While Beauty Slept (44 page)

“A man? What man?” I asked.

The footman shrugged. “A townsman, nicely spoken. He wanted me to check that you were well, and so you are. Easiest money I’ve ever made.”

He turned back toward the castle gates, and I followed, wary of approaching the frantic mass outside. The footman hovered just behind the line of guards, his eyes looking over the crowd, until he stopped and raised a hand. A figure pushed through the bodies, creating a steady ripple of movement on either side as he moved determinedly forward.

It was Marcus.

The changes wrought by age were easily noted: His hair was neatly trimmed rather than left to fall haphazardly across his forehead, and his figure had thickened into a healthy solidity. Yet I was struck by how much had not changed. We stared at each other, separated by a human shield of soldiers, and yet it was as if we found ourselves alone. Relief flooded across his face, and he spoke quickly, knowing that the times did not allow for pleasantries.

“Elise, thank God I’ve found you.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked, disoriented by the unexpected sight of him amid the commotion.

“Hester’s brother-in-law is ailing, and her sister asked if she could come and help. I drove her in this morning, but all the talk in town is of a strange illness. . . .”

“Take your wife home,” I urged. “Immediately. You should be safe from contagion at the tannery.”

“So it is true? It is the pox?”

“Yes.”

The people pressed up against Marcus, suspicions confirmed, repeated my words to their neighbors, and the pleas for entrance took on a new urgency. Blindly, desperately, they believed their king could keep them safe. The captain of the guards, posted at the end of his line of men, frowned as he surveyed the tumult.

“Will you be safe here?” Marcus asked.

I almost laughed. Here I was, granted refuge with royalty, an honor the masses around us would think themselves blessed to share.

“Have no worries on my account.” Even as the words were said, I realized the magnitude of what he had done. It was worry for me that had brought him here, through this crowd, despite the demands of his family. When disaster threatened, it was my safety that sprang to his mind.

“If you wish to leave,” he offered, “you are welcome to stay with us, for as long as you like.”

What would his wife make of my sudden appearance? I wondered. For I could see in his determined face the same man who had once told me that he did not love lightly. He could not hide his concern for my welfare, just as I could not disguise my own delight at seeing him again. Dangerous sentiments for a married man and a widow to reveal.

“You know I cannot leave,” I said. Echoes of our long-ago parting resonated through the years. Once again Marcus offered escape, and I chose duty. This time he accepted my answer with resignation, as if he had expected no other.

“Elise, you must promise me—”

Whatever bargain he intended to strike was suddenly drowned out by a harsh bark from the guards’ commander. The line of men tightened, and with a groan of wood and metal the gates began to move. Cries of dismay and anger erupted from outside. Marcus threw a hand toward me in a desperate parting gesture but was soon caught up in the press of bodies and pulled backward. A scrawny young man tried to push between two guards and was shoved away so roughly he fell sprawled in the mud. Marcus’s stricken face disappeared among the mothers and babies and old men as the massive doors groaned shut. With a decisive clang, iron bars were slid across to hold the gates in place. Bewildered and heartsick, I looked around the courtyard, at the shepherds and pages and kitchen maids and stableboys. None appeared grateful to be locked away from the threat of illness. What I saw on every face was fear.

We might have removed ourselves from the world, but the castle was hardly serene. With the bleating of animals and the constant chatter in the halls, there was a flurry of activity to very little purpose. A good number of the nobles had chosen to leave, as I saw by the empty tables at supper that evening, but most of the servants had nowhere else to go. The king, the queen, and Rose sat in their usual places, more out of duty than hunger, for they only picked at their meals. Afterward Rose asked if I would accompany her to her room. She dismissed her maid and paced back and forth from the door to the window, anxious with nerves.

“The servants are saying Aunt Millicent is nearly dead of the pox. Is it true?”

“Yes.” I shut my mind to the horrors of that foul room.

“Could she have passed the contagion to me?”

“She could not have done you harm in so short a visit,” I said with a certainty I did not feel.

“I might as well be dead,” she said mournfully. “My mother promised I would be allowed to travel once the war was over. I thought I would finally see something of the world. Instead I am doomed to rot behind these walls.”

“It’s hardly as bad as that.” She must have a distraction, I thought, something else to set her mind to. “Have you made any more progress on your poem?”

“I have found it difficult to capture Dorian’s vitality,” she said, dispirited. Then she looked up at me, her eyes gleaming with an encouraging curiosity. “It would be a great help if you were to tell me more about him and his exploits.”

I had to swallow a chuckle. Dorian’s exploits were primarily of the lustful variety, hardly worthy of a young maiden’s verse.

“I will think on it,” I promised. “But I won’t have you pining over fallen heroes. We must find other ways to occupy your time. Perhaps embroidery?”

Rose frowned. “Not much of a substitute for dancing.”

“We shall make something pretty. Once the pox has passed, there will be talk of suitors again. We can’t marry you off without suitably fine petticoats and nightdresses.”

“Do you think I will be consulted on my next choice of husband?”

“Well, you are older now. No doubt you have certain preferences you wish to share with your father.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Hmm.” I pretended to consider the matter. “Someone with dashing good looks, of course. Intelligent and well traveled. A man of the world, you might say. Who is as skilled at conversation as he is at dancing.”

