Chapter 19 #3
The woman flushed. “I am glad you are pleased, my lady. I was fearful of changing such a garment, lest I destroy it or your memories.”
“It was my mother’s nuptial gown.”
“Aye, so his lordship confessed. He said he wished to see if it could be repaired as a surprise for you.”
“And I am surprised, to be sure.”
“Will you try it, my lady? I would be certain of the fit.”
The chemise with the elaborate hem had been repaired as well, and with such care that it might have been an outer garment itself.
Isabella found herself smiling as she dressed, and running her hands over the vivid silk.
“Not so tightly there,” she said to Mathilde when the woman pulled the laces, cupping her hand protectively over her own stomach.
Mathilde smiled, her gaze flicking to Isabella’s in understanding. “Of course, my lady,” she murmured and Isabella knew she had inadvertently revealed her secret.
Amaury must be told immediately, before he heard the news as a rumor.
“Oh!” Mathilde said, surveying the result with satisfaction. “It is a garment fit for a wedding.”
“Indeed.” Isabella turned before the other woman. “And it fits perfectly. I thank you, Mathilde. Would you help me to remove it? I will put it away for a special day.”
“But is this not one, my lady?” Mathilde appeared to be confused.
“Why should it be?”
Matilde frowned. “I had understood the dress should be completed by today, for there is to be a wedding.” She nodded at Isabella’s surprise. “The Count de Sant-André and his party approaches. All the village is talking of it.”
“But who is to be wed?” Isabella asked as a familiar shadow appeared against the silk.
Amaury announced himself and she called for him to enter, watching his eyes light as he surveyed her. “Perfection, Mathilde,” he said warmly, his gaze never leaving Isabella. “The tales of your skills fell short indeed.”
“I thank you, my lord.” Mathilde curtseyed and Amaury paid her in coin. Isabella watched the woman’s eyes widen slightly and knew he had paid more than the agreed sum. She thanked him repeatedly, curtseyed, then left them alone again.
“And I thank you, Amaury, for such a surprise as this.” Isabella turned before him. “It is finer than ever.”
“I knew you would wish for its repair.” He came to her side and lifted her hand to his lips. “I would change my tabard as well before our guests arrive.”
“But who is to be wed? How do I not know of this?”
Amaury chuckled. “I confess that I have a scheme, though it was to be a surprise to you.”
“A scheme, sir?”
“A wedding relies upon witnesses for its authority, and there are precious few surviving of our initial exchange of vows. And, to be sure, that was a modest event, though celebratory in its way.”
“Amaury,” Isabella whispered, guessing his intent.
“I thought we should renew our vows, before our esteemed neighbor and his family, before the villagers of Montvieux and Marnis, before all of those who could stand witness to the legitimacy of our sons.” He smiled at her, now garbed in the blue and white silk tabard of Montvieux, the one embroidered with three fleur-de-lis.
“I would give you a wedding, Isabella, as it should be, with a priest and guests, a feast and dancing.” His resolve made her heart thunder.
“I would give you the wedding you should have had.”
“Amaury!” Isabella cast herself at him and he caught her close, capturing her lips in a triumphant kiss. “You should not indulge me so.”
“How can I resist? It is so rewarding to see your delight when you are surprised. I fear I will be granting you gifts all our days, simply for the sight of your pleasure.”
Isabella smiled, for she knew she had a surprise to offer him on this day. “You are not the sole one with a scheme, sir.”
“You have a scheme?”
“I have tidings I have kept secret.” She reached up and touched her lips to his ear. “We will welcome a child in the spring.”
“Isabella!” he whispered in wonder, then caught her close, his satisfaction so clear that she smiled. “But you must rest then, and not exert yourself. There will be no dancing for you on this night…”
Isabella placed her fingertips over his lips to silence him, loving how his eyes continued to sparkle. “If you believe, sir, that you will keep me from dancing at my own wedding, you will have to think again.”
He laughed then and kissed her again. “Ah, Isabella. I love you so.”
“And I love you, Amaury, with all my heart.”
They kissed again, and were so readily lost in each other that Philip cleared his throat three times before either became aware of his presence.
“Sir, the count arrives and awaits your welcome.”
Isabella tidied her hair and donned a veil and Amaury straightened his tabard before the Lord and Lady de Montvieux emerged to greet their guests.
It was as Amaury had always hoped his wedding might be.
