Then Stepmother looked over to where I stood, still holding my sad little lump of dirty pastry, and said, “Make sure you throw that out.” And then she left.
I was too disheartened after that to help Cook with the pie. I went over and sat in the corner. It was all I could do to keep from weeping.
I had never asked to come live there. I would rather have stayed in the village, where I was happy, for all that it was so humble. But as it seemed that I had no choice but to live in my father’s house, I had done my best to please him and my stepmother. I tried always to be pleasant and helpful. I minded my manners and spoke softly and absented myself whenever I seemed to be in the way. Whatever they bid me do, I did it eagerly. But none of this did any good. Clearly I was still an annoyance to them. What little time we spent together—at meals, and on occasion in the great hall—was painful for everybody.
Why, then, did they not just marry me off and be rid of me? Because I was too coarse and stupid to make a decent match, that’s why. And besides, if they were unwilling to give me a respectable dress, such as a knight’s daughter ought to wear (neither Father nor Stepmother would submit in the matter, after their loathsome quarrel), what were the chances they would provide me with a dowry sufficient to buy me a suitor? No, like as not, I would grow old in that dismal house, unwanted and unloved.
While I was engaged in these bleak musings, my fingers had been busy playing with the dough, pinching off bits of it and forming them into little animals. And, indeed, I was rather pleased by the results—for you could easily tell which were the sheep and which the cows. I showed them to Cook, and she smiled.
“What a clever lass you are!” she said. “Why don’t you set them in the oven this afternoon, once the fire is out? They will dry nice and hard and then you can keep them, you see. I will show you how, before I go.”
Her kindness lifted my spirits, and I decided I would give her one or two of the animals, for she had been good to me, and she seemed to fancy them.
Working with my hands has always calmed me, and it did so now. As I sat there, shaping the little legs of another cow and forming its head and giving it a set of delicate horns and a slender rope of a tail, my mind carried me out of the kitchen and back to the village where I had been a child—where life had been simple, and I was loved and felt safe.
I put the little cow aside and began, very carefully, to shape the figure of a lady. I gave her a simple gown, and an apron, and a headdress such as Mother always wore. I took a broom straw and used it to poke two holes for eyes and draw a delicate line for a mouth. Then I pinched her up a little nose.
I laid the figure down upon the mantel, then began working on the next one. I gave him a blacksmith’s apron and sturdy boots and a bald spot on the top of his head. After that I made Will, with his broad shoulders and long legs and fine, straight hair. I made a little hat for him, like the one he used to wear when he worked in the garden. And last of all, I made Margaret. She would be taller now—children grow like weeds at her age. But the only Margaret I remembered was the one who had run along beside me, throwing kisses, on the day I left the village. And so that was how I made her: a sweet, round-faced angel with plaited hair and a little winter cap.
Then I kneaded the remains of the dough and began work on one more figure—a boy dressed in a fine tunic with a sword at his belt. I wondered if I ought to put a crown upon his head, as he was a prince. But as I had never seen him wear one, I decided against it. I gave him boots and a long mantle, and when I was finished, I felt quite proud of my work. I had improved with practice, and Julian was the best of the lot.
As I held the little figure in my hand, my mind was suddenly flooded with memories. It was like looking down at my childhood from a high place. There we were, Julian and me: picking blackberries, sending leaf boats sailing down the river, playing tug rope out upon the common, visiting the fairy castle, telling stories, running races, sharing confidences, laughing about homely princesses, and admiring his beautiful falcon. Oh, how happy we were!
But then I came to that last day, at the fair: Julian in his scarlet tunic, sitting upon the paddock fence with all those handsome boys. And I saw him grinning and laughing—how could I ever forget?—then suddenly noticing me, and hiding his face with his hand, in hopes I would not recognize him. And I watched as he nodded to me so coldly—as though I were little more than a stranger, some upstart peasant whose attentions were unwanted—and turned away to laugh about me with his friends! I closed my fist over the figure, then, and Julian was gone, nothing but a formless lump of dough.
