Myself: A Dawning - Coming in Summer 2025

She turned her toes slightly outward just as her father had taught her, digging her heels into the sides of her fierce destrier to urge its pace into a full gallop. Isabeau charged fearlessly across the battlefield toward her bloodthirsty Saracen foes. As she drew closer, she could discern a wolfish grin on the swarthy face of their leader as he hefted the long, curved blade of his shafsher into a high guard.

“Take me lightly because I am a woman at your own peril, you infidel dog!” she bellowed.

Isabeau nudged Ragonde lightly with her right knee to alter the horse’s course directly toward her mocking adversary. She raised her slender arm, drawing her own weapon overhead before bringing it down with every bit of strength her still-growing body could muster.

“For Christ and Normandy!”

Her willow whip whistled through the air, severing the head of her opponent cleanly from his neck and leaving his contemptuous expression forever frozen on his face. She had no time to admire her handicraft, however. Isabeau wheeled her fatigued steed to the left. More of the enemy were approaching, but much more warily it seemed.

“Hah! Not so eager now, eh? Do you at last realize whom it is that you face?”

The contingent of Saracens halted uncertainly then, panicking, turned and ran. Once more, she encouraged her valiant Ragonde forward. Isabeau’s osier rod slashed to the left and right, mercilessly striking down the craven heathens who fled before her. At last, there were only their ruined bodies left littering the field.

Isabeau leapt from her horse with excitement.

“Oh, Ragonde! We’ve won! We have saved the Holy Land!”

She cradled the pony’s perspiring head, hugging it close to her own.

Ragonde endured this affection with practiced patience. This was not the first time her mistress had sped her across the grassy fields of Beaumont-sur-Sarthe, shrieking at the top of her lungs for no apparent reason. The honey-colored mare eyed Isabeau expectantly, clearly eager to begin the journey back to the stable where sweet hay and cool, fresh water awaited.

Despite her great victory over the foes of Christendom, Isabeau knew she had no time for celebration. The cows awaited milking and she had no desire to be late. She was very fond of Claudette, the elderly milkmaid, whose hands were sometimes bothered with aching and stiffness in the mornings. Isabeau did not wish to displease her by undue tardiness.

Besides, milking is the most favorite of my chores.

Some of the other noble-born girls in town laughed at Isabeau, tittering amongst themselves and pointing at the knight’s daughter who labored in the barns like a common serf.

She felt her buoyant mood begin to darken at the hurtful memory of their childish cruelty.

Knowing she had tarried long enough; she hiked up her linen kirtle to her thighs and nimbly vaulted onto Ragonde’s broad back. Isabeau’s fingers twitched the reins unnecessarily; the pony had already discerned her mistress’ intent. Together, they began the short journey that would take them back home.

As her youthful body instinctively adjusted to the pony’s plodding gait, Isabeau looked across the even countryside toward the indistinct shapes of the buildings of her father’s manor, about a mile in the distance.  

Maison Bouton d’Or. Mama had said she named it when she and Father had first arrived here, young and newly married. The buttercups had surrounded the house in a sea of saffron-colored blooms; as beautiful as their love which would envelop them and their soon-to-be growing family.

Isabeau smiled at the recollection of her mother’s words.

Although it was less than an hour after sunup, she could already discern the heat shimmers rising from the stubbled earth. About twenty feet away, a flock of crows picking among the clods for tasty morsels of insect flesh cawed at her noisily, scolding her for disturbing their repast. She thought of screeching back at them, but decided instead to leave the scavengers to break their morning fast in peace.

Arriving home, she dismounted and drew a bucket of water from the well. She dumped the contents into the adjacent wooden trough, allowing Ragonde to slake her thirst from their morning’s exertions. Realizing Claudette was already at work, Isabeau hurriedly slipped the bridle from the pony’s head.

“Go,” she ordered, slapping the pony lightly on its meaty flank for emphasis. “I’ll tend to you properly after I finish.”

Isabeau’s petite bare feet kicked up minuscule swirls of dust as she skipped across the yard and onto the compressed earthen floor of the barn. She paused briefly to let her eyes grow accustomed to the deep shadow inside after the intense sunlight she had just left.

