, her attention already returned to her husband. I slipped away and pushed back against the press of people outside. I caught sight of Lady Wintermale toward the rear, trying in vain to elbow her way through.

“What news?” she demanded. At her words the crowd around us hushed.

I shook my head. “I do not know.” From King Ranolf’s ravaged state, I feared there would be little cause for rejoicing. But I could tell no one what I had seen.

I reached out my arm and pulled Lady Wintermale forward. “The queen wishes to be alone with the king,” I whispered in her ear. “Please see she is not disturbed.”

When I returned with the king’s clothing, I opened the door a crack, just enough to slide the folded bundle through the opening and into Heva’s hands.

“The king wishes to address the court,” she whispered. “Everyone is to gather in the Great Hall. But first the queen has asked for Rose.”

I nodded. In all my imaginings of the king’s return, I had pictured scenes of celebration, not the parade of long faces and worried grimaces that passed me in the halls. People moved quietly, carefully. Waiting.

Rose was still asleep when I arrived at her room. Her maid, Besslin, had taken advantage of her mistress’s weariness to laze around herself, though she jumped quickly enough from her pallet when I came through the door.

“Fetch a gown,” I ordered, then went to sit on Rose’s bed. She was so beautiful as she slept, with her thick auburn hair swirled around her pillow and her skin flushed slightly pink. It was the most peaceful I had seen her in months.

I ran a finger along her cheek, and her eyes fluttered open. Seeing me, she jolted awake and sat up, alert with worry.

“Your father has returned,” I said, smiling to reassure her. “He is safe.”

“Lord be praised,” Rose breathed. She pushed the covers off and slid from the bed. “Where is he?”

“I have just left him, in your mother’s room.”

Rose was in such a state it was all Besslin and I could do to arrange her dress suitably before she slid on her silk slippers and rushed for the door. She dashed along the corridors and down the stairs, so quickly that I was some distance away when she threw open the door to her mother’s room. I heard her cry out as she entered, and then the door slammed shut, blocking the family’s reunion from the curious eyes outside.

“We are called to the Great Hall,” I urged the gathered courtiers. “Downstairs, everyone.”

As I climbed down the main staircase to the Entrance Hall, I saw Mrs. Tewkes waiting below. She swiftly maneuvered her way to my side.

“I saw Rengard, the footman who rode back with the king.” She spoke quickly, with the cadence of one desperate to pack in more words than time allows. “His shoulder was cut so deeply it was a wonder he was able to stay on his horse. He said our men were victorious, but there was no joy in his words. What can it mean?”

My stomach churned with dread. I told her I did not know, that we must wait for the king, as we joined the stream of people entering the Great Hall. By the time King Ranolf arrived, the room was full. The nobles and favored families took their usual places in the front, facing the dais; servants lined the walls in the back. Personal maids stood behind their mistresses, while the farthest corners were filled with groomsmen and chambermaids, cooks and laundresses. I have never seen so many people gather in such silence.

The hush did not lift with the arrival of the king and his family. The broken man I had glimpsed earlier had vanished, replaced by a noble leader who walked proudly, his chin jutting forward and his bright eyes staring confidently ahead. To the maids and pages in the back, he would have appeared little altered by the trials of battle. Yet those whom he passed by directly must have noted the changes: the hair more gray than auburn, the slight hesitation with each step, the stiffness of his arms. Over the months of his absence, he had aged years.

The king took Queen Lenore’s hand and bade her sit, then did the same for Rose. Both women were dressed in their formal finery, their somber expressions suitable to the occasion. Rose, her customary liveliness stifled, could have been a statue.

“I bring good tidings from the field of battle.” The king’s voice echoed against the stone walls. “The deRauleys are defeated. The kingdom is saved.”

For a moment the words floated around us, above our understanding. Then a cheer rang out among the pages and stableboys, followed by shouts from the older men in the back. The sound rose as it passed among the maids, swelling as voice after voice joined in. I alone did not cry out, for I saw no jubilation in the king’s eyes.

King Ranolf raised his hand, and a hush returned to the room.

“This is joyous news, and we will celebrate in good time. But our success has come at a great cost. Our adversaries fought hard and without mercy. We lost many fine men, among them, I am sorry to say, my daughter’s intended husband, Sir Hugill.”

I glanced at Rose, as did the whole court. True to her breeding, she maintained her poise, dropping her head in acknowledgment of his passing.

“Far too many others will return to us gravely injured,” said the king. “You will have questions on the fate of loved ones, and I will answer them as best I can. But we will not know the full extent of our losses until our soldiers return home. Their progress will be slow, and I beg your patience.”

