Belle’s Fantastical
Mechanical Beast
Jason Cordova and Ashley Prior
Oostend: a picturesque hamlet on the banks of the Semois River. Quaint, with rows of houses and shops lining one main throughway, and the surrounding countryside abundantly featuring cleared fields of crops growing in the rich, dark soil. It was a small place, barely worthy of even a name save that it had the only bridge capable of driving wagons across the Semois. Most of the villagers born there lived their lives in peace, eventually dying within fifty feet of their home. Nothing unusual about the town at all. Nothing, that was, save for one little oddity.
“Good morn!” a voice cried out precisely seventeen minutes past seven in the morning. It was the same routine, every day. “Good day!”
“Bonjour!”
“It’s such a great day for an honest living!” another replied in kind, twisting the words into a musical motif to match the first two speakers. “The birds have taken flight—it’s all so swell!”
“Such a lovely, lovely day!” a young woman responded as she twirled about in the town’s center square, taking care to not spend too much energy on the maneuver—food was sparse these days, and she still had chores to finish.
“Every day is just the same,” her dance partner added, swinging her about in a very complicated up-tempo waltz. His face was perhaps a tad bit thin for a man his age, and it was clear he could do with a new set of clothing. They joined their voices for a duet and sang, “in our peaceful, quiet, humble little town!”
“There goes the potter—oh, what’s he making?” A child sang out a note of pure soprano as she danced around the square, her ill-fitting clothes patched and worn, hanging loosely upon her thin frame. “I bet it’s something that he’ll sell!”
“Here comes the cobbler with his leather apron. Do you think he makes size twelve?” A trio of blonde sopranos joined their lyrics to the chorus line.
More villagers joined the young girl in the town square, adding their voices into the mix as the song continued. A percussion piece was added by an overly enthusiastic boy, then a lyre and a lute. The song rose in crescendo, and the dance routine became more complicated as more and more dancers were added to the mix. The volume shook the dust off some of the older buildings—including the decrepit old barn.
The door of the seemingly abandoned barn suddenly slammed open, cutting off the musical number just before its climax. A young woman in grease-covered overalls, her long brown tresses pinned up atop her hair, stomped into the middle of the chorus line. She was as thin as the rest of them, nearly malnourished from the looks of it. It lent her a severe and singular face. The trio of blonde sopranos scattered. Men quailed at the sheer sight of her. She glared at everyone in attendance before speaking in a loud enough voice for all to hear.
“If you people are quite through?!” she shouted and pointed up at the tall clock in the center square. “It isn’t even eight in the morning yet! Could you please wait for your song-and-dance routine until then? How hard is it? Little hand on the eight, big hand on the twelve. If you start singing again tomorrow this early, I swear to all that is good and decent in this world that I will break each and every one of your faces with my pocking wrench! Do you understand me?!”
Whirling, the young woman stomped back into the barn, slamming the door behind her. The stunned townspeople watched her in silence for many moments before someone sang again.
“A very peculiar girl is our Belle . . . ”
He said it oh so very softly, though. One could almost argue he whispered it.
Belle slammed the large wrench onto her workbench, growling, before reaching into her pocket to pull out a clean rag. The townspeople were singing again, but this time she couldn’t yell at them for disturbing the peace. It was after eight. Songs of baguettes, rolls, cheeses . . . things the town desperately needed yet could not afford due to the publicani, the taxman. Faint lyrics slipped through the cracks of the old barn walls. Every day the same as the one before. Small, cheerful, simple-minded people. It was infuriating. She wiped sweat off her brow with the rag and tossed it aside. The lyrics were distracting her from her work, and the wind section of the music was grating her nerves into dust. A new sound joined in with the raucous singing and Belle cursed.
“Where in the nine levels of Hell did they find an orchestral string quartet to accompany their singing?”
Her latest invention was almost finished. It was a massive creation, a decidedly odd combination of alchemy and mechanical. A year before she would have said such an invention was impossible. Hours and days and weeks of study had she spent delving deep into the mystical secrets until she found a working solution. Just in time, too. A year before there had not been a pressing need to find such a solution to her current problem.
The marriage proposal from Guye Triche, the local taxman, had come as a rude shock. Belle had never considered herself attractive. Unlike most of the women in the town, Belle’s hair was not blond, nor was her skin pure and unblemished. She was darker in both regards, courtesy of her Parisian father and Toulousian mother, and had a scar upon her left cheek from falling as a child. However, she’d later come to understand it was her uniqueness that had drawn the taxman to her in the first place. His constant pursuit of her as a love interest, even after her repeated rebuffs, had caused her to resort to drastic measures.
