CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Belle felt her vision slowly but surely clear. She felt her eyelids flutter open as she blearily awoke to the warmth of an unfamiliar room, the walls stone slab, and not at all the bell tower of the cathedral, which was where she expected to be. Shadows danced along the wall, playing hide and seek among the stone bricked walls as torch fires flickered and a lit fire provided warmth through the room. Cinders glowed on the hearth in front of a skinned bear pelt rug.
A six-pronged candleholder was lit on a small wooden table near her bedside for light.
And the bed she found herself in was not her and Quasi's bed, but rather a wide sea of vair and fur and silk. The softest (and warmest) blankets she'd ever had the pleasure of burrowing under, though at the thought and sight of her husband not by her side, her insides coiled, and her stomach churned miserably.
There was a horrible constricting on her throat, and it felt as though she couldn't breathe. Belle blinked and sat up slowly, swallowing past the growing lump in her throat and blinked owlishly at the unfamiliar room, once, twice, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she took in the new surroundings. This…was not Notre Dame. Not the cathedral. Not her home. Her head throbbed from where she'd been struck at the base of her skull with something hard and cold.
She laid back against the bed, resting her head against the wooden headboard. Squeezing her eyes shut, Belle shot a silent prayer to the heavens to will the rest of her pains and nausea to go away. The rest of the lavish room around her became quite detached.
All she could seem to concentrate on was the pain rooted deep in her head, she could barely hear the low murmurs of two other voices—other people—chattering around her in hushed, worried tones. All she felt, all she knew, was the pain of this moment. And it hurt.
Oh God Lord Almighty, it hurt.
Her eyes remaining closed, she allowed her thoughts to drift to before, how someone, and she could have sworn during her state of semi-consciousness, that she'd heard Quasi's voice speaking to someone, probably Darius or the Archdeacon, maybe even Alice. Belle felt her heart inexplicably sink to the pit of her stomach as she glanced to the left and right, searching for her husband and seeing no sign of him. She let out a sigh. Belle had hoped Quasi would be here.
Strange as though it would seem, she could have sworn she heard her husband's voice talking to her while she slept.
"But I…but I heard you, Quasi…" Silence. Belle furrowed her brows into a frown. Maybe it was a dream. That was it. It must have all been in her head. She sighed again and collapsed her head back against the pillow, wishing that it had not been, and to her surprise, a male's voice rent the otherwise silent air. The creaking of someone's footsteps as they stepped from the shadows and into the lavish bedroom of…wherever she happened to be, echoed through the strangely desolate room. Someone else was in the room. In the room with her alone.
Look at how well that had transpired for her earlier when she'd been left alone with the Prince, who she felt sure, yes, she was sure, had somehow tried to poison her, though what the man's motives might be for such a heinous act, she could not begin to fathom what she had done to warrant almost being poisoned. Furrowing her brows in confusion, Belle blinked once and stifled a groan as she sat up straighter in the little bed, twice until her mind slowly began to settle and the strange sense of giddiness intermingled with remorse danced away.
Her eyes snapped open even wider as the footfalls of whoever was in the room with her drew nearer, quick enough that the room around her began to spin.
God, she felt so sick. Belle could taste the bitter bile coating the back of her throat and she swallowed it back. Feeling lightheaded, eyes clenched shut as she wished for nothing more than the black spots dancing in front of her vision to go away and leave her in peace, she placed her head on the itchy woolen blanket that covered her knees and focused on regulating her breathing back to something that resembled normalcy. In. Out. Repeat a few more times.
Belle instinctively felt her left-hand wrap around the column of her throat, gingerly wincing as she could swear that she felt the red markings, indentations of the Prince's strong finger markings, feeling, and hating, the burning sensation left in their wake. A lone tear traced down her cheek and she blinked back salty tears. The man's voice spoke again, eliciting a startled scream from Belle.
She'd quite forgotten there was another presence in the room with her.
"Mademoiselle. Are you in any pain? You gave us all…quite a turn when His Grace brought you home a few days ago. You've been asleep for almost three days, with a bad fever an ailment of the stomach, but it looks as though my colleague Monsieur Cogsworth was correct in the assumption that you will make a full recovery. Our Prince got you to his healing Maester just in the nick of time, it would seem, dear."
