Chapter 12 #3
The funeral was short, as if the priest himself was hungry and intent upon reaching the board with all haste.
Denis was blessed and wished well, then buried in the small churchyard just outside the walls, all in less than an hour.
Faydide wailed and wept the entire time, though she composed herself when they all turned toward the hall.
She strove to claim Gaultier’s elbow, but he evaded her and escorted Marguerite instead.
Faydide might have walked with Mallory but that man saw fit to invite Isabella to take his arm.
Given that the brothers from Haniers were her sole alternative, Isabella accepted, leaving Faydide to enjoy the companionship of Marguerite’s siblings.
She was seated at one end of the high table, beside the priest, while Faydide sat at the opposite end, beside Mallory – who looked displeased with his position.
Marguerite was on Gaultier’s left, her brothers on either side of the couple-to-be.
This time, the younger brother was beside Isabella and she doubted that was mere happenstance.
Wine was poured, the engagement was announced and the priest made it a formal agreement before the company. Tributes were drunk and toasts were made. The endless ritual of it all was almost sufficient to make Isabella yearn for the convent.
But not quite.
The hall had been filled with delicious scents upon their return and Isabella had not seen such a bounty of dishes at Marnis’ table in a long time.
There were eggs and eels, fish, tarts and savory pies, roast meat of every kind, sweets and soups and sauces to tempt the most reluctant of palettes.
Even the feast of the night before faded in comparison.
There was rabbit in red wine, offered first to Marguerite.
(To be sure, Felix, perched upon her lap, had the first bite.)
Faydide seemed intent upon consuming as much wine as possible, darting poisonous glances at her spouse.
She left the table after the engagement was announced and vanished into the kitchens.
Musicians began to play at Gaultier’s gesture and Isabella sat at her place, nodding periodically at the platitudes uttered by the priest.
’Twas then she saw Amaury.
Or she thought she did. She caught a glimpse of a man’s face in the company, a man dressed like a peasant, a man with Amaury’s features. He sat beside a man who could have been his younger brother Roland, but when she strove for another glimpse, they both seemed to have vanished.
She must have imagined his presence.
She had to have been mistaken.
It must have been her hopes deceiving her eyes.
Still Isabella looked again and again, even while striving to hide her curiosity.
The hall was crowded, filled with trestle tables, the benches on either side of each one packed with villagers and guests.
The noise was stupendous, even with the musicians singing, and there were dogs darting through the confusion.
Someone began to drunkenly sing along with the musicians and soon there was a roar of voices raised in song, the hall as raucous as a tavern.
Just when it seemed there could be no more food forthcoming, the cook himself carried a large platter from the kitchens, pride in his expression. Upon the platter perched a swan, neck bent and wings raised. It was impressively arranged and looked as if it might swim away.
In reality, the skin and feathers had been carefully removed from the dead bird, the meat had been roasted, and the finished roast had been “dressed” in the feathers again for the presentation.
Roast swan was one of her father’s favorite dishes and its presentation on this night was another sign that this feast had been ordered days in advance.
The musicians changed their tune, as if they would serenade the cook to his halting place in front of her father.
They then gave the swan a fanfare. The Lord de Marnis rose to his feet, beaming with pleasure, and applauded the cook himself.
There were cheers from the company, then the oldest of the squires in the hall carved the meat, placing the first slice of breast meat on Isabella’s father’s trencher.
Isabella rather hoped Marguerite’s dog might snatch it up.
Instead, Gaultier took the meat delicately between finger and thumb, dipped it into the sauce just brought to his place, and devoured it all with gusto.
He then ate another, partaking heavily of the sauce with each bite.
The company laughed and applauded his enjoyment, wine was poured all around and the squire set to carving the rest of the meat.
“A toast to the Lady Marguerite!” Mallory cried and cups were raised.
“May she find joy and many sons at Chateau Marnis!” There was a roar of approval at this prospect and the brothers stood to bow to their sister before drinking the toast. The Lord de Marnis coughed, as if he had something caught in his throat, then seized his chalice and drained it.
He coughed again and dropped the chalice so that it fell heavily on the board.
One brother clapped him on the back. Isabella’s father halfway rose to his feet, coughing and choking, his face turning vivid red, then bared his teeth and fell backward.
The great chair toppled beneath his weight and tipped over with a crash that silenced the hall.
Gaultier writhed, half on the chair and half on the floor, as the company gathered around to look.
His face was turning purple now, his anguish clear.
“Father!” Isabella pushed past one brother to her father’s side, but he shoved her away. Her father began to say something, then made a strange chortle and fell still.
