Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

“It’s the custom, with this breed,” Count Lucien said. “The mares are fast and strong and fierce. They’ll turn their fierceness to your will, if you request it. If they trust you.”

“So will His Majesty’s stallions,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“You must compel the fierceness of a stallion. You must waste its strength—and your own.” Count Lucien’s clear grey gaze lost itself in the distance. He brought himself back; his voice recovered its usual straightforward tone. “Your time is valuable to His Majesty. You mustn’t waste it trudging up and down the Green Carpet. Jacques will keep Zachi at His Majesty’s stables, and bring her to you at your request.”

Marie-Josèphe stroked the sleek neck of the bay Arabian mare, made shy by the attention, by the responsibility, by the doubt that she could ride this magic creature. The creature renounced its claim to magic by lifting its tail and depositing a load of droppings on the path. A gardener ran up and cleaned away the mess with a shovel, as if he had been waiting. Perhaps he had.

“I haven’t ridden since I was a little girl,” Marie-Josèphe admitted. “I wasn’t allowed, in the convent, because—”

She thought, she hoped, the reason was foolish. She did not want to sound foolish to Count Lucien, or embarrass him. She did not want to find that the reason was true, for if riding truly destroyed a maiden’s virginity, then no husband would ever believe her pure.

“We weren’t allowed.”

“We’ll see if you remember.” Count Lucien nodded to Jacques, who jumped down from the cob and placed the mounting-stairs beside Zachi’s stirrup. “If you don’t, a sedan chair would answer better.”

Marie-Josèphe could not bear the thought of riding in a sedan chair if she had the choice of Zachi. She hesitated. She feared her blood would stain the saddle.

I should have made an excuse, some excuse, any excuse, she thought. There’s nothing to do now but brazen it out.

She had never ridden en Amazone , only astride like a boy. She was surprised at how sure she felt in the side-saddle, with her left foot in the stirrup and her right knee hooked around the pommel. She settled herself on the bay.

The grey Arabian bowed, going down on one knee to lower the stirrup. Count Lucien mounted.

“Wait at the stables,” Count Lucien said to the groom. Jacques bowed and swung up on his cob without bothering about stairs or stirrup. He slung the mounting stairs across the pommel of his saddle and urged the cob into a trot toward the chateau and the stables beyond.

The grey and the bay set off at a leisurely walk up the hill toward the chateau. Even at a walk the mare moved with intense energy. A hard hand on the bit made her jig and fret. Marie-Josèphe eased her nervous grip on the reins. Zachi calmed. Her ears swiveled back toward Marie-Josèphe; the mare only waited for a single word, a single touch, and she would spring free into a gallop and fly out of the garden and into the woods.

Marie-Josèphe maintained a sedate pace. It could not be proper to gallop through the King’s gardens.

“Will you lend a horse to my brother?” Marie-Josèphe asked.

“No,” Count Lucien said.

The edge in the count’s voice piqued Marie-Josèphe’s curiosity.

“Why not?” Will he say, she wondered, that Yves’ legs are so long he needs no horse?

“Because I never knew a priest,” he said, “who could use a horse without ruining it.”

I should defend Yves, Marie-Josèphe thought. But, it’s true… he isn’t a fine rider.

Dusk softened the edges of the fountains and turned the statuary to white ghosts. The sea monster sang; in the Menagerie, a lion roared.

Marie-Josèphe shivered. When they passed the spot where she had seen the apparition of Yves, she glanced nervously sideways.

A rippling shadow stalked the edge of the path.

“Count Lucien, run!”

The King’s tiger, sleekly striped, obscure in twilight, glared silver-eyed. Blood dripped from its teeth and claws. Zachi shied and spun and snorted.

Panicked, Marie-Josèphe dug her heel into Zachi’s ribs. The mare leaped into a gallop. Gravel spattered from her hooves. Marie-Josèphe urged the mare faster. The Arabian bolted back down the path, past the sea monster’s tent and through its discordant melody, along the Allé de la Reine toward the Menagerie.

Marie-Josèphe feared to look back, feared to see the bloody teeth of the tiger, feared she had abandoned Count Lucien to his death. Terror spun around her.

Zachi slowed to a canter, to a prancing trot. Sweat dappled the mare’s shoulders, but she moved as if she could run for an hour, and another. She arched her neck and snorted, swiveled her small fine ears, and switched her black tail. Marie-Josèphe huddled in the saddle, shivering. Tears streaked her face, cold in the night air.

“You outran it,” Marie-Josèphe said to Zachi. “You saved us—”

Zachi pranced, no longer frightened, but nervous among the musky smells of the Menagerie.

Zelis cantered down the path. Count Lucien drew his mare to a stop beside Marie-Josèphe.

“I see that you can ride,” Count Lucien said calmly.

“Thank God you’re all right!” Marie-Josèphe said. “I shouldn’t have fled—I’m so sorry—I must find the keeper of His Majesty’s tiger—”

“Mlle de la Croix,” Count Lucien said, “what are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you see it? The tiger?”

“There was no tiger.”

“I saw it. Zachi saw it—she was as frightened as I!”

The bay mare showed no sign of terror.

“Zachi will take any excuse to run,” he said. “I saw nothing. Zelis saw nothing. There is no tiger.”

“It must have escaped from its cage.”

“There is no tiger.”

“But I saw it—Today, at luncheon!”

“After luncheon, His Majesty’s butchers took the tiger. There is no other.”

Marie-Josèphe sat back, startled. “They killed it—already?”

“The furriers must prepare its pelt. Dr. Fagon must prepare its medicinal organs. M. Boursin must prepare its meat for the Carrousel banquet.”

“Then—what did I see?” Marie-Josèphe whispered.

Count Lucien turned his horse toward the chateau; Zachi followed.

“A shadow in the darkness—”

“It wasn’t a shadow.”

Count Lucien rode in silence.

“It wasn’t!” Marie-Josèphe said.

“Very well.”

“I don’t see ghosts, I’m not—I—”

“I have said that I believe you.”

What did I see? she asked herself. What did I see tonight, what did I see when I thought Yves was dying?

Count Lucien brought a silver flask from his pocket. He opened it and offered it to her.

“And I’m not drunk!” she said.

“If you were, I wouldn’t offer you more spirits. If you were, you wouldn’t be shivering.”

She drank. The scent of apples softened the harsh spirits. She took another sip.

“Save some for me, if you please,” Count Lucien said.

She handed him the flask. He took a substantial swallow.

“What is it?” Marie-Josèphe asked.

“Calvados,” he said. “From the orchards of Brittany.” He smiled. “Were it known that I drink calvados instead of brandy, I’d be marked as hopelessly unfashionable.”

“You stand at the height of fashion. Everyone says so.”

Only when he chuckled did she recognize her joke, however small, however inadvertent; she had amused, not offended, Count Lucien.

The horses walked companionably along the path. The sea monster had fallen silent; the tent stood dark and quiet. Marie-Josèphe’s vision took on brightness and clarity. The stars sparkled.

“You aren’t used to spirits,” Count Lucien said.