The Stranger's voice was rich, melodious, soothing, not accusatory in any way, and she knew immediately the voice did not belong to that of the Prince. She sat up straighter, her dark brown eyes were now wide open and more alert.
Belle felt the heat speckle along her cheeks, not even realizing she'd been dozing off. A dark shadow engulfed her seated form, where she sat, perched and unmoving on top of the bed's mattress, unwilling to move for the time being until these vicious swells of nausea and dizziness passed, and she furrowed her brows.
"N—no," she whispered, blearily struggling to lift her head, and trying to focus her gaze more than a few feet in front of herself. Belle felt her face drain of color, what little of it was left in her already pale features as her gaze drifted over towards the man's lean form. "Who are you? Where am I? What is this place, monsieur?"
In a moment of panic, as terror seized her chest and worked its way swiftly up into her throat in the form of bitter acidic stomach bile, she bolted from the bed and quickly came to the conclusion that little maneuver had been a grave mistake on her part as she immediately shot out an arm to use the wall as a support brace, and instead, found herself clutching onto the arm of the tall, slender man, a slightly admonishing look in his inquisitive brown eyes as he silently guided Belle back to the edge of the bed and with firm hands on both shoulders, bade her sit.
"Forgive me, mademoiselle. My name is Monsieur Lumiere, a member of the house of staff who serves Our Grace his Prince, Adam de Bataille. You—"
"I know him, he can die slowly cut into a thousand pieces for all I care, monsieur," snapped Belle meanly, not bothering to hide the disdain for this Prince who had, if she were to believe her instincts, sought to poison her. "Where is my husband, monsieur? I want to see him. He is the bell ringer of—"
Though Belle immediately caught herself as the young woman quickly realized that it was improper of her to ask this strange fellow after the whereabouts of her husband so informally in this man, considering who the man reported to. The inventor's daughter watched, her heart sinking to the churning, twisting pit of her stomach as the blond-haired man's previous relief and jovial smile almost instantly dissipate, and she felt the bitter acidic stomach bile coat the back of her throat and settle on her tongue. She blinked owlishly at Monsieur Lumiere.
"Where. Is. He?" she begged, hating hearing the crack and dip in her tone. "Please. Do not keep me in the dark like this, sir. Is my husband alive?"
But the gilded, golden-haired man could only shake his hand and hold out his arm.
"Come." He commented and held out his arm for Belle to take. "The Prince had commanded your presence at the front gate. There is…something that I think that you should see for yourself, milady. It will answer any burning questions that you might have, my lovely little mademoiselle. Come," he repeated.
Albeit reluctantly, Belle felt her fingers grip into an ironclad fist as she allowed herself to be led out of the strange bedroom and down a hall.
Dread set her face like rigor mortis; her teeth locked tightly together. The dread crept over her like an icy chill, numbing her brain.
In this frozen state, Belle's mind only offered her one single thought. Something happened. There was no avoiding it, given how distant and aloof the strange fellow who called himself Lumiere, as though he were God's Light in this world, was behaving, refusing to answer any of her questions pertaining to Quasi.
The man was being tight-lipped. The dread continued to creep down her spine like a careful spider leaving a trail of the finest silk. She felt her feet on her skin, descending until Belle felt almost frozen to the spot. Her stomach was full of lead, her feet no longer taking directions from her own mind anymore.
All she could do was pray.
Both the Judge and Prince Adam squinted their eyes and practically pinched their noses in disgust as Captain Phoebus de Chateauper's promising young lieutenant and second-in-command, Lieutenant Frederic de Marten, stood patiently waiting at attention, his hands clasped and folded neatly behind his back.
The pair of men inspected the corpse much like a wolf would inspect its prey before making the lunge to kill it. It was only when Frederic had unceremoniously dumped the remains, what little was left of them, in front of the Judge that Frollo's breath hitched and caught in his throat and a pang of surreal guilt overwhelmed him. What in God's name had happened? He was supposed to love the boy.
God had seen fit to bear Frollo with the cross of burdening his life with the accursed wretch's life as the infant that had been left abandoned to die on the steps of Notre Dame had needed care, and he had never thought that it was to come to this. He'd never thought that the Prince would have resorted to such measures.
