The Rose Bride (14 page)

Rose woke to velvet on her cheek. And to screaming. And to a whisper.

“Vite, vite.”

Rose opened her eyes to find a brown doe gazing down at her. She bolted upright. Monsieur Sabot, Desiree, and Ombrine lay unconscious in a tangle beside her.

“Alors
, Monsieur Sabot.” She reached for the elderly man. “Sir, wake up. We must get out of here!”

“Non
. Leave him,” something whispered against her ear, as the deer nudged her again.

The coach had fallen into a rut mere feet away from a wooden bridge spanning a rushing river. The coachman, the footman, and several of the guards were attempting to right it. A few yards away, the remainder of the king’s men clashed on horseback with the first line of the Pretender’s foot soldiers. Crimson blood splashed a black-and-gold breastplate as an arrow caught one of the soldiers in the chest and he tumbled from his horse.

“Vite,”
came the whisper again, and the deer stared
hard at Rose. Slowly, woozily, Rose got to her feet.

Lightning flashed overhead, and rain began pouring down on battling men, the deer, and Rose like a waterfall. The deluge was so strong and unexpected that Rose nearly lost her balance. She grabbed on to the little doe’s back as she shielded her head.

Then, to her utter amazement, the deer gathered up the hem of her skirt. It turned and began trotting across the road. Stumbling behind reluctantly, Rose gazed over her shoulder at Monsieur Sabot, Ombrine, and Desirée.

“They have a god,”
the voice whispered through the rising wind and rain.
“The god of the Severines will protect them.”

But it was clear to Rose that the battle was hopeless. The Pretender’s men outnumbered the kings a hundred to one. What would they do to the king’s loyal advisor and two defenseless women?

“They
are not defenseless. Wait and see.”

She tried to go back but the deer held her fast as it picked up speed. Then it made a wheezing sound and raced down the embankment toward the river.

Hoofbeats pounded behind Rose. The deer dragged her closer to the rushing water.

Rose glanced over her shoulder. On the horizon, the clouds moved and boiled. But they were not clouds. They were large blackbirds. Hundreds of them. They were falling from the sky like stones, swooping down on the Pretender’s men with sharp
claws extended and beaks aimed at the men’s eyes. Rose cried out and covered her eyes with her hand, and the deer yanked harder.

“Et
voila,”
said the voice.
“Now have no fear. Remember that a wish was made. A lesson must be learned. And then all will be well.”

Hoofbeats shook the ground. Hot breath steamed against the back of her neck; she looked over her shoulder to see a mounted knight in the Pretender’s colors. His sword was raised over his head as he galloped straight at her.

The deer tugged insistently and Rose lost her footing. Down she tumbled onto her side, rolling in the rain, sliding in the mud. Then before she realized what was happening, she fell into the river.

The icy water shocked the breath out of her. Her sodden skirts dragged her down, down, and she went under, tumbling end over end, having no idea where the surface was, where the river bottom. She gasped, gulping in water, flailing as the river threw her at churning rocks and tree stumps wide as coach wheels. Within an instant, she was battered senseless and out of air, and her helpless body quit the fight. Limp and dazed, she hurtled along as her eyes closed again.

I am
going to die
, she thought.

“If
you believe in true love, you shall not die,”
the voice relied.

And then, something glowed beneath her eyelids.

In the Land Beyond . . .

“Attack!” cried the soldier on the wall, just before the arrow slammed into his chest. He fell backward with a shout as blood blossomed across his chain mail like a rose.

From a position high above in the barbican, King Jean-Marc drew his battle sword from its scabbard. In full battle armor, he lunged for the door, but his bodyguard stretched out his gauntleted hand to bar the way. Lightning crackled, revealing grim purpose in the man’s expression.

“Milord, I pray you, stay here:”

“I am a warrior,” Jean-Marc said, flipping the visor of his plumed helmet over his face, “and I will not turn my back on the battlefield.”

