New Dawning International Bookfair
Presents
A Twisted Tale of Beauty and the Beast
by
Violet Heart
Copyright©2011 Violet Heart
Smashwords Edition
~ HIDEOUS ~
Chapter One
Normandy, June 12, 1068
Rain. Again.
"It has been six months straight, Pere. First snow then rain. When will it end?" Triselle slammed the shutters. "Grass refuses to grow. The trees wilt. Even my soul seems dim. I want sunlight and flowers."
Her father scratched his balding head, rustling wispy white hair, and glanced up from a miniature war machine he worked to design. "I do not know, Daughter. But I cannot dwell upon it. King Magnus has promised me twice my commission if I have a full-sized, working version of this by the end of July. I cannot get this model to function." He flicked a tiny lever with his pinkie. A clod of dirt shot from the thing and landed on the table three inches away. "It should hit the wall, not the table."
"Why King Magnus? Norway never paid you for the last three."
Hunching, he squinted at his toy-like model and made an adjustment. "I was late. I am to blame."
"Sell to King Philip. He would not treat you so poorly." She moved from the window to take a seat across the table from him.
Her father shrugged as he continued to make adjustments to the contraption.
Too many months with closed windows and a smoking fireplace had taken their toll. Triselle studied her father's bloodshot eyes before rubbing her own burning lids. No air moved. Lifting her hair from her hot nape, she lowered her cheek to the table.
Her father did not seem to notice. Not taking his gaze from his machine, he said, "Triselle, France has no interest in me or my work. Magnus, I know, will actually use my machine."
"What of our earl? Would he purchase your work?"
He stiffened, his eyes growing hard. "Lord Vanir has gone silent. No celebrations. No charity to the poor. Even his knights and servants never leave his castle. We have been on our own since the snows began. Have you not noticed?"
Releasing her hair, she left the table. Perhaps a drink would ease her dry throat. Pouring water from a pitcher into two wooden cups, she admitted, "I suppose, now that you mention it, I caught bits of gossip at the village market. I never pay gossip any mind, though. Six months?" Have I been too absorbed in painting murals at church?
"Six months."
"Has sickness fallen upon the castle?"
"Nobody knows. Nobody will go. He is not collecting taxes, demanding livestock and crop shares, or dictating how land is to be used. For once, people are in charge of their own lives. Why would they—"
Triselle placed a cup before him then took a swallow from her own. "I know these people, mon pere. They are not stupid, but they cannot organize these lands to be sure everyone will have what we need to get through next winter. This one was hard. We used all our stores. What has been planted? What fields are left fallow? Who manages breeding? Mon Dieu. Are the forests being hunted bare?"
Her father's eyebrows rose two inches, wrinkling his forehead. "It matters not. The ground is not likely to bear much. Moisture drowns the seeds." He cast her an amused glance. "You seem to know a great deal."
"You did not raise an ignorant, uneducated daughter."
"Hmm. Perhaps not. Still, what good has it done you? You will not have Rolf, the farmer down the road. You will not accept the carpenter's offer of marriage. Furthermore, you cannot do better than the village butcher, yet you deny him, as well."
"None can read. None seek to improve himself beyond his place in the world. I do not want an ambitious man, Pere, but one who expands his mind and sees beyond his current circumstance would be nice."
"This is the real world, Triselle. A world of war, starvation, cruelty, and injustice. You seek an educated man? You are a peasant, like me. You may look like an angel, but you wear russet, not linen or wool. You read books at church because we cannot afford to have our own. The man you seek can only belong to the church or nobility – neither of which is for you. So where does that leave you?"
Heat suffused her neck and cheeks. Plunking her cup onto the table, she exhaled sharply. "Alone. That is where it leaves me." Damn it. "I cannot breathe in here," she said, heading for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"For a walk. Maybe I will go see if Rolf is still interested, before I become an old maid. Do not expect me before supper."
He sighed and offered a curt wave. "Tell Rolf I say hello."
Rolf can have his beasts and turnips, and kiss my ass. A forty-year-old widower wants my firm body warming his bed, and Pere would let him. I deserve better. She left without bothering about her cloak.
Triselle stopped under a drooping apple tree bearing miniscule, inedible, pale fruit. It would likely not produce anything better this season. She missed flowers and their perfume, humming bees and grasshoppers, and sun on her face.
She stood dripping like a drowned field mouse. Wet earth and rotting vegetation filled her nostrils. Did it rain everywhere, or only in Normandy? What would become of them?
The next hillside hid the earl's castle. Where was Lord Vanir? His knights? His servants? What calamity had befallen his stronghold?
She had never seen him, but had heard of his male beauty. Women blushed to speak of him. So why did he remain unmarried?
Before she realized her intent, she had climbed to the crest. She stared at his stone fortress centered in a valley. His garden had surely dazzled when the sun had made all green, sweet and alive. Now, however, the rain, brown grass, and miserable trees created bleak hopelessness.