Granted, she wasn’t against the idea of marriage. She wanted to get married herself, eventually. One day. Maybe. Unlike the other girls of this tiny provincial town, Belle hadn’t been dreaming of her wedding since she was old enough to know what one meant. Oh, she had illusions of what it would look like. There’d be a dress, maybe some doves, and cake. Lots and lots of cake. Her expansive and inquisitive mind, though, had bigger dreams than a simple wedding.
Mechanical dreams, almost all of which revolved around the giant contraption in the barn with her.
La Bête. Her beloved monstrosity.
The Beast was positively enormous, filling up the entire barn and making it difficult for her to move around. There was just enough room for her workbench. Even this, though, was tightly wedged into the corner of the barn and took some effort to get to it.
Fortunately, the plans for the Beast were committed to memory and she didn’t need to go and check them as often as she once had. Still, there were . . . fiddly bits that needed the occasional tweaking. This meant the plans and the dreaded squeeze into the tiny corner to the bench.
If only the taxman had set his sights on another . . .
“Belle?”
She picked her head up at the sound of her father’s familiar voice. Even with his partaking of the town’s maddening morning ritual, she still dearly loved the crazy old coot. They had been each other’s support since the death of her mother years before. While he was shorter than she, his heart was bigger than ever. He loved this little town, even if she found it . . . dull.
“Isn’t he wonderous?” Belle asked as her father squeezed around the far corner of the Beast and came over to her workbench. She gestured at the pulleys hanging from the solid wooden rafters. Seventy feet of rope hung from the various pulley mechanisms. “I’m almost finished.”
“I . . . can see,” he mumbled. It was clear to her he didn’t know what to make of her marvel. He coughed and shook his head. “I’m sorry, my dear, but another letter from your suitor, Guye Triche, arrived today.”
“Insufferable pig,” Belle snapped. Her face softened as she tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry. Not you, Father. I meant—”
“I assumed you were talking about him and not me,” he smiled. “I know sometimes you grow cross at me, but I didn’t think I had reached the depths of your lowest opinion just yet.”
Belle grinned back. Her father was very much like her, a brilliant mind and a wit sharp enough to cut cloth with. It had been he who handed her a wrench when she was only five and guided her in a failed attempt at building a clock. He had continued to push her to study the sciences and engineering, ensuring her hands would be covered in grease instead of what passed for baking flour in the town as she grew older. His only lapse—the only one she knew of, admittedly—was his poor choice in her potential suitors.
More accurately, his admiration of the taxman. The individual responsible for the town’s near-starvation. It confused Belle as to how her brilliant father could constantly ignore the many unpleasant qualities of the man. Perhaps it was because the publicani loomed over her father like a gargoyle atop a church. The ghastly image almost made Belle giggle.
“Would you like me to read the letter to you, since . . . ” His voice trailed off as he motioned at her hands. Looking down, Belle grimaced. Of course. The grease was almost up to her elbows.
“Yes, please,” she said as she looked around for her thrown rag.
“Let’s see,” her father said, patting his vest pocket. He frowned. “Huh. That’s odd. Where did I put my spectacles?”
“They’re on your nose already, Father,” Belle said as she located her rag wedged between a set of vise grips. She picked the rag up and began scrubbing her hands.
“Ah yes, so they are.” Smiling, he broke the seal of the letter and flipped the paper open. He gave it a shake before he began reading. “Hmm . . . let’s see, let’s see. Here we are. Greetings from the noble publicani, loyal servant to the crown, et cetera et cetera . . . well, his titles are numerous and ostentatious, but I digress. Although having titles is a quality not many men in these parts can claim.”
“Father, please.”
“Yes, I’m sorry.” Her father coughed slightly and continued to read.
My Dearest Belle,
You have accepted my proposal gift and I shall wait no longer! You are the fairest maiden in all the lands and I must have you. I will arrive at Oostend soon to claim you as my bride. Things will go better, for all, if you acquiesce to my demands and we are wed.
Yours Truly,
Guye Francois Triche
“He threatens Oostend, Father?” Belle asked, surprised. Her father coughed, adjusted his glasses, and reread the last part of the letter.
