The Rose Bride (2 page)

As the priestesses reached the altar of their priestly counterparts, they regally inclined their heads and no more, for they were equals. But Lucienne made a full curtsy to the men of Zeus, which included her husband. Moving swiftly, Jean-Marc took his place beside her, and gallantly helped her to her feet.

Jean-Marc laced his fingers through Lucienne’s. She squeezed his hand. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her dark blue eyes widened, framed by her
unusual silver-and-gold tresses, and the prince felt as though he were staring into the eyes of Artemis herself. He knew Lucienne had prayed to the Lady the night before and that the tender wishes of her women held great sway with the goddess.

“I have cast the runes,” the chief priest of Zeus announced as he lowered his gnarled hands to the altar. The other two priests lifted festoons of roses to reveal a round, beaten-gold tray, and on it, a simple scattering of ancient bone rectangles.

Jean-Marc and Lucienne held their breaths as both stared at the runes. They couldn’t read them. No man could, save the one who threw them.

Lucienne’s mouth worked silently, praying to Artemis. Their hearts and bodies were new to each other, and yet both hoped, both dared . . .

“I have cast the runes,” the priest said again, his voice booming. His words echoed off the white stone columns, and he broke into a smile. “You will have a son in the spring and he will mend two broken hearts.”

Lucienne caught her breath and threw her arms around her husband. Aware of the young life inside her, Jean-Marc was afraid to hold her. But as she ecstatically melted against him, he grinned and caught her up, whirling her in a circle beneath the temple dome. She threw back her head and laughed, her golden hair flying behind her head like a cape.

“A son!” cried the priests, as the youngest one raced to the statue of Zeus and hefted the ceremonial
torch from the wall. He lit the enormous pile of papery-dry laurel leaves and oak branches in an alabaster bowl at the foot of the god. Smoke billowed and streamed toward the hole in the ceiling.

The priestesses took up the cry, raising their arrows above their heads. “A son!”

Outside the temple, gongs clanged. Bells chimed. Cheers rose up. The kingdom began rejoicing. Riders bolted from the royal stables to carry the news far and wide. The gods were kind. The succession was assured.

“Let’s go and receive the blessing of the people,” Jean-Marc said, setting her down as if she were made of crystal and tenderly enfolding her hand with both of his. Jean-Marc could scarcely believe his good fortune. A son. His heir.

“First, I must thank the goddess,” she reminded him.

“I’ll thank her too,” Jean-Marc said impetuously.

But as they turned to go, the priest of Zeus cleared his throat and said, “Your Majesties, I ask your pardon, but it occurs to one that the prince might thank Father Zeus first, as
he
is your family’s patron.”

A shadow crossed Jean-Marc’s face, as if the massive statue of his god had shifted on its dais. Jean-Marc gazed up at the statue, and it stared impassively down at him. Chilled, the prince sank at once to his knees.

“M’excusez,”
he murmured. “Of course. I owe my
loyalty and gratitude to the Lord of the Gods.” He lowered his head. “Forgive a thoughtless disciple.”

“He accepts your apology. He is pleased with you,” the priest told Jean-Marc. His features softened. “After all, he’s giving you a son.”

Jean-Marc smiled at the older man, but his princess looked troubled. She remained silent until the two had left the temple, but as their delighted guards grouped around them, she said softly, “Your god isn’t jealous, is he? He won’t punish you for forgetting to thank him?”

“Of course he won’t punish me,” Jean-Marc scoffed. “I’m the son of the Land Beyond. Zeus favors my house.”

He put his arm around her shoulders. He could hardly believe it. He had been alone most of his life, but he had a family now.

“The priest said our child would mend two broken hearts,” she persisted. “Whose hearts could those be, but ours? Broken because we angered the god?”

“Perhaps they’re my heart and my mother’s,” Jean-Marc replied. “I am told she wept when I was born, because she knew she was going to die.” And so she had, three days later.

He spoke without self-pity, but his gentle princess, soon to be a mother herself, slipped her hand into his and said, “I won’t leave you. Ever.”

“Merci, ma belle,”
he replied, and he suddenly felt a whisper of pain deep in his heart. Confused, he fell silent. This was one of the happiest moments of his
life; there was no cause for heartache. He pushed a smile onto his face. He didn’t want to dampen Lucienne’s joy. It was the dream of queens and princesses everywhere to give birth to an heir, and Lucienne’s dream would soon come true.

And she, and he, and their child, would live happily ever after.

Would they not?

Once upon a time, in the Forested Land
, a merchant named Laurent Marchand lived with his second wife, Celestine, and their little daughter, Rose. Laurent toiled endlessly to acquire vast wealth, and Fortune smiled on him. His family lived like nobility in a sprawling slate-roofed
château
that towered above fertile orchards and wild woods teeming with game. They dressed in fine silks and satins and dined on dishes of gold bound with silver. Their servants were happy and counted themselves lucky indeed to work for such a prosperous man.

But as with all forested lands, shadows cast their darkness over the manor on the hill. That was to be expected. Most living things begin in the absence of light: The vine is rooted in the earth; the fawn takes form in the womb of the doe. So it is with secret wounds and heartaches. They can father the greatest happiness—if a brave, shining soul will bear them from the darkness and lift them to the light.

So it is also with the deepest of all joys: a love so true and everlasting that it can heal such wounds. For
true love is true magic, as those who have found it can attest.

Laurent’s dark, secret wound was named Reginer Marchand. Reginer was Laurent’s son by his first wife, who had died giving birth to him. Laurent pinned all his hopes on his heir, waiting for the day when his son would be old enough to help him expand his vast domain. He believed that with Reginer by his side, he would amass a fortune larger than any he could create alone.

