A lookout on the topmast of the flagship was watching the shore, not the sea, and when he sang out, “There! Coming!” the sailors poured up from belowdecks and the parade soldiers lined the rails.
Six French knights, armored as light cavalry, galloped up the road, and then a carriage, flying from its corners the fluer-de-lis, gold on a French blue background, sped into view. Its quartet of jet black horses was lathered and sweating; its wheels drummed sudden thunder on the rough planks of the dock. Six more horsemen rode behind.
The procession lurched to a halt beside the ship and the captain stepped quickly across the flat timbers bridging to the dock, and there he swept the hat from his head and bowed low. Footmen sprang from their perches at the rear of the carriage; one opened the carriage door and the other placed a golden step below it. From the carriage emerged the brother of the king of France, himself a prince. He was thirty-eight years old, fair-haired and handsome; he wore the finest clothes that anyone on the ship had ever seen.
But he was not the one they had sailed across the channel to meet. Stepping from the carriage into the sunlight was Isabella, his niece, daughter of the king of France, bride-to-be of Edward, son of Longshanks king of England.
The captain had seen the sun, after a storm-tossed night at sea, rise above the alabaster cliffs of Dover. He had seen the Milky Way on a night so dark and calm that the stars reflected on the black surface of the water and the ship seemed suspended in the heavens. But as he lifted his eyes for his first look at the future queen, the breath left his body, and he knew he would never see anything nearly as beautiful as this blue-eyed woman who kissed her royal father upon his cheek and floated across the bridging timbers into the ship as the sun played upon her yellow hair.
Her name was Isabella Maria Josephina Christiana Marguerita Rochamboulet—well, she had more given names than she had years—And those were just the Christian names. Her family names and titles, in a world where inheritance of crowns depended upon connections of blood and marriage, were a litany as long as the Latin Mass. She had been educated in languages, for which she had great talent, and music, in which she had little, but had received no instruction at all in the art of politics, and it would be years before anyone realized that her gifts in that arena were greatest of all. But she was a woman, and a beautiful one. Yet she could have been utterly unremarkable and still have found herself on this ship, bound for the same destination, because of all those names and titles.
Longshanks had chosen her to be his daughter-in-law because her connection to the throne of France reassured the French nobles of their prospects in the kingdom he sought to create through the union of the two realms. And the king of France had allowed her to accept the proposal because he too wished to see France and England under one crowned head, though with Longshanks already old and his son reputed to be weak, the French king had a different expectation from Longshanks about whose head would wear the crown.
As Isabella stood at the rail and watched the sails fill with breeze, she was aware that nothing she had ever accomplished or said or thought or felt had ever had any result whatsoever. She was a princess already; she was going to be a greater princess still. People would bow and curtsey and would obey her every whim, to marry a man she had never met in a country to which she had never wished to go. No one had every asked for her consent in the arrangement. She had no power at all. Isabella would only have one man, and he was already chosen. She was a virgin—a royal physician had certified that—and once she married she was forbidden to have any relationships beyond those with her husband. To violate this law was treason.
Beside her stood Nicolette, her friend, her confidant, her lady-in-waiting. Nicolette had dark hair, beautiful dark eyes. Isabella had sometimes wished to have hair and eyes like Nicolette’s. Just to be different. But what would it matter?
It was a clear day. The sun was bright. Isabella looked toward the horizon and her new home. They said you could see England from far off on a clear day. She looked toward her new home and gripped the ropes to the sails as the ship rolled through the waves.
Nicolette looked at her lady’s face and saw that it looked sad. Nicolette was not surprised. She had seer, that face laugh many times, but not since they told her of the engagement. Still she would make the best of it. Nicolette knew that. Isabella seemed frail with that narrow waist and those eyes like a painted doll. But when you looked into those eyes, you knew—you always knew—that she would do what must be done.
7
“HOW DO YOU LIKE IT SO FAR?” NICOLETTE ASKED AS THEIR carriage rolled across the cobblestones of London. They had just entered the city after two full days journey from the coast. They had seen much of England and only ten minutes of its capital city, but still Isabella knew her friend was referring to London; she was used to Nicolette’s sense of humor.
Isabella smiled. “It’s a dream.”
“It is a nightmare.”
“It isn’t Paris, that’s what you’re saying.”
“It stinks.”
“Paris stinks. We’re just used to the way it smells.”
“Paris smells like rotting flowers. London smells like rotting fish. If you prefer fish to flowers, then that is up to you.”
Isabella laughed. Even in this bone-jarring carriage, with the rain falling and the French guards riding before and after the carriage weighted down by the mud, Nicolette brought warmth and laughter. “London is gray and dirty,” Isabella said, “but the people are hardy. Did you see that man back there at the bridge? He was waiting in the rain, had been for hours, I would guess, but he kept the bridge clear of traffic for us to pass. We didn’t have to stop and wait; he was already keeping it clear because he knew sooner or later we would be along. The people are efficient.”
