The Ring and the Crown

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “Hand me one, will you?” he asked.

  “Sure.” She lit it with the gold engraved lighter he kept by his bedside that she had given him as a Valentine’s Day present. It was embossed with their initials, L and I; a secret souvenir of their love. She watched as he inhaled deeply and exhaled a ring of smoke in the air. She was glad for the oil lamps in this part of the castle, as the dim candlelight made his hair like burnished gold, his skin a warm caramel color. His cheeks were still rosy from their exertions between the sheets. He was as avid a lover as ever, his ardor for her unquenchable as before.

  “So, shall we get ready to leave?” she asked, flicking her ashes into the marble ashtray.

  Leo raised an eyebrow. “Leave?”

  “I’ve brought my bag. I’m ready when you are,” she said. She had signed the papers that morning, breaking their engagement and his obligation to her, guaranteeing peace between their families. House Valois would not seek recompense or restitution from the Prussian kingdom. He had asked her to sign it to protect their future, and now Isabelle wanted to know what the future held.

  She was still smarting from her treatment in the royal court earlier. The assembled audience had all been so sympathetic, so pitying, as they watched her sign the papers. She couldn’t stand it. Leave your pity for someone else, she wanted to scream at all the smug noblewomen and their ugly daughters who had gathered to watch and celebrate her humiliation. She wanted to laugh and say there was nothing to pity; Leo was hers. They could make her sign all the papers in the world releasing him from his engagement; it would not make the least bit of difference in the temperature of his passion for her. They would be together, as he promised—always.

  Only the queen had smiled, gently. And drat it all, even that horrid ghastly princess, that Marie-Victoria, had been truly kind.

  “I am so sorry you have to do this,” Marie had whispered as she handed Isabelle the feathered quill. “Believe me when I tell you, I do not want to take him away from you.”

  Isabelle had stiffened. The princess was not half as ugly as they said. She was plain, sure, but had a handsome elegance to her bearing. “I do not want, nor need, your sympathy,” she’d whispered fiercely.

  “You have it regardless,” Marie had said. “I am truly sorry, Isabelle.” Then she’d stepped away from the desk to let her have her privacy.

  Next to her, Hugh had coughed into his hands and glared at her. Isabelle had pulled herself to her tallest height and nodded. “I am ready.” She flipped through the pages: a negotiated treaty between Orleans and Prussia. Her father’s hard work to ensure her legacy and safety by marrying her off to the Crown Prince had all been in vain. Her father had been dead for years, she was under Hugh’s care now, and Leo had asked her to do this for him. She signed her name with a flourish.

  I, Isabelle of Orleans, release Leopold of Prussia from his obligation without penalty of war or threat of battle.…Blah blah blah.

  She had fled from the humiliation of that moment and packed victoriously, only taking as much as she could carry. She had snuck out alone in the night, had told no one, not even Louis, what she was doing or where she was going. She’d hailed a hansom cab to take her to the palace, and given the butler the secret code to bring her up through the servants’ quarters. If she was afraid, she was also certain that tomorrow she would be his wife. Of course, when she’d arrived in his room, Leo had pounced on her the moment she walked in the door. That was only to be expected, of course, because he loved her so much. They had a little time, she thought; it was only midnight. They could enjoy each other’s company before running away.

  She nestled herself against him, luxuriating in his slow caressing of her hair as they puffed on their cigarettes. “It was awful, you know, having everyone stare at me as if I were to be pitied—I hated it so! Shall we go now? Do you have the carriage waiting to take us to the vicar?”

  “A carriage waiting? A vicar?” Leo repeated, his voice amused. He stopped touching her hair and regarded her thoughtfully through the smoke. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, as if she had suffered a brain injury; as if she were speaking nonsense.

  “We are eloping, aren’t we? I assumed that was what you’d planned? For our future?” she asked, feeling cold all of a sudden.