“Come, Mon Chéri, Madame Perenelle awaits you.”

As if comprehending the elderly milkmaid’s words, the Normande cow turned her russet and white pied head and gazed expectantly at the fourteen-year-old girl with her immense brown eyes. Isabeau giggled and, grabbing a milk-stool in one of her slender hands and an oaken bucket in the other, settled herself beside the cow’s dangling udder. She breathed in deeply, relishing the warm, musky odor of the beast. Within seconds, her adept fingers had established a steady rhythmic squeezing of the cow’s rear teats, sending hot jets of milk sizzling downward. By the time she switched to the back two, the bucket was almost half of the way full with another three inches of thick foam surmounting the surface.

After she finished with Perenelle, Isabeau carefully carried her bucket to the right-side wall of the barn and poured its contents into a larger container, one with a well-fitting lid. Behind her, she heard a throaty grumbling.

“Nothing for you, Mama Cat! It will have to be mouse meat for your babies,” Isabeau warned the orange tabby watching her from the corner through slitted eyes.

She tamped down the lid, knowing from experience the barnyard’s cats would find a way to work the top off the container if it was not securely fixed.

Isabeau moved on to a second cow. Her efforts were not so rewarded here as this was a younger bovine undergoing her first lactation. It was not long before she finished, adding the buckets contents to the earthenware vessel. The milk would be left to sour overnight. In the morning, Claudette would add a portion of ale and a modicum of soft cheese left-over from a few days’ prior. This would then be set aside for another day or two before separating the curds from the whey. The curds would they be drained, salted, and herbs would be added. This would be pressed into blocks and moved to the cold store where it would be aged into fine cheese.

Bidding Claudette goodbye, Isabeau left the barn, retrieving her bridle to search for her pony, which she found daintily nibbling some of the sheep’s hay.

“Get away from that, You Piglet! Come, I will get you some of your own.”

Isabeau led Ragonde to the stables where she let the mare munch on an armful of sweet clover hay while she dutifully performed a thorough currying of the pony’s still-damp coat. A sudden loud snuffle from two stalls down momentarily startled her. She recovered quickly, realizing its source.

“Shush you!” Isabeau muttered. “You know Father would have my skin if I took it upon myself to give you a brushing.”

The destrier gave another derisive snort, seemingly mocking the girl. Isabeau’s ire rose.

Her father’s war horse was immense compared to Ragonde, towering over her pony by several hands. It was not his size alone that caused Isabeau’s wariness. The destrier was also fierce and ill-tempered, trained to attack his rider’s foes with teeth, bulk, and hooves, as much a weapon as a knight’s sword and mace. Broieguerre could only be handled by someone who had earned his respect; clearly something Isabeau had not yet accomplished. To venture into the stallion’s stall would be a foolhardy risk of her life.

“One day,” she said, ignoring the other horse as she finished grooming her own. She led Ragonde to her stall and closed the gate behind her.

“Isabeau!”

Oh, sweet Mary, Mother of Jesus! What have I done or not done now?

“Isabeau! Where are you, you imp?”

“Here, Marie! I am coming!”

Isabeau ran from the stable into the yard, almost colliding with her raven-haired, thickset sister. Although Marie was only six years older than her sister, they had little in common. Marie was married, with two infants of her own. Since the death of their mother while giving birth to little Achille two years prior, Marie had been the main authority figure in Isabeau’s life, a role she clearly relished.

“Come, help me prepare vegetables for the midday’s stew,” Marie ordered before looking her sister up and down with a critical eye. “What a mess you are. I do not know which is filthier; you, or the beasts of the barnyard. Now, go wash yourself and then to the kitchen immediately!”

Isabeau did as she was told. She did not voice the angry retort seething behind her lips. She never did.

