CHAPTER VII

 

The Year 1119

The Castle of the Count D’Anjou

 

Lady Mathilde Isabelle D’Anjou, who preferred to be called Marie, looked out her tower window. Down in the courtyard her little brothers, six-year-old Geoffrey and four-year-old Elias, played at being knights. They sat on their rocking horses waving wooden swords and yelling battle cries at the top of their lungs.

Around them the business of the castle went on. The blacksmith worked in his forge, sparks from his fire hissing into the air. Servants bustling to and fro carried supplies to the kitchen. Scullery maids scrubbed linens in big wooden tubs and draped them over clotheslines to dry in the sun. A servant sat on a bench sharpening and polishing swords until he could see his face reflected in each weapon.

Marie envied her little brothers. Their play looked like such fun. She wished she could be six years old again instead of fifteen, a young lady betrothed to the crown prince of England. Even her baby sister, Sybille, had more freedom.

Marie leaned precariously out the window.

“Milady!” her lady-in-waiting cried. “You will fall!”

“I shall do nothing of the kind, Genevieve. I am not a clumsy fool.”

“But it is most unladylike. What if someone sees you?”

Marie tossed her red hair crossly. “What if they do? Everyone knows I live here. Maybe I should call for help lest I rot in this tower.”

Genevieve shook her head and looked down at her stitching.

What was the point of being ladylike if you could not have any fun? Marie watched the groom lead her father’s horse to the center of the courtyard. The groom assisted her stout father to mount. Count Fulk the Fifth was short and coarse, with flaming red hair, which Marie had inherited along with his temper. All the Plantagenets were known for their fierce tempers.

Father was always leaving, gone most of the time. Marie knew he was a good and experienced soldier, generous, prudent, and patient with his men. His generosity extended to his children, but not his patience. Father seemed more interested in the Crusade than in them, and more interested in his sons than his daughters. Marie never could understand what made the boys so special. Mother doted on them too, when she was not spending time on her toilette. Why did people toss their daughters aside like barn cats? After all, Marie thought, it would be difficult for a man to carry on the family name without a woman to give birth to his namesake.

It was no secret that her father dreamed of one day going to Jerusalem to find sacred relics. His ambition went beyond being a mere crusader, however. The Count D’Anjou planned to become king of Jerusalem. Marie had no doubts he would fulfill his dream, and then she would never see him again.

“Father!” she called down to him. He didn’t hear her. “Father!” she called louder. She wanted to cry, “Look at me!” like when she was a little girl, but he had ignored her then as now.

Marie watched her father ride out of the castle by the south gate drawbridge across the moat. I would like to ride out of the castle too, she thought. Maybe I would ride all the way to Jerusalem and find the crown of thorns or the Holy Grail. I wager father would love me best if I presented him with the Holy Grail. I would hand it to him very casually and say, “Look what I found, Father. I thought of you.” And he would say, “How is it I never saw what a wonderful daughter you are?”

“Milady!” her lady-in-waiting called. “Do come away from that window. You are making me nervous.”

Marie returned to her seat by the fire and took up her needlework tapestry. She stitched for a while in silence, letting her imagination wander freely. Perhaps the swan she stitched carried secret messages down the river between forbidden lovers, and even the rabbits on the shore were spies.

She sang a song softly, one she had heard a trouvere sing at a recent banquet.

 

“Aucassin was of Beauclaire,

And abode in castle fair,

None can move him to forget

Dainty-fashioned Nicolette.”

 

“That is a lovely song.” Genevieve sighed. “You sing so prettily.”

“I wish I were a trouvere,” Marie said. “Imagine how wonderful it would be to roam the world singing for your supper, never knowing where the next road leads. Oh, it must be glorious freedom. When I have my own castle, I shall have trouveres sing every night at supper.”

“Well that would be nice,” her lady-in-waiting agreed.

“I will too, and maybe I will run away with one, and we shall be lovers until we die of love.”

Genevieve laughed.

