While Beauty Slept (40 page)

I spent the following days preparing for my husband’s return. As the troops began straggling back, I had hot water brought to the room and washed myself thoroughly, rubbing a few precious drops of perfume through my hair. I pulled on my finest dress and climbed the castle walls, prepared to give Dorian a suitable welcome.

One day passed, then another. Soldiers made their way down the road from the north, first a few on horseback, then waves on foot, filthy and hungry. Dorian was not among them. By the third day, I had begun to fret, for only the wounded had taken this long to return. The soldiers spoke of those yet to come with shaking heads and downcast eyes, and I began to fear the sight of the husband I so longed for.

As I ran my eyes over the trickle of slow-moving men, a familiar figure caught my eye. It was Dorian’s manservant, Percel, one in a procession of hobbling men and carts strewn with those more gravely wounded. I rushed down the stairs from the top of the walls and ran to the castle gates, confronting Percel as soon as he walked inside. Much later I was grateful that this solemn young man had been the one tasked with such a heavy duty, for he did not waste time with flowery words or overblown sentiment. He simply told me my husband was dead.

“But how . . . ?” The words stumbled out, then caught in my throat. “The king told me he saw Dorian walk away from the battlefield.”

Percel nodded, his face haggard. “I saw him at our camp after the king declared victory. He appeared as well as any of us. Tired and carrying the stench of battle, but otherwise unharmed. It wasn’t until that evening, as we began making our way home, that he first spoke of the pain in his head. He said he had fallen from his horse, but he made it out to be no serious matter. As we traveled, he worsened. He began stumbling. His words slurred when he spoke. There were precious few horses left in good enough condition to ride, but given that my master was a favorite of the king, he was granted one. We tied him on and he drifted off to sleep. When we stopped for the night, he was dead.”

I could not cry. I had feared Dorian dead, then been told he lived. Now he had died again. Which was the truth?

“They say he’ll be taken to the chapel, with the other nobles,” Percel said, pointing to the wrapped shrouds that were even then being carried through the castle doors. He watched the grim parade without emotion. “I shall have to tell his father, unless you would prefer to speak to him.”

I could not face Sir Walthur. Could not bring him news I did not yet believe myself.

“He should hear the full story from you,” I said. “I will go to the chapel.”

I made my way through the Entrance Hall, down the corridors. The chapel had always been one of my favorite rooms in the castle, but now I dreaded entering. I paused in the passageway that led inside, my feet standing atop the stone that marked the royal family’s burial crypt. I glanced at the most recent carving and knelt down to run my fingers over the letters of Flora’s name. I missed her with a sudden, sharp ache. Not the feeble woman she had become in her last days but the Flora I had known years before, timid but kind, a force for good in a vicious world.

I walked inside, toward a group of weeping women, past motionless, bloodstained bodies laid on the floor. Most who had died on the battlefield would have been buried where they fell. Only these favored few were accorded the honor of returning home.

When two guards carried in Dorian’s body, I recognized him immediately, even from across the room. I walked over slowly, my feet seemingly moving of their own accord. Dorian rested as if asleep, his beautiful face unscathed, his golden hair soiled by mud but unbloodied. I crumpled to my knees, certain that a mistake had been made and he would awaken at my touch. But my hand flinched back as soon as it felt his frozen cheek. The flesh had lost all vitality, its human warmth replaced by a waxy chill. Strapped to his thigh was the dagger he had so prized, and I pulled it free, my hands seeking the handle where his own had rested. Hesitantly, I cut a lock of his hair and slid it into my bodice. I considered speaking a few words, sending him to eternal rest with my blessing, but his rigid body mocked such sentiments. Dorian’s soul had long since departed.

I stared at him long enough for my knees to grow numb against the stone floor. I did not stir until footsteps shuffled behind me. I turned to see Sir Walthur looking upon the body of his son, his face sunken with pain. He had never shown me affection. But the sight of this great man brought so low moved me to action. I stood and wrapped my arms around Sir Walthur’s shoulders, and his face pressed against my neck as he gave in to his grief. Even murmured words of sympathy would have been a cruel invasion of such sorrow, so I remained silent. When he had collected himself, he leaned down and ran his fingers slowly over Dorian’s face. He rose, avoiding my gaze, and walked away.

The men who brought my husband home were the final remains of what had once been a great army. After bidding my last farewell to Dorian, I left the castle and walked up the narrow stairs to the top of the walls. It was the place we had first kissed, on the day I’d agreed to marry him. Dorian had been gone from my side for months, yet I could still summon the press of his arms around me; I could feel his lips against mine. But when I tried to picture his face, all that came to mind was the grim death mask I had seen in the chapel. I sank against the wall, numb and lost. I did not know how to pass the rest of the day, or the following day. Or all the days to come. The life I had thought was mine, with a husband and children, was gone. My future had been slaughtered on a battlefield in the harsh northern mountains. Only I remained, unchanged. And yet changed completely.

Looking out, I watched a group of ragged camp followers along the road toward St. Elsip, the usual fallen women and peddlers who find war an opportunity for profit. They alone might regret the fighting’s end. After the shuffling parade made its way across the bridge, one person broke off and turned onto the path leading to the castle. As the figure drew closer, I saw it was a woman, an ancient one, her back bent almost double. A persistent rain the day before had layered the ground with mud, and her steps were uncertain on the slippery uphill slope. I could not imagine what business she might have here, other than to beg.

The sunlight was low against the horizon; soon the trumpets would sound for supper. The thought of food brought a wave of nausea, but duty propelled me downward. By now Queen Lenore would have heard the news. She would wish to console me on my loss, and I must prepare myself to face the castle’s sympathy. With a pang I remembered the obligations of a widow: the funeral that must be planned, the somber clothing I would have to order to declare my mourning. More than anything I longed to sink into my bed and burrow under the blankets, free to wallow in my misery unobserved.

