“Ah, so here you are, Mathieu. I know you must be fatigued from your journey. I wish to thank you for achieving your task. Please, come be seated and share some wine,” the duchess said, her smile warm.
Isabella was an attractive woman, with a porcelain complexion and long, straight nose. Dressed in her usual red robe of lush tapestry and double-horned, veiled hennin, she looked every bit the part of royalty. Even as her eyes shone with the sharp intellect and iron-core strength he knew her to possess, her smile exuded a softness she made no attempt to hide.
Still, Mathieu could not imagine how she remained so kind to her husband. Although the duke showered Isabella with gifts and attention when present at court, he was shameless in his infidelity. Philip loved variety in his women as much as the diversity of dishes on his table. At first shocked by this behavior from a man who decreed to belong “to you alone” at the nuptials, it was obvious Isabella had grown to accept her position.
What choice did she have? At nearly thirty-three years old, the duchess had been offered only one other marriage proposal since her twenty-first winter. That offer had not materialized.
Now, however, the Portuguese princess wielded greater power in the Burgundian court than most women would ever know. Philip may not be virtuous when it came to monogamy, but he was definitely wise. He recognized his bride’s abilities in negotiations early on.
“Thank you, Lady Isabella. It was my honor to serve.” Mathieu rose and took his seat next to La Laing on the dais. He turned to the duchess, his mouth set in a grim line. “Did Simon tell you about Germaine?”
“He did.” Her eyes closed and she nodded. “’Twas not your fault, Mathieu. The mare was old. Still,” her gaze flashed to La Laing, who was busy conversing with the man seated next to him, “Germaine should not have been chosen for the task. I’ve already spoken with Simon on the matter.”
Mathieu had barely settled when Isabella rose to her feet, raised her knife, and tapped it on the edge of her brass goblet. The young girls still standing scurried to their seats, and all eyes turned upon her.
“This evening we have the pleasure of welcoming another Burgundian flower into our midst.” She smiled as all turned to follow her gaze. “Eva of Utrecht, welcome to the Coudenburg court.”
Mathieu blinked, failing to believe the young woman standing in the entrance of the hall was the same one he’d retrieved from Ghent. This was not the dusty, disheveled youth he’d watched La Laing usher into the keep an hour earlier. This was an exceptional beauty.
Eva wore a kirtle of the palest ivory, adorned at the neck and hem with elaborate embroidery. A braided belt of gold matched the long, shimmering waves of hair that swirled well beyond her waist. A circlet of tiny yellow and purple flowers ringed her crown.
She did not look like a maiden of sixteen winters, certainly not one reared in a meager tailor shop.
As she made her way to the dais, Mathieu noticed that even her posture had changed. She held herself tall and regally now, her chin tilted high. Shoulders squared and eyes lowered, he barely recognized her. Even the slight imperfection in her gait was hardly noticeable.
When she reached the dais, she bowed her head and curtsied low. Isabella smiled as she laid a jewel-encrusted hand on Eva’s shoulder.
“Welcome home, Eva of Utrecht,” she murmured. “We are blessed to have found you.”
Chapter Six
For Eva, the next days blended into a dreamlike blur. She was quickly absorbed into a group of other girls, most very close to her own age, who were staying at Coudenburg. Some lived with the duchess full-time, others just came for the festivals. They all looked so very different, though, it was hard to believe they were related.
But from what Alys told her, all the girls in residence were daughters—albeit bastard ones—of Philip III. Gramercy! she thought. The duke must have mistresses in every corner of his dukedom!
She was learning much about how to behave like a young lady of the court. Although Alys often whispered minor corrections to her manners when at the table or venturing out into the bailey, none was ever delivered unkindly. Eva quickly found herself becoming enamored of Alys in a very sister-like way.
After the first evening meal, Eva did not see the duchess to interact with her again. She did catch sight of her, though, leaving on horseback with Mathieu and some of the knights, many holding hunting birds on their gloved arms. Even Isabella! Eva was impressed at the independent spirit she sensed in the duchess. She vowed she would not only ask to learn how to ride a horse without assistance, but how to handle the falcons as well. Perhaps Mathieu could teach her . . .