An hour later, Isabeau joined her family and servants in the hall of the manor to break their fast. Meals were a noisy affair, with earnest discussions concerning the running of the holding competing with boisterous laughter and salacious gossip. Isabeau was the oldest at the table of the younger children, responsible for ensuring more of their food found its way into their mouths than onto the floor, only to be eagerly snatched by the family dogs. It was as she was wiping a dribble from little Achille’s chin that she unexpectedly heard her name.

“Isabeau! Are you deaf? Your father is talking to you!” Marie shouted, a withering look of disapproval on her face.

Father? He so rarely speaks to me at meals since Mama died.

Isabeau stood, turned toward her father, and curtsied; trying in vain to recall the last time they had conversed.

“Yes, Father?”

She felt something hit her lightly on the back of the head. Her older brother Guillaume hooted loudly, joined in laughter by another sibling, Aymer. who congratulated him for his aim.

Isabeau did not flinch.

“The two of you leave the poor girl alone, can’t you see you have frightened her?” Marie warned.

They had not.

“Isabeau, I have been summoned to attend Viscount Louis at the castle tomorrow. You will accompany me.”

A sudden stillness enveloped the chamber as everyone’s eyes suddenly fixed on Isabeau as if she had suddenly grown a second head.

As for her, she stood motionless, this time frozen with astonishment. Despite her swelling excitement, she maintained an even gaze upon Sir Aymer de Conches, her father.

She curtsied once more and answered, “Yes, Father.”

Sir Aymer had already turned to speak with others at his table, laughing and wiping crumbs and red wine from his short graying beard.

Realizing her brief audience had ended as quickly as it had begun, Isabeau once more took her seat. She resumed tending to her charges mechanically, her thoughts roiling as she considered the significance of her father’s announcement. She had only been inside the castle once before, for the christening of the Viscount’s daughter, Odette. But the opportunity to visit Sir Louis’ court was not the reason for her sudden happiness.

I am overjoyed at the thought of spending time with Father; I had feared he had forgotten that I exist. But why is he taking me to accompany him and not Guillaume, or anyone else for that matter?

Try as she might, she could think of no possible purpose he would have for including his youngest daughter in an audience with his liege lord; even less that Viscount Louis would have some earthly motive for wanting to see her.

A sudden hope caused her breath to catch in her throat.

Perhaps his heart warms to me! But that is more than I can wish. There must be some other reason!

Who could Isabeau ask? Certainly not Marie or her husband, François, her father’s squire. Neither would she give any of her seven older brothers the satisfaction of placing herself in their debt.

They’d only lie to me anyway and laugh their empty heads off later.

Her fists tightened involuntarily.

How I wish Mama were still alive.

This thought occurred to her frequently, despite the fact she had died nearly three years prior, during Yuletide of the year of Our Lord 1267, as was recorded on the family crypt in the Church of Our Lady in Beaumont-sur-Sarthe.

Mama would know Father’s reason for taking me to the castle. She knew everything.

Her mother had been the smartest person Isabeau had ever met, even wiser than the town’s priests. She had taught her youngest daughter to read and write nearly as soon as she could walk. She also regaled her with stories of her fabled ancestor, the renowned Isabel de Conches, who rode armored into battle alongside her knights some hundred and fifty years before.

Isabeau murmured a brief prayer for her mother’s soul, as well as for that of her distant grandmother.

As the heavy afternoon sun began to settle toward the horizon, Isabeau abruptly ceased her ponderings as she was subjected to a vile ambush, the treachery of which only a true infidel could devise.

Finding Isabeau watching intently as several of the men struggled to replace one of the huge wooden wheels on a cart, Marie’s young maid, Béatrice, informed her that her mistress had need of her younger sister in her apartments.

Accompanying Béatrice into the house, Isabeau was shocked to see her sister standing stoically alongside a large tub of steaming water.

Isabeau took one step backwards but, before she could take flight, she was caught up in the strong arms of the maid. Realizing resistance was futile, she submitted, allowing herself to be moved forward until she stood before Marie. Her eyes met those of her sister squarely.

“Why Father insists on taking you to the castle Sweet Christ alone knows,” Marie said with weariness in her voice. “Regardless, I will not permit him to be embarrassed by appearing to claim some bastard street-urchin as his own. For once, Isabeau, try to act like a lady, please? Now, off with that gown and chemise and into the water. We have even heated it. Isn’t that better than simply throwing you into the river?”

