CHAPTER IX

 

The Year 1119

The Castle of Anjou

 

Count Fulk’s castle sat high on a hill overlooking the Orne River and his famous vineyards, whose grapes had been cultivated for a thousand years to produce wines of unparalleled quality and immaculate balance. Living inside the great fortress with its fourteen towers was almost like living in a city, so when Marie’s lady-in-waiting went in search of her it was no small feat.

On this day, Genevieve found Marie in the rose garden, a quiet corner of the family’s private quarters, away from the busy flow of castle life. A small white dog ran and fetched a ball tirelessly, dropping it at Marie’s feet for her to throw again. She picked the animal up and snuggled it under her chin. The dog wiggled happily. Marie smiled at her lady-in-waiting.

“Look Genevieve,” she said. “The roses are beginning to bud already. There will be beautiful blooms in time for my wedding bouquet.”

Genevieve curtsied to her mistress. She handed her a small package.

“This just arrived, Milady. It is a gift from King Henry. He sends you a note.”

Marie set the little dog down. It ran off in pursuit of a dragonfly. The girl took the letter, which bore the king’s seal, from her lady-in-waiting. It was addressed to Lady Mathilde Isabelle D’Anjou in a bold scrawl. She opened the folded vellum.

“This is written in the king’s own hand, Genevieve. ‘My dear Marie, We share a love of the written word. Since I know you are fond of legends and fables, I have chosen this gift with the hope that it will bring you pleasure. Alfred the Great himself translated these fables from Greek into English, and since you will one day take your place as queen of my realm, I thought you would enjoy reading them in the language of your future homeland. I joyfully anticipate the happy occasion of your marriage to my son, and I look forward to welcoming you into my heart as a dear daughter. Until then, God be with you.’ It is signed Henry Beauclerc, King of England and Normandy.”

Marie tore open the package to reveal a book which was beautifully adorned with gold and precious stones. The title in gilt letters on the fine leather cover read, “The Fables of Aesop”. The binding was gold, with a red satin ribbon attached to hold her place. The illuminations inside were exquisitely drawn and colored.

“Oh, Genevieve,” she breathed, “have you ever seen anything so beautiful? The king has honored me with a precious treasure.”

“It is lovely. How did the king know you like such things?”

Marie shook her head. “I have no idea. King Henry is a scholar who has seen many books as a student in the abbeys, but for him to give such a gift to a woman is extraordinary.” She blinked back the tears that stung her eyes. “This is just like Saint Margaret’s miraculous book.”

“What miraculous book?”

“My betrothed’s grandmother had a book of gospels, and from its description it looked just like this. They say its lettering was radiant with gold. One day, while crossing a stream, the book fell into the water, and no one knew. After a long time, they found it lying open at the bottom of the river. And when they pulled the book out, it was still perfect, undamaged, like it had never been wet at all. It was a miracle.”

Genevieve crossed herself.

Marie nodded. “Yes, and after that, the little book became Saint Margaret’s favorite treasure.” The girl looked down at the present from the king she held in her hand. “I would like to be alone, Genevieve,” she said.

The lady-in-waiting curtsied and withdrew, leaving her mistress alone in the garden.

Marie had never had such a thoughtful gift. No one in her experience had ever been so generous. Marie held the book to her heart. The white dog hopped onto the bench beside her and curled up with its tail over its nose.

“King Henry must be a wonderful man,” she told the dog.

Only this morning Marie had sought out her mother in her chambers hoping to spend some time with her. But the Countess was busy. She had to meet with her hairdresser to try out a new hairstyle. Then she had to meet with the dressmaker to choose the perfect fabric for a gown to wear to the wedding. She did not have time for her daughter.

“The king is much busier than my lady mother, you know,” Marie said to the little dog. “He has an empire to rule and troubles with the church, not to mention the king of France.” The dog rested its chin on her knee with a contented sigh. “What a gracious man he must be to take the time to think of me.”

The dog barked.

What would it be like, Marie wondered, to have a father who did not make her feel like she was invisible. Dare she hope for someone she could confide in? With such a father, Prince William must be wonderful too. The Holy Virgin and Saint Margaret had truly blessed her.

“When the roses bloom,” she said quietly, “I shall be Prince William’s bride, and then my happiness will truly begin. Oh, I cannot wait for my wedding day, to see his face at last, and become his wife.”

Marie looked up at the walls surrounding the rose garden. Beyond them rose higher walls, then higher walls still, and above them the fortress towers.

“When the roses bloom,” she said, “I will be free.” Marie looked at the book she held in her hands. “I shall treasure this gift until the day I die.”

 

* * *

 

“The Count has been very generous, Milady. This is the finest silk I have ever worked with.”

“That is because it was spun by worms fed on mulberry leaves. Father had crusaders bring it back from the great Silk Road.”

Marie touched the royal blue velvet bodice embroidered with a golden iris. The gown’s silk skirt hung in graceful folds. Yards of velvet trimmed in ermine formed a long train beginning at the shoulders. Transparent golden silk, which would also make up her veil, lined the garment’s sleeves.

Marie’s lady-in-waiting smiled. “How lovely you look, Milady. Perhaps it is a good thing your groom’s mother is in her grave, for you would outshine her in this dress, and by rights no one should outshine a queen, not even the bride.”

Marie crossed herself. “Genevieve! You must confess and do penance for saying such a thing. It is bad luck to disrespect the dead.”

