Bella at Midnight (15 page)

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.

S
ometimes 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 deserve 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 been 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.

B
ecause 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.