Wonderful

by Jill Barnett

  Then came a bright and bejeweled train of nobles, their fine ladies riding at their sides. All were clad in richly colored garments of crimson, amber, emerald, and sapphire blue, and decorated with the heavy raw jewels favored in the Plantagenet court.

  The royal train ran as far back at the eye could see, a gay and impressive ribbon on the horizon. With them came wagons and oxen carrying gifts to Camrose and to Earl Merrick. These were presents from the king to the honored man who would wed Lady Clio of Camrose, the king’s own ward.

  At that very moment, said ward stood beside her betrothed in all her glorious and golden beauty. In looking at her, few would know what was going through her busy head.

  Clio stifled the first of two sudden urges: to yawn, for she had been awake all night seeing to the readiness of the castle and servants. She supposed the king would feel justified in ordering her beheaded if she were to look upon all this pomp and honor with the least amount of boredom.

  She knew she was supposed to look suitably impressed. ’Twas hard to be impressed when she was overcome with another even stronger urge: to kick the king’s earl as hard as she could.

  She wondered what would happen if she were to just draw back her foot and …

  “Do not even think about it.” Merrick warned without looking at her.

  She stiffened. Could the man read her mind?

  “You are wearing that look, Clio.”

  “What look?”

  “The one that signals trouble as surely as if you bellowed a battle cry.”

  “I do not know what you could possibly be yammering about, my lord.”

  “Look impressed, my lady, or you will offend our monarch and my friend.”

  She plastered a weak smile on her face and did her duty. Not because Merrick ordered her to, but because she had her own pride.

  She would not let anyone know how she felt. No one. She would not show that she was hurt and ashamed that Merrick would treat her so callously.

  It bothered her as much as his abandonment had, though perhaps this time she felt more betrayed, because she had thought he was different. She would hold her head proud and pretend she was happy.

  She looked at the king, who was riding through the gates. She had not met the man before. Only his father, Henry, and his fearsome and manipulative queen, the older Eleanor. ’Twas that woman who had so quickly banished her from court.

  She knew some of Edward, a man who had proved himself to be a doer instead of a dreamer. Some said he was a framer of just laws and a man of sharp intelligence.

  He had learned battle tactics and mechanics of war under the tutelage of the great Simon de Montfort, a man whom he later defeated in a treasonous rebellion against Henry. It was said Edward won his victory over the barons with a master tactician’s skills, and he defeated de Montfort at his own game.

  But as Clio looked at her king, riding closer to her with each step of his white mount, she was surprised to see he was as blondly handsome as Richard Coeur de Lion and tall and strong as an English oak.

  Edward rode into Camrose with all the height and majesty of a true king. His expression was full of fire, and she had no doubt that Merrick was right when he had said this was the man to make England strong, undivided.

  But there was something else in Edward’s expression, a kind of aura that made him more human. ’Twas almost like a strength and odd human sweetness that gave credence to man’s belief in the godlike origins of kings.

  His surcoat was emblazoned with three rampant leopards and was laced to his metal skull cap. He wore chausses of steel that covered his long-shanked thighs. His beard was light and golden, his lips full.

  He had creases in his cheeks and near his eyes that showed a man who saw humor in the world. His skin was a reddish sun-tinted color that gave him the healthy look of a man who could rule forever.

  He rode into the courtyard, and Merrick took her hand tightly in his, as if he thought she might do something foolish like snatch it away.

  She held her head high as they walked down the few steps to greet the king.

  Edward raised one immense hand in the air and the procession stopped. He swept down off his horse with a warrior’s ease, the golden bells on his saddle the only sounds in the air.

  The king grabbed Merrick in the friendly embrace of a long-lost brother, hugging him tightly while they laughed and greeted each other with loud slaps on the shoulders.

  She did not understand men. Any moment she expected them to grunt together or bump heads like the wild boars in the forest.

  Was this jolly bear of a man her king? Wasn’t he all too human? The man laughed and joked with Merrick.

