“Perhaps,” I said, through clenched teeth, “you can find me a man who does not like noise.”
At this, Lord Percy leaned his head back and laughed. “Yes, Matilda,” he said, “perhaps I can!”
BOOK THREE
The Slippers of Glass
Marianne
Lord Percy was as good as his word. Before the month was out, he had found me a place at court—and as lady-in-waiting to a princess, too! I could scarcely believe my good fortune!
Of course, Princess Alana was only the wife of the king’s second son, Gilbert, and so she would never be the queen. This was something of a disappointment to me, if truth be told. Oh, I do not mean to sound ungrateful. It is a great honor—an incredible privilege—to serve in the household of a princess, any princess, no matter how lowly. And though it would have been so much grander to have served Princess Berta, still, I did not complain.
But then—oh, what an amazing series of events transpired! First King Raymond was struck down by the fever. Then the crown prince fell ill also, and followed his father in death only three days after. And thus, quite unexpectedly, Prince Gilbert assumed the throne—and as I served his wife, I became handmaid to the queen of Moranmoor! Imagine!
Naturally, I was as sorry as everyone else that King Raymond and Prince John died. It was such a terrible loss to the kingdom! Still, as the poet said, it is an ill wind that turns none to good. And certainly it was good for me, the way things turned out.
I think sometimes of our neighbors back home, and how cruelly they treated us in our time of distress. I wish they could see me now. They would be sick with envy. And heartily sorry, too, that they did not treat me more kindly while they had the chance.
I think of Father, also, almost every day, and how he would rejoice at my success! I picture him looking down on me from heaven and pointing me out to the other angels: “Look! See there, in the palace of Moranmoor—the beautiful young lady arranging the queen’s hair? That is my daughter Marianne!” Oh, he would be so happy for me!
I only wish the same could be said of Mother and Alice. If Father knew what had become of them, it would break his heart.
Mother had no choice but to marry again, you see, penniless and cast adrift as she was. And so once again, Lord Percy kept his word. He found her a husband, a widower of good birth and some fortune. Now my mother dwells in this man’s house, a knight by the name of Edward, and he is as cold and stern as Father was warmhearted and amiable. I consider myself fortunate twice over that I am so much at court and need rarely be at home.
Mother was not married to Edward for many months—and bitter months they were, too, with him expecting her to make order in a household that had been in disarray since the death of his first wife—when he announced that he had a daughter by that marriage and that she would soon be coming to live with them. This daughter had been living among peasants all her life!
Imagine it, then, if you will: it is late afternoon. Edward is alone in the solar, the sunny upstairs room where he sits for hours with his books; Mother and Alice are in the great hall, busy with their needlework. I am visiting for a few days and, as they sew, I am regaling them with stories of life at court. (Poor Alice does not join in these conversations, for she is as dumb as a stone, her mind much disordered since Father died.)
There comes a knock at the door, and a few moments later the housemaid ushers in as ridiculous a pair as you might ever hope to see. The first is a plump lady of middle age wearing an idiotic grin and a gown of questionable taste—the sort of thing a butcher’s wife might think very elegant. Her wimple is askew. Beside her stands a girl of about Alice’s age, wearing some shabby garment of olive wool, a black winter cap covering her head and ears, and mud-caked, round-toed shoes of coarse leather. This peasant attire is made all the more ridiculous by the overlong scarlet mantle she wears, for it is of fine cloth and lined with fur, clearly belonging to somebody else.
Her face, I confess, might be thought handsome were her skin not so dirty and sun-browned and did she not possess those startling eyebrows of a carroty hue—never once plucked in all her life—setting off such a pair of piercing blue eyes.
These two outlandish figures proved, once introductions had been made, to be Maud, the sister of Edward’s first wife, and our new stepsister, Isabel.
Mother sent the maid up to the solar to fetch Edward, who quickly sent the sister-in-law packing—rather rudely, I thought, considering their former connection and the fact that she had traveled some great distance (at his request) to bring his daughter home.
