While Beauty Slept (21 page)

“Hush!” I urged, laughing. “He’s an acquaintance, nothing more. He and his father are shoemakers.”

“Then he must have skilled hands indeed!” Petra exclaimed. “Or have you learned that for yourself already?”

I slapped her arm in mock horror, hoping to distract her from the warm blush rising over my cheeks. A cry erupted from the crowd around us as the king’s cousin caught his lance against his opponent’s armor and fell from his horse. The sound continued to build as he lay still for a moment, followed by cheers when he raised himself to his knees. His attendants rushed forward and helped him stand.

“Look!” Petra exclaimed, pointing to the huddle of people around Lord Steffon. “There he is.”

Slightly above average height, Dorian carried himself with a swagger that made him appear even taller, and his strong chin and chiseled features embodied the image of a fairy-tale hero. With his thick blond hair, green eyes, and ready wit, he might have been crafted for the express purpose of making women swoon, and, like Petra’s, my attention was fixed upon him as he followed Lord Steffon from the field.

“Have you seen him dance?” Petra asked. “Such fine legs! I may trip over myself in admiring them.”

“From a distance, I presume.”

“Oh, I’ll find a way to turn his head. A man such as that likes a girl with spirit.”

I was surprised to hear Petra speak so boldly. Many maids thought themselves lucky to catch a kiss and a fondle from a young nobleman before they settled down with a suitable but less heart-stirring husband, yet Petra had never been one to indulge in that sort of escapade. Though his family was not a noble one, Petra knew that the son of the king’s chief adviser would never consider a serving girl a serious prospect.

“Have you spoken to him?” I asked, trying to judge the depth of her interest.

“Of course,” she said. “I will admit that our conversations haven’t strayed much further than ‘I’ll have more bread’ and ‘Yes, sir,’ but in my head he has already declared his undying love.”

I smiled, remembering similar conversations I had imagined with Marcus.

“Some men have no need of words,” I said. “They show whom they favor in other ways.” My tone was lighthearted, but I remembered a story one of Queen Lenore’s ladies had recounted some months before, an incident involving Dorian and a certain woman of ill repute who had greeted him by name when the king’s hunting party was passing through town. It made me wary of Dorian’s reputation, for it seemed he had been flattered rather than shamed by the harlot’s attention.

The sun was beating down upon us, and Petra ran a few fingers under the edge of the scratchy linen cap that was part of each maid’s uniform. “Have no fear,” she said. “My honor has not been sullied. Dorian hasn’t given me so much as a pat on the backside, which is more than I can say for other so-called gentlemen of the court.”

She laughed, and my stomach tightened in disgust as I remembered my narrow escape from Prince Bowen. I had told no one of our encounter, not even Petra, for to speak of it would be to relive the horror anew. But the memory of that shameful episode lingered, and to me the liberties that courtiers took with serving girls would never be a joking matter.

Petra pushed the cap off her head, releasing a cascade of icy-blond hair. I wished I had such self-assurance, for it would have been a welcome relief from the heat. But I was far too modest. Petra combed her fingers through the shimmering strands, and I noticed heads turning around us at the sight. She had a natural grace that set her apart from the rest of the maids, and for a moment I was convinced her beauty might be enough to spark Dorian’s affection after all.

Petra twisted her hair into a tight knot and returned the cap to her head, transforming herself back into a simple, anonymous servant. “Dorian is no more than a pleasant distraction,” she said. “Plotting to catch his eye helps pass the time during a long night at the tables.”

Lord Steffon and his men had moved into the stands just below the king and queen. I watched Dorian laughing and jostling his fellow pages, as young men do when they want to make a show of their manliness. It was clear from the way the others deferred to him that they looked to Dorian as a leader.

And what was I thinking, on that summer day so long ago? Though I have never been drawn to those who push themselves to the center of attention, I remember watching him, intrigued. Even then he seemed a man destined for great things, though I never could have imagined the role he would one day play in my own life.

“Enough of Dorian,” Petra said. “Let’s return to your beau.”

“I told you, Marcus is not my beau.”

“But you wish he were, don’t you?” Petra laughed in delight as I blushed, then admitted I had invited him to the party that night.

“But it has been nearly two weeks since I saw him last,” I said. “I have no idea if he’ll come.”

“If he’s seen you this giddy, he’d be a fool to stay away.”

The servants’ fest was uncomfortable in the way such events often are: too many people drinking too much ale, forced into conversation with acquaintances they usually avoid. I had no desire to linger, and were I not awaiting Marcus, I would have eaten quickly and left. As it was, I spent an excruciating half hour looking for him in the crowd around the gates, occasionally greeting a fellow servant before returning to my search. My heart pounded with both anticipation and nerves.

“Fancy a spin?”

I turned, surprised, only to be assaulted by an odor of spirits and sweat. It was Elgar, one of the stableboys. His body swayed slowly from side to side as he fixed me with a crooked smile.

I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

“Aren’t we fine?” he asked, attempting a mocking imitation of my accent. “Should have known you’d be snooty about it. You’re no better than the rest of us, darling.”

Infuriated, I strode away before I made the mistake of speaking my mind. For I did consider myself better than Elgar and his drunken friends. My time in Queen Lenore’s service had changed me. I had grown to appreciate the same things as my mistress: beauty, poetry, gracious manners, and clever conversation. Strangely, I felt more at ease with her than with those of my own station, most of whom could not even write their names.

“Elise!”