Claude knew all too well what he was, his hardened soul could rival even that of the Devil's Himself, so said the rumors that swirled from the smallfolk in the villages, as he would dare to say his own son, adopted or not, who'd done him no wrong, harbored no ill will towards the name who he had once called, "Father."
The split of his personality that wondered if there was a chance the mademoiselle Belle would not forgive him for this crime, though the other half raged war within the confines of his mind and felt no remorse for involving Frederic and the man's savage, brutal ways into this.
Frollo took a half step forward towards the corpse's remains, and his face hardened, and a muscle in his gray eye gave a feeble little twitch. The Judge took in the details of what remained of the bell ringer's corpse and how utterly gruesome it had become. "God forgive me…"
The body was almost devoid of skin and pitted by burrowing insects. Frollo turned away as his stomach heaved and gave a painful little lurch, nostrils filled with the stench of rotting meat. Without any eyelids, where the man's eyes used to be were now nothing more than blood-drenched hollowed eye sockets, while the lip-less mouth hung open, his nose, what was left of it, in shreds. Death had frozen the young man's face into a rigid snarl, a final, eternal lamentation to the heavens.
"He deserved it," Frederic said casually, giving Frollo a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders and he sighed. Frollo found himself unable to pull his gaze away from what remained of the corpse. The open kneecap below a sharp, white-boned jutting femur, large chunks of flesh missing from the torso.
Shreds of pieces of the man's suit lay discarded around the body, soaked in dried, crimson blood, the coppery scent of which wafted towards and lingered in Frollo's nostrils. Three or four ribs peeked out from the man's clothing, caked in blood, and the face….by god.
Just the face alone was enough for Frollo to almost retch the breakfast he had from this morning.
What remained of the man's head was half a crown of hair and the rest, from the wolf's scalp to his face—had been ripped apart from the depleted and blood-soaked skull, probably by wolves if he had to guess. Or hounds meant for hunting sport.
Frollo felt a shudder of revulsion travel down his spine. In place of where the man's eyes used to be were bloody hollows.
The poor man's brain was practically crushed, spilling out in bits. Frollo had seen during his tenure as judge and Minister for the entire city of Paris, several corpses in their line of work, sprawled with maggots and the bodies' remains picked apart by the ravens and the crows, but nothing quite like this that had ever succeeded in making his stomach churn and bile coat at the back of his throat like it was doing right now.
The cold chill of the early December morning air had preserved the man's corpse grisly state, and as such, prevented the lush of its stench.
Nevertheless, Frollo found he could not quite look upon it again and found himself turning his head sharply away and folded his arms across his chest, shrinking into his black set of woolen robes as much as possible for warmth.
The Judge felt the immense urge to divert his attention for a while and turned towards Frederic de Marten's comrade, an archer, and second-in-command if someone should ever happen to the young man in battle. "Bring the maester with you and go and fetch Lady Dupont."
The younger man, if he was startled by Frollo's demands, was adept at hiding it, and favored silence as an apt response after parting his lips open slightly to protest the idea of having a sweet young woman like Belle Dupont be subject to witnessing such a tragedy with her own two eyes, but after being on the receiving end of a particularly challenging and withering look from his master that had Frederic the ability, would have turned the puppy into stone, the young archer offered a curt dipping of his head and turned his heels to obey, his boots scraping against the freshly-fallen fallen dead leaves.
Frederic stood mutely beside him and Frollo could not help but feel an inexplicable pinch of anger between to swell in the confines of his chest.
"When I asked you to 'take care of it,' I did not mean…" Here, he wildly gesticulated with his arms towards the maimed corpse. What was left of it? "This," he growled, grinding his teeth, locking his jaw in anger. "I can only presume there were better ways for him to die than this."
The young dark-haired soldier's face remained perfectly impassive, keeping his hairy hands clasped behind his back. "Mmm." Was all the man said, as the handsome lieutenant chewed on the inside wall of his mouth. "Perhaps. But better to look like an accident than murder. That way the girl won't detect, sir."
Frollo heaved a heavy sigh and pinched at his temples with his thumb and forefinger. "What happened, Frederic?"
"Hungry wolves, sir." Frederic's answer escaped his thin, wormy lips as a low warning growl, and Frollo could swear he felt his blood chill.