Rose laughed, her pink cheeks proof that my hints about Joffrey had hit their mark. She was now the same age I had been when thoughts of Marcus were all-consuming, when I could make my heart race by imagining his kisses. Perhaps Rose, too, found comfort in such fantasies. I hoped she did. I wanted to protect her against the pox above all else, but if I could preserve her spirit besides, I would consider my work well done.

When I remember those days, it is the watchfulness that I recall above all. Like many of the servants, I often climbed to the top of the castle walls to peer down at St. Elsip, but from so far away its fate was unclear. The most striking difference was the emptiness of the streets. Tiny figures could occasionally be seen scurrying in the distance, but the usual touchstones that marked the passage of time had disappeared: There were no market days, no calls to worship from the church bells, no children running in the fields along the riverbank. How was Prielle faring, I wondered, confined at home with her unhappy parents, fearful for her future? A girl of her sensitive temperament would feel the weight of such times more acutely than others, and I hoped desperately that the pox would pass her family by. Then my eyes would drift beyond St. Elsip, to the trees surrounding the tannery, and my thoughts would turn to Marcus. Was he safe? Would I ever see him again?

Within the walls we searched for signs of illness among us. Any stray cough was cause for whispers, and normal aches and pains were discussed as life-or-death matters. One kitchen maid became the object of frightened conjecture when she awoke feverish and was unable to rise from her bed; she was immediately shunned and sent to sleep in the stables. After that, no one dared show any weakness. But we were all unwell in mind, if not in body. From the youngest errand boys to Queen Lenore’s remaining ladies-in-waiting, each carried the burden of fear. We soldiered on despite its weight, halfheartedly fulfilling our duties, silently marking off the days toward a time we might consider ourselves safe from danger.

Occasionally someone would ask permission to leave, and the gates would be opened a crack to allow that person to slip out. For the most part, those who left had family in the country and hoped their sister’s or cousin’s faraway farm might offer safety. Only one of these departures caused me any personal grief. One week into our seclusion, word spread through the Lower Hall that Mrs. Tewkes had gone. She had sent word to the queen and left under cover of night, without farewells to any of her charges. It was seen as a disturbing omen, for the woman had devoted her life to the king’s service. We never imagined she would abandon us.

I had thought myself bound to Mrs. Tewkes by our shared love for my mother, and I was crushed that she had left without telling me. Perhaps she found a silent leave-taking easier to bear, but it exacted a heavy toll on those of us who remained. With her husband long dead and no children, I did not know who would take her in; she had never spoken to me of any family. But, as I was quickly learning, desperate times drive even the most levelheaded to uncharacteristic folly.

Still, with enough time, one’s life adjusts to even the most surprising turns. I might never have given Mrs. Tewkes more than a passing thought again had it not been for Rose and her poem. Denied other pleasures, she devoted hours to writing her celebration of Dorian, occasionally reading passages aloud for my approval. I found the style greatly influenced by her mother’s favorite works but admirable for one of her limited experience. Though the virtuous, self-effacing hero depicted in her work bore little resemblance to my husband, Rose had captured his looks and mannerisms well, and I thought it might be no bad thing if this image of Dorian one day supplanted memories of the man as he had been.

My only concern was the amount of time Rose dedicated to her scribbling. Little acquainted with the storytelling arts myself, I had thought a poem the work of one or two days; Rose’s epic had now filled weeks, with no sign of an ending in sight. The skin beneath her eyes was smudged with gray, and every morning she requested fresh candles. When I asked gently whether she might turn her thoughts elsewhere, she brushed off my concern.

“I can’t stop now,” she said. “I have started the battle scene, where Dorian saves my father’s life.”

What could a coddled girl know of warfare? The images that came to my mind were dark and cruel: mud-caked horses driven to the limit of their endurance, sprays of blood spattering dull armor, sharpened swords tearing into human flesh. I did not wish Rose’s mind troubled with such things; there was horror enough in our lives as they were.

“It’s only . . .” Rose paused and straightened her papers, as if ordering her thoughts. “I do not know how to describe Prince Bowen. Marl deRauley is easy enough; he looked like a villain from all I’ve heard, with his black hair and giant dark horse. What was Prince Bowen like?”

She stopped and looked at me expectantly. He was her uncle, her father’s brother, yet she had never met him. It was a wonder she had not asked about him before.

“I believe that in his youth he was very like your father,” I said. “They both had the same red-gold hair, much like yours. I’ve been told he was quite handsome. By the time I met him, his looks had faded. The price of a dissolute life, I suppose.”

I regretted the words as soon as I said them. Thankfully, Rose did not demand an accounting of his many sins.

“But how could he have felt such hatred? To murder his own brother?”

“Jealousy is a powerful force,” I said. “Yet none of us thought Bowen capable of doing the deed by his own hand. It was the reason your father was caught off guard.”

“Ah.” Rose sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Yes, it will make a dramatic ending.” She did not sound enthused at the prospect of writing it.

“I think you need a rest,” I said, shaking my head when she began to protest. “You cannot write and write without pause. What if we read some other poems? Perhaps you might be inspired with ideas for your own.”