The Rose Bride (22 page)

But she did not come. Ombrine appeared with her apologies, explaining to His Majesty that her daughter didn’t feel well. Seeing his alarm, she reminded him that women in the family way were often queasy in the beginning. He demanded to see her, but after a difficult night, she had finally fallen asleep. Ombrine counseled that it would be best not to disturb her.

“It’s normal. Natural,” she soothed. “If anything, it bodes well.”

He passed the morning in meetings. When the sun reached its zenith, he checked on her again. She was awake and glad to
see
him.

“I was afraid for you,” he confessed.

“My mother told me.” She waved her hand and a serving girl appeared with a steamy goblet of wine. “Drink this. It’s the same soothing brew that I am drinking.” She indicated a half empty cup on the table at her bedside.

He took a sip. It was a little bitter and he stopped. She grinned at him and tapped the base with her fingernail.

“Drink,” she urged. She lifted up her cup and took a healthy swallow.

He drank it all down. It was delicious. He had never tasted wine so flavorful. A wave of light-headedness made him clumsy as he handed the goblet back to the servant.

“It’s marvelous, is it not?” she asked. “It’s an old family recipe.”

“Marvelous indeed,” he replied.

Night. And Jean-Marc. He was carrying a purple rose.

He walked toward Rose slowly. She was shocked by the change in him. A streak of gray ran through his blue-black hair; his face was haggard and careworn. There were lines in his forehead and at the corners of his eyes, and he shuffled along like an old man.

“How is it with you?” he asked her. “Let us sit together tonight, eh? I’m weary and my bones ache.”

Rose bleated her distress. He smiled at her faintly and said, “I’m just tired. Nothing else is wrong. The queen had nightmares again last night. She says that
I did too. That I awakened her with my shouting.”

She tilted her head, listening.

“I don’t remember them.” He yawned. “I seem to be forgetting a lot of things.”

She blinked. You are
in danger
, she wanted to tell him. Or so she believed.

She folded her legs and sat down beside him. He reached out his hand very slowly. She did not flinch. He rested it on her back. Warmth spread throughout her body and she rested her head on her hooves.

“I have come to treasure these evenings,” he said. “By this pool with you, I seem to become someone new Someone . . . I was on the way to becoming a long time ago,”

Her heart fluttered. She understood. She felt the same.

“There’s something between us, you and me,” he continued. “I don’t know how to explain it or what to call it. But I’m grateful for it. Your goddess was kind to send you to me.”

They sat side by side. It was a cold night, but Rose was cozied by the kings body heat as if she lay before a fire. Absently he stroked her back with his fingertips. She exhaled, not with fear but with pleasure.

The moon rose. As one, they looked into the gauzy light, and the lines and tiredness melted away from Jean-Marc’s face. He looked young and vigorous.

“
You are loved,”
the rose on the ground whispered to her.

He reached under Rose’s chin and scratched her
along her neck. She shut her eyes tight, his touch a wondrous gift.

When she opened them, he was staring down at her.

“Are you crying?” he asked. “Can deer cry?”

“You
are loved,”
the rose whispered.

Rose moved her head so that it lay on his knee. A tear did spill, soaking into her fur, but she didn’t think Jean-Marc saw it. She knew then, for an absolute certainty, that she loved him. In these months by the pool, he had bared his heart to her, and his soul. He had shared his secrets and his past. He had told her about being a lonely boy and a lonely man and she heard how deep his wound ran. But despite all he moved forward as best he could, forward into the hope of being loved. He had what he wanted. He
was
loved.

By her.

He didn’t know it. He might never. But the gift had been given.

And what of me?
Rose thought.
Who is it, who loves me?

The wind blew and the moon glittered. Around them, the phantom garden of Rose’s childhood pulsed and faded, pulsed and faded. He didn’t see it. But she did and as she looked, she saw Jean-Marc as a young boy, sitting by the fountain. He was crying and as his tears dropped onto the ground, they became the silvery stream.

In the damascene moonlight, Rose’s mother glided among the hundreds of rosebushes, ethereal as a goddess. Her expression was one of gentle pity; her arms were filled with white petals.

“Let him know that he is loved,” she murmured.

She raised them over the little prince’s head and released them. They showered down on his head and shoulders like fairy kisses.