Once Maud had departed (after first kissing Isabel many times, and embracing her, and weeping copious tears at their parting), Edward studied the girl silently for a good long time.
“Isabel, is it?” he said at last.
“Yes, Father.” She curtsied awkwardly.
“Take off the cap,” he said. She did so.
“You do resemble your mother somewhat,” he said, “though her hair was more of gold than brass. Perhaps yours will be more golden once it is clean.” He turned to Mother then. “She needs a good washing—and some respectable clothes.”
“If you will recommend a dressmaker, I will summon her right away,” Mother said.
“A dressmaker? When you have nothing to do all day but ply your needle? Do not put on airs, Matilda. Just wash the child—she stinks, and most likely she is crawling with vermin. And if you cannot make her a gown yourself, then give her something of Alice’s.”
“Wash her?” Mother gasped, appalled. “You want me to wash her?”
“Just see that it is done, Matilda—you can manage that much, I think. Chances are she can wash herself, though I doubt she has had much practice at it. And when she is clean and properly dressed, bring her back to me and we shall see whether she truly resembles Catherine or no.”
Mother turned on her heel and stormed out of the hall; Alice and Isabel and I followed quickly after. “He is a monster!” she muttered.
We went straight to the kitchen, where Mother ordered the scullery maid to heat some water for a bath and told Isabel to stay there till it was ready. “Can I assume that you will know what to do with it?” Mother asked.
Isabel flushed and said she would.
Then we left the kitchen and Mother—still in a fury—went tearing through the house, rummaging through chests and drawers in search of something to put on the girl. Finally, in the storeroom, in a chest of cypress wood, Mother found some ladies’ clothes and shoes and under-linen, all carefully folded away with a scattering of bay leaves between each layer to keep them sweet. She took out a gown of fine wool in a deep indigo color, trimmed with ermine.
“Oh—how elegant!” I said. “Whose do you think it was?”
“His late wife’s, I suppose, or perhaps his mother’s. Edward might even have had a sister—I would certainly be the last to know of it. I do not rightly care, Marianne, if you would know the truth.”
“But isn’t that much too grand for little ash-face?”
“Have you a better idea, Marianne?” she snapped back. “Would you have her wear something of Alice’s—or of yours?”
It was not a real question. She already knew the answer.
By the time we returned to the kitchen, the maid was busy tossing buckets of dirty bathwater out the window into the street, and Isabel was sitting by the fire, drying her hair. Her skin was an entire shade lighter, I noticed.
“When you are dry, put this on. If it does not fit, then we shall have to see what we can do to alter it.”
“I can sew, my lady,” Isabel said. “Whatever is needed, I can do it.”
“Well, that is a relief,” Mother said. “But you must not say ‘my lady.’ You are a knight’s daughter, and you must learn to behave like one.”
“How shall I address you, then?”
Mother paused to think. “Stepmother, I suppose,” she said.
Then we went to sit in the great hall and wait until Isabel was dry and dressed an
d ready to be presented to Edward a second time. Alice retreated to our room, as she so often did. Mother took up her work again, still much agitated, jabbing her needle into the embroidery with savage force. We sat in silence for a while, irritation filling the air like an evil smell. Then suddenly I thought of something.
“Mother,” I said, “where is Isabel to sleep?”
She laid her sewing in her lap and looked up at me, aghast. She had not yet considered this. “Oh, dear child!” she said. “She must sleep with you and Alice—there is nowhere else.”
“Oh, Mother, no! He cannot make me share a bed with that dirty peasant!”
“Then you may return to court early, Marianne. You are most fortunate that you have that choice. But what of poor Alice? Troubled as she is, I cannot bear to think of her lying beside that strange child at night.”
“Let ash-face sleep in the kitchen, then—that is what she is accustomed to.”
“Marianne, you make me weary sometimes,” Mother said. “I am trying to think.” She returned to attacking her embroidery with her needle while I gazed at the fire.
