In the Shadow of Midnight - By Marsha Canham Page 0,114
sent his niece, Eleanor, the Pearl of Brittany, to await his pleasure.
Marienne FitzWilliam crept on silent feet into the tower room, wary of disturbing the solemn figure who knelt over her evening prayers, her golden head bowed, her fingers smoothing comfortingly over the worn beads of a rosary. The candle burning in the prayer niche added its soot to the tall black stains already marking the stones from the countless candles that had burned there before. Marienne glanced at the tray of food she had brought into the room over an hour ago, knowing she would see only a crumb or two missing. Her poor princess barely ate enough to keep a bird alive. In the long months of her captivity, she had become thin and fragile, seeming to waste away before Marienne’s eyes. Her skin had lost its pearl-like lustre, even her hair—a gossamer cascade of silvery blonde sunlight—was dulled to a flat yellow. So much of it came away each morning in the bristles of the horsehair brush, it was a wonder there was enough to braid and twine at Eleanor’s nape.
Crossing the Channel had nearly accomplished what months of deprivation, heartbreak, and fear could not. The sea had been rough and the weather brutally cold. Marienne had suffered her own stomach to visit her throat several times during the voyage, and between bouts, had cradled Eleanor’s fevered head in her lap.
In Corfe, Eleanor had recovered some of her strength, but she was still so thin! Tears welled in Marienne’s eyes each time she saw her lovely mistress, head bowed, hands clasped in prayer, lips moving silently over pleas for forgiveness and understanding for those who would do their utmost to harm her.
Marienne would gladly have taken a dagger and plunged it into King John’s heart with a dearth of forgiveness and understanding. She would have plunged and plunged and plunged and taken the greatest pleasure in seeing the blood spurt from the gaping holes she would make in his chest! He had laughed. He had laughed, shrilly and maniacally when he had told Eleanor of her exile to Corfe, and Marienne had been the one to hold her and weep with her and comfort her as best she could. She was only fourteen, but felt one hundred and fourteen, forced too young to witness so much pain, deceit, and treachery. Forced to hurt so badly each time she saw a tremulous, brave smile cross her dear mistress’s face.
Eleanor offered one now as she detected Marienne’s presence behind her. She did not interrupt her prayers or stop her fingers from smoothing over the ebony beads. She was in the last prayer of the last station and Marienne waited patiently until the small gold cross was raised and pressed reverently to her lips to seal the final amen.
She hastened over and offered her assistance as the princess rose stiffly from her knees and moved to the bed.
“If you are going to scold me again, do not trouble yourself,” Eleanor said with a sigh. “I ate one whole round of bread and most of the poached fish. Any more and I would be belching like a wag.”
Marienne could have pointed out the bread was the size of a coin and the fish barely dented, but she held her tongue. It was more than her mistress had eaten the previous evening … and tomorrow was Wednesday. Wednesdays the cook mixed up a special treat of quenelles, one of the few things that seemed to tempt Eleanor’s appetite.
When Marienne told her this, hoping to rouse a little interest, the princess looked surprised. “Another sennight has passed already? It feels as though only yesterday we feasted on capons and dumplings.”
“Captain Brevant has promised to try to send us a flagon of real wine as well, not the soured vinegar they serve to the other … guests.”
Eleanor’s smile faltered somewhat and she reached out to stroke pale, slender fingers down Marienne’s unruly mop of crisp brown curls. “My poor Mouse. How dreadful this must all be for you. Forced to serve me in this … this dark and gloomy pesthole.”
“I am not forced, my lady,” Marienne protested, clutching the princess’s hand and holding it to her lips. “I am come willingly, of my own choice, and I stay willingly, knowing that one day soon we will both be able to walk out in the sunlight again.”
“Sunlight,” Eleanor whispered ruefully. “I have almost forgotten what it feels like on my face.”