“Baldwin says he is tired of the burden of my
presence, and he wants me to retire to a convent. He says any widow
of discretion and good will would have suggested this recourse
herself as soon as her husband died. Since I now have no land or
income of my own on which to live, I cannot long refuse to do his
bidding.”
“You do not want to go.” Aloise could imagine
nothing more unlikely than Isabel retired to a convent.
“What I want,” Isabel said, “is to be granted
a small establishment here in Brittany, and the income with which
to maintain it. Once independent of that dreadful Baldwin I would
live quietly and cause trouble to no one. It could be arranged as
part of the marriage contract. Such grants to widowed parents are
not unusual, and Sir Valaire would of course hold the property in
his name. Oh, Aloise, please say you will speak to him. I’m sure he
would agree if you begged him prettily. I remember how it was in
the old days, how besotted with you he was. Surely you still have
some influence over him.”
Aloise momentarily forgot her mistrust of
Isabel in the surge of youthful memories her presence had evoked
and the pleasure of having an old confidante to talk to.
“Ah, Isabel, before we were wed,” she cried,
“Valaire loved my wildness and was the most exciting lover I ever
had. But he chose to believe he was my only lover, and that I lay
with him out of deep affection. I let him think it was so, for I
did care for him. I still do. But once we were wed he expected, no,
he demanded, complete fidelity. The times have changed since we
were all at the court of King William Rufus. Then we could do
whatever we pleased and no one would care, for the king himself was
worse than any of us. Now we have a respectable king who is at
least discreet about his affairs, and wives are expected to be
faithful and chaste like the queen. It would not be so bad if
Valaire were home more, and paid attention to me as he once did.
But he is seldom here, and I know he has other women, and I am
bored. How I long for some delightful intrigue to dispel the
tedious propriety now expected of me.” Suddenly Aloise was aware of
the gleam in Isabel’s eyes, the look she remembered all too well,
and she shut her mouth firmly. But she had already said too much.
She was caught, trapped by her own words. She knew it when Isabel
smiled and took her hand. She ought to have been more cautious in
her speaking.
“Dearest Aloise,” Isabel said, both hands
folding over her friend’s fingers in a comforting gesture that had
the opposite effect on Aloise. “Don’t you see how perfectly your
discontent fits my need? Aid me in this plan of mine, and you will
be invited to join Sir Valaire in England for your daughter’s
wedding. Indeed, you must accompany her on the journey to see to
her safety and comfort. Think of it, months at the royal court. New
gowns. Entertainments. Great feasts. Handsome young men to flirt
with. How I wish I might go, too. But that cannot be,” Isabel
pronounced, heaving an exaggerated sigh. “You, my dearest friend,
must be my emissary, and you will dictate letters to me, telling me
all that passes and how my darling son Thomas is, how he has grown,
if he resembles his father. Aloise.” The slender fingers on
Aloise’s hand tightened. “Aloise, help me, for the sake of our
friendship, and for the good it will do Sir Valaire to be joined
with the Baron of Afoncaer in such a union. And for Selene’s good,
too, of course.”
The problem was, Isabel was right, Aloise
realized later, while mulling over Isabel’s suggestion in the
privacy of her own chamber. A marriage between Selene and Thomas of
Afoncaer made excellent sense. Sir Valaire would probably approve
of the idea with very little coaxing from his wife, and if Aloise
herself did not suggest it to him, she had little doubt that the
resourceful Isabel would find a way to do so the next time he came
home to Brittany. Aloise did not like one bit the thought of a
still-beautiful Isabel teasing Sir Valaire into pleased
acquiescence.
As for Baron Guy of Afoncaer, he was on good
terms with Sir Valaire, and could have no objection to the offer of
Sir Valaire’s daughter as wife for Thomas. Selene’s dowry was a
large chest of gold coins, given to Sir Valaire for that express
purpose by his father so the family lands could be passed on
undivided to Sir Valaire’s eldest son. Baron Guy had lands enough,
he did not need more, but those golden coins would be most welcome
to buy workmen and material to strengthen the defenses of Afoncaer.
