They would dine and die underneath the stars, that night. For days since the last battle and the old king's death, servants and soldiers alike had been hammering together tables and chairs outdoors, setting them up along the plains nearly a league from the castle. Anglia had always been known for its rolling hills of fresh green grass that grew and thrived in all weather, even the harshest of cold winds. But now much of it was gone, burned by the Anglians themselves.
"It's a pity," said Gaston, as he and Belle strode along to measure the progress of the preparations, a warm breeze blowing in their faces on an unusually pleasant day. Whenever they passed someone at work, they gave them short nods in response to constant rainbow of bows and curtseys. "We set fire to so much good land for the sake of what?"
"For the sake of freeing the souls of our brothers-in-arms from the earthly prisons of their rotting corpses." Belle gave him a sideways glance. "You know this."
"It seems wasteful, that's all. And a depressing spot for a celebration." Where there had perfect pasture, there was now ruin. Tufts of dry, brown, burnt grass stuck up here and there across the field of blackened soot and dirt. Trees were sparse in Anglia, but in this expanse of field there grew one, solitary, tall, and long since dead. Its dark branches etched patterns across the blue sky, and offered Belle and Gaston no shade from the glare of the sun.
"The fire also gets the stench of ogre out. Besides, it's good luck to feast before a battle on a battlefield where we've proven our strength already." Belle paused, took a moment to lean against the tree. "Armor is damn hot when one's not fighting in it."
"Must you wear armor on a simple walk?" Gaston asked her, although, at his cousin's insistence, he was clad in heavy steel, too.
Get used to the feel of it, she told him days ago. You'll thank me for it later.
"Yes. Especially to set a good example for you."
"In any case, after the feast I will make sure to plant new grass on these plains. And you won't burn so much land without my permission, next time," Gaston told her, decisively.
"Good for the land and the people, but it might anger the gods."
He considered that, then replied, "The gods will smile upon a king who has pleased his people."
A small, rare smile sprouted on Belle's face, and she punched her cousin lightly in the shoulder. "You might not be such a bad king, after all. But first I've got the war to win. Then your grass-growing, people-pleasing, and peace-making can thrive. Some of the council might not give you much credit for it, but you know a thing or two more about ruling than I do."
At the sight of Belle's playful smirk, Gaston could not help but to grin in return, despite his nervousness for all that lay ahead. "Queen of my armies."
"Speaking of. One of my scouts returned this morning, with news on the ogres. They retreated and have built a little encampment in Roan Valley. They've even set up tents. Likely still licking their wounds. Perfect opportunity to force an encounter tomorrow." Belle held her head high, eyes trained on the horizon in the direction of the valley. "Try not to be too scared, Gaston."
He inhaled deeply, and the foul reek of the smoky remains of their land reminded him of the important struggles ahead. "A first brave thing," he muttered, and grabbed Belle's hand in his.
Her smile was gone but she did not pull her hand away.
...
The sun set in an array of violent violets and sea greens. As the day had been, so was the night-not a cloud in the sky. The stars overhead glittered brighter as the sky grew darker, while beneath them the men and women of Anglia feasted on mutton and fowl, while the sickly sweet smell of good mead floated through the air, dizzying the minds of even those who did not partake in the numbing beverage. It ran from wooden barrels into mugs and bowls, any vessel considered suitable for drinking.
Belle merely sipped at hers, tugging uncomfortably at the dress that she had finally been prevailed upon to wear. It was a pristine white linen, save for at its bottom hem that continued to drag along the ground, with long flowing sleeves lined with silver thread. The matching corset felt restrictive, although she had insisted to her maid that the laces be pulled no tighter than her waist could accommodate. Her hair hung in loose curls, wayward as ever despite her best efforts. Still, she supposed, she looked every bit a queen, at least in comparison to her usual garb. But old habits were hard to break, and underneath her gown, where no one could see, she wore her worn boots of old, cracked leather. And for all to see, most importantly her soldiers in attendance who had so often barely survived the last battle, Belle wore her sword-belt strapped around her hips, its hilt shining dangerously in the starlight. Gaston sat beside her, in fine breeches of black silk with a matching tunic, ran through with silver thread, to match his betrothed. The sword at his side was a new one from the forge-he would not wear the king's sword again until he was officially bestowed with it, during their wedding after the coming battle. For now, this fresh steel would suffice.
They were a merry bunch, the Anglians, knowing that it was better to celebrate the coming battle than to mourn. People talked and shouted and laughed, and a few fell over singing the drinking songs they'd known since childhood. But when their Princess Belle rose to her feet, they cloaked themselves in silence, and settled in their long benches amiably. When she began to speak, she did not raise her voice, and still her people listened.
"Tonight, my-brothers-and-sisters-in-arms, we remember our king, who died on this field, defending all of us from the plague of the ogres. Though what we lost was dire, our victory was great. My father would be proud of us, happy to have given his life for the sake of all of Anglia. He slew countless ogres that day, and on the morrow we shall slay countless more!" Her voice rose. "Tomorrow, we shall be led by a new man, a new king! Although he has seen little of war and death, he is a brave man, and terrifying with a blade in his hand. He has even bested me in the practice ring, once or twice." Not entirely a lie, she reminded herself. "Now, stand for our new king, my fearless cousin, King Gaston!"
The crowd got to their feet, holding their drinks high in the air. When Gaston stood up as well, standing beside Belle, she entwined her fingers with his in a symbol of unity and raised them both above their heads. Their people roared, brought their drinks to their lips, and hooped and hollered and cheered for their new king and almost-queen, and the beacon of hope that these young, beautiful people seemed to promise them. And there was blood to be shed soon, and there were bellows for that too.