“Are you all right, lass?” Cook asked, for hurt and anger showed plain upon my face. I was not sure of my voice, and so I nodded and tried to smile.
Then Cook saw the figures, all lined up on the mantle. “Why, Isabel!” she said. “Will you look at that! Aren’t they just like real little people! A man and a lady and a boy and a girl. It’s a family, isn’t it, child? Your family!”
“Yes!” I answered. And of a sudden the loss and the loneliness washed over me so that I could not help but weep—big, gulping sobs. Cook wrapped her arms around me then, and I leaned against her soft and ample bosom and breathed in the comfortable odors of herbs and onion and fresh-ironed linen. She stood there, holding me and stroking me and whispering sweet endearments, until I was done crying. Then she dried my tears with her apron.
“We’ll set them all in the oven to dry tonight, just like I told you. And tomorrow I’ll bring a little box for you to put them in. That way you can keep them safe—all the people you love.”
What a rare good soul Cook was! I kissed her and thanked her and told her she was an angel. She just said, “Oh, pooh!” and turned away in embarrassment and went to take the pie out of the oven and get dinner ready to serve.
I would have to leave soon, I knew. It was time to join the others in the hall, where my clumsiness would be discussed and my manners criticized—unless I was lucky enough to be ignored.
Quickly, in the little time I had left, I set to work making Julian again—for I suddenly understood that it did not matter what he might think of me now. He was part of my past, part of my family. I would always love Julian, as he had once been. It brought me joy and comfort to remember those happy times. Why should I let bitterness drive them out of my heart?
That night—as every night since first I came to my father’s house—I slipped away from the others as soon as the bell rang for Compline and returned to the kitchen to sleep. They all knew where I went. And they were glad of it, too, for neither Marianne nor Alice wished to share a bed with me. Though I now bathed as often as they did, my peasant upbringing would never wash off. As for me, I had no desire to sleep beside them, either, knowing how they despised me and shrank from my touch.
The kitchen at night was peaceful and warm. The welcoming glow of the covered fire gave off a gentle light, and the smells of the day’s cooking still lingered in the air. I spread my makeshift pallet—a pile of old flour sacks—upon the floor beside the hearth. Then I went over to the oven and took out my little figures. They had dried hard, just as Cook had said they would, and felt sweetly warm in my hands.
I arranged them carefully upon the hearth, all the people I loved. They would stand there through the night, keeping watch over me. And as I lay in the near darkness, it was as though Will and Margaret were truly there beside me, breathing softly in their sleep, and Mother and Father were up in the loft, talking in quiet voices. And tomorrow, or the next day, Julian would come walking down the lane—and when he saw me, he would smile and call out “Princess Bella!” as he always did, and reach out his hand for mine.
And then peace passed over me like God’s angel, and I slept.
Matilda
Sometimes I think God is having sport with me—like a naughty child who pulls the cat’s tail. Oh, I know it is sinful to say such things, and I shall have to confess it to the priest. But it felt good to say it all the same.
Now I ask you—do I des
erve this? Have I not suffered enough already, between widowhood and penury? Must we add a deranged daughter and a mad husband into the bargain? And then—and then—such a lovely surprise! “I have a daughter,” he says. “You shall raise her,” he says. “She has lived among peasants all her life,” he says!
“Why not leave her where she is?” I suggest.
And what do you think he says to that? “I wish to know if she looks like Catherine.” He says this to me! His wife! He might at least try to pretend he esteems me. He might hold off mentioning Catherine one day in the week, if only for variety! Not that I expected roses, or poetry—I am a sensible woman. I only want a little respect.
I believe sometimes I will lose my mind!
But I am ranting—and I know better, too, for it will change nothing and only cause my head to ache. I must think instead of my one consolation, my only source of pleasure and entertainment since I came to this unhappy house—my visits from Marianne.
