Chapter 11 #2
She looked within the trunk of her garments, which held every robe she had possessed since childhood.
Most were well-worn and few fit her now, but she lifted out a dark gown of deep red linen spun with wool.
It was plain to the point of austerity, but the cloth was of excellent quality.
Faydide had bought the cloth and decided against it on the advice of the seamstress: red was seldom a flattering hue for her.
The unwanted cloth had passed to Isabella, and the seamstress had advised to make the garment as quickly as possible.
The resulting garment would never fit Faydide, for she was much shorter and wider than Isabella, which meant Isabella’s step-mother could not reclaim the gift.
Isabella marvelled now that she had never worn it.
The garment would have benefitted from some embroidery on the hems, or perhaps a gold girdle, but it fit her well.
Once the sides were laced, she felt like a queen and knew she stood taller.
She smiled, acknowledging that a mere day of marriage had given her such a legacy – Isabella was no longer willing to accept whatever she was granted, nor did she feel compelled to even try to hold her tongue.
The keys were fastened to a cord that hung around her waist, one that could not be discerned though she felt the weight of them touch her thigh.
She plaited her hair and wound it beneath a wimple, then donned a veil and circlet.
She was wed and no longer a maiden, so her hair had to be covered by convention.
She wondered what her father would say to her new headdress and anticipated an argument.
Even in this matter, she would not let him win his way so readily.
She would soon be a bride of Christ and beyond her father’s authority, after all. Isabella regretted that she did not feel any desire for that life. Aye, she had always wished to be married, to have children, to be active in the world and not hidden away.
It seemed that was not to be.
Otherwise, her garb was both somber and unornamented, perhaps a fitting sign of her fate. She wore her best boots and left Amaury’s cloak in her chamber with regret. She should find a way to return it to him, but she selfishly wished to keep it.
If only for the memories it prompted.
She heard the sounds of merriment in the hall below, took a deep breath at the top of the stairs and descended to meet her father’s guests. Her belly grumbled loudly in complaint and she hoped the meal would be served soon.
The maiden proved to be Marguerite de Haniers, and the men accompanying her were two of her older brothers.
They stood on either side of their sister as if to defend her.
Isabella had the sense that she was supposed to know why they were at Marnis but, of course, she did not.
She smiled and strove to avoid the assessing gaze of the younger of the brothers, wishing she could vanish into the kitchens and just eat.
The older brother appeared to be displeased about some detail.
Perhaps he thought his sister had been slighted in some way.
The girl paid attention only to her dog, a small sleek creature named Felix.
There were a number of people from the village in the hall, apparently invited to the lord’s board on this night, which hinted at a great event.
Isabella recognized the miller seated near the Captain of the Guard, as well as three of the more affluent merchants and their wives.
The women preened and whispered to each other, clearly taking note of every detail of young Marguerite’s clothing and the fine appearance of her brothers.
Isabella spoke to the girl about her dog, making the canine’s acquaintance, but neither hound nor maiden were forthcoming.
Faydide always made a great fuss of the seating at the high table and this night was to be no different.
She insisted that the trio from Haniers should sit on the right hand of the Lord de Marnis, with the maiden between her brothers.
She, of course, would sit on the Lord de Marnis’ left hand, with her brother beside her and Isabella at the end of the table.
“I should think not,” said the eldest brother flatly and Isabella noticed a look pass between him and her father. “My sister was to be paid every honor at Marnis.”
Why had they come?
“And still she will be,” Faydide said sweetly, gesturing to Mallory. “Why, Mallory would be delighted to sit by her side and ensure her entertainment…”
“We are sufficiently well acquainted with your brother, my lady,” the younger brother said firmly.
So they had journeyed together. His tone indicating that their time on the road had not been entirely amiable.
“My sister is come to Marnis to wed,” the older brother said crisply.
Faydide blinked as the hall fell silent. “But Denis is dead.”
Isabella watched her father clear his throat.
He looked momentarily discomfited, then stepped to Marguerite’s side with purpose.
“Sadly, yes, my son has been cut down in his prime.” He bent over the maiden’s hand and everyone pretended not to notice that the dog snarled.
