Briar and Rose and Jack

by Katherine Coville

  “Wait. What did you say?” she asks, her heart beating a little too fast, her breathing a bit irregular. “I didn’t quite get it.”

  Lady Beatrice looks on with a sour face. She voices no objection, but listens with half an ear while she stitches away at her sampler.

  “It’s simple,” Lan reiterates. “Anything above the horizon is going to slant down like this, so you see the bottom of it, and anything below the horizon will slant up, so you see the top. Here’s a square. Now draw a line from each corner to the principal vanishing point and connect those lines to make it look like a box.” He releases her hand so she can do the assignment herself, and her breathing returns to normal. She uses the ruler and tentatively draws her receding lines, then looks to Lan for approval.

  “That’s right,” he says, a broad, slightly idiotic smile on his face. He stands there smiling a few beats too long, as if he had forgotten what he was going to say, and Rose smiles back at him. Lady Beatrice clears her throat loudly, and Lan suddenly recalls the power of speech.

  “Here,” he says quickly, “let’s try it again. I’ll draw a square up here this time, like so. You make it into a box.”

  They practice drawing together for the next hour, talking and sometimes laughing very softly so as not to arouse Lady Beatrice, who seems to have fallen asleep on duty. Rose peppers Lan with questions, some about art and some more personal.

  “How long have you been studying with the master?” she asks.

  “Oh, about two years. My mother gave me to be apprenticed when I was ten.”

  “And have you made any paintings of your own?”

  “Master Olyver lets me copy other paintings for practice. He says I show signs of promise, but I have a lot of hard work ahead of me. I don’t mind, though. I like it. No matter how much you accomplish, there’s always something new to learn.”

  “You’re so lucky to be able to become a painter. I wish I could be one!”

  Lan is temporarily speechless. Finally, he says, “Yes, I guess I am pretty lucky—but you’ll be a queen someday!”

  “That’s no guarantee of happiness,” Rose says sadly. Then, wanting to change the subject, she asks, “Did you travel much before you came here?”

  “Oh, a lot. We’ve been all around the countryside doing portraits of lords and ladies, but now that Master Olyver has been made court painter, we’ll be staying here.”

  Rose smiles shyly, unaccountably pleased by his answer.

  Despite Lady Beatrice’s sleeping presence, they continue their quiet conversation for some time. Lan is full of stories about his adventures with Master Olyver: accommodating the eccentricities of the gentry, traveling to cities and towns, making narrow escapes from highway robbers. Rose, for her part, tells him about seeing the giant from the watchtower.

  “He has a snarl like a mad dog,” she tells him, “and there’s no telling what he will do. I was safe enough up in the tower, but it was still very frightening!”

  “We’ve heard terrible tales of the giant,” Lan concurs.

  “And you weren’t scared off?”

  Lan hesitates for just a moment, then scoffs at the suggestion. “Not us! Master Olyver and I can look out for ourselves.”

  Rose thinks about this for a minute. She checks on Lady Beatrice and sees that she is still napping. Then she makes a decision. “Well, if you’re not afraid,” she says in hushed tones, “then there’s something I want to tell you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Some of us—I mean a few of us from the castle and lots of boys and girls from the village—we’ve formed a secret society. We call ourselves the Giant Killers. We’re going to find a way to kill the evil giant!”

  “Really?” Lan looks at her with barely contained surprise and a new respect. This is the last thing he would have guessed Princess Rose would be involved in.

  “Yes. And one of the village boys—Jack—tracked the giant up the mountain to his house. Jack was very brave, even though he couldn’t find a way to get at the giant.”

  Lan immediately thinks that he would like to be the one she called “brave.” On the spur of the moment he asks, “Can I help? I’d like to join.”

  Rose smiles. “I’ll bring you to the next meeting.”

  Lan smiles too, though he belatedly has enough sense to wonder what he might be getting himself into.

