“My mother makes it with sandalwood and lavender. It is nothing like that rank, greasy mess they gave us at Stafford. Use as much as you like, Astra. There is plenty more.”
Astra smoothed the soap over her skin. As she soaped her breasts, she was horrified to observe her nipples harden and thrust out. She glanced at Marguerite and was relieved to see her friend was turned away.
“Your hair needs washing too,” Marguerite noted. “Get it wet and then hang it over the back of the tub so I can soap it.”
Astra obliged, ducking her head under the water. She shivered slightly as the cooler air struck her skin.
Marguerite squeezed the excess moisture from Astra’s hair and rubbed soap through it. Marguerite’s touch was gentle, soothing. Astra felt herself slipping into a peaceful state of relaxation.
“It is a good thing we have all summer to get you ready for court,” Marguerite announced briskly. “Not only must we look to your manners and household skills, but your wardrobe from Stafford is fit for naught but burning. We’ll have to have everything made new—right down to your shifts. It’s a pity that full surcotes are all the fashion at court now. The style is flattering to tall women like myself and the Queen, but a little thing like you is likely to be lost in a heavy, ample gown. You would do better in a fitted bliaut that gives some hint of your figure.”
“I assure you I have no intention of dressing so that men can imagine my form beneath my clothing,” Astra answered stiffly.
“You have left the nunnery behind, Astra,” Marguerite reproved. “Modesty won’t help you catch a husband. My father is right when he says most noblemen seek a wealthy wife. The estate Papa means to gift you with will be respectable, but not extravagant. To attract an appropriate suitor, we must make use of your beauty.”
“Surely a Christian man should be more interested in his wife’s virtue and character than her appearance.”
“Aye, they
should
. But the truth is that women have been snaring men with their beauty since Eve. How do you suppose the Queen came to be queen? Do you truly think Henry married Eleanor solely for her bloodline and character?”
Astra nodded grimly. Marguerite was right. She had left the nunnery behind, and she must learn to face the unpleasantness of a world ruled by the crude values of men.
“You may be poor in land,” Marguerite continued, “but your wealth in beauty is as great as any woman at court. The knights will be drawn like bees to honey by your angelic features and exquisite coloring. If they were to catch a glimpse of your lovely breasts as well, I imagine some of them would be on their knees proposing in a trice!”
“Marguerite—you’re jesting!” Astra gasped.
“Aye, I am,” Marguerite chuckled. “Still, there is some truth to it. I recall a certain Lady Veronique at Louis’s court who said she had only to undo her gown and let her husband press his face into her generous bosom, and he would willingly gift her with whatever jewels or new gowns she desired.”
Shocked beyond words, Astra slid down in her bath water, frying to hide the objects of their discussion. It did no good. The water wasn’t deep, and her breasts seemed to float, the deep cleft between them plainly visible above the soapy water. For a moment Astra imagined a man’s dark head resting there. The image unleashed a painful ache deep within her.
“Perhaps I should not go to court at all,” Astra murmured. “If men of character tolerate their wives manipulating them in such a disgusting manner, it is clear I am not fit to be a nobleman’s wife. A wife has a duty to endure her husband’s attentions for the sake of producing heirs, but she certainly should not encourage repulsive carnal acts.”
Marguerite’s hands paused for a moment in soaping Astra’s hair. Then they began to tremble as Marguerite indulged herself in a fit of exuberant laughter. When she finally calmed, her voice still bubbled with amusement. “How true my father spoke, Astra. You are an innocent. It’s going to be great fun watching you lose that damnable purity you carry around like a shield. And you will lose it, mark my words. The court is full of men,
ma belle
, and you’re bound to find at least one of them irresistible.”
Astra slid down in the water even further. Marguerite’s warning words echoed in her head, vibrating down into some secret place inside her. She shivered, though the bath water was still warm. Here was a new danger, a new temptation she must guard against. The nuns had been right. The world outside the priory was a virtual quagmire of hazards to her soul.
“S
till sleeping? Why, you lazy slug-a-bed!” Astra strode purposefully into Marguerite’s sleeping chamber and pulled the curtains back from the bed so the daylight streamed in on her friend.
