It was also the day he told us who he was.
His name was Niccolo Schiavone, a minor nobleman’s youngest son, born and raised in the land we did not name. He was only about a year older than Raoul and I, and not a soldier, in spite of the sword. He had taken it from the body of a dead comrade in a moment of desperation, certain he would not meet with a shred of kindness upon our shores. The voyage on which he had embarked was his first at sea, his first outside his homeland. He had been sent as a courier, carrying information to the queen herself.
“What kind of message requires warships to send it?” Raoul demanded one night after several weeks had gone by.
Raoul, Old Mathilde, Niccolo, and I were sitting together in the kitchen. During Niccolos recovery, the days had slid from October into November. It was full winter now. The sea outside our windows was gray, a mirror of the dull and glowering sky; the wind blew hard and cold. But at least it was still blowing in its usual direction. As Niccolo had grown stronger, he had begun to demonstrate his gratitude for the fact that we had rescued him by performing various tasks around the great stone house.
His first feat had impressed us all, but particularly Susanne, and it was this: He revealed his ability to chop onions without crying. Then he graduated to meat, and finally to wood for the kitchen fire, great piles of which were now stacked neady outside the kitchen door. He recaned Susanne’s rocking chair. When Old Mathilde discovered he had a talent for drawing, she set him to work making sketches of new and bigger cold frames to use in the spring. We had all carefully refrained from mentioning the reason Niccolo was available to perform these tasks in the first place: He had as good as been part of an invasion force.
But the subject of Niccolo’s message could not be put off forever, and it was probably inevitable that it would be Raoul who finally brought it up. He might have gone from believing Niccolo intended to murder us all in our beds to grudging acceptance, but he was still a long way from trust. In this, though I don’t think either of them realized it, he was no different from Niccolo, himself.
“I think that I must give you a true answer,” he finally said in response to Raoul’s question. “Though there are many in my land who would say that I should not.
“The news I was bringing to the queen is this: Her father is dead. Her brother now sits upon their country’s throne. For twenty long years, brother and sister have waited for this moment. Now that their father is dead, his will can no longer hold them back from what it is that they desire: a return to the ways of war.’
“But why?” I cried. “Why did our two countries ever start fighting in the first place? Do you know?”
Niccolo’s dark eyebrows rose, and I could tell that I had taken him completely by surprise.
“Of course I know,” he said. “Or I suppose, in fairness, I should say I know what I’ve been told.” He paused for a moment, gazing at each of the three of us in turn. “You truly do not know?”
“We do not speak of it,” Raoul said softly. “We do not even name the place you live aloud, for to do so is considered as good as inviting your soldiers to march down our roads.”
“Please, Niccolo,” I said, “Tell us what you know.”
Niccolo rubbed a hand across his face, “To speak the truth,” he said, “there isn’t all that much to tell. In the land of my birth it is simply said that the conflict between our peoples began with a wish for love, ended in hate, and that in between run rivers of blood. Only when true love can find the way to heal hates wounds can there be a genuine peace between us once more.
“It is for this reason that our late king married his only daughter to the son of his greatest foe. He hoped that love might grow between them and so put an end to the seemingly endless cycle of war.”
“Well, that certainly didn’t happen,” Raoul said with a snort. “We may have stopped fighting for the time being, but everybody knows that what our king and queen feel for each other is a far cry from love. Were about as far away from court as we can be in this place, and even here we hear rumors of the queens constant plotting.
“They say it has divided the court. The king has food tasters, to make sure he isn’t poisoned. Soldiers sleep at the foot of his bed, and outside his chamber door. And he sends Prince Pascal away from court for months at a time. It’s the only way to keep him safe, and from becoming his mother’s pawn. They say she will never be satisfied until the first son of her heart and blood sits on the throne.”
“Which makes no sense at all,” I said, “For Prince Pascal is an only child. Of course he will inherit the throne. All the queen has to do is to wait.”