  Just then Lady Beatrice wakes up with a snort and pretends that she has been looking down at her stitching. “Well, I declare, it must be time to leave!” she says. She crosses the room, links arms with Rose, and pulls her away from Lan. Rose casts a speaking glance over her shoulder at him as she turns to go, but sharp-eyed Lady Beatrice notices it.

  As soon as they are out of the room, Lady Beatrice hisses into Rose’s ear, “What a nerve that boy has, acting so familiar when you’re the princess and he’s nothing. Less than nothing. He’s a mere underling! Not fit to touch the sole of your shoe! You, my dear, are destined for great things—a great future. Never forget your own importance!”

  Rose hears, but she does not listen.

  * * *

  It is nearly Christmas, and Briar and Rose are helping with the decorating, draping evergreen boughs, ivy, and holly on every surface and hanging mistletoe from the doorways. Whenever they get the chance, they sneak into the kitchen, smelling all the wonderful aromas wafting about, anticipating the sumptuous Christmas banquet to come. They stick their fingers into the various pots for a taste—until they are shooed out of the way by Allard and several assistants.

  Darkness falls early, and outside, white flakes are wafting down in a desultory way. Snow sticks like frosting to the battlements and every tree and twig. It drifts gently around corners, filling up hollows, making everything soft and rounded, sparkling like earthbound stars. The girls don their cloaks and venture out to the stables to take some apples to the horses. Briar wants to make a stop at the kennels first. Rose, still secretly afraid of dogs, is less enthusiastic, but rather than show her fear, she agrees. There they find that the dogs have picked up the excitement in the air. Even the docile greyhounds are agitated. The barking is deafening, and an enormous greyhound jumps up, puts its paws on Rose’s shoulders, and licks her face. She tries to turn away, feeling her pulse quicken and sweat popping out on her brow. Meanwhile, Briar laughs and scratches behind the dogs’ ears and calls them by name. They are all frantic for attention and hoping for treats. Briar sinks into the fresh straw and loses herself in the pack of lively dogs, speaking soothingly to them and waiting for them to calm down, as Rose looks on. For years Rose has gone along with Briar’s love of the dogs while pretending to like them herself, but she finds that she is tired of pretending.

  “Don’t you mind them jumping all over you and licking your face?” Rose asks a little impatiently, as if she has wanted to ask this question for some time.

  “I like it,” Briar responds, turning her face aside to get a few words out. “They only do it because they love me. It’s nice to be loved.” She takes Toby’s head in both her hands and kisses him firmly on the snout.

  “There are plenty of people who love you, and they don’t jump on you and lick your face.”

  “Really? Name five.”

  “Well, there’s me. And Hilde. And my mother.”

  “Your mother?”

  “You know she’s always very kind to you.”

  “That’s just because the queen is a kind person. She’s like that to everybody.”

  “Well, that still counts. And then there’s Jack, and his mother. That’s five.”

  “They’re friends, that’s all. Think of two more.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Well, you can’t. So leave me to my dogs. They’re settling down now. Come sit with me and relax.”

  Rose sighs deeply and sits down next to Briar, her lap immediately crowded by two noisy beagles and a small eager terrier. She forces herself to pet them, watching out for their teeth, and tries to talk to them the way Briar does. Then one of the
bloodhounds puts its head over her shoulder and slobbers all over her. This is more than she can bear.

  “Now look what he’s done!” she cries. “There’s drool all down the front of my cloak.”

  “Here,” Briar responds, “use some straw to wipe it off. What’s the matter with a little drool?”

  “He got it in my hair!”

  “When did you get so fussy?”

  “I can’t help it if I don’t like it,” objects Rose as the dog hovers over her shoulder. She pushes it away, trying to cover up her fear. “Besides,” she splutters as her excuse, “I’m supposed to stay clean. I can’t stand to listen to another one of Lady Beatrice’s lectures!”

  “Why do you listen to her, anyway? You’re the princess, not her.”

