Free The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) by N. Gemini Sasson Page B

to my cheekbones and then back again where it was skillfully tucked and secured with pins. My ears were carefully concealed beneath the golden weave. A silver circlet sat upon my brow, its only adornment a single ruby in the center.
    Old Ida entered my chamber with Eleanor at her right, my daughter looking much older than her now nine years in a scarlet cyclas. Little Joanna clutched her sister’s other hand. I rose from my stool and kissed each of the girls on top of the head in turn.
    Joanna’s small fingers toyed with the buttons of my tight-fitting sleeve. She pouted, her whole face twisting with impatience. “My belly’s roaring.”
    “Then let us go, shall we?” I pinched her lightly on the cheek, turning her frown into a grin of approval.
    Straightening, I tugged at the waist of my gown to readjust it. The neckline of my dark blue cotehardie dipped low from bare shoulders—a fashion which some yet considered scandalous, although I cared not, for I found it far cooler in these summer months to be free of cloth which covered every inch of my body except for my face. But if my dress was a topic for wagging tongues, the gossipers forgot about me as soon as they laid eyes on Patrice, for where my bosom was modest, despite having birthed four children, hers was amply endowed. She made a point of ‘arranging’ herself so that the deep crease of her cleavage peeked above the jeweled rays of her brooch. We were both now thirty-two and had known each other for most of those years, yet they had been kinder to her than me. Her skin was smooth, where mine was already showing fine creases at the corners of my eyes. Her thick hair glistened like darkest midnight amidst the twisting spirals of its curls; mine was fine and straight, like stalks of ripened grain. Had I not loved her as I did, I might have been jealous of her looks and the comfortable ease with which she flaunted them.
    We began down the narrow corridor, a train of chattering women behind me, all of us giddy about the night’s festivities after so many weeks on the road, eating the most basic of foods, our clothing spattered with mud and our faces reddened by the sun’s strong rays.
    Young Edward turned a corner ahead of us as we neared the hall. Around him were brightly attired noblemen and the ever-present Will Montagu, with whom he was laughing. Upon seeing us, the king threw his arms wide and rushed toward me.
    “Did you hear?!” he exclaimed.
    We kissed cheeks and as we did so, I suddenly realized he had now surpassed me in height. I cupped his chin in my hand. “Hear what, my son?”
    He grabbed my hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Count William has consented to the marriage. Philippa and I are to be wed!”
    “I’m happy for you, truly. But do not forget the pope has yet to agree to the dispensation.”
    “Mother,” he said, a sneer flitting over his lips, “it will happen. Don’t spoil my joy tonight with pessimism. Please?”
    “Of course. My apologies.” In truth, although I was just as hopeful as he was that all would fall into place, age and experience had made a cynic of me. I reminded myself that Young Edward’s match with Philippa was one he had chosen himself. In Hainault, they had been inseparable, never at a loss for words or laughter. While the future course of his marriage couldn’t be predicted, at least it would have a good beginning—unlike my own marriage, which began poorly and got nothing but worse.
     Arm in arm, we proceeded to the high table. The guests rose and bowed as we entered and took our seats at the head table. Sir John was seated to the king’s right, while I sat to my son’s left. The hum of conversation filled the room as goblets were topped with wine. Musicians strummed a lively tune on the strings of their lutes and viols. Then, gasps of delight were heard as servants scurried forth bearing platters and dishes of stuffed duck and roasted mutton, quinces in wine sauce and custards topped with