Once Upon a Summer Day (16 page)

“M
y lady, what is it across your eyes?”

“There is something across my eyes?”

“A dark band.”

“Then I know not what it might be, my prince, for I see you clearly, and you, my love, are just as I remember.”

Borel took her hand and bowed and kissed her fingers. As he straightened, he glanced about the deeply shadowed chamber. The room was round and seemed somehow vaguely familiar, as if he had been there before. The walls were of stone, and the floor of wood, as was the conical ceiling above. To one side, stone steps led downward to somewhere below, and there were windows opening out onto—

“My lady, I must get you away from here.”

“How, Lord Borel? The windows are warded, and something dreadful lies down below. It isn’t as if we have a magical doorway to lead us to safety.”

Flic’s words echoed in Borel’s mind:
“. . . you must remember that if you are aware you are dreaming, you control aspects of the vision.”

Again Borel looked about.
Perhaps in the deepest shadow opposite the stairwell.
He closed his eyes, concentrating, and when he opened them again—
There!

“My lady, if I have done this right, I have a surprise for you. If you please.” Borel offered Chelle his arm.

Hesitantly she took it, and Borel led her to the hidden door in the wall, and when he swung it wide—

—Music and gaiety filled the air, and they entered a large chamber full of people waiting their turn to dance the minuet: the women in silks and satins, their long, flowing gowns of yellow, of peach, of lavender, pale jade, deep red, of puce and rust and umber, and of white. Chelle was the only one wearing a gown of sapphire blue and white. The men were arrayed in silken tights and knee hose and buckled shoes, with doublets and waistcoats and silken shirts and ruffles galore, their colors in darker shades than those of the women, but running throughout the same range. Only Borel was dressed in leathers. And violins and violas and cellos and a harpsichord sounded out the stately air, while a single pair in the center of the floor gracefully paced out the courtly steps.

“How utterly wonderful,” breathed Chelle.

“My lady, does this suit?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Chelle, a glorious smile lighting her face, though the dark band yet remained.

And she and Borel moved in to take their place among the elegant circle of waiting couples—

“Where are we?” asked Chelle.

“In Summerwood Manor. Here it was I last danced.”

“Who is the man in the mask?” asked Chelle.

“My brother, Alain,” said Borel.

“And his partner?”

“Camille, his truelove.”

“Why does he wear a mask?”

“He is cur—” Borel frowned. “No, wait. He
was
cursed, but no longer.”

Of a sudden the mask vanished, yet none in the gathering seemed to notice that ought had changed, not even Chelle.

The music segued into an interlude, and amid applause Alain and Camille stepped to the edge of the floor, and from across the circle Alain gestured to Borel. All eyes turned toward the Prince of the Winterwood.

And as the violins and viols and cellos and the harpsichord continued the interlude, “My lady,” said Borel, stepping onto the dance floor and bowing to Chelle and then straightening and holding out a hand to her.

Chelle smiled and curtseyed, and then took Borel’s hand and he led her to the center of the floor. And as the prince and his lady took position, the musicians played an introductory refrain, followed by the dignified air of the minuet.

And while all those about them watched and waited their turn, Borel and Chelle moved in time to the moderate tempo, the stately court dance one of small steps and erect posture and deep curtseys and bows and hand-holdings and pacing side by side while facing one another. And they turned and drew close and then stepped apart, and struck the requisite poses, the whole of it having an air of restrained flirtation.

“It is called the kissing dance, Chelle,” said Borel, smiling mischievously.

“I know, my lord,” said Chelle, a rising blush touching her cheeks.

“Fear not, my lady, I will not embarrass you in front of these guests.”

“Oh,” said Chelle, her voice falling.

As they continued the dance, yet effecting the various postures and carriage, Borel said, “I would not have you be a mere liaison, Chelle.”

“And I would not be one, Sieur,” replied Chelle, a hint of coldness in her response.

“Ah, my Chelle, do not take me wrong,” said Borel. “I find I am strongly drawn to you, and it is more than mere desire.”

“Oh, Borel, I have loved you ever since I first saw you,” said Chelle.

“You were but a child then,” said Borel.

“I am no child now,” replied Chelle, again a blush gracing her cheeks.

Borel’s blood raced and his heart hammered in his breast, threatening to escape. And of a sudden he and Chelle were stepping out the dance in the center of an enormous floor, the ring of spectators still all ’round but now furlongs away.

And Borel leaned down to kiss her and Chelle raised her face to meet him, and in that moment the music slipped into the interlude, and all the spectators suddenly appeared right at hand, applauding.

Borel and Chelle sprang apart, and Chelle, blushing furiously, hid part of her face behind the fan that suddenly appeared in her hand, while women in the circle about them clapped and smiled and whispered to one another, and the men slapped their hands together and looked at Borel and grinned their approval.

Borel led Chelle from the floor and they resumed their place among the bystanders, while another couple took the center.

The music again segued from an introductory refrain to the dance, and Borel leaned over and murmured, “I apologize, my love, I should not have been so bold.”

“I am not sorry, my lord,” said Chelle, her fan rapidly whisking back and forth, as if to cool her face.

As the couple on the floor minced through the steps of the minuet, Borel said, “How came you to be in the turret?”

The walls of the hall in Summerwood Manor began to turn to stone, and Borel clutched Chelle’s hand and cried out, “No, no, my love, there are more dances to dance and things to say!”

And the stone faded and became wood once more, and Chelle looked up at Borel and, though he could not see them behind the shadowy band, he knew there was fright in her eyes.