  Rose stands up and brushes herself off, avoiding the dogs. Suddenly Briar’s criticism is too much for her. It’s not enough that she is constantly criticized by Lady Beatrice! “I can’t just do anything I want because I’m a princess!” she yells. “Mother expects me to mind Lady Beatrice and all the other ladies of the court. You don’t know what it’s like, with everyone watching me like a hawk all the time, talking about how I’m supposed to be the prettiest princess. I have to keep up a certain appearance.”

  Briar promptly blows a raspberry. “You don’t need to take yourself so seriously. You never used to. Do you think people don’t look at me and judge me all the time? That’s what’s nice about dogs; they don’t care about appearances.”

  “You and your dogs! I think you actually prefer them to people! I’m going to the stables to see the horses. At least they don’t jump up and slobber on you.”

  “Go ahead! I’ll stay here with my friends.” Briar deliberately kisses the bloodhound on the end of its drooling face.

  “Ugh. Stop that, will you? Now you’re just being difficult on purpose.”

  “Oh, now I’m difficult?” Briar says, standing up. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m just one of the dogs, and I don’t know any better.”

  Rose stomps to the doorway, where she turns and cries, “All right, act that way! See if I care. I’m going!”

  “Then I’m staying!” Briar retorts, dropping back down in the middle of the pack of dogs, who immediately resume climbing on her and licking her face.

  Rose leaves, and soon Toby and the others are licking salt tears from Briar’s cheeks. She feels keenly that the friendship at the center of her life is slipping away from her, and she cannot understand the reason why. As she tries to think it through like a math problem or a particularly complex Latin phrase, it seems to her that the disagreement over the dogs is evidence of some sea change taking place. There’s the root of it: Rose is changing; she is going her own way. Their days of easy camaraderie are growing fewer and farther between. Rose has other friends now, pretty friends—not like Briar. To Briar’s mind, this is the obvious cause, and she tries to bear it stoically. It is her lot in life, one of those things Hilde speaks of that cannot be changed and so must be lived with.

  Rose, less analytical but more temperamental, goes on to the stable by herself, hurt by what seems to her like Briar’s willful refusal to understand her. She can always count on Lady Arabella, Elizabeth, and Jane to do so. She knows that the three girls regard Briar with pity and some disdain, and she angrily wonders why she bothers to defend her to them. Yet she deplores the fact that she and Briar have argued.

  Still, giving a little shrug, she decides that it will all blow over by bedtime anyhow.

  PART THREE

  ALMOST FOUR YEARS LATER

   Chapter One

  NOTHING HAS CHANGED, thinks Briar as she stalks through the great hall, fuming with anger.

  Turning her head, she shouts, “Well I do prefer dogs to people! What of it?” making sure that Rose hears her as she heads for the door. Briar is also heard by everyone present in the hall, including Lady Arabella, Elizabeth, and Jane. Lord Henry and a host of other boys are sniggering at the scene as well.

  Lady Beatrice, observing the tiff, makes it her business to grab Briar by the elbow and tell her in acid tones that such displays are not appropriate for a young lady of nearly sixteen years. She admonishes her to sit down and be quiet. Briar forces out a “Yes, my lady,” but then turns on her heel and walks away, leaving the officious Lady Beatrice behind. Some part of Briar hopes that Rose will follow her out, maybe even apologize and make up with her, and all will be well again, but the hope is feeble and quickly fades. These days, all their disagreements seem to end in sad stalemates awash with hurtful feelings that only intensify with each new clash.

  Holding her head high, Briar walks across the courtyard and on out of the castle, heading toward the one place where she always feels safe and happy—her glade by the waterfall. She makes the trip unnoticed and unhampered, accompanied by a red fox and a chorus of songbirds as she walks down the forest path. Stepping at last into the lovely glade, she is ready to forget her quarrel with Rose. Her vexation falls away, like dead leaves in autumn, as she is suddenly surrounded by music, and she begins to sing softly to herself. Before long, she is singing aloud to the sweet open air and the fox and the birds.

