The Beauty's Beast

by E. D. Walker

  Kathryn modestly lowered her eyes and bowed before the queen. Queen Aliénor set aside her sewing pattern and clasped Kathryn’s hands. “Are you well? Did the wolf hurt you?”

  “No, no, my queen. He is a very well-behaved animal. Truly, I’m fine.”

  Queen Aliénor studied her a moment longer, her eyebrows drawn tight together, then she gave a small nod, dismissing Kathryn. “All right. Although I still don’t understand what my husband is thinking.” Aliénor returned to her chat with Lady Apolline, another handmaiden sitting next to her. The two of them were apparently conferring over repairs to a hemline.

  Another set of eyes close at hand shot daggers at Kathryn, and she turned to face Beatrice, the Mistress of the Robes, senior Maid of Honor to the new queen. Beatrice was a young woman drying on the vine at the ripe age of twenty-five but still very beautiful. She narrowed her hazel eyes at Kathryn. “You have decided to grace us with your presence today, after all?” She kept her voice low, probably trying not to catch the attention of the queen.

  Ignoring Beatrice, Kathryn went to one of the cabinets and pulled out her own sewing kit bag. She selected a project and claimed the empty stool in the circle. Letting her hands mindlessly accomplish their work, her mind meanwhile turned over the puzzle of the knight’s identity.

  “Well?” Beatrice demanded in a low hiss. “Have you nothing to say?”

  Kathryn did not look up as she said in her most sickly sweet voice, “As you have oft remarked to me: silence is, of all virtues, the most becoming in a maiden. I am merely trying to take your good advice to heart.”

  Beatrice snorted in a manner most unbecoming to the chief of all the queen’s ladies. “Impertinent hussy,” Beatrice said barely under her breath.

  The queen looked up and darted an uncertain look between Beatrice and Kathryn. Kathryn met her queen’s gaze squarely, keeping her posture open, inviting, and wondered what mysteries the queen searched for so fiercely in her face. The queen sighed and looked away, sewing more slowly than usual.

  Ill at ease, Kathryn returned to her own sewing. Acute pity for the queen stabbed through her. Queen Aliénor and King Thomas clearly doted on each other, but it must be lonely for Aliénor to be so far from her own homeland. None of the queen’s own women had been able or willing to accompany her to her new country when she’d married. Strangers had surrounded Queen Aliénor ever since she’d arrived in Lyond. Kathryn understood how a solitary girl far from home could long for a friend. Any friend. Although some friends are better than others.

  She darted a glance at Beatrice under her brows. Kathryn often wondered what political machinations had led to the appointment of the domineering Beatrice as senior handmaiden to the new queen. It seemed sometimes as if even Aliénor worried over that too.

  Beatrice was full figured, with a deep bosom and a narrow waist falling to wide hips. The earl’s daughter stood taller than all the rest of the ladies and a few of the knights, even. She had, Kathryn reflected ruefully, just the sort of figure men dreamed about. Beatrice’s hair shone a dark, rich auburn to fall in perfect ringlets and frame her charming heart-shaped face. She was strikingly pretty, with a large, sensual mouth and dark hazel eyes.

  Beatrice glanced up and cocked one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Well, Lady Kathryn?”

  Kathryn tilted her head and smiled. “Just admiring your beauty, Lady Beatrice. So hard to believe one as lovely and charming as yourself has been questing for a husband for—how long now? Ten years? Twelve?” Kathryn arranged her face into the picture of innocent curiosity.

  Beatrice’s jaw clenched, and then she yelped and dug her needle out of her palm. Blotting the blood away with a kerchief, she said, “I was affianced to a worthy baron from Escarcelle as a young child, but he died on a mission to the southern colonies when I was sixteen.” Beatrice sniffed and dabbed at the corner of her eye with her kerchief. “My father passed away that same year, and my brother, Lord Reynard, was quite taken up with managing his own affairs for some time before he could make suitable provision for me. I am, however, in daily anticipation of my brother arranging an advantageous alliance.”

  “Hmm.” Kathryn turned back to her sewing.

  “And you, Lady Kathryn?” Beatrice’s voice was also cloyingly sweet. “You are nineteen, are you not? More than ready for the marriage bed, I should say.”