“And the longer she waits,” Niccolo said. “The older her son will become. Your king is young, still in his prime. He should live for many years yet. Years which will see his son grow to full manhood. The queens chance for influence diminishes with every year that goes by. But if her husband were to be killed in battle, and her son came to the throne before he turned eighteen . . .”
“Then he would need a regent,” I said. “Someone to help guide him, and who better than his loving mother?”
Niccolo nodded. “That is so.”
“So the ships we saw were what they appeared to be,” Raoul said. “An invasion fleet. Now that they are destroyed, what will your new king do?”
Niccolo shook his head. “I do not know.”
“And you,” I said quietly. “What will you do?”
“I have been thinking about that,” Niccolo answered slowly. “Much as I might wish to stay here, I don’t think I have a choice. I was charged with bringing the queen news of her father’s death. I must carry out my charge.”
“Someone else has probably brought the queen the news you carry by now,” Raoul said. “You ve been here almost a month.”
“True enough,” Niccolo acknowledged. “But I have a duty to perform. Ignoring it would bring dishonor to me, and to my family. They probably think I’m dead by now. If for no other reason, I should go to court to send them word I’m still alive.”
“When will you go?” I asked.
Niccolo rubbed a hand across his face for a second time.” There’s no real reason to put it off,” he said. “I could go as early as tomorrow.”
“It’s a long walk from here to the capitol,” Raoul observed, but I caught the flicker of a smile. During the days of Niccolos recovery, a genuine affection had sprung up between the three of us in spite of our initial mistrust.
“Oh, Raoul, for heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed. “You know better than to pay attention to him when he talks like that, don’t you?” I asked Niccolo. “He knows perfectly well we will loan you a horse.”
“Give is more like it,” Raoul replied more somberly. “Even if Niccolo wants to come back, he’s not likely to be able to, once he gets to court. He’ll be set to carrying messages for someone else. Either that, or be sent back home.”
“Why don’t you come with me, to ensure the horse’s safe return?” Niccolo proposed. “It would be good to have a companion on my journey.”
Raoul’s face flushed. He stood up so abruptly the stool on which he had been sitting toppled over with a crash. “I thank you, but no. Speaking of horses, it’s time for me to see to them. Good night.”
He turned and went out without another word, cold air swirling through the room as he opened and closed the door.
“Well,” Niccolo said, after a moment. “It’s pretty clear I said something wrong. Either of you care to tell me what?”
“Raoul is forbidden to leave de Brabant lands,” I said, as I stood to right the upturned stool.” By order of Etienne de Brabant himself”
“De Brabant lands,” Niccolo echoed, and I turned toward him at the astonishment in his voice. “These lands belong to Etienne de Brabant?”
“They do,” I acknowledged.
Niccolo clapped his hands together, like a child who has just solved a knotty puzzle. “Oh, but surely this explains everything,” he cried. “Why did you not speak of this bef
ore?”
“It didn’t occur to me it was important,” I said. I shot a glance in Old Mathilde’s direction. “I’m not sure I understand why it is now.”
“It explains why you would take me in and nurse me back to health where others would only see an enemy,” Niccolo replied. “Etienne de Brabant supports the queen. He is the leader of her faction at court. If these are de Brabant lands, surely you, too, must be sympathetic to her cause.”
“We wish for our two countries to be at peace” Old Mathilde said, when it became clear that I could not speak at all. I had never heard of any of this before. “Nothing less, and nothing more. We have no time to concern ourselves with court intrigues in a place such as this.”
Niccolo’s face clouded. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean—”
“Why?” I burst out.
Niccolo turned back to me, the confusion he was feeling clear upon his face.” Why what?”
“Why does Etienne de Brabant support the queens cause?”
“I don’t know the details,” Niccolo admitted. “Tor it happened many years ago. He was loyal to the king, or so they say, until some service he performed while in the kings service brought him endless sorrow. After that, he turned his back on all that he had been before. He has been the queens man ever since.”
“Ever since,” I echoed quietly, though my heart was thundering in my ears like a kettle drum. I turned my head, and met Old Mathilde’s eyes. “Since the day he received word of my mothers death,” I said. “Since the day that I was born. That’s the day his endless sorrow began, don’t you think?”