Now that in itself is passing strange, for Marianne was never my favorite, being a willful child who was always complaining and insistent upon having her way. Never was she as sweet as Alice, or as considerate, or kind. But Alice is lost to me now, and I have only Marianne, who at least brings me amusing stories and gossip from court and opens a window into a happier world.
“Oh, Mother,” she says, “wait till I tell you!”—and already I begin to smile. “Lady Ellen has been disgraced and sent away from court! The queen has had another tooth pulled, and you could hear her screams all the way out in the garden! The king fell asleep in chapel, and began to snore—and the priest knew not what to do, and so he feigned a fit of coughing, so as to wake the king politely—and when His Majesty came to himself with a snort, he glowered at the priest and said, ‘Father, do you want a lozenge?’”
Marianne always tells good stories. Naturally Edward leaves the room as soon as she appears. He does not wish to be amused—it is so much more pleasant to mope about and be glum!
Usually her stories are of trifling matters, but not always. One day she had a most remarkable tale to tell. It disrupted our household, as you shall hear, and much else besides.
We were in the great hall, Edward being up in the solar and wishing not to be disturbed there. Alice was sitting upon a stool in a far corner, in the dark, studying her fingernails. Isabel was tending to the fire, one of those common domestic tasks she automatically took upon herself when the housemaid was not nearby.
Marianne could scarcely contain herself that day, such was the news she had to impart.
“The queen,” she said breathlessly as she removed her mantle and sat down before the fire, “is not speaking to the king!”
“Indeed?” said I. “For what cause?”
“For the cause of breaking a vow—or intending to break it.”
“You will drive me mad, Marianne. Do not be so coy. What vow is he planning to break?”
“The truce, Mother! The great treaty!”
I leaned forward with interest then. “Marianne—what are you saying?”
She was positively aglow. “Next month, on the fourteenth day of September, Princess Marguerite of Brutanna—the sister of King Harry Big Ears—is to marry Prince Adolph of Galant. It will be a very grand affair, as befits a royal wedding. All the nobility of Brutanna will be there, and the royal family of Moranmoor is invited also. There will be feasting and dancing and jongleurs and acrobats—”
“Marianne, make your point.”
“Well . . . King Gilbert has other plans.”
“Other plans?”
“Oh, yes—and they are the cause of the row up at the palace. You see, when it comes time to attend the wedding, the king will send word that he and Queen Alana are too ill to travel, but that his brother Julian, being already there, will represent the royal family of Moranmoor for the happy occasion.”
“Because?”
“Because secretly he has raised an army, and secretly it is even now on its way to Brutanna—split into small units and traveling the back roads, so as not to raise suspicion. The army will assemble in the great forest near King Harry’s castle and hide there until—”
“Until the night of the wedding,” I cried—for suddenly I could see it all—“when they will attack during the marriage feast!”
“Just so! At midnight, when Harry’s men are the worse for drink and revelry. And even were they sober, they would have their guard down, for they will trust to the signed truce and the presence of the prince as hostage. It is a most shrewd and crafty bit of strategy—King Gilbert cannot possibly lose!”
“But the queen considers it dishonorable,” I said.
“Indeed she does! Mortal sin! It is bad enough, she says, for Gilbert to violate the truce, but to have his own brother’s blood upon his hands—”
Then Isabel screamed, “No! Oh, no!”
We stared at her speechlessly—it was so unlike her, for Isabel’s even temper was one of her few admirable traits.
“Isabel,” I said. “Do not shout like a fishwife. You shall deafen us.”
“But that is so horrible!” she cried, taking no notice of my rebuke and continuing in the same ear-splitting tone. “After so long, with so many dead—and now that we finally have peace, to start the war up again! Why?”
She knelt beside Marianne and tried to grasp her hands, but Marianne pulled away. “Stop it!” she snapped. “Don’t touch me, you little rodent!”
Isabel sat back upon her heels and buried her face in her hands. “And they will kill the prince!” she moaned.