“You are loved. You are loved. You are loved,”
the petals breathed.

The boy looked up in wonder. He held out his hands and smiled. Then he began to laugh.

The vision faded. The garden disappeared. Rose shifted her head on Jean-Marc’s knee.

The cold wind blew. Clouds scudded over the moon. A shadow traced the ground, then vanished.

“Tomorrow the moon will be full,” Jean-Marc said.

“Oui,” Rose replied, but the sound she made was a deer sound.

“I must go.” He moved his hand away and she lifted her head from his knee.

They both stood.

“À d
emain,”
Jean-Marc said to her. She bobbed her head.

Then each went their way in the moonlight.

When she returned to the forest, Rose tossed and turned. She missed the herd, and without the protection of others of her kind, she constantly jerked awake, scanning the darkness for predators.

Thus it was that she was awake when Ombrine and Desirée crept through the darkness. She rose unsteadily and darted behind a tree, watching. They wore black cloaks and carried lanterns. Behind the pair,
a black shadow moved, with a bird on its shoulder. Then a third woman, wrinkled and stooped, moved from the opposite end of their path.

“Hail sisters, well met,” she said, raising her lantern. “My lord,” she added, curtsying deeply before the shadow. It wordlessly inclined its head. “How goes the plan?”

Ombrine stepped forward. “It is as we feared. Le Noir”—she gestured to the bird—“has told us that the spell is weakening. Reginer Marchand has begun to see Desirée as she really is. Claire Marchand met in secret with the king. And he did not share this information with his queen.”

“That’s ominous,” the old woman said.

“Or merely gallant,” Desirée drawled. “He’s like that.”

The bird on the shadow’s shoulder cawed. The crone cocked her head, listening to it. It cawed rapidly and fluttered its wings. The dark figure stood impassively as the bird continued.

“He has made a pet of a deer?” the old woman asked the bird.

Rose fought the urge to bleat with fear. Her ears flattened; her tail twitched. She willed herself to freeze.

“Something of a confidante.” Ombrine sniffed. “Can you imagine?”

“I can,” said the crone. “Surely it has occurred to you that deer are the subjects of Artemis? And Celestine Marchand was her Best Beloved. Or so I have read in the runes.”

“And Rose was the Best Beloved of her mother,” Ombrine said slowly.

“Can’t this wait?” Desirée asked, yawning. “I’m cold. I want to go back to bed.”

“Rose’s body has never been found,” Ombrine said to the old woman. “One assumes the Pretender’s men killed her and left her to rot, but one cannot be certain. Tell me, Mother Hecate, this deer ... follow me here. We have used a glamour to present Desirée to the king as Rose. Could Rose be enchanted so that she appears to be a deer?”

“That can’t happen,” Desirée objected. “That’s just too strange.”

“Of course it can happen.” The old woman—Mother Hecate—shrugged her shoulders. “The Pretender used a glamour to appear as Henri’s son. And the God of Shadows appears to us now as a figure of living darkness.”

The three women turned to the dark figure and curtsied low. The silent figure inclined its head.

“You’re new to the ways of sorcery,” the old woman told Ombrine. “But you’ve achieved so much. For centuries, we’ve tried to form a Circle within the palace. We’ve never succeeded. We’re so very close now.”

“I’ve fed the king the new potion,” Desirée said. “He can’t remember anything from one night to the next.”

Hélas
, Rose thought.
They are poisoning him!

“That is only a temporary measure. One that you must not continue long,” Mother Hecate reproved. “If that idiot Sabot and the council decide that the king
has lost his mind, they’ll depose him and name a Regent.”

“That would be me,” Desirée declared. “That would be even better than queen!”

Ombrine laughed sourly and rolled her eyes. “You’d be a ripe target for assassination,
ma belle
. Better to let a man stand between you and a sword.”

“Your position would remain far more stable with the king in place. And so would the Circle’s.” Mother Hecate reached into the sleeve of her robe. “I’ve prepared some incriminating documents that will falsely link Reginer and Claire to the Pretender. Conceal them in their apartment in the palace.”

She handed Ombrine several sheets of parchment, one rolled up as a scroll. Then she reached into her other sleeve and pulled out a bag that reeked like carrion. Rose’s eyes began to water.