The hall echoed with the silence.
Isabella reached for her father, but the younger brother held her back.
The seneschal raced forward, pushing his way through the company and fell to his knees beside his fallen lord.
Isabella realized that he must have been in the kitchens, for usually Simon was in the hall, close to her father.
Simon bent over the still man and felt for his pulse, then straightened with such resolve that it was simple to anticipate his words.
“He is dead,” he said, his gaze roving over the company. “The Lord de Marnis is dead!”
It might have been a foul dream, a foul one or a jest gone badly awry.
The entire company might have been frozen, for no one spoke or moved.
She recalled her own words to Amaury, that old men were wont to die, and thought her father could not have chosen a more remarkable moment to end his own days.
Felix began to howl.
And in that moment, the gold signet ring of Marnis seemed to glint upon Isabella’s father’s hand, beckoning Isabella’s attention.
She caught her breath.
Blood, her father always had insisted, was of the greatest import of all. He would have put aside his wife to take another in the hope of conceiving another son, but he already had a daughter.
There was only one person in this keep of her father’s lineage.
Once she had the notion to claim her birthright, Isabella could not dismiss it. She had let Amaury slip away; she would not sacrifice opportunity again.
She pushed forcibly past Marguerite’s brother and seized the ring.
It pulled easily from her father’s finger and Isabella did not hesitate before pushing it onto her own.
It was loose on her middle finger, but she would not let it slip from her hand.
She liked how it looked beside the smaller ring Amaury had given her. It belonged there.
Her legacy.
Her means to entice her husband back to her side.
Isabella straightened in triumph to find the seneschal studying her with surprise.
Simon had served her father for more than ten years, and though he was older than Isabella, he was far from ancient.
A man of quiet efficiency and purpose, he was calm, reliable, and always had access to the latest of news from abroad.
Isabella dared not delay. She pivoted to face Simon squarely and offered her hand with the ring upon it.
He glanced between it and her own gaze.
When he did not move, she spoke regally. “All hail Isabella, Lady de Marnis, heiress to her father’s holding,” she said. She saw the glimmer of surprise in the older man’s eyes, but then he dropped to one knee before her.
“All hail, Lady Isabella,” Simon said so all could hear him clearly, and when she lifted her hand, he kissed the ring. “All hail the heiress, the Lady de Marnis.” He seized her other hand and held it up, turning to present her to the rapt company.
“All hail!” cried a man, whose voice sounded treacherously like Amaury’s.
“All hail,” echoed the company.
Marguerite’s older brother caught his breath in a low hiss. The younger brother studied Isabella openly. The rest of the company crowded closer, and those from the village had tales aplenty to take home with them on this night. The shock emanating from them was palpable.
Isabella went to the end of the dais and stood, her hand outstretched. “All hail the Lady de Marnis,” she said, new steel in her tone. She pretended she did not notice the hesitancy of those sworn to the house in coming to pledge to her, or the way many avoided her gaze.
There was a delay of embarrassing duration before the Captain of the Guard bent his knee to her.
Each and every one of those present looked at her father’s corpse and swallowed before pledging their loyalty.
After the Captain of the Guard, the others pledged themselves more quickly, but Isabella had smelled their doubt.
The guards in the hall, the squires serving the table, the people from the village and the servants in the kitchen, they all filed into the great hall to bend their knee and kiss the ring, giving their pledge to her.
Mallory did not so swear, but then he was not pledged to Marnis. His eyes glittered as he watched her, arms folded over his chest. and Isabella knew he might have claimed the ring if she had not done so.
What would he do to gain it?
There was no sign of Faydide, and Simon had vanished into the kitchens. Once again, the brothers flanked their sister protectively and Marguerite held the dog close in her arms. The trio stood apart from the rest, watching, and Isabella wondered how soon they might leave Marnis.
She was without allies in this hall, regardless of what pledges were made to her on this night. If ever there had been a time to have the support of a warrior who would defend her interests as his own, this was it.
Fortunately, Isabella knew precisely which knight she would prefer. Honor and duty would more than suffice in this circumstance.
Who could she trust to take a message to Amaury and deliver it with accuracy? Who could she afford to dispatch from Marnis when she could trust so few? Her gaze swept over the company, from the high table to the villagers to the servants, without seeing a solution.
No wonder she thought she had seen Amaury. She had conjured the sight of him by force of will, out of desperate hope for an ally.
Perhaps he would come when he heard the tidings.
Isabella could only hope as much.