But Reginer wanted to be a painter, not a merchant. He spent days, nights, weeks at his easel, reveling in his artistic vision. Thanks to Laurent’s efforts, the family would never run out of money, so why sacrifice his dream on the altar of commerce?

Laurent was infuriated by his son’s “disloyalty.” Painting was a fine pastime, but there was an estate to manage and trading to do. Anger grew on both sides, and one stormy January night, Laurent and Reginer quarreled violently. Reginer packed a bag and stomped out of the grand house. Biting sleet pierced his ermine cloak, and the winter wind wailed like mourners at a funeral.

“Go! Go and be damned!” Laurent yelled, shaking his fist at his son’s retreating back. “Though you starve, though your children beg in the streets, never ask a thing of me! Think of me as your father no longer and never dare to put your hand on my door!”

Heartsick and humiliated, Reginer obeyed his
father’s command to the letter. Years passed, and he did not return.

When Laurent married his second wife, Celestine, and brought her to the estate, she was sorry to learn of the rift between her new husband and his firstborn. Despite her gentle entreaties, Laurent still refused to forgive Reginer. And as Celestine loved her husband and owed him everything, she promised that she would follow his edict and bar the door to her stepson. But Reginer never came. So the shadow of the wound became invisible, although it was still very real.

The other shadow that fell across the lives of the Marchands was easier to see, although it too, had to do with the aching of the human heart. It was Laurent’s near-continuous absence from the beautiful
château
and his family.

“I chase gold as others chase the hare,” he boasted to his delicate, fair-haired wife, “and I do so for you and our daughter. My love is such that you will never go wanting.”

He didn’t understand that Celestine and Rose were sorely wanting indeed: When he was gone, which was more often than not, they missed him terribly. His time and attention were more valuable to them by far than their jewels and dresses. Of a moonlit evening, Celestine would walk along the stony terraces of the
château
, gazing past the topiary garden, the hedge maze, and the chestnut groves to the narrow, winding mountain passes, searching for
her husband’s retinue. She understood that Laurent loved them, but there were times she felt more widow than wife.

Aside from her beloved child, Celestine’s boon companion was Elise Lune, who had served as Celestine’s nurse at the family seat on the Emerald Plains. When Celestine married Laurent, the young bride begged Elise to come with her to the Forested Land.

“I shall know no one there,” Celestine reminded her. “And one hopes that one will have children, and such tiny blossoms will need tending. . . .”

Elise had no other family and loved Celestine like her own child. So she left the comfort of the Emerald Plains to journey with her young mistress to the Forested Land. She was the first to know that Celestine would have a child and she helped in the delivery of Rose. Many a night she walked the floors of the Marchand mansion, singing lullabies and bouncing the teething child. She was with Celestine when Rose took her first step. And it was she who slipped Celestine’s gold coins bearing the likeness of King Henri beneath Rose’s pillow whenever the dear girl lost a tooth. She was so beloved that she became
Tante
Elise—Aunt Elise—and the fact that she was a servant slipped from everyone’s minds.

When little Rose turned seven, Celestine decided to create a rose garden for her daughter’s pleasure. Once the dozens of bushes were planted, Celestine tended them with nearly as much love and devotion
as she showered on
la belle
Rose. The roses responded and the garden became an astonishing bower of unearthly beauty, a lush, velvet canopy of crimson hanging over a blanket of scarlet, opulent with heady perfume. Celestine placed two stone statues of young does at the entrance to the grotto and erected a life-size marble statue of the goddess Artemis in the center. Strong, serene Artemis was the Goddess of the Hunt and of the Moon, and Celestine was devoted to her. Artemis watched over women everywhere and offered them protection when and where she could.

Seeking such protection for Rose, Celestine surrounded Artemis with white roses, symbols of her child’s innocence and purity. She added a trickling fountain and silvery stream, inviting the wild deer that roamed the manor grounds to drink and rest. And on each lonely night of her vigil for Laurent, she would kneel at the feet of her patroness and pray for his safe return.

The path to the statue grew worn as the years passed. The white rosebushes—indeed, all the rosebushes—flourished into a magical land of their own. Laurent came and went, as was his custom. Mother and daughter were cherished, but usually from afar. Rose became a beautiful girl, an unusual girl, with silvery-gold hair that shimmered like the coin her father pursued, and starry eyes of midnight blue.

On the evening before Rose’s thirteenth birthday, the crescent moon shone against the winter sky like Artemis’s gleaming bow. The air quivered with
anticipation. Laurent had sent dozens of gifts—a music box, a harp, and a tender portrait of a young girl with a white cat—but the most exquisite gift of all was a formal gown of deep rose-colored satin and gold tissue, embroidered with silver stars. Celestine had never seen such a magnificent dress in her entire life, and as she fingered the layers and layers of fabric, she couldn’t wait to see Laurent’s face when he saw his daughter wearing it. Such attention to detail, such care, assured Celestine that the giver of the gift—Laurent—knew that this dress was meant for someone’s Best Beloved—that he loved their child with all his heart.

But she felt a soft pity for him, as well. Celestine knew that as wonderful as the dress and all the other presents might be, the only thing Rose wanted for her birthday was her father. And this, Celestine suspected, he did not know. He counted his worth in the things he could give them, and not in himself, their beloved husband and father. He would probably be most amazed to know that Rose had been counting the days until her birthday not so she could have her gifts, but in the hopes that he would put his arms around her and hold her close.

Indeed, her sweet daughter had embroidered a fine purple cloak for him, to thank him for the gift of life. Rose had stitched thirteen roses on the border, leaving room for more years to come. It lay among the gifts he had sent to her and she couldn’t wait to give it to him.

Sunset after sunset Rose stood on the watchtower, waiting for him. He didn’t come. As the evening became night and then midnight on the eve of her birthday, there was no still sign of him.