She knew these moods in him. Most of the time he was sunk in embittered gloom, but every now and then a burst of optimistic energy would seize him. Over recent years, the periods of gloom had grown longer and longer, the periods of energy less and less frequent. Perhaps her marriage and bride price would reverse the decline and allow him to set up in business again . . .
A strange sound came to her ears. Muffled and obscure, it was a long dull roar like far-off thunder.
Belle’s father shivered. ‘Just the wind in the chimneys,’ he said. ‘A place like this has enormous chimneys.’
Belle’s feet were tingling with the warmth, and the feeling had returned to her fingers. She took a slice of bread and a slice of ham for herself.
‘Describe my husband-to-be,’ she said. ‘Is he handsome?’
‘Handsome as a prince.’
‘Tell me more.’
Speaking with his mouth full, her father sprayed crumbs over the table. ‘Oh, um, he wears a mottled coat, yellow and brown. And, er, a ruff around his neck.’
‘I meant his face.’
‘You’ll see.’ An evasive look came into her father’s eyes. ‘I’m not very good at describing faces.’
Belle considered. ‘I don’t care so much if he’s handsome, so long as he’s gentle and kind.’
‘Oh, very gentle and kind. Do you think I’d part with my youngest daughter to someone who wouldn’t be kind to her?’
Belle’s doubts weren’t entirely set to rest. She caught the tone of the merchant he had once been, seeking to coax a customer, seeking to close a deal.
She was about to question him further when she heard the sound of someone pacing the floor in a room over their heads. Great soft footfalls: pad . . . pad . . . pad. The carpet must be very thick to produce a sound like that.
‘Is that him?’ she whispered.
Her father had already jumped up from his chair. He nodded and forced a smile. ‘Time I was off.’
‘But . . .’
‘I’ll just take your sisters’ clothes with me.’ He pointed to her layers of woollens and cloaks. ‘You’ll be inside a good warm house from now on.’
Belle saw the sense in that. She peeled off her outer layers and handed them to her father, who draped them over his arm. Still he stood waiting.
‘More,’ he said.
She frowned. Surely he could use some of the bride price to buy firewood and heat up the cottage through the rest of this winter?
‘These are my clothes,’ she said.
‘Yes, and they make you look lumpy and ugly. You have to show yourself off to your husband-to-be. I described your attractions to him in every detail. The prettiest face, the loveliest figure, the most beautiful of all my daughters. He has high expectations.’
Belle could have objected that only a moment ago he’d declared himself not very good at describing faces. But he stamped his foot with impatience. ‘Quickly!’
He helped her remove her surcoat and her fleece-lined jerkin. Then he wanted her shawl too.
‘Show him your shoulders,’ he said. ‘He’ll like to see your shoulders.’
Belle shook her head, but he snatched it from her anyway. He kissed her on top of the head and muttered vague words about good luck and happiness.
She rose and followed him into the hall. The pad . . . pad . . . pad of footsteps sounded louder out here, echoing back and forth between the stone columns.
‘Don’t worry.’ He looked worried himself as he gazed towards the staircase at the far end of the hall. ‘He’s still in his bedroom. My bedroom was up there, when I stayed overnight. He’ll come down when he’s ready.’
He snatched up the casket from the circular table and tucked it under his arm. Belle went ahead and opened the door for him.
‘Go back and wait for your prince,’ he said.
He seemed almost afraid that she might try to leave with him. A momentary blast of freezing air blew in through the door. Then he was gone.
A million doubts gnawed at the edges of Belle’s mind. She heard her father drive away in one of the prince’s carriages. Was that part of the bride price too? Just what sort of a deal had he struck?
She felt better when she returned to the fire in the dining room. The footsteps continued overhead, but her husband-to-be still showed no signs of coming down. Belle smelled the aromas wafting from the covered dishes on the table and realised that she was very, very hungry. She lifted the lids and discovered roast mutton, venison stew, fish soup and some type of small fowl she’d never seen before. She ladled portions onto her plate and set to, drinking half a goblet of wine to soothe her nerves.
