Rosamonde: The Real Story of Sleeping Beauty (7 page)

And to make it even worse, this was my wedding. My wedding! I couldn’t believe it. I drifted downstairs through a daze of faces and well-wishers mouthing their meaningless compliments. I wished I could simply fall asleep and let it all disappear into a grey mist of nothingness. Sleep forever. But, for once, I did not fall asleep. I was depressingly wide awake.

The castle chapel seemed to have all of Bordavia and most of Delmania stuffed within its old stone walls. Candelabras burned overhead—tiny constellations of stars, dripping hot wax like stardust down onto those unfortunate enough to be sitting below. Hanging tapestries woven from rose buds draped every pillar. The altar blazed with light, but it was not enough to keep out the darkness of the storm outside. The stained glass windows seemed to shiver with each rumble of thunder, their panes flashing with lightning.

Count Glissando peeked out from behind the front doors of the chapel. “Atten-shun!” he shouted.

Inside, one hundred Delmanian soldiers drew their swords with a resounding clash and extended them angled across the aisle. The swords hung over my head, a shining array of steel all the way up to the altar. My father offered me his arm. He looked very handsome in a grey pinstripe suit, complete with a white rose in his lapel, but his face looked pale and drawn.

“Shall we?” he rumbled.

“Run out the door and into the forest?” I whispered.

“With the entire Delmanian army after us?” He smiled sadly. “My dear Rosamonde, if it was just our necks, then I would say yes without a second thought. But it’s not just our necks. It’s every single neck in Bordavia.”

Somewhere hidden in an alcove, the Royal Delmanian Honor Guard launched into a stately rendition of the old Alpine folk song “When Goats Do Frolic on the Glacier.” Dust drifted down from the ceiling as the tubas shook the rafters. We advanced down the aisle. It seemed like a dream to me. Like floating through an ocean of faces that bobbed like jellyfish on either side. Lords and ladies, bishops and archbishops, counts and countesses, dukes and duchesses, stood glittering and gleaming and bejeweled like the richest ruby mine of Lune. The king and queen of Delmania stood complacent in the front row.

And then there were the steps up to the altar and the repellent sight of Prince Fenris looking impossibly and irritatingly handsome in his officer whites, thickly encrusted with ribbons and medals. He smiled, with every one of his perfect teeth showing. I felt my father’s hand fall away from mine.

The old priest looked anxiously down at me. I had known him since I was a child, and even before that, even before the beginning of my memories. He had always spoken the truth, and yet now he was forced to mouth these important words, these vital, life-changing phrases that should mean so much but now meant nothing at all. It was the worst of mockeries. The words fell from his mouth, one by one, into the silence of the avidly listening chapel, and I could only be grateful for the flimsy veil I hid behind while Prince Fenris kept on smiling. Now, however, I recognized his smile for what it was—the leer of a wolf.

“And now,” said the old priest somewhat nervously, “does anyone know any reason why this couple should not be joined together in holy matrimony?” He blinked and glanced around in a hopeful fashion. I certainly was hopeful. There was a moment of silence in the crowded chapel. Prince Fenris smiled complacently and patted my hand.

And in that silence a shot rang out.

Some people in the audience gasped.

“Just a gun misfiring outside,” said Prince Fenris cheerfully. “I’ll have the fool whipped after the reception.”

A second shot rang out.

Everyone turned to look through the windows. A collective gasp filled the air. Prince Fenris’s jaw dropped.

“My-my balloon!” he stammered. His face turned red with anger. “My balloon!” And with that, he galloped down the aisle and out the door. The one hundred Delmanian soldiers lining the aisle followed him out in a slightly more orderly fashion, somewhat similar to a herd of stampeding reindeer. As did Count Glissando, bounding down the aisle in his rubber ball fashion, along with most of the guests.

“Well, that’s that,” murmured the old priest, sounding relieved. “The good Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“What?” I said, staring out the window, but I did not hear anything else he said. I was transfixed by what I saw outside. A flaring, flaming globe of fire careened through the stormy darkness of the day. The prince’s balloon. It raged with a bright, fiery orange light. Another shot rang out as I stared. The balloon lurched and veered off course. Off course and directly toward me. No, not toward me, of course. Toward the castle.