A worried buzz began to spread through the knot of women surrounding me. They were the wives of knights, men who rode ahead of the foot soldiers, the first to engage the enemy. Men whose fine horses and expensive armor set them apart as especially worthy prizes. If there were heavy losses, our husbands would be among the victims. As the other women pushed their way toward the dais, addressing pleas to the king, I held back. If Dorian was dead, there would be no comfort in hearing the news first.

Most of the women received no answer to their questions. The king had been in the heat of battle himself, able to see only those who fell next to him, and had ridden from the battlefield with scarcely a moment to take in his victory. I watched one woman’s face crumple as the king leaned down to speak, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. She staggered away, moaning with grief, and two of her cousins rushed to comfort her. Her husband was a friend of Dorian’s, a hearty man whose voice carried a few lengths ahead of him. It was impossible to imagine him silenced forever.

As the crowd drifted apart and away from the room, Queen Lenore waved me over. I walked toward the dais, and she stepped before me.

“The king wishes to speak to you and Sir Walthur,” she said, her hand touching my arm lightly.

Such a summons could only mean that the king wished to give us a personal account of Dorian’s death. A peculiar calm settled over me, and I told myself I must honor my husband’s memory by comporting myself well. I must not forget to thank the king, no matter how devastating the tale he told. I followed the king and queen across the hall to the Council Chamber, where Sir Walthur and the other advisers stood huddled in the doorway, talking in hushed tones. The king nodded to Sir Walthur. The other men, understanding the gesture as a dismissal, bowed quickly and turned away.

With Queen Lenore at my side, I followed the king and Sir Walthur inside. Though far smaller than the Great Hall, it was no less grand in its appointments. The walls were inlaid with carved panels depicting the kingdom’s greatest wonders: the northern mountains, the cathedral of St. Elsip, the mighty river that coursed across the landscape. In the center of the room, an oval table made of dark wood had been polished until it gleamed. Gold candleholders taller than myself stood in the corners, their flickering light the only illumination in that tenebrous space.

“Dorian lives,” the king said simply, and the intensity of my relief caught me by such surprise that I clutched the back of a chair, afraid I might crumple. Sir Walthur sucked in his breath, but his impassive expression did not change.

“Your son acquitted himself with great bravery,” the king said, addressing Sir Walthur. “I intend to award him a title, for he saved my life.”

The king clasped Sir Walthur’s hand with his, and the gesture pierced my father-in-law’s reserve. His mouth curved upward in the semblance of a smile, and his eyes welled with tears.

“My boy.”

“Bowen would have killed me,” the king said. “I did not think . . .” His voice drifted off, and I saw the weight of memory fall heavily upon him at the mention of his brother’s name. He collected himself and continued.

“I never imagined he would come for me. I expected Marl and his thugs to relish the bloodshed, but I believed that Bowen would work his treachery out of sight. When I saw him riding toward me, I was so surprised I did not give a thought to defending myself. I sat and watched him come. His face . . . I did not know he hated me so.”

I could picture Prince Bowen, enraged, brandishing his sword, riding at full power. Who would not quail at such a sight?

“Dorian was next to me. He had lost his helmet, and his armor was damaged. I ordered him to ride back and take a helmet from one of the men who had fallen. I was turned toward him, shouting my commands, when I heard a terrible cry to my left. I turned and saw Bowen. By the time I thought to raise my sword, Dorian had urged his horse between us and engaged with Bowen himself. The fight was short but fierce. I saw Dorian falter and fall from his horse. As he fell, he delivered a final thrust of his sword, piercing Bowen’s stomach through a gap in his armor. He died there, before me.”

“A bad end, but one he brought upon himself,” Sir Walthur said bitterly.

“You said Dorian fell?” I asked anxiously. The men started at the sound of my voice, as if they had forgotten my presence, and I immediately regretted my forwardness.

“Yes”—the king nodded—“but he rose soon enough, and I rode off to share the news of Bowen’s death with my men. By then Marl and his cousins had been killed as well and the few rebels remaining were running off in defeat.”

The kingdom was saved, and my husband would return a hero. Humility was not among Dorian’s virtues; a noble title would puff up his pride even more. But I would tend to him without complaint, for I had been given another chance at creating the family I longed for. Had I not heard tales of straying husbands who find their love for a loyal wife renewed after a brush with death? My relief at the king’s news had proved vividly that my feelings for Dorian were more deeply rooted than I had allowed myself to believe.