Briar and Rose and Jack
Page 1
Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Part Two
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Part Three
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Epilogue
About the Author
Connect with HMH on Social Media
Clarion Books
3 Park Avenue
New York, New York 10016
Copyright © 2019 by Katherine Coville
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
hmhbooks.com
Cover illustration © 2019 by Brandon Dorman
Cover design by Opal Roengchai
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Coville, Katherine, author.
Title: Briar and Rose and Jack / Katherine Coville.
Description: Boston ; New York : Clarion Books, 2019. | Summary: Ugly Lady Briar, beautiful Princess Rose, and Jack plot the downfall of the evil giant who plagues their kingdom while the girls face a curse that only true love can break.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018051214 (print) | LCCN 2018055668 (ebook) | ISBN 9781328632555 | ISBN 9781328950055 (hardback) | ISBN 9781328632555 (ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Fairy tales. | Characters in literature—Fiction. | Princesses—Fiction. | Giants—Fiction. | Blessing and cursing—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Fairy Tales & Folklore / Adaptations. | JUVENILE FICTION / Family / Siblings. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Prejudice & Racism. | JUVENILE FICTION / Fantasy & Magic.
Classification: LCC PZ8.C834413 (ebook) | LCC PZ8.C834413 Bri 2019 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018051214
v1.0519
To Anne Hoppe
PROLOGUE
SOMETHING COMES. High above the great forest, a full moon spills its lambent light on an ocean of treetops.Some premonition borne on the wind inspires the sea of leafy limbs to dance and sway, murmuring softly to one another of signs and portents. Massive oaks and chestnuts, a thousand years old, catch the whispers on the wind and feel their sap rise. They sigh to their neighbors, passing on the sibilant message: Something comes. Small silver birches, glowing white in the moonlight, slap their round leaves together in excitement while the towering beech trees, the sentinels, watch and wait.
Something comes. Something in the arc of blue-black sky, in the array of stars, in the music of the celestial spheres. It plays at the edges of consciousness. It is there, in the hoot of the tawny owl and the churring trill of the nightjar. It disturbs the hunt of the wild creatures prowling far below the forest canopy—the wolf, the fox, and the pine marten. They pause and listen. It cools the savage temperament of the badger and the wild boar. It rouses the diminutive roe deer from their sleep, tantalizes the moths, and bestirs the crickets. Even the mice and the moles, tunneling away beneath the earth, feel it: Something comes.
Looming in the west above the Enchanted Forest, a great mountain ascends to a permanent ring of clouds, but none of the birds or beasts go near it.
Far to the east of the mountain, rising from a glittering moat, the dark silhouette of a castle stands out against a flash of summer lightning. In the sudden light one can barely see where the outer wall has been repaired after being knocked down by a marauding giant. Now a plucky red pennant flies from its topmost spire. Narrow window slots glow with yellow candlelight, for all the castle is awake, waiting and listening in an expectant hush. There is only the sound of the wind in the trees, the occasional birdcall, and, though only a few can hear it, an inexpressible harmony in the air.
Until a scream splits the night.
High in the keep, a king paces impatiently. His seven counselors stand clustered together, as if to consolidate their power. Chief among them is the bishop, for he is the head of the church, and in this land and time the church wields nearly as much power as the king himself. But even the bishop has no answers on this night. The counselors all consult among themselves with charts and diagrams, trying to conceal their puzzlement, for the signs are contradictory. King Warrick has ordered his counselors out and called them back a dozen times. He relies on their predictions but has no patience with their present confusion. He is accustomed to having his wishes granted with speed and deference. Nature, however, is impervious to kings. It defers to no one, and it keeps its own time.
Within the lord’s chamber, Queen Merewyn lies abed, great with child. Unlike the king, she is infinitely patient. She has spent her life discharging, with a practiced smile, such tedious royal duties as are given her, but her heart is not in it. All she has ever wanted is to create something truly beautiful, and her wise woman has seen that it will come to pass in the birth of this long-awaited child. It is Queen Merewyn who screams, for it is the time of her travail, but between her pains, her lovely, tired face is serene; her most cherished dream is about to come true.
Only one woman is allowed to attend the queen, an unsightly crone named Hilde. She is part wise woman, part midwife, and some say part fairy, though she wields only a few pedestrian magic tricks. She has been with the queen through many a barren year and has used all her skills and wisdom to bring Queen Merewyn to this moment.
The time is at hand. Outside the chamber, King Warrick hears a lusty little cry announcing the presence of a new life. He stops his pacing and listens, triumph in his face.
“At last!” cries the king. “An heir!”
His counselors gather round and congratulate him on his virility and good fortune, foretelling a bright future for what must surely be the perfect child. But within the chamber, Hilde trembles as she bathes the newborn and wraps it in an embroidered blanket, feeling a surging sympathy for the infant even as her heart sinks within her. She places the baby in Queen Merewyn’s arms, and the queen looks down upon it with all the love she has saved for this moment.
“A girl, Your Highness,” Hilde says, her voice quavering.