“I’ll get up now, I promise,” Marguerite answered sleepily as she untangled herself from the covers and stretched. “It is not so late, is it?”
“Late! The rest of the castle has been up for hours. Lady Fitz Hugh and I have already seen to the evening meal, started the buttermaking and supervised cleaning out the rushes in the hall. This afternoon we will review the supply lists and then she said she will teach me how to make her special soap.”
“Soap!” Marguerite made a horrible face. “Astra, you have no idea how awful soap-making is. You have to boil the wretched grease for hours, and it stinks up the whole courtyard. You’ll get the smell on your hair, your skin...”
“Then I’ll wash,” Astra answered briskly. “Surely any decent wife must know how to make her own soap. Your mother promised me she would share her special recipe of herbs with me so I will know how to make the wonderful-smelling concoction you use here at Ravensmore.”
“You are taking this chatelaine business utterly too seriously.” Marguerite pouted. “A noble lady does not have to learn to do everything herself. She has plenty of servants to do her bidding.”
“You forget, Marguerite, that I am not destined to be mistress of a great castle as you are. If I, indeed, find a man at court willing to marry me, we will likely live in a small house and have few servants. I need to know how to do these things myself.”
“Oh, bother! I had planned on us going riding this afternoon. It has been days since you’ve had time to spend with me, Astra. You must admit you’ve neglected me shamefully.”
Astra fixed her friend with a look of exasperation. There was so much to learn if she were to ever know how to manage even a small household, and Marguerite kept dragging her off to go riding or swimming or other idle pursuits. She was torn between spending time with Lady Fitz Hugh—or Lady Bea, as the castlefolk referred to her—and trying to keep Marguerite entertained.
“Perhaps we can compromise,” she suggested. “Lady Bea can show me the basics of soapmaking, and then I will go riding with you.”
Marguerite nodded. “That will have to do, I suppose. Then you could take a bath as you suggested, and afterwards we could practice your dancing and fixing your hair for court events. I wish your new clothes were finished. We cannot try out wimples and headdresses without knowing how they go with your new gowns.”
“The seamstress has finished them. I had her put them in the big chest.”
“Your court clothes are ready? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Astra shrugged. “I didn’t know it mattered. Certainly I couldn’t wear them for riding, or cleaning and soapmaking for that matter.”
“But don’t you want to see how they fit?” Marguerite asked as she went over to the chest and impatiently dug inside, throwing bliauts and undertunics everywhere. “Don’t you want to know how exquisite you will look in them?”
“I’m sure there will be time enough for that. We have the whole summer after all.”
“The whole summer? Why should we wait until fall to go to court? Why not go now?”
“Now?” Astra was aghast. “I have only begun to learn how to manage a household. It will take me the rest of the summer to feel confident I can do things half as well as Lady Bea.”
“There you go again, Astra, harping on that boring ‘mistress of the keep’ nonsense. You don’t even have a husband yet. Why are you worried about managing his household?”
“It does not hurt to plan ahead. If, God willing a man does ask for my hand, I want to do right by him as a wife.”
“If you worry about nothing except cleaning, cooking and keeping accounts, there’s no point taking you to court at all. Most men marry for land and money. Those that don’t are more interested in a comely face than soap recipes!”
“You make it sound so... so base, as if I were a prize cow being taken to market!”
“You can see it that way if you wish. Consider me the farmer who has taken on the responsibility of ‘taking you to market.’ I assure you, I intend to see that you are the comeliest little heifer there.”
Despite herself, Astra couldn’t help smiling at the absurd comparison. The idea of fastidious Marguerite as a farmer gave her the giggles.
“Please,” Marguerite coaxed. “I can’t wait to see you in your new finery. If we can’t make you the most dazzling creature to grace King Henry’s court, why, I’ll... I’ll stir up a batch of soap myself!”
* * *
London—the great city loomed ahead of them. Astra could see the massive battlements of the old Roman walls as well as the stately spires of churches rising above the sprawl of shops and houses. The sight took her breath away. She longed to stop and savor the moment, but it was impossible. The roadway was crowded with knights, pilgrims and farmers, and she dare not rein in the fine-boned gray palfrey she rode for fear she would impede traffic.