She ate and ate until she was full. At the cottage, they had not only run out of firewood but were also low on food. She didn’t refill her goblet, being unused to wine.
She would miss her home by and by, she knew she would. Right now, though, she was glad to have escaped her father’s unpredictable moods and her sisters’ grumbling resentments. She could have been happy growing up in their small cottage; unlike her sisters, she didn’t really remember the time when her father had been a prosperous merchant and they’d lived in a great house in Rouen. She’d been four years old when his business collapsed, and they’d been forced to move to the country. But the weight of disappointment hung over the family like a black cloud.
Their mother had taken it hardest of all, as though the disaster had broken some spring inside her. She was a pale, shrinking figure in Belle’s memory, always on the margins. When she died, her absence was hardly noticeable.
Her father still had high hopes for himself. When in the mood, he would gather everyone round the kitchen table and talk of his latest project. With Delphie and Elise spurring him on, his plans became more and more brilliant: a triumphant return to Rouen, a magnificent new establishment in Paris itself. For hours on end, the family sat under the spell of his wild glittering eyes. He could perform miracles – or so it seemed to Belle. As she grew older, however, she understood that none of the miracles ever came true. Even Delphie and Elise, though they shared in his flights of fancy, didn’t actually believe in them.
Drowsily, she gazed at the rose stalk standing in the vase in the middle of the banquet. It looked sad and bare and diminished, like the story of her family.
She shook her head, left the table and crossed to the windows. The night outside was black and the cold radiated through the glass. She felt half-naked with her shoulders bare. She unfastened the cords to let the drapes close out the bitter weather.
Then she turned back and pulled a chair up to the hearth. For a long while she sat staring into the leaping, twisting flames, the glowing red logs.
Even the old people said this was the worst winter in living memory. The cold would claim many poor victims before it was over. But not her family, not now. Salvation had arrived out of nowhere.
It wasn’t the salvation they’d expected two months ago, when news of the ship reached the cottage. Her father had half-ownership of that ship, which had suddenly returned to port after being long since given up for lost. If it had brought back the cargo of spice for which it had been sent out, the family would be rich again. Her father had set off at once on the long walk to Rouen.
But the fairytale hadn’t come true. Not only was there no cargo of spice, but even the value of the ship was mired in dues and debts. After weeks of legal entanglements, Belle’s father had started back home as penniless as when he’d set out, all hope lost . . . Until he’d missed his road . . . wandered through a forest . . . stumbled upon a chateau . . . talked to a prince about his youngest daughter. And that was where the real fairytale began.
Absorbed in her thoughts and lulled by the warmth of the fire, Belle didn’t notice that the padding had ceased in the room overhead. The first thing to disturb her reverie was a strange, unwholesome smell. Stronger than the aromas of soup and stew, it had the whiff of raw meat.
She didn’t turn at once. Her eyes remained fixed on the fire, which crackled bu
sily to itself. Elsewhere, though, the silence in the dining room had changed and become some- how denser, heavier – like someone holding their breath.
Someone, or something.
She spun around then and almost fell from her chair. A beast stood on the tabletop, its front legs planted wide, its hind legs straddling the covered dishes. It was huge as a horse, and no more than an arm’s length behind her.
It would have been better if it had been all animal. Its body was sheer muscle and sinew, deep in the chest and lean around the loins. Its velvety fur was a mottled yellow and brown, ruffing out to a shaggy mane around the neck. From the neck down, it had the savage nobility of a lion. But the head!
The head was a misshapen, swollen horror. The forehead might have been human except for a crowning growth of bony spikes. The cheeks were not flesh but horn, like a mask. The eyes were lidless and burned in deep sockets with an amber light. Worst of all were the jaws, studded with wickedly sharp fangs, the lips drawn back over black gums. It was as though the jaws were bursting right out of the skin, already leaping forward to devour.