Her younger sister’s nod seemed to please Marie, who flashed a sparse smile before turning on her heel and departing.

“Call me when you’re finished, Béatrice. I have many other tasks to which to attend.”

Isabeau breathed a thankful sigh as the door closed behind her sister. She held her long arms upwards as Béatrice pulled her blue kirtle and white chemise over her head simultaneously. For a while, Isabeau had feared Marie had decided to bathe her herself. Although she took no pleasure in exposing her nakedness to the maid, she would have been mortified to have had it been her sister’s fingers washing her body.

The pungent scent of thyme drifted up from the water’s surface. Isabeau gracefully stepped over the side of the tub and lowered her body; surprised at the pleasurable effect the warm water had on her skin. Now totally immersed except for her head, Béatrice took a bit of tallow and ash soap in hand and began the unenviable task of removing a summer’s accumulation of caked grime from the girl’s torso and limbs.

“Ouch!” Isabeau yelped.

Béatrice brought her head around to peer into the girl’s hazel-colored eyes questioningly.

“That’s a scab on my leg, not mud. I scraped myself when I fell from a tree.”

“And what were you doing in this tree?” the maid asked.

“I imagined I was a crusader on King Louis’ ship to the Holy Land. I needed to climb the mast to see if I could spot the Sultan’s fleet.”

Béatrice clucked her tongue and returned to her scrubbing, albeit more gently now around the injured area.

By the time the maid had finished, the color of the bath water was indistinguishable from one of the puddles that formed in the barnyard after a light rain. Béatrice looked at the hearth indecisively, as if trying to decide whether to heat another pot of water before undertaking the girl’s brunette hair. She obviously decided this would be too time consuming as she instructed Isabeau to scrunch down in the tub to fully immerse her head.

Isabeau did as she was instructed and popped back up, spluttering water from her mouth and nose. Dabbing her fingers into a bowl containing a mixture of oil, ashes, and sweet herbs, Béatrice began to knead the girl’s long strands of hair with her agile fingers, patiently separating the accumulated snarls and tangles of weeks spent without a thorough brushing.

“Bend over,” Beatrice ordered.

Isabeau obeyed, steeling herself for what would come next.

“Cold!” she gasped as the maid dumped the bucketful of unheated water over her head, causing gooseflesh to immediately rise on her bare arms.

Ignoring the girl’s protest, Beatrice returned to her task. After the better part of an hour, Isabeau’s hair was at last clean and separated into long, manageable strands.

“Now, please dry yourself while I fetch the mistress,” the maid instructed.

” Béatrice?”

“Yes, little one?”

“Thank you,” Isabeau offered.

The maid gently patted Isabeau’s shoulder, rose to her feet, and left the room.

Alone, Isabeau scampered from the tub and, taking the length of linen toweling that had been left for that purpose in hand, began to dry herself vigorously. She was rubbing the skin of her right calf when Marie burst into the room. Surprised, Isabeau straightened and concealed the front of her body with the cloth.

Marie giggled and said, “As if I have never seen your naked body before! Come, let us see what we have to work with.”

Despite her embarrassment, Isabeau moved the towel to one hand, which she then dropped to her side.

“So, there actually was a girl in there underneath all that filth. Your body is developing quite comely proportions, see your breasts already begin to swell,” Marie observed.

Isabeau’s hand twitched involuntarily as she fought the urge to bring the toweling up over her body once more. She would have rather fled from the room altogether, but probably would have run into one of her brothers in her naked state, which would have been infinitely worse. Having no other recourse, she simply stood still, enduring her sister’s blunt appraisal.

“Here, I have a clean chemise for you; it’s one of my best I might add. Be very careful with it, for if you return it to me soiled or torn, I will use that willow rod you imagine to be your great sword to whip your bare ass bloody. Do you understand me, Sister?”

“Yes, Marie,” Isabeau replied, taking the garment and quickly slipping it over her head; relieved to cover her nakedness.

