Rosamonde: The Real Story of Sleeping Beauty (4 page)

“Etcetera,” said the little count. “And etcetera.”

I was perfectly happy to return the ring. In fact, I wanted to hurl it at his smug blockhead. But I couldn’t get the thing off my finger.

“It won’t come off,” I said.

“Ah,” said the count. “You speak metaphorically? You are so in love with our crown prince that you cannot bear to remove the ring from your finger? I understand. Still, you must remove it now. We have photographers, several painters with brushes poised, and a poet. They are all ready to immortalize the moment the prince kneels before your royal parents, he asks for your hand, you lovingly gaze into his eyes and say, yes! Yes, a thousand times yes! Your face becomes radiant with joy. And then he puts the ring on your finger. Several tears trickle down your cheek. However, first, to accomplish all this, the ring must be removed from your finger.”

“I told you,” I said, gritting my teeth and resisting the urge to kick him, “the ring is stuck! It won’t come off.”

“Perhaps with the correct amount of force applied,” said Prince Fenris.

“Ow!” I said. “Ouch! Stop that!”

“Olive oil is what you want, my lady,” said one of the footmen. “A first pressing, of course.”

“Lard, Your Highness,” said another. “Much better for frying, too.”

“Butter is better,” said Celeste primly. “The Italians and the Spanish, they use the olive oil and lard in their greasy cooking, they do, but the French? Never! Their food is fit only for pigs.”

“I love butter,” said Count Glissando, leering at her. “Butter of all kinds.”

“French butter would be wasted on the likes of you,” said Celeste.

“I suppose we’ll be discussing salad recipes next,” I said. “Get me some butter now! Or lard. Or any cooking fat that’s nearby and handy!”

A small page went scurrying off to the castle kitchen and soon returned with a wedge of butter on a silver platter, along with several slices of white bread and some smoked salmon. I suspect that the cook had not completely understood his request. Thankfully, I had fallen asleep before he got there and was therefore not party to the uneasy detente between my maid and the fat count. As related to me later, the butter was generously applied, Celeste seized me about the waist, and Glissando grasped the ring. The contingent of soldiers cheered. Prince Fenris gave the command while eating some bread and salmon, and the fat little count pulled the ring off my finger so vigorously that he tumbled back into a thorny rose bush with a loud scream.

Later, I heard of his unfortunate circumstance with a great deal of pleasure. The only thing that would have pleased me more, of course, was if it had been the prince himself in the rose bush.

***

I opened one eye to find Celeste knitting in the armchair by the fire. She set her work down when she saw me stir.

“I will dress you for dinner
,
no
n
?” she said, standing up.

“Maybe I’ll just go back to sleep,” I grumbled. “I’m not hungry. Wake me when it’s breakfast. Next month.”

“I’m afraid that is not an option, my dear.”

It was my mother. She was standing by the door, gazing pensively at me.

“If you will excuse us, Celeste,” she said.

“But of course, my lady.”

The door closed quietly behind my maid. My mother sat down on the foot of the bed.

“We really don’t have a choice,” she said, her voice quiet.

“We?” I said bitterly.

She sighed. “Rosamonde, if you were a commoner, then the choice would simply be yours, but being born into a royal family brings a heavy burden. The choices we make are not about us. They never are. They are first and foremost about Bordavia. We are a small country, a peaceful country. We have no army to speak of, other than three hundred and fifteen soldiers who march about in the forest once a month. More truly, though, they are bakers and farmers and cobblers and butter-churners, and they are the Bordavia we must choose for. They would gladly go to war for us, spend their lives down to the last coin of blood, and consider it their glad honor, but we can never ask that of them. Never. We must choose other solutions to our. . . to our problems. You understand, my dear.”

I could not say anything in response. I had nothing to say.

“I am so very sorry,” my mother said sadly.

