Chapter Six: Chip and Raisse
1767
The sun shone over the fields and streams of France. It was a golden afternoon, alive with the bright colours of summer. Blue skies with white clouds merged with the intense greenery of trees and fields. Every so often, there was a patch of blue in the green; a river maybe, or a lake, reflecting the sky and standing out in stark contrast. Stark and beautiful. Cris-crossed over the green were lines of brown or yellow which led to larger bursts of colour. Roads leading to villages and towns, each one with its own unique colour spectrum. The reddish-brown of rooftops, the silver and blue fountains, the market-squares with their array of goods and people; it was an artist's palette of life.
A castle shimmered nearby. It was grand and white, with its own extensive lands and out-buildings. It stood at the end of a causeway at the edge of the forest, surrounded by rocky mountains and dark canyons. In some lights, it could appear sinister and foreboding, especially at night when the wolves howled and the bats screeched, but most of the time, as it was now in the height of summer, it shone like a miniature silver city. Beyond its walls and gardens, far from the hustle and bustle of the town, and stretching as far as the eye could seem was a huge expanse of unexplored country. Fields and fields of wild flowers and long grasses capped with large stony hills and dales. There were clumps of trees dotted here and there among the sward, and even occasionally the remains of long-forgotten structures, although they were now little more than piles of crumbling stone, lost to time. At the foot of one particularly long chain of hills was a small lake. It was never empty yet never overflowed, and was fed by a frothy waterfall that poured from somewhere above, The whole place was an unspoiled paradise and unknown to many, for it was often seen as belonging to the royal family, when in actuality, it belonged to no-one except itself and the few animals that—rabbits, deer, birds—that inhabited it.
If the sun could see, and if it could know what it shone down upon, it perhaps would have noticed a sudden disturbance in the stillness of its view. A speck of something was moving quickly through the land. It was a horse—a powerful sandy-coloured stallion—galloping through the grass and sending small clouds of dry mud wisping up into the air with its pounding hooves. Atop the horse was a rider, clad in white and brown so his bottom half right down to his black riding boots seemed to blend into the horse itself. His hands, rough and calloused from many hours of miscellaneous manual labour, gripped the reins of the horse tightly as it sped along the ground. His shirt billowed behind him like the sail of a ship. He wore it loose and untucked in an attempt to stay cool yet the v-shaped notch of skin visible where his top buttons were undone showed the sweat and strain of riding vigorously in the sun. He would find that he was sun-burned when he bathed later but at this point in time, all the rider thought about was the adrenaline pumping through his veins and the coolness of the wind as it ran through his dark-blonde hair. Ti him, it was bliss; a temporary release from his burdens and troubles. Just for a moment, he was free.
Chip's early morning rides had become something of a ritual; an essential part of his day. After he'd finished his morning duties and taken a breakfast of sweet, warming porridge with honey, he went back to the stables and chose a horse to accompany him on his excursion. Of course, there were some horses he never selected. Samson, a magnificent white charger, was the King's favourite, which he often took with him on hunting trips. The Queen's horse, her beloved Philippe, had passed away many years before. She now rode the filly Philippe had sired with a mare named Francoise, also now deceased—a high-spirited amber-coloured steed she had named Alouette. Then there was the princess's horse, a mischievous palomino she called Puck, after her favourite Shakespearean character. Then, of course, there were the ceremonial horses. Used in processions and to pull the royal carriage, Chip thought them stuck-up lazy animals. They often refused to move any faster than a snooty trot and even seemed to turn their long noses up if they were fed anything other than the finest oats money could buy.
The remaining horses were a random mixture of fillies, mares and stallions that the King had discovered in various fairs and taken a liking to. When asked why he bought so many, he merely smiled and said he was making up for the time he lost when horses would have collapsed under the bulk of his former ego. Those in the know laughed. The rest went away puzzled.
Chip's favourite was the one he rode now on that blistering day in July. His twenty-first birthday present from the King and Queen, now a year older, Ambrosius. Together they rode on along the earth, scattering ground beneath them, until Chip happened to glance up and squint at the sun high above him in the sky. It was midday. Time to return to the castle.
As Chip trotted into the stables, about half an hour later, he smirked, seeing a familiar figure in a green and gold gown, stroking Puck as he peered playfully out of his stall. A couple of bored-looking attendants were fanning themselves nearby. As Chip slowed to a halt and dismounted, the figure noticed him and strode, an unnatural gait for a lady of her stature, towards him, dirtying her new and impractical emerald-coloured slippers as she went. She met his gaze with a haughty expression, her eyebrows raised far above her wide, brown eyes.
