Chapter 10
It was cold, cursed cold, in the chamber adjacent to Marnis’ chapel.
There was naught within it, save a wooden table, a flickering oil lantern and Denis’ corpse, wrapped in his stained cloak.
Isabella might have welcomed a hot bath or a kind word upon her return, but it appeared she would have neither.
The walls were half-stone and the floor was stone, as well, a chill emanating from both that made Isabella shiver.
Her future prospects did little to raise her spirits. A convent. And worse, she would be dispatched there within days. Surely matters proceeded from bad to worse more rapidly than might have been expected.
If ever she was to repent of a choice, spurning Amaury was it.
A pair of girls came from the kitchen, one carrying a bucket of water and the other, a basket of cloths.
They peered at Denis with mingled horror and fascination, and Isabella was glad that he was covered.
She dismissed them with a gesture, then secured the door behind them.
She shed Amaury’s cloak, stroking the fur once before putting it aside, then shivered anew.
As much as she would have appreciated its warmth, the volume of cloth would interfere with her task, and she did not wish to see the garment stained.
She stood looking down at Denis as she unlaced her sleeves, then pushed them up to her elbows.
Though she was a daughter of the house, she was sometimes granted labor no one else wished to undertake.
This was a greater indignity than had yet been bestowed upon her, though, and a sure sign of her father’s lack of favor.
Had she been born a boy, all might have been different, but there was little point wishing for that to change.
Perhaps Denis might have confided that it was not all merry to be their father’s son.
His eyes were open, giving him a look of astonishment. But then, Denis was always surprised by defiance or any response that did not adhere to his own expectations. Whatever he had expected this morn, it had not been his own death.
She stoked his eyelids, managing finally to close his eyes, then began to unfurl him from his garments. The cloak, once dark red, had been dirty and mired even before his blood fell upon it. The wool was snagged, as if he had been dragged through the forest.
She set the garment aside, then removed his boots.
They, too, would be in need of a polish.
His tabard had absorbed a goodly quantity of blood and she suspected his padded aketon would be worse.
It might have been helpful to have a squire’s aid in polishing Denis’ armor. She would ask when Denis was washed.
Isabella was well aware of the quiet of the keep.
All unusual activity had ended and silence descended as the occupants returned to their usual tasks.
She heard the guards call to each other, a familiar rhythm, and nodded as the gatekeeper called the hour.
That was her father’s insistence and she, too, was accustomed to it.
Denis would hear the call of the hour no more.
He was already cold, his fingertips changing color almost before her eyes.
Though they had not been overly close, it was remarkable to think of him never raising his voice again.
There would be no more orders or commands from Denis, no petulance when he did not get his way, no cruel rejoinder when he blamed her for some circumstance.
She considered that he had never wed, though he was younger than she, and remembered his boasting the day before of the trip to Paris in the fall.
No doubt, their father planned an illustrious match for his only son, one he thought fitting.
Perhaps a king had a daughter in need of Denis’ hand in marriage.
Perhaps kings had better candidates than her half-brother.
Denis was not handsome, though he was not disfigured.
His was an average face, one that might vanish readily into a crowd or be readily forgotten.
His hair was brown, but not so dark as Amaury’s, which was almost ebony.
It lacked the lustre of Amaury’s, as well, the thickness and the wave.
There was something altogether robust and vital about Amaury, and it showed in more than his hair.
Denis’ hair appeared lank and thin in contrast, his skin pallid, and his vigor paled in comparison.
He might have been a shadow of a man compared to Amaury and that was not a recent change.
Denis, in fact, had always been easy to overlook.
Perhaps that was responsible for his attitude, for his determination to insist on all attending him for even the most minor errand.
His nose was perhaps a little big, his eyes were small.
Their hue was neither green nor brown, and his lips were regrettably thin.
Altogether, it was easy for him to appear mean.
He was taller than Isabella but not of so muscular a build as Amaury.
She knew he was stronger than he had appeared.
