Once Upon a Winter's Night (13 page)

Camille’s heart raced at these words, and yet by no outward sign did she betray the inner chaos hammering at her emotions.

“I sat in my chambers for days,” said Alain, “and you occupied my every thought. I wrote a paean to you, one I had not the daring to deliver, though I did spend more days at the edge of Faery hoping for a glimpse. Finally, Lanval told me that I was neglecting the demesne, and that I had better propose to you ere all fell to ruin. Yet it took me until the wintertime to gain the courage to ask for your hand.”

Camille’s emotions roiled, and she felt her blood rush to her face. To cover her confusion, she said, “You wrote an ode to me?”

Alain’s fists clenched, and then opened, and he softly said:

Alain fell silent.

Her face flush, blood pounding in her ears, Camille knew not what to say. Neither, it seemed, did Alain, and once again he took her arm and they went onward toward her chambers. As they reached her door, she softly said, “My lord, the ode was lovely.”

Alain turned her toward him and said, “My lady, it pales to mere doggerel when compared to the truth of you, and I—”

Camille’s gaze dropped from him, for she was unable to peer into such intensity.

He backed away a step. “My lady, I did not intend to alarm.”

“I am not alarmed, my lord,” she quietly replied. “I am instead nonplused, at a loss to know what to say, think, or do, for you are a noble prince, whereas I am but a mere farm girl, and—”

“Oh, Lady, it is not our station that makes who we are, but rather what we hold in our hearts.”

“My lord, thou art truly a noble prince.”

Alain quietly said, “This moment it is I nonplused, and knowing nought else to do . . .” He opened the door. As candlelight spilled outward, he bowed. “My lady. Your quarters. Sleep well.”

Camille curtseyed. “My lord.” She stepped into the chamber and closed the door after, and sighed and leaned back against the panel.

“There you are,” said Blanche, rising up from one of the silken couches.

“Oh, Blanche,” said Camille, pushing away from the door and twirling ’round and ’round the room, stopping occasionally to curtsey to the chairs and the love seat and couches, “I am quite giddy, for I had the most marvelous time.” Then she rushed to the handmaid and embraced her.

Blanche grinned and returned the embrace, but then said matter-of-factly, “Come, come. We must get you ready for bed.”

Camille frowned, for shouldn’t everyone be swept away by her giddiness? “Bed? But, oh, I will never sleep.”

Yet in spite of these words, a short while later Blanche tucked her in, and ere the handmaid could reach the door and ease out, Camille was fast asleep.

 

Midmorn was on the Summerwood when Camille at last awakened. And she sang as she bathed, then dressed for the day—a pale blue gown with pale blue organdy trim.

The sun was nigh the zenith when she took her breakfast of blackberry crepes in her now-favorite gazebo, the Bear snuffling through a somewhat heavier fare of syrup-doused pancakes and biscuits with butter. All through the meal, she told the Bear of the wondrous time she had had last eve, telling of the menu, of the splendid converse, and going so far as to recite as much of the paean as she could remember, inserting
tum-d’lums
where she knew not the words.

She spoke little of the mask, saying only that she wondered why the prince wore such, briefly speculating that mayhap he was disfigured in some manner, or perhaps he had a birthmark he did not wish for anyone to see. “Ah, but Bear, mask or no, birthmark or no, disfigurement or no, he was wonderful, and it was a marvelous eve.”

All through her commentary, the Bear made no ursine remarks, but he did pause now and again over his breakfast to listen to her words. Finally, the meal was done, and as the Bear padded to a nearby stream to wash it all down with water, Camille sipped her tea and gazed about the estate and wondered where Prince Alain was.

As the Bear came back from the rill, water adrip from his muzzle, so too did Blanche come across the sward. The handmaid waited for the Bear to arrive, then curtseyed and said, “My lady, Andre says that he is planting along the sun-ward wall, and though I think it is somehow not seemly for a lady of your standing to grub in the soil, he says if you would care to join him . . .”

“Oh, Blanche, much as I would like to, I would rather wait for Prince Alain.”

“My lady, I think you’ll not see the prince until late in the day . . . this eve, mayhap.”

“Oh.” Camille’s face fell. But then—“Very well. Please inform Andre I shall join him as soon as I change.”

Blanche sighed. “If you must.”

“Bear, will you like to grub in the soil with me?” asked Camille.

“Rrrumm,”
rumbled the Bear.

“Ah, feh. I take that as a no. Oh, well.”

 

It was again in the twilight that Camille took herself once more to the lanternlit bridge, and there it was that Prince Alain found her. This eve he wore satins of pale jade green, his silk mask green as well, all in subtle complement to Camille’s cerulean gown.

“My lady, would you care to sing for your supper? I will play for you.”

A panic struck Camille, and she flushed.
Sing for the prince when he no doubt has heard bards and minstrels? How can I contend with such?

“My lord, in a chamber, the one with the portraits of your père and mère, I saw sets for playing échecs. It is a pastime of mine. Is it one of yours?”

Pleasure sprang into Alain’s eyes, and he grinned. “Indeed, ma’mselle, yet I must warn you, I am no rank beginner.”

“Well, then, sieur, I must warn you also: neither am I.”

Arm in arm they entered the mansion, where Alain called on a servant to run ahead and prepare the game room. And soon they came to the chamber wherein sat the échecs sets, the lanterns now lit.

“Choose a table,” said Alain.

“This one?” said Camille, pointing to the board midway between the portraits, the board with the carven jade sets, one side translucent green, the other pale yellow.

Sadness filled Alain’s grey eyes. “Oh, Camille, I did not think. . . .”

Camille flushed.
He called me by my name!