“Well, it will not be much longer now until I do have my own castle,” Marie said. “I wonder what Prince William is like? I have heard he is handsome and charming.”

“So they say.”

“Do you know, Genevieve, the prince’s grandmother is a great and famous saint? She was Queen Margaret of Scotland. Will it not be wonderful to be married to the grandson of a saint? Can you imagine the stories he can tell? Do you think I shall ever be worthy of such a family?”

Genevieve shook her head. “How you do go on, Milady. You are yourself the granddaughter of the Queen of France and yet wonder if you will be worthy of a prince? One day you will be Queen of England. Honestly, what does go on in that head of yours?”

Marie pouted. “I only meant that kings are one thing, saints quite another.”

“Well,” said her lady-in-waiting, “I have heard the prince loves hunting and jousting, but I have also heard that he has a wild heart and a roving eye.”

“Oh, that will change when we are married, I am sure, Genevieve.”

“All I am saying, Milady, is that Prince William may be the grandson of a saint, but he is also the grandson of a famous warrior and killer.”

Marie frowned. “Do you mean William the Conqueror? Oh, Genevieve, what makes you so cynical?”

“Perhaps the same thing that makes you so naive, my dear Marie. I am merely being realistic. Prince William’s father imprisoned his own brother and put out his eyes. Some think he may even have murdered his other brother who was king, for no one knows for sure who shot the arrow that killed William Rufus, and Henry was with the hunting party that day. And I have heard that after a battle King Henry led the conquered enemy leader up to a high tower, showed him the lands he had lost, then threw him from the tower window to his death.”

“I forbid you to speak of the king in such a manner!” Marie stamped her foot. “I will not entertain gossip and hearsay at the expense of such a fine man. King Henry has brought peace to the kingdom. Do you think such an accomplishment can be achieved without bloodshed?”

“Forgive me, Milady. I am only saying that being romantic is a good way to end up with a broken heart.”

“Well, when I am queen I want to be very great like Saint Margaret. Just think of it, Genevieve, she was a Saxon queen whose daughter married a Norman king, mixing the blood of old rivals into a new dynasty. It is so romantic.”

Genevieve smiled and shook her head.

“Do you know Saint Margaret would not eat until she had first fed twenty four peasant children with her own spoon?”

“How do you know so many things, Milady?”

“I listen. The priest told me that he read the life of Saint Margaret, written by a man called Turgot, who wrote it all down for her daughter, Queen Edith. And Queen Edith was the mother of William, my future husband. Did you know Queen Edith died just last year?”

Genevieve looked at Marie affectionately, a quizzical smile turning up the corners of her pretty mouth. The lady-in-waiting was hardly much older than her mistress.

Marie nodded. “Yes, she did. It was very sad, for the great King Henry loved her so. Anyway, Dom Michel told me the whole story of Queen Margaret of Scotland. I want to be just like her, and when I am married to her grandson, it should be quite easy for I am sure he will support my wishes to feed the poor and build great churches. And just like Saint Margaret, I will take some of my husband’s gold from the church donation and give it to the poor instead.”

Marie’s two little brothers and her baby sister burst into the room, running over to her. She clapped her hands, delighted to see them.

“Hello, my babies!” she cried, hugging and kissing them all affectionately.

“Tell us a story,” they begged.

Marie took little Elias onto her lap as Geoffrey and five-year-old Sybille settled themselves on the rug by her feet looking up at her expectantly. She bounced Elias on her knee.

“Now isn’t this a better horse than that old wooden one in the courtyard?” she said.

Genevieve said, “You will be a good mother, Milady.”

“I love my babies,” Marie replied. “I hope Prince William and I have dozens of babies of our own. Now, then, my babies, you want a story? Let me think.”

Elias rested his head on her breast. Marie kissed his brow.

“Once,” she said, “there was a forest by the sea, and a park, and a castle, and in this castle lived a fair maiden who was waiting for a handsome knight to come and be her love.”

Marie’s lady-in-waiting set down her needlework to listen with the children to Marie’s story.