I turned and saw Marcus across the press of people, his height giving him an advantage in seeking me out. In an instant the noise and throngs surrounding me ceased to exist. So great was my relief that I waved and hastened toward him, not caring if my behavior was too forward for our limited acquaintance. He was wearing what must have been his Sunday best, a white linen shirt and brown woolen trousers that were immaculately clean but showed signs of mending. Most of the servants around us were clad in clothes of higher-quality fabric, for the king set great store in appearances and provided new uniforms every two years. My own gown, another hand-me-down from the queen, was trimmed in lace and velvet ribbon. Marcus struck me as a more than usually observant young man; the humbleness of his clothing in comparison to mine would not escape his notice.

He dropped into a quick, awkward bow, then smiled wryly and shook his head. “I am sorry. I do not know the proper form for such events.”

“This is a servants’ fest, not a royal audience,” I said with an encouraging smile. Then, hoping spirits might ease my nerves, I offered him a cup of ale, and together we braved the knots of boisterous revelers who surrounded the barrels.

Our first attempts at conversation were forced and tentative, as I clumsily tried to ascertain whether he was spoken for and he just as clumsily confirmed he was not. By the time we had drained our first mugs, we were speaking easily enough of court gossip and the news from St. Elsip, even as our bodies hinted at other, more tantalizing subjects. Jostled by the crowd, Marcus would press his arm against mine, or my hand would brush against his shoulder when I leaned in to whisper a scandalous rumor. When a soused craftsman staggered toward me, looking perilously close to retching, I veered from his path directly into Marcus, almost knocking us both down. Wobbling, trying to regain my balance and my dignity, I heard Marcus laugh as he took hold of my waist to steady me. Not the mocking laughter another man would have thrown out on witnessing my befuddlement. It was a gentle, happy sound.

All around me, men and women were coupling off, their inhibitions loosened by drink and the excitement of the tournament. It was a night when servants were released from their duties and allowed a few precious hours to follow their own desires. For once I wanted to join them. I wanted to please only myself, with no thought for what others might think.

As Marcus freed me from his grip, I reached out and grabbed his hands. “It’s too crowded here,” I said. “Follow me.”

I led Marcus through the courtyard and into the castle, hoping my face gave no hint of the fluttering that rippled through my chest. In silence we walked along the corridors that snaked through the walls of the main floor, past the Great Hall where the nobles were enjoying their own revelries. Emerging into the queen’s empty Receiving Room, we continued toward the door that led outside, into the walled garden. The midsummer sun had nearly completed its descent to the horizon, burnishing the scene with a golden haze. The flower beds were at the height of their glory, and fragrant aromas drifted on the air as we passed. A short distance away, hundreds of people were gathered, yet here, within this hidden sanctuary, Marcus and I stood alone.

Alone and unobserved. My heart thudded with expectation.

“Shall we sit?” I asked, pointing toward the semicircular wooden bench in the middle of the rose garden. Marcus left a handsbreadth between us as he took his place.

“Do you ever . . .” He paused and fixed me with a look of such intensity that it shattered the polite formality between us. “Do you ever marvel at your change in circumstance? To find yourself here, in such company?”

Such a direct question deserved a direct answer. “I do marvel, every day.”

“It suits you, this life,” he said with a touch of wistfulness.

“The queen suits me. But the castle is a very different world than the one I came from.”

“And where was that?”

I had not spoken of my past at any length to anyone but Petra. My story could be told in a few short sentences, yet Marcus listened—truly listened—and I found myself revealing more than I intended. I told him of Father’s hardness, of Mother’s last moments, of my desperate hope that the castle would offer some kind of salvation. Even as I praised the queen’s kindness, I spoke of the loneliness that plagued me when I was not in her company, the fear that I would always be regarded an outsider within these walls.

“Perhaps that is why you treat me differently than the others,” Marcus said quietly. “All the servants look down on tradesmen from town. You are the only one who does not.”

“When we first met, I was fresh off the farm, most likely with straw still caught in my hair. Yet you treated me kindly.”

“You remember that day in my father’s shop?”

“Of course I do,” I said with a shy smile. “And you?”

“I’ve never forgotten it,” he said, his voice husky. “I have not forgotten any of our encounters.”

We looked into each other’s eyes, seeing our hopes reflected in the other’s face. I reached out my hand and found his, and then our fingers were intertwined, caressing with the lightest of touches. He leaned downward and grazed his lips along my knuckles, and I giggled in delight, provoking his own laughter.

“Does this please you, my lady?” he asked with exaggerated courtesy. “You must have dozens of admirers who beg the privilege of a kiss. Perhaps one who sings of love while strumming a lute?”

Behind his joking tone, I heard fear. I would always think myself a poor country girl, ill suited to her position. But to a cobbler’s son, I might appear out of reach.

“I am the same girl you met in your father’s shop,” I said. “I have no interest in courtiers who fancy themselves poets.”

We sat companionably together, hands joined, my heart racing. Eager to further the bond of honesty between us, I told stories of how poorly I had carried out my duties during my earliest days as Queen Lenore’s attendant, delighting in his laughter.

“Look at you now, as much a lady as those you serve,” Marcus said. “I knew from our first meeting that you were fit for more than a chambermaid’s duties.”

“Anything I have made of myself is a credit to my mother,” I said. “We had no money and no prospects, yet she made me believe I could be more than a peasant’s wife.”

“And a shoemaker’s wife?” His voice was lighthearted, yet I felt the import of the words.

“I care only that my future husband be kind.”

“I would ask the same of my future wife.”

I so longed for him to kiss me that when his lips suddenly met mine, I thought the force of my desire had pulled him forward. Or perhaps I hurried the result by bending my body toward his. If so, he was not offended by my forwardness, for he responded instantly, caressing my mouth with his, raising one hand to rest softly on my cheek. A rush of heat coursed through my body, and I leaned closer, pressing my lips harder against his, demanding more. It was Marcus who drew away, Marcus who warned that someone was approaching.