The Swan Maiden (21 page)

“Oh, aye.” Jaume grinned at her. “Rest well earned,” he told Om Toumas.

“No doubt. With the gold bird safe under your hat the whole time, eh? Better we not know how you managed that, Cousin.” The older man leaned forward to speak to Jaume privately. “If you'd keep your new treasure safe, you'll be gone from Beloc quick as may be.” He jerked his chin at the high table. “Not all wish you the same good health and long life as I do, or I misread our comtesse's expression.”

Jaume nodded.

Doucette kissed the older man's cheek. “I'll miss you, Om Toumas,” she said.

“Long life and happiness to you both.” He bowed and left them.

A wide-eyed Anfos came to stand before the table. “They say a bride's kiss is lucky. May I have one, Lady Doucette?”

“Certainly.” Doucette planted a kiss on the forehead presented to her, and the boy retreated with a satisfied air.

Gifts were piled on the floor around the table. Doucette was glad for Jaume's solid presence beside her and his arm supporting hers, because it took all her fortitude to receive their well-wishers and bestow the bride's kiss on all who sought it. Mostly the townsfolk and castle servants, she found, with a sprinkling of men-at-arms and courtiers.

The gifts, too, were mainly of a practical nature, unusual for a noblewoman's betrothal. Doucette received a drop-spindle, a sewing case, garden seeds rolled in a cloth, and a warm cloak. Men gave Jaume a pouch of nails, a fire-striking stone, a hand-ax. Others offered crocks of olive oil, sacks of dried peas, millet, and smoked meat. The captain of the comte's armsmen slid two leather travel packs, like those his men carried on long marches, discreetly under the table.

In his serious expression, Doucette read concern for their safety. She pressed his hand. “Thank you, Captain Denis.”

“We'll put the packs to good use,” Jaume assured him. “Directly.”

An unspoken assurance passed between the men. The captain bowed. “Wishing you every joy.”

The parade of gifts had barely stopped when the procession of dishes began. Servers carried each course first to the table on the dais. This was the usual custom, though tonight the comte's family showed so little appetite that plenty of delicacies remained for the humblest pig girl and pot boy to sample.

The variety of dishes astonished Doucette. She counted five kinds of soup, from delicate broths to hearty stews. Grilled eels and roasted meats were served with a variety of sauces: fennel, pomegranate, almond, and olive, while eggs came stuffed, poached, and covered with mustard sauce. Fritters, puddings, and cakes of every variety made up the desserts.

“You prepared this feast in one day?” Doucette asked Na Patris, who had taken it upon herself to supply the betrothed couple with food and drink.

The baker beamed at her. “Why, after Toumas put up the travel pavilion in the new parkland, Lord Pascau and Lady Sarpine convened the court out there. Not a noblewoman underfoot for hours, and we took advantage of it! Maids and washerwomen lent a hand with the cooking, and grooms chopped firewood and turned the spits for the roasts. Town girls picked the flowers and wove the garlands, while their lads found enough tables and benches for all to have a place.”

“But how did you know?” Doucette asked.

Na Patris nodded at Jaume. “Heard him playing his pipes, didn't we? Tunes lively enough to make the dead dance. We figured it would come out right.”

“It's lovely,” Doucette said, touched by the servants' confidence.

Na Patris wound her hands in her apron. “We wanted to give you a proper send-off. Grand fare for a betrothal dinner, maybe, but with the comte and comtesse feeling the way they do … you'll be married before Jaume's people in Vent'roux town?”

Doucette nodded, too overcome with a rush of emotion to speak. Soon she would be leaving her home, her family, the only life she knew.

Sooner than soon.

Tonight.

Om Toumas had suggested it, as had Captain Denis. Doucette couldn't disagree. Her father hadn't stopped the impromptu betrothal feast, but her mother would never permit an actual wedding to occur.

No, they would have to go. She looked around the feast hall, cherishing the sight and sounds of merriment. The general revelry was broken only by the high table's quiet island of disapproval.

Jaume squeezed her hand. Doucette leaned against him and was comforted.

When the final plate of fig sweetmeats had been presented to Lady Sarpine and coldly dismissed, Lord Pascau took his wife's arm and descended from the dais.

The hall quieted. People gave way to the comte and comtesse as they passed Doucette and Jaume's table.

“Good night,” Lord Pascau said.

Lady Sarpine spared an icy look for Doucette—and for Jaume, none at all.

Jaume bowed.

Doucette curtsied. “Good night, Father. Good night, Mother.”

Her parents swept away from her, and Doucette felt a sharp pain at her heart. She knew it might be the last time she saw them. Despite all that had happened, she hated to part on such cold terms. Tears threatened as she turned to her oldest sister. “Good night, Azelais.”

Azelais walked away as if she hadn't heard.

Doucette swallowed. “Good night, Cecilia.”

Cecilia's lovely face was marked by the sadness they both felt. “Good night,” she said quietly. “Go well.” She inclined her head to Jaume and followed the others out of the feast hall.

When the door closed behind the noble family, the dancing began. Shortly afterward, Doucette and Jaume slipped away. Jaume carried a pack on each shoulder and supported Doucette by the elbow. Stopping in the shadowed corridor, he searched her eyes. “You're sure?”

“Yes,” she said.

The guard at the gate let them pass without challenge, and Doucette and Jaume walked into the night.

Autumn

Chapter Twenty-four

Doucette heard the hoofbeats first. “Father's coming.”

Jaume turned and squinted at the distant smudge of dust. “Back on the road a ways?”

“Yes. Not even Cecilia drives her horse so hard.” Doucette surveyed their surroundings, hoping for a place to hide.