  But as she sings, someone hears. Someone follows the sound and watches as she begins to dance. Someone listens from the shadows as she sings her love of the earth and the sky and the waterfall. Someone’s eyes follow her with infinite patience as she dances about the clearing, lost in her own world of rhythm and music. And when she finally slows to a stop, that someone slips silently away.

  Briar, her heart lighter now, feels again that longing for some tantalizing idea, as if she were reaching for some lost part of herself. The music seems to promise something—something wonderful. But what? The music lingers, then slowly fades. Briar wanders dreamily along the shore of the lagoon until she comes to a smooth inlet. Sitting on a familiar rock there, she pulls back her hair, gazing at her reflection in the water as she often does, looking for some sign that she is growing out of her ill looks. If only the pool reflected the person she really was! A person with her own strengths, her own keen perceptions and deep feelings. But she observes what she always has: the protruding brow and sagging eyelid, the crooked nose, the asymmetrical face. She calmly contemplates that she has never seen anyone else so ugly. After nearly sixteen years she should be used to it. She should be used to people staring and pointing, calling her cruel names. She knows that look of shock when some people first set eyes on her. She sees the way they quickly look away, making the sign to ward off evil, then furtively look back again. And then there are the others who don’t stare, who have long grown accustomed to her but judge her solely on her unsightly face. People who should know her better.

  She lets her hair down, and turning back to stare at the soothing motion of the falling water, she contemplates her morning. It began with such promise: a clear spring day, the warm breeze heavy with a thousand wild scents. Briar had rushed through breakfast and was suffering through the morning’s lessons. Bishop Simon, balding now and more obese than ever, was still enjoying his reign of terror over his students. His pleasure in inflicting pain had only grown with the years. His thrashing arm was still strong and ready for the slightest provocation—this being his favored method of inculcating learning—but many of his pupils were now too big to beat. He made up for this with ever more complicated cruelty, divining each student’s weakest points and sensitivities and then making a public and painful mockery of them. As the day grew closer when Briar would turn sixteen and her lessons would at last come to an end, he seemed to make a special effort to embarrass and berate her while he still could. She dreaded this as much as any beating. She had been hiding her intelligence from him for years in order to escape his cruelest punishments, trying at the same time to avoid being mocked as a dunce. It was a nerve-racking struggle, each day a new trial, and she has withstood it by telling herself that she would soon be done with his lessons forever.

  But that morning, something within her had finally rebelle
d. Though she had resisted the urge to really misbehave, she suddenly found it impossible to put on her act of stupidity for one more day. When Bishop Simon posed questions in astronomy, she blurted out the names of all the heavenly bodies. In geometry, she called out the proper formulas and then did the calculations in her head and called them out too. In history, she named the entire line of kings and queens of the Kingdom of Wildwick for the past ten generations, while avoiding the growing menace in Bishop Simon’s cold stare. His condemnation, when it came, had been stark and pitiless.

  “Cheat!” he cried, pointing his finger into her face. “Abomination!” He began slapping his cane into his hand and glaring at her with fire in his eyes, and she wondered if he would beat her after all. Hilde’s magic salve had finally worn off. The green had mostly faded, the warts had gone away, and she had feeling in her back again. But it was not the physical pain she dreaded so much. It was the humiliation that would be more than she could bear.

  “Cheating is a terrible crime,” he had observed. “One that deserves eternal punishment!” He articulated each of his words, as if to sharpen them into weapons.

  “I never cheat!” she had the nerve to say.

  “Lies! Insolence!” he roared. “I expect no less from the devil’s own spawn! I know not what manner of black magic or trickery you have used, but it is a surety that you do not possess the intelligence to perform so well without one or the other!”

  His face turning red and mottled, the clergyman stood and wheezed for a minute while he tried to think of something else cruel enough to say. His small eyes narrowing, he pointed at her and said, “Look at you, misshapen thing! You are a mistake! You have no place here, except that the king and queen wish it. And see how you reward them. You are naught but a changeling! A demon! Begone with you!”