“Well, not precisely in those words, dear daughter . . . ”
“It’s implied, though. Isn’t it?”
“I believe so.”
“I have two options, then,” Belle said as she stroked her chin thoughtfully, forgetting her hands were covered in grease. A large streak, almost warpaint in nature, appeared on her face. “I marry the insufferable pig, or I fight him.”
“Belle,” her father warned. “He’s a publicani. We’re peasants.”
“We’re Parisians!” She waved her hand toward the barn door. “Those are the peasants!”
“But this town cannot raise arms against the taxman, no matter what he says in a letter! We’re nobody, nothing! They are ill-fed, ill-clothed, and unorganized!”
“Oh, we can’t, can we?” Belle asked as she turned and looked up at the Beast. “I believe otherwise, Father.”
“Dear child.” Her father set the letter aside and took a deep, calming breath before continuing. “Your monstrosity is glorious to behold. But . . . even if everything on it works, then what? It’s simply some sort of armored contraption. How would you fight back? The townspeople . . . ”
“I could cram a few men inside with carbines,” Belle mused as she looked at the center mass of her beautifully armored creation. There was something peculiar about the center plate that intrigued her. It almost looked to her as though something terrifying belonged there. What, though, she wasn’t certain. “No, none of the men in this village would venture inside. They already think I’m a witch.”
“They don’t think you’re a witch, Belle,” her father chided her in a gentle tone. “Just . . . peculiar.”
“That could very generously be translated into ‘witchlike,’ Father,” Belle said, staring at the blank piece of metal located on the mantle of the Beast. It pointed forward and was pretty much a waste of space. Belle couldn’t recall her reasoning for adding it. A balance issue, perhaps? “Peculiar . . . does that look like the gunport of a sloop to you?”
“Um, no?”
“I bet if I knocked it out, I could make it one.”
“Belle . . . ”
“Oh yes,” she continued breathlessly, her eyes shining with excitement as new possibilities sprang into her mind. She climbed the side of the monstrous creation, studiously avoiding the armored wagon wheels, and began working the bolts holding the metal plate to the Beast’s frame. “Remove the plate and add a carronade. It can double as an observation point as well, though I don’t think I can reach the levers from up there. Oh! I can rig a pulley system to do that! Ingenious!”
“Dear child, where are you going to obtain a carronade? And how are you going to get it inside your mechanical creation?”
Belle looked at her father. “I’ll get it inside one way or the other, Father. As for how I’m obtaining a carronade? Guye Triche, of course.”
“You believe he’d give you a carronade?”
“He already has, Father.”
“What?”
Belle motioned beneath her workbench. Bending down, her father looked and spotted a very peculiar cannon. It was situated on two small blocks and was roughly as long as he was tall. Blinking, he glanced back up at his daughter. His prior confusion replaced now with concern.
“Belle, you’ve gone quite mad.”
“Really, Father,” Belle sighed. “I’m quite sensible, actually.”
“But . . . a carronade?”
“It’s only a three-pounder, Father. Won’t even damage the walls of our town.”
“Belle? Why did the publicani gift you a carronade?”
“I knew this plate looked peculiar,” she said as she finished knocking the large iron panel out. She pointedly ignored her father’s query and continued to inspect her newly created firing port. “It was just a blank spot of nothing. But now? Now it has a weapon!”
“Belle?”
“The blocks can sit on springs to absorb the recoil from when the carronade fires,” Belle continued. She wasn’t prepared to answer him just yet. He would not approve if he knew what she had in mind. “There’s enough room to clear the breech and load. As long as I don’t have to use a rammer . . . Yes, this will do quite nicely indeed.”
Her father frowned. “I don’t think it’s going to do much to a mass of armed knights, Belle.”
“Not knights. Mercenaries, at best. Besides, this would be more effective if I loaded it with shot and not a ball. Hmm . . . I wonder if tiny balls the size of a fingernail would work well? Maybe with enough gunpowder . . . ”
A knock interrupted their discussion. The barn door opened slightly and a small boy peeked inside. He was diminutive, the underfed product of a poor village, courtesy of the taxman. Belle smiled and motioned for him to enter. He stepped in, pulled his tricorne off his head, and nervously toed the dirt floor. It was clear he didn’t want to be there.
