An Accidental Queen

Chapter 3

I COULD SCARCELY enjoy the rare sweets of the night, some spicy oranges grown in the South by wealthy landowners and brought up to Toulouse. I peeled mine, my mouth unused to the astringent sensation lingering upon my tongue.

My fellow servants indulged in the dessert wastefully, devouring their fruits with too much vigour and little politeness common of the peasant class.

During feasts like the one I was amid then, I would often look at my superiors and watch them for signs of propriety and grace, hoping to imitate their actions. I was not attempting to act above my rank, but emulating the grace of my noble superiors provided me with a sense of pride.

I had learned, for example, that all guests of the higher class would wash their hands in the bowls upon their long tables, scrubbing with water until their fingers glistened clean. The act, I assumed, was done to evoke impressed observation from witnesses, so that the nobility could prove that they maintained a certain standard of hygiene. My masters would also manage wit in their conversations when speaking about military and political matters, eager to skewer their peers with clever remarks and quips.

There were things my masters did not do at their respective tables—acts suggestive of my class. They would not dip half-bitten bread into their soup or wine, or sniff the sustenance or drink of a neighbour. They would not allow unpleasant smells to disgust their table mates, withdrawing from the table before burping or releasing gas. They would not speak in uninhibited deluges of words, and they certainly would not speak in crude or unbecoming terms. Unlike the other servants, they would go to great lengths to disguise a sneeze and they would only use only three fingers when consuming meat, while the peasants used both hands greedily.

Because of my prolonged attention to the habits of my master and his esteemed guests, I emulated their customs. I did not know exactly why I attempted to act in such a way, other than that I felt an uncommon desire to become more like the nobility and less like an oafish laundress.

As I was gingerly lifting a piece of orange to my lips, William questioned me brashly from the other side of the table concerning my conduct. I realized he had returned and had been watching me for a long time, his auburn hair cropped short across his wide and dirt-smeared forehead. "You, Catherine, do not eat as quickly as the rest of us. Are you not enjoying your special treat?"

I placed my orange down on the table, becoming self-conscious of the rude valet's gaze fastened to me.

If I told him the truth about my strange ambition, he would think me delusional, or pretentious, or both.

"I am enjoying it," I replied, staring down at the fraying threads of my tunic. "I do not want to eat too swiftly, for we do not receive such pleasantries often."

Before William could provide a cutting reply, the musicians played the lute and sing an old chanson of love and heartbreak called O Rosa Bella. I wondered why the men would play such a sombre tune for a joyous occasion. Such songs were meant for gloomy affairs, not to celebrate a new marriage.

My eyes flew up to the dais. The master was leading his wife to the middle of the great hall, where there was a large space for dancing. Bernard, his handsome figure determined, assisted his sister up from her seat since she had no husband to help her. Isabelle of Clement seemed to wilt behind him, her face slack with a mixture of sadness and terror, though insignificant against the ornate refinery of her costume.

If only she could see how remarkable he is, I thought to myself. There is no better man for a husband than Bernard.

The rest of the nobility followed, and soon many people were littered across the great hall, dancing in the popular Italian style with skill and practice indicative of the required daily dance lessons for the children of noble families.