‘This is preposterous, Mary, if you think I’m going to do a thing like that…such unseemly haste…’ Eleanor stared resolutely ahead, jewelled fingers tapping in irritation on the wooden table, the hanging pearls in her filigreed silver circlet winking with each dissatisfied jolt of her body.
‘Eleanor, stop treating Giseux like one of your subjects!’ Jocelin flared back at his older half-sister. ‘The boy is your nephew, he’s family!’
Eleanor glared at him, then her fixed, rigid expression softened; she laughed. ‘I had forgotten.’ she expelled her breath slowly. ‘Only you, only you, Jocelin, would dare to speak to me in such a way!’
‘Will you do it?’
‘Fetch the priest.’
Brianna wriggled her hips down into the hot, silky water. The linen cloth draped over the inside of the wooden tub to prevent splinters rumpled beneath her thighs. The water spread with delicious heat over her legs, swilled over her stomach, a rippling sound. She was grateful for the solitude. The panelled timber of the walls glowed in the light from the charcoal brazier, burning coals shifting, coalescing, in the iron basket in the corner. Outside, the gathering low cloud signalled more snow, but inside the warm cocoon of the chamber, she felt safe, comfortable. Resting her head on the back of the bath, her eyelids shuttered. The heat suffused her limbs, driving out aches from muscles, the tension that frayed her nerves. It was done; Queen Eleanor had agreed to give permission to the marriage, although without her presence, Brianna was certain Giseux would have ploughed ahead with the wedding anyway and damn the consequences.
There was a tap at the door. Brianna shifted her head, opening her eyes to see who entered. Lady Mary walked in, a sheath of shining blue silk laid carefully across her outstretched forearms. She moved over to the window, laying the gown reverentially across the carved oak dresser. Beneath the gown, she was carrying a pair of blue silk slippers, each toe encrusted with pearls, set in the shape of a flower. A maidservant followed Mary, carrying a gossamer veil, spun silk, and a jewelled circlet. She stood respectfully in the shadows, head bowed, as Mary moved forwards to speak to Brianna.
‘This was my wedding dress.’ Mary looked down at Brianna, a tender expression on her face. She clutched her hands together, as if searching for the right words. ‘I am so happy for you and Giseux…I could see how you felt about each other, when you were here with your brother.’
‘Truly?’ Brianna frowned. From what she could remember, she and Giseux had argued continually.
‘Giseux seems happy, too,’ Mary continued. ‘I never…We never…’ Her voice trailed off, unable to verbalise her true fears for her son when he had returned from the Orient.
Brianna snatched at the washcloth, folded in a neat rectangle over the side of the tub, pushed the cream folds deep into the water. Shame washed over her, shame at the fallacy that would be this marriage, humiliated that Lady Mary was so happy because of it. She itched to confide in the older lady, to tell her none of it was true, that Giseux was merely helping her out of an impossible situation, but one look at Mary’s shining eyes, her flushed, excited face, and she knew she could not.
‘Eleanor is insisting that she escorts you into the church,’ Mary continued on a practical note. ‘I hope you don’t mind; she has these peculiar ways. I think it all comes from being in charge for too long.’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ said Brianna. It would make it easier with the irascible Queen at her side.
‘And I have brought my maid, Magdelena, to help you dress.’ Mary indicated the raven-haired girl standing in the shadows.
‘Thank you,’ Brianna said. ‘I feel quite overwhelmed. You have done so much for me.’
‘Not as much as you have done for my son, Brianna. You have given him…’ she paused ‘…his life back. No one could do more than that.’
A pang of humiliation swept over Brianna as the door clicked behind Giseux’s mother. A knot of doubt began to grow in her stomach; she screwed the water from the sopping washcloth and smoothed it flat, over the side of the tub, looking around for a towel.
‘Here, my lady.’ The sibilant tones of the maidservant emerged from the corner of the chamber, followed by the girl herself, carrying a large white towel. ‘Do you wish to dry yourself?’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured. Gripping the sides of the bath, she stood upright, runnels of water streaming over her pearly skin. Long, curling tresses, darkened to ancient rust by the water, plastered over her back, rippling over her high bosom. Plucking the towel from the girl’s fingers, she dried off the excess water before stepping out on to a thick, woven mat, which absorbed the water from her feet. Once dry, she wrapped the towel around her like a cloak and moved over to the pile of shining clothes laid carefully along a low bench near the window.