  The moment the king shifted his merry gaze toward her, she sank into a curtsy, her head bowed low. Her knees were knocking together, and she took deep breaths so she wouldn’t do something truly humiliating like faint at his feet.

  “Ah, so this is the Lady Clio.” His voice was kind and filled with amusement. The king took her hand, and she looked up as she straightened. “I think my mother, God rest her bitter soul, must have been mistaken, my lady. For you do not look like ‘that horrid devil’s changeling’ to me.”

  She flushed bright red, felt the heat flood her cheeks. She could still hear the queen’s angry words.

  Edward gave her a warm smile. “Whatever possessed you to put monk’s ink in her oil bottle?”

  Clio sighed. “My own youthful exuberance, your majesty.” She would not admit that the queen had been complaining of gray hairs and was desperately seeking a cure. Clio had thought it a bottle of hair oil, not the oil the queen used to rub on her eyes at night.

  “Mother looked like a badger for almost two months.” Edward said with another laugh.

  “’Tis good to know the years have not changed your propensity for jests, my love,” Merrick said, placing an arm affectionately around her shoulder. “Why, just last evening she played a foolish prank on me.”

  His love? She gave Merrick a cool look that promised revenge.

  He reached up and tweaked her nose.

  It happened so fast she almost could not believe it, but the innocent look he gave her told her he knew exactly what he was doing. They both knew, too, that she could do nothing about it. ’Twas like a raw youth given license to sport in any way he wished.

  Within minutes they were greeting the queen and the others. Clio had to stand there, smiling, while Merrick joked and laughed with each visitor; it was the longest morning of Clio’s life.

  He patted her head like a trusted dog, tweaked her nose too many times to count. He pinched her cheeks and gave her slobbery kisses, and pinched her bottom so many times she would not be able to sit for week.

  And all of this in the name of a playful lover’s affection.

  When they finally turned to follow the others inside, Clio stopped him with a firm hand on his forearm. “If you pat me on the head once more, I will bark. King or no king.”

  Merrick just laughed and gave her swift a pat on the cheek.

  “I will not get angry, my lord,” she promised, her head high and her steps determined as she walked beside him into the keep. “I will get even.”

  But neither of them knew her revenge would come in a matter of hours.

  That day, the tables in the great hall at Camrose were laden with huge, golden-brown hunks of roasted venison and spiced rabbit. Wild boar stuffed with green winter apples and hams the size of a knight’s chest were served on platters of pewter and garnished with braised spinach greens and leeks cooked in golden honey sauce.

  There was flounder with rosemary stuffing, salmon steamed in dill weed, and pickled eel decorated with bright red crab apples. The bakers had spent the entire night baking meat pies, saffron girdle breads, and chicken pasties.

  Custard tarts were covered with fruit and figs and precious raisins, and before the king and queen was a raised silver bowl filled with red Sicilian oranges and shiny ripe nectarines.

  Bacon pudding and cherry pottage
sat in large serving bowls next to the salt sellers and locked pepper caskets with their small silver spoons and shaker holes. Rare capons were set aflame and crowned with eggs that were cooked right inside their brown speckled shells.

  Placed before the archbishop and other clergy were roasted peacocks stuffed with honeyed figs and apple mash. The proud bird’s plumy feathers had been reapplied after cooking and fanned to show their bright jeweled colors. Then they were placed on platters so large it took two servants to carry them.

  Merrick looked about him and decided Clio was being foolish. This feast was one of the finest he’d even seen.

  He was suitably proud. He cast a glance at his betrothed, who sat at the head table looking as stiff as an old corpse.

  “The feast does Camrose well,” Merrick said quietly, hoping to placate her some. “There is no shame in this. You worried for naught, woman.”

  She did not look at him, but leaned close and whispered, “But for how many days can our larders supply this much fare? As of today, there is no white flour left.”

