When they approached the inn, she saw an adjacent tavern, still very well lit for the hour. Through the large window, she saw a dozen or so patrons hunkered around small tables, mugs of ale gripped in their hands. Raucous laughter filtered out onto the street, and a series of catcalls echoed as the barmaid sauntered through the carelessly laid out tables.
A scruffily dressed boy hurried up to take their horses around to the stable. Isabella was careful to take her meager supplies from the horse before allowing it to be led away. Merrick ushered her into the inn where they were greeted by a sleepy-looking older man.
“We’d like a room,” Merrick said, again adopting a plainer accent.
The man nodded and shuffled behind the counter. He handed over a key and eyed them balefully. Realizing he was expecting payment, Isabella dug for the coin purse the woman had given her and shoved it at Merrick.
He counted out the amount and tucked a few coins back into the purse. Then he turned and gestured for Isabella to follow him.
When they were safely ensconced in the room, he set the sack containing their food on the bed and turned to her. “I am going over to the tavern to see what I can find out. You rest.”
Indecision rocked her. She looked longingly at the bed, but pondered the wisdom of allowing Merrick to go to the tavern alone.
“Isabella,” he said firmly. “The tavern is no place for a woman. You would only be a distraction. I can find the information we need much quicker if you remain behind.”
She nodded, knowing he was right. And the bed did look rather inviting. And warm.
“I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”
He let himself out of the door leaving her alone in the room. Isabella moved over to the small fire that had obviously been lit minutes before. She undressed quickly, careful to keep the map next to her.
After warming herself by the fire, she crawled beneath the covers and sank gratefully into the softness. As her eyelids grew heavier, she briefly wondered where Merrick would sleep.
“Oh, Mother, it’s wonderful.”
“Do you really like it, dearest?”
Isabella gazed at the painting with rapt attention. “Oh, yes, it’s ever so wonderful. I wish I could paint like you. Davide is so talented, but there is nothing I can do.”
Queen Marie-Claire hugged her ten-year-old daughter to her. “Heavens, Isabella. Wherever did you get an idea like that? Why, you can ride, and shoot, and fence. I imagine there are any number of other things your father has made sure you learned that I don’t approve of.” Her eyes twinkled merrily as she smoothed Isabella’s hair from her face.
“But I want to be like you,” she said softly. “You are so beautiful.” She glanced down at her muddied skirts and fidgeted uncomfortably.
Gentle hands pushed her chin back up so that she looked directly at her mother. “My precious daughter. There is no one more beautiful than you. You embrace life with such tenacity. It is a joy just to watch you grow. One day, my dear, you are going to do truly splendid things. I just know it.”
She smiled at Isabella then pressed a kiss to the top of her unruly hair. “Now run along, I want to finish our family portrait so I can present it to your father for his birthday.”
Isabella threw herself in her mother’s arms and hugged her tightly. Surely there was nothing better than a mother’s embrace. She sighed and breathed deeply of her mother’s comforting scent.
As she drew away, she glanced over at the easel again and smiled. Her mother had painted Isabella in her father’s arms, her two brothers standing proudly on either side. A space remained between her father and Davide. All that was left was for her mother to add herself into the portrait.
“Think your father will like it?” her mother asked, tussling Isabella’s hair.
“He will love it! Mother, will you paint one exactly like it for my birthday?”
“If you wish it, my darling. If you wish it.”
Isabella awoke, her cheeks damp with tears. The dream had been so real, so vivid. She could still feel her mother’s arms around her, smell the faint scent of lilacs.
She sat up, burying her face in her hands. Sobs racked her body as she wept openly. Raw pain twisted in her chest like a hot knife had been plunged within. How she missed her mother.
She rocked back and forth, grasping her knees and pulling them tightly to her chest. Laying her head on her knees, she closed her eyes as more tears slipped unheeded down her cheeks.
She hadn’t even been able to attend her parents’ funerals, or Stephane’s. Didn’t even know if they received one fitting of their station, or if they had been discarded like yesterday’s rubbish. The thought agonized her. Their bodies should have lain in state for weeks while the country mourned and paid homage to the beloved king and queen.
It didn’t seem fair that only she had survived. She was ill-fitted to serve her country as queen. She hadn’t the patience or gentle spirit of her mother or the wisdom and intelligence of her father. She was far too headstrong and willful to ever step into her father’s shoes.
Stephane had been groomed to ascend the throne. Even Davide had been charged with learning the rigid responsibilities and protocols. But Isabella had been left largely to her own devices, spoiled shamelessly by her father and indulged by her brothers. Loved beyond measure by her mother.