The queen draws back the blanket, and she gasps. The infant has a heavy, protruding brow, a sagging eyelid, and coarse, asymmetrical features. The queen is speechless. This is not the beautiful creation she was promised. But something happens. Though it is said that a newborn cannot really see and cannot really smile, the baby’s eyes seem to look directly into hers, and the ugly little face breaks into a smile. The queen is charmed. “Ahh,” she croons, “the sweet little thing!” and she holds the baby closer.
Hilde draws a deep breath, relieved that the queen has accepted the child. But the moment is cut short. The queen is racked by another pain.
A second baby is coming.
Outside the chamber door, King Warrick waits irritably for news of his offspring. Is it a boy or a girl? Why does the woman Hilde not come to give him news? Is there some calamity with his lady wife? Only a deep fear of women’s mysteries keeps him from barging through the door. That and a will to avoid the displeasure of Hilde, for whom he holds a grudging respect. An exhausted scream from within the chamber reassures him that the queen is alive, but as time drags by, the
king and his seven counselors brace themselves for some misfortune. At last there is silence within, and after what seems like an eternity, the door opens. The king is invited in. A baby is placed in his arms.
“Your daughter, Your Highness,” says Hilde.
The king looks down on an infant’s face so perfect it might have been sculpted by a master miniaturist, with a fuzz of silky golden hair, skin like fine porcelain, long, curly lashes, and lips as red as cherries.
“Is she not beautiful,” demands the king, “even for a baby?” He holds out one finger for the infant to grasp in her little fist.
“She is, Your Highness, surely the most beautiful baby in the Kingdom of Wildwick, or beyond. And your lady wife has given you twins.”
“Twins!”
“Yes,” Hilde answers nervously. “You have another daughter. Your firstborn.”
“Where is the other? Let me see!”
Hilde moves her short, squat frame from where she stands in front of the cradle, which she has been blocking. The king hands her the beautiful baby and bends over the cradle, pulling back the blanket from the other infant’s face.
“What?” he exclaims, straightening suddenly. “What’s this?” Turning to his weary wife, he cries, “We can’t have this! What have you done?”
Calmly the queen replies, “I have done nothing amiss. If I had, surely both babies would be affected! She is our daughter!”
In a panic, King Warrick calls in the seven counselors. He says nothing while the bishop, who is the chief counselor, views the babies. The king only waits for his reaction, hoping it is not as bad as he fears. But then the bishop pronounces his judgment. Bishop Simon has dedicated his life to seeking after perfection, but his own wicked heart has twisted his quest into something terrible: he has come to hate and fear all imperfections as evil—except his own blatant imperfections, which he readily excuses. And so, shocked by the baby’s malformed face, he blurts out in fear and loathing, “It is a demon! A changeling! Surely no royal infant could be so hideous! Its outward appearance can only be a reflection of the evil within. This child shall never be fit to rule, and your subjects will never tolerate it. You must hide it before the populace catches wind of the occurrence and loses all faith in the royal line!”
Then, one by one, the other six counselors bend over the cradle where the two infants lie; they gasp, then straighten, muttering and shaking their heads. One of them, the king’s steward, says, “This child will never be accepted!”
Another, his best knight, says, “The people will never fight for her!”
Several others, the king’s wise men and scholars, tell him, “The bishop is right. It’s hopeless.”
The king, his worst fears confirmed, dismisses all his counselors with a curt gesture.
“What are you going to do?” asks the queen, her panic rising.
“We shall see!” King Warrick replies, and follows after them.
Queen Merewyn’s head falls back onto the pillows. She realizes that, exhausted as she is, she cannot rest yet. There is still a battle to be fought, for her firstborn daughter. She begins to think.
The moon is setting when the king returns. With some hesitation, trying to put on his best kingly manner, he announces to Queen Merewyn that it simply won’t do to acknowledge such an imperfect baby as their daughter and heir. “You heard what Bishop Simon said! The people will believe she is a changeling, or worse—a sign of heaven’s judgment, or even that she brings some kind of curse. She must go!” he spouts. “We’ll send her away, to be raised quietly in obscurity, and no one will be the wiser. The other child will be the heir!”
This was as the queen anticipated. “Of course you know best, dear,” she answers with her sweetest smile. “I’m sure you wouldn’t have taken it lightly to disown your own child.”
The king is nonplussed, having expected strong resistance. “Yes—well,” he blusters, “it was a very difficult decision to make.”
“Of course it was. And I’m sure you had a struggle to keep your counselors in their place. They’re so clever and ambitious, and probably jealous besides. Not every man can sire twins, you know.”
King Warrick harrumphs. “I can handle my counselors,” he says, though this is not strictly true. The bishop in particular exercises a strong hold over the king by making him fear for the welfare of his kingdom, and for his immortal soul. But after half an hour of the queen’s gentle flattery, casual leading comments, and skillful sowing of doubts, the king has reached the conclusion, all on his own, that despite what his scheming counselors have said, it is really wisest to keep the firstborn at court, where they can watch over her. They will raise and educate her as they would the orphan of some far-off noble family, and her identity will remain secret, even from her.