***

The castle ballroom that night was ablaze with light. Chandeliers flared high overhead. Gaslight globes floated along the walls, tethered by delicate silver chains. Beyond and above them all, the moon and her attendant stars shone down through the windows like the extravagant jewels that they were. Below, the bejeweled crowd strove to outdo the splendor of the night and the rambles of roses spilling from vase after vase in riots of red and white. An orchestra in one corner industriously worked away on the latest Viennese waltz. Couples wafted across the floor, rustling with silk and delight, swirling and spinning on the polished black marble. A small army of footmen marched back and forth, armed with platters of champagne and endless delights from the castle chef and his staff: pickled frog legs, strawberries carved into tiny goblets and brimming with plump beads of black caviar, iced mushroom flutes, and a myriad of other traditional Bordavian delicacies.

I stepped out on the top of the stairs and a hush instantly fell over the ballroom. It was irritating, but I was used to it. The court crier did one of his absurd flourishing bows at the foot of the stairs. His two henchmen in crime, the royal trombonists, blew a blast loud enough to tilt every wig in the room.

“Her Royal Highness, the Princess Rosamonde Baden-Lenox, Duchess of Gryvalia and Marchioness of the Midland Marches! Her Royal Highness!”

There was a thunderous burst of applause. I swallowed hard and did my best impression of floating down the stairs, chin held high. If you’ve never walked down a thirty-step flight of stairs wearing a trailing dress of layered silk with enough material in it to outfit a regiment, you should try it someday. It’s a great way to trip and break your neck.

However, tripping and breaking my neck sounded like an excellent idea at that moment. It sounded much better than what I knew was about to happen.

A flourish of trumpets rang out across the ballroom. Boots stamped in time on the floor. The crowd separated like the Red Sea rolling back before Moses’s staff. Count Mundo Glissando bounced across the polished black marble, his face beaming like a salted oyster.

“Your Highnesses!” he bellowed, bowing vaguely in the direction of my parents. “Lords and ladies, etcetera and etcetera! May I present his Royal Highness, Crown Prince Fenris Alluvio Gonzales y Smithson Vincenzeranza, Grand Duke of Listeria and Heir to the Imperial Throne of Delmania!”

Prince Fenris marched out between a column of soldiers, strutting like a peacock. A rather tall, irritatingly handsome peacock dressed in an officer’s uniform.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, clicking his heels together, “I’m pleased to have your attendance on such an occasion. An occasion, no doubt, that will be the most treasured of your lives. An evening that will be commemorated in poem, song, and exceedingly large installations of public art. Small children will lean upon the knees of their elders and ask, were you there, grandfather? Did you see him, grandmother? And, you, oh you happy few, you will be able to answer, yes, I was there.”

“You were there,” echoed the fat little count. “Er, you are here.”

My father caught my eye from across the room. He looked painfully apologetic. My mother stood beside him, her face pale.

Prince Fenris strode across the floor and took my hand. His grip was too tight. He escorted me to my parents. A photographer, complete with a dozen little photographer assistants, appeared with several enormous tripods and just as many cameras.

“Turn, if you please, Your Highness,” said the photographer, twirling his fingers in the air. “Turn a little bit more. The light is better on this side. Ah, an inch back. Tilt your head to the left, Princess. That’s it! Smile!”

A platter of flash powder ignited with a tremendous pop and an awful smell.

“The ring!” said the prince.

“The ring!” bellowed Count Glissando.

“The ring!” murmured the lords and ladies, craning their necks and gazing, pop-eyed and pleased. I knew most of them, whether they were Bordavian or not, and I suppose most of them were more than decent, but I was not happy about their avid attention at that moment.

“Here it is,” said the same small page from the garden, producing the ring from his pocket. He whipped out a handkerchief as well. “Got a bit of butter on it, but I’ll polish it right off.”

“I’ll polish you right off,” said the count, aiming a kick at the page.

“And now,” said the prince, getting down on one knee, “the proposal.”

“The proposal!” hollered the count.