  Kathryn pursed her lips but kept her voice light. “Like your brother, Lady Beatrice, my dear father has been taken up with his own affairs and so sent me to court.” Not entirely true, but Kathryn wasn’t about to relate her whole sad history. The queen was familiar with some of Kathryn’s past, but only Kathryn knew all the reasons she had not, and probably never would, be married: too clever. Too plain. And much, much too poor.

  “Kathryn,” the queen said. “Would you fetch my green cloak out of the chest in my chamber please? This room is drafty.”

  “Of course.” Kathryn set aside her sewing and rose.

  As the newest and lowest-ranked of all the ladies, Kathryn had to know her place or the rest of the women would cheerfully remind her. Lady Beatrice, as Mistress of the Robes, would hand the queen her chemises when they were dressing her. Lady Avice dressed the queen’s hair. The other two, Apolline and Agathe, chose the queen’s slippers and stockings. If luck favored Kathryn, she might be allowed to choose one of the ribbons for the queen’s hair. To be allowed to fetch something was an uncommon honor for Kathryn. Perhaps the queen was annoyed with her about yesterday and was using this errand as an excuse to get her out of the room. That would give Beatrice and the queen a few moments to gossip about Kathryn unhindered.

  Or maybe I’m being paranoid. She slipped through the door joining the queen’s solar to her private apartments. The chest sat under a portrait to the right of the bed. A little digging amongst lush velvets and sturdy woolen things produced the desired forest-green wool cloak. Kathryn folded the garment carefully over her arm and straightened.

  She found herself staring into the face of a handsome young man. The lifelike portrait hung nearly eye level over the chest of clothing. The subject of the painting had been about Kathryn’s age, maybe a year or two older, at the time of the portrait. The young man was very handsome with dark hair, warm brown skin, and deep blue eyes as well as the same long, distinctively aquiline nose as the king. He reminded Kathryn of someone—besides King Thomas—but the image was elusive. Perhaps this was just one of the king’s long-dead brothers.

  Then she looked again at his eyes. She frowned. Surely not. Impossible for her to have found her werewolf hanging in the queen’s bedroom. She shook her head and realized she had been too long about her errand. She hurried back.

  As she helped the queen into her cloak, she said with careful indifference, “My lady, who is the man in that portrait in your bedroom? The one that hangs over your clothing chest.”

  Queen Aliénor frowned. “The king’s nephew. Gabriel fitz Michael. The Duke of Dorré.”

  A little frisson of excitement zipped through Kathryn. The missing heir.

  Beatrice bit off the end of her thread. “The king disinherited Lord Gabriel. My brother holds the Dorré title now.”

  The queen hesitated, then said, “King Thomas did disinherit Gabriel but he—well—he could not bring himself to destroy that portrait. The portrait is all he has left of his nephew now the man has disappeared.”

  The missing heir. Lord Gabriel, of course. Kathryn pressed her feet firmly to the floor to keep from bouncing with excitement.

  Aliénor dropped her gaze to her sewing, her face sad. “I never met the duke, but I have heard he was a very embodiment of virtues. So handsome, so brave, so noble and good. Gabriel became the king’s heir once my husband’s first wife died in childbirth. The boy was my lord’s favorite knight as well. My king’s heart broke when Gabriel disappeared. As I understand the case, Gabriel left lands, title, wife, and all without so much as a word?” Aliénor had not been married to the king when this scandal had broken.

&n
bsp; “Did he just disappear?” Kathryn asked. “Or did he leave some word?” The whole kingdom had heard the story of the lost heir, of course, but tales had sprung up like so many weeds around the truth. Kathryn burned with sudden curiosity to learn the facts of the case.

  “Some said he left to retake our colonies in the south,” Apolline murmured.

  The queen thought for a moment. “As I understand it, Lord Gabriel often left his home without telling anyone, not even his lady, where he went. When he disappeared for good, his friends generally assumed he had decided to leave permanently. My lord valued Gabriel, however, and searched for him, made inquiries—but no information was forthcoming. The duke is presumed to be lost forever to our court. A man’s business is his own, I suppose.”