I descended slowly, careful to lift my skirts so each footstep was unencumbered. As I walked past the gatehouse, I heard a commotion. The old woman was shouting at the gatekeeper, and something in her tone gave me pause. Her voice had the ring of authority, and her accent was that of an educated woman. I turned toward the gate and saw the woman pointing an accusing finger at the guards, promising that the queen would make them pay for their treatment of her.

It was Millicent.

I felt a rush of terror so unnerving I could not move. Her face, sunken and weathered, peered out at me from the hood of her cloak. She might have been a goblin from a fairy story, a crooked creature swathed in black who snatches children in the night. Her eyes fixed on me with malevolent glee. After so long a time, I would have thought myself impervious to her wiles. Yet I found myself drawn forward.

“Elise!” she crowed. “Come, take my hand.”

“I’ll take nothing.” The vehemence of my rejection made the guards start. I addressed myself to the men, speaking firmly. “She’s not to enter.”

The youngest of them would have been children when Millicent was banished, but I could see by the nervous expression of the head gatekeeper, a man of some forty years, that he knew exactly who she was.

“She claims to have been summoned,” he said to me uncertainly. “I’ve sent a page to inform the queen.”

“This woman is not permitted to see the queen—or anyone else,” I said in what I hoped was a firm voice.

“You’ve come up in the world, I see,” Millicent said. “Tossing out orders as if you were a duchess! Am I the only one who remembers when you were fit for nothing more than carrying chamber pots?”

I turned my back and started for the rear courtyard. I could not drive Millicent off by myself, but a few returned soldiers would add force to my commands.

“How does our darling Rose?”

It was the “our” that enraged me, the sound of her raspy crone’s voice laying claim to the person I most treasured. I whirled around in a fury. She must never see Rose. Ever.

“Begone!” I shrieked, my body aflame. The guards’ mouths gaped in shock. I was playing into Millicent’s hands, succumbing to the fear she thrived on, but I could not rein in my panic. “You are banished! Forever!”

“Forever?” Millicent said coolly. “Are you sure?”

Seen up close, she was no longer the proud woman who used to march through the castle with such authority. Her shoulders were curled in toward her body, and her lips sagged over empty gums. Yet my skin prickled and my throat tightened as if a cloud of evil swirled out from her, choking any who stood in her path.

Millicent lifted one twisted hand, and I flinched when I saw a flash of dark red. For a moment I thought she was reaching out with blood-spattered fingers, until I saw she wore crimson gloves. A piece of paper was crumpled in her fist, and as she pushed it toward me, the edge of her cloak fell back, revealing her forearm. The skin was a ravaged landscape of wrinkles and scars, pale and puckered with age. With a sickening lurch of recognition, I remembered the similar mark that still marred the queen’s wrist. How often had Millicent cut into her own flesh in that hidden cave, calling upon dark powers to do her bidding?

She brandished the page in my face, close enough that I could discern the writing at the bottom. It was Queen Lenore’s signature, one I had seen countless times on her letters. Taken aback, I paused, trying to sort through my tangled thoughts. Was the writing a clever simulation? It was not possible that the queen would summon the woman who had threatened her daughter with death.

Before I could work out the best course of action, the choice was taken from me. I heard footsteps approaching and turned to see Father Gabriel. He nodded humbly to the guards and said, “The queen gives her leave to enter. I will escort her to the Receiving Room.”

Shocked, I watched in horror as Millicent smiled at me, enjoying her triumph. Her feet faltered in the mud as she took a step forward, and Father Gabriel reached out to offer the crook of his arm for support. As her decrepit, hunched body lurched toward his, their eyes met in a passing glance. It was so quick, so fleeting, and yet I saw it: the silent acknowledgment of two people who had met before.

Had Father Gabriel been doing her bidding all this time? Had he praised the virtues of forgiveness for the sole purpose of enabling Millicent’s return?

“No!” I screamed. I stumbled forward, arms outstretched, frantic to halt their progress. I had just grabbed the back of Father Gabriel’s robe when two guards took hold of my shoulders and pulled me back. The coarse brown cloth slipped through my fingers, and Father Gabriel turned in irritation, regarding me with disdain as I writhed against my captors. Millicent’s face, slack with feigned bafflement, only enraged me more.

“I must speak to the king!” I begged the guards. “He will never permit her entrance!”

Others passing through the courtyard stopped to watch the commotion. In my panic I took in only flashes of my surroundings, but there were faces I recognized, servants and courtiers staring at me in amazement. In their eyes
I
was the madwoman, raving at a man of God and a seemingly harmless old woman.

The gatekeeper appeared at my side. He spoke in a low voice, his manner sympathetic. “You saw for yourself, she has a letter with the queen’s mark. We cannot detain her.”

“Please. I must warn the king.”

He looked toward Millicent’s hobbling figure, approaching the main entrance. Then he nodded to the guards, ordering my release.

“Godspeed,” he muttered.

I raced through the castle toward the king’s room, only to be told that he had been summoned by the queen a few minutes before. Panting, heart hammering, I arrived at her sitting room to find the door closed, though King Ranolf’s shouts came through clearly enough. A few ladies-in-waiting huddled together in the hallway, wide-eyed, their shock magnified when I cracked the door open and slid inside.

The king was pacing in front of the fireplace, face flushed red. He halted when he saw me, and for an instant I felt the terror of all those who had confronted him on a battlefield. Quivering with fury, he appeared capable of swatting me to the floor without a second thought. “Is it true?” he barked.

I nodded. “Millicent has been taken to the Receiving Room by Father Gabriel.”