I hurried down the aisle, skittering over fallen flowers and discarded hats. Celeste and my faithful contingent of footmen hurried after me. Outside, rain spattered down on the faces of the hundreds of wedding guests. They were all staring up, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. I looked up as well, just in time to see what they saw. The balloon slammed into the roof of the castle with a tremendous crash of shattered wicker. Flame gusted across the tiles. The crowd screamed in horror. I confess that I screamed as well.

“Brave soldiers of Delmania!” bellowed Prince Fenris. “To the roof! Catch the larcenous swine!”

“Yes sir, Your Highness!” said a captain, saluting. “Are you referring to the notion that literal swine, as in pigs, robbed you of your balloon, or are you speaking more in a figurative sense? Or should I say metaphorical? I always get the two mixed up.”

“Shut up! Get up there! On the double!”

“At once, Your Highness!” The captain turned to his men. “To the roof, brave soldiers of Delmania! We have some larcenous swine, in either the figurative or literal sense, to catch!”

The soldiers rushed across the courtyard and up the steps of the castle in a frenzy of martial enthusiasm. Several slipped on the rain-slick marble and fell over the side into the moat that laced the front of the castle. I was pleased to see that they made considerable splashes due to being weighed down, I assume, by their armor and weaponry. To be honest, it wasn’t a proper moat, as it did not encircle the entire castle and was devoid of things such as alligators or crocodiles or large, carnivorous water snakes. It had frogs, however, and a small family of turtles. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve pestered Father about this lack, and now, at my more advanced age, I regretted the lack once again.

On the castle roof, high overhead, the burning balloon broke apart and settled across a ridge with a hissing sigh as it lost its store of hot air. Flaming debris fell down through the air, causing many wedding guests to scream and run about. The panic was pleasant to observe.

“My lady,” murmured Celeste somewhat nervously, “if you would step back a few feet? Your dress, it is much too lovely to burn.”

“Don’t be a silly goose, Celeste. Oh, look!”

High up on the roof, two dark figures emerged from the wreckage of the balloon’s wicker basket and scampered across the ridge line toward the nearest tower. I nodded in relieved satisfaction. The flames jumped up high from the wreckage. The slate tiles cracked and shattered from the heat. Brighter flames leapt about. The beams beneath seemed to be catching fire.

I looked about for my father. At first, I found him nowhere in sight, but then I saw him urging a contingent of footmen forward with a pumping device, which they promptly stationed at the edge of the moat. It worked somewhat like a grain mill (which I’m sure you’re familiar with), with two men turning handles to create enough suction to pull water up from the moat through one pipe and then send it skyward through another pipe. The footmen, though fiercely intent on their job and encouraged by my father’s leadership, mistakenly shot the water across the courtyard for a moment before wrestling it up in the right direction. This, of course, resulted in soaking a great many guests. Between this impromptu shower, flaming debris crashing down like falling stars, soldiers running amuck, and the occasional person falling into the moat, the pandemonium was total. All in all, it was a splendid conclusion to the wedding, made even more perfect by the fact that no one, such as me, had yet said “I do.”

I sighed happily.

“Got the beast.”

“What?” I said, turning.

“Got the beast, Yer Highness.” It was old Marcel the gamekeeper. His rifle was cradled in his arms. “Saw ‘im flying along over the forest. Big, fat dragon, most likely, all black an’ red an’ dreadful. Probably out to snaffle a tasty deer fer ‘is dinner. So I potted ‘im.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” I said.

“Arr. That I did.” He patted his rifle and then gave me a short bow. “They sez yer getting married, Yer Highness. Many ‘appy returns. Marriage ain’t all it’s knocked up to be, but you just get yerself a good rifle, keep it close by, an’ it’ll be mostly all right.”

“Er, thank you, Marcel.”

