The Beauty's Beast

by E. D. Walker

  At the statue’s feet, dozens and dozens of different rose bushes twined together in a great multihued mass. Kathryn walked around the circular platform and discovered a marble bench carved with designs of rose bushes blooming all around the feet. The carvings were so skillfully wrought she was almost scared to sit, lest her hind part receive a nasty surprise in the shape of a very serviceable thorn.

  The wolf moved before her and leapt with ease onto the long bench, comfortably settling himself. Kathryn smiled and sat next to him, knitting her hands in her lap, drinking in the wonderful scent in the air of all the roses blossoming just for her.

  The poor tirewoman, having done more walking in one afternoon than she was used to doing in a week, collapsed on a humbler wooden bench at the entrance to the alcove and promptly fell into a doze.

  Upon realizing they had a bit of privacy, Kathryn grinned at the wolf. “This is probably a popular trysting place for young couples.” She had the grace to blush but could not quite keep her mouth from betraying her with a smile.

  The wolf huffed and settled his chin on his paws, staring at her with mirth showing in his dark eyes. He did not confirm or deny her guess.

  They sat together for a few minutes in companionable silence before Kathryn asked, “Shall I tell you a story, my lord?”

  ***

  That evening, when Kathryn returned to the women’s chambers after supper, she found a livid Beatrice cramming all her worldly possessions into a large trunk. The other ladies of the queen had clumped together and stared at the furious older girl with barely concealed horror.

  Kathryn looked to the younger girls and, shadowed still in the doorway, mouthed, “What happened?”

  Beatrice was distracted with a furious tirade at the poor laundress for packing one of her gowns improperly. Lady Avice crept out and closed the door silently after herself, pulling Kathryn farther down the hallway.

  Avice’s gaze fairly gleamed with mischievous satisfaction. “You missed the commotion on your walk, Kathryn. We came back late as the queen requested, and when we did, the queen asked the three of us—Apolline, Agathe, and me—to wait in our bedchamber while she talked to Beatrice in the solar. We snuck out and listened at the door, of course.”

  Of course. Kathryn motioned with her hands for the other girl to continue.

  “The queen sounded very quiet and composed, so we couldn’t hear what she said. But then Beatrice started yelling after a minute or so, ‘What do you mean I’m to be banished from court? Does the king know of this?’ And then you could tell the queen lost her temper, because we could finally hear her, and she snapped back, ‘It was my husband’s idea.’ They got into a bit of a screaming match, and the queen told Beatrice she knew of the midnight excursions out and about. ‘I have no use’—this was what the queen said—‘I have no use for a lady-in-waiting who is disloyal to me and courts dishonor at every turn. Your brother has been written to. He will decide what is best to be done and, in the meantime, I want you out of my sight and away from this place. My husband has arranged you should stay with the Abbess Marie.’ And then you could just hear Beatrice drawing breath. She near screamed down the rafters.” Here the young girl pitched her voice low and whispered breathily as if she were shouting. “‘What, you’d send me to the bastard nun?’ Kathryn, what does ‘bastard’ mean?”

  “Never you mind.” Kathryn ruffled Avice’s curling dark hair. “So, dear Beatrice is being shipped off to a convent?”

  “That’s the way of it.” Avice rocked back on her heels happily. “Just as well. There’ll be less fighting for the good men with her gone. Her being such a shameless flirt, it was impossible to compete.”

  The sound of smashing brought their conversation abruptly to a halt. Kathryn rushed back to the room with Avice reluctantly trailing behind.

  Beatrice had thrown a hand mirror at their maid’s head. Apolline and Agathe clutched each other in one corner of the room while Beatrice vented her fury on them now.

  Kathryn thought she would be a more welcome target, and one more able to withstand the barrage, so she said quite cheerfully, “Good e’en, Lady Beatrice. Is aught amiss?”

  Beatrice whirled, her eyes fairly popping out of her head from fury. “You. You filthy strumpet. You did this.”

  “Why, Lady Beatrice, did what?” Kathryn blinked innocently, and Avice hid a giggle behind her hand.

