Bella at Midnight (18 page)

“Oh,” said I, “have you not heard? The king and queen cannot come! But Prince Julian is to stand in for his brother, and Queen Alana is sending one of her ladies-in-waiting in her stead.”

“For what cause do they stay away?” asked the dark girl.

“The king was injured while riding,” I said. “That's what they say. And the queen is confined to her bed with a complaint of the chest.”

“A complaint of the
liver
, more like, from an excess of eating!” said the cook, who had magically appeared at my side. For such a big woman, she had a right delicate tread—you never heard her coming.

“From excess of
eating
?” I cried.

“Do you not
know
about Moranmoor, child?” said the cook importantly. “Why, even the
peasants
there are such gluttons that they break their fasts with duck in fig sauce, and wash it all down with a full jug of wine. Only
imagine
how much the queen eats!”

I opened my mouth to say that I had never in all my life so much as
tasted
duck in fig sauce—but then thought better of it. “Disgusting!” I said. “I prefer fish guts, myself.”

The cook stared at me. Fearing I had said the wrong thing, I started plucking again, as fast as I could, telling myself very sternly to keep still and speak no more. Alas, I could not manage it, for such a slander against Queen Alana could not go unchallenged.

“I have heard it said that the queen is a very pious lady, and something of a scholar,” I said. “But I have
never
heard it said that she was fat, or any kind of glutton.”

“And how is it you know so much about the queen of Moranmoor, girl? That she is too ill to travel and the rest?”

“Oh,” I said, my thoughts racing. “I was nearby the gate at the time the messenger came from Moranmoor. I overheard what he said—that the royal family could not come.”

“Did the messenger say the queen was scholarly and pious?”

“No. That I heard before. From a tinker who travels much about the country and gathers gossip from villages along the border.”

“Humph,” she said. “A tinker, indeed! I will have the queen
fat
and I will have her
ugly
besides. And you, girl, would do well to stop eavesdropping on messengers and repeating gossip. We have work to do.”

I took this rebuke to heart and was more careful thereafter in what I said. All the same, I was well pleased that it had been so easy to plant my story about the expected arrival of the queen's lady-in-waiting. I made a point of mentioning her several more times, to a number of different people. There was already much talk about King Gilbert's absence, and each new piece of gossip was pounced upon eagerly and repeated at the soonest opportunity. No one would remember that the story had come first from me. By nightfall my tale would have made the rounds of all in the castle. This I hoped with all my heart, for upon the day of the wedding, in accordance with my plan, I would present myself once more at the castle gate—this time in the guise of the queen's lady. It was needful that they should be expecting me.

On my second day in the kitchen, I was put to turning one of the spits. Though this was not nearly so hard on the hands as plucking chickens and scouring pots, it was hot work, and tedious. I had to stand in the same spot for hours, slowly turning the handle of the spit so that the juices coursed down the sides of the roasting pig, basting the meat, instead of dripping into the fire and causing it to flare up. This was so monotonous that my attention began to wander out to the castle yard where the grand folk came and went, all decked out in their splendid clothes.

I watched them with special care, hoping to spot Julian among them. That would be an unexpected boon, for if I did not have to wait until the wedding feast to speak to him, then we would gain an extra day to plan our next move. But fortune was not with me; Julian was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, look!” said the yellow-haired girl. She had been chopping onions but stopped to point with her knife. “Over there—those tall fellows. Are they not the knights from Moranmoor?”

I felt my heart drop. “
What
knights?” I asked. “I did not think
anyone
had yet come from Moranmoor!”

“Oh, yes. They arrived last night. A very small embassy, though—only knights, and not
one
man of real consequence among them!”

“You'd think they would have sent an earl, at the very least,” said the dark girl with the bad teeth, “if the king could not come himself. Do you think Gilbert
intends
to snub King Harry?”

But I did not respond to her question, for my mind was elsewhere. I was much alarmed by the unexpected appearance of these men from Moranmoor. Marianne had said nothing about an embassy of knights. What could it possibly mean? Dared I hope that King Gilbert had relented? But no—if that were the case, then he would have come himself, or sent the duke of Claren or some other important noble in his place.

“You will burn the meat, you careless girl!” said the cook, startling me so that I gasped and dropped my hot cloth. “Mind your work and keep your eyes to yourself!” she said. “Those fine gentlemen are not the
least
bit interested in the likes of you!”

“Oh, Cook,” I gasped, my cheeks flushing hot, “I never in the world thought they were!” But by then she had already turned away to scold somebody else. The dark girl made a comical little face at Cook, and the yellow-haired girl grinned and coughed into her onions.

I picked up the cloth, wrapped it around the handle once more, and went back to turning the spit. I gazed dully at the roasting meat, feeling sick at heart—for the arrival of those knights complicated matters greatly for me. They were sure to know I was not one of the queen's ladies; they had never once seen me at court!

“Are you ill?” asked the dark girl. “Shall I take your place at the spit? I would not have you fainting and falling into the fire!”

“No, no,” I said, feigning a smile, “I am not light-headed. It is only a fit of indigestion.”

“Ah,” she said with a smile. “I understand. Cook gives me indigestion, too.”

A
t about mid-morning on the third day, I excused myself to use the privy. I went, instead, to the well where I drew some water to wash my face and hands. Then I departed from the castle through the main gate. Collecting my horse in the village, I rode out once more to the little clearing in the woods. There, in the same forest where already the army of Moranmoor was gathering for the assault, I changed my identity for the last time. I took off my comfortable old peasant gown, folded it away, and brought out the finery that would transform me into a lady.

