~ by Vanessa Parry
She staggered into the little town of Ville-la-Foret on the heels of a storm. Some early risers saw her but paid little attention, for pestilence stalked the land, driving many people onto the road from city and hamlet alike. Some towns closed their gates to prevent strangers from entering, for it was said they could bring the sickness with them, but Ville-la-Foret was little more than a village and had never needed the fortification of walls. Its only defense – and it served well enough – was that it was far off the beaten track.
Pierre LeBrun opened the doors to the Boars Head tavern and began to sweep leaves and debris from the threshold. That’s when he saw her, lying upon the steps below the market cross. The town hall clock had not yet tolled six, so the square was empty, but for the bundle of rags lying so still.
Was she alive or dead? For some time, Pierre only leaned upon his broom, considering. If he went to examine her, he could find himself responsible, and it was clear from her clothes that she had no money of her own to pay for any care. If she lived, he would feel obliged to feed her, perhaps even house her. If dead, he would be obliged to bury her. He was not a hard man – indeed, many considered him a little too free with his favours – but both options demanded coin that he could not spare. The small tavern had provided a living for three generations of the LeBrun family, but increasing burden of taxation was making the prospect of a fourth slimmer daily.
The figure stirred. Not dead, then. Pierre threw caution to the wind and stepped into the square, calling, “Hello? Do you need help?” Any further questions were stopped in his throat when she rolled over and levered herself upright.
Despite a liberal coating of mud and some very ragged clothing, the golden eyes now turned upon him thrust all else from Pierre’s mind. Their glowing depths seemed to bore into his heart, and he would later secretly vow to a friend that if she had asked him to run away with her at that very moment, he would have dropped his broom and done so without a second thought.
For her part, Agathe was suddenly struck with the feeling that, until that moment, she had only half a soul. Here, in this man’s soft grey eyes, for the first time in what had been a very long and lonely life, she had found her home. Time passed, unnoticed, as they stared into each other, then Agathe blinked and the spell shattered. “I am well, thank you. Although I would be grateful if you could spare a crust of bread and, perhaps, a cup of water? I’m afraid I have no coin.”
Pierre loosened his grip on the broom handle and drew together his wits. “I think I could manage that. Come inside.”
Agathe followed him into the dim interior of the tavern, noting the smell of stale beer and tobacco, and took a seat when her host motioned to a bench by the hearth. A fire had not yet been set, but the cushion beneath her was very welcome, after weeks upon the road and the previous night’s storm. She spread her sodden skirts in a hopeful attempt to dry them.
Pierre was a kindly soul. When he returned, Agathe’s eyes widened, for he offered not just bread, but a thick slice of cheese, an apple, and a cup containing clear apple cider. Too starved to spare time for more than a hurried, “Thank you,” she set to with a will, and soon there was not a crumb left.
Pierre waited patiently, topping up her cup when she had finished. “My name is Pierre LeBrun. What is yours?”
“Agathe.”
“What set you upon the road, Agathe, in weather such as last night?”
She downed half the cup, blushing when her previously empty belly produced a belch. “Your pardon, good sir. I have not eaten in days. My family was taken by the black sickness, so I was left to make my way in the world as best I could – like so many others.”
“These are dark times. The rich lock themselves away, safe in their castles, and the rest of us live or die at their whim, of little concern as long as we provide food and coin for their pleasure.”
Agathe studied him over the rim of her cup. “You sound bitter.”
Pierre shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps. The king in yonder castle raises our taxes whenever it suits him, and we have no option but to pay or send our families to clean his stables and pander to his wealthy guests. Things have grown even worse since the birth of his son last month.”
Lowering her gaze, Agathe nodded. “I have travelled far, and I fear it is much the same everywhere. At least in this little corner of the world you have not been touched by the plague.”
“No. Although we live in fear of its appearance. Jean Gaston, our butcher, suggested only last week that we blockade the road until the danger passed.”
“Why did you not do it?”
Pierre shrugged once more. “Nobody has the time to man such a thing, and with no walls about the town, blockading the road would be rather useless.” At the sound of a light step on the stone floor, he looked up, and Agathe felt her heart shatter.
A cool female voice asked, “Who’s she?”
Agathe’s gift had been birthed when her body shed its first drop of blood, and she had many years since to hone its skills. She could see into every heart, and she knew, at once, that this girl’s heart was scarlet with avarice. What Cecile wanted, Cecile got, by fair means or foul – and Cecile wanted Pierre LeBrun.
For his part, Pierre drew on his brightest smile. Cecile had been his only real option for a wife in this small town, although now he wished he had waited a few months more before making that choice. “Cecile, this is Agathe. She was out in last night’s storm, so I invited her in for some breakfast. Agathe, this is my fiancé, Cecile Gaston.”
Cecile drew closer and sniffed delicately, fine dark brows arched in an otherwise nondescript face. “Well, she seems to have finished eating, so perhaps we should detain her no further. No doubt she has a long road before her,” she remarked somewhat pointedly, and her thin lips quirked in a supercilious smile as she added, “From the smell of her, she certainly has a long road behind.”
The traveller came slowly to her feet, and something in her demeanour made Cecile step back. Agathe dropped her gaze and the moment passed.
Cecile made a brisk shooing motion. “Begone, woman. We need no beggars in Ville-la-Foret.”
Agathe paused to smile warmly at Pierre. “Thank you for your kindness, sir. May it be rewarded in the fullness of time.” Cecile, she did not acknowledge, as she stepped out into the awakening bustle of the market square.