  “We will hunt again tomorrow. The men will want meat.” Merrick gave a wave of his hand. “White flour is not important.”

  She gave a long and unreadable look. “It is to me,” she said under her breath.

  “Why just to you?” He had trouble keeping the scorn from his voice.

  “There is no white flour for a bridal cake,” she said softly, her head bent as if she thought she might cry.

  He eyed her head for a moment, surprised that she would be upset about something as silly as a bride cake. He did not understand women very well. They made the smallest things into such huge events. ’Twas like turning a childhood spat over a toy into a full-fledged war.

  He turned and raised a hand to signal one of the nearest servants—the master of the butlery—who then clapped his hands and five brawny men rolled in huge casks of Clio’s latest batch of ale.

  Merrick supposed they needed some levity in the room. Sitting there watching Clio’s unhappiness was doing little for his mood. The king was here and it was time to celebrate. He figured the ale would loosen their spirits.

  When the servants unplugged the casks and poured the beer into pewter serving ewers, all in the room saw Clio’s ale for the pure brew it was. The clarity was as clear as spring rainwater, while the color of the ale was rich and golden, like summer honey.

  Edward eyed the ale with great appreciation, and when he was told that Lady Clio had brewed it, he nodded and gave her a golden ring encrusted with emeralds as a reward.

  “A toast to the bride!” Someone from one of the lower tables cried out.

  “Aye!”

  The servants moved through the crowd, filling goblets and cups with Lady Clio’s ale.

  Edward stood and held his chalice high. “To Lady Clio of Camrose!” He took a deep drink of ale. He swallowed and his eyes became bright blue.

  All held their breath while the king looked down at his chalice, staring at the beer. He raised his head and smiled, then took another even bigger draft.

  “Lady Clio of Camrose!” all the guests shouted, raising their cups and goblets and drinking as deeply as had the king.

  “Aye, to Lady Clio of Camrose,” Edward repeated. “Whom Lord Merrick tweaks on the nose.” He drank more ale.

  Queen Eleanor blinked twice, then turned and looked at her husband as if he had grown a second head. Frowning, she took a small sip as she watched her husband closely.

  Clio and Merrick also exchanged puzzled glances.

  Merrick shrugged and took a deep drink of the ale, which was the best beer he had ever tasted. He leaned toward Clio. “’Tis fine.” He paused, then felt this intense need to add, “Better than French wine.”

  Merrick swilled down the rest of his ale. A strange heat traveled from his belly to loins to his head. ’Twas like his blood came alive. He signaled a servant to refill his cup, then took the ewer from the servant’s hand and set it before him. “Leave it. You twit.”

  He stood, raising the cup high. “To my bride, who has too much pride!” He drank deeply.

  The archbishop was on his third chalice of ale. He shot to his feet and shouted, “Tan her hide!”

  The room erupted in laughter at this bright new game that the king himself had started. Each person tried to have a wittier rhyme than the next.

  And so it went for the whole meal.

  Since Clio was the bride, they toasted her lips, and her hips. They drank to her eyes, and her thighs. Her luscious meal fare and her glorious hair. Her small nose and her bare toes.

  But even Merrick was surprised when he himself stood and bellowed, “Here’s to Lady Clio with her mouth full of sass.”

  He paused and looked down at her, enjoying her flush. He took a deep drink and looked out at the tables, all of them waiting …

  He grinned, then raised his cup high. “And her small, tight ass.”

  Don’t undertake to drink a whole pitch of beer.

  Because if you then talk,

  from your mouth comes nonsense.

  —Papyrus Anastasi IV

  “Whatever possessed you to toast your bride’s ass?” Roger asked Merrick.

  “’Twas the thing that was on my mind at the time,” Merrick grumbled.

  Roger began to laugh all over again.

  “Silence!” Merrick groaned. He sat on the battlements, where the cool wind blew, holding his pounding head in his hands while he asked himself the same bloody question. Why? What the hell had possessed him. “Just cut out my tongue and be done with it.”