The gown was Auntie's, from an earlier time, before she began to grow stout. It was of ivory silk brocade, with flowers of a cream color worked into the pattern—a sweet and subtle effect. It was trimmed at the hem and neck with elaborate embroidery—quite wonderful it was, with birds and butterflies and flowers all intertwined with leafy vines. We altered the gown so that it would fit me better and be more in the style of the day—giving it a lower neckline that revealed the marigold
cotte
I wore underneath. The narrow sleeves buttoned from above the elbow down to the wrist—a task any
real
lady would have had a maid on hand to perform. I had to do it by myself, there in the forest.

I parted my hair down the center and braided each side into plaits high upon the head, which I then wound into coils and secured with hairpins. Then I carefully put on my headdress, which covered all of my hair. It was a padded construction of ivory satin, adorned with gold braid and seed pearls. It had little horns on either side of the head, over which I draped a sheer linen veil.

“When you wear such a fine thing upon your head,” Auntie had told me, “it reminds you to stand straight and hold your chin up like a lady.”

And indeed, I did feel like a lady when I first put on that headdress and that gown. But Auntie had not been satisfied. She said I must look grander still. I must wear jewels. I showed her Alice's ring, and she agreed it was extremely fine, but said I must have something more. And so she went to her coffer and took out a heavy gold necklace, set with emeralds. “There!” she crowed. “Wonderful! It looks well with the ring, and it sets off the gown to perfection—only, Isabel, I fear you must take off that ribbon. It looks most odd with the dress and the jewels, and it is soiled and threadbare besides.”

“No, no!” I cried. “It is my talisman!” And indeed, I had not been without it since I was a child. It was a silver thimble that I had gotten from the fairies—well, in truth, I had gotten it from Julian in the
guise
of the fairies. I kept it in a little linen bag that hung around my neck on that selfsame soiled and threadbare ribbon.

“All right,” said Auntie, “I understand. But if you
must
wear it, then we shall have to hide it.” Once again she went to her jewel coffer and this time brought out a delicate gold chain to replace the ribbon. It was so long that the little bag tucked neatly into the bodice of the
cotte
, well out of sight. The heavy necklace and the little chain looked charming together, both of us agreed.

Then Auntie stood with her arms crossed and studied me for a while, squinting her eyes and tilting her head, so as to see me better—and declared me the
very picture
of a lady-in-waiting to the queen of Moranmoor.

“But, Auntie,” I said, “I am barefoot!”

“I
know
that,” she said. “I am still considering of the shoes.” And indeed, she bit her thumb and twisted up her face in a parody of thoughtfulness. Finally, having reached a conclusion in the matter, she went over and unlocked a finely wrought chest that stood in one corner of the solar.

“I do not know if they will fit you,” she said as she carefully removed some fine old embroideries and other fancy stuff from the chest, “but I believe they will. Ah,
here
they are!” She got up off her knees and turned to show me a pair of exquisite slippers—made entirely of glass!

“Auntie!” I gasped. “You are joking!” “No, child, I am very much in earnest.” I took them from her. They were like nothing I had ever seen, for embedded in the amber-colored glass were tiny threads of gold, evenly spaced so as to make a pattern. In the front, two long strands met and formed a delicate bow.

“Did Grandfather make these?” I asked—for I knew he had earned his fortune in the glass trade.

“No, not Grandfather—a lad who worked in our shop. He was especially skilled—and most devoted to me, if you can imagine such a thing! He would follow me about like a puppy whenever I went to the workshop. Indeed, he was the only boy who ever looked twice at me, Isabel, and so it pleased me more than it might otherwise have done. But do not think he was courting me, hoping to wed my father's money. No, he knew there was no chance of that. He just admired me, for whatever reason, with no hope of gain or advancement.

“One day Father sent me to have one of our goblets copied, for some of them had broken over the years and we would need more for Catherine's marriage feast. And there the lad was, blushing and proud, offering me these slippers! Oh, my stars! I think he fancied I would wear them to the wedding!”

“Did you, Auntie?”

“Goodness, child—have you not noticed my enormous feet? No, I could never fit into such dainty shoes. But I was flattered all the same—that he had seen me in that way, as a delicate girl with tiny feet. Methinks his eyesight was affected by the heat from the furnace!”

“Auntie, do not say that. I think you are
beautiful
!”

“Isabel, I was not fishing for compliments. I have long ago come to terms with my homeliness—and my large feet. I only wished you to understand that these slippers are more than just beautiful things; they were a gift of love from him to me—and now from me to you.”

“What became of him, Auntie?”

“Oh, he died of the pox not long after. I took it much to heart, too, though I dared not speak of it, as people would think it foolish. I did keep the slippers, though—and there was a time when I took them out right often and thought of that boy and shed a tear or two over him. But that was long ago, Isabel. Let us see if they fit.”

“Oh, Auntie,” I said, “they will break!”

“He promised me they would not. He said he put the gold threads in to make them strong as well as beautiful, and added a bit of magic, too—he liked a little joke, you see. Come now, Isabel—put them on.”

And so I did, though cautiously—gold threads and magic notwithstanding. Yet I knew, as soon as I slid my feet into those amazing slippers, that the lad had spoken the truth. They
were
strong enough to dance in (had I known how to dance, which I did not), and they fit so perfectly, they might have been made for me!