Stormbird

cough in the dust she had raised. She heard footsteps enter the room and held herself as still as any statue. It was not beyond John to send Nicholas or little Louis out in another direction, while John crashed around and gulled her into a feeling of safety. Margaret held her breath and closed her eyes. The wardrobe was at least warm and they surely wouldn’t dare search for her in their mother’s rooms.

The footsteps came closer and, with no warning, the door of the wardrobe creaked open. Margaret blinked at her father in the light.

‘What are you doing in here, girl?’ he demanded. ‘Do you not know the king is coming? If you have time for games, by God, you have too much time.’

‘Yes, sir, I’m sorry. John was chasing me and …’

‘Your hands are filthy! Just look at the marks you have made! Look at them, Margaret! Running around like a street urchin with the king on his way!’

Margaret dipped her head, clambering out of the wardrobe and closing the door carefully behind her. It was true that her palms were black with grime, picked up in her wild scramble through the upper rooms. Resentment grew in her. Lord René may have been her father, but she had no memories of him, none at all. He was just a great white slug of a man who had come into her home and ordered her mother about like a servant. His face was unnaturally pale, perhaps from his years languishing in prison. His eyes were grey and cold, half hidden by heavy, unwrinkled lower lids, so that he always seemed to be peering over them. He had clearly not starved in the prison, she thought. That much was obvious. He’d complained to his wife about the tailor’s fees for letting out his clothing, leaving her in tears.

‘If I had a moment to spare, I’d have you whipped, Margaret! Those dresses will all have to be cleaned.’

He shouted and gestured angrily for some time, while Margaret stood with her head bowed, trying to look suitably ashamed. There had been maids and house servants once, to scrub every stone and polish all the fine French oak. If dust lay thick now, whose fault was that, if not the man who had ruined Saumur for his vanity? Margaret had listened to him complaining to her mother about the state of the castle, but without an army of servants, Saumur was just too big to keep clean.

Margaret remembered to nod as her father raged. He called himself the king of Jerusalem, Naples and Sicily, places she had never seen. She supposed it made her a