Read Online While Beauty Slept by Elizabeth Blackwell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Blackwell
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It would make for a more dramatic tale if I could claim such a premonition. In truth I was more curious than concerned.
“Who?” I asked.
“Ah, I forgot, you haven’t seen her yet. Lady Millicent, the king’s maiden aunt.”
Many spinsters lived off the king’s generosity, most of them irritable old women who complained that the fire was too cold or the food too hot when they were lucky to have a roof over their heads at all. But the hardening of Petra’s expression implied that this woman was a more formidable presence than the rest.
“She was the one who convinced the queen that a week of prayer in a freezing chapel would cure her womb,” Petra continued. “The king was against it. Said God would hear her prayers just as well from the royal chapel. But Millicent got her way, the old witch.”
I could not believe that a servant would speak so disrespectfully of a member of the royal family.
“Forgive me, I should not have said such a thing,” Petra said, seeing my shock. “I do not mean that she conjures up spells over a black kettle, though some believe her capable of such nonsense. Best to avoid her, that’s all. She takes offense easily, and those who cross her pay the price. Drove her own sister round the bend, they say.”
“What happened?” I asked.
Petra shook her head, brushing off my question and the subject of Millicent. “I’ve already said more than I should.”
She turned from me and lay down, the hair splayed across her pillow shimmering in the darkness. The heavy breathing and shifting bodies of the other maids reminded me that we were not alone, that I must be mindful of what I said.
“Petra?” I whispered.
“Hmm?”
“There may be hope yet for the queen. I will pray for her.”
I did not expect a response, but after a few moments Petra’s hushed voice broke the silence.
“My father says it’s a family curse. Time and again the fate of the kingdom has hung on the life of a single boy. The king’s father was his parents’ sole surviving son, as was his father before him. The king and Prince Bowen were the first brothers in generations to live to adulthood. Everyone thought they would usher in a new era of prosperity. Yet both remain childless.”
Raised in a large family, I was accustomed to shouts and chatter and babies’ cries. Was it the lack of such sounds that made the castle’s vast, silent hallways so eerie?
“Will Prince Bowen inherit the throne if the king has no children?” I asked.
“I suppose so.”
“Poor Queen Lenore. No wonder she looks sad.”
What I did not know then was that the queen’s suffering went deeper than I could ever imagine. At my young age, I could not understand how the glowing young bride of Petra’s story had become the withdrawn woman I saw seated before the fireplace, for I knew nothing of the lengths to which a desperate woman will go in order to bear a child.
The next morning I crept into the queen’s bedchamber as the first shafts of sunlight brightened the windows. The queen herself was visible only as a slight rise in the middle of the bed, almost entirely hidden under an embroidered coverlet. I tiptoed around her personal attendant, Isla, snoring on a straw mattress on the floor, and swept the previous night’s ashes from the fireplace. Gingerly, I placed fresh logs inside, trying not to make a sound, and started a fire. When the flame was well established, I returned to the hall and carried in a bucket of water, pouring it into the elegant china basin that stood on a long table underneath the window. As the water fell, my eyes wandered to a piece of parchment lying on the table before me. Idly, I read the words written on it in an elegant, meticulous hand:
Where love has bloomed,
It surely must fade,
A memory of its perfume
All that remains. . . .
“Girl.”
I swung around, terrified of being called to task for idling. Queen Lenore was sitting up in the bed, looking directly at me. Her dark eyes were
“Who?” I asked.
“Ah, I forgot, you haven’t seen her yet. Lady Millicent, the king’s maiden aunt.”
Many spinsters lived off the king’s generosity, most of them irritable old women who complained that the fire was too cold or the food too hot when they were lucky to have a roof over their heads at all. But the hardening of Petra’s expression implied that this woman was a more formidable presence than the rest.
“She was the one who convinced the queen that a week of prayer in a freezing chapel would cure her womb,” Petra continued. “The king was against it. Said God would hear her prayers just as well from the royal chapel. But Millicent got her way, the old witch.”
I could not believe that a servant would speak so disrespectfully of a member of the royal family.
“Forgive me, I should not have said such a thing,” Petra said, seeing my shock. “I do not mean that she conjures up spells over a black kettle, though some believe her capable of such nonsense. Best to avoid her, that’s all. She takes offense easily, and those who cross her pay the price. Drove her own sister round the bend, they say.”
“What happened?” I asked.
Petra shook her head, brushing off my question and the subject of Millicent. “I’ve already said more than I should.”
She turned from me and lay down, the hair splayed across her pillow shimmering in the darkness. The heavy breathing and shifting bodies of the other maids reminded me that we were not alone, that I must be mindful of what I said.
“Petra?” I whispered.
“Hmm?”
“There may be hope yet for the queen. I will pray for her.”
I did not expect a response, but after a few moments Petra’s hushed voice broke the silence.
“My father says it’s a family curse. Time and again the fate of the kingdom has hung on the life of a single boy. The king’s father was his parents’ sole surviving son, as was his father before him. The king and Prince Bowen were the first brothers in generations to live to adulthood. Everyone thought they would usher in a new era of prosperity. Yet both remain childless.”
Raised in a large family, I was accustomed to shouts and chatter and babies’ cries. Was it the lack of such sounds that made the castle’s vast, silent hallways so eerie?
“Will Prince Bowen inherit the throne if the king has no children?” I asked.
“I suppose so.”
“Poor Queen Lenore. No wonder she looks sad.”
What I did not know then was that the queen’s suffering went deeper than I could ever imagine. At my young age, I could not understand how the glowing young bride of Petra’s story had become the withdrawn woman I saw seated before the fireplace, for I knew nothing of the lengths to which a desperate woman will go in order to bear a child.
The next morning I crept into the queen’s bedchamber as the first shafts of sunlight brightened the windows. The queen herself was visible only as a slight rise in the middle of the bed, almost entirely hidden under an embroidered coverlet. I tiptoed around her personal attendant, Isla, snoring on a straw mattress on the floor, and swept the previous night’s ashes from the fireplace. Gingerly, I placed fresh logs inside, trying not to make a sound, and started a fire. When the flame was well established, I returned to the hall and carried in a bucket of water, pouring it into the elegant china basin that stood on a long table underneath the window. As the water fell, my eyes wandered to a piece of parchment lying on the table before me. Idly, I read the words written on it in an elegant, meticulous hand:
Where love has bloomed,
It surely must fade,
A memory of its perfume
All that remains. . . .
“Girl.”
I swung around, terrified of being called to task for idling. Queen Lenore was sitting up in the bed, looking directly at me. Her dark eyes were
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