“My lady Marguerite will instead be wedded to me.”
“What is this?” Faydide demanded.
Isabella’s father continued as if he had not heard her. “We shall begin the celebration tomorrow evening, after Denis is buried and our engagement is formalized.” Gaultier smiled at the young girl. “I have ordered your favorite dish, hare in red sauce, for dinner on the morrow, my lady.”
“Oh!” Marguerite flushed with pleasure then lowered her gaze demurely. “I thank you, sir.”
Faydide, meanwhile, looked between her husband and her brother, who smirked openly. “We will do no such thing,” she said sharply. “You cannot take a wife, Gaultier, for you already possess one.” She laughed but the sound was shrill, for every soul in the hall was watching her. “Here I am, my lord!”
Gaultier did not smile, nor did he relinquish his grip on the maiden’s hand. “And you will be gone on the morrow after the funeral.”
“Gone?” Faydide echoed.
“You will accompany Isabella to the convent…”
“The girl has no need of an escort!”
“…And there you will remain, by my dictate. I trust you will find satisfaction in your later years in seclusion and contemplation, Faydide. I anticipate that I will find great satisfaction in your absence.” Gaultier smiled at Marguerite even as Faydide sputtered.
Isabella knew she was blinking in astonishment. It was not sufficient that she was banished to a convent, but she must be sent there with Faydide?
“My lady?” her father said to the maiden. “Will you join me at the board?”
Marguerite glanced at her oldest brother before she nodded and smiled agreement, letting Gaultier escort her to the high table.
Isabella’s father leaned hard on his cane though he strove to appear vigorous.
The contrast between Isabella’s father and his intended bride was most striking.
Isabella reasoned there had to be a gap of at least forty years between them.
The younger of the brothers winced as he watched the Lord de Marnis ascend to his high chair and Isabella saw a glance pass between the brothers like lightning.
The older one shook his head minutely and spared a glance of loathing for Mallory.
That man did not appear to notice. He offered his arm to his sister, but Faydide’s eyes were flashing with fury.
“Gaultier! What is the meaning of this jest?”
“It is no jest, Faydide. The decision is made and the matter resolved.” Isabella’s father settled into his seat with relief, raising his hand for wine as he dismissed his wife.
Color flooded Faydide’s features and her voice dropped low. Isabella saw that the older woman’s hands were clenched into fists. “Gaultier, you cannot mean to do this thing.”
“Do not be tedious, Faydide. I can and I do. I am Lord de Marnis, and my will reigns in this holding. If you have forgotten as much, then you are a fool.” He laughed lightly, gesturing to the company of musicians. “As I already have a fool, so you are not needed.”
“Gaultier! I am your wife!”
“No longer. I put you aside. Be quiet now, Faydide. If you cannot behave in a reasonable manner at the board, then take your meal in the kitchens.”
“Or in the stables,” Mallory jested, earning a swat from his sister.
“You should take my side,” she hissed at him.
“Your side has lost, sister,” he replied sternly. Despite how much Isabella disliked Faydide, she felt sorry for the woman in this moment. Mallory then turned to Isabella. “Come, Isabella, let us take our places lest we miss the wine. This may be the last good meal you ever enjoy.”
She would not enjoy it if she was compelled to sit with Mallory. What advantage was there to him in this arrangement? He was positively gloating and Isabella could not explain it.
“Gaultier! I would discuss this matter with you!” Faydide cried.
“Go,” that man said with a dismissive wave. “It is bad for a man’s constitution to argue over a meal, Faydide. You told me as much yourself.”
“But…”
Gaultier’s gaze rose from Faydide to two of the guards in the hall and he lifted a brow.
They took only one step toward their former lady before she guessed their intent.
“This is your fault,” she shrieked at Isabella, then spun and fled toward the kitchens.
She gave a wail of anguish, then Gaultier glared at Mallory with impatience.
That man swore softly, then strode after his sister.
In a heartbeat, Faydide’s sobs had diminished to silence.
The others in the hall feigned ignorance of any uproar as they took their places. The Lord de Marnis gestured to the musicians that they should begin to play. The sounds of the lute filled the hall, quickly followed by whispers of speculation.