Nothing stirred. No men patrolled the catwalk. No servants moved in the multiple baileys. Within the donjon, not a single light shone. The place appeared deserted.
Shivering more from the sight than her sodden kirtle, she turned to leave but could not take her eyes from the castle. I need to go home. What good will it do if I am stricken with the ill of this place?
What is this fascination? Why am I so drawn? Even as she wondered, she moved toward the valley. She slipped and slid. Muddy ground slurped around the soles of her brown leather boots.
What awaits me back at that hut? A father too busy with his work to hold a decent conversation? Milking? Cooking? An endless day-to-day with only church books? A few hours of painting between mass and prayers as relief from my drudgery?
Her heart beat wildly. A mystery awaited. An opportunity. Perhaps the chance to make a difference. If only I could stop this rain.
A bird trilled. Her stomach fluttered at the first birdsong she had heard this year. With hope stirring, she crossed the bridge, her boots too loud on the boards. The ditch she crossed resembled a moat rather than a simple fosse.
An imposing black iron portcullis blocked her way. Here is where my wild adventure ends. Well, the idea had been grand. She caressed a wet vertical bar.
She jerked away when a tired groan filled the silence. Chains clinked, metal screeched, and then the portcullis began to lift.
She gasped, searching for some sign of who raised it. The outer bailey and battlement remained still. The way yawning in quiet invitation, Triselle hesitated.
Why am I not running home? On the other hand, why do I not enter? I wanted an adventure, did I not? Tentatively, she waved an arm before her, testing if spiked rods would slam down. They did not. "What am I doing?" she asked aloud as she headed inside.
She leaned through a stable's rough wood doorway. No horses? No hands? Tack hung upon posts, and saddles on stands collected dust, but not one living creature existed.
She passed from the outer bailey to a middle bailey where smaller buildings and stalls contained the tools of specialized trade workers. A smithy, a tanner's shop, an armorer, a cooper's stall.
No people.
No animals.
No bugs, even.
Curiosity overtook fear as her boots squished in mud. She moved through an arched break in the wall that separated the middle bailey from the inner courtyard. A stone donjon dominated - its gray structure made darker by the rain and its huge wooden door imposing.
The screech of metal and clang of chains panicked her. The portcullis. Mon Dieu!
Chapter Two
What noise disturbed his slumber? The portcullis lifted!
Had his curse been lifted? Vanir heaved himself from bed, and trudged to his window. The portcullis had not moved since January. Running a hand over the rough chest he would never accept as his own, he issued a disappointed growl. If the curse remained, then who…what…entered his castle?
Sheets of rain hindered his visibility. Soon, the drops waned, and he discerned a figure moving through the outer bailey. A female figure. His salvation? Perhaps another means of increasing his torment.
Sighing, he wrapped a fur about his shoulders and stared as she passed from the outer bailey to the inner. She seemed to have no purpose as she meandered along Trade Row. Who was she? Had she come here for a reason or had she simply stumbled upon his nightmare?
Plaited hair hung past her hips, and her clothing seemed plain. She stepped to his inner bailey and her gaze followed the stone walls of his donjon. Her upturned face revealed large eyes and truly fair features.
His stomach dropped. She had come to increase his despair.
Clamping his jaw until his teeth ached, he planted fists upon the window's stone embrasure. A companion for the first time in six months. Why did she have to be a beauty? A lovely maiden would shun his hideous countenance. Scream from one look at him. Despise his presence within his own walls.
From the gateway, metal against metal rang out, echoing within the solid walls of his baileys. Already she ran for the exit. Not a good sign.
* * * *
She raced to escape as fast as slippery earth would allow. Before she made it through the middle bailey, however, the unmistakable bang of iron hitting stone let her know she had been shut in. No! Rain pelted her face and blurred her vision. It made no difference. When she reached the outer curtain wall, iron bars blocked her way.
How? Why? She inspected huge pulleys, ropes and chains attached to the wall. Surely it required at least two strong men to work it. Still, she had to try. She grasped the dripping chain and pulled with all her might. Her feet found no purchase in the muck, and the pulleys failed to move. Father will be frantic if I do not return by dark.
With a sense that someone watched, she slowly turned on her heel and gazed over the walls that partitioned the baileys. The castle donjon loomed against the clouded sky, its towers jutting like spears into the downpour. She had no choice but to go there.
Triselle brought trembling fingertips to the donjon's enormous door. It swung open.
She could not see much inside. Despite the darkened sky, the day still held more brightness compared with the interior. A distant reply of the leather hinges' squeal spoke of the size of space. She took a step backward, but remaining in the rain held no appeal. She would need food and shelter, which she doubted the outbuildings offered. What had she thought to pass into this desolate place under a portcullis lifted by ghosts?
Her teeth chattering, she brought her braid over one shoulder and wrung water from it as she leaned toward the opening. On trembling legs, she stepped inside. Gray light seeped through shutter slits on a line of tall windows, which provided more illumination than she had expected.