“But, Edward,” I said, “she is living with peasants. They are goodly folk, truly, but it is no place for her to learn how to dress and how to behave in fine company and all that a wellborn child must know.”
“Madam, it is none of your affair.”
“But I am her aunt, Edward, and her godmother also!”
“Then you may pray for her soul, if you like.”
“Indeed, I do pray for it already, Edward—every day—and do not need your permission to do so.”
He sniffed and rose to his feet. I was being dismissed.
“Edward,” I said, “I do not think it wise to leave her there much longer—she will pick up coarse habits that must only be broken later.”
“Enough!” he said. “I told you already it was none of your affair. You know where the door is, Maud—it’s the place where you came in.”
“Only hear me a moment longer, Edward—”
“No, I will not! Isabel is my daughter, and I will dispose of her as I will!”
“Dispose!” I was aghast. How could he use such a word in connection with his own child?
“Oh, the devil take you,” he roared, “you ugly, common, interfering busybody! Get out of my house and leave my daughter alone. Do you hear me? I will bring her home when I am ready, and not before. And if ever I have need of your assistance, or your opinions, you may be sure that I shall ask for them. Until that time, if I should hear that you are meddling in my affairs in any way, by God, I shall have you taken up by the law. And do not think I won’t, out of sentiment for your sister—for I married her despite her family. And I have absolutely no wish to continue the acquaintance.”
“You were happy to continue your acquaintance with our father’s money!” I shouted back. I never should have said it—satisfying though it was—for my words were like bellows to a flame. He flashed out at me, so that I feared he might strike me. I took up my mantle in haste and moved quickly toward the front entrance.
“I will gladly raise her, if you will not,” I said from the safety of the doorway.
“You will not so much as speak to her, do you hear me? I would rather she live with lepers than with you!”
Then he slammed the door.
And so I went home that day and wept my heart out. Edward seemed determined to leave that poor child exactly where she was. Whether he did it out of lunacy or spite, I never knew, but it mattered not. Either way Isabel would grow up a peasant, with no education and none of the skills or social graces expected of a highborn lady. How, then, was she to find her place in the world? Was she to marry a cobbler or a blacksmith? Or some down-at-the-heels knight who would wed her for her fortune and treat her with scorn? No one else would have her, of that I was quite sure—not with her coarse speech and common ways.
Hard as I tried, I could not drive the picture from my mind of my own dear sister’s child out hoeing the garden, or shearing the sheep, or slopping the pigs, or plucking a chicken—work fit only for the lowest servant in my house. She would wear some awful, shabby gown, filthy, patched, and torn. Her skin would be ruined by the sun. Her hands would be calloused and filthy, with dirt beneath the nails. And her hair—so golden and downy soft when she was a babe—would be greasy and unkempt, hanging down in her face and blown about by the wind.
But then I checked myself, remembering her foster mother, good Beatrice, and how clean and well-ordered her cottage had been, and how tenderly she had held the child that day. And so I amended the vision somewhat. Now I saw Isabel running about on the common with the other children, barefoot and laughing. I saw her busy with useful tasks—spinning by the hearth, helping in the kitchen—and I began to grow rather fond of this imagined child. She was strong and eager and inclined to laughter. She held her head high, and her eyes were bright. She still wore a shabby gown, but at least it would be clean. And though she would not know her letters, she would have learned her prayers and her catechism. That was the best that even sensible Beatrice could manage. She could not give Isabel anything she did not herself possess.
And thus my thoughts returned once more to Edward and how he meant to deny his own daughter her birthright as a noble child. And I pictured Isabel once again, this time as she ought to have been. She was beautiful, of course, much like Catherine in her younger days. She sat beside the fire in the great hall of Edward’s house with her sewing in her lap, wearing a fine silk gown and dainty slippers. Her hair was neatly plaited and coiled and covered with a linen veil. Her skin was smooth and white, her hands long and slender.
I moved closer, in my mind, so that I might study her face. But what I saw there made me gasp. For this child’s eyes were not bright, but gazed dully down at her embroidery. Her shoulders were slumped and her expression wary. This girl, growing up in Edward’s dark shadow, was a cowed and timid creature—fearful, lonely, and sad.
“You simpleton!” I shouted, and smote myself upon the leg. “You perfect and utter fool!” And I laughed, then, and clapped my hands. And then I got down upon my knees and thanked God with all my heart that I had failed in my mission to bring her home.
Prince Julian of Moranmoor
For my tenth birthday, my father sent me a marvelous horse. I wonder if he even remembered how old I was, that he should send me such a beast. It was a huge black warhorse, eighteen hands high, and worth an absolute fortune!
My father had not seen me more than five or six times in all my life. Perhaps he had confused me in his mind with one of my older brothers, thinking I was tall and strong like John, a skilled rider and a champion upon the field. Of course I would have liked to be those things, but I was not. I was slight of build and small of stature, awkward and ungainly—and I was especially timid and inept when it came to horses. My usual mount was a small and patient mare, well past her youth and exceedingly docile. Thus, when my gift arrived and was led out onto the field, pawing and snorting, the master of the horse rolled his eyes in despair.