Not long thereafter Isabel came into the hall dressed in the blue gown, her hair combed and lying free upon her shoulders. Her cheeks were bright, and she smelled of soap. The gown was a bit loose about the bodice, but it would do well enough. Indeed, such was the transformation that one might almost have taken her for a lady—were it not for the awkward way she walked in her dainty little shoes.
“Excellent,” Mother said, rising from her chair. “You are much improved, Isabel. Let us take you to your father for inspection.”
“Oh, Stepmother,” Isabel said, “it is such a beautiful gown! Like the sky on a clear night.”
“Just so,” Mother said. “Now come along.”
And so we led Isabel up to the solar and presented her to Edward.
“Here is your daughter, husband,” Mother said, “washed and dressed as you requested.”
But he did not smile, nor did he compliment us on the transformation. He rose to his feet, unmindful that his book fell onto the floor. Indeed, he trampled upon it as he strode across the room, roaring like a wild beast. His dark eyes were fierce with rage.
“How dare you!” he shouted, grabbing Mother fiercely by the arm. “Is this your idea of a jest, woman?” Then he slapped her face. I gasped and clung to the doorframe, knowing not whether to run or stay.
Then he turned on Isabel. “Take it off!” he said in a low growl.
“Here? Now?” said Isabel, retreating toward the door. She clearly knew not what to do—did he expect her to stand before us in her underclothes?
“Take it off, I say!” and he began pulling and tugging at the dress until it ripped at the neckline and along the right sleeve.
Isabel turned and fled from him, struggling with the buttons as she went, crying, “I am taking it off! I am taking it off!”
At the bottom of the stairs, she finally freed herself from the lovely blue dress that had reminded her of the night sky. She left it lying there and disappeared.
“Have you gone mad?” Mother cried, her hand against her burning cheek.
“No, Matilda, not mad. But I fear you shall drive me to it. On whose authority did you go into my dead wife’s chest and dress that child like a ghost out of the past? Tell me!”
“I did not think it mattered whose dress it was,” Mother said. “I thought only to do as you commanded and find her something to wear. And since my reward was a slap in the face, you may dress your daughter however you please, but do not come to me about it.”
The rage was out of him now.
“Go,” he said.
“And gladly,” she snapped back.
Mother slept that night with Alice and me, while Isabel slept in the kitchen. When I saw little ash-face at breakfast the next morning, she was once again dressed in her old peasant gown of olive wool. And as neither Mother nor Edward seemed willing to do aught about it, she went on wearing it from that day on. It was enough to put you off your food!
As you might imagine, I was heartily glad to pack my things that very day and return to court!
Bella
I did not like it in that house. No one was happy there.
Not my father, who prowled the halls like a caged beast, haunted by ghosts and poisoned by grief. He scarcely spoke to me, except to criticize. I often wondered why he brought me home at all, unless it was so he might stare at me endlessly, searching my face for the living shadow of my long-dead mother.
Nor was my stepmother happy, for she had been forced to marry a man who was not amiable in the least and who regarded her with contempt. She had one daughter who could not speak and another who thought only of herself. And then she had me thrust upon her, quite unexpected and very much unwanted—a coarse and ignorant bumpkin who sat in her hall every day, reminding her always of that first marriage and that first wife whom her husband seemed unable to forget.
And most certainly Alice was not happy, for she had crept into the darkness and dwelt there, overcome by silent grief.
I believe the very mice in the baseboards and the fleas among the rushes were unhappy there. Misery filled the house like a fog, seeping into every corner, chilling us on the warmest days, robbing the finest food of its savor. However white the bread or spiced the wine, all tasted flat when eaten at their table.
