Bella at Midnight (8 page)

In this spirit Geoffrey began calling out to any pretty girl who passed our way, “Come here, my beauty! Give me a kiss!” and suchlike bold remarks. A few of them shook their heads in disgust and walked away, but many responded with shy smiles, for Geoffrey was a remarkably handsome lad, tall and broad shouldered with a goodly face and fine, golden hair. Girls always noticed him.

Indeed, there was only one who seemed truly offended by his gallantry. She announced, with her hands upon her hips, that she'd sooner kiss a hog! The crowd burst into applause at her wit, and we nearly fell off the fence with laughing. It was coarse and unchivalrous child's play—we all knew it—but it was enormous fun! And I was very much a part of it, swept up in the general hilarity and spirit of camaraderie.

It was just at that moment—as I was wiping tears of laughter from my face and searching the crowd for the next likely target of Geoffrey's affection—that I saw a familiar figure coming our way. And, oh, I felt sick at heart—for it was Bella! And truly, I did not want to see her. Not there, not in that place, with all those people around.

I had lived all my life in two separate worlds, and that had made me changeable. I had learned to alter myself to be like those around me, in hopes of being accepted and admired. And at that particular moment I was the
other
Julian, not the one who played with peasants. I truly could not talk to her with those boys watching.

As Bella came toward me in her faded gown and old straw bonnet—I blush to confess it now—I saw her through my comrades' eyes and was embarrassed. And so I turned my head away from her and raised my hand as if to shield my eyes from the sun, hoping thus to hide my face so she would not see me. But it did no good—I was sitting upon a fence, in a scarlet tunic, with a crowd of noisy boys. I could not have been more conspicuous.

“Prince Julian!” Bella cried, grinning and waving excitedly.

Geoffrey and the others looked at me, all amazement. What's this? Julian has a lady friend, and a pretty one, too? They began elbowing me merrily in the ribs and making rude noises, kissing and whistling and such.

This delighted me, for they had never treated me so intimately before. Indeed, I had long suspected they tolerated me only because of my princely birth. Yet now, by receiving Bella's attentions, I had passed some mysterious test of manhood. I was no longer a timid and clumsy boy, but had become a “right manly fellow,” a “scoundrel,” and a “rogue”—in short, the kind of boy they liked. Their acceptance felt good to me, and I was reluctant to lose it.

What's more, I knew exactly what would follow if I got down from that fence and went over to Bella and greeted her warmly as she expected me to (or, God forbid, if I called out “Princess Bella!” as I usually did). My companions would shower us with whistles and catcalls, thinking her the object of some base flirtation. And so I convinced myself that by staying where I was and pretending not to know her, I was merely protecting her from their rude attentions and low regard.

I nodded politely, as one does to a servant, then turned toward Geoffrey and shrugged. I am afraid I even said she was only some village girl I had seen once or twice. And he replied that perhaps I ought to hurry on down to the village and see her again, as she seemed so eager and was so comely.

When I turned back, Bella had gone.

She was out there in the crowd, I knew, her face flushed with anger, her cheeks wet with tears. She would think herself a world-class fool for having thought well of me, for believing I was steadfast and honorable in my character, and a loving friend. And she would tell Beatrice what I had done—and Martin, and Will, and even little Margaret—and they would despise me, too!

Suddenly I was overcome by the enormity of all I had lost—and I simply could not sit there any longer. I felt a desperate need to take action, to run and find Bella that very minute and beg her to forgive me—though of course I would never find her in that crowd. The only sensible thing was to stay and enjoy the fair, then go see Bella after we returned. But that was impossible for me. I absolutely
had
to do something, anything, right away! And so I made up my mind to leave immediately and ride back to the village. I would be at her doorstep when she returned.

I told the others that I was feeling ill—and indeed I was, for shame sat in my stomach like a stone, and when the talk turned to food and ale I grew ashen and said I did not think I could eat or drink anything at all. And so I left the others and returned to where we had stabled our horses.

It did not take nearly so long to ride back as it had taken us to get there. The roads were clear by then, but for a few stragglers still on their way to the fair. And in my eagerness, I spurred Bucephalus on. I would not be cautious that day! I was wild in my spirit and cared not what became of me.

All the way I thought of little but what I would say to Bella. I rehearsed my story so many times that after a while it came to seem quite credible and persuasive to me, and I began to feel sure that, by the time the sun had set on that warm September day, Bella and I would be friends again and all would be forgotten.

But then, with a start, it came to me
why
my apology was so compelling, so sure to win her forgiveness:
because it was not entirely true
! I had not planned to tell her
all
of the reasons why I had treated her so unkindly, but only the one that would make me look well in her eyes—that I had wished to spare her the attentions of my boisterous companions. Even as I sought to persuade her that I was a true friend and an honorable person, I would be telling her a lie!

I was so shaken by this realization that I forced myself to look deep inside my own character and face whatever I might find there. Never in my life had I been that honest with myself, and it was no easy thing for me to do. The wide chasm that gaped between the person I had thought myself to be and the person I truly was appalled me. I resolved, at that moment, that when I spoke to Bella I would tell her
all
—and if she would not forgive me, well, that was what I deserved.

Furthermore, I swore that from that day forward I would always strive to be as decent and honest as she had once thought me to be. Unchangeable Bella, with her unerring sense of who she was, her fixed inclination toward all that was good—she would be my north star. And truly, I
have
become better and continue striving still.