  “I believe the fair Lady Clio would prefer that task, my friend.” King Edward clapped Merrick on the shoulder and sat down next to him.

  “’Tis your fault,” Merrick muttered. “Who ever heard of such a stupid game.”

  The king rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I do not know why. I did not plan the thing. It just happened. However, once I said that first rhyme, I thought it rather amusing, myself. And one of the advantages of being king, Merrick, is that you can do all the stupid things you want and no one thinks it odd.”

  “Then Merrick should be king,” Roger said. “He has done more stupid things of late than we have in both of our lifetimes combined.”

  “You two can quit speaking of me as if I’m not here.”

  “Are you here? We thought you were off somewhere dreaming about your lady’s sweet tight ass.”

  “Go to hell, Roger.”

  “I will. I am certain of it. And I hope the road to purgatory is lined with naked and wicked women. I care not if their asses are tight.”

  Merrick looked up at his friend. “I hope that road is lined with their husbands.”

  “Cease this,” Edward said, standing up. He began to pace in front of Merrick.

  It made Merrick dizzy and his head light, so he stared at his feet. “You both are giving me a headache.”

  “We must think,” the Icing said, still pacing. “You need to do something to placate the fair Lady Clio.”

  “Falling on my sword would not do it?”

  Roger and the king laughed.

  But Merrick did not find this amusing. He knew he could not have humiliated his betrothed any worse than he had.

  Yet she had said nothing. But just sat there while the room laughed at her. He knew her pride well, and knew it had taken a hard blow, one struck by him alone.

  He was ashamed.

  She had been right about him. He was an oaf.

  A stupid oaf.

  He took a deep breath and stood, staring up at the sky for a moment while his mind drifted toward some way he could show her the respect she deserved, the same respect his words had stolen from her that very night. He looked down at his feet for a moment and thought back over all of their conversations. Then he stilled.

  “I’ll be back,” was all he said to his friends, and he strode away from the battlements without another word, leaving Roger and the King of England staring at his stiff back.

  Cha
pter 30

  Two days later, in the late afternoon, while the men were off hunting again, Lady Clio had her small tight ass situated on top of a straw pallet in a windowless alcove off the solar. She pushed a needle through the tambour in her hand, not paying one bit of attention to the size and quality of her stitches. All she wished for right then was solitude and a blessed moment’s peace and quiet.

  As any good chatelaine would have, she had given her bedchamber to the king and queen, while she and many of the court ladies spent their few hours of sleep crammed together like orphans in the small and airless stone room that was usually kept for visiting nuns or noble pilgrims.

  The problem was they spent their waking hours together, too. But Clio did not know these women well, not like they knew each other. She did not fit in with them. When she was with them, she felt like a heathen in a room full of Christians.

  “God’s red blood! I am bored.” Lady Sofia, a young cousin of the king’s, a girl barely twelve years of age, tossed down her needle and plopped atop a pile of thin woolen blankets with her skinny arms crossed stubbornly over her chest.

  “Do not swear, child,” Queen Eleanor scolded her. “You know Edward would not approve of such language from you.”

  “Why not?” Sofia said petulantly. “Besides teaching me to swagger and spit, I’ve learnt my most masterful and inventive swear words from him.”

  “He is a man. Great men are expected to swear.”

  “I wish I were a man,” Sofia said. “Men can hunt and swim naked and bask for hours in the sunlight. I want sun-bronzed skin,” she said, pinching the pale skin on her forearms and frowning. “I look dead.”

  Another lady with long red hair and milky skin looked up and said, “Last eve, when I was out walking with Sir Roger FitzAlan, he told me that the Roman Church has disallowed women to stay in the sunlight for any length of time.”

  “Aye,” a black-haired lady added. “Sir Roger, who took me for ride atop his warhorse yesterday, claimed that the pope himself said the sun bleaches the hair and since hair grows from the brain, it can damage our minds.”