“Now, sit in this chair and I will see to your hair.”

After several minutes of deep brushing, what had previously been a dirty tangled mess had been transformed into a shiny cascade of brown tresses accented with highlights the shade of golden honey that reached to the lower part of Isabeau’s back. Marie stepped back to admire her handiwork.

“There. Now, you are forbidden to venture from this house until you return tomorrow, do you understand me?” Marie said briskly. “And try not to turn in your sleep either. I will be very cross if I must do this all again in the morning.”

Isabeau thought for a second, considering whether it would be more prudent to remain silent.

“Thank you, Marie. I am sorry I cause you such trouble.”

Marie’s eyes opened widely and she cocked her head to one side. Few kind words had passed between the two sisters since their mother’s death; those that did were seldom heartfelt.

“You are most welcome, Sister,” Marie responded; her expression softening somewhat. “You will grow into a lovely woman, Isabeau, if you do not fight nature so hard.”

As she lay in her bed later that evening, Isabeau considered her sister’s words carefully, wondering whether there was any truth in what she had said.

Pretty? Me? Hardly. No one has ever told me I was before – except Mama, that is. But that is what mothers are supposed to tell their daughters, isn’t it?

Isabeau’s thoughts turned to the uncommon amount of attention that had been showered on her.

Ordinarily, Marie cares not a whit what state I’m in, as long as I don’t unduly sully her clean floors. Her efforts are for father’s benefit and not my own; so that he will not be mortified before his liege lord on the morrow.

Despite her skepticism, Isabeau went to sleep with an unfamiliar flicker of contentment within her bosom.

As was her inclination, she arose the next morning well before the first rays of sun filtered through the tiny window of her garret chamber. She pushed back the coarse linen sheet and swung her bare feet onto the cool floorboards. After making quick use of the chipped earthenware bowl that sufficed as her chamber pot, Isabeau reached for the worn shift that lay draped over the crudely-crafted pinewood bench on the side of the room across from the window. She was halfway down the narrow, winding stairs before she remembered that, on this morning at least, she would not be charging across the dusty plains to retake the holy city of Jerusalem. Instead, she would be accompanying her father to Viscount Louis’ castle in the center of Beaumont-sur-Sarthe.

Have I not time for a short ride first? Time, yes, but . . .

Isabeau recalled her sister’s stern warning and breathed a disconsolate sigh.

She continued to descend both sets of stairs, finally reaching the main hall, which stood deserted. The hearth was cold, as no fire would be set this time of year. Isabeau looked toward the door guiltily.

Surely, the bakehouse is part of “this house.” Certainly, Marie did not forbid that as well?

She was not completely sure her reasoning was sound where her sister was concerned, but decided to chance it anyway. Isabeau’s nose was no more than a couple of feet outside the door when the delicious smell of baking bread confirmed her possible disobedience was a chance worth taking. A few steps more and she was through the narrow doorway, the temperature increasing greatly from the heat of the oven. The slight woman removing the pan of steaming loaves from its maw acknowledged Isabeau without turning.

“Hands back, little one! These are much too hot to touch!”

The corners of Isabeau’s mouth creased upward into a slight smile. She had learned that lesson the hard way when she was much younger.

“Here. This one is for you,” Yolande said, handing the girl a small cheat loaf from the cooling rack.

Words of thanks tumbled from Isabeau’s mouth; their space quickly replaced with a large bite of the delicious wheat flour cheat roll still warm from the oven. Realizing it would probably still be some time before the rest of the household assembled in the hall to break their fast, she decided to return to her room to enjoy another of her favorite pastimes.

Having finished eating, she fastidiously wiped her hands on her gown before opening the beechwood box that contained her meager belongings. Reaching under her spare chemise and oft-darned hose, she carefully withdrew her most prized possession, her mother’s book of hours.

She slowly opened the front cover and then the first page, her fingers reveling in the soft feel of the parchment much in the same way her palate had savored the warm bread. Under her breath she began to read the words she already knew by heart.