What was it? Or what was he? – since the beast was very plainly male. Belle couldn’t think, couldn’t understand. The amber eyes held her pinned.
A snarl rose in the beast’s throat, a cruel sound of domination. Yet not just a snarl – there was human language in it too.
‘Blood and bones!’ The bestial lips could hardly form the words. ‘Blood and bones!’
She realised then. According to her father, the prince wore a mottled coat of yellow and brown, and a ruff around his neck. Of course! Ruff and coat were mane and fur. Her husband-to-be was the beast. Her father had traded her to this!
Anger roused her wits. She sprang to her feet and snatched a knife from the table. The blade was puny compared to his claws and fangs.
‘I’m not blood and bones,’ she said. ‘My name is Belle.’
A huge red tongue emerged from the jaws and licked the lips. She could hear his breathing now, like the throb of some great engine.
She knew by instinct to conceal her fear. She was in his power, but she mustn’t show it or he’d pounce at once. She stood confronting him, with the knife held defensively before her.
He advanced to plant his front legs on the very edge of the tabletop. Drool dripped from his jaws and formed a great glutinous puddle on the floor.
Conceal your fear, she told herself. She looked down at the puddle in front of her feet, and said, ‘That’s disgusting.’
The beast leaned further forward until trails of slobber hung down almost touching her arm. He seemed to want to be disgusting. Then suddenly he closed his jaws and swiped the knife from her hand, sending it spinning across the room.
Belle felt helpless and exposed. Now he was surveying her as if he owned her, as if he’d bought her. Which he had . . . She reached up and adjusted her chemise to cover as much bare skin as possible.
The jaws moved, the cavernous nostrils puffed in and out. ‘Your hand,’ he growled. ‘I want your hand.’
Belle could hardly make out the words, and when she did, she could hardly believe them. Her hand to hold? Her hand in marriage? Her hand to bear a ring?
Whatever it meant, she had to play for time. She held out her hand – and snatched it back one split second before the hideous head swooped down. The jaws clashed on empty air.
His eyes flared in their deep sockets. ‘Eat you,’ he said.
So it was simple. He was a beast and she was his prey. What else would he do but eat her? And yet . . . it was more than ordinary hunger. He could have killed and eaten her already if he was merely hungry.
‘Your hand,’ he growled. ‘Only your hand.’
‘You want to eat only my hand?’
‘Tonight.’
‘Tonight? You mean, something else tomorrow night?’
‘Your other hand.’
‘And the night after?’
‘Your foot.’
Belle controlled an impulse to laugh hysterically. He was like a great cat toying with its victim. Well, she could deny him that satisfaction.
‘No, thank you.’ She managed to keep the tremor out of her voice. ‘If you want to eat me, you must do it all at once. Bite off my head.’
Bending forward, she brought her head a little closer to the terrible jaws. Though every nerve in her body screamed against the act, she forced herself to do it.
He cuffed her with one paw. A velvety blow, but weighted with immense power. Belle went flying sideways, crashed against the wall, stumbled and fell sprawling.
In the next moment, the beast stood over her, blotting out the light. His breath was like a furnace, his jaws came down . . .
No! She twisted and pulled her hand out of the way.
His jaws hung open above her. Very deliberately, she propped herself up on her elbows and raised her head between the two sets of fangs. She had no doubt that her last moment had come, but at least it would be a quick, clean death.
She closed her eyes and remained motionless, feeling oddly calm and detached from her own body. She recited the Lord’s Prayer in her mind.
Our Father which art in Heaven
Hallowed by thy name.
Thy Kingdom come . . .
Still the jaws hadn’t snapped shut. What was happen- ing? His hot breath surrounded her, his slobber dribbled onto her shoulders, the smell of raw meat almost made her retch.
For ever and ever,
Amen.
She came to the end of her prayer and began from the beginning again. Now there was a low rumble rising from deep inside his chest. Then suddenly the jaws withdrew.