Niccolo jerked, as if Old Mathilde had jabbed him with one of her knitting needles.
“Wait a minute,” he exclaimed. “You’re saying you are Etienne de Brabant’s daughter? I did not know he had a child!”
“I am the child of Etienne de Brabant and Constanze d’Este,” I said. “My mother died the night that I was born, while my father was far from home, on the kings business, or so it now seems. My father does not forgive, nor does he forget, what happened the night that I was born. That’s why you’ve never heard of me. My father does his best to pretend I don’t exist.”
“Then he is a fool,” Niccolo said. “For you are a daughter of which any father would be proud.”
I felt the blood rush to my face, the sudden stab of tears at the back of my eyes.
“It is kind of you to say so,” I said. “But I—”
Old Mathilde got to her feet, dropping her knitting into her basket with a rustling sound.
“We have had enough of questions and answers for tonight, I think,” she said in a firm yet quiet voice. “You will need a good nights sleep, Niccolo, if you truly intend to go tomorrow morning. Its a long journey You should start at first light.”
Niccolo stood up in response to her words, but I felt the way his eyes stayed on my face. “You are right,” he said. “I will say good night. But I . . .” He paused and took a breath. “I would be sorry to think any words of mine had caused unhappiness,” he went on. “Particularly after all your care.”
“They haven’t,” I said. “You took me by surprise, that’s all. Good night.”
“Good night,” he said.
The kitchen was silent for many moments after he had gone.
“It’s too bad Raoul can’t go with him,” I remarked at last. “They would make a good pair.”
“Indeed they would,” Old Mathilde replied. “Perhaps they will get their chance yet.”
“What do you wish for, Mathilde?’ I suddenly inquired.
“That the wishes of those I love come true,” she replied. “No more questions now. Its time for bed.”
SIX
That winter was the coldest any of us could recall. The ground froze solid, though we had no snow. Day after day, the sea outside our windows churned like an angry cauldron. If you put your bare hand on the outside of the house, you could burn the skin on your fingers, it was so cold. The only thing that never seemed to change was the surface of my mothers grave. It was as bare and brown as always.
December came and went, and then January. In February, the clear cold abrupdy loosed its grasp. The sky filled with clouds and the rains came down, swelling the rivers with water, choking the lanes with mud. Then, one morning, beneath the bare branches of the rose bushes in my mothers garden, I saw that the tenacious green shoots of snowbells were beginning to push their way up through the waterlogged soil. The wood hyacinths in the orchards were right behind them. The first flowers bloomed on the first day of March.
On the second day, Niccolo came back to the great stone house.
He rode into the courtyard in the strange and beautiful gleam of twilight, just as the sun came out from behind a cloud. Its rays struck the house, lighting up all the colors within the pale white stone, I was in my mothers garden, trying to prune the last of the rose bushes before the light expired. I saw the way the house abruptly blazed with color, heard the clatter of horses hooves, Raouls shout. And then I was up and running, pushing the gate from the garden open with both hands, dashing along the side of the house and irito the courtyard.
Niccolo was still on horseback, on the sleek dappled gray that had been Raoul’s choice, Raoul had one hand in the horses mane, the other on Niccolos leg as it gripped the horses flank. As I rounded the corner, the horse lowered his head and pushed against Raouls chest, hard enough to knock him back five whole steps.
“He is glad to see you,” I heard Niccolo say, “He’s been doing his best to pull my arms from my sockets ever since we sighted the house.”
“It’s on top of a hill,” Raoul said,” You can see it for miles.”
Niccolo laughed. “Believe me, I know.” He saw me then, “Cendrillon!”
He tossed the reins to Raoul, slid from the horses back, and crossed the courtyard with quick and eager strides to twirl me around in a great rambunctious hug. The kerchief I wear upon my head spun loose and my braids went flying.
“I am glad to see you,” he said.
“And I you,” I replied, “Welcome home.”