Sinewy. Or perhaps his strength was born of tenacity. Denis certainly had been stubborn.
She sighed. She would never mourn his loss, not truly, nor would she miss Denis, but she did not think it right that he had died so young and so cruelly.
Why would anyone kill him? Her father held all the power at Marnis.
It must have been a theft gone awry. Aye, Denis would never have willingly surrendered the merest token to another.
He would always fight, even over the most minor of matters, and that might have been his undoing.
He would have fought over possession of that palfrey, though he had not triumphed. Perhaps Denis’ death had not been planned but an accident, compelling the villains to flee.
Isabella unlaced his hauberk, more familiar with the garment now that she had aided Amaury, and eased her brother out of it.
He was limp and his weight was considerable.
She braced him against her hip to work laces free and bared his skin in steady increments, fighting her urge to think about Amaury de Montvieux.
Nude. His skin beneath her fingertips. His warmth pressed against her. His heat inside her...
What if she had gone with him, defied her father and welcomed whatever adventure might come?
It was a terrifying notion. Goodness knew there had been little adventure in her life thus far – while Amaury had journeyed all the way to Outremer and back again.
Who knew what treasures lurked in his baggage?
Who knew what prizes he brought home? Who knew what he had seen, what he had done, what he had learned?
Perhaps audacity was rewarded in these times.
Isabella wished she might have had the chance to listen to Amaury’s tales.
He must have met people whose clothing and manners would astonish her.
He must have endured much – while she had remained at Marnis, following her father’s instructions, as capricious as they might be, and striving to avoid her step-mother as much as possible.
How many women were dismissed to a convent within days of becoming a bride and a wife? Isabella had to think her fate was somewhat unusual and did not like that she was special in that way.
She tugged at the buckle on Denis’ belt and something jingled in his purse.
Curious, she opened the pouch upon his belt and found a trio of keys mingled with a few coins.
The keys were brass and of goodly size, each different from the others but linked together on a ring as if they shared a common purpose. Isabella had never seen them before.
Did her brother have a secret?
What if she assumed that secret? Audacity, it seemed, had taken hold of her thoughts.
On impulse, Isabella tucked the keys into the top of her stocking.
It was not easy to push them beneath the garter, and she was forcing the second one past that barrier as someone tried the door.
Isabella jumped in surprise, her fingers shaking as she hastened to ensure she was not discovered at her task.
The latch was shaken furiously, then that person pounded upon the wood. “You will not keep me from my son!” Faydide fairly screeched, loosing her fury upon the door. “I demand admittance! I demand to see my boy! I demand…”
The third key slipped behind the garter and Isabella hastened to unlock the door.
As she walked, the cold brass slid down her calf to rest against the inside of her ankle, but she gave no indication of its chill as she opened the door.
“It was not my intention to deny you anything,” she said mildly and curtseyed to her step-mother.
Faydide pushed past Isabella, her maid lingering in the hall with a horrified expression. Isabella closed the door against her.
“His eyes are yet open,” Faydide complained and sure enough, the lids had popped open again. Trust Denis to ensure that Isabella was found lacking.
She moved back to the table and eased them closed again. One popped open immediately, giving her half-brother a comical appearance, as if he winked at the world.
“It is disrespectful,” Faydide hissed. “It is vulgar and unnecessary, and undoubtedly spiteful on your behalf.”
“I invite you to close them,” Isabella countered, keeping her voice calm. “I have much more to do before he can be washed.”
“Ungrateful wench,” Faydide muttered. She did try to close the errant lid, and succeeded on the third attempt. She had time to look triumphant, then the first eye popped open again. “You did this!”
“I assure you, I did not. You should hold them closed for a moment, perhaps.” To her surprise, Faydide followed her advice.
The older woman’s lips tightened as she surveyed the fallen man, though curiously, she did not weep for her son now that there was no one to see her tears.
“Everything is lost,” she said, almost beneath her breath, and Isabella wondered at the words.