“Madame will need servants,” the innkeeper said.
“Madame has little with which to pay servants,monsieur,” Arabella said with a small smile that set the innkeeper’s heart to racing.
“A woman to cook, a girl or two to clean from the village nearby, madame. Give them a few coppers a month, a place to sleep, their food, and they will be happy,” he told her. “I must assume a lady of madame’s rank will go to court. Soon she will find new friends. She will want to entertain,” he added slyly.
“He’s right,” FitzWalter said softly at her shoulder.
“I know,” Arabella replied in English, “but I must first count our funds to see what we can afford.”
“Tell our new landlord to send the women around this afternoon, my lady. We must have a cook at least.”
“You will send me several women from which I may choose my servants this afternoon,MonsieurReynaud,” Arabella instructed him.
The innkeeper bowed and departed.
FitzWalter assigned the eight men-at-arms to their new duties. Two would serve in the house and share a room in the attic. Two others would reside in a single-room cottage at the back of the garden by the river. FitzWalter would make his bed in a small chamber on the second floor of the house with Fergus MacMichael, the rest of the men would bed down in the little stable belonging to the house and Lona would sleep on a trundle in her mistress’s room.
MonsieurReynaud had left a basket of food for them so they would not go hungry until the cook was chosen from the candidates he was sending. Shortly after the noon hour, however, a great, gaunt woman, accompanied by two younger versions of herself, arrived at the door of Maison Riviere and announced, “I am Barbe, and these are my daughters, Avice and Lanette, madame.MonsieurReynaud has sent us to serve you. Whatever wages you would pay us we will accept gladly, for I am widowed, and my daughters and I must support ourselves.MonsieurReynaud says you would not be unfair.”
Then before Arabella might protest, Barbe, her daughters following in her wake, moved past her and, without another word, found their way to the kitchens. Within minutes they had the fires going and Barbe was directing the two men-at-arms assigned to the house by FitzWalter to fetch her water from the house’s well and bring her more firewood. As the big woman spoke no English and the Greyfaire men no French, her methods of communication were somewhat comical, though successful. To Arabella’s amazement, the cook also set about to teach them two simple words.
“C’est l’eau!”she told them when they had brought her water, and she plunged her big reddened hand into the bucket, bringing it up and drizzling the liquid through her sausagelike fingers. “L’eau!”she said a second time for emphasis, and then cocked her head at them.
The two young men looked at her, puzzled, and then Lona, catching on, said, “It must be the French word for water. Repeat her words, you two dimwits! She’s trying to teach you.” Lona swished her own hand about in the bucket.“L’eau,”she said, and the men echoed her.
Barbe grinned broadly.“Bon!”she said, obviously pleased, and pointed to the firewood they had also brought.“Bois de chauffage,”she pronounced slowly.
“Firewood!” Lona said excitedly.“Bois de chauffageis firewood!”
“Bon!”came the reply.“Barbe.”The cook pointed to herself and looked to the others.
“Lona,” Lona said, her fingers touching her own chest, and then she pointed to her two companions in turn. “Will. John,” she told the cook.
“Weel. Jean,” Barbe said, grinning broadly at the two.
“I am obviously not going to be given a choice in the matter,” Arabella said laughingly. “I only hope she can cook as well as she can teach you all the French tongue.”
“She probably can,” FitzWalter said. “Our wily landlord has so far been honest with us.”
“What am I to pay her?” Arabella wondered aloud.
“I’ll take care of it,” FitzWalter said. “I’ll see if they plan on living here, in which case they can sleep in the room off the kitchen. The fireplace backs up to it, and it should be warm in winter.”
Arabella nodded and left everything to FitzWalter, realizing even as she returned to the small salon on the main floor of the house how fortunate she was to have this man in her service. Without him, she would have faltered a hundred times, for FitzWalter obviously knew the world beyond Greyfaire, and she, but for her time in Scotland, did not.
In a day or two she would have to consider how she might go about joining the French court. The French king, Charles VIII, was just nineteen years old and had been king since his father’s death six years before. Intellectually, he was considered backward and slow, and so his father had given him a regent in the person of his brilliant eldest sister, Anne of Beaujeu, who was married to Pierre de Bourbon. Charles VIII’s first cousin and heir-presumptive, Louis, the Duc d’Orleans, was furious. Wed to another of Charles’ elder sisters, Jeanne de Valois, he feared that the Bourbons would usurp his position as lieutenant general of the kingdom. He was also in love with his sister-in-law Anne, an open secret known to everyone in France.
Louis rashly tried to have his marriage to Jeanne de Valois put aside, citing his wife’s physical imperfections. Jeanne, a charming and intelligent woman, was a hunchback with a pronounced limp. Foolishly, he spoke publicly of his love for Anne of Beaujeu, and that lady, to whom duty and honor meant more than passion, ordered her bold brother-in-law’s arrest. Warned, Louis fled to Brittany, a grave error inFrench eyes, as Brittany’s duke was a thorn in France’s side.
A number of noblemen of consequence allied themselves to the Duc d’Orleans, but Anne of Beaujeu would not yield an inch. Indeed, she raised an army of twelve thousand men under the leadership of Louis de la Tremoille and defeated the rebels in July of 1488. Duc Louis was taken prisoner and incarcerated in the chateau at Lusignan. At first he was kept alive on only bread and water, his captors disregarding his high rank. His wife, the good Jeanne, intervened on his behalf, but although his diet was changed to a more humane one, he remained imprisoned. Anne continued to rule France in her brother’s name, for he, it was thought, was not yet ready to rule alone.
Charles VIII was briefly in residence in Paris at his Hotel de Valois. With the summer upon them he would soon be returning to his favorite home, the chateau at Amboise. Unversed in the protocol of court life, Arabella silently cursed Henry Tudor. How in the name of heaven was she supposed to join the French court? If she could not decide on some clever scheme to accomplish this feat, she would be useless to the English king and would lose Greyfaire. Her dilemma was solved for her with the arrival of a letter.
Astounded that anyone in Paris should send her a message, Arabella broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. As her eyes flew over the words, she felt relief pouring through her.
Madame. It has come to my attention that another victim of Henry Tudor’s rapacious greed has found her way to Paris. I would be honored if you would be my guest at a small fete that the king is giving on Midsummer’s Eve at the Hotel de Valois. My coach will call for you at four.
The missive was signed, Anthony Varden.