“Maybe there are stupid. Why else would a man sit out in the cold instead of waiting in a tavern by the fire and coming out only when there is a carriage there to make his job necessary?
“I don’t think they are stupid,” Isabella said. “I think they are afraid.”
8
HER WEDDING DAY.
Isabella woke in a fur-covered bed with four posts carved into angels. They all turned inward as if to watch over her. The canopy that stretched above their halos was woven with patterns of golden thread that caught the light of the fireplace, a cozy blaze maintained all night long by a silent-footed ancient attendant. But neither the wooden angels or the soft bed or the war fire had made her sleep deeply; several times throughout the night she had opened her eyes to see the flickering gold reflections above her. Now as the princess looked up she saw the gold washed out by the gray of a London morning seeping in at the edges of the window curtains, and she squeezed her eyes shut again and said to herself, “My wedding day.”
Many times, as a girl growing up on a castle estate in the country outside Paris, she had imagined this day; she and Nicolette many times had described to each other what colors they would wear, the cut of their dresses, the flowers they would wear in adornment. About the age of fourteen they had begun to include their dreams of a bridegroom in their discussions. He would be handsome, tall, strong. Of course, they were children then, with immature ideas. Isabella was seventeen now, and her thinking was far more mature.
Now she understood that she was a princess, soon to be a queen. She knew her duties: fidelity, respect, maintaining an appearance that would support her husband’s pride, and the obligation—greatest of all—natural; she had no doubts she would be a perfect wife.
But she had other expectations, and they caused her some uncertainty. She hoped her new husband would want to share his thoughts, his feelings, his dreams saw it as her only chance for happiness. Isabella had always known herself to be headstrong. She had ideas; she liked to express them. She had been warned about this many times by the older ladies of the court who had undertaken her instruction in the responsibilities or royalty. They would practice flattery with her: how pressed an idea, how to be breathless with his brilli
ance. She remembered how Madame Bouchard, sent to her from the king of France, had tried to instruct her.
“Now, my darling, suppose. I am your royal husband and I come to you and say, ‘I am so proud of my new flagship! It is the largest and finest in the world!’ What do you say?”
“I ask him who built it.”
Madame Bouchard blinked for a moment, sucked her lips between her teeth, and said, “That could work, that might be a good opening. And how would you continue the conversation?”
“I would ask who his sailing master would be and if the master and the builder knew each other.”
Madame Bouchard frowned. “No, you see, my darling, the point is not to make your husband talk or to cause him to answer questions unless they are to lead up to the main embrace of this verbal dance, which is to tell your husband that he has accomplished something wonderful. Something spectacular. Something that a lesser man would never have received, much less attempted.”
“To polish his pride,” Isabella said, nodding thoughtfully.
“Yes!”
“To nurture confident feelings about himself.”
“Exactly!” Madame Bouchard said, new hope in her voice.
“Then I would also be sure to ask him if the sailing master and the builder not only knew each other, but had spent time together sailing vessels of the builder’s making.”
“No, no, no, child, why would a queen possibly wish to engage the king in a conversation about details in which even a man could not find the slightest interest?”
Now it was Isabella’s turn to look baffled. “Because you said it was about his pride. About his confidence.”
“And so it is! But—”
“So what if he brought this ship out before his people, even before another king, and his great ship should sink?”
“That could never happen! What are you—“?
“Oh, but it did happen! I heard my father and his friends discussing it, though it was some years ago. The king of some seafaring nation wanted a grand warship to display his power by sailing up and down the coast of his country. He had a favorite builder and ordered the largest vessel the builder had ever made. He had a favorite captain and the put him in command. They launched the ship, it looked glorious, and the king ordered many of his subjects out to the shore to watch the great ship as it passed.”
“My darling, I don’t see how any of this could be of interest to your future husband unless you wish to put him to sleep.”
But Isabella could not be reined in once she had the bit in her teeth. “Since the builder had been ordered to make the ship as grand as possible, he had added extensive carvings above the waterline; he had given a wide flat bottom to make it ride high in calm seas. He had given it tall masts. But the sailing master was unfamiliar with such a design. He packed on sails to make the ship look more impressive. And there, just off the coast, on a fine sunny day, in front of several thousands of the king’s subjects, the ship hit a light cross wind, flipped over, and sank without a trace.”
Madame Bouchard sat motionless, like one of the mummified saints at the cathedral. Isabella was afraid her teacher still didn’t understand the point she was trying to make.
“His pride, you see? Wouldn’t it be better to ask him those questions that guaranteed he would not make such a mistake?”
Madame Bouchard was blinking, coming back to life.
“Of course, it would never be necessary for me to tell my husband such things after he had had a ship built.”
“Precisely,” Madame Bouchard said.
“I would have informed him of the importance of good planning when he first mentioned the idea of building a ship, and then he could be very proud of himself.”
Madame Bouchard was speechless again.