The following month Pierre LeBrun married Cecile Gaston, but Agathe could not bring herself to either witness the wedding or yet leave the town. Pierre LeBrun had been born to join his heart to hers, and she could not release the hope that one day he would be free to do so. Agathe found shelter on the fringes of the nearby forest and, for the most part, the people of Ville-la-Foret were kind. She gained a reputation as a healer for those who could not afford the doctor’s fees and was paid in vegetables from their gardens, or even the occasional scrawny chicken.
With each passing year, life in the little town grew harsher. King Luise imposed additional taxes upon a country that already struggled under the ravages of relentless waves of plague. The only family that seemed to flourish in Ville-la-Foret was that of the Gaston’s. Born in the same year as the prince, their son grew up tall and strong, and by the age of seven he was already an excellent shot with bow and arrow. Unfortunately, in temperament, he looked set to follow his father and older sister, developing a meanness of spirit and an excess of pride. In turn, these led him to put his own wants before all else.
Nine years after Agathe’s arrival, one ray of light brightened the small town. On a clear, crisp Autumn morning, a cart rolled in, driven by a young man. He brought few possessions, but one very precious one, the tiny babe in his arms. Belle, he called her, and whether that was her churched name or a term of endearment, he never told.
From his accent, Maurice was recently from Paris. For a while, people gave him a wide berth, for there were rumours that plague once more stalked the streets of that city – even the king did not visit anymore. Maurice had coin enough to purchase a small house for himself and his little daughter, and set himself up as an artist. When it became clear that there was no call for his work in such a small town he switched to the crafting of automata, which was the latest craze amongst the aristocracy. Once a year, Agathe looked after Belle for the day, while Maurice drove to the nearest town to sell his lovingly crafted work – no doubt at a price far below their worth, for he could only ever be considered a fair and generous businessman.
The little girl was a joy to care for, sweet and inquisitive. Over time Agathe’s gift sensed something else – some high purpose in Belle’s future. It became increasingly clear to the enchantress’ golden gaze that the child was destined for either great joy or great sadness, and that the fate of the very land itself was somehow tied up in her.
One warm spring afternoon, the young prince and his entourage were riding in the forest when their path crossed that of Agathe, who was collecting firewood. A quick glance into his heart as she regathered her sticks was all that the deeply shocked Agathe needed to grasp that Adam’s soul was the other half of Belle’s. Their stations were so far apart, and after his mother’s death, Prince Adam strayed so rarely from the gilded realm of his father’s castle. Agathe could not see how they would ever come together. Indeed, even were they to do so, what would Adam ever see in a lowly craftsman’s daughter? What could they possibly find in common? Yet, as she made her way home, she couldn’t dismiss what she now knew, and that knowledge fixed itself more firmly in Agathe’s mind with each passing year.
King Luise moved his court to another part of the country in the same year that the Gaston’s son joined the army – and many a father in Ville-la-Foret heaved a sigh of relief at both events. Gaston, as he was simply known by then – for his father had died a few months before – was a wild and wayward young man who took what he wanted, without thought of the cost to anyone else. His most recent acquisition was the Boars Head. Cecile had died in childbirth a year earlier, but any hopes of joining with Pierre that Agathe may still have held were dashed when the widower died during a buying trip to Paris only months later.
The Boars Head had long since fallen deeply into debt, and the Gaston family had been keeping it afloat for the sake of their daughter. It now became entailed to Gaston, who installed a manager – for it was to be his living when he returned from the army. Needless to say, the cost of ale and brandy climbed even higher, but taxation ensured that nobody had money for drink anyway, so it was little hardship to most of the community.
If anyone harboured a hope that the departure of King Luise would bring any relaxation of the crippling taxes, they were swiftly disillusioned. Prince Adam had come of age and, as the new ruler of this corner of France, appeared to be even harsher than his father had been. To pay their debts, many in Ville-la-Foret found themselves indentured as servants in his increasingly extravagant castle.
For her part, Belle was growing into a young girl as beautiful inside as out. Agathe knew that the time drew ever nearer when she and Adam were destined to meet. Of the two options in Belle’s future, sorrow now seemed the most likely. With her love of learning and her father’s romantic ideals, even if she ignored her heart’s destiny, Belle would find no lad to suit her among the tradition-bound folk of Ville-la-Foret. For his part, Adam was set upon a dissolute lifestyle that would eventually end in pain for him too. In his hedonistic pursuit of pleasure, he still lived as a spoilt child – not as a man wise enough to rule the land and eventually raise children of his own. Adam was destined to repeat the loveless mistakes of his father, and Agathe could not bear to think of Belle living the rest of her existence as lonely and alone as she.
The arrival of Belle at Agathe’s hovel one afternoon, seeking herbs to soothe the pain of her first courses, finally set the enchantress upon a path that she had been considering for some time. Indeed, she concluded, time was exactly what was needed — time for Belle to mature in body, and time for Adam to mature in spirit.
So it was that on that very night, in the teeth of another storm, Agathe drew a glamour about herself and picked a blood-red rose from the prince’s very own garden. Exotic music drifted on the air as she gathered her will outside of the ballroom windows. A thousand fine candles glowed upon rich silks and glittered in the gems draped about a hundred pale and beautiful throats as the enchantress knocked upon the clear glass of the ballroom doors. Lightning flashed. Thunder crashed. Music and dancers swirled to a halt as the doors blew open before her.
For more fantastic articles from our latest magazine issue ‘Disney’, please click on the below link:
F&F Winter 2019: Disney