Furthermore, Selene would bring to her marriage bed an intangible
value, her bloodline, for through her father, Selene was descended
from the great Charlemagne himself. Any nobleman would be honored
to know his future heirs would mingle that blood with his own. Yes,
Baron Guy would almost certainly agree to Valaire’s proposal, and
Selene would have rank, wealth, and as much honor as any woman of
that day might hope for. Better still, Aloise herself would be rid
of the strange, difficult daughter she could neither understand nor
love, whose presence always made Aloise feel vaguely guilty.
Selene’s marriage to Thomas of Afoncaer looked on the surface to be
an ideal arrangement for all concerned. Why then did Aloise feel
there was still more to this proposal than she had been told? Why
did Isabel look to her skeptical eyes like a sleek cat poised to
pounce upon a large bowl of rich, luscious cream?
“So you are Selene.” Isabel’s penetrating
gaze took in the short, slender figure hovering uncertainly with
fingers still on the door latch. Selene meekly bowed her head, and
thick wings of straight black hair fell forward, obscuring her pale
face, but not before Isabel noted the delicate features and clear
skin. The girl was lovely.
“Come in, child, and close the door. I wish
to speak with you in private.” Isabel did not move from the stone
window seat. She pulled the silk cushion at her back into a more
comfortable position and then looked out the window with apparent
indifference, waiting patiently for Selene to come to her across
the lavender-strewn floor of the guest chamber.
The herbs on the floor rustled softly,
sending up a faint fragrance, and Selene moved into view again. Out
of the corner of one eye, Isabel could see her standing quietly in
her plain dark blue woolen gown, hands folded before her. Isabel
wanted to establish her own dominant position in this interview, so
she let the girl wait a few moments before turning her head to look
Selene full in the face. When she did, she met a pair of wide
emerald eyes, challenging and scornful, before the girl dropped
shadowed lids over their green fire. Isabel, taken aback, said
nothing, and Selene spoke first.
‘The Lady Aloise has told me of your
proposition, madame, that I should marry your son.” The voice was
surprisingly low-pitched to come out of so small a body, and it was
charged with an anger most unsuitable to this occasion. Isabel
noted that the girl had said “Lady Aloise,” not “my mother.”
“You sound as though you do not like the
idea. But you must,” Isabel said. “You have been raised, as all
noble girls are, with the knowledge that one day you will be wed to
a man chosen for you by your parents, and that you must obey them.
I assure you, my son Thomas is young, handsome, kind-hearted, and
in good health. He has a great future before him.”
Somewhere in the back of Isabel’s mind rose
the memory of her father saying something remarkably similar to her
before her own marriage to Sir Lionel. How disastrously wrong her
father had been. Isabel pushed that thought aside. This was
different; this was Thomas she was speaking of, and all the
information she had been able to garner about him indicated that
what she had just told Selene was true.
Selene, though outwardly meek, apparently had
a spark of defiance in her. Those remarkable emerald eyes glared at
Isabel, and her low voice was husky with emotion when she spoke
again.
“I do not wish to marry. I want to become a
nun.”
“You would be wasted in a convent.” Isabel
shivered a little, not wholly from the damp draft coming through
the imperfectly fitted window beside her, for her own permanent
incarceration in a convent was too near a threat for Isabel’s
comfort. No, this girl would do as Isabel wished. Selene, and
therefore Isabel, would remain outside conventual walls. “You are
beautiful, and I suspect you are intelligent,” Isabel added. “You
would be much admired at the English court.”
“Beauty is a snare,” Selene replied loftily.
“And a royal court is a place of deadly temptation to vanity and
worldly ambition.”
“Ah, yes, I forgot for a moment that Aloise
foolishly sent you to a convent for schooling.” Isabel had not
forgotten a single piece of the information she had obtained about
Selene before choosing her for Thomas’s wife, but she wanted to
hear what the girl would say next.
“I am not my mother’s favorite child,” Selene
said, her low voice cold with self-control. “I know it, and it
matters not at all to me. She was glad to be rid of me, and I happy
to leave her domain, where I have never been welcome or at ease. A
convent is the proper place for me, madame. I beg you, do not
pursue this plan of marriage that you and my mother have
concocted.”