Gloria Patri, et Filio: et Spiritui sancto.
Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper:

et in saecula saeculorum, Amen. Alleluia.

Isabeau had no sense of the passage of time, lost as she was between her reading and her admiration of the beautifully crafted illuminated miniatures that decorated most pages. She was startled when she heard a masculine voice yell up the stairs.

“Isabeau! You can’t sleep the day away! Marie says come down now.”

Recognizing the voice of her brother, Aymer, she carefully returned the book to its place before hurrying down the stairs two at a time. When she reached the hall, she was chagrined to find Marie with her arms folded across her ample bosom, an impatient scowl fixed upon her face.

“About time! Do you think I have nothing else to do besides wait for you to make your entrance? Hmm? Now quickly; there is bread and watered wine. Eat first. I am taking no chances that you will spill on your clothes!”

This is the Marie I know; Who was that kind stranger giving out compliments yesterday?

Isabeau gladly took a seat on the bench at the trestle table. She was not about to refuse Marie’s directive; especially as it meant she could have another cheat loaf. After she had finished, Marie led her to her own chamber. Without a word, Marie stepped toward her and thrust her hands under Isabeau’s arms, which she lifted automatically in anticipation of another disrobing. Isabeau took a hasty glance about the room in search of another tub of water. Seeing none, she found she didn’t know whether she was pleased or disappointed as the experience had not been altogether unpleasant after all.

Standing in her chemise, Isabeau was amazed to see her sister reach back to her mattress and pick up a folded garment of light pers linen. She immediately recognized it as a blue kirtle that Marie particularly favored.

“It’s fortunate you are tall for your age. This should be the correct length, although too large in the girth in places. A belt will correct most of that, but that is the best I can do. I certainly have neither the time nor the inclination to take it in.”

Marie took her bodily by the shoulders and moved her to beside the bed, then pushed her backwards. Almost before her back had fell upon the mattress, Marie had grabbed one of her legs and lifted her foot in the air.

“Jesus, Lord!” Marie groaned, “Your feet are disgusting. Thank the Virgin no one will see them.”

What do you expect? Running through forest and field with no shoes on my feet has calloused them to the point where the soles are like leather.

Marie slipped woolen hose over each foot and raised them to her sister’s pale mid-thigh. Afterwards, she secured them with linen ribbons. Finally, she fitted a leather turn shoe on each foot.

“Stand up!” Marie ordered.

Once upright, Marie gathered the spare material of the kirtle and fitted a woven cloth girdle about Isabeau’s middle. To this she attached a small drawstring bag.

“Here are two pennies,” she said, placing them inside the purse. “A lady should never be without at least a few coins.”

A lady? Why must she see fit to mock me so?

Although Marie could certainly not have been serious, Isabeau saw no inkling of levity on her face.

“One final thing: a surcoat. I know it will be warm, but I will not have it said that our family is too destitute to afford proper attire.”

Once more Marie slipped a garment over Isabeau’s head, this time a sideless gown of pear color, a russet red. Isabeau felt constricted; she did not think her body had ever been so fully clothed since being swaddled as a babe.

Marie stepped back and appraised her from top to bottom as if she were a prized heifer.

“Good. A final brushing of your hair and I believe you are ready to present to Father,” she pronounced with satisfaction.

Fifteen minutes later, Isabeau followed Marie down the stairs and into the hall. She walked directly behind her sister, as if to conceal her unaccustomed appearance from the other members of her family gathered there. Marie stopped a few feet in front of her father, bringing Isabeau to a halt as well.

“Come, Isabeau,” Sir Aymer said encouragingly. “Let us see how you look.”

Feeling incredibly self-conscious, Isabeau stepped around her sister and rendered a small curtsey to her father.

Her brothers Guillaume and Alain snickered, clumsily imitating their sister’s movement, then elbowed each other in amusement. Sir Aymer said nothing, only fixed the two miscreants with a dark, thunderous expression impossible to misinterpret. Their behavior instantly sobered and they stepped back with their faces downcast in contrition.

“You look beautiful, Isabeau, just like your mother” Sir Aymer whispered. “If only she were here, she would be very proud you were her daughter.”

