Faydide, meanwhile, looked between her husband and her brother, who smirked openly. “We will do no such thing,” she said sharply. “You cannot take a wife, Gaultier, for you already possess one.” She laughed but the sound was shrill, for every soul in the hall was watching her. “Here I am, my lord!”
Gaultier did not smile, nor did he relinquish his grip on the maiden’s hand. “And you will be gone on the morrow after the funeral.”
“Gone?” Faydide echoed.
“You will accompany Isabella to the convent…”
“The girl has no need of an escort!”
“…And there you will remain, by my dictate. I trust you will find satisfaction in your later years in seclusion and contemplation, Faydide. I anticipate that I will find great satisfaction in your absence.” Gaultier smiled at Marguerite even as Faydide sputtered.
Isabella knew she was blinking in astonishment. It was not sufficient that she was banished to a convent, but she must be sent there with Faydide?
“My lady?” her father said to the maiden. “Will you join me at the board?”
Marguerite glanced at her oldest brother before she nodded and smiled agreement, letting Gaultier escort her to the high table. Isabella’s father leaned hard on his cane though he strove to appear vigorous. The contrast between Isabella’s father and his intended bride was most striking. Isabella reasoned there had to be a gap of at least forty years between them.
The younger of the brothers winced as he watched the Lord de Marnis ascend to his high chair and Isabella saw a glance pass between the brothers like lightning. The older one shook his head minutely and spared a glance of loathing for Mallory. Thatman did not appear to notice. He offered his arm to his sister, but Faydide’s eyes were flashing with fury.
“Gaultier! What is the meaning of this jest?”
“It is no jest, Faydide. The decision is made and the matter resolved.” Isabella’s father settled into his seat with relief, raising his hand for wine as he dismissed his wife.
Color flooded Faydide’s features and her voice dropped low. Isabella saw that the older woman’s hands were clenched into fists. “Gaultier, you cannot mean to do this thing.”
“Do not be tedious, Faydide. I can and I do. I am Lord de Marnis, and my will reigns in this holding. If you have forgotten as much, then you are a fool.” He laughed lightly, gesturing to the company of musicians. “As I already have a fool, so you are not needed.”
“Gaultier! I am your wife!”
“No longer. I put you aside. Be quiet now, Faydide. If you cannot behave in a reasonable manner at the board, then take your meal in the kitchens.”
“Or in the stables,” Mallory jested, earning a swat from his sister.
“You should take my side,” she hissed at him.
“Your side has lost, sister,” he replied sternly. Despite how much Isabella disliked Faydide, she felt sorry for the woman in this moment. Mallory then turned to Isabella. “Come, Isabella, let us take our places lest we miss the wine. This may be the last good meal you ever enjoy.”
She would not enjoy it if she was compelled to sit with Mallory. What advantage was there to him in this arrangement? He was positively gloating and Isabella could not explain it.
“Gaultier! I would discuss this matter with you!” Faydide cried.
“Go,” that man said with a dismissive wave. “It is bad for a man’s constitution to argue over a meal, Faydide. You told me as much yourself.”
“But…”
Gaultier’s gaze rose from Faydide to two of the guards in the hall and he lifted a brow. They took only one step toward their former lady before she guessed their intent. “This is your fault,” she shrieked at Isabella, then spun and fled toward the kitchens. She gave a wail of anguish, then Gaultier glared at Mallory with impatience. That man swore softly, then strode after his sister. In a heartbeat, Faydide’s sobs had diminished to silence.
The others in the hall feigned ignorance of any uproar as they took their places. The Lord de Marnis gestured to the musicians that they should begin to play. The sounds of the lute filled the hall, quickly followed by whispers of speculation.
Marguerite was at Gaultier’s left, and her older brother on Gaultier’s right. The younger brother sat on his sister’s left, while Isabella was seated beside the older brother. They were to share a trencher, which was less than ideal, but at least she did not have to share with Mallory. When that man returned, he was waved to the place beside the younger brother.
“Why does she blame you?” the older brother asked Isabella softly.
Isabella shrugged. “It is a habit well established,” she said.
“Is she not your mother?”
“Nay, my mother died in the birthing of me.”