Night Watch before the Day of the Spiders.
No scent of roses tonight. And the great dark forest seemed darker than possible -- given that just three nights ago the moon was just past full. And the air was full of jasmine. And Ewen.
Paris scanned the darkness. No sound of wolves tonight. Kivan had said something about that. No wolves since the orcs came. She had wondered at the time if the orcs had simply killed and eaten everything big enough for their appetites. Or whether wolves had enough sense to run wide of orcs. She supposed it hadn't occurred to Kivan -- it certainly hadn't to her -- that the orcs would take the wolves and make riding beasts out of the largest of them.
Kivan and Yvonne and roses. The image of the last time she had seen those two shimmered in the light of her mind. That was a kiss. She felt herself blushing. Another image rose in her mind. A warm summer evening. More roses perfuming the warm evening air. Herself squatting in her mother's garden, picking thyme for the rising bread sponge -- tomorrow's bread. Her father, big and brown, black curls plastered with the day's sweat, jerkin over his shoulder, home for dinner. Maman, coming to the step with a cup of watered wine like she always did, smiling up at him. And the look that passed between them. Papa gave Maman a kiss; it had looked as light as Ewen's had felt, Paris realized. But it was the Look that went with it. Maman had dimpled and said "Pierre" in a tone that said many things, Paris suddenly realized. But -- back then -- it had nestled deep in Paris' heart and defined what love was for her. A look, a tone, a -- togetherness -- that made them seem really right together, made Paris glad that she and Calais were part of them. And Papa had chuckled and tipped Maman's head back and kissed her again.
Paris blinked. She had thought all kisses were going to be like that -- part of a forever that only death could stop. Her mind's eye was inside their old house, back in Jouet. The silence was as complete as the darkness of the forest. Papa's harsh breathing had stopped -- and had not started again. Maman moved on to the bed where he lay, still holding his hand. She lay down next to him. The house was very, very still for a long, long time. When Maman got up again, she kissed Papa -- and all the light and laughter had gone out of her eyes. Maman just seemed to get smaller, as though she really truly had lost a piece of herself. This was Love. And Paris wanted it -- and feared it.
It wasn't always that way, she knew. There had been Farmer Jean -- whose wife was too pretty for her own good, he said. And Claude Miller who got so drunk even his neighbors feared for his family. And Goodwife Green's sister Madeline who had married a rich marchand in the baron's town, but wore the saddest face with her fine gowns when she visited at Midsummer. And -- well, there'd been that rumour that Mia's Nicholas had been on his way back from Mistress Valentina's when he fell into the pond and drowned. She didn't think Mia had ever heard that one. She hoped not. Paris shivered. No, what her parents had had was pretty special.
Was that really why Ewen's kiss had bothered her so? Was -- kissing -- so wrapped up with everything that she had thought and hoped Love was that - that they had become -- like her old -- dream of being a knight? A thing of lais and fairy tales? Just another dream facing the light of day?
What did she really know about droit de seigneur? Just whispers and old lais. Hadn't the Padre said that it most mostly an admonishment for young girls to be modest and well behaved. Not to be worried about? She writhed inside. How -- cruel -- she had been to even associate such a thing with Ewen. Her friend. How -- dirty -- the notion made her feel. What could she do to make up for thinking such a thing? How could she make it up to him? If she ever got back, of course.
If she ever went back -- she would have to tell Prince William that she had left expecting to be unable to obey his order to return. The thought is the same as the deed. Again Paris shivered. I am a traitor to my Prince and my Order. Why had the Order seemed an excuse for being so blind about Ewen? It -- the card had given her the Order, had given her purpose -- when all other purposes had been taken away and destroyed. To waver from that -- seemed to risk the right to have that purpose, the right to - to be confirmed in the Order. Prince William's face rose within her mind's eye, beautiful -- and then angry. If - if he had been so -- cautious -- to give no -- excuse -- for those ugly rumours, then -- would not a -- liaison -- a confirmable relationship with any other young man also give rise to similar rumours? Would not that make her unfit for -- knighthood -- and the Order? 'Do not give the Sir Arvenals an excuse.' Lady du Gryphon's stern visage admonished through the darkness.
The old lais had said that honour, justice, courtesy, valour and purity were the attributes of the greatest knights. And -- in the old stories, purity was the one that most failed in. Rumour could lay low the noblest knight. It was so in the tales, at least. Piety, came the whisper from the back of her mind. There was something about god, or gods, but the memory twisted like smoke and vanished into a scene.
'Piety,' intoned the old padre's voice, 'was assumed to be an essential part of every one of these knights and heroes being held up for honour." His finger tapped the page of the book open before Paris and Genelle. 'Not a one is ashamed to be found on his knees in his pavilion or in the chapel before some great task or trial. Strength is more than a matter of muscle, my dears.' Surreptitiously Paris flexed her arms. Strength was something she wanted to get good at. All sorts of jobs called for strength.
A scene in the village brewery came back. Gossip Hermineite, her nose red with drink, had shook her finger at the other gossips and said, 'Where there's smoke, there's fire' as Paris had carried an empty barrel out to load on the ox cart. And the others had all laughed knowingly. They hadn't even known Paris was there. She hadn't wanted to hear that much. There were many things she would rather not have heard.
Why had the court even dared to propagate such an awful rumour about its prince? Lorraine said he'd been a gentleman as a student. Surely they knew his character. Was there something about the court in Pelier that made such patent falsehood somehow sustainable? Paris suddenly found herself wishing that she were part of the Prince's guard, part of those trusted to safeguard him. Was he safe? Had he even left before the orcs came? How would she ever know? Paris shivered again, and scanned the darkness. No roses, no jasmine; just leaf mulch.
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