Her first sight of London was the culmination of their long journey from Ravensmore. They had been on the road for nearly a week, riding through the brilliant green of the summer countryside. Astra had almost grown accustomed to life on horseback. But she had not resigned herself to the other chief discomfort of traveling—the dirt. She decided the first thing she would do when they arrived at the palace was take a bath.
They entered the city through an arched gateway that led to a broad avenue. The mounted traveling party—headed by Lord Fitz Hugh himself—progressed quickly south. Astra had little time to observe the sights, for she was occupied with guiding her horse through the thronging streets. Around her, people shouted and cursed with vigor, rudely jostling each other in their hurry to pass.
“What think you, Astra?” Marguerite called. Her voice barely rose over the thud of the horses’ hooves and the din of the crowd. “Is it not exciting?”
Astra smiled back but made no attempt to answer. She was not sure what she thought of London. It was much noisier and dirtier than she had imagined, smellier too. She had never seen so many buildings, or so many people. The crude, aggressive crowd made her want to find some place quiet and catch her breath. And yet she was fascinated too. She had never felt so alive, her senses overwhelmed by the new sights and sounds all around her. The crowd increased, and down the street to her left, Astra caught a glimpse of the shops and food stands that drew them.
“That’s the Cheapside market,” Marguerite shouted helpfully. “We’ll visit it sometime.”
The Fitz Hugh party passed by the great cathedral of St. Paul’s and turned west. As they journeyed away from the marketplace, the houses grew richer and more elegant, and Astra could smell the river—the natural scents of water, mud and salt rising above the stench of offal and garbage. They followed the river’s course. Ahead of them the towers and spires of Westminster gleamed golden in the sun.
They reached the royal complex and passed through the gate into a large courtyard abustle with activity. It appeared the King was preparing to depart on a hunt. There were valets busily polishing hunting spears, horns and other implements of the chase, grooms leading magnificently caparisoned chargers and palfreys, falconers seated on the stone benches allowing their hooded falcons to bask in the sun’s rays, and huntsmen leashing in shaggy wolfhounds, slender coursing dogs and wiry vulperets.
Astra gaped at the splendid confusion, feeling like more of a backwards country girl than ever. Despite the fine horse she rode, she was sweaty and disheveled, and her bliaut was coated with a layer of dust.
They left their horses at the palace stables and set off on foot toward the part of the palace that housed the Queen’s chambers. Foot-sore and weary, Astra lagged behind. By the time she caught up with Marguerite and Lord Fitz Hugh, she could hear shouting.
“What do you mean there is no room?” Marguerite’s father bellowed at a put-upon-looking royal official. “I have brought my daughter to wait upon the Queen. She must stay at the palace.”
“I’m sorry,” the small man said. His fingers plucked nervously at his soiled crimson tunic. “Many of the Queen’s relatives are visiting London, and she insists they be housed at Westminster. There is very little space left.”
“This is outrageous! I sent word of my arrival weeks ago. I have a good mind to take this to the King himself.” Lord Fitz Hugh started to brush by the man.
“Wait!” the clerk begged. “There must be something left, perhaps a small chamber. Please stay here while I inquire.”
As soon as the man left, Marguerite leaned close to her father and grumbled, “The Queen’s relatives—they are not even English. How dare Henry allow them to take precedence over his own nobles?” Lord Fitz Hugh nodded, while Astra stared, amazed that anyone would dare to criticize the King of England.
In time, the man returned and informed Lord Fitz Hugh that sleeping chambers had been found. Fitz Hugh thanked him heartily, and a servant came to lead them into the palace. They were escorted down a narrow, moldy hall to a small corner room. It contained little more than an unlit brazier, some cupboards, a curtained bed and a smaller pallet on the floor. The servant departed to fetch them water. Astra sank down gratefully on the bed and began to remove her soiled linen headdress.