Brianna pulled on the undergarments, the weightless silk whispering against her skin. Her fingers trailed hesitantly across the rippling blue fabric of the wedding dress: Lady Mary’s wedding dress! She had no right to it, did not deserve it!
‘Shall I dress your hair, my lady?’ The serving girl’s question interrupted her roiling thoughts.
‘Please.’ Brianna’s voice seemed squeezed, stunted, surfacing on a tightly held breath. In her borrowed undergarments, she perched on a three-legged stool near the brazier, the heat from the glowing coals flaring against her face. The maid towelled her hair with deft, brisk movements, before combing through the tangled locks. The ambient heat from the brazier flowed around Brianna; her hair dried quickly. Once the maid had combed out all the knots, she twisted Brianna’s hair into two plaits, before winding them together into a glossy bundle at the nape of Brianna’s neck, skewering the whole gleaming mass with long, pearl-studded hairpins. ‘And now for the dress.’
Brianna’s face appeared from the scooped neckline, decorated along its curve with a spangle of pearls. She pushed her slim arms into the tight-fitting sleeves, the material of the bodice hugging her waist before flaring out into wide skirts. The front of the dress was split, opening to reveal a panel of blue samite, interwoven with silver thread. Brianna smoothed her hands down over her hips, the maid securing the girdle twice about her waist, leaving the two tasselled ends to swing free. Her heart felt leaden.
The door burst open. Queen Eleanor stood on the threshold, her expression one of haughty irritation, eyebrows raised high into a forehead of wrinkles. ‘How long does it take you to prepare yourself, Lady Brianna? I thought you, at least, would have a notion of speed in this whole affair if only to avoid any ugly business with your brother!’
‘I am ready, my lady.’ Brianna curtsied.
Eleanor swept a critical glance over Brianna. ‘Aye, you’ll do, my dear. But I have something else for you.’ She raised imperious fingers in the air, clicked them rapidly. Two guards staggered in, puffing heavily, a vast leather trunk carried between them.
‘Set it down here,’ Eleanor ordered, pinpointing a precise spot in the middle of the chamber, ‘and leave us.’ She threw a thin smile in Brianna’s direction. ‘I only arrived yesterday, practically in the middle of the night. Not all of my bags were brought to my chamber.
Truly, I don’t know how Jocelin copes with the sloppiness of his servants.’ Her sharp eye spotted Magdalena, hovering in the corner by the brazier. ‘You! Come over here and open this.’
The maid scuttled forwards, sinking to her knees in front of the trunk. Three golden lions, the symbol of the King, decorated the surface of the lid, gold leaf stamped into the stiff leather. The girl’s slight fingers fumbled with the heavy straps, the unwieldy buckles holding the lid tight shut.
‘Come on! Come on, girl!’ Eleanor paced behind her.
At last the lid was pushed back, revealing the shadowed interior. Frowning, Eleanor peered in, scanning the contents. ‘For goodness’ sake! Those complete imbeciles have brought up the wrong trunk. This one belongs to Giseux! He left it in Poitiers the last time he was there. I am simply going to have to go down myself!’
She cast an a
pologetic glance in Brianna’s direction. ‘I mean for you to have my silver circlet, child. It will sit well upon you.’
Brianna nodded jerkily as Eleanor disappeared, exchanged a rueful smile with the maid. ‘You had better go with her, Magdelena, before she turns the whole castle upside-down looking for this thing!’ The maid nodded, slipping out of the chamber in pursuit of the formidable Queen.
Brianna’s eyes drifted across to the open trunk. Giseux’s trunk, lying open before her, the shadowed confines tantalising, offering a fragile link to his previous life. Mindful of the delicate silk of the wedding dress, she knelt with trepidation on the floorboards, peering into the spicy depths for some clue, some hint to the man she was about to marry. The silver-blue gown flowed out from her hips, the material settling in the circle around her slender figure. A smile lifted her mouth when she spotted the books stacked up on either side; no wonder the guards had looked like they were about to expire! She picked up one of the leather-bound volumes, riffled through the stiff parchment, the laboriously inked words. Latin. She had never learned the language of Rome, never had the chance. Being a knight had given Giseux the privilege of education. In the middle of the books, clothes, a bundle of tunics and braies—there was nothing here of any significance. She looked again. A bright corner of gold peeked out from beneath the pile of blues and greens, snaring her gaze. Her questing fingers dug, deep into the pile of material, pulling at the fabric, drawing it out into the light.