Genevieve looked stricken. “Forgive me, Milady. I meant no disrespect.”

“Do you have the shoe, dressmaker?” Marie asked, wiggling impatiently.

The seamstress threw up her hands. “Milady, pray do not squirm so. Remember the pins!” She reached for a box, from which she withdrew a dainty white satin slipper embroidered with tiny pearls. “Here is the shoe you will give to your groom in the wedding ceremony to signify that all that is yours is now his.”

Marie turned the slipper over in her hands. “It is lovely. I approve.”

She handed the delicate slipper back to the seamstress, who carefully replaced it in its box. Marie gazed wistfully at the crackling flames. The summer season was nigh, but days and nights of rain had made the castle damp and cold.

“I hope it does not rain on my wedding day.”

Genevieve smiled. “Oh no, Milady,” she said. “It is raining now in order to empty the sky so that no clouds will obscure the sun on your special day.”

“Is this to be my last fitting, dressmaker?”

The seamstress nodded. “We are nearly done. Just a few more touches.”

Marie brightened. “Oh, Genevieve, I must show you the exquisite wedding gift Prince William has sent me. It is a lovely necklace that belonged to his dear late mother, Queen Edith. It is made of the finest gold, thin as a leaf, set with sapphires, diamonds, and pearls.”

“It sounds wonderful, Milady,” the lady-in-waiting replied. “It will compliment your dress and make the amber in your eyes sparkle.”

The seamstress nodded as she carefully and efficiently pinned the hem.

Marie smiled. “Father has promised I shall have the finest trouveres in all of France to sing at my wedding feast. And I hear my ring is made from a single nugget of gold mined in the mountains of Wales. Oh, and in my hair I shall wear my grandmother’s sapphire-studded crown, which she wore when she was Queen of France. Father sent it to me himself.”

If only he had brought it to me personally, she thought. Marie did not want to be sad today, even if it was pouring rain outside. She sang one of the trouveres’ romantic lays to cheer herself.

 

“Oh when I see her passing fair,

I feel how vain is all my care,

I feel she all transcends my praise,

I feel she must contemn my lays.

I feel alas! No claim have I,

To gain that bright divinity.

Were she less lovely, less divine,

Less passion and despair were mine.”

 

“How bright you are, Milady,” the dressmaker said. “How do you remember all the words? I could not even carry the tune.”

“I remember the words of all the lays of the trouveres,” Marie said. “One day I shall write down their songs so that everyone will have these wonderful stories for all time, and they can read them whenever they please.”

The seamstress and lady-in-waiting laughed.

“Whoever heard of a woman writer,” Genevieve said. “How absurd that would be.”

Marie’s eyes flashed as deep color filled her cheeks. She yanked the dress off and threw it on the floor. The seamstress gasped, gathering up the precious garment in her arms with an anxious cry.

Marie hopped off the stool she had been standing on. “You may leave,” she said haughtily.

“But, Milady ,” Genevieve protested.

The lady-in-waiting held out the girl’s robe. Marie grabbed it and threw it on the floor furiously.

“I said leave me now!”

Genevieve and the dressmaker curtsied and hastened from the room.

Marie kicked the robe aside and leaned out her window wearing only her linen shift, her tears mingling with the rain. She hated when the quick temper of her ancestors coursing through her veins overcame her. The red-headed Angevins were said to have descended from the daughter of the devil. She did not want to be like them. But it was so unfair. Where was it written that only a man was worthy to take up a quill and write?

A sparrow huddled on an outcropping of stone just below her window, its head tucked into its feathers, trying to keep dry.

“I have no freedom,” she said. “I have no power beyond my title. Even a peasant is free to choose her own mate, but not me. I am nothing but a dowry. My father is so eager to be rid of me that he gives the land of Maine-et-Loire to the king if he will take me off his hands. I am the means by which the old enemies make peace, and for the sake of their political intrigue I must marry a complete stranger whom I have never set eyes on. I am nothing but a pawn in a stupid chess game between my father and King Henry.”

But King Henry must be kind, she thought, for he had sent her the lovely book of fables, into which she escaped for hours of sweet nepenthe.

“Let them laugh at me,” Marie said angrily. “No one shall ever imprison my mind. I alone shall own my thoughts.”

Marie paced unhappily before the fire. The castle of Anjou on its high hill was more like a fortress than a home. She left only to attend church, accompanied by an army of chaperones. While Marie’s baby brothers had fun learning sword play and running free in the fresh air and sunlight, she was imprisoned within the castle walls, learning how to weave and embroider, which she detested. Only her music and books brought Marie joy.

“Even the babies are more carefree than I,” she sobbed. She leaned out the window again, watching the relentless rain splashing on the cobblestones far below. “If I jump,” she mused, “would I die, or just break all my bones and be horribly crippled for the rest of my life? Then I shall not jump lest I live and be doomed to stay here forever.”

“I hope William will be kind,” she said. “I have heard he is handsome. When I am the mistress of his castle, my life will be different.” The sparrow chirped. Marie laughed. She began to sing.

 

“Of all sweet birds I love the most

The lark and nightingale,

For they the first of all awake,

The opening spring with songs to hail.

And I like them, when silently

Each troubadour sleeps on,

Will wake me up and sing of love.”

 

“One day, I shall be a queen, and then I shall be free. And I will write down all the lays of the trouveres. I will write and write, and I dare anyone then to call a queen absurd.”