  “I think it was shameful.” Beatrice shook her head. “My brother Reynard, Earl of Troumper, married the good Lady Alisoun after her husband abandoned her.” Beatrice’s massive bosom swelled with pride. “Gabriel’s old lands and duties at Dorré are overseen by Reynard now, by order of the king.”

  The queen nodded, her hand going to her throat, absently fingering the bow Kathryn had tied. “I think my husband was very angry. Gabriel left without sending word to him, and one cannot help but feel the injustice to Lady Alisoun. The king made what decisions he thought right after Gabriel left.”

  How strange. Although Kathryn supposed a man who seemingly abandoned his honor and his oaths would not be much missed, whatever his former prominence had been. Yet the facts certainly fit. Especially that the duke had disappeared periodically, even before his final absence. A werewolf would probably absent himself in such a way if he wished to prevent his loved ones from discovering his secret. Poor man. A knot of tension clotted beneath Kathryn’s sternum. Poor wolf. What could have happened to trap him as an animal?

  She decided she wouldn’t discuss with anyone but Llewellyn what she suspected. The magician was right that to reveal the wolf’s identity while he remained a beast would be monstrously unfair.

  Beatrice glanced out the window and set down her sewing. “Time to dress for dinner, my queen.” She stepped toward Aliénor.

  Their liege lady looked to Kathryn instead. “Would you help me dress tonight?”

  A hastily stifled gasp went round the room of ladies. Beatrice’s will had not been flouted in recent memory.

  Kathryn opened her mouth to accept the honor, but Beatrice cut her off. “The steward sent me a note this morning. Her services”—Beatrice gave the word the worst kind of implications—“are requested for the king’s new pet. Master Llewellyn is busy, so she’s to see to the beast’s shoulder again, I was commanded to tell her. He’s being brought to our chambers as I speak.” Beatrice grimaced, apparently not relishing the thought of a wild beast in her apartments.

  Kathryn formed the intention at once of using Beatrice’s bed as an examination table.

  Aliénor wilted but patted Kathryn’s hand. “Go with all haste, Lady Kathryn, but sit by me at dinner if you will. Lady Avice.” The queen turned at once to another of her ladies. “You will help me to dress.”

  With that second outright snub of Beatrice, the queen regally swept from the room with her train. Beatrice brought up the rear, glowering at Kathryn as she slammed the queen’s bedroom door.

  Kathryn was free. For now. She hurried to her room, anxious to see the wolf.

  He perched on his hind legs, resting his front paw on the windowsill, looking at the courtyard and stables below, watching the comings and goings of the grooms with apparent contentment. She bobbed him a curtsy. “Evening, Sir Wolf.” Or should I say: my lord Duke?

  He looked at her and docilely climbed onto the bed she indicated—Beatrice and Apolline’s bed. Kathryn grinned as she went to him, glad to see the servant had made all ready in the form of bandages and healing poultices. “I hope you didn’t overdo your training today with King Thomas, my lord.”

  The wolf snorted but, as she touched a sore spot when prodding his wounds, he let out an involuntary growl.

  “Apologies.”

  He pressed his wet nose to the back of her hand, and she guessed that he understood she was doing her best not to hurt him.

  Kathryn reached up and stroked the side of his face in a friendly caress, tracing the line of his scar. There had been no such scar on the portrait. She wished she’d remembered to ask the others if the Lord Gabriel had borne a scar. No, she wished she’d dared to ask.

  She paused and studied the wolf when she realized he was not shying away from her touch as he had yesterday. He blinked at her, his eyes soft, and warmth stole into her heart as she smiled at him.

  ***

  She’s lovely. The wolf had not quite appreciated how pretty those large green eyes of hers were, nor the soft, golden brown of her hair where her thick braid lay across the shoulder of her gown. She was not a beauty and never would be. Yet something in the animation of her features and the compassion of her face made her looks more appealing than mere beauty, and both would certainly stand the test of time and trial better.

  Did Alisoun ever have kindness in her eyes? Love, yes. But compassion? Empathy? Did I ever see true benevolence in her? He huffed with self-disgust. Did I ever bother to look? To see past Alisoun’s beautiful face and fair hair? Her fine manners and the grace of her figure? I knew Alisoun as a woman and wife, but did I ever bother to find out what kind of person she might be?