  He picked up the lighter and flicked it open and closed, playing with the fire, and continued to look at her in that maddeningly casual way. “Ma chérie, you assumed that we would elope tonight?”

  “You said I had to sign the papers for our future. That it was very important to you.”

  He nodded. “Yes, for our future. It is very important to me that I be free to marry Marie-Victoria. Eleanor was quite insistent that the royal wedding should go off without a hint of scandal, of tarnish. She and her Merlin would never have welcomed me into the palace otherwise, certainly not with open arms. I don’t know what I would have done then—continue the war, most likely. And then where would we be?” he mused. “Do you know—we were about to surrender when the Pandora gave us our victory? We were so close to defeat—so close! We had hardly a pawn to play, even in the peace negotiations, as I was already affianced—and marriage was off the table. But I told them you would sign it, that you only wanted to make me happy, and you didn’t fail me. You were brilliant, weren’t you, my sweet French nightingale,” he said as he nuzzled her cheek.

  “I still don’t understand—how is this important to our future?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? With all the riches of the empire at my disposal, I will take care of you forever. Don’t you worry—my sweet Isabelle will have everything she wants for the rest of her life.”

  It was as if she could not understand English. His words were like hailstones. She could not make them out because her head was buzzing too loudly, sending warning signals. She could not quite believe what she was hearing. “Wait a minute, what do you mean…? Do you mean you are actually going to marry her? You are going to marry Marie-Victoria?”

  “Of course.”

  Isabelle felt her cheeks burning hot, and suddenly realized she was very, very naked. She had never felt more vulnerable in her life. She was in bed with a boy who was not her fiancé anymore. “But what about us?” she squeaked. She sounded just like a stupid little mouse. She wanted to slap herself. What had she done? What had she done?

  Eleanor was quite insistent that the royal wedding should go off without a hint of scandal, of tarnish. And they would never have welcomed me into the palace otherwise, certainly not with open arms. I don’t know what I would have done—continue the war, most likely, and then where would we be? But I told them you would sign it, that you only wanted to make me happy, and you didn’t fail me.…I will take care of you for the rest of your life.

  She put her hand on his chin and turned it, so he had to look at her directly. “What do you mean, you will take care of me?”

  “You will want for nothing, I assure you.” He gently took her hand away from his face and kissed her on the forehead. His lips, which had been so soft just a moment ago, were now dry and papery. She was suddenly revolted by his touch.

  “But Leo—this—this cannot go on—you cannot mean…” she sputtered.

  “I will marry Marie-Victoria and become king of the empire. But do not worry your pretty little head. I promise you that nothing has to change between us. You will continue to meet me in my room when I call for you, and I will make sure you are by my side at every occasion. We will always be together like I promised.” He put his head on her bare shoulder and kissed her neck. His lips traced a path to her breasts. She felt him pull the sheet away from her body to make his intentions clear.

  “But you will be married!” she said, protesting against his kisses.

  “Little nightingale, why should my marriage change anything between us?”

  You will be by my side at every occasion, never far from me.…You will come when I call for you. Then she realized what he was saying, what he was proposing, and finally she saw the s
hape of the future he had intended for them, even as he kissed her skin and put his hands all over her body.

  She wrenched away from his grasp. Her voice was low and hoarse. “You mean to make me your mistress?”

  His head on her bare stomach, Leo murmured, “Aren’t you already? I have always taken care of you, have I not? Like a proper gentleman? Have you wanted for anything? I have seen to it that you have one of the best houses in the square, that your wardrobe is the latest from Paris. I have even sent you my magician to make your jewels sparkle.”

  She was Isabelle of Valois, Lady Orleans; she was the rightful Queen of France. She told him she would never debase herself in such a manner, but he only looked amused. Her words sounded hollow, even to her.

  “My dear Lady Isabelle, nothing changes. My love for you remains as strong as ever,” he said, taking her hand and showing her. “On the night of the royal ball, you will meet me here, in my bed. You will wait for me. On the night of my wedding, I will come to you, and prove that I am as good as my promise. You must not be seen—but then, you are good at that, aren’t you? You have always been good at keeping secrets.”