“And what of your counselors? Can you trust them?”
“They will keep silent on pain of death!”
Queen Merewyn, knowing she has done the best she can for her firstborn daughter, praises the king for his wise plan. Then she lays her heavy head down to rest.
“You can’t sleep yet,” the king says. “We must give them names!”
“Yes, of course,” the queen agrees. “I had thought of only one name for a girl: Briar Rose.”
“Perfect. Then we shall name the first one Briar, and the lovely one Rose.”
The queen would like to object, but having already won her most important point, she thinks better of it.
King Warrick walks over to peer down once again at the two babies, now snuggled together, almost clinging to each other. He grins and muses aloud as to whether King Edgar’s baby daughter can hold a candle to his perfect Rose. He decides to put on a great feast and invite all the nobility, and all the fairies in the kingdom, and everybody who is anybody, and show her off. The queen does not object, for she is already sleeping.
Sitting forgotten in a dark corner, the crone Hilde has heard it all. She knows, without being told, that to reveal the identity of the firstborn princess after this would be to forfeit her own life, but she feels a great sympathy for the child, who is as ugly as she is herself. As she sits there watching over the tiny figure in the cradle, a lifetime of injustice and cruelty rises unbidden in her memory. She can see the child’s future as no one else can. When dawn sends its first pale rays through the window, a resolve forms in her battle-scarred heart; she will be the nurturer and protector of this child as far as it is within her limited power. And she begins to think.
* * *
It is the day of the king’s feast. Jugglers practice in the great hall. Acrobats rehearse their tumbling. The minstrels tune their lutes and lyres. Fresh rushes and fragrant herbs have been strewn about the floor, white linen spread on the trestle tables. Servants rush hither and yon in confusion, hustling to obey the orders of the temperamental cook and his assistants, who rule the day. Three whole oxen are roasting in the castle’s kitchen as food is prepared for two hundred guests: trays of succulent venison, fish, quail, turtledoves, and a whole roasted peacock decorated with its own resplendent tail; vegetables, picked fresh from the garden; baked apples, peaches, and pears; nuts and cheeses; and the cook’s masterpiece, a cake sculpted to look like a full-size unicorn. King Warrick has decreed that this will be a day to remember, though the predations of the local giant have left him in straitened circumstances and the royal coffers can barely withstand the expense. This beautiful daughter, he tells his wife, is a sign of a turnabout in their fortunes. His counselors, in fact, have already consulted the stars and calculated the beautiful child’s ultimate value to the kingdom down to the last silver penny.
As the sun grows closer to the horizon, the guests begin to arrive. Wine, mead, and ale being plentiful, no one goes thirsty. The people commence their drinking, which will be prodigious, and promenade about the hall, showing off their finery. The king’s counselors, noblemen, and knights escort bejeweled ladies. Merchants and craftsmen, even the peasants, will all be served, though the pickings will be thinner farth
er down the table from the king.
Suddenly the hall buzzes with tiny winged creatures that look like hummingbirds. The fairies have arrived, eight of them, though they will each change into their full human size for the festivities. Their places are set on either side of the king and queen, to honor them, for the fairies’ goodwill is greatly esteemed. Alas, there is still one more fairy in the kingdom, the gray fairy, but she is demented and universally disliked for her ferocious temper. On this blessed occasion, with everyone of consequence invited, no one wants to risk her disrupting the festivities with her hateful behavior. The king and queen have solved the problem by the simple expedient of neglecting to invite her. And so she, alone of all the fairies, has been excluded from this glorious event, an understandable but potentially disastrous decision.
The evening is perfect. Six courses are served, each more elaborate than the last, and between the courses the jugglers and the jester and minstrels perform. Then the king orders that the magical singing harp be brought forth, its enchanting music filling the guests’ hearts with wonder and good cheer.
In a small antechamber behind the hall, Hilde has brought the infant Briar to be near baby Rose, who is tended by her own nursemaid, Lady Beatrice. It was the work of less than a minute for Hilde to obtain from Queen Merewyn the office of Briar’s godmother, and then to volunteer to be her nursemaid. True to the king’s instructions, no one knows the real identity of the child. Fortuitously, the reclusive Duke of Wentmoor, having recently died of some rheumatic complaint, had been followed by his widow in less than six months. The story given out about Briar is that she is the orphaned daughter and only child of the late Duke and Duchess of Wentmoor, and no one questions it.
The babies have just been fed and are sated and sleepy. Hilde waits nervously for the king to summon Lady Beatrice forth with little Rose, to display the beautiful baby in her gilded cradle, which has been placed on the dais between the royal thrones.
Only a short while now until the gift-giving will commence. Hilde’s hands tremble at the thought of what she will attempt to do. When the eight fairies begin to bestow their blessings, she must work fast and well if little Briar is to have any share of them. Hilde is desperate enough to take the chance, even if her ruse might be discovered. The minutes pass with agonizing slowness. She feels cold sweat on her forehead and down her back. But she does not waver in her purpose.