No one else seemed to have noticed ought.

The music changed, and Prince Alain announced they would begin the
contredanses
.

Dancers formed into squares and stepped out the intricate but lively footwork of the cotillion, and then that of the quadrille, with its handful of complex figures, each with its own vigorous tune. And some of these dances again turned upon flirtations, where couples frequently switched partners and hands were held and cheeks were kissed and long lingering looks were exchanged with much touching and swinging about, though every time Borel traded partners it was always Chelle with whom he next danced.

Then came the longways dances, where the men arrayed themselves in a line facing the women in a like line opposite, partners directly across from one another.

Here the music was lively, sprightly violins showing the way, and various partners took turns dictating the mode of the dance, the others following in whatever pattern the leaders had set, sometimes dancing a lively romp down the center, at other times weaving in and out of the lines or circling ’round the outside, and when each couple reached the far end they took a place there and stood still while those following romped or reeled or wove past in a dancing game of follow the leader. When Borel and Chelle’s turn came to set the pattern, Borel called out, “The Dance of the Bees!” and then he and Chelle flapped their arms as if they were wings and wriggled and buzzed down the center of the lines, and then ran back and wriggled and buzzed down the center again, Chelle laughing gaily in between her buzzings, men and women in the long lines laughing and clapping and waiting their turn at becoming bees.

After this merry and vigorous dance, Alain called a halt for both dancers and musicians to rest. And as Borel led his demoiselle through the wide double doors and out into the garden beyond, he looked up to see the moon four days past fullness, and of a sudden they were back in the turret, Chelle gazing at the thin beam of moonlight shining against the floor.

“There is less than a moon left,” she said in the Old Tongue—

—And Borel awakened in a camp next to a twilight border to hear small footsteps scurrying away in the night.

 

In Summerwood Manor, both Alain and Camille startled awake.

“I had the strangest dream,” said Alain.

“So did I,” said Camille.

They looked at one another, eyes widening.

“A dance?” asked Alain.

Camille nodded.

“Borel?” asked Alain.

Again Camille nodded.

“A demoiselle with a dark band across her eyes?” asked Alain.

“Oh, yes, Alain,” replied Camille. “How can this be?”

Alain shook his head and replied, “I think, my love, the more important question is: what can this possibly mean?”

A
s the footsteps scrambled away, Borel bolted upright and gazed through the moonlight in the direction of the sound, but there was too much underbrush to see ought. Snatching up his bow, ready to string it, the prince jumped to his feet; still, he saw nothing. Then he whirled about and breathed a sigh of relief: Flic and Buzzer slept peacefully upon the broad leaf they had taken to as their bed. Borel knelt and added wood to the fire, and in the growing blaze, he examined his meager belongings to see if anything had been stolen: nothing had. But he found in addition to his goods a tiny rucksack, and within were several small bags, and these he cautiously examined: in one there was oatmeal; another contained strips of jerky; a third one held a loaf of black bread, the same as the Gnome had served; the fourth and final bag held several coins, silver and gold among the coppers. Furthermore, there was a small jar of honey, a coil of line, a tiny pot of glue, a packet of thread, a small tin pot with a bail, and a tinderbox with flint and steel and fine wood shavings.

Borel called out through the darkness in the direction the footsteps had fled: “My thanks to Hegwith!”

Jolted awake, Flic sat up and rubbed his eyes and said, “What’s all this shouting about?”

By firelight, Borel examined the ground. “We’ve had visitors in the night, by the look of the tracks perhaps three altogether. They left gifts.”

“Gifts?”

“A jar of honey for you and Buzzer. Some provisions and other needful things for me.”

“No good deed goes unrewarded,” said Flic, yawning. “Or is it instead no good deed goes unpunished?” He glanced at the moon, then lay back down and said to the sky, “It looks as if there is a goodly part of the night left, my prince. Me, I’m going back to sleep. You had better sleep as well; perhaps there is yet time to meet the demoiselle of your dreams.”

“I already did,” said Borel. “We danced.”

“Danced? In the turret?”

“No. In Summerwood Manor. You see, I stepped through a hidden door and into the ballroom.”

Flic did not reply.

Borel looked up to see the Sprite curled against Buzzer in his sleep.

“We had a merry time,” continued Borel, faintly smiling and speaking to himself. “And I called her ‘my love.’ ”

 

“You what?” said Flic, as he and Buzzer broke fast, lapping at a dribble of honey inside the upturned lid of the jar.

“I called her my love,” replied Borel.

“Well, do you love her?”

“In my dreams I do.”

“Ah, dreams are wild, and anything can happen therein,” said Flic, licking honey from his finger. “I mean, it seems as if there are no restraints on what one will say and do in a dream: give your heart to someone; engage in liaisons; in one moment be here and in the next instant there; conquer your worst enemy; flee from the most insignificant thing; grow to giant size; and other such. Oui, you might confess a desperate love to someone you know—or even a total stranger—when ensnared in a dream, but what matters is how you feel when awake.”

Borel frowned. “I don’t know how I feel. Oh, I think she is quite splendid, but as to love . . . Flic, she was a child when last I actually saw her, and that is hard for me to dismiss. But in my dreams, she is a lovely demoiselle.”

“Perhaps her dream image is misleading, Borel,” said Flic. “Perhaps it only shows what she would like to be, rather than what she is.”

Borel nodded and stirred the blossoms in the water in the tin pot hanging from the spit above the fire.