He bowed again and then stumped off across the great lawn. Far above, the bells in the great tower began to toll the hour. I picked up my dress and ran. Celeste and the footmen followed in my wake like faithful little ducklings.

Inside, the castle was filled with smoke and confusion and the delicious smell of roast goose—evidence, indubitably, of the kitchen hard at work on the wedding dinner. Servants and soldiers—both Bordavians and Delmanians—dashed hither and thither. A bucket line had formed in the main entryway and then snaked its way up the sweep of marble stairs to the second floor and beyond, buckets of water sloshing from hand to hand. I was suddenly dizzy with relief, almost delirious with happiness. So much could have gone wrong, but there was a great deal of hope in the air, even if it smelled somewhat like soot. Oh, I doubt anyone was aware of it except for me, for who else had stepped back from the precipice of matrimony at the last second? And somewhere, five floors above us, were Uncle Milo and Henri.

By the time we reached the second floor, I was panting like a racehorse.

“It’s this blasted dress,” I said. I felt a drop of sweat trickle down my nose. Most unladylike.

“Your Highness,” said Celeste in her most French and disapproving tone. “It’s a lovely dress. Very fashionable
.
Très chi
c
.”

“It’s very heavy, that’s what it is, and it’s coming off.”

“Your Highness!”

All four of the footmen turned red and tried to look in every direction except at me. We were in a relatively quiet hallway, just down from the White Rose guest suites. And even closer to the stairs leading up to the bell tower. A contingent of Delmanian soldiers clattered by.

“Does someone have a pair of scissors or a knife? No? Surely one of you has a pocketknife.”

“I-I do, Your Highness,” stuttered one of the footmen. He held out a clasp knife behind him while trying to avoid looking at me.

“Thank you. I was just teasing, Celeste, you old prune. I’m not going to take off my dress. I’m merely going to slice off the bustle. . . and cut off this ridiculous waterfall of lace. . .”

“Your Highness, it’s gorgeous!”

“It’s ridiculous. And this layer of silk has to go. . . and this layer as well. . . and this one. Ahh, that’s much better. I imagine the cleaners can use all this for rags. To the bell tower!”

My hacking and slashing had turned the wedding monstrosity into something more akin to a summer dress. True, the seams were now raveling dreadfully and the hem was shockingly uneven, but it was much easier and lighter to run in. On further consideration, it was an excellent sort of dress to get married in; if one had second thoughts at the altar, such a dress would not impede a quick dash to freedom, out the door, and off to Patagonia or wherever one might find solace from bridegrooms, future mother-in-laws, and dribbling babies.

The stairs to the bell tower wound up and around an inner pillar of polished granite. The stone was cool under my hand. But the steps were steep and unforgiving. The footmen staggered in my wake. Even Celeste was panting and perspiring by the time we reached the fifth floor. She wasn’t sweating, of course. That would’ve been unthinkable. French maids simply do not sweat.

“A dozen more times around and we’re at the top,” I said, trying to sound cheerful as I gulped for air.

“A dozen times,” echoed Celeste dolefully. “Oh la la. I feel lik
e
pâté de foie gra
s
.”

“This is no time to stop and eat. Onward and upward.”

“I do not wish to eat the pâté,” protested Celeste. “I meant—oh, never mind. This language, it is not French.”

“I’m afraid we have company, Your Highness,” said one of the footmen.

“I’m afraid we have company?” I rolled my eyes. “How many times have I read that? Every two-penny dreadful I’ve ever read has that line. I think I read it last week in a gothic romance. ‘We’ve got company, Mackleroy, and it’s pirates. Bloodthirsty pirates.’”

“Well, it isn’t pirates, Your Highness. It’s merely the crown prince.”

I uttered a most unladylike shriek. Prince Fenris was marching down the hallway toward us at the front of a large contingent of Delmanian soldiers. He did not look pleased to see us. In fact, he looked downright suspicious.

“My lady!” he called. No, he bellowed. He truly did. Like an angry bull. “My lady! This is no place for a tender, delicate wisp of a woman like you. There are dangerous robbers afoot!”