  “Ruined my name in court.” Beatrice’s face contorted in a paroxysm of rage, turning the usually comely countenance into a wild, animalistic mask. “Sullied me before the queen. Spoiled all my chances.”

  “No, Beatrice,” Kathryn said softly, her enjoyment of this scene evaporating. “You did that to yourself.”

  Beatrice leapt for her, but the other ladies had anticipated the attack and latched onto the woman’s arms. Even their trembling laundress had her arm around one of Beatrice’s flying fists.

  Beatrice swung wildly to shake them off, to no avail. When she found her will flouted, she unleashed a stream of ear-burning invective at Kathryn. “I’ll get you for this, you whore, you bitch.” A string of more vile insults poured from her mouth, all of her vitriol directed at Kathryn.

  Without missing a beat, Avice skipped from the room and called down the hallway to their guards. “Would you mind helping with Lady Beatrice’s luggage? The boxes are a bit heavy for our maid.”

  Beatrice glared but quieted at once, straightening her hair and the neck of her gown. By the time the guards arrived, she was wreathed in smiles, dabbing at eyes suddenly juicy with tears. “I shall miss you all so very much.” She engulfed a petrified Apolline in a bone-crushing embrace. “But when one has a holy vocation, as I have, what can one do but follow the path Fate has decreed?” This as she squeezed Agathe. Kathryn noticed the tiny girl wince with pain and rub her arms afterward.

  When Beatrice went to hug Avice, the puckish girl beat her to it, squeezing Beatrice so hard around the midsection the older woman blanched and hurriedly pushed her away. Avice smiled beatifically and refused to let go. “Whatever shall we do without you, dear, dear Lady Beatrice? But no, you are to be Sister Beatrice now.”

  “Oh, that will not be for a time yet,” Beatrice gritted out through her teeth. “I have still my novitiate to fulfill. One can only hope I will be worthy.” For the barest of moments, she looked quite miserable, and Kathryn pitied her.

  But then Beatrice stood before Kathryn and pulled her against her generous bosom, growling in Kathryn’s ear. “I will get you back for this. Never doubt it.”

  And then Beatrice was gone, the guards lugging her heavy cases after her. Kathryn couldn’t help but heave a sigh of relief as Avice hurried across the room, slammed the door in triumph, then turned and grinned at them all. Kathryn smiled back, and all the remaining ladies of the queen hugged each other, happy in their reprieve from the tyrant Beatrice.

  Chapter Eight

  For the rest of the month before the Feast of St. Aaron, Kathryn and the wolf met every day in the gardens. They walked their mornings away in each other’s company. Sometimes they “talked,” with Kathryn studiously interpreting the wolf’s sighs and body language. Sometimes they shared a comfortable silence until they both reluctantly went inside for their midday meal, and the tirewoman, their perpetual chaperone, went in with gratitude to ease her aching feet.

  Kathryn and Garwaf each enjoyed their lives apart from their rambling walks as well. The wolf’s optimism improved enormously after a very short time living among humans again, among comrades and friends, and not alone in some dank hole in the woods.

  The wolf trained with the men and the king in the afternoons. He would stare with longing at the sword and archery practices, which earned him some odd glances from the others. He was always spry and fit for sparring, though, so the men forgot his odd abstraction during weapons training. Mornings were for jousting, and truth be told, the knights did not miss him overmuch now he was always with Kathryn. The wolf’s presence used to frighten the horses, and trainin
g for the warhorses, at least, went much better without Garwaf.

  Meanwhile, in Beatrice’s absence, life in the queen’s chamber became a joy and a pleasure, as if a storm cloud had blown away to reveal a bright spring day. Not just the queen but also the other handmaidens bloomed in the absence of the stranglehold Beatrice had had over them all. Talk became much more animated and friendly in the queen’s quarters.

  Kathryn was called on for her stories less and less and invited more and more to talk about the wolf’s progress and herself, how she was adjusting to court, how her father was at home, and other such niceties of conversation that had not been addressed to her before.