Isabel digested this a moment. Then she tried
another approach. “I suppose you have learned to read and write
while in the convent? Well, so can Thomas. He has been trained in
an abbey. You two will have much to talk about.”
“I do not expect that I will ever speak to
your son at all, madame, for I do not intend to marry him – or
anyone.” Selene’s voice held a note of desperation. She seemed to
have realized that her plea had been dismissed by Isabel and would
probably be equally disregarded by those others who were planning
her life’s course.
“Sit down, Selene.” Isabel waved a hand
toward the window seat opposite her own place and tried not to
laugh at this too-serious girl. Selene obeyed her, cloaking herself
once more in the air of meekness with which she hid her frightened,
yet still defiant, spirit. Isabel sat appraising her future
daughter-in-law, amused and pleased with her. Selene would serve
her purposes well.
“The marriage is not yet arranged,” Selene
said at last, apparently becoming impatient with the silence which
Isabel had deliberately let go on and on. “When I see my father
again, I will tell him I do not wish to marry. I pray he will
listen to me if you and my mother will not.”
Isabel shrugged, unconcerned by the threat.
She had helped Aloise to dictate the letter to Sir Valaire which
suggested that he raise the subject of Selene’s marriage to Thomas
of Afoncaer. The letter was well on its way to England. Once the
arrangements were made and the contracts drawn up, this child’s
wishes in the matter would count for nothing. Sir Valaire would
never risk offending Baron Guy or his nephew by calling off the
wedding arrangements. Meanwhile, she would use her charm on Selene
to make her at least a little more agreeable to the idea. It would
not do to have a violently opposed bride. From what she had learned
of her, Isabel judged Selene capable of violence, or worse, if
pushed too far.
“Would you like me to tell you about my son?”
Isabel asked. “He was such a dear little boy, and such a handsome
young man. Everyone loves him.”
“Men.” Selene gave a most expressive shudder.
“The nuns have told me what men do to women. They told me on the
first day I became a woman.”
So that was it, and with all her information
about the girl, Isabel had not previously guessed it. The silly
child was afraid of men. That could be put right easily enough.
Isabel almost laughed aloud.
“It is not always unpleasant,” Isabel said,
recalling the early days of her marriage to Walter fitz Alan. She
moved a little on the hard stone seat. Even now, after all these
years, the memory could still stir her blood.
Ah, Walter,
Walter, what we once had, what we so foolishly lost in resentment
and regrets.
“The nuns have not told you everything, Selene.
Sometimes it can be marvelously exciting. Delicious, like honey, or
a rich, heady wine. It can be wonderful to be with a man.”
Selene sat staring at her, lips parted. She
had a small, pretty mouth, but rather thin lips. The girl was
probably not passionate at all, Isabel decided, but she could fill
Selene’s mind with Thomas, even try to think of something pleasant
to say about Afoncaer, and she would soon come around. Isabel could
see that she had her quarry interested now. Girls her age were
always intrigued by talk of lovemaking, even if they pretended they
were not, and Selene was still young enough to be impressed by an
attractive adult who paid particular attention to her, especially
if she didn’t get along with Aloise. How convenient that was.
“Shall I tell you about Thomas?” Isabel asked
again.
“If you like,” Selene said. “You are a guest
in this house, and I must listen to you politely, madame, but I
warn you, you will not change my mind about marriage.”
Oh, but she would, Isabel thought as she
began to talk. Her visit would last a month, longer if she could
maneuver Aloise into a further invitation, and in that time she
would make an ally of Selene. Before Isabel was done, the girl
would love her as though Isabel were her own mother, and at
Isabel’s bidding she would willingly marry Thomas.
Isabel wanted to avoid entering a convent, as
she had told Aloise, but there was more to her purpose, much more.
Isabel wanted revenge on Baron Guy of Afoncaer. It was because of
Guy that she had spent ten years in miserable exile. Now Isabel had
a plan to pay him back, a long, slow, clever plan that need not
depend upon a knife in his back or an army to unseat him from
Afoncaer. Isabel was too clever, too patient, for such crude
methods. And Selene, that cold, proud girl sitting stiffly across
the window niche from her, listening intently to Isabel’s words in
spite of her feigned indifference, Selene would be her weapon.