"Good afternoon, your highness," he said half-mockingly and a little out-of0breath as he started to guide Ambrosius into an empty stall.
"Well perhaps it can be now. I have been waiting almost an hour, you know. These rides of yours are getting longer and longer."
"The longer I ride, the less time I have to endure your scowls, Raisse," retorted Chip, grinning to himself as he imagined the look on her face behind him. The look she did when she was pretending to be angry that strongly resembled a bulldog chewing a wasp. He heard her over-exaggerated gasp over his shoulder as he removed Ambrosius' saddle.
"The very nerve! Did you hear that, Essie?" She was addressing one of the attendants who were looking ready to collapse in the heat. "The gentleman, a mere stable-boy, is saying that a smelly, sweaty horse is preferable company to a princess of France. Have you ever heard such a thing?"
"No, my lady," grumbled Essie, clearly already tired of their banter and longing for a glass of water. She rolled her eyes at her colleague, a disgruntled older lady known as Minnie.
Raisse stepped into the cool stable, carefully avoiding the dirtier areas of hay. Chip was busy untacking Ambrosius.
"Why, whatever can this…beast possess that I do not?" she asked, her eyes flicking to the top of Chip's head which was already strewn with grass seeds ad straw. She frowned and reached up to remove a bigger seed from his hair. He caught her hand as she attempted to pick it up.
"An even temperament, easier to please…" his eyes drifted down to her feet. He smirked. "Cleaner shoes, perhaps? Hold these."
He placed the reins in the hand he held and moved to the other side of the horse. Raisse looked puzzled and then noticed the specks of mud on her new slippers. She shrugged her shoulders.
"I have others."
"Not for much longer at this rate. What would your mother say if she knew you'd ruined yet another pair, I wonder?"
"I'd blame you. You were late and I was bored with waiting in the conservatory. Therefore, I was forced to come down to the stables to look for you."
The conversation continued in this manner for a few minutes while Chip finished with the horse. The whole court agreed that the relationship between Chip and Raisse was confusing at best. They spent most of their time trading insults and arguing with smiles on their faces. Both neither serious, nor wholly joking. Because Chip was quick-witted and Raisse loved being right, their banter would often go on for hours. Only when they were alone together did it stop, almost as if their public behaviour was a show. Indeed, separately, and with other people, they were both known for their charm and good natures, and both consequently adored by almost everyone. Almost everyone. Chip, in particular, was sometimes looked at with stern eyes and talked about with muttered voices.
"There's something odd about that boy," they said.
An hour later, they were in the conservatory. Chip sat on the floor carving something from a piece of wood he'd found while Raisse lay on the chaise-longue with a book on her lap that she wasn't reading. This was how they often spent their Wednesday afternoons. The King and Queen were visiting neighbouring kingdoms and it was Raisse's ladies' afternoon off, so it was Chip's responsibility to amuse and keep an eye on Raisse for a few hours, a responsibility for which he was playfully dubbed 'Raisse's pet Jester' by Lumiere.
On this particular afternoon, Raisse had pretended to study for half an hour when she had become bored. A particularly draining history lesson with Cogsworth(who had appointed himself her unofficial tutor), that morning, had meant her receipt of a very dull book on fourteenth-century European politics that he insisted she revise for a test he was planning. No matter how hard Raisse tried to concentrate, she became increasingly distracted—by the sun glinting on the glass, by a thread she was unravelling from a cushion, but mostly by Chip, whittling in the corner.
He worried her. He was her closest companion in the castle and she had known him all her life yet there were parts of him that were a complete mystery to her. She often remembered when she was little how bright and full of life Chip had been, as he had swung her around in the garden or read to her from her mother's library and acted out the stories. Of course, she was too big for swinging now and had grown out of the stories a long time ago, but she was young enough still to retain an inquisitive outlook on the world, and Chip was one big unanswered question to her. Recently, in the last few years or so, he seemed to have lost that sparkle, that energy, that made him…well…Chip, and whenever she looked into his eyes lately, she could almost sense something lurking there deep inside him that he didn't tell anyone, not even her.
"Chip?"
"Mmm," he murmured, focusing intently on the knife chipping away at the wood in his hand.
"Tell me a story."
"Are you not a little old for stories?"
"Please."
"What kind of story?"