But I did not understand how inappropriate it was for me to own such a creature, or how impossible that I should try to ride him. I was too busy enjoying the envy of my fellow pages as they beheld my prize. I even went so far as to name him Bucephalus, after the famous horse of Alexander the Great. Oh, how it shames me to remember it now! I demanded to have him saddled immediately, so that I might ride him then and there.
The master of the horse answered my request by saying—in the hearing of all the other pages—that he thought I was not near ready to handle such an animal, if indeed I ever would be. I flushed scarlet at this reproach and was so overcome with righteous anger that I did a thing I had never done before: I pulled rank on my master.
“My father,” I said with a piercing gaze, “King Raymond, desires that I should have this horse, and has sent him here so that I might ride him.”
“Your father,” the master responded with the icy calm of a man who has had his fill of arrogant little boys, “has entrusted me with the chore of teaching you to ride. And he desires that you should survive that education. And had he seen you jousting yesterday, my lord prince, he would have sent you a mule instead.”
Oh, the silence that followed that remark! Had I been any other boy, they would all have howled with laughter. Instead, they gazed intently at their boots and endeavored to control their expressions. I spun upon my heels and strode away, boiling with rage and humiliation.
At dinner my uncle brought up the subject of the horse, for he knew nothing of my quarrel with the master, but only meant to make pleasant conversation. I knew not how to answer him except to say that it was a very fine animal indeed. The other boys bit their lips or turned away—all but Geoffrey of Brennimore, who smiled.
Was he mocking me?
I could not bear to think that he found me ridiculous, for Geoffrey was my ideal, the boy I longed to be. He was the best liked and most accomplished of all the pages, and upon the practice field he was unbeatable. He was a natural athlete, steady with a lance, quick and deadly with a sword—and how he
could ride! I could not help but think that had his father sent him a warhorse, the master would have had the beast saddled right away.
Thus it was that Geoffrey’s mysterious smile set something stirring in me that went beyond caution and reason. After dinner that afternoon, I announced to the other pages that I would ride Bucephalus if it killed me!
Such insubordination, such defiance—especially considering my princely rank and my timid behavior on most occasions—caused a great stir among the pages. This was going to be an event!
Having assured ourselves that the master of the horse was occupied elsewhere, we made our way out to the stables. I thought Bucephalus seemed much calmer than he had in the morning, though he was every bit as large as before. I began to think I would have no difficulty in controlling him. Indeed, I was already imagining how I would tell the master afterward of my easy success, how I would make him eat his words.
We saddled Bucephalus in the stall; then I mounted him and rode out onto the practice field. How unlike my placid little mare he was! Every muscle in his mighty frame was trembling with restrained force! Oh, he would go all right, if I would but let him!
I rode Bucephalus in a circle, at an easy trot, and the boys cheered me on. I felt right wonderful, then, and proud, and confident, and so I urged the horse into a gallop. And, oh, the speed and the power and the sense of myself transformed into a champion, a hero—it filled me with a joy such as I had never known in all my life! I was Alexander of old, riding off to fight the Parthians! I was the Worthy Knight, galloping into the fray to bring great armies to their knees!
My head in the clouds, my soul on fire, I was lost to all reason—and so I gave Bucephalus another good prick with my spurs.
Had I been struck by lightning or swept down a mighty river in flood, I could not have been more astonished or unprepared. The horse shot forth like a bolt from a crossbow. That I kept my seat at all was a miracle, though I lost the reins and one of my stirrups and only held on by clutching his neck with all the strength in my arms. I think I was probably screaming, but the only sound I remember is the thunder of his hooves. I could not stop him, nor did I think I could stay upon his back much longer. I was too terrified even to consider how miserably I had disgraced myself.
Then, off to the side, I spotted a blur of color, and I began to hear the hooves of another horse pounding the earth. I dared not turn my head—it was plastered to the sweaty neck of my mount—but I could look back somewhat by moving my eyes. And what I saw was Geoffrey, come to my rescue! We rode side by side for a moment, for his horse was hard-pressed to pass Bucephalus, who thought it was a race. But after a bit, Geoffrey gained enough ground to grab hold of my reins. Gradually we slowed to a trot and finally halted. I realized only then that, out of the necessity for speed, Geoffrey had managed my rescue without even a saddle upon his horse!
I was not sure at that moment if I could ever forgive him for saving my life—and with such grace, and ease, and good humor! I had made myself look a fool; Geoffrey, by comparison, made me look far worse.
We returned to shouts of “well done!” and “hurrah!”—all of them much deserved, though not by me. I dismounted with trembling legs and managed not to weep, but only just. I left the others to unsaddle my great horse, rub him down, and put him away. I was so full of shame I could not bear to be in their company. And so I walked out the castle gates and into the village, tears running down my face. I wiped them away with dirty hands, making mud streaks upon my cheeks.
I went to the one place where comfort was to be had—the cottage of my old nurse. I found Bella there, in the yard, pounding away at the butter churn. All the cats in the neighborhood seemed to be there, hoping for an accident.
“Prince Julian!” Bella cried, abandoning her work and running to greet me.
“Princess Bella!” I answered, as I always did—though my voice was so strained with feeling, I knew not if she even heard me.