“I suppose it will do,” Marguerite groused. She glanced around the tiny room critically. “Last time we were in London, we had much finer accommodations.” She made a sour face. “It seems the steward spoke the truth. The better rooms are all taken up by the Queen’s relatives. They have descended upon London like a plague of locusts, and neither of the royal couple will turn even one away.”
“Surely it is normal for the King and Queen to want their family around them,” Astra ventured.
Marguerite raised her eyebrows. “There are many who feel that positions of power and influence should go to Englishmen instead of greedy foreigners. It is one of the reasons King Henry is in trouble with his barons.”
“In trouble?” Astra asked in surprise.
Even though they were alone, Marguerite lowered her voice as she answered. “There are those who talk of dealing with Henry as they did King John at Runnymede. They say Henry should be forced to abide by the Magna Charta as his father was compelled to promise.”
Astra felt a tightness in her chest. “Forced? Do you mean there will be war?”
Marguerite shrugged. “If it happens, it will be a long time coming. The barons are too busy squabbling among themselves to unite for a common cause. Still, it is true Henry is not a popular king, and Queen Eleanor is liked even less.”
Astra felt her stomach grow tight with dread. Her father had lost nearly everything during the intrigue of King John’s reign, and she had determined some time ago that she would have nothing to do with politics. Now she wondered if that was possible.
A servant arrived with a large bucket of water and a basin, and Astra hurried to wash away the grime that covered her face and hands. The day was hot, and she was sweaty as well as dusty. She decided to freshen up before she changed clothes and stripped to her chemise. To keep from getting it wet, she pulled the thin linen undergarment down to bare her breasts. She was nearly finished washing when she heard the door open again. She turned, expecting to see the chambermaid arriving with fresh water, and stared in astonishment at the sharp-featured young woman in the doorway. She was elegantly attired in a pale pink gown of patterned silk, with a gold and rose headdress to match.
The woman gaped openly at Astra’s breasts. Her eyes fixed there with such shock and amazement Astra wondered if she’d ever seen another naked woman before.
“Holy Mother of God!” the woman gasped, still staring at Astra. “What are you doing in my room?”
“Your room?” Marguerite stepped forward and glared at the intruder. “We were shown here and told we were welcome to use the chamber during our stay.”
“Who are you?” the woman demanded.
“I am Lady Marguerite Fitz Hugh, come to court for a visit with the Queen. My father is Reginald Fitz Hugh, Baron of Westford.”
The woman met Marguerite’s icy look with her pallid gray eyes. “I am Isabel Vipoint, third cousin to the Queen. She herself assured me that this room would be available to me as long as I wished.”
The two women stared at each other a moment, each taking the other’s measure, like a pair of dogs preparing for a fight. Nervously, Astra stepped between them.
“It seems there has been a mistake, Marguerite. The chambermaid obviously did not realize this room was being used by Demoiselle Vipoint.”
Isabel’s glance flicked to Astra, regarding her as one would a noxious insect. “And who might this sluttish creature be? Your serving girl?”
Astra sucked in her breath, completely stunned. She had done nothing to this woman. Why should she speak so cruelly?
“This
lady
is Astra de Mortain,” Marguerite answered. Her dark eyes glittered dangerously. “She is a dear friend of mine, and she will be sharing this room with me.”
Astra glanced from one angry woman to the other. They looked as if they might come to blows at any minute. The thought horrified Astra. They had only arrived at court. It would hardly do for Marguerite to provoke a fight with one of the Queen’s relatives. She had to intervene.
“Ladies, please!” she remonstrated. “There is no reason to quarrel. I’m sure something can be agreed upon.” She looked anxiously around the tiny chamber. “There is plenty of room. I could sleep upon the pallet, and the two of you could share the larger bed.”
Marguerite looked at Isabel as if she would rather sleep with a snake. Isabel was not much more enthusiastic. Astra continued to reason with them. “It appears there is a shortage of bedchambers in the palace. If we make a fuss, it will likely distress the Queen. I’m sure neither of you would wish that.”
Marguerite’s eyebrows rose, and she assessed Isabel disdainfully. Then, abruptly her full mouth curled into a smile. “Astra is right, of course. We would never dream of distressing the Queen, would we, Lady Isabel?”