From the Château de l'Aire, they had descended the ridge and crossed the plain as far as Jaume could go while carrying Doucette and both their packs. They had slept in the shelter of an olive tree and woke to walk again in the misty light before dawn.

The rising sun revealed cultivated areas separated by ditches of muddy water. Harvested wheat fields alternated with those planted in winter rye. Overnight, it seemed, summer had ended and autumn begun. Clouds scudded across the sky, and a mean wind hissed through the fields, picking up wisps of straw and wheat chaff and blowing them into the travelers' faces. But neither the old wheat stubble nor the new rye blades stood tall enough to cover Jaume's boot tops.

“We'll lie down in a dry ditch,” Jaume said. “He'll ride right past us.”

“Or,” Doucette said patiently, “I can Transform us into shapes he won't suspect.”

“You're weak as a kitten, love.”

Doucette sighed in exasperation. She and Jaume had been arguing about her sorcery since they'd left the Château de l'Aire. Again, she tried to explain. “My magic's on the inside, Jaume. It doesn't rely on the strength of my arms or legs.”

His mouth tightened in a stubborn line. “What if it went wrong? Plenty of time to practice your spells when we're safe home.”

Under Doucette's feet, the earth quivered in warning.

“If Father catches us, we won't have that time. Please, Jaume. You must trust me.”

He fixed her with such unhappy eyes that Doucette almost relented, except that a sorceress kept her attention fixed on her goal. “Please,” she repeated.

“If you must.”

Doucette ignored his grudging tone. “Put the packs down in the field, off the road,” she directed. Eyeing the closest ditch, she wondered whether her legs would carry her over it.

Jaume lifted her easily and set her down on the far side of the ditch. Wheat stubble rustled under her shoes as she walked to the center of the field and pointed. “One pack, here. The other,” she walked a few steps, “here.”

Jaume glanced back, and Doucette followed his gaze.

The distant smudge was getting larger.

Doucette sank to her knees next to one of the packs and spread her hand over the leather, picturing what she wanted it to become. She summoned the magic within her until her fingers tingled with the pent-up flow, then spoke softly.

Be thou a well,

deep-rooted,

stone-rimmed,

water-blessed,

until thy spell, by my name, is undone.

The pack's edges blurred. With a rumble and a splash, it sank into the ground. The earth where the pack had been foamed up in a circle and hardened into the stone lip of a well.

The force of the magic rushing out of her made Doucette sway a little, but she clapped in satisfaction.

Jaume whistled, long and low. Then he peered over Doucette's shoulder. Picking a small stone out of the dirt, he dropped it into the depths of the well.

They both heard the
plink
as the stone struck the water.

Doucette pulled herself up on Jaume's arm. Though the magic had come easily, she grunted with the effort required to stand. As quickly as she could she walked to the other pack and whispered to it.

Be thou fence,

withy-woven,

four-square,

tight and strong,

until thy spell, by my name, is undone.

Under her hand, the pack shook, flipped itself once, and then tumbled end over end like a ball of wool, unwinding and stretching as it traveled, until a thin brown line edged the field. With a series of loud popping noises, the line stretched upward. Withy shoots snapped over and under one another as they wove themselves into a waist-high fence.

Doucette turned to Jaume. “You see?” she said. “Easy.”

He rubbed his chin. “Aye, but it's your body's strength fuels the magic. You're shaking.”

Doucette brushed away his concern. “As I get stronger, it won't tire me so much. This way we'll escape Father's notice. We must, Jaume.”

“You'll be able to change us back?”

“I promise,” Doucette said.

He kissed her, a too-short pressure of lips. “I'm ready.”

“Say my name to undo the spell,” Doucette reminded him. “And if you have to speak with Father, disguise your voice or he might recognize it.”

Jaume nodded, his eyes serious.

She put one hand on his chest and felt his heart beating under her palm. Gathering her magic, she waited for the rhythm of their pulses to mesh. Exultation filled her, drowning out the sound of approaching hoofbeats. “Be thou a garden boy,” she said. The moment she felt the spell taking hold, she put her other hand on her own heart and spoke.

As I

am thy garden,

fruit and flower,

husk and seed,

until both spells, by my name, are undone.

It was the most peculiar Transformation Doucette had yet experienced. As had happened in Lavena's Cauldron, Doucette's body dissolved. But it didn't hurt. And this time, instead of hovering outside herself, aware but formless, she sank into the ground and multiplied.

Each speck of her had become a seed. The seeds hurtled forward through their usual growth, absorbing the spring rain's moisture, summer sun's heat, and an early pinch of frost, all in an eye-blink. Innumerable shoots sprouted, rooted, grew tall, flowered, ripened, dropped fruit, and withered, until all that remained was a garden full of dry, spent plants and flowers gone to seed.

Field mice emerged from their holes, their whiskers twitching, to sniff at the sudden bounty. The wind rattled a bean plant's brittle leaves. Doucette heard the
croa-croa
of curious crows and the drone of a bee attracted to a late-blooming aster.

Distracted by the flow of unusual sensations, she tried to sort out the ones that mattered: the thrumming of hooves on the dirt road and, closer, repeated movements in a row of carrot plants.

Jerk—tap, tap. Jerk—tap, tap.

Doucette realized that was Jaume, uprooting the plants and tapping carrot seeds into his sack.

“You, there!”

Her father's voice sounded strange, filtered through her plant senses, but garden-Doucette managed to make out the words.

“Listen, boy,” Lord Pascau said. “Have a young man and woman passed you this morn?”

“Carrot seeds, Sieur,” a high voice replied. “Get the carrot seeds in before Ma gives me my dinner, what she said.”

“The man wears a shepherd's hat,” the comte said. “The girl's hair shines like pearl. Have you seen them?”