  She felt her cheeks turn scarlet. It was true. She had seduced him from the beginning. She had thrown herself at him, flirted with him madly when he had come to Orleans that winter. But it was he who had insisted. It was he who had forced her into taking the next step.…And it was too late, now, to take it all back.

  When Lord Hartwig and Leo had arrived in Burgundy that winter to meet with Hugh, the Prussians were still at war with the empire and things were not going well for them. Louis-Philippe guessed they were calling on their old allegiance, to ask for aid and soldiers.

  The moment he entered the castle, Leo fixed Isabelle with a look. “So, you are to be my bride,” the handsome young prince said as an opener, showing he was well acquainted with the agreement between their families. Isabelle would be lying if she did not admit her heart raced from the moment she saw him. This tall and handsome boy, who had come right up to her and claimed her. She would have swooned if she could have. He was her future—the one who would take her away from the sadness of her past, as well as her disgusting cousin.

  Later that afternoon Leo whispered in her ear over tea, “My rooms are in the east tower. Meet me tonight. My man will let you in.”

  She had done it. She met him in his room that evening. At first, they were just talking and holding hands; he was whispering in her ear, and he poured her something to drink. The next thing she knew, he was all over her, untying the stays in her corset. She pushed him away, weakly, asked him to stop. But it was like her arms were made of lead; like she couldn’t say no at all.

  “We are to be married,” he said. “We are doing nothing wrong.” And he kissed her hard on the mouth, and his tongue was down her throat. “You are mine,” he said. “Pretend it is our wedding night.”

  And because they were to be married anyway, and because she could not think straight, and because he was so handsome, and because she was so thrilled to know he was so enamored of her, that he wanted her so much…and because she just couldn’t say no, not once, not ever, could not form the word, no matter how many times she was screaming it in her head…he took what he wanted.

  Afterward he kissed her on the forehead, as if to apologize. But the next day he had asked her to meet him again, and the next day, and the next. All that month before he left for Lamac, she met him in his room in the dark of night, and she fancied that she was in love: in love with the boy who was just as in love with her, and who was to be her husband.…

  But he was not to be her husband.…

  Not anymore…

  Not since she had signed her life away that morning…

  Leo leaned over and kissed her again, and now he was on top of her, kissing her again, and she wriggled underneath him, and found she was crying. She was crying without making a sound, the tears streaming down her face as he kissed her, just like the first time, when she had been unable to ask him to stop.

  “Come now,” he crooned, as he kissed her tears away. He hitched his breath and then he was inside her again, and he held her hands down on either side of her head with his. “Don’t be this way. Isn’t this what you wanted? I promised you we would be together always. Love is all we need…it does not matter if we are married or not, and it never has. Not with us.”

  No, this is not what I wanted, she thought, turning her face away while he ravished her body.

  This was not what she’d wanted at all.

  Prince Leopold did not seek her out after their chance meeting in the hallway the day of his arrival. Aelwyn was surprised to find that she felt the sting of rejection. It was she, after all, who had sent him away; and yet, there it was anyway, prickling at her skin. She had expected him to chase her, she realized; had been looking forward to clandestine notes pressed underneath a serving tray, or the knock of his valet at her door, asking her if she would be so kind as to see to some matter—which would lead to meeting him in some secret room. She had even wandered the halls of the palace and the gardens in the hopes of bumping into him again. She had made herself very available. Yet she saw neither hide nor hair of him for days.

  It appeared the prince was kept busy by his royal duties: meeting ministers and noble families, familiarizing himself with their ways, and supposedly wooing the princess. The rumor mill had it that the prince was quite infatuated with the young dauphine, and she with him. It was all hogwash, of course, Marie couldn’t stand the boy, and Leo was an actor on a stage. They spent as little time together as possible. Perhaps he had found some other entertainment or distraction, which is why he did not seek Aelwyn out. It couldn’t be that difficult to keep himself occupied. There were many beautiful girls at court.