“And confident,” Isabella added, hoping to please her.
But Madame Bouchard, quivering from the tip of her nose like Isabella’s uncle Pierre, who died of palsy, stood without another word and left the room.
Lying in her bed now, on her wedding day, Isabella wondered what had ever happened to Madame Bouchard. She hoped her old teacher was still alive. She hadn’t looked healthy at all that last time they saw each other.
What if her betrothed, Prince Edward, son of Longshanks—what a peculiar name; did his subjects dare use it openly?—was a sullen man, suspicious, always watching others for the thoughts they kept hidden, as he hid his own? She had observed many of that kind of man in the courts of France, and surely there were many like that here. It would not surprise her, but she would be disappointed. She had met the prince but once, and that at a distance, nodding to him from opposite sides of a U-shaped table at a dinner given in her honor to welcome her. The prince and his friends had sat on one side and the princess, with her attendants from France and the new ones now provided her from the English court, had sat on the other. The center table was empty; Longshanks was in Wales, someone had said, advising his military advisors.
The prince was a slender young man with fine features. She had not spoken to him except to curtsey and say, “The pleasure is all mine, m’lord,” after he had said he welcomed her with great pleasure before sitting down to start the meal. But she had watched from the corner of her eye while exchanging whispers with Nicolette. She had noticed young Edward had a quick smile, though he kept watching his friends as he smiled as if he needed their approval. A strange habit in a prince.
Isabella of France lay there in her English bed and thought on all these things without opening her eyes.
Nicolette, moving soundlessly by her bed on her way to tend the fire, thought, What a strange girl this princess is, frowning in her sleep on her wedding day.
She sponged her body in warm water scented with the petals of roses brought live all the way from Italy. She put on new undergarments, and a whole flock of attendants, chattering with excitement, dressed her for the wedding. Yards and yards of fabric, light as air, bleached white, wrapped around her shoulders and flowed to the floor; a royal blue bodice hugged her wait; tiny gold chains adorned her shoulders and a necklace of diamonds embraced her throat. Two more attendants brushed her hair, plaited and coiled it, then placed the veil, falling like a cloud from her head to her waist. Nicolette oversaw it all, inspecting each button, each chain, each buckle; snapping instructions; making adjustments; and always beaming.
The attendants kept flapping; it seemed the more beautiful she became, the faster they worked, until finally Nicolette clapped her hands together loudly and said, “It is done!” They all stopped and looked at the glory they had created, a princess they would all be proud to serve.
Isabella turned to the polished silver mirror and studied herself. She barely recognized the reflection. It was rare for royalty to show gratitude—servants were expected to do no less than their best, and appreciation was thought to ruin them—but Isabella turned to the women who had dressed her and said, “Thank you. I… thank you.”
It seemed to embarrass them. Nicolette stepped forward and commanded, “Tell them we are ready.”
The attendants snatched up all their spare cloth, their shears, needles and pins, and hurried out; but as the last one was leaving Isabella said, “Wait. Tell them I need a few more minutes. Just a few. Alone with Nicolette.”
The last attendant curtsied and was gone.
“Last-minute nerves?” Nicolette asked.
“No, I…”
“Well, what is it?”
“I need… to speak with you.”
“Of course. What about?”
“I… we must talk.”
“You just said that! Please, Isabella! Would you stop this fidgeting? Don’t you understand we have the whole country waiting? What could you possibly need to talk about now, enough to keep the king, the prince, the elite of the entire kingdom standing around scratching their noses?!”
“Sex.”
At that moment another attendant knocked on the outer door and called, “M’lady, please! We are all ready!”
But then Nicolette shrugged and moved to Isabella, taking both her hands in her own. “Now,” she began with the patient tone of a grandparent speaking to a confused child, “haven’t we talked about such things many times before?”
“Yes, we have, of course we have. But you were always telling me how it came about. How you met, the first glance and then the second one, the one with real meaning, the brushing past each other, the sudden kiss in a dark corner of the palace corridor, the rendezvous—”
“Yes! Yes! Exactly! Exactly!” Nicolette’s head kept nodding and nodding.
“But you’ve never told me about the actual thing. The actual thing itself.”
“The thing. The thing. The actual thing itself,” Nicolette repeated, and then, when there was another knock at the door, she bawled at the top of her lungs, “We are not ready!”
Nicolette began to pace. “The thing. Yes, of course. The actual thing itself… Weren’t you listening when I told you all my stories?”
“I was Nicolette, I was listening! But I need to know exactly what to do!” Isabella felt her own rising panic and was angry at herself for it. It was not like her to lose her head this way; whatever was the matter? She liked to be in control; and with her intellect coupled with her position of privilege, she always had felt in control of every situation. But now she was about to step into a secret, intimate place, about which she knew absolutely nothing. And no one would tell her not even Nicolette! Suddenly Isabella began to suspect that her friend may have lied when she was described her many romantic liaisons.
Braveheart Page 3