’Twas then she saw Amaury.
Or she thought she did. She caught a glimpse of a man’s face in the company, a man dressed like a peasant, a man with Amaury’s features. He sat beside a man who could have been his younger brother Roland, but when she strove for another glimpse, they both seemed to have vanished.
She must have imagined his presence.
She had to have been mistaken.
It must have been her hopes deceiving her eyes.
Still Isabella looked again and again, even while striving to hide her curiosity.
The hall was crowded, filled with trestle tables, the benches on either side of each one packed with villagers and guests. The noise was stupendous, even with the musicians singing, and there were dogs darting through the confusion. Someone began to drunkenly sing along with the musicians and soon there was a roar of voices raised in song, the hall as raucous as a tavern.
Just when it seemed there could be no more food forthcoming, the cook himself carried a large platter from the kitchens, pride in his expression. Upon the platter perched a swan, neck bent and wings raised. It was impressively arranged and looked as if it might swim away.
In reality, the skin and feathers had been carefully removed from the dead bird, the meat had been roasted, and the finished roast had been “dressed” in the feathers again for the presentation. Roast swan was one of her father’s favorite dishes and its presentation on this night was another sign that this feast had been ordered days in advance.
The musicians changed their tune, as if they would serenade the cook to his halting place in front of her father. They then gave the swan a fanfare. The Lord de Marnis rose to his feet, beaming with pleasure, and applauded the cook himself. There were cheers from the company, then the oldest of the squires inthe hall carved the meat, placing the first slice of breast meat on Isabella’s father’s trencher.
Isabella rather hoped Marguerite’s dog might snatch it up.
Instead, Gaultier took the meat delicately between finger and thumb, dipped it into the sauce just brought to his place, and devoured it all with gusto. He then ate another, partaking heavily of the sauce with each bite. The company laughed and applauded his enjoyment, wine was poured all around and the squire set to carving the rest of the meat.
“A toast to the Lady Marguerite!” Mallory cried and cups were raised. “May she find joy and many sons at Château Marnis!” There was a roar of approval at this prospect and the brothers stood to bow to their sister before drinking the toast. The Lord de Marnis coughed, as if he had something caught in his throat, then seized his chalice and drained it.
He coughed again and dropped the chalice so that it fell heavily on the board. One brother clapped him on the back. Isabella’s father halfway rose to his feet, coughing and choking, his face turning vivid red, then bared his teeth and fell backward. The great chair toppled beneath his weight and tipped over with a crash that silenced the hall. Gaultier writhed, half on the chair and half on the floor, as the company gathered around to look. His face was turning purple now, his anguish clear.
“Father!” Isabella pushed past one brother to her father’s side, but he shoved her away. Her father began to say something, then made a strange chortle and fell still.
The hall echoed with the silence.
Isabella reached for her father, but the younger brother held her back.
The seneschal raced forward, pushing his way through the company and fell to his knees beside his fallen lord. Isabella realized that he must have been in the kitchens, for usually Simon was in the hall, close to her father. Simon bent overthe still man and felt for his pulse, then straightened with such resolve that it was simple to anticipate his words.
“He is dead,” he said, his gaze roving over the company. “The Lord de Marnis is dead!”
It might have been a foul dream, a foul one or a jest gone badly awry. The entire company might have been frozen, for no one spoke or moved. She recalled her own words to Amaury, that old men were wont to die, and thought her father could not have chosen a more remarkable moment to end his own days.
Felix began to howl.
And in that moment, the gold signet ring of Marnis seemed to glint upon Isabella’s father’s hand, beckoning Isabella’s attention.
She caught her breath.
Blood, her father always had insisted, was of the greatest import of all. He would have put aside his wife to take another in the hope of conceiving another son, but he already had a daughter.
There was only one person in this keep of her father’s lineage.
Once she had the notion to claim her birthright, Isabella could not dismiss it. She had let Amaury slip away; she would not sacrifice opportunity again.
She pushed forcibly past Marguerite’s brother and seized the ring. It pulled easily from her father’s finger and Isabella did not hesitate before pushing it onto her own. It was loose on her middle finger, but she would not let it slip from her hand. She liked how it looked beside the smaller ring Amaury had given her. It belonged there.
Her legacy.
Her means to entice her husband back to her side. Isabella straightened in triumph to find the seneschal studying her with surprise. Simon had served her father for more than ten years, and though he was older than Isabella, he was far from ancient.A man of quiet efficiency and purpose, he was calm, reliable, and always had access to the latest of news from abroad.
Isabella dared not delay. She pivoted to face Simon squarely and offered her hand with the ring upon it.