“Be that as it may, sir,” the bodyguard replied as lightning cracked and crackled again, “but with all due reverence and respect, you are the only king we have. And we are fighting the Pretender to keep you on the throne. If you die, our cause is lost, whether six or six hundred of us survive the battle.”

A thunderous explosion pummeled the barbican,
throwing the bodyguard against the king. Then the door blasted inward and Jean-Marc instinctively threw the man out of the way. A piece of wood as long and sharp as a spear pierced Jean-Marc’s shoulder where metal met leather; blood gushed like a silvery stream and he grunted as he pulled it out.

“The royal coach!” someone shouted. “It’s coming!”

Jean-Marc staggered into the ruined doorway and shielded his eyes, scanning the storm-tossed horizon. An arrow shot past his cheek. The rain pummeled his armor like fists.

Once he reached the parapet, he gazed down on the scene. The forest was on fire, and the rolling hills beyond the castle boiled with smoke and steam. The distant shape of a coach and six horses bobbled through the hazy downpour. At least a dozen men on horseback chased after it.

But what was this? An enormous flock of blackbirds broke from the rain clouds. There had to be hundreds, with wingspans as broad as Jean-Marc’s shield. They fell upon the attackers and their horses, harrying and distracting them.

A miracle sent from the gods, surely.

“Allons-y,”
Jean-Marc told the bodyguard.

“Your Majesty, it is better that you remain here,” the man said diffidently.

Jean-Marc gestured at the coach and its retinue of blackbirds. “I shall not,” he insisted. If the gods were truly kind, Monsieur Sabot sat in that coach, with the lady of the roses.

“You are my king,” the bodyguard said. “I am yours to command.”

King and bodyguard flew down the stairs in concert. The courtyard raged with chaos; in the sheets of rain, Jean-Marc’s bowmen, in black and gold, let fly a barrage of flaming arrows at a throng of enemy soldiers in dark green. A crowd of green-shirts heaved a battering ram against the portcullis.

“To the horses,” he yelled, and his bodyguard nodded.

The king’s warhorse, La Morte, awaited him in the stable. The bodyguard took another massive steed and the two rode out to the burning road.

Swords flashing, king and subject mowed the foot soldiers down as if they were straw men, and blasted through the phalanx of archers. In that moment Jean-Marc was certain he was the favored son of Zeus, for it was a miracle that he hadn’t been wounded again, and that the gash in his shoulder had not grown worse.

Hélas, his bodyguard was not so favored. An arrow caught him in the chest and he tumbled off his horse. The enemy closed in around him as lightning crackled like the triumphant laughter of the god of death.

Jean-Marc clenched his mouth in a thin line. On any other day, he would have ridden back for his man. But not for his kingdom would he trade the safety of the lady he prayed was in the coach. He rode on, swinging his sword at all comers, and galloped
hard through a cluster of the Pretender’s knights on horseback. As they wheeled in pursuit, he made for the road.

His heart leaped when he saw the familiar silhouette of Monsieur Sabot on the driver’s seat. Birds wheeled above him, but did not attack. Monsieur Sabot saw him, and Jean-Marc galloped in front of the lead horses, indicating to his advisor that he would escort them in.

Perhaps troubadours would sing of the next few moments, for it seemed to the king that he fought like Ares himself. The god of war moved his sword and his horse as he flung the enemy from the path leading into the courtyard. He mowed down untold numbers of enemies, caught countless arrows on his shield.

But he and Ares had help, in the form of the large blackbirds that cawed and shrieked, shooting their talons into the eyes of the enemy, clutching arrows in their claws and riding them like the Furies until they landed in the mud. Jean-Marc had never seen the like and he knew the divine was surely with him . . . and that today the Pretender would die.

At last the coach rattled into the courtyard and the portcullis slammed back down. As miraculously as they had appeared, the birds rose in a tremendous, cawing flock back into the stormy sky and flew away.

A half dozen of Jean-Marc’s own soldiers swarmed around the coach, brandishing weapons—swords, bows, battle-axes, maces.

