deliberate, as she studied any new alternatives following each of his moves. Yet Alain’s play was anything but reckless, as Camille came to understand, for, as did she, he also studied the board assiduously between each of his moves.
They became completely absorbed in the game, and time passed, while moves were made and countered, with pieces captured, warriors falling, and queens slain in spite of heroic efforts of the spearmen. Kings fled, and towers toppled, and heirophants fell, doomed regardless of their diagonal flight. But at last Camille said, “I shall mate in three moves.”
Alain pursed his lips and studied the board. Finally he said, “Ah, the spearman. I see.” And he reached out and laid his king on its side. “And thus I fall, crushed.”
Camille giggled and then sobered. “Well, now, sieur, you owe me a song.”
“Indeed, ma’mselle, I do. But first, shall we dine? I am certain that Cook and Chef have our meal ready. We could eat it here and play a second game, for I would win a song from you.”
Camille looked about the chamber. It would certainly be better to eat in this cozy room than at opposite ends of a very long table.
“Very well, my lord.”
Alain stood and stepped to the pull cord, and moments later a youth appeared. “We would eat in here, Jules.”
“Yes, my lord, my lady,” said the lad, bowing, then fleeing.
“Ere they arrive with the food, Camille,” said Alain, “let us play a second game.”
He called me by my name again.
“My lord, how can we? Our first game was quite long.”
“Ah, there is the beauty of it. We each must move within ten heartbeats, following the other’s move.”
“Ten heartbeats? But what if my heart beats faster than yours?”
“Ah, then, I shall count”-Alain laughed-“though perhaps faster for you than for me.”
“Well, then, sirrah,” said Camille, grinning, “it is I who shall keep the count for you, and you who shall count for me.”
They rearranged the board, Camille now playing the white pieces.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
Camille pushed out a spearman. “One, two th-”
Alain’s move answered. “One, two, three, four, fi-”
Now Camille counted. “One, two-”
But a mere handful of moves later, Alain said, “Fool’s mate!” and laughed.
They set up the board again, moving swiftly, counting, laughing at blunders and coups, and even coups d’etat as one or the other moved his own king very badly.
Before the servants came with the food, they managed to get in five games altogether-three of which Alain won, two going to Camille, but it counted not a whit to either just who won, for only the laughter mattered.
This evening in addition to the various courses-celery soup; goose-liver pate on thin, crisp wafers; beef ragout; strawberries on a sweet biscuit with cream poured over-Camille drank a very fine dark red wine, the first of her life.
And the meal was so very intimate, she sitting knee to knee across a small table from him. And now and again Camille looked at the portraits on each wall, wondering which parent Alain favored, under that pale green mask. He had his pere’s grey eyes, rather than his mere’s very dark ones, nearly black, or so the portrait would indicate. It was his mother’s black hair he had, his own dark locks falling to his shoulders. As to his mouth, it seemed to take on the characteristic of his pere, though his lips were a bit fuller, like those of his mere. But nought else could Camille discern, other than there was no obvious malformation of his face, or so the fitted mask would seem to indicate.
After dinner, they were served a small glass of a very dark, nearly purple, fortified wine-port, Alain called it- somewhat fruity in its taste.
Ah, now I remember. Port-wine stain, Agnes had named it, the reddish-purple birthmark the child bore. Mayhap Alain has such on his face.
After dinner they returned to gaming, resuming echecs, playing a few more of the heartbeat games, laughter filling the room. But then they settled down to two more serious sets: Alain winning one, the other a stalemate.
Alain showed Camille the rudiments of taroc, and they laughed together at her attempts to shuffle the deck. But they did not play, for more than just two people were needed for the game, five or six being the best.
And all the while they talked: of music, of books, of Camille’s learning to read and write, of Fra Galanni and Sister Agnes, and of many other things.
Again, it was well past mid of night when Alain delivered Camille to the door of her chambers, and there they lingered awhile, yet talking. But finally they parted, and once more she fell into her bed, her glad heart quite afloat.
The days blended together in a wondrous blur, Camille spending the noontime with the Bear, telling him of her evenings with the prince, confiding her most secret thoughts and hopes and dreams, as well as her deepest fears.
A bit later in the day, the afternoons found her with Andre the gardener, planting some new bush or flower, at times in the courtyards between the wings, or in the gardens beyond; or she spent the time with Blanche, learning more details of the great house, as well as becoming acquainted with the quite extensive staff, Blanche slowly introducing her to a few more each day, so as not to overwhelm her all at once with too many faces and names.
From dusk until just beyond mid of night she spent with Prince Alain: dining on fine meals with red and white wines, playing echecs and dames, visiting the great library and quietly reading poetry to one another. One evening he taught her to dance-a slow stately dance, with much pacing and pausing and turning and bowing and curtseying and touching of hands, several servants playing harps and drums and horns.
“Oh, Bear, I do love him so, and I do think he feels the same.”
The Bear looked up from his great bowl of custard, pale yellow spread round nose and jaw and chin, and he cocked his head and rumbled low, as if to ask How could he not?
“Does rrrumm mean you think it so?”
“Whuff,” said the Bear, and then stuck his nose back into the bowl and began lapping up more sweet custard.
“Well, then, it must be true,” said Camille, spreading butter on toast.
That evening, as they stood up from the dining table, Alain said, “Lady, you have put me off long enough.”
Camille drew in a sharp breath, but managed to say, “How so, my lord?”
“A nine-day past you lost a wager, and I would have you sing for me.”
Camille’s shoulders relaxed. “I seem to recall, my lord, you lost the wager to me.”
“True, I lost the first game, yet you lost the second, and the third was a draw; hence, I owe you a song, you owe me one, and mayhap we will sing a duet.”
Feeling trapped, Camille looked about the dining chamber, where they stood at opposite ends of a long table. “My lord, you surely have heard bards sing, and I am but-”
“No more excuses, Lady, for I would collect my debt.”
Camille sighed. “Very well, my lord, yet I would not have just anyone hear.”
Alain pursed his lips. “I have a harpsichord in a chamber next to my quarters, where none regularly come but Lanval.”
Clutching the flowing skirt of her white gown to lift the hem a fraction, Camille curtseyed. “As you wish, my lord.”
Alain bowed, and then paced to her end of the board and crooked his arm. She slipped her arm in his, and out into the hallways and to his wing and then to his floor they went, a place Camille had not yet been. Down a long oak-panelled hallway they strode, all the doors marked with the Summerwood sigil. Into a chamber he led her, much like her own sitting room, yet therein and just beyond the silken couches and chairs sat a cherry-wood