“I have seen all the beauties of the court,” Niccolo went on as he set me on my feet, “Not a single one of them can compare to you.”
“Oh, ho,” Raoul said with a laugh from where he still stood beside the horse. “He has come back to us a silver-tongued courtier You had best watch your step around him, Cendrillon.•”
I retrieved my kerchief, bound my hair back up. Unbraided and brushed out, my hair falls almost to my knees, but I always keep it covered. Loose hair only gets in the way when I’m working, and I have never quite forgotten the day, when I was twelve and beginning to feel the first stirrings of vanity, that Raoul claimed its color was so bright it kept the villagers awake at night.
“So,” I heard Old Mathilde’s voice say. “The traveler has come home.”
“And I bring news,” Niccolo said, his expression sobering. “News I must share quickly, for there isn’t much time. Etienne de Brabant is married again. His new wife and daughters follow close behind me.”
“Married!” I exclaimed. I put a hand out, as the world began to whirl, and felt Niccolo’s hand grasp mine. “My father is married? When did this happen?”
“Just last week,” Niccolo said. “Chantal de Saint-Andre is your stepmother’s name. She is a wealthy widow, and a ward of the crown. None may marry her but by the king’s command.”
“And now the king has married her to my father?” I said. I knew I sounded stupid, but I could not seem to get my brain to function. “But why?”
“That,” Niccolo said succinctly, “is the question to which all the court would like an answer. Your new stepmother and stepsisters most of all.”
“Stepsisters!” I cried. “I have stepsisters?”
“Two,” Niccolo answered. “Their names are Amelie and Anastasia.”
“I think.” I said faintly, “that I would like to sit down.” In fury and desperation, I had wished for a mother and two
sisters. And now my father was married, and his wife and two stepdaughters were on their way to my door.
“I can’t tell you more. I’m sorry,” Niccolo said. “I’m afraid there isn’t time. They should be here any minute. I only rode on ahead to try and give you some warning.”
“Why did you bring them?” I asked. “Do you serve my father now?”
“Because I was convenient,” Niccolo answered. “I knew the way, and besides—”
“You are from the queen’s home country,” I filled in. “No matter what the king commands my father to do, you may be relied upon to keep the queen’s interests in mind.”
“Something like that,” Niccolo acknowledged. “Cendrillon, there is one other thing that you should know.”
But before he could finish, there was a great clatter of hooves as a coach swept into our courtyard. The spokes of its wheels were coated in mud; great spatters of it rose halfway up the doors and sides. Even the coachman was covered in the huge clumps tossed upward by the horses’ hooves. He pulled back hard on the reins and brought the two broad-backed horses to a halt at the bottom of the steps that led to our front door. Their hot breath steamed in the air; curls of steam rose up from their backs and flanks.
Niccolo released my hand, and moved toward the coach at once. Raoul stayed beside the dappled gray. Old Mathilde made a gesture, and together we moved to stand at the top of the steps, a welcoming committee of two women, one young, one old. That would be all Etienne de Brabant’s house could offer his new wife and daughters. Mathilde pulled one of my arms through hers, tucking my fingers into the crook of her elbow. I held on for dear life.
Carefully, so as not to tumble fresh mud on the occupants inside, Niccolo opened the coach door. He unfolded the steps, then extended one hand, his body bent at the waist in a bow. And it was only at this moment that I truly understood what should have been obvious to me at once: My new stepmother was of noble birth. She and her daughters would be unlike anything the great stone house had seen in a good long time.
I wonder if they will have seen anything quite like us, I thought And then I ceased to think at all. For just then, a hand emerged from inside the carriage, its fingers encased in supple leather gloves. It grasped Niccolo’s, held on tightly, then was followed by the rest of the arm. A head emerged, neck bent down so as not to knock the top of it against the inside of the door. Next, a pair of shoulders, wrapped in a dark blue cloak. And now, finally, one foot was upon the carriage steps and the woman inside the coach was straightening up. At this, my mind came flowing back.
Once Upon A Time (5) Before Midnight Page 4