Finally all of the voices came together in a single, mounting chant of, "Long live the king and queen!"
Even Belle, wary and alert, did not hear the ogres coming.
...
The ogres came upon them, creeping through the shadows of the hills. Few of them had survived the last battle, but smaller numbers made for an easy surprise, lessened the chance of one of their own giving them all away. The Anglians-loud and drunk on joy and bloodlust-were a simple target, even for the ogres.
They fell on the outer reaches at first, away from the fires and the soldiers. Weaponless peasants, mouths agape in silent screams when they saw their own deaths reflected in the ogres' black eyes. Those who did manage a shriek or two were quickly silenced by a blade across their throats, the warnings smothered by the cheers from the center of the fold.
Ogres were not as large and foreboding as the tapestries and storybooks liken them to be. They lumbered, yes, upon long-limbs corded with sharp muscles that no human could possess, and their grimy fangs grew from their jaws in gory scowls-but in the dark, they were shadows of tall humans, perhaps.
Finally, a soldier's cry was heard above the din, and the ugly visage of an ogre flashed into the firelight as his sword was driven straight into the soldier's heart. "Ogres!" he howled, through a mouthful of his own blood, broken body clattering to the ground. The rest of the ogres halted their sneakiness and emerged from the dark, rushing the men and women in the midst of their chanting and celebrations. Some of the Anglians ran, screaming, and were struck down immediately. Most stood, and drew their swords-they never went without them-and Belle was with them.
With hasty, deft hands, she tied the skirt of her gown in a knot above her knees, knowing better than to give her legs a chance to tangle themselves in it at a crucial moment. She looked to Gaston-his sword was raised before him, Belle noted, though he watched her for some sort of direction.
"Stay near me!" she yelled, voice straining above the screeches of parrying swords and dying children.
And Belle leapt into the fray of her people against the ogres, sword singing, with Gaston right behind her. She even had a passing thought of pride in him, her young cousin who was king.
...
By the end of the skirmish, Belle's new gown was seeped in blood, a mix of crimson and darker, blackened life-blood from the bowels of ogres and men alike. The ogres were slain across the field, bodies mixed in amongst her people. The sun crested the horizon, the sky as vivid red as the ground she walked upon.
"Gaston!" Her cry was thin and weak, all threads of hope torn from it. When her father had fallen, Belle had set her jaw in a grim line and accepted the blow from fate, but not this. "Gaston!" She saw a familiar face in the distance, and stumbled his way.
"My lady." Breven bowed somberly at her approach, his face full of loss. He gestured to a long cut on her shoulder. "You're wounded. Let one of the healers-"
"No! It's nothing, shallow and nothing. Have you seen him?"
He winced. "No, princess, but we are all searching for him, for any of the wounded before we start a new fire."
She shook her head. "No. No fires today." Panting and bloody and lost. "We must find Gaston. We must find the king."
Together the survivors picked through the bodies, discarding the ogres in disgust. Their own were divested of weapon and armor, their bodies handled with honor and reverence, leaving them where they fell, according to the custom. The wounded were taken to the castle on quickly-made stretchers, the planking carved haphazardly from the feasting tables.
"Milady!" a woman called to Belle, and she sprinted toward him.
He stood beside a fallen ogre, and Gaston's broken body sprawled underneath. Despite the weight atop him, Belle could see his chest rise and fall, but slowly, too slowly. She looked down at the woman. Her gnarled hands still gripped a sword, her body bent and hunched with age, and Belle admired her in that moment, admired her strength and hardiness, for she must have had these qualities, to survive so long in Anglia.
"Can you help me?" Belle pleaded, and grabbed the legs of the ogre. The old woman took his arms, and together they heaved him off of their dying king. A wound too near to his heart was caked in brown blood. Stabbed and then crushed. Belle collapsed beside him on her knees, glanced up again at the woman. "Get help."
Gaston's eyes shuttered closed, and Belle could see his pulse nearly leaping from his neck. She shook him gently, and he remained still, so she shook him again, this time harder.
"Belle," he exhaled. His eyes fluttered open. "How did I do, my first battle?"
"Marvelous," and she kept the sob from rising in her throat. "You will be a good king." She hoped that saying the words aloud would somehow make them true.
...
They placed him on the table in the entrance hall, knowing not twist his body up and around the challenge of the stairs. Every healer left in the kingdom hovered above him, poking and prodding. Belle had ripped off the remaining sleeve of her gown, and Gaston bit down on it between his teeth, to stop him from biting off his own tongue instead. She stood nearby, pacing back and forth, and Sir Breven with her.
"Please, princess." He offered her a mug. "Lavender tea, to calm yourself."
"No, no." She pushed his hand away, and the mug shattered into pieces on the floor. Blue eyes wild with fear, she grabbed her chief advisor by his collar. "Don't you understand," she hissed. "He's the only heir. Without him, Anglia will fall."
A healer approached her, his shaking hands clasped in front of him. Young, far too young for all this, Belle thought, then motioned for him to speak.
"Your Grace. The-the king-the wound is full of rot-and-and it's spreading. He has a day, maybe two, before it reaches his heart."
Belle took a deep breath. "What can be done?" But she could smell the rotting from across the room, and she knew the answer.
"Make him comfortable, ease his pain. No medicine in all the kingdoms will save him now." The healer stared at his feet-anything to avoid the princess's look of terror.
"We-we need an heir. We need a king." Now her hands were trembling, and she bunched her skirt into her hands, trying to still them. She stared at Breven. "What do we do? Anglia will never support myself alone." She gasped, "I'll do anything to save him. I truly will."
An strange, high-pitched voice that Belle was certain she'd never heard before rang out throughout the chamber. "Anything, dearie? Well perhaps we can make a deal of some sort, eh?"