Tiny gold circles, hanging in bunched clusters from a heavily embroidered bodice, tinkled against one another. Sweat slicked her palms, as her nerveless fingers cradled the rift of heavy material, sparkling. A low, curved neckline, designed to display a perfect bosom; the waistband curtailed so a flat, toned midriff could be revealed. She had never seen such an item before, but she had listened to tales, heard the stories of these revealing outfits from the Orient. An exotic perfume rose in the heat of the chamber, sensual, exotic, taunting her.
Her heart fractured into a thousand pieces.
She shoved the material back into the trunk and slapped the lid down. Despair sloshed over her, icy, froze the very marrow of her bones. What was she doing? All this time, he had kept a piece of Nadia’s clothing, buried deep in the recesses of his trunk, a physical reminder of the woman he had loved. Who he would always love. She couldn’t fight this. Why had she even hoped, dared, that he would love her instead?
Chapter Seventeen
In the dimly lit confines of the vestry, concealed from the main body of the church by a billowing velvet curtain, the priest rubbed the back of his big, fleshy hand across his sweating forehead. His hand closed around the neck of an earthenware flagon, lifting the vessel to his lips, drinking deep. He didn’t normally imbibe, but, by God, surely the circumstances demanded it? A wedding, no less, and no time to prepare! He hated to be rushed, but already his lord and lady, together with members of the household retinue, sat on simple wooden chairs in front of the altar. No doubt Lord Jocelin was already tapping his fingertips impatiently on his knee; the man couldn’t abide waiting for anything.
The curtain snapped open. One of the fraying leather laces that secured the curtain to the pole across the doorway spun down to the flagstones with the sharp movement.
‘Are you ready?’ Giseux’s handsome face pushed into the gloom, steely eyes glowing with vitality, cheeks kissed with ruddy streaks from the cold.
Cowering back against the hard stone wall, the priest nodded, smoothing his hand nervously down his brown habit, his stubby fingers searching for the comforting presence of his crucifix, his rosary that hung from his girdle.
‘Come on, then.’ Giseux reached into the vestry, seizing the man’s shoulder in a friendly grip. ‘We haven’t got all day.’
‘Aye, my lord, let me just lift this.’ The priest hefted the heavy leather-bound Bible between his arms, following Giseux out into the church. Outside, the snow had ceased falling, the heat of the sun clearing the sky to a bright, periwinkle blue. The light shafted through the tall Gothic arches of the stone-framed windows, pooling onto the large rectangular flagstones, warming the assembled crowd chattering excitedly to each other. Conscious of Jocelin’s fierce regard, the priest positioned the book carefully on the high carved stand, turning the thick parchment with fastidious slowness to find the appropriate place. Lord Giseux occupied one of the chairs in the front row, a tunic of green samite hugging his formidable frame.
At the southern end of the church, the iron latch rattled upwards, the door swinging slowly inwards on creaking hinges. Heads turned, the crowd rising to their feet, hushed gasps of amazement, of wonder, echoing up into the cavernous vaulted ceiling.
‘Lord in Heaven, she is a true beauty!’ Mary whispered to her husband, hot tears flooding to her eyes, blurring her vision. She clutched at Jocelin’s arm, trying to suppress the sound of pure joy that rose in her throat. Giseux sprung from his seat, dazzling granite gaze rippling over his bride, his expression proud, hungry.
With Queen Eleanor behind her, Brianna stood poised on the threshold, framed by the carved stone arch. In the time that she had been preparing for the wedding, Lady Mary had raced around the gardens, pursued by various servants, scouring the snow-covered borders for suitable greenery with which to decorate the church. She had succeeded. Huge, trailing swards of ivy garlanded the grey stone, black berries studding the green mass like shiny beads, winking in the sunlight. Bunches of holly were tied to each chair that lined the aisle, forming a pathway of green, the red holly berries gleaming out like rubies. Encased in the silken gown of blue, Brianna appeared as an angel, the pale luminosity of her face hinting at some magical distant land, a place of light and joy.
