Hallowmas, Or Shortest Of Day

When Isabelle first meets her new husband and becomes England’s for good, she doesn’t know quite what to make of the proceedings. King Richard is tall, with long yellow hair; he speaks French with courtesy, and he converses pleasantly enough with the King of France without troubling him, but he’s surrounded by less graceful Englishmen at all times, bristling with arms and very ugly. (It’s all a show, her nursemaid says with a funny pinched look on her face, they’re putting on a show of how seriously they take this new peace. But swaggering around with one hand on your sword squinting at anything that glitters seems like a stupid way of proclaiming peaceful intentions.) She’s introduced to a lot of tall men with bushy beards who she’s expected to recognize and by the end of it her head and feet both ache.

The King of France only stumbles once, and Isabella does not stumble at all.

For her wedding-day (or part of it) she sees very little of her bridegroom and much more of his relatives. The king’s cousin is a plump young man who smells like horses; he has lavish taste in gifts and very little to say, always blushing. Everything they show her has an eagle on it, or a fern, or a capital A, and Isabelle feels a little like she’s wearing someone else’s clothes. It’s not a bad feeling – ferns and feathers are pleasant badges for ladies and she’s never had an older sister to borrow from. But by later in the day she’s slightly dusty and light-headed and jittery, and no amount of tugging on her maids’ skirts will persuade them to let her go and lie down instead of standing around like a big doll with the sun shining in her eyes. Before dinner, there’s a sprinkling of rain coming down from a sunlit sky; by nightfall it’s terribly cold and howling out, and all the men have retired. There’s a great deal of hurry to pack away anything valuable, and Isabella must qualify, for they trundle her away for safekeeping before she can so much as say au revoir to the knights of England.

A long while later, it’s still raining, and long after the thunderclaps have stopped Isabella lies awake fretting. She’s tried saying her prayers again, but she keeps mixing up the different ones and she’s privately grateful there’s nobody awake to pinch her for it. It’s dark, and the bed smells of moldy straw, and the Virgin will understand if she bungles things.

She doesn’t hear anyone come in, but Isabella opens her squinched-shut eyes and she’s there – a little woman with terrifically shiny hair bound into one long plait. (It would probably be shinier if she wore it down, and what exactly makes it so shiny is hard to see; the lamp is out, and she’s lit blurrily by moonlight from the window.)

The visitor looks quite surprised, and it’s mutual. Her eyebrows make perfect little arches. But she does not bow, Isabella notes with infant pricklings of disapproval. Her nursemaid is still fast asleep, not three feet away; it’s no surprise that she sleeps like a stone, given that she’s about as smart as one, but Isabella would very much like someone to hide behind just now. Instead she lifts her head and tries to stick out her chin.

“You shouldn’t be in here. Go sit in the hall.” If she wanted to get warm and dry, she’s come to the wrong place, and she should have worn a cloak in the first place.

“Ssh, ssh, ssh, I won’t bother you for long. I only wanted to see you, and I’ll be gone in a little while.”

What business could she possibly have with a stranger? Nobody bothers her except to lug her to and fro, or to take away what she’s playing with, or to teach her a lesson and leave off in the middle of it; in the middle of the night she can only guess it’s a message. Perhaps King Richard doesn’t want her any more. Perhaps there is a fire or a flood and the ships are all wrecked – Isabella has never seen anything big burn, but she has a great horror of fire that will no doubt be inconvenient in English climates. She has heard stories.

“And who are you?”

It occurs to Isabella that she might be a great lady, sent here to deliver a scolding – or worse, a saint, with a scolding and a message. Isabella crosses herself as fast as she can over the bedcovers; the vehemence of it knocks her doll to the floor with a fabricky plop and the woman stoops to pick it up. (She takes little, creeping steps like a nun, and her skirts don’t even flutter.)

“Only a friend, and I’m here to help you – you can stay put, if you like. I’m called Anne.”