“Yes?” Belle prodded gently. While she had no love for the singing of the villagers every morning, the children were always a joy to see wandering around. As long as they stayed out of the vegetable garden and her barn, at least.
“My mum told my pa to tell you, but pa told the neighbor lady who told my mum who told my brother who told me to come and tell you that the publicani is here with a lot of knights and swords and they want to speak to you.”
She gave her father a sideways glance. He had the decency to look ashamed.
“I . . . might have responded to a previous letter before coming to see you,” he muttered.
“Father . . . ” Belle sighed again. A brilliant man, but oftentimes befuddled. “Is Oostend under siege?”
He shrugged, a helpless expression upon his face. “Maybe?”
It was the oddest siege the town of Oostend had ever seen. Granted, it was also the first, but . . .
War was no stranger to the region. Most of the men in the village had raised arms at one time or another to defend their land against the cruel German mercenaries who wandered through the countryside like a plague. Quite a few had been conscripted into the vast armies that ravaged the lands, though most of these were now old graybeards. Still, they knew which end of the pike to point at the enemy, and the walls of Oostend—while nothing like the larger cities boasted—were just tall enough to prevent a soldier from walking into town. These men watched the open field beyond, where one hundred carabiniers slowly paraded into view.
At the forefront of the large cavalcade, on top of a giant white charger, was the hated—and feared—taxman himself, Guye Triche.
He truly was a handsome man, with luxurious blond hair falling to his shoulders and a mustache that rivaled the great Swedish kings of old. His features were pleasant to behold and lacked the usual scarring of the pox. Muscular from years of hunting, bountiful food, and physical activities, he was the strapping image of a man who held the world in his palm. Everything and everyone did his bidding—at least, in this particular tiny region of northern France.
Except for one particularly beautiful woman within the walls before him.
“I must have her, Stolto,” Guye muttered to his longtime aide as he stared at the meager battlements of the town. His excessive taxation of all the villages in the region assured the walls remained poor, just like the people. Oostend really didn’t have much in the way of natural defenses either, save for the river that flowed through it. Even this, however, would not stop a determined enemy. “She is a beauty like no other. Fair, brilliant. Worthy of ensuring my noble lineage and birthing many fine sons to carry on my name. She will make a fine wife.”
“If you say,” Maurice Stolto murmured. He had his doubts regarding the young woman’s pertinacious nature and becoming a simple housewife but held his tongue. It was his place to advise, true, but once Guye Triche made up his mind about something, it was unchangeable. In Stolto’s opinion, it was probably his biggest fault.
“You disagree, Stolto?”
“If I may be bold to speak, sir,” the aide measured his words carefully. Among other things, the taxman was known for having a temper.
“Speak.”
“The woman is independent and a thinker, sir,” Stolto stated in a quiet voice. The publicani wasn’t mad at him—yet—but the whims of the man could change in the span of three heartbeats. “She is unlikely to set aside her natural ways to become a broodmare. She is, after all, Parisian.”
“Worst thing Protestantism ever brought upon God’s earth was free-thinking women,” Guye murmured sadly. “It’s a shame, really. As much as I despise Catholics, they really did understand where a woman belonged.”
The aide bit his cheek so hard he drew blood. It was many moments before he worked up the nerve to speak again. “She is a force of nature, my lord.”
“So is the Danube,” the publicani retorted, “yet the Austrians have established canal locks to transport goods upon it. Any river can be tamed with enough motivation.”
“She is no river, sir,” Stolto reminded him. “She is Belle of Oostend. I believe her father’s letter mentioned the words ‘unconquerable through conventional means.’”
“A siege is unconventional.”
“Ah.”
“And she will be mine.”
“Sir, may I ask a question?”
“Of course, Stolto. You are, after all, my trusted and valued servant.”
“Sir . . . why did you give the young woman a three-pound carronade?”
“Oh, that? She asked for one.”
“And you just . . . ”
“Gave it to her, yes. As a proposal gift. What? She’s a woman, Stolto.” The taxman slapped his aide solidly on the back. “What’s the worst she can do with it?”
The villagers of Oostend, not knowing what else to do, lined up within the low walls surrounding it. These old earthen barriers were tall enough to prevent a warhorse from leaping over them, but were low enough that a man of average height could see over. More accurately, they could see the men on horseback waiting to attack their village.