Giseux sucked in his breath, hands rigid at sides, trying to restrain the urge to bound down the aisle and sweep her into his arms, to kiss away the anxious furrows on her brow. He studied the floor, the slightest crawl of shame darting up his spine. He had pushed her, forced her into this marriage, with the promise that she would gain more freedom. But now, he seriously wondered whether he could keep such a promise. More than ever now, he wanted her at his side, for ever. But one look at Brianna’s terse, hesitant expression told him the importance of treading carefully.
‘Come on, girl, come on, I’m freezing out here!’ Several people in the congregation smirked as Queen Eleanor’s hectoring tones echoed around the church. Brianna jolted forwards, the pearls in her borrowed silver circlet swinging in unison, as she began to move down towards Giseux, the breath of veil lifting from her shoulders. Mary glanced down at the posy of quivering snowdrops in her own hands, suddenly remembering to whom they belonged. As Brianna drew level with her, Mary pressed the delicate flowers into her chilly hands.
‘May God go with you, child,’ Mary blessed her.
Brianna threw her a wan smile, then glanced up towards Giseux, her blue eyes large, serious. A ray of brilliant sunshine punched a diagonal shaft through the window nearest to the altar, highlighting his tall, commanding figure, his tousled hair shining, gilded, the silver threads in his samite tunic sparkling like ice crystals. A hollow pit of doubt puckered her stomach at his unreadable expression. Would he come to regret his decision in time?
She moved to stand beside him, heart closing up with sadness. At least she had the memory of these last few days together, the memory of their night together. At least that belonged to her, even if his heart did not. The touch of Nadia’s bodice still rasped against her fingers.
‘Brianna?’ Giseux’s low rumble broke into her jittery stream of thought.
The priest was asking her something. ‘Do you consent to this marriage?’ His voice droned out into the church, a monotonous, nasal drawl. Eleanor shifted restlessly on the narrow wooden chair: she was as impatient as her brother.
‘Aye, I do,’ Brianna replied, her voice quiet, subdued.
‘Are you sure?’ The priest’s voice held a tint of suspicion as he eyed the bride’s wan face. He rustled the pages of the Bible in
important fashion, raising his shaggy eyebrows significantly.
Brianna glanced up, frowned. Giseux loved another woman, the evidence was undeniable—could her own love for him be strong enough to contend with such an immutable force? The woman had died; it was if his love had died with her.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ snapped Jocelin, bouncing out of his seat. ‘She said so, didn’t she? Are you completely deaf?’ Lady Mary dragged at his sleeve, an anguished look on her face, trying to pull her husband back down, to restrain him.
The priest turned another page, the thick, handmade paper crackling under his fingers.
‘And who gives this maid in marriage?’ he intoned laboriously.
‘I do!’ Queen Eleanor boomed out from Brianna’s left-hand side.
The priest peered at the older woman. ‘And you are?’
Jocelin, who had sat down, leaped up again. ‘Are you a complete and utter fool, man? She—’ he pointed to Eleanor ‘—is your Queen, the Queen of England and France, so watch your step or you’ll be seeking new employ.’
The priest sunk his face closer to the print on the page, trying to hide his portly frame behind the lec-turn, mumbling his apologies. As if to make amends for his mistake, he began to speak more quickly, rattling through the marriage vows at breakneck speed. Brianna watched his fleshy lips churn out the words with a feeling of dread, her body, her legs, wooden and stiff, her shoulders rigid. She jumped, started forwards with panic, as the crowd roared with delight when the priest finally pronounced them man and wife. Giseux’s head dipped, his cool lips grazing her own, a scant, perfunctory kiss.
They proceeded down the aisle in a whirl of dried rose petals, carefully preserved from the summer and now thrown high by the eager, admiring crowd, Brianna’s hand tucked delicately into Giseux’s crooked arm. Watching their progress, Lady Mary sobbed openly beside her smiling husband, and even Queen Eleanor dabbed covertly at one eye with a tiny white handkerchief. All around the couple, as they made their way along the path that led to the castle’s inner bailey, people shook Giseux’s hand, curtsied to Brianna, shouting their congratulations. The rosy hues of dusk streaked the sky overhead, the silver crescent of a new moon rising above the crenellated silhouette of the castle turrets. It should have been a perfect day. But when Brianna glanced up to meet Giseux’s narrowed regard, a hollowness gripped her and her heart swelled with grief. He seemed so distant, so withdrawn. It was if by marrying him, she had lost him.
Her Battle-Scarred Knight Page 22