Mathieu. She had not the opportunity to speak with him since her arrival. It pained her, as he was, she supposed, the first person she’d had close contact with on her journey from Ghent. A tiny corner of her heart, however, whispered the reason she missed him went deeper.
Why, though? Eva knew, with her low social status and her deformity, she would be lucky to attract any young man’s attention—particularly a squire to a nobleman, one most likely destined for knighthood. She found her thoughts drifting back to Ghent, to Stefano.
She knew the cloth merchant’s apprentice had an interest in her, despite all of her shortcomings. For that, she reminded herself, she should be eternally grateful.
Stefano, although not bound for knighthood, would someday be an independent cloth merchant—a guild member, in a trade that provided a wealthy living. Her parents both favored Stefano highly, and Eva knew—truth be told, feared—the Italian would surely be asking for her hand upon her return from the May Day festival.
Eva feared this because she could not imagine taking Stefano as a husband. Although he was a likeable enough fellow, and handsome as well, Eva felt only faint revulsion when in the apprentice’s presence. Even when he kissed her hand upon greeting her, Eva could not help shrinking away from his touch. Surely, sharing a marriage bed with him would be impossible to bear.
Whatever it was that happened in a marriage bed. Eva had no idea. Her maman had never spoken of this to her. She assumed when she reached her sixteenth year, these secrets would be revealed. She would come of age within days, while she was here at the castle. She would have to resign herself to wait until she returned from Coudenburg.
In truth, Eva was in no hurry to learn the details. She shuddered to think of what would be expected of her on her wedding night. Hopefully it would not be a concern for a long, long time.
In contrast, Eva had found close contact with Mathieu anything but unpleasant. Indeed, she’d enjoyed having his arms wrapped around her atop his palfrey. His scent, strange and musky and tinged with leather and oil, had stirred something inside her. A sensation that had not been unpleasant at all.
On the fourth day after her arrival, a messenger approached Eva as she sat with the other girls in the kitchen breaking their fast on bread and cheese.
“Milady, the duchess wishes to see you in her solar when you are finished with your meal.”
When he turned away quickly, Eva called after him. “Wait. Where is this place?”
Beside her, Alys laid a hand on her arm. “I will show you the way.”
Eva’s heart hammered in her chest as Alys guided her to the solar. The door was open, and Lady Isabella sat near the tall, multicolored windows with needlework in her lap. She smiled at the girls and beckoned to them.
“Come, Eva. I trust you have settled in well. It is time for us to become better acquainted.”
Seating herself on a tapestry covered chair near the duchess, Eva’s entire body trembled. She wished Alys had remained, but she did not. Isabella kept her eyes on her embroidery for a few long moments before lifting them to meet Eva’s.
“Eva of Utrecht, you are the daughter of Marisse, is that correct?” she asked, a gentle smile lighting up her features.
Eva nodded. Again, as happened often when she was afraid, her tongue felt as though it had died in her mouth.
“And you are aware, I trust, tha
t Duke Philip is your true sire,” she continued.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Eva managed, forcing her voice to form the words. She feared silence might be misconstrued as belligerence. But Isabella regarded her with an expression of pure kindness.
“Do you know the day and year in which you were born?” Isabella asked.
“Aye, Your Grace. Verily, my maman told me it was the twenty-third day of April, in the Year of Our Lord 1420.” She paused and swallowed, her mouth very dry. “I am soon to have seen sixteen winters.”
Isabella smiled. “April twenty-third. The feast day of St. George. The day is, in fact, tomorrow. So, on the morrow we shall celebrate your name day.”
Eva blinked. She knew her name day would occur during her visit in Coudenburg, but was surprised Isabella was also aware. It appeared the duchess knew much about her—even more, perchance, than Eva did herself.
“We would like the day to be special for you, Eva of Utrecht. How would you like to spend your name day?”