  Kathryn was delighted to discover she had many more friends in court these days. She still loved spending time with the wolf more than anything else, but when he went with the king, she was glad to have some other way to occupy her time.

  With one week until the festival, most of the talk in the ladies’ solar dealt with the preparation and anticipation of the important day. When talk turned to what finery the ladies would wear and the queen discovered Kathryn’s best dress, the blue one, not only needed mending but also was stained and dirty—and Kathryn would wear that one on the feast day—this was deemed insupportable.

  All the women, including the queen herself, raided their clothing for Kathryn and quickly equipped her with a beautiful dress and soft leather slippers dyed to match. The queen, in a gift fit for royalty, at least to Kathryn’s mind, gave her a matching golden ring and necklace in the shape of a delicately molded rose with soft petals unfolding. The jewelry was so cunningly wrought, and so full and bright was the trinket’s bloom, that Kathryn almost expected the rose to wilt as she held the ring. She tried to refuse the gift. “This is too much, my lady.”

  Aliénor would not have it back, and then, at Kathryn’s insistence, she said quietly, “All right, then. Keep one and give the other to your dear one. Unless I mistake the matter, your wolf has no festival finery either.”

  Not for the first time, Kathryn wondered just how much King Thomas had told his lady about Garwaf. Kathryn and the queen had never discussed the wolf again. Not privately anyway. The queen did not ask, and Kathryn did not tell.

  To see the king and queen so happy together pleased Kathryn greatly. Once, in the middle of the month, she and the wolf had been turned from their accustomed place in the rose garden by the unmistakable sounds of the queen’s delighted giggling and the king’s chuckle, followed by the sound of rustling foliage and a low sigh of contentment.

  Discreetly, Kathryn and her beast friend had crept away from the place and back the way they had come. When safely out of hearing, Kathryn gave the wolf a triumphant grin and said, “Told you so. An ideal place for trysting.”

  Garwaf had, with much dignity, refrained from rising to her bait.

  ***

  Garwaf and Kathryn—with the tirewoman enjoying a nap in the shade a little way off—were safely ensconced in that same rosy alcove now, having found the space empty of any other clandestine lovers that day.

  “Shall I tell you a story, my lord?” She always asked him this when they sat together in the garden after they had wearied of walking. This time with Kathryn was his favorite time of the day, and he could listen to her talk for hours, for weeks, for all the rest of his days. He loved the sound of her voice, loved the charisma of her personality, loved…

  Her.

  He worried sometimes she must get bored with only him and her maidservant for company, but when she did lapse into silence and they just walked along with each other, he was always struck by how companionable they were, even in silence. Things were never awkward with Kathryn, silences never strained. She was intelligent, funny, warmhearted. For whatever reason, she seemed quite taken with him as well. She enjoyed running after him, playing tag in the gardens, sitting under an apple tree, dozing. They liked to walk together to look at flowers.

  If he could not contribute to the conversation, per se, she did ask him questions often that he could answer with a bark or a nod. They found ways to understand each other.

  He perked his ears up and tipped his head to say “yes” when she asked him now if he’d like a story. Kathryn had told him tales many times before. She had a gift for storytelling and quite a vast repertoire of legends. Today, though, he had something else in mind.

  “Something of the first crusade? When the king’s father founded our colonies down there?”

  He shook his head.

  “All right. Something from the Tiochene tribe? Do you know of the great lady General Odyssia?”

  Garwaf did, of course, but Kathryn would tell the heroine’s tale well enough for him to feel the salt spray of the sea on his face and the clash of swords on one another, enjoy the loving embrace of a daughter long missed and the favor of a benevolent Fate. In the garden of the roses, though, he once more declined her suggestion. No, I do not want tales of heroes and villains, magic and monsters today.

  “Well, then,” she said with a touch of impatience, “what story shall I tell you?”

  He hesitated, then tiptoed forward on his paws and placed his head on her lap, staring at her soulfully. He nudged her hand with his nose.

  She laughed, as he had hoped she would. “You want to hear stories about me?”

  The wolf blinked. Yes, that’s the way of it.