She paused for a second; unsure what sort of reaction she was going to get with her request.
"A story about you."
The wood slipped, causing Chip to yell in pain although it didn't hurt.
"Ow!" he exclaimed.
"What is it?" said Raisse, as she jumped off the chaise-longue, causing the book to fall to the floor with a thud.
"Nothing. A splinter, that's all."
"Let me see."
She thought she saw Chip scowl for a moment, and then reluctantly he held out his hand for her observation. Embedded deeply in his forefinger was a thin sliver of wood.
"Have you got a needle with you?" he asked her.
"No need," she grinned as she showed him her long, manicured nails. He sighed.
"Go on, then!"
She studied his finger for a moment, and then said, "Tell me why everyone calls you Chip."
He looked at her, puzzled. "It's a nickname. It's short for Charles. You know that."
"No, Charlie is short for Charles." She stopped suddenly. "Actually, Charlie takes longer to say…," she mused.
"Well, there you go then. Chip's shorter."
"Is it from when you were a tea-cup?" said Raisse, staring only at the splinter. She He stiffened. She could feel him tense up, and she felt yet another question about Chip form in her brain. His reluctance to talk about the enchantment. All the other servants spoke of it often, even shared anecdotes about their lives as furniture and utensils, but for some reason it seemed to touch a nerve with Chip and he rarely talked about it.
Next to her, Chip was watching her as she examined his finger. He knew she wasn't looking up deliberately—she was so predictable—and now she was asking what he knew she had been dying to know for ages. His reluctance to talk about that period in his life just made her all the more curious—he was well aware of that. He supposed now was as good a time as any to start answering some of those questions. Of course, he'd carefully leave out the fact that the enchantment was the first time he knew something was wrong with him—the first time he'd had the visions and dark thoughts.
He began.
"There's not much to tell really. When the enchantment happened, it was evening. I'd just been tucked into bed when I heard several loud bangs resonate through the castle. I knew…" he cleared his throat "…I knew, don't ask me how, that there was danger behind that door. I remember shouting at my mother, 'Don't open it. Tell him not to open it!'
The next thing I knew, I wasn't me anymore. The transformation was really sudden. I didn't even know what I was at first. I started panicking when I couldn't move my arms and then I tried to get out of bed and my legs wouldn't move. They felt fused together somehow. I was screaming for my mother and I could hear her saying something but I couldn't see her. I managed to hop towards the edge of the bed and then I fell off."
Chip suddenly became aware that Raisse had removed the splinter without him knowing and was now clutching his hand and listening to him intently. He swallowed and continued.
"There was no pain. I just landed on the floor and I heard a little smashing noise, like a tinkle, and I could sort of tell that something had happened. I felt something nudging me and trying to help me up, and I could hear my mother shouting my name and crying. Then I was on my feet…well, my stand…and there was this talking teapot in front of me. Somehow, before I even looked at it properly, I knew it was my mother. She was staring at me in horror and then I noticed a shard of china on the floor next to me."
He paused.
"And that's where it came from. I had a chip so everyone started calling me Chip, and I guess it stuck."
He laughed. Raisse smiled.
"Of course, as soon as the enchantment lifted, my mother checked me over several times to see if I was missing anything where the chip had been but I was intact. Whole."
Chip gulped. He didn't feel whole, far from it.
"And…and that's it. End of story. Much more interesting that Cogsworth's book I'm sure."
He turned to look at Raisse. Her hands were on her lap. His had been discarded on the floor, sans splinter. She wasn't looking at him.
"Raisse?"
"I should be studying," she said suddenly and went to pick her book up off the floor. She sat back on the chaise-longue and opened the book randomly, her hands shaking. When he had been telling the story, he'd seemed so open, so vulnerable. He had laughed, like the old Chip. She thought he'd finally confide in her. Then it was as if he'd realised what he was doing and he'd shut off. But before that, for the briefest of seconds, she had seen it. Something had risen to the surface, had looked like it was on the verge of spilling out, and then just as quickly it had vanished again, before she'd really seen it. It was so frustrating.
She stared at the book for the next two hours, not taking in a word of it but not wanting to look up, lest she once again had to witness that…thing…in his eyes. It scared her, but she wanted it. The conflict of the two emotions was too confusing for her to think about. She stared at the book and she could hear Chip carving the wood again, but she didn't stop until she heard her mother return, and she didn't speak to Chip again for a fortnight.
When she finally did, she regretted it.