  The answer was plain. No. Sharp regret slashed at his gut, painful and profound.

  He had looked forward to this all day, to maybe seeing Kathryn again. Llewellyn often kept busy mixing his medicines and tending his garden and would not spare time to tend an animal with only trivial hurts. Guilt prickled in the wolf’s shoulders that he had held himself so aloof from the girl before when she had done so much to help him. He wanted to make every effort not to hurt her feelings again tonight, but when she touched his face, he should have pulled away. Such contact was not proper. He was a wolf, but he was still a man.

  Her caress seemed too tender, too intimate, and she did not know it was a man she touched like that, for all that he was naught but an animal to her. She was so kind. Even a poor wounded animal, infamous for savagery, had her compassion.

  Why didn’t I meet you before Alisoun? His grief swelled, submerging him, much too great to be contained by the simple functioning of a wolf’s humble heart. He wrenched away and averted his eyes, refusing to let Kathryn touch anything more than his shoulder for the rest of their session.

  As soon as she had checked his wounds, he hopped down and left the ladies’ apartments to seek out his king. There he stood on firmer ground. There the wolf understood his place and his duty. The maiden is too precarious.

  Every moment spent in Kathryn’s presence, he slid nearer to a great void, and if he let himself fall in, he would lose the little bit of his humanity that he retained. Despair of that kind was not something from which he could ever recover.

  For what could be worse than finding the true lady of your heart and knowing, as you are, that you may never possess her? What could hurt more than finding her, loving her, and knowing in your cursed canine bones she deserves so much more than the beast you have become?

  Better to feel nothing at all.

  Chapter Five

  The garwaf sat by King Thomas at one end of the table, and Kathryn sat by the queen and Llewellyn at the other. Kathryn amused the queen with tall tales while trying valiantly to push the wolf’s snub from her mind. Queen Aliénor turned to speak with another courtier, and Kathryn twisted in her seat toward Llewellyn, her restlessness bubbling over. “The queen just reminded me today of the mystery of the lost heir. The king’s nephew Gabriel. The Duke of Dorré. His disappearance is an intriguing puzzle, I thought.”

  Llewellyn quirked an eyebrow and gave her the barest of smiles. His eyelid shivered in a small wink.

  She tried not to let the triumph show in her face. She had solved the mystery, then. One piece of the puzzle, at least. She darted
a quick glance at the dark-furred duke. The wolf sat in a place of honor by King Thomas, eating the roasted swan set in front of him with becoming refinement.

  Scraggly, brown-haired dogs scrounged for table scraps at the feet of everyone’s chairs, and she found it amusing that no one, but no one, thought to tell King Thomas that the wolf should join the dogs on the floor. Indeed, she realized with wry amusement, the well-mannered wolf would have been more out of place among the dogs than at the human table.

  The king stood and raised his goblet. “The celebration of St. Aaron’s Day is upon us at the end of this month, and the custom of this court is to give a great feast. The feast day is also traditionally a time for all my liegemen and the nobles who hold fiefdoms under me to come to the court. Let no man omit this opportunity to serve me as handsomely as he may. The feast is to be a great and solemn occasion.” King Thomas raised his goblet, causing everyone in the hall to do likewise. He tossed back his drink, and the rest of his court followed suit.

  At the king’s announcement, Llewellyn frowned mightily into his lentils, the smile falling from his face.

  “My lord magician,” Kathryn said, a troubled smile frozen on her own face. “You are ponderous.”

  Llewellyn glanced up, looking anxious. “The wolf troubles me, my lady.”

  Kathryn darted an apprehensive glance at the head of the table.

  The wolf blinked over and over, licking his jaws convulsively, and he swayed in his chair, his eyes fogged over and distant. Distressed, Kathryn looked to Llewellyn for guidance. He stared at his plate and sighed.

  Llewellyn drew his shoulders back and rose. He walked to the head of the table. “My king.” Llewellyn bowed and spoke in a quiet undertone, which everyone in the court, whether they showed interest or not, strained to hear—Kathryn included. “I fear your newest courtier is feeling a bit worse for the wear.” He gestured to the wolf, who seemed now to be adrift in a mental fog and aware not at all of what transpired around him.