She says it not quite the English way, and not quite the French way; her French is not as good as King Richard’s to begin with, so her nationality is obvious. Isabella’s world is split down the middle in even halves. This woman isn’t one of the English duchesses who are to be her guardians for the journey, all of whom had been full of fussing, but nor is she a servant; she doesn’t talk like one of any nation, and her clothes are fine. They’re trimmed with fur and embroidered with tiny squiggles. Isabella squints to see, but she can’t squint hard enough to make out if they’re letters or leaves.

“Then what did you wake me up for?”

“You weren’t sleeping anyway. You were praying and I heard you.”

“It isn’t my fault – I don’t want to go to sleep, and furthermore I can’t.”

Anne crosses over to set the doll back down with her. Isabella burrows fitfully into the bedclothes, hunching her shoulders and hugging her knees.

“Neither can I. How old are you, lamb?”

“Seven,” she says haughtily, and then amends, “nearly seven.”

“And already a little bride,” Anne sighs, and puts a little round arm around her. Isabella turns her head to scrutinize her face; up close, she still shines. “You must be very frightened.”

“Not really. Why do you wear your hair that way?” It can’t be an English fashion; in fact it looks like no fashion at all. Isabella tugs on the end of it like a rope, to see if it’s pinned on; Anne doesn’t even swat her hand away, though prudence dictates that Isabella shouldn’t push her luck.

“I’m not a bell pull, dear, but that’s a very reasonable question. It’s much easier this way – would you like me to show you?”

Isabella tugs off her nightcap and drops her chin, sitting up a little so Lady Anne can help – her hair is not as long as that, and probably won’t be until she’s older, but this woman is less stern than her usual nursemaids and doesn’t tug nearly so hard, combing through her sleep-tangled hair with fingers more deft than any comb and separating it into bunches. She’s certainly plumper than her maids are, which makes her easier to wriggle up to.

“Will you tell me about England, then?”

“Of course. It’s a little jewel of a place, very pretty, with lots of gardens and parks. You’ll need to dress up warmly until spring, though, and pay attention to your ladies’ advice on the way there, and do what the men tell you. The cliffs at Dover are very nice to see – they look like snowbanks, all white, and you’ll like them, I think.”

“Really?” She’s seen cliffs before, but none of them white. And France has many gardens, but none for her. Isabella leans forward, picking at the design of feathers embroidered on the lady’s heavy skirts. Drowsiness has begun to creep up on her despite herself, and despite the fact that she’s in the company of a stranger; she’s starting to wilt. Lady Anne’s busy hands are making quick work of her hair and drawing up the little wisps at the back of her neck. Isabella yawns.

“There’ll be a lot of to-do on the beach when you arrive, and everyone will want to have a look at you. You’re just as strange to them as they are to you, more so because you’re a princess of France. It’s alright to be afraid. King Richard is a great gentleman–” She pauses. “He’s very kind to ladies, and he’s very devoted to peace, and he cares very much for France. His court is the finest in Christendom.”

Before Isabella can sort out whether to take offense at this, she presses her face against the top of Isabella’s head, and begins to weep fat heavy teardrops. Her heavy bronze-colored plait falls against her cheek; it’s perfumed with herbs and the smell is dizzying.

“He’ll care for you very much, I suppose, in due time.” Which is the sort of thing that people keep saying, and it’s certainly not worth sniffling over. Her tears are falling into the parting of Isabella’s hair and she feels like she ought to say something; she pats her on the knee, like she’s seen people do, and Lady Anne sighs like a heartstruck dove.

“There’s gardens, you said?” she pipes up again hopefully, after what seems like an acceptable pause. Her eyes are threatening to close, and the mattress seems much softer than it had earlier.

“Oh, yes. Whole islands on the river that are just gardens. You’ll go boating on the river, too, when the weather’s better, and the king will take you hunting if you like. King Richard loves his hounds and horses, and he’ll give you whatever color of one you ask for…”

When she wakes up her maid is tutting over her, and the daylight is streaming in; she’s being pulled at and prodded and hurried into her gown before she’s really awake and is too muddled even to dig in her heels and protest. Her hair is still crimped from its braid, and with every sharp tug of the comb in her nursemaid’s hands Isabella thinks about the white cliffs and gardens of England.