“. . . That table is reserved for my sire and dam. Here it was they oft vied with one another, using échecs to settle disputes between, or to contest for a prize of some sort.”

Gaining control of her breathing, Camille glanced at the portraits and said, “Who had the upper hand?”

Alain laughed. “Neither, I think.”

“Then, my lord, what say ye to this table here?”

“Ah, a splendid choice, my lady: onyx and marble.” Alain took up a white and a black spearman, and held them behind his back, then thrust his clenched hands forward. “Choose.”

Camille grinned. “I choose sinister,” she said, tapping his left fist.

“Then I move first,” said Alain, returning her smile and opening his hands: white in the right, black in the left.

As they sat down, Alain said, “And what shall we play for? What prize?”

“Name the stakes, my lord,” said Camille.

“Ah, a dangerous request, that.”

Camille blushed, though she knew not why. But Alain said, “Should I win, you will sing for me.”

Oh, no!
“And should I win?”

“Well, my lady, since you have asked me to name the terms, I
could
say, that should you win, again you will sing for me, yet I won’t. Instead, I shall play the harpsichord and sing for you. In either case, the prize is a song.”

“Then I shall just have to win,” said Camille, “for I would have that song.”

“As would I, my lady. As would I.” Alain reached out and pushed a piece forward two squares. “White king’s spearman advances,” he said, and so the game began.

 

The prince seemed to play quite recklessly, his moves coming swift upon hers; Camille’s play was more deliberate, as she studied any new alternatives following each of his moves. Yet Alain’s play was anything but reckless, as Camille came to understand, for, as did she, he also studied the board assiduously between each of his moves.

They became completely absorbed in the game, and time passed, while moves were made and countered, with pieces captured, warriors falling, and queens slain in spite of heroic efforts of the spearmen. Kings fled, and towers toppled, and heirophants fell, doomed regardless of their diagonal flight. But at last Camille said, “I shall mate in three moves.”

Alain pursed his lips and studied the board. Finally he said, “Ah, the spearman. I see.” And he reached out and laid his king on its side. “And thus I fall, crushed.”

Camille giggled and then sobered. “Well, now, sieur, you owe me a song.”

“Indeed, ma’mselle, I do. But first, shall we dine? I am certain that Cook and Chef have our meal ready. We could eat it here and play a second game, for I would win a song from you.”

Camille looked about the chamber. It would certainly be better to eat in this cozy room than at opposite ends of a very long table.

“Very well, my lord.”

Alain stood and stepped to the pull cord, and moments later a youth appeared. “We would eat in here, Jules.”

“Yes, my lord, my lady,” said the lad, bowing, then fleeing.

“Ere they arrive with the food, Camille,” said Alain, “let us play a second game.”

“My lord, how can we? Our first game was quite long.”

“Ah, there is the beauty of it. We each must move within ten heartbeats, following the other’s move.”

“Ten heartbeats? But what if my heart beats faster than yours?”

“Ah, then, I shall count”—Alain laughed—“though perhaps faster for you than for me.”

“Well, then, sirrah,” said Camille, grinning, “it is I who shall keep the count for you, and you who shall count for me.”

They rearranged the board, Camille now playing the white pieces.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Camille pushed out a spearman. “One, two th—”

Alain’s move answered. “One, two, three, four, fi—”

Now Camille counted. “One, two—”

But a mere handful of moves later, Alain said, “Fool’s mate!” and laughed.

They set up the board again, moving swiftly, counting, laughing at blunders and coups, and even coups d’état as one or the other moved his own king very badly.

Before the servants came with the food, they managed to get in five games altogether—three of which Alain won, two going to Camille, but it counted not a whit to either just who won, for only the laughter mattered.

This evening in addition to the various courses—celery soup; goose-liver pâté on thin, crisp wafers; beef ragout; strawberries on a sweet biscuit with cream poured over—Camille drank a very fine dark red wine, the first of her life.

And the meal was so very intimate, she sitting knee to knee across a small table from him. And now and again Camille looked at the portraits on each wall, wondering which parent Alain favored, under that pale green mask. He had his père’s grey eyes, rather than his mère’s very dark ones, nearly black, or so the portrait would indicate. It was his mother’s black hair he had, his own dark locks falling to his shoulders. As to his mouth, it seemed to take on the characteristic of his père, though his lips were a bit fuller, like those of his mère. But nought else could Camille discern, other than there was no obvious malformation of his face, or so the fitted mask would seem to indicate.

After dinner, they were served a small glass of a very dark, nearly purple, fortified wine—port, Alain called it—somewhat fruity in its taste.

After dinner they returned to gaming, resuming échecs, playing a few more of the heartbeat games, laughter filling the room. But then they settled down to two more serious sets: Alain winning one, the other a stalemate.

Alain showed Camille the rudiments of taroc, and they laughed together at her attempts to shuffle the deck. But they did not play, for more than just two people were needed for the game, five or six being the best.

And all the while they talked: of music, of books, of Camille’s learning to read and write, of Fra Galanni and Sister Agnès, and of many other things.

Again, it was well past mid of night when Alain delivered Camille to the door of her chambers, and there they lingered awhile, yet talking. But finally they parted, and once more she fell into her bed, her glad heart quite afloat.

 

The days blended together in a wondrous blur, Camille spending the noontime with the Bear, telling him of her evenings with the prince, confiding her most secret thoughts and hopes and dreams, as well as her deepest fears.

A bit later in the day, the afternoons found her with Andre the gardener, planting some new bush or flower, at times in the courtyards between the wings, or in the gardens beyond; or she spent the time with Blanche, learning more details of the great house, as well as becoming acquainted with the quite extensive staff, Blanche slowly introducing her to a few more each day, so as not to overwhelm her all at once with too many faces and names.