“The proposal!” twittered all the lords and ladies.

“Highness,” said the prince, “I do you a great honor. A great honor indeed.”

“If you could turn your head a trifle toward me, Your Majesty,” said the photographer. “Yes, that’s it. Excellent.”

“How does my mustache look?”

“Superb, Your Highness. We all aspire to such a vigorous mustache.”

Another platter of flash powder exploded with a bang. All I could see for a moment were stars blooming wide until they overlapped the entire ballroom.

“Princess Rosamonde, I present my hand, nay, the hand of Delmania itself, in marriage to you. The honor this brings to you, nay, again nay, the honor this brings to Bordavia is beyond compare. Poets will weep with joy as they write epics of this day. Composers will write symphonies, vast works, even several operas in Italian, German, and French. Sculptors will sculpt vast marble statuary of me in various poses, mostly in martial settings and holding a sword, but also several others in more pastoral and peaceful settings, such as hunting for duck, swan, or grouse.”

“Ah, yes,” said Count Glissando, licking his lips. “Delicious grouse.”

“What do you say, my bride-to-be?” Prince Fenris seized my hand and slipped the ring on my finger. “What can you say?”

“Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?” I adjusted my face into a smile that masked—at least I hope it masked—my keen desire to beat him over the head with whatever club-like object was close at hand: the large copper urn standing on the stairway post, the cane a decrepit old bishop was leaning on at the edge of the crowd, perhaps even Count Glissando, if I could get a firm enough grip around his fat neck.

“She accepts!” called Count Glissando, practically yodeling the words.

“She accepts!” roared the crowd.

“Naturally,” said the prince, shrugging.

The cameras went off, their pans of flash powder exploding like a barrage of cannon.

“Your Royal Highnesses!” hollered the court crier. “Lords and ladies, honored guests, etcetera and etcetera! May I announce the official engagement of Her Royal. . .”

That’s as far as he got, because Glissando, sidling over quicker than a weasel, jammed his elbow into the poor fellow’s stomach. The court crier doubled over, coughing, and the fat little count took over.

“It gives me great pleasure to announce the engagement of His Royal Highness, Fenris, crown prince of Delmania, and Her. . .”

That was as far as Glissando got, of course, and I was surprised he had even got that far, for the court crier took his job very seriously—too seriously, some might say—and he had recovered enough to get his hands around Glissando’s neck. He did his best to throttle the count, but I have to say that his entire attention wasn’t in it, as he also wanted to continue his job announcing my unfortunate engagement.

“The happy engagement of Her Royal Highness, Princess Rosamonde Baden-Lenox,” he panted, trying to not lose his grip on Glissando’s neck, “the Flower of Bordavia! The Lovely Rose of Ruritania! Engaged, ladies and gentlemen, to this. . .”

He went over with a crash, as Glissando, although he was turning purple and flapping his arms like a beached seal, managed to get his foot behind the crier’s ankle and thus yank him off balance. They both went down, of course, and began rolling about, kicking and punching at each other and occasionally managing to holler something either vaguely related to the engagement—my engagement, I suppose, though it sickened me to even think the words—or, in Glissando’s case, some sort of lengthy description of Prince Fenris’s noble qualities.

The orchestra launched into an energetic rendition of the Bordavian national anthem, which effectively drowned out the spirited debate between the two men. I’m not sure who ordered them to do that (probably my uncle Milo), but it certainly made Fenris frown. His hand tightened painfully on mine. Across the room, I saw the Delmanian ambassador looking like he had just taken a mouthful of rancid buttermilk. The cohort of Delmanian trumpeters fingered their instruments aggressively and looked ready to launch into a counterattack with the Delmanian national anthem.

The room tilted around me. The chandeliers sparkled like stars whirling past in the heavens. My mother’s face blurred by, pale and set. She was trying to smile. My father peered over her shoulder. He looked worried. But then there was another face in the crowd. A face I was not expecting.