She opened her eyes and inhaled fresh air. His head was high above her, and she found herself staring at his huge front paws, the yellow and brown fur of them, the claws like curving steel.
The rumble grew to a roar. His front paws lifted and he rose up on his hind legs. No words in that roar, just a thunder of brute pride. Louder and louder and louder. The dishes rattled on the table, the glassware tinkled, even the fire in the hearth quivered.
Belle sat up and clamped her hands tight over her ears. Her very bones shook with the vibrations. She looked towards the table. She could dive underneath for safety, but how long would her safety last?
In any case, she wasn’t afraid. Or if she were, yet at the core of her fear was a strange elation. Whatever happened now, she had bluffed him. He couldn’t do what he wanted.
Roar as much as you like, she thought. I have your measure.
The roar came to an end and he dropped back down on all fours. Belle took her hands from her ears and looked into his face, his muzzle. The look in his eyes was a look of baffled incomprehension. He couldn’t terrify her or even disgust her. Deep liquid eyes . . . the amber colour was really quite beautiful.
‘Go.’ There were human words in his voice again. ‘Go to your room.’
Belle slid backwards over the floor, never once dropping her eyes. She heard a thwacking sound that she couldn’t interpret at first. Then she realised he was lashing his tail.
Ten yards away, she scrambled to her feet. She backed around the side of the table and retreated towards the door.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
He followed her, tail lashing faster and faster. But he wouldn’t spring, she felt sure, not while her eyes were fixed upon his.
At last, she came up against the door. Fumbling blindly, she found the knob and opened the door behind her.
‘Good night, sir,’ she said.
She dropped a polite curtsey, turned and went out into the hall. He was still following.
She couldn’t help it – she broke and fled as if all the hounds of hell were after her. With no plan, she ran for the staircase and the bedrooms above. The great beast stuck his head out through the dining-room doorway and watched her go.
It was obvious which room was her bedroom – and prob- ably her father’s room before her. A warm welcoming light flooded across the upstairs corridor from t
he only open door. She went in and slammed it shut, turning the key. Then she wedged a chair under the doorknob for extra security.
It was the most charming and luxurious of bedrooms. Candles burned in sconces on the walls, which were papered in pink and blue striped wallpaper. There was a dresser with a large oval mirror, and a four-poster bed with white linen sheets turned down over a floral quilt. To Belle, it might as well have been a prison.
She flung herself onto the bed. The adrenalin that had flooded her body was draining away, leaving overwhelming weariness. Her mind was all in a jumble and she couldn’t make one thought follow another. Instead, she sank into a sleep that was almost a stupor.
A cool white light aroused her in the morning, filtering through lace curtains. She was shocked to discover that she had spent the whole night on top of the quilt, still fully dressed.
She jumped up, smoothed down her clothes and ran her fingers through her tangled blonde hair. Then she went across and drew back the curtains. The dazzle of snow was blinding, a sea of whiteness over the ground and trees.
Her father must have reached home by now, travelling by carriage through the night. She would have liked to make excuses for him, but there were no excuses possible. He had known the true nature of her so-called prince, and he surely knew that the beast wasn’t offering marriage. The very best he might have thought was that he was selling his daughter as a slave. Of course, he was always good at closing his mind to unwanted realities . . .
The betrayal was like a bruise at the bottom of her heart. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t go back home again, not even if she managed to escape from this chateau. Where else she might go, she had no idea. No father, no family and certainly no husband. Her future was in her own hands now.
The dresser was laden with combs, hairbrushes, jewellery and various perfumes in cut-glass bottles. She took the chair from under the doorknob, placed it in front of the mirror and made her toilette. The routine tasks helped to drive away her painful thoughts.
Toilette complete, she unlocked the door and looked out into the corridor. Leaded windows on one side, closed oaken doors on the other. There was no one around.
The Wilful Eye Page 14