  The morning spell-casting over, Aelwyn walked with her sisters to a quiet meal of hard bread and cheese. The sisters were eager to talk, and many of the young acolytes wanted to know more details of her life in Avalon. They all wanted to know about Lanselin. His beauty and legend were famous even now, even after a thousand years. Aelwyn told them he was as handsome and charming as the legends said, but she did not tell the entire truth.

  She had arrived at Avalon as a child. During her four years there he was always the same age, permanently arrested at seventeen, with his angelic face and curls, and those bright eyes that had taken Genevieve from Artucus. Lanselin would never grow old; he would never grow up. He was trapped in time, old and young, but neither wise nor innocent.

  A boy who would never grow up.

  They had been friends at first. He was like a brother to her, and taught her how to use the power of the stones to amplify her own abilities.

  Things changed as she changed. She noticed how his eyes lingered over her body. “Don’t be shy,” he’d said to her when she’d tried to cover herself up after bathing, after he’d chanced upon her unawares in the stream. He had taken the cloth away from her, and she had been frightened at first. But then she’d realized that, for the first time, she had something he wanted; she was no longer a child to be dismissed, but a woman.

  So she let him look at her.

  He didn’t touch her that day, but it was only a matter of time.

  It happened one afternoon a few weeks before she returned to London. It was a game they played: she’d run all over the island, and he would chase her. Aelwyn remembered the feel of the wind on her back, how fast and strong she felt, the ecstatic high of the chase—how breathless they had been. Catch and kiss. A game she liked to play with boys. Lanselin had fallen and tackled her, his lean body on hers, his mouth crushing hers. It wasn’t a game anymore. She had whispered in his ear and bit it, sucking on the flesh.

  His hand had slipped under her skirts again, and she let him go further than before, and then there was no stopping it, not this time. No laughter, no giggling. He had not asked permission, and he had not needed any, for she had wanted it—had wanted him, had succumbed. Succumbed was too weak a word; she had drowned i
n his attention, relished it, hungered for it; had been lit up by his infatuation with her; had craved it with every fiber of her being.

  “Do you like me,” she had whispered, right in the middle of it, while he was thrusting into her, her back arched, her lip bitten, his hands in her hair. “Do you like me?” she had asked, like a child, like a fool.…

  He had not answered.

  Instead he’d cried out, and crashed against her until she thought she might break.…

  It had lasted for a month—his infatuation. They slept entwined in each other’s arms, awoke in the same bed. One morning Viviane walked into the room unexpectedly and saw them together, and walked out without a word. She never mentioned it, and Aelwyn had felt a twinge of shame. Not that she’d done anything wrong, as Avalon did not subscribe to the rules of society and propriety. Viviane knew all that happened under her watch; she was neither mother nor friend, and she had done nothing to encourage or discourage it. But somehow, Aelwyn felt she had shown weakness in submitting to Lanselin—to that ageless, mercurial boy.

  Because just as quickly as it began, it ended.

  The chase was over.

  She had thought that loving him would bind him to her forever. But he had only turned away. He had lost interest. He was bored again.

  He had gotten what he’d wanted after years of pining, but when he finally got what he wanted, she was nothing to him.…She would never hold a candle to his lost love, his Jenny. She was gone now, dead a thousand years, and still he mourned her. Lanselin had come to Avalon to repent for the damage he’d done by loving her, and so he was cursed to live on the island alone, forever preying on the young girls who chose Viviane over Emrys. Lanselin would not go with her to London, he told her when she asked him. He belonged to Avalon. He did not ask her to stay, either.

  Lanselin had taken what he wanted—her girlhood, her innocence, her love—and shrugged it off. It meant nothing to him. She meant nothing to him. It was a hard lesson to learn.