“Oh, Julian,” she said, when she drew nearer and saw the evidence of tears upon my face. “What is the matter?”
“Oh, I have done something foolish, Bella,” I said, “that is all.”
“We all do foolish things; that’s what Mama says.”
“Aye, Bella, that is true—but some of us are more foolish than others.” At this a fresh stream of hot tears coursed down my cheeks.
“Well, you must confess it then, and I will play the priest and give you absolution.”
I laughed at that, for there never was anyone less solemn and priestlike than bright little Bella.
“Come and sit with me in the yard,” she said, taking my hand. “And you must tell me everything, or else I will not sleep for a week from wondering.”
“I think I shall not sleep for a week from remembering,” I said. “But you shall hear it and must only promise not to laugh too heartily at my foolishness.”
“Oh, I never would,” she said most earnestly. “You know that!”
We sat, as so often we had before, upon the low wall at the side of the cottage. By habit we both began picking daisies and weaving them into flower crowns as we talked. The cats came over to see what we were about, then, finding nothing of interest, drifted back to investigate the churn, and finally went away.
“Father Bella,” I said, “I have committed the sin of pride.”
“Indeed?” she said with a grin.
“Indeed. My father sent me a gift today—a great beast of a warhorse. But the master said I was not yet skilled enough to ride him. And I was so mortified by what he said—and so full of pride—that I rode him anyway.”
“But he is yours. Surely you can ride him whenever you want!”
“Yes, that is true.”
“So?”
“I had to be rescued.”
“Oh,” she said, fighting a smile. “By the master? Was he terribly angry?”
“No, the master was not there. I was rescued by Geoffrey of Brennimore, a lad of my own age. He did it without even saddling his horse. Whereas I only just managed to stay on my great warhorse by clinging to his neck for dear life. I looked a perfect fool, Bella!”
“Oh, Julian,” she said, touching my hand gently. “What if you had fallen? You might have been killed!”
“There was a moment this afternoon when that seemed like a happier outcome.”
“Now that is a foolish sentiment, indeed,” she said. “And I suppose it is prideful as well. But I still do not think you are in need of absolution. You have been punished enough already.”
“I’m afraid there’s more. Bella, do you know what hubris means?”
She shook her head. “No. I do not know any Latin.”
“It’s Greek, actually. It means great pride, out of all reason. Foolish pride.”
“But . . .”
“Bella, I named my horse Bucephalus.”
She shrugged.
“Bucephalus was the horse of Alexander the Great. That was bad enough, but at least you might imagine I was only praising the horse. And he is a fine creature, deserving of a fine name. But, Bella, when I got upon his back and seemed to be riding him so well, I began to imagine myself as Alexander. Truly, Bella, I did!”
“And was he a great man? Alexander?”
“Oh, indeed, Bella, just as his name implies. He conquered the world!”
“Ah!”
“And then, Bella, I was not satisfied with merely playing a great hero. I imagined myself the Worthy Knight! Is that not prideful enough for you? Can you picture me riding into the midst of a battle and bringing armies to their knees?”
“If God willed it, you could! You have a pure heart, Julian, as the Worthy Knight is said to have. God could make you a champion if it was needful. Who knows what He has planned for you?”
“Oh, Bella. Will you always see only the best in people?”
“I see you as you are.” Then, making the sign of the cross over me, she said, “Prince Julian of Moranmoor, I hereby absolve you of the great sin of having too much im
agination!”
I laughed. “And being prideful,” I added.
“That, too,” she said. “If you insist.”
Bella
In those dismal years after we said good-bye (or rather did not say good-bye, but parted all the same), I thought often of that afternoon down by the river. It was how I always wished to remember him—not as he was that last time, when he broke my heart.
I was watching Margaret for Mother, who was busy with the threshing. We had gone to the riverbank with our baskets, in search of herbs for the making of simples for such maladies as rashes of the skin or aching joints or pain in the head. I have a good eye for plants—Mother has often said so. It was she who taught me which herbs to look for and how to recognize them, what were the seasons for each, and whether to pick them at midday or at night by moonlight, so they would have more potency.
The weather was fair and warm, so Margaret and I took off our shoes and sat in the grass by the side of the river, our feet dangling in the cool water. A flock of ducks were feeding on plants in the shallows, upending themselves in the process, heads down in the water, rear ends pointing at the sky. Margaret found this most comical; she was easy to entertain.
Then, over the sounds of wind and river and the soft conversation of ducks, there came a cry of “hoo-hoo!” I looked up and here came Julian, riding over the hill on the far side of the river. He reined in his horse at the crest of the rise and remained there, unmoving, his back erect, his head high, and a falcon upon his fist. I secretly wondered if perchance he was posing thus so that we might admire him and notice how he sat his mount so well (it was that big, black horse of his, the one with the important name). Certainly I was glad enough to admire him, if he wished. He did look noble indeed. I waved and called his name.
Just then a brace of hounds came thrashing through the high grass in our direction, straight at the ducks. At the same moment, the falcon spread her great wings and rose into the air, where she circled above Julian’s head, awaiting his command.
Bella at Midnight Page 4