The answer popped out of her mouth before her mind had a chance to stop it. “I would like to learn to ride a palfrey, Your Grace. By myself.” She paused again, a knot of excitement forming in her chest. “I would like Mathieu to teach me how to ride. Someday, I would love to learn to hold a hunting bird on my arm, as well. Like you.”
“Falconry as well,” Isabella blurted, her mouth quirking. One of her pale eyebrows rose. “And you wish your teacher to be Mathieu, specifically?”
Eva felt heat rise into her cheeks and she focused on the knotted fingers in her lap. “Yes, Your Grace. Mathieu knows much about the horses—I’m guessing the hunting birds as well. He was very patient with me on our journey.”
Isabella set her needlework aside and clasped her hands across her middle. “Mathieu is our ostler, so well he might be the best one to teach you of the horses. But you will learn to ride astride, Eva. One can only control and maneuver a horse proficiently astride.”
Eva looked up to see the duchess’ face alight with a brilliant smile.
“I will ask for suitable riding attire be brought to you. Tomorrow, you shall ride.”
Eva could barely believe her ears. Truly, this was like a dream come true. Even though she’d been taught to never question such good fortune, she couldn’t hold her curiosity in check.
“But, milady . . . why? Why did you bring me here? All the other girls too . . . they are all daughters of the duke?” She paused, swallowing. “Bastard daughters?”
Isabella’s smile was soft. “’Tis true, many do not understand my motives. I do not make excuses for my husband’s actions—he is a man, and he is the duke. He does as he pleases. But I envy Philip to have been blessed beyond measure with so many children. I have only one who survived.” Isabella paused to sip from her cup. She levelled her gaze at Eva over the rim. “Noblemen recognize and support their male children, bastards or not. Usually, no one is there for the girls. I have decided to be that someone.” She set down her cup and clasped Eva’s hand. “And so, Eva of Utrecht, I welcome you into my fold of daughters. Henceforth, see yourself not as the duke’s bastard daughter, but as the stepdaughter of the duchess.”
*
The last thing Mathieu had time for was riding lessons. With the May Day festival only days away, he still had much to do. The duchess’ servants had provided additional help, but there were extra horses to tend to as well—those of the knights who came with her.
Mathieu oft gazed in envy at the destrier belonging to the guard’s captain. A massively built stallion with a coat of purest white, the horse required even more effort to keep spotlessly clean.
An irony, surely, for a black-hearted knight to ride a blindingly white charger. Mathieu was instructing his own pages in how to properly groom the beast when Eva appeared in the doorway of the stable.
His breath caught. The girl truly was a vision. Clad in a woolen kirtle of deepest blue, her wide skirt nearly filled the span of the entryway. The morning sun glinted off the golden braid hanging over her shoulder. She smiled when she saw him, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
“The duchess sends me,” she said simply.
Mathieu stood and crossed his arms over his chest. “Lady Isabella sent word. You wish to learn to ride.” He set his lips in a line. He wanted the girl to know his feelings on the matter. He simply didn’t have time for this.
“I do. Today is my name day. ’Tis my gift from the duchess.”
He couldn’t help his own smile from extinguishing his annoyance. “Come, then. Let us begin.”
Over the next hour Mathieu went over the basics of handling a palfrey, from leading it out of the stables to sweeping the dust from its coat before saddling. He showed Eva how the feet were cleaned, although he knew a lady would never have need to perform this task. The girl watched him, rapt the entire time, interrupting him occasionally with questions.
She was no simpleton, this girl. Eva of Utrecht may know naught of horses, but she certainly was an attentive student.
Mathieu chose Jannis on which to place Eva for her very first lesson. Jannis was not a very tall horse, but was broad and sturdy under his glossy brown coat. After fitting the palfrey for riding, he handed Eva the reins and watched her lead the horse around the bailey. She seemed unafraid, chattering softly under her breath to the animal the entire time.
As he helped her climb onto the mounting block, her questions began anew.
“Is Jannis a boy or a girl?”
Of course. A difficult one to answer, right at the start. Mathieu cleared his throat.
“Jannis was a boy, but he is a gelding now.”