Belle pushed through the throng of people and climbed a small stool someone had placed near the main gate. Though they viewed her as a little odd, the villagers knew the publicani would never be satisfied. Years of taxation had proven this. Shielding her eyes, she quickly scanned the field where the mercenaries gathered. She wasn’t entirely sure what sort of weaponry they carried, but the lack of shining armor and lances suggested to her these were not knights but dragoons, trained soldiers who fought on foot and used horses for cavalry charges against the flanks of enemy armies.
“Thank you, Papa,” she whispered, thinking back to a gift her father had given her years before. The book by the Englishman John Churchill, First Duke of Marlborough, had given her insight into how the military works. Even though the leather tome was a century out of date, it was still helpful for a girl who wasn’t allowed to study with the greatest military minds of her day.
“Why has he come?” Belle heard someone nearby ask. Glancing around, she saw everyone was afraid. Rightfully so. The Seven Years’ War hadn’t been too long before, and nobody wanted to be caught up in another armed conflict. Though the village was not in the Germanies, it was close enough for a wandering army to make an “honest” mistake. Incidents like this had been a common theme in the past, though Oostend had managed to avoid most of the atrocities.
“I heard he’s come for a bride,” one of the blond girls nearby whispered to her two compatriots. All three women tittered and looked knowingly at Belle. “He’s so dreamy.”
“And handsome.”
“Tall, too.”
Belle sighed. They were idiots. While it was true the taxman had some of the qualities a woman looked for in a suitor, she knew he was a monster hiding under the façade of a man. An insecure and petty man looking to ensure that his bloodline continued first and foremost, while starving those who were nominally under his control. Which meant Belle would be expected to produce at least an heir and a spare within two years or so of marrying.
It was not an endearing prospect.
“He flies parley,” Belle’s father muttered as he struggled to peer over the wall. “Everyone knows who he is here for. Maybe . . . you should hear him out?”
“What if he were to simply snatch me away and whisk me off to his hovel?” Belle asked, looking down at her father. “There isn’t a man in this village who would build an army to come to my rescue. I am not Helen of Troy.”
“If he breaches parley, then Stadtholder William will behead him. It is known.”
Belle reconsidered. She hadn’t taken the Prince of Orange into account. If one of his hired men besmirched his name, and subsequently his honor, he probably would end said individual’s life. Even if it was someone like Guye Triche. Especially if it were someone like the taxman.
“Fine, I’ll go talk to him myself,” she said, holding up a hand to forestall any further argument. She stepped down from the stool and moved past a troop of men holding pitchforks. They weren’t quite ready with the torches, but Belle suspected it would only be a matter of time before those appeared. Taking a deep breath, she squeezed through the narrow opening of the town’s gates and walked out to where Guye Triche and his aide awaited. Behind her, she heard the gates slam shut almost as soon as she was clear.
Under the flag of parley rode forth the taxman and his councilor, Maurice Stolto, a person Belle knew was often referred to as Stolto Mann—“stupid man.” An unfortunate nickname for him, really, Belle thought. He was quite a clever individual from what she’d heard. Still, the most dangerous men were the ones with brains who chose not to use them. Everything she’d ever seen confirmed her bias. She knew which of the men was a fool, and who was not.
“My dear Belle,” Guye said as he reined in his horse. The white charger snorted and pawed at the ground. “Have you reconsidered my proposal?”
“You threatened this town,” Belle snapped back at him. “What sort of monster are you?”
“I didn’t threaten this town,” Guye replied, sniffing delicately. “I merely suggested things would go better for all if we were wed. Perhaps taxes might be less of a burden?”
“Which is an implied threat!”
“If I may, sir?” Stolto interrupted the bickering duo. “I suggest we table the implications of threats and what they constitute to a later time. The original letter of courtship and marriage, as well as the subject of a dowry, is the reason Belle of Oostend agreed to meet you under a flag of truce this day.”
“Yes, very well.” Guye sniffed again. Belle was tempted to ask him if he needed to blow his nose but refrained. “On to the matter at hand.”
“No.” Belle shook her head. “Absolutely not.”
“You haven’t heard my proposal yet.”
“I’ve read the letters. Do I need to hear it spoken as well?” Belle asked, waving a hand around theatrically. “You wish to marry me. If I do not acquiesce to your demands, you will attack the town with your soldiers. Your hired mercenaries, I believe. You’re willing to punish a town you’ve already worked and starved half to death before I even refused to give in to your demands. That is the action of a petulant child, not a rational man. ‘If I can’t have it, nobody can’ is not the way to go through life, publicani.”