How cruel, then, was what happened next—the ill-timed summons that intervened and prevented me from going to Bella as I had planned, and abasing myself, and begging her forgiveness! In truth, I would take it for God's punishment—and well deserved, too—except that Bella suffered from it more than I did.

As I neared the village, you see, I was met upon the road by a messenger who had been riding out to fetch me home from the fair—and the news he carried was astounding. The great, endless war between Moranmoor and Brutanna, begun back in my great-grandfather's time, had ended, and a truce had been signed. And I, the all-but-forgotten son, had a crucial role to play in this momentous event: I was to be part of a royal hostage exchange, meant to ensure that the treaty was kept in good faith.

I would go to live at the royal court in Brutanna, while Prince Gerald, younger brother of King Harry Big Ears, would come to Moranmoor. Should either party take advantage of the truce to attack the other, the life of its royal hostage would be forfeit. And in fulfillment of this important role, I was commanded to leave at once for the King's City.

“I will go, and gladly,” I said, for here was a chance to redeem myself and restore my honor. “But I must take a day—or even a few hours if that be not possible—to tend to a personal matter of great import.”

“You cannot,” the messenger said. “King Raymond wished you to leave without delay—already your absence at the fair has set our departure back by many hours.”

“But I must see to my belongings, and that will take time. Can we not leave at daybreak tomorrow?”

“No, Your Highness, I fear not. Your things will be packed for you, to follow later. You may take a change of linen if you like, and whatever you can gather quickly and carry on your person. But we must make haste.”

I had no choice. I must bid a hurried farewell to my uncle and be away within the hour. By the time Bella returned from the fair, I would already be gone. I thought, at first, that I should
write
my apology and leave the letter at the cottage, awaiting their return. But Bella could not read. Nor could any in the family. They would take it to the priest to have it read aloud, and this I could not bear.

And so I rode away from Castle Down and the village, and the life I had known for sixteen quiet years. I carried with me only my sword, some clean linen, and a great weight of sorrow and regret. I was not given the chance to ask the forgiveness of my dearest friend, whom I had injured out of pride and selfishness—or even to tell her good-bye. After all those years of loving friendship, my parting gift to her was the bitter memory of my unkindness.

Y
ou will think me a fool not to have expected it, Julian being so far above me, and no longer a child. But I did not. I never thought it mattered to him that I was a peasant, unlettered and common—for did he not come to see us often, and speak warm words, and in so many other ways show me his particular regard? Ignorant as I was, I thought it all genuine. I never doubted we would always be friends. But I suppose it was only one of my childish fancies, like believing in fairies.

How could I have been so blind? Only a simpleton would think a royal prince could truly esteem a peasant. People such as us were put on earth to haul water and cook food and empty the chamber pots of such as him! I ought to have been grateful he even remembered my name! That I should have expected him to
introduce me to his friends
—was I out of my mind?

Oh, how far I had overstepped my bounds—I blushed to think of it! Indeed, I had made such a fool of myself over Julian that he had actually
laughed
about it to his friends—and right there in front of me, too, where I could not help but hear him! Either he
intended
to wound me, or he did not think it mattered—I am not sure which of the two is more horrible.

I was so filled with shame and mortification after that day at Middleton Fair that I could not bring myself to speak of it, not even to my parents, not even to Will. When we heard that King Raymond had called Julian home and that he was being sent to Brutanna, I let them believe that was the reason for my tears. To this day I never
have
told them otherwise.

Losing Julian shifted the foundation upon which I had built my life. It was like the time, so many years before, when the soldiers first came to our village: one moment I was secure in my understanding of the world, and then suddenly all my certainties collapsed. If I had been so badly mistaken about Julian, what other fondly held beliefs would prove to be false?

Oh, heaven help me—I was soon to find out!

I was returning home from the mill one afternoon, Mother having sent me there with a sack of grain to be ground into flour. It was October, and the air was sharp and cool, the sky a rich, deep blue, and the smell of smoke and apples was in the air. As I neared the cottage, I paused for a moment and looked back down the lane where the slanting sunlight glowed through the yellow leaves—and I was suddenly so overcome by the beauty of God's creation that I almost wept. It was the first time since Julian left that I had felt true joy, and I shall always remember it—that final gift, that brief moment of peace.

Then I opened the cottage door to find my whole family there, most unexpectedly, at a time when Father and Will should have been at the forge and Mother busy with her tasks. I saw someone else in the room, too—a rather plump, grand-looking lady I had not met before. They were all waiting for me, that was plain enough. The first thing I thought was, somebody has died!

“Come in, Bella,” Mother said. “Do not look so alarmed. I would like you to meet someone. This is your Auntie Maud, child. Will you curtsy to her nicely, as I taught you?”

I curtsied—but I was wary, for I knew something strange was afoot. All in the room were ill at ease. They had something to tell me, and they did not like to do it.

“Bella, do you understand what that means,” Mother prompted, “that she is your aunt? This good lady is the
sister
of your
mother.”

I stood there, pondering this information. “Your sister?” I asked, knowing as I said it that she could not be.

“No, dear.” Mother glanced at Father, then at the lady, then went on. “You see, in truth I am only your
foster
mother. Your
real
mother died when you were born.”

“My real mother . . . ,” I repeated stupidly.

“Her name was Catherine,” said the lady who was now to be called “Auntie.”