"Y—you mean… wolves from the forest did this?" The Judge felt himself blink owlishly at the taller, older, and the much more imposing man standing idle next to him as the pair of men eyed the corpse. What a
"Yes," Frederic answered listlessly, his tone flat and emotionless.
Frollo felt his stomach give a painful twist. He had asked Frederic and his companions to dispose of the boy for him, but never in a million years could he have ever imagined it would come to this.
It could have been just as simple as slitting the man's throat. A dagger in his gut. Something. Anything but this. This…oh, this was undoubtedly one of the worst ways to go. A violent, bloody, gruesome way. What was left of the boy who he had sometimes considered something of a son to him, bastard or not, was not a corpse. No.
This was a leftover meal. Slim pickings of bones for his dogs. A fitting end for a wretched curse on society who had almost damaged the Prince's new prize beyond the point of no return, and for that, he'd saved her. Still, there was a small prickling of doubt at the back of Frollo's mind. He had to be sure.
"How do I know for sure it's the bell ringer, Frederic?"
The Judge heard the soldier give off a low snarl of annoyance and fumble against the layers of the man's clothing, what was left of it. At last, his best hunter pulled out a pair of brown leather gloves, and Frollo recognized it. The boy had been fond of wearing them whenever he tended to the precious brass and iron bells back in the cathedral, and as Frederic wordlessly pressed them into Frollo's outstretched palm, Frollo felt his jaw tighten in anger, thinking this act of murder justified.
The boy deserved it. Repeat it to yourself. The wretch deserved this. Now that the boy was out of the picture, Frollo could concentrate his sole attention on returning to his duties in Paris, and it was the Prince's job now to ensure the prickly little brunette was happy here, on rebuilding his dynasty anew and ensuring the pureblood family name and his progeny would live on for a thousand years.
Frederic gave off a slight growl, startling Frollo out of his musings and he blinked and returned his attentions to the young lieutenant, who was awaiting further orders.
"Very good, Frederic," he complimented, and dug into the pocket of his black trench coat and thrust a small pouch of gold coins, farthings and shillings alike, into the man's waiting and open palm. "Your payment. As promised."
Their faces met, a cruel, thick uncomfortable silence seeping into the cool fall air as poison, before Frederic's thin lips curved upwards into a sadistic and sour smile.
"Of course." The soldier made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded strangely like a purr to Frollo, and turned on the heel of his boot and walked away, hands balled into fists as the other boy, the archer, returned, and had to practically jog to catch up to his commanding officer's long strides.
"Milord Frollo, the—the Maester is on his way, as is the Lady Belle," the young archer called, having to practically jog to catch up to Frederic.
The Judge felt himself nod, closing his eyes shut in quiet contemplation. He felt himself shift at the waist and slowly opened them.
There she was. The Prince's prize, his material of beauty, his bride. Sweet, succulent Belle Dupont descending the stone stairwell that led out into the Prince's family's courtyard. Even in rancor, and despite how ill she looked, she was beautiful. Truly a magnificent prize to be won.
Frollo felt his gaze linger perhaps longer than it ought to have on her breast.
The Judge was content to watch Belle nervously approach him and Prince Adam in silence, a look of nervous apprehension in her dark brown eyes. The Judge watched as Belle and the Maester slowly approached. Frollo caught the man's gaze and repressed a smirk as he flinched. He looked away, and his rounded, pudgy nose gave a feeble little twitch and he watched as his Prince and the Judge of Paris, regarding the corpse with a horrified look in his wide, almond-shaped, light brown eyes.
Frollo furrowed his graying brows into a frown and was rewarded as a light pink blush speckled along the Healing Maester's face and the man promptly looked away, saying nothing. Good man, he thought meanly and bit the inside wall of his cheek, and Frollo drifted his gaze up and met Belle's gaze, and their eyes locked.
He stared at the unspoken story of sadness in her dark eyes. A young woman of twenty-four, and much too lovely to bear the face of a widow, oh, he'd known all about his son's secret union to this fine material of beauty. A perfectly legal ceremony, though in their Lord's eyes, it would never be seen as anything but a curse, though Frollo was pleased to see the yellow gold ring she'd worn last night was now since discarded.
No, the Prince's new bride deserved so much more than the Judge's accursed wretch of a monstrous son. She was much too lovely to bear the face of a widow.
But not for long.