“We have just said that, Isabel, and the queen is most dismayed over it.”
“But will someone not go there and warn him?”
“No, you ninny!” Marianne snapped. “It is a secret plan! You cannot warn someone of a secret plan—because then it won’t be a secret!”
“Oh, poor Julian!” Isabel cried. “Did he not say he would die in Brutanna before ever he was wed? Oh, terrible prophecy! And there is no need for it! None at all!”
Marianne looked hard at Isabel. “What’s this, ash-face? Did you go about eavesdropping up at the castle, back in your peasant days? Listen in on the prince’s private conversations?”
“No, never! He said it to me.”
“To you? I do not believe it.”
“He was my friend, Marianne. My dearest friend!”
“Oh, amazing! Such lies you tell! Go away; I cannot bear the sight of you!”
“No, please—it is true. My foster mother was his old nurse, and he came to see us often. It is not so very strange—but oh, Marianne, it does not matter! His life is in great peril, and if no one from the palace cares enough to warn him, then I shall go there myself and do it!”
“You?” I cried. “You want to go to Brutanna and speak with the prince? Oh, this is too much, Isabel!”
“Perhaps—but I shall do it all the same. I shall walk there if I must.”
She got to her feet and made as if to leave, and so I took her arm firmly and pulled her close and looked hard into her eyes. “Now listen to me, you ungrateful little fool. You will not leave this house. You will not speak of this to anyone. Do you understand? Marianne was most unwise to speak of it at all, for it is the king’s secret business—”
“But—Julian!”
“Isabel!” I shook her to get her attention. “If it becomes known that Marianne has been repeating palace gossip at home—and, God forbid, if it should spoil the king’s war plans—it will forever ruin any chances my daughter might have of advancement, and she is sure to lose her place at court. Do you understand me, child? I will not have you running about the streets, crying this to the rooftops!”
“Oh, Stepmother,” she wailed, “would you have the prince die to protect Marianne’s place at court? That is horrible! And I, for one, do not care a fig about her advancement, and would be most happy to spoil the king’s war plans, for they are evil!”
I was astonished, for never had Isabel shown such feeling or bee
n so bold. There was no question she would ruin everything. And so I did what anyone would have done in my place: I slapped her hard, then took her to the storeroom and locked her in.
Alice
Because I did not speak, they seemed to think I was not listening. They said whatever they liked in my presence. They even talked about me sometimes, as though I were not there. But in truth, I heard most everything—it was just that I didn’t care. I did not want to be a part of the world. I would curl myself up, sometimes, like a snail retreating into its shell. I would close my eyes, and in that dark, tight space I would imagine myself growing smaller and smaller until I would finally disappear. I felt compelled to do this—but afterward, I was always still there, and the sorrow was, too.
Sleep is also a kind of disappearing, and I tried that as well, for days at a time. But terrible visions found me in my dreams. And so I sought what comfort I could in dark corners, where the walls enclosed me and I felt less afraid. I would just sit there and listen. I had not the energy to do much else.
I heard about the king and about the new war and about Prince Julian. It did not interest me much at first. But then Isabel shouted, and that was strange; she never raised her voice. She was meek and hid herself away as I did—only in the kitchen, not in corners.
She did not seem afraid of Mother, but went on in the same loud voice, saying she cared not a fig for Marianne’s place at court, and that she would go to Brutanna herself to save the prince, if need be. When I heard her say that, I felt something stir in the place where all the pain was. I remembered our terrible journey to the King’s City—the mud and the cold and the hunger, the exhaustion and the fear of strangers, the blistered feet and sleepless nights in filthy rooms. That had been nothing compared with what Isabel would undertake for her friend! And I found that I loved her for it, and that strange feeling inside me stirred again.
I got up and went into my bedchamber. No one noticed. Mother was screaming, and Marianne was wailing, and Isabel was, too. I went over to my chest, opened it, and reached down to the bottom, beneath my winter underclothes, to the secret place where I kept Father’s ring.
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