“Put this in Jean-Marc’s wine,” she told Desirée. “He will be more suggestible. Whisper in his ear that the Marchands are traitors. He will hear you.”

Ombrine grabbed the bag out of Desirée’s hand. “I’ll take care of these.” She opened the drawstring and peered inside. “How much?”

“Two pinches,” the crone told her.

“Let’s whisper as well that his little pet doe is in on their scheme,” Ombrine told Desirée.

“Well said,” Mother Hecate said. “If she’s a problem, she’s taken care of. If she’s not ... well, one less deer and who cares about that?”

Ombrine and Desirée tittered. Desirée bounced on her heels. “This is so much fun.”

“Have a care,” Ombrine said. “It was not ‘fun’ when we were starving to death.”

Mother Hecate raised her arms toward the moon.

“Artemis stole the moonlight from you long ago, my lord,” she said to the shadowy figure. “We promise you that we will continue to fight for your ascension. To that end, we promise you a firstborn.”

Rose caught her breath as Desirée placed her hand over her stomach. She could not be with child. Not Jean-Marc’s child.

“Does he suspect?” Ombrine asked Desirée.

“That I have lied about carrying another heartbeat?” she asked. “Never fear, I’ll take care of that soon enough.” She curtsied low to the shadow. “I will whisper to him of love. Then I will conceive, my lord, and give the babe to you.”

Non, non
, Rose thought. She ground her teeth together to keep herself from bleating. She longed to paw the ground.

“We must away,” Mother Hecate announced. “The dawn is coming. The king will awaken and wonder where you are. You told him you’ve sent for a priestess,
oui?
I’ll come with you and help you close the trap.”

The four glided through the trees. Rose waited, her heart racing, to go to Jean-Marc and foil the plot, if she could ... or to warn Reginer and Claire, if she couldn’t.

Two hours later, Jean-Marc paced as he waited for the results of the search of the Marchands’ apartment. He had awakened from a clear vision of their treachery—a gift from the gods, surely, meant to protect the Favored Son of Zeus. His wife was overwrought from a vision of her own. Ombrine had come as soon as he had summoned her, and brought with her “the priestess of Artemis” he had given his wife permission to bring to the castle.

“I dreamed of a little deer,” Desirée told Mother Hecate. “She creeps to the baby’s cradle, and then she raises up on her hind legs and crashes down on top of him.”

She burst into sobs. “And she kills him!”

“Mon
amour, ma
belle.”
Alarmed, Jean-Marc gathered her in his arms and held her against his chest. It couldn’t be his little pet, could it? Impossible.

“It’s a sign from the goddess. She is warning us.” Weeping, she dug her fingers into his arms. “Someone in the court is practicing witchcraft against us.”

At that moment, there was a knock on the door to their private rooms. Jean-Marc himself answered it, and Monsieur Sabot stood white-faced on the other side. In his hand he held a sheaf of papers.

“It is as you dreamed, sire,” he said with a bow. “Documents showing that Reginer Marchand is not who he pretends to be. His name is Robert Bienville. The Pretender’s spies discovered Rose
Marchand, and Bienville pretended to meet her by accident. Her Majesty is truly who she says she is. She is innocent of all of this.”

He bowed in Desirée’s direction. “But Bienville still plots His Majesty’s downfall with the Pretender’s cousin.”

“By the gods, his death shall be hideous,” Jean-Marc hissed.
“Merci
, Monsieur Sabot. I’ll meet with you in the council chambers in ten minutes.”

Monsieur Sabot bowed low, and left.

“Your Majesty, there is more,” the old woman declared, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a handful of ivory tablets. “I have cast the runes. There is another traitor very close to you. I have been unable to discern his—or her—identity, but I can give you a mirror that will allow
you
to see who it is.”

She reached into a black satin bag covered with white stars and pulled out a small hand mirror in an ebony lacquer frame. The mirror face was black as well, as if the silver backing had tarnished.

“By tonight’s moon, look into this mirror, and you will see the traitor. There will be no mistake. You will see the guilty one.”

“Here is more wine,” Ombrine announced, carrying a fresh tray of goblets from a servant at the bedroom door. “Drink, my son-in-law. You have need of fortitude for the wild work ahead.”

Grabbing a goblet, he drank the fragrant brew down in three swallows. Vertigo washed over him as he set the goblet back down on the tray.