He stood with Isabella in the space that would again become the chapel, built on the foundations of the original.
The floor had been rebuilt with timber from the forest and he was keenly aware of his father and his forebears in the crypt below.
He felt that his marriage would be built on the foundation of tradition and legacy, on the history of Montvieux and the reputation of its lords.
He felt that his father watched the proceedings with approval.
There was much yet to do, but with Isabella by his side, Amaury believed any obstacle could be conquered.
The priest, newly arrived to Montvieux from the bishop, presided over the exchange of their vows. He was young and active, a fitting addition to the holding and a responsible shepherd. Amaury liked him well, and so did the villagers.
The count and his countess, along with their four daughters stood at the front of the company, Amaury’s brothers and his comrades alongside.
He knew he did not imagine Roland’s sidelong glances at the count’s daughters, nor that one of them – Thalia, the oldest and perhaps the boldest – openly glanced back at Amaury’s brother.
From this vantage, since the chapel as yet had neither walls nor roof, Amaury could see the fields, newly tilled with the winter crops, the rich soil turned in dark lines.
He could see the forest to the south, the leaves of the trees turning golden, and the village of Montvieux, as well, its thatched roofs in the sun.
He could hear the mill turning and the rush of the river.
He could feel the gentle wind of a cool autumn day and note that the blue of the clear sky was the perfect foil for his lady’s silken gown.
Aye, he could lose himself in the smile of his lady wife, be awed by the confession that she carried their first child, and marvel that good fortune should come to him in such abundance.
For years, the dream of returning home to Montvieux had sustained him, but he had never imagined that such joy would surround him, even here.
It was all because of Isabella, his clever, loyal and steadfast wife, the woman who held his heart securely in thrall, the lady who was his partner, his love and his companion forevermore.
Amaury knew he would never tire of surprising her, of granting her gifts simply to witness her delight.
And he had one more for her on this day.
They made their vows again, her hands in his, their gazes locked, then it was time for the rings.
Isabella smiled and removed his small ring from her hand.
“The better that you can give it to me again,” she murmured with a smile, but Amaury placed the ring back on his own smallest finger, where it had been for years.
Isabella’s confusion showed, but the count stepped forward in that moment, having fulfilled a commission from Amaury as expected. On the older man’s outstretched palm were a pair of gold rings, one larger than the other.
Amaury lifted the smaller one and held it before Isabella’s astonished gaze.
It was of small circumference but sufficiently thick to cover half her knuckle.
He let her read the inscription carved into its surface, turning the ring before her.
When she flushed and bit her lip, her eyes sparkling as her gaze rose to his, he knew she had read it all.
Vous et nul autre it said. You and no other.
He held the ring between his finger and thumb, lingering over each of her fingers in turn. “In the name of the Father, of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,” he intoned, then placed the ring upon her finger.
Isabella’s satisfaction was clear as she took the companion ring, marked with the same inscription, and repeated his gesture, finally sliding the ring onto his own finger. On his middle finger was the signet ring of Montvieux and the two, he thought, looked well together.
He bent down to kiss Isabella, knowing that every step of his journey had brought him to this place, had brought him home to this lady and their shared future at Montvieux.
The kiss, predictably, kindled the fire within him, a telling reminder that the ardor between them gave no indication of fading at all.
“All hail the Lord and Lady de Montvieux,” the count called and there was a roar from the assembly, followed by applause unexpected in a chapel. The count coughed lightly. “You must not forget the nuptial gift, Amaury,” he said quietly and offered a velvet pouch.
Amaury smiled, for he had not forgotten it.
He gave the bag to Isabella who opened it with care.
He watched her eyes light at the sight of the circlet he had commissioned for her.
Though her mother’s circlet was a simple band of gold that suited her well, he had ordered this one as a memory of their first exchange of vows.
She turned it in her hands, admiring it, then offered it to him.
When he held it, she removed the circlet she wore and he placed this one upon her head.
The gold contrasted beautifully with her dark hair, and the daisies, each carefully formed of gold and nigh covering the band of gold that supported them, sparkled in the late sunlight.
“A coronet that will never wilt or fade,” she said with shining eyes.
“Exactly thus,” Amaury agreed, and bent to kiss his lady wife yet again, his heart filled to bursting.
Aye, on this night, they would feast and make merry, but it would take all of their lives to fully celebrate the blessings that came to him at Montvieux.
That was, in Amaury’s view, precisely as it should be.