“Worked for King Henry of England,” Guye muttered, sotto voce. He coughed and looked away for a moment before he spoke again. His voice was earnest. “Tell me, then—what can I do to convince you to marry me? Build an orphanage? Build better walls for this village? Build a castle nearby for your father? More food? What?”
Taken aback, Belle pursed her lips and thought. “Well . . . call off the attack on Oostend, for one. Even if I don’t marry you, slaughtering innocent villagers who you already work to the bone to meet your tax demands is not the way to change my mind.”
“I shall consider this.”
“Um . . . ” Belle was at a loss. She’s expended so much energy hating the man for who he was and what he stood for, she never considered he would listen to her. “I know nothing about you. How am I supposed to marry a stranger? That might work for some, but I am not them. Nor does my father have much in the way of a dowry. Besides, isn’t it wrong to demand a woman marry you, then demand her family pay you for the privilege?”
“That is the meaning of the word ‘dowry,’ yes,” Stolto muttered, though it was quiet enough for only Belle to hear. She offered the aide a small smile. At least someone at this conversation was on her side.
“I live on an estate,” Guye began, his gaze drifting from Belle to the walled village behind her. It was clear he hadn’t heard Stolto’s words. “A gift, for services rendered to the local lord, as well as dozens of various titles and such. I have servants to attend to my every whim. Grosrocher Keep has enough rooms to suit all of my needs. In fact, it once had three large libraries simply filled with books. Ceiling-to-floor bookshelves filled with ancient, leather-bound tomes. The former owner was a voracious reader of classical literature, as well as more contemporary work like that fool Shakespeare.”
“Books?” Belle’s eyes glazed over in wonderment. For the first time, she began to smile at the thought of losing herself in a room filled with the overwhelming scent of paper and old leather. “Libraries? As in, plural?”
Unaware of Belle’s apparent delight, Guye barreled onward. “Of course, I needed more room to mount my hunting trophies on the wall, so I had the pages of the books reformed into kindling to help start fires in the winters. Solid shelving, made from ash and elm, I believe. The bookshelves also made terrific heat, slow burning as they were . . . though the jappaning on them created a horrific smell. Still, they kept me warm enough before the chopped wood caught. Excellent kindling, though.”
“You. Did. What?” Belle asked, enunciating each word carefully. Her voice was colder than a Russian winter. Her eyes, however, were alight with fury. The publicani did not notice, though Stolto did. The aide swallowed nervously as Guye opened his arms in a wide and welcoming manner. Neither Belle, nor the horse, appreciated the sudden gesture.
“The rooms were being wasted, storing what turned out to be proper kindling in the cold northern winters. Now the walls are decorated with boar heads, deer trophies, and even duck. All three rooms are fabulous displays of hunting prowess.” The taxman smiled at Belle. “I believe these are adequate displays of martial prowess and marital potential, don’t you think? Now, on to the subject of dowry. I know you and your father are poor, but I’m certain a small dowry can be—”
Belle whirled on her heel and stormed back to the gate before he could finish his statement. As she reached the wooden barrier it cracked open, barely wide enough for her to squeeze through. She paused here and looked back at the publicani. Her eyes burned with hatred.
“Before this day is through, I will see you dead.”
She disappeared within the walls of Oostend. The gate slammed shut. Guye Triche looked at Stolto, confused.
“I don’t—what? Was it something I said?”
Stolto shook his head while holding the bridge of his nose. Guye looked at him in bewilderment.
“Stolto? Tell me—was it something I said?”
“Sir, you piqued her interest with the rooms of books, then told her you used them as kindling to make room for your hunting trophies.”
The publicani considered this for a moment. “Stolto, a woman doesn’t need books. She needs focus. Her only priority should be to ensure my noble lineage.”
“Sir, you must be gentle with her. As her father said, she is an unconventional woman.” Stolto chose his next words carefully. “You may have lost her for good.”
Belle slammed the barn door behind her. The nerve of the man! Picking up her wrench, she idly fantasized about sneaking in close to him with it and bashing his brains out across his smug, handsome face. She discarded the notion almost immediately. Unless he was a complete and utter buffoon, he would know she was furious with him and would not allow her within two hundred feet with any sort of weapon in hand.
“Foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach,” she hissed. A new plan came to mind as a stray beam of sunlight glinted off Beast’s cupola. A smile slowly curled upon her lips. Squeezing between her workbench and her monstrous creation, she quickly found the carronade.
“Belle?” her father called out gently as he entered the old barn. He stopped when he spotted the look on her face. His expression became troubled. “I know that smile. Belle, no. I absolutely forbid it!”
“That man.” Belle’s growl was primal. “The nerve of him. Bragging about burning books to make room for his hunting displays!”
Her father frowned. “He burned books?”
“Leather-bound Greek classics, I bet. Filthy little cockroach . . . ”
“Belle? What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going to fight him.”
“He has mercenaries, dear child.”
Belle scoffed at him. “So? I have a monster.”
“Don’t tell me . . . ” Her father’s voice trailed off as he eyed Beast. Belle nodded.
“I won’t tell you, then. I’ll show you.”
It didn’t take her as long as she thought it might. The most difficult part of her plan involved moving the carronade into Beast where she could operate the machine and still work the small cannon. With a little effort and a lot of swearing, she managed to get everything into position. Her father whistled in appreciation once she was done.
“I must admit, it’s an amazing contraption,” he told her as the last bolt was tightened in place. Belle tossed the wrench down to her workbench and looked around the interior of Beast. It was cramped, as she had anticipated, but had enough room for her to operate the machine and still be able to fire the carronade. Reloading it could be a hassle, though. Black powder was notoriously tricky. After a moment of silent contemplation, he spoke again. “Yes, it is ingenious, but will it work?”
“Beast is simply amazing,” Belle practically gushed as she tested the controls. There were two levers on either side of her seat, one that controlled the left wheels and one for the right. Each level also had a clutch device to activate it and move it forward or back, and then lock the lever in place once released. It was a safety mechanism she’d come up with. Belle was quite proud of it, really. “He will work. Mark my words, Father.”
“Are you entirely certain it’s safe, dear child?” her father asked from outside Beast. Belle popped her head out of her viewport and grimaced.
“Inside? Absolutely.”
“That was not my question, Belle . . . ”
“Father, please.” She gave him a pained look. “I am safe as long as I am with Beast. Publicani Guye Triche, however? The man is vile. A monster who cares for no one but himself. He starves these people, us. Yes, he is very attractive and rich, but also an ass. I would rather marry my Beast than have anything to do with him.”
“The taxman might burn this town if he does not get his way,” he commented.
“Beast and I will stop him, Father. Now please, leave the barn before I start this contraption up. I’m fairly certain it will not explode, but prudence is always an option.”
Her father nodded and moved carefully to the barn door. He gave the flimsy building a sad, almost mournful look, before stepped outside. From within he could hear the mechanical contraption rumble to life as his cherished daughter worked the alchemical magic trapped within Beast.
“Be careful, darling daughter,” he whispered as a plume of dust exploded out from the cracks between the barn doors. A triumphant cry of delight was heard over the din. He knew what was coming next. Moving to the side, he watched as the barn doors were broken down and his daughter and Beast rolled out of the decrepit building. His throat constricted in both fear and wonder as the dust from the barn washed over him. Coughing, he waved the dust from his face. His next words were barely a whisper, unheard by any but himself as Belle and the Beast rumbled past. “Please be careful.”
A faint shriek caused Guye Triche’s head to turn toward the village. His horse shifted beneath him and he pulled the reins to control the beast. The sound did not repeat. He waited beyond the walls of Oostend patiently, his eyes never leaving the front gate. Stolto remained by his side, astride his own mount. Behind them, mercenaries were fanned out behind him, moving about restlessly as their horses pawed at the lush grass. Each and every one of them came ready for war. Waiting for it to begin was always the most nerve-racking part. The anticipation, the dread—all of it was a tense buildup. Once the fighting began it would be fine, they were all sure. Experienced soldiers, all of them. They knew the drill.
Nothing in the world could have prepared Guye Triche for what burst through the gates.
A mechanical demon of some sort, standing almost as tall as a peasant’s home, rumbled through the gates. Some of the villagers of Oostend dove over the walls to get out of the horrible creation’s way. Belching smoke and fire as it moved, the demonic entity was straight out of some cursed dreamer’s version of Hell. Large wheels, mounted on either side, reminded him vaguely of a wagon. In the front a large, howling, hissing thing spat fire before it.