  She pursed her lips in mock displeasure and sighed dramatically. “Ah well, if you command it, Sir Garwaf, who am I to refuse? Do you command it?”

  The wolf barked once. Yes, I most certainly do. You have saved my life and my soul. I know your mind, your heart, and yet I know far too little about your past. Today is the day to remedy that.

  A corner of her mouth tipped up in a smile she tried to hide. She pushed a few stray hairs from her face and curled around him, resting her head on the soft fur of his side like a pillow. He closed his eyes in contentment, leaning against her thigh.

  “Well,” began Kathryn. “Every tale of a life must begin before that life begins, with the makers of the life. With the parents. That’s the way I see it, anyway. I’m sure some scholars would disagree, but they are not here. For my tale we will certainly begin there.” And then she fell into her bard voice, as Garwaf called it in his mind. This voice could be any and every character Kathryn chose. Her voice had zest and nuance and could stretch from a florid, gluttonous lord with the deep drum of a thundercloud, rumbling in displeasure, to the high squeak of a mouse doing a good deed for a lion that would probably eat him anyway.

  Usually the bard voice had very little of the real Kathryn. Today, though, her voice was all Kathryn, warm and melodious, a soothing alto. “I cannot tell you my mother was the sweetest and kindest creature on earth as most mothers seem to be. She had a sharp tongue in her head.”

  The wolf gave Kathryn a droll look, and she grinned. “Yes, like me. She used her wits instead of burying them at the bottom of her sewing basket. There were not many men would have her, despite her incredible good looks and the fact she was best friend to Queen Rosamund. Now, my father, Sir Stephen, was a lowly knight in faithful service when our beloved king was but newly crowned.

  “Together they conquered much of the land that had belonged to our Jerdic enemy. In gratitude, the king created the Barony of Réméré as a gift to my father, who before was merely the poor second son of a knight. King Thomas’s only caveat was that Stephen should find himself a wife, for he would need one when he had his property. Stephen met my mother at the winter court, and he loved Lady Isabella from the first. He wed her within a year of being named Baron of Réméré. They had me the next year. Not an overly attentive father, Lord Stephen stopped by our apartments to take a look at me every now and again, but mostly my father devoted himself to my mother and left my raising up to her. They were very happy years.

  “My father first started showing me around to eligible men when I was ten years old.” Now a shadow did fall across her countenance. “Mother died when I was twelve, trying to deliver m
y father an heir, and he understandably forgot all else, forgot me entirely in his sorrow.” Kathryn choked and could not continue, blinking rapidly. Her usual brightness of personality crumbled. She was not always so optimistic and impervious to regret as she led the world to believe. Pain had touched her and still could.

  Garwaf tucked his head under her chin, leaning in with the best approximation of a hug he could give with the arrangement of limbs at his disposal. More than anything, he wished for his humanity so he could comfort his lady properly.

  A sweet smile lit her face, and she wrapped her arms around him. When she let go at last, he stared at her. Tears swam in the green depths of her eyes, but they did not break the barriers of her lids.

  You don’t have to continue, he said with his gaze, if this is painful to you.

  Kathryn caressed the puckered scar along his face. “You would let me end things there, but a good bard does not leave a story half told.” She sucked in a calming breath and seemed pleased when the air did not snag on her heartache. “Besides, to tell of the pain helps ease some of it. My Uncle Flavio had lived with us, and he took over my education and rearing after Mother died. He became more of a father to me than Lord Stephen. Uncle never understood why women shouldn’t be educated, free to say what they liked and do what they liked, as men do.”

  She leaned toward him confidingly, and he tilted forward in response, yearning for her warmth, her nearness.

  “I had rather an unorthodox upbringing, I’m afraid, and so became the saucy wench I am now.”

  He playfully nipped at her fingers, and she giggled.

  Her dimple peeked out at him. “A sense of what is suitable and not in a young maiden did not hold out long against my reason and my crippling restlessness. Our lands border a great forest and, as I grew, I walked there often, trying to find the Fair Folk our villagers spoke of. I never did.”

  Garwaf snorted.