“Stand down!” Jean-Marc yelled, opening his face-plate to reveal his identity. “I am your king!”

Huffing and panting in the rain, they lowered their weapons.

Jean-Marc leaped from his horse. His armor weighed him down like an anchor and his shoulder was on fire as he yanked open the coach door.

There she was.

She stood in the door of the coach, dressed in the gown Sabot had brought for her: clouds of white lace embellished with purple rosettes. Her silver-blond hair tumbled loose over her shoulders. Her starry midnight eyes shone as she gazed at him with startled delight. Then she lowered her gaze and swept a curtsy.

“My lady,” he whispered. He bent down and took her delicate, trembling hands, mindful of his gauntlets. As he raised her up, lips met lips; he kissed her and his heart thundered. It was Lucienne he kissed. He was certain of it. The gods had brought her back to life for him.

He felt his tears on his cheeks as waves of emotion rolled over him, through him. He felt as if he had been thrown back in a churning river of his own passions and he was breathless.

Which god did this to me, for me?
He thought in that moment not of Artemis, but of Eros. Willing lovers bared their breasts for his arrow, heedless of the risk that love would tear their hearts down the middle.
Make her live forever
, he begged no god and all gods.
Make her never leave me again
.

Her fingers worked against his chain mail. Then, catching her breath, she pulled away gently, her face flushed, her eyes downcast. She was crying too. She sank to her knees and buried her face in her hands.

“Mais, mon amour, qu’est-ce que to fais?”
he asked, bending low to her.

“Your Majesty,” she said, still not daring to look up at him. “Please, sir, my stepsister is missing:”

From inside the coach, a dark-haired woman appeared behind her and put her hand on her shoulder. She was weeping uncontrollably.

Monsieur Sabot climbed down off the driver’s seat. His face was bruised; blood mottled his cheeks. He said, “Your Majesty, I present to you Rose Marchand:’ He gazed at Jean-Marc in wonder. “The half sister of the court painter:”

“Even so?” Jean-Marc asked, astonished.

“I have a brother?” she asked, gasping.

“My husband’s son is here?” the dark-haired woman cried. “Summon him at once, I beg of you! Perhaps he will help us find Desirée:”

“This is Ombrine Marchand, stepmother to Rose: Monsieur Sabot continued. “Her daughter is named Desirée. The coach crashed and in the attack, Desirée disappeared. We could not stay and search:”

“Hélas,”
Ombrine whispered. “Oh, my good lord, please help us!”

Jean-Marc nodded. “I will. First we’ll take you both to the temple,” he said, nodding at Monsieur
Sabot, indicating that he should accompany them. “The priests of Zeus will protect you.”

“Vite,”
Monsieur Sabot said, clapping his hands at the king’s soldiers. They snapped to, forming a protective square around the king, the two ladies, and Sabot himself. Their heavy metal shoes clanked as they marched through the chaos. The hand of Mademoiselle Marchand rested lightly on Jean-Marc’s as he scanned the sky for the large blackbirds.

“Those birds,” he said to her. “What of them?”

“Aid from the gods? I pray they watch after my dear stepsister,” she replied. Her voice broke and he laid his other hand over hers. But the metal and leather acted as a barrier. Hiś mind raced ahead to the bedroom, and no coverings at all. . . .

Smoke rose from the temple dome as they hurried inside. Three priests in golden togas stood at the altar, which was piled with coins and sacrifices to Zeus: turtledoves and pigeons. Jean-Marc had banished the previous priests, who had foretold a long life and a son for Lucienne. They had been either poor priests or liars and he had no use for either.

“Your Majesty,” the chief priest said as the three holy men bowed. “We are honored,”

An explosion shook the rafters. Debris and dust sprinkled down. The man glanced at his two fellow priests as they coughed and fanned the air in front of them, trying to keep the altar clear of contamination. “How goes the battle, sir?” he asked.

“We shall prevail,” the king replied.