until she stood naked before me, a young woman’s body, breasts already sprouting, hips widening. She turned, spreading out her hands.
‘Demoiselle Mathilde, this is what I will take to Edward of England. Now it’s time for something warmer.’
She redressed in woollen undergarments, quickly putting on a blue and silver gown, taking a pelisse from a peg on the wall to wrap about her shoulders. I was so embarrassed at her actions I glanced round the chamber, at the bed drapes, the Turkey rugs, the glorious coloured arras and tapestries resting against the pink-painted plaster. Above me hung a wooden chandelier; it carried six candles and could be lowered by a rope to shed greater light. Across the room stood a small writing desk and high-backed chair. The desk was covered with pieces of parchment and quills. Around the chamber ranged chests, some sealed and locked, others, with their lids thrown back, from which spilled precious cloth, brocaded clothing, belts, books, all the possessions of a rich, spoilt, pampered girl. Well, that was my first impression. I was yet to realise how Isabella could have performed in any mummers’ play, shifting from mood to mood, sometimes a child, at others a young woman. Now and again she’d act the innocent until her face assumed a cunning look as if she was calculating everything, weighing all she saw and heard in the balance. Whatever Marie had told her, Isabella had seemed to greet me as if I was a long-lost servant, as if we had known each other for years. Now she walked across and sat on the high-backed chair before the writing desk. She snapped her fingers, gesturing at a quilted stool in the corner.
‘Bring that over here, Mathilde, sit next to me.’
I did so, and Isabella rubbed her hands. ‘I’m cold.’ She pointed to the wheeled brazier just inside the door, the charcoal spluttering, small tendrils of smoke escaping, mingling with the perfume of sweet powders sprinkled on top. ‘Bring that across, Mathilde’. I hurried to do so. Once I had taken my seat, she gestured at another table where there was a jug of fruit juice and two goblets.
‘Fill both, one for you and one for me.’ So the game continued as she sent me hither and thither around the room, for this or that. Eventually she tired and turned to face me, once again swinging her legs, as if wondering whether to kick me or not.
‘Well, Mathilde, what are we to do?’ She steepled her fingers, pressing her hands hard. ‘We should be in England now.’ She smiled. ‘But Edward refuses to arrest the Templars! Now he is saying he doesn’t want to marry me.’ She threw her head back and laughed. ‘Father’s rage is to be seen to be believed. Spots of anger appear,’ she tapped her own cheek, ‘on either side, red splotches like those on a jester, and here,’ she pulled her lower lip down, ‘a white froth bubbles. They say my father has a heart of ice; I know different. He throbs with fury at the English king’s insults. So, Mathilde, we might spend a long time together before we take the road and cross the Narrow Seas to that mysterious island!’ She pushed her face closer, as if I was a child. ‘The mysterious island.’ She grimaced. ‘Nothing mysterious about it; only wet, dark and green, with elves and goblins living in the forest. They do say London is a magnificent city, like Paris, with a great thoroughfare and stalls which sell everything, and I,’ she tapped her chest, ‘will be queen of it all, but only if Edward stops baiting Father. Now, this is what I want you to do, Mathilde. I want you to listen to me.’ She wagged her finger. ‘No, don’t object.’ She blinked. ‘Looking at you, Mathilde, I suspect you are a keeper of secrets. If I told my father about that, he would have you investigated. Why do I know that? Well, you are the only person who really wants to go to England, so what are you hiding? Why do you want to flee?’
I kept my face impassive and held her gaze.
‘The
‘Demoiselle Mathilde, this is what I will take to Edward of England. Now it’s time for something warmer.’
She redressed in woollen undergarments, quickly putting on a blue and silver gown, taking a pelisse from a peg on the wall to wrap about her shoulders. I was so embarrassed at her actions I glanced round the chamber, at the bed drapes, the Turkey rugs, the glorious coloured arras and tapestries resting against the pink-painted plaster. Above me hung a wooden chandelier; it carried six candles and could be lowered by a rope to shed greater light. Across the room stood a small writing desk and high-backed chair. The desk was covered with pieces of parchment and quills. Around the chamber ranged chests, some sealed and locked, others, with their lids thrown back, from which spilled precious cloth, brocaded clothing, belts, books, all the possessions of a rich, spoilt, pampered girl. Well, that was my first impression. I was yet to realise how Isabella could have performed in any mummers’ play, shifting from mood to mood, sometimes a child, at others a young woman. Now and again she’d act the innocent until her face assumed a cunning look as if she was calculating everything, weighing all she saw and heard in the balance. Whatever Marie had told her, Isabella had seemed to greet me as if I was a long-lost servant, as if we had known each other for years. Now she walked across and sat on the high-backed chair before the writing desk. She snapped her fingers, gesturing at a quilted stool in the corner.
‘Bring that over here, Mathilde, sit next to me.’
I did so, and Isabella rubbed her hands. ‘I’m cold.’ She pointed to the wheeled brazier just inside the door, the charcoal spluttering, small tendrils of smoke escaping, mingling with the perfume of sweet powders sprinkled on top. ‘Bring that across, Mathilde’. I hurried to do so. Once I had taken my seat, she gestured at another table where there was a jug of fruit juice and two goblets.
‘Fill both, one for you and one for me.’ So the game continued as she sent me hither and thither around the room, for this or that. Eventually she tired and turned to face me, once again swinging her legs, as if wondering whether to kick me or not.
‘Well, Mathilde, what are we to do?’ She steepled her fingers, pressing her hands hard. ‘We should be in England now.’ She smiled. ‘But Edward refuses to arrest the Templars! Now he is saying he doesn’t want to marry me.’ She threw her head back and laughed. ‘Father’s rage is to be seen to be believed. Spots of anger appear,’ she tapped her own cheek, ‘on either side, red splotches like those on a jester, and here,’ she pulled her lower lip down, ‘a white froth bubbles. They say my father has a heart of ice; I know different. He throbs with fury at the English king’s insults. So, Mathilde, we might spend a long time together before we take the road and cross the Narrow Seas to that mysterious island!’ She pushed her face closer, as if I was a child. ‘The mysterious island.’ She grimaced. ‘Nothing mysterious about it; only wet, dark and green, with elves and goblins living in the forest. They do say London is a magnificent city, like Paris, with a great thoroughfare and stalls which sell everything, and I,’ she tapped her chest, ‘will be queen of it all, but only if Edward stops baiting Father. Now, this is what I want you to do, Mathilde. I want you to listen to me.’ She wagged her finger. ‘No, don’t object.’ She blinked. ‘Looking at you, Mathilde, I suspect you are a keeper of secrets. If I told my father about that, he would have you investigated. Why do I know that? Well, you are the only person who really wants to go to England, so what are you hiding? Why do you want to flee?’
I kept my face impassive and held her gaze.
‘The
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