Isabeau was horrified to feel tears beginning to form in her eyes. She clenched her fists tightly, digging her nails into her palms. She was determined to not let a single drop of moisture fall upon her cheek.

She could not remember the last time she was this happy; at least not since her mother had gone to be at God’s side.

Isabeau looked at her father, hoping her expression did not convey the perplexing emotions welling within her. She took in the fine cut of his verdulet bliaut and how the garment hugged his still trim figure.

“Thank you, Father,” she replied. “You look beautiful too.”

Sir Aymer’s face flushed crimson at his daughter’s unanticipated remark, then he gave a small bow.

“You are most welcome, Daughter. Shall we be off then?”

Within a few minutes, they were mounted and traveling down the pathway that led from the manor to eventually join the road to Beaumont-sur-Sarthe. Sir Aymer was astride a palfrey, a much more pleasant ride than one upon the highly spirited Broieguerre. François also rode a palfrey. As one would expect, Ragonde carried Isabeau, albeit in a saddle rather than on her bare back as was her custom.

Soon they were descending toward the river. They crossed the ancient Roman bridge and began the slightly uphill ascent toward the castle. As they entered through the gate, the guards nodded to Sir Aymer, who spoke a few words to them in return. It was clear the men were well-acquainted. Knight and squire slid off their horses in a graceful dismount. Isabeau began to swing her leg over the saddle to do the same, then noticed her father shaking his head. He stepped forward and, placing his hands about her waist, lifted her from the saddle and to the ground. Isabeau reached for Ragonde’s bridle, but found men of the castle had already gathered the reins of all three mounts and were leading them away to what she imagined was the stable area.

Isabeau followed her father and brother-in-law inside the castle. She gawked upwards, astounded at the height of the spaces above her. Entering the great hall, the girl was further amazed at its immense size.

Why, it is four or five times larger than that of our own home. Do enough people exist Beaumont-sur-Sarthe to fill such a place?

The walls about her were all finished in whitewashed lime plaster, some of which was obscured behind thick tapestries depicting biblical, hunting, and military scenes. The one to the right of the raised dais at the front of the room particularly caught Isabeau’s eye. Three French knights were leaning down from their horses, bidding adieu to what must be their wives and mothers. To the side was a man in the unmistakable surcoat of the Knights Templar, pointing his finger into the distance.

Clearly, he is indicating it is time to depart; the rescue of the Holy Land awaits them!

Isabeau unconsciously caught her breath, so enraptured was she by the scene before her.

If I lived in this castle, I would spend my days here, until I could recall the placement of each thread from memory.

A strong arm wrapping around her shoulder and drew her near, breaking the tapestry’s spell over her.

“This is Isabeau, My Lord; this is my daughter.”

She turned her head and found her father was speaking to the viscount himself. She hastily dipped into a semblance of a curtsey, nearly losing her balance from the unfamiliar feel of the shoes on her feet.

Ah, Isabeau,” Viscount Louis replied, seemingly unperturbed by her bumpkin-like ungainliness. “It is good to meet Sir Aymer’s younger daughter at last. She favors her mother, does she not Aymer?”

“Yes, My Lord, she does,” he answered.

Isabeau felt as though the others were talking around her, cognizant of something she herself was not yet aware.

“What do you think, Isabella?” the viscount asked, raising his hand to place it upon a smaller one resting on his shoulder that Isabeau had not noticed.

“Does it speak?” a lyrical voice asked.

A girl stepped from behind the massive chair occupied by the viscount. She was approximately the same age and height as Isabeau, but her face was slightly more angular and her lips somewhat fuller. The girl’s brown hair was also darker, although whether this was a natural difference in coloration, or because Isabeau’s had been bleached by the hours she spent each day in the sun, was debatable.

“Well?” Sir Louis asked, smiling and raising one eyebrow.

Isabeau felt her cheeks begin to warm.

“Yes, My Lord,” she answered, then added hesitantly, “And My Lady.”

“Isabeau, this is my own daughter, Isabella.”