There seemed no proper place for me in that household, unless it was to be stared at by Father and scolded by Stepmother and mocked by Marianne and ignored by Alice. I think at first they had some intentions of improving me, so that I might be decently married off as soon as possible. But they quickly lost interest in the project, or were discouraged by the hopelessness of it. Whichever it was, they taught me precious little of how a lady ought to behave, unless you count such rebukes as, “Do not eat like a ploughman, Isabel!” or “Are you a hunchback, child? Sit up straight!”
As they seemed not to know what to do with me, and as it was plain they found my presence bothersome, I took to spending my time in the kitchen. It was warm and the air smelled of roasting pig and onions, cinnamon and rosemary. There was work for me to do, and laughter. Cook called me a “right jolly lass” and patted my cheek and smiled at me. (She did not have to live in that house all the time and so had not succumbed to the gloom of the place.)
I think she was glad of my help, for the kitchen maid was lazy and none too bright, whereas I was eager to help and already knew much of cookery. I could roast meat and brew ale and make eel pie and other such common fare, though I knew naught of fancy dishes. At the cottage we had never made dainties like bone-marrow pie, with its many layers of marrow mixed with currants, artichoke souls, great raisins, damson prunes, cinnamon, dates, and rosewater. Cook got the receipt out of a little book she had. I asked her if we might make more of those dishes, so that I could learn how to prepare them.
“Why, of course,” she said, and squeezed my hand. “Just look through the book and tell me what you fancy.”
“I cannot,” I said, “for I never learned my letters.”
“Well, then, we’ll go over them together, won’t we? I’m no great reader myself, but I can usually make out such words as are in the receipts.” (She only said this to be kind—she could read perfectly well, and I knew it.)
After that, whenever time allowed, Cook would tell me the names of the various receipts, and we would choose one of them to make the following day. I enjoyed this, and I think she did, too; it made her work less monotonous. Even Stepmother commented on it, saying our meals had become more varied and interesting of late, not just the same old roast meats day after day. I tried hard not to smile when I heard her say this. Had she known I had aught to do with it, she would have found fault with every dish.
One morning Cook and I set out to make a salmon and fruit tart. As I had made pastry many a time in the old days, she set me to doing that while she simmered the fruits in wine—figs, dates, raisins, and currants—and cut up the fish. Once I had made the
pastry coffin, she would show me how to fill it with layers of fish, fruits, spices, and pine nuts—that way I would remember how to do it the next time.
I was standing at the kitchen table, kneading the dough and watching Cook at her preparations, when suddenly the door swung open and Stepmother came in. This startled me, for Stepmother never came into the kitchen. She preferred to summon Cook out to the great hall if there was anything she needed to discuss with her.
Whatever had brought her there, she was about to say something to Cook when, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted me. All was quiet for a moment. Then Stepmother turned her head in a slow and affected manner and fixed me with a hard, cold stare. This made me most uneasy—just as it was meant to do. My hands began to tremble, and I grew breathless and light-headed. It was then, as I took a step back from the table to make sure of my balance, that I dropped the pastry onto the floor!
Cook gasped, the kitchen maid squealed, and all eyes gazed down to where the pastry lay at my feet. “Oh!” I cried, retrieving the ruined dough and stupidly making as if to brush it off.
“Well, Isabel,” Stepmother said, “I see you are just as inept in the kitchen as you are everywhere else.”
“Oh, Madam,” Cook said most anxiously, “I hope you do not mind that I let her help in the kitchen sometimes. I just thought—even a highborn lady needs to know somewhat of cookery.”
Stepmother sighed expressively and closed her eyes to show her impatience. “Highborn she may be, Cook,” she said, “but a lady—never! If you can teach her anything at all, then I will be glad of it. You are welcome to her.”
Cook’s face brightened. “Oh, thank you, Madam!” she gushed. “Indeed, Miss Isabel is a most clever—”
“There will be five of us for dinner, all this week,” Stepmother said, clearly not wishing to hear of my cleverness. “Miss Marianne is coming home from court.”
“Yes, Madam,” Cook said with a curtsy and a nod, “I will take note of it.”
Bella at Midnight Page 9