Guye blinked. The reins fell through his nerveless fingers. His mind could barely process what he was seeing. “What in God’s name is that?”
So horrified was he by the beastly creation barreling down at him that his attention slipped and his legs weakened. The warhorse beneath him was used to the smell of blood and loud screams of the dying. However, monsters were not something the simple-minded yet brave horse was used to seeing. Screaming in terror, the horse reared and pivoted madly away. In the poor horse’s haste, Guye was rudely thrown from his saddle. He landed solidly in the thick grass, injuring his ribs and, more importantly, his pride. Groaning in pain, he tried to roll back to his feet but only managed to make it to his knees. The fall had taken more out of him than he’d supposed. Reaching for the reins of the horse, his hand found only air. Confused, the publicani looked around but found nothing nearby. The horse had wisely sprinted away.
“Damnable beast,” he muttered, then laughed. It was absurd. The horse had been with him through dozens of battles across Europe, never flinching in the face of an enemy. A loyal, sturdy companion. Of course it would choose now, the day he was supposed to win the hand of Belle of Oostend, to flee. He finished climbing to his feet. The mercenaries would join him. They would fight this ghastly beast. “To arms, men! To arms!”
There was more screaming and shouting behind him. Turning, he saw they had all fled. Even Maurice—Stolto Mann, disproving his nickname—was nowhere to be found. Infuriated, Guye looked back at the lumbering creation of Satan as it slowly ground to a halt in front of him. Knowing his wheellocks would be worthless against such a great monster, he waited for his fate.
His eyes widened as a familiar brunette appeared from within the bowels of the beast. “Belle? No! The ghastly beast has captured you!”
“No, that’s not what happened.”
“I shall slay it and rescue you!”
“I made the Beast. It’s mine. I am in no need of rescue.”
Guye stared at her, incredulous. “You . . . what?”
“This is my creation,” she repeated.
“Is this . . . your dowry?” The taxman clapped his greedy hands. “How delightful! I’d expected a pittance from your father, but this? This is much better!”
Belle gave him a confused look. “What are you talking about?”
“My marriage proposal!” Guye called out. He gave her a rakish smile. “I see you’ve reconsidered and accepted.”
“You”—Belle shook her head and angled the carronade down at him—“are a most infuriating idiot.”
Guye Triche frowned as he looked at the barrel of the carronade. It seemed oddly familiar to him somehow. Shaking his head—which hurt his ribs—he shifted his eyes to look back upon Belle. “Does this mean you’ll marry me now?”
“I am disinclined to acquiesce to your request,” Belle responded.
“Uh . . . ” Guye had a confused look on his face.
Belle sighed. “That means no.”
“I will burn this village to the ground, then!” he roared.
“You and what army?”
Guye looked around, his anger palpable. Jaw clenched, he glared up at Belle. “I’ll raise another army. German mercenaries. They’ll burn, pillage, and plunder this town until there is nothing but ash remaining. No soul will be spared. Not even the dogs. It will make the Sack of Magdeburg seem like nothing more than a picnic.”
Belle’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I swore to you that before this day was out, I would see you dead.”
The carronade fired.
As the dust settled, Belle caught sight of the taxman’s aide, Stolto, limping toward her Beast. The aide wasn’t nearly as handsome as Guye Triche had once been, but Belle guessed he was leagues smarter. The wiry man dipped his head politely after stopping a short distance away.
“What now?” Stolto asked her in a quiet voice. It was obvious to her the man was terrified of the Beast. Only steely determination held him in place.
“We abide by the stadtholder’s law,” Belle stated, thinking quickly. Killing Guye Triche had been satisfying, but the Prince of Orange was not one to forgive a crime such as this. However, if he never found out . . . “This region has a publicani, yes? Maurice Stolto, I believe his name to be.”
Stolto was no fool and knew an opportunity when presented one. He smiled. “Oui, my lady. The taxman has a sacred duty to fulfill.”
Belle patted the cupola of her Beast. “And we are all loyal servants of the Prince of Orange, are we not?”
Stolto’s smile grew wider. “That we are.”
“I’m glad we have an understanding, publicani.”
“As am I, Belle of Oostend. Be advised: after careful review of the ledgers, I believe the town of Oostend has been grievously overpaying their share of the tax burden. This will change, I swear.”
Now Belle smiled. “The village of Oostend looks forward to working with you, taxman.”
“Please, dear lady. Call me Maurice?”