Eva leaned on Mathieu’s shoulder as he helped fit her left, untwisted foot into the stirrup, then helped her to mount. As he went around to secure her other foot, she asked, “What means this? A gelding?”
Mathieu pursed his lips. This was not a subject he wished to explain to a young maiden. He blew out a breath. “It means he has been altered and can no longer breed a mare. He is gentler now, and pays more mind to his master than to his instincts.”
He looked up to see Eva’s eyes and mouth had rounded. She did not speak again until he had mounted his own palfrey beside her. As they started off toward the gatehouse, her next question was almost a whisper.
“So Jannis will be very obedient for me?”
Mathieu smiled. “Aye. You have nothing to fear, milady. Jannis will perform whatever you ask of him. He’ll give you no trouble.”
As on their journey to Coudenburg, the handmaiden, Blanche, accompanied them on their ride as chaperone. The matron, not unexpectedly, didn’t seem pleased about her assignment. She rode her usual thick-coated pony, who looked even less enthused than she.
They passed the blacksmith’s stall on the way out of the bailey, where Wallis was busy hammering a glowing red rod of steel on his anvil. Mathieu lifted a hand in greeting.
“Wallis, Jannis here will be needing a new set of shoes soon enough. Mayhap on the morrow?”
“The morrow it is,” he called to Mathieu. He then turned to face a younger man whose face was blackened with soot. He approached heavily laden with an armful of wood. “The kiln needs the bellows, boy.”
“Aye sir.”
The day was glorious, with a clear, blue sky overhead and a mild breeze ruffling the grasses on the meadow. Mathieu kept his mount close beside Jannis—close enough to reach over and take control of the palfrey should he stumble or falter in any way. Eva was quiet after her initial bout of questions and seemed to be genuinely enjoying her experience. Mathieu glanced over, admiring her profile. She may come from simple roots, but the lady definitely had noble blood running through her veins.
Mathieu felt obliged to fill the silence.
“You seem quite comfortable in the saddle, milady. You never rode until the day I came for you in Ghent?” he asked.
She tipped her head. “My stepfather took me to the stable and I did ride, but only twice. Shortly before you arrived.” She reached down and
stroked the horse’s neck. “Jannis is not nearly as scary as Tyrion. That beast ’twas monstrous!”
Her candid expression made him smile. “Tell me about your life there, milady. You craft clothing?” he asked.
“Aye. My parents have owned the tailor shop since I was a babe. I learned to wield a needle before a pen to paper.” Her voice was small and flat, as though she was ashamed of her upbringing. She looked over at him. “And you? How did you come to be the duke’s squire?”
He sighed, and his next words were somber. “I was born in Liège. My father was a knight, killed in battle at Othée. My maman petitioned the court to secure my position.” Mathieu paused. “I’ve been at Coudenburg, under Simon La Laing, for many years.”
“Ah. So you’re headed for knighthood?”
Mathieu’s lips tightened. “I quite enjoy my position as ostler and falconer for the court.” He leaned down to stroke his own mount’s glossy neck. “To truth, I prefer to spend time with the beasts more than with my own kind.”
Immediately, Mathieu wondered why he’d let this slip. He quickly continued, “Horses, hunting dogs and birds, they depend on us and us alone for their safety and welfare. I enjoy fulfilling that role, and well.” Abruptly, he changed the subject. “And you? Do you intend to continue in your parents’ footsteps?”
Eva shook her head. “I do not wish to cut and sew cloth all of my life. And Marisse and Andries are not both my parents.” She shot him a sharp look. “Andries is my stepfather. My true father is the duke himself.”
“So I am told,” Mathieu said, studying her. There had been a change in the girl since she’d arrived at Coudenburg. Isabella was schooling her, and Eva already seemed to have donned a more prestigious air since the day he met her in Ghent.
It was not haughtiness he sensed, however. It was more an elevated level of confidence, one that suited her. In truth, he’d seen inklings of the trait within her even before they’d arrived.
“So what is it you want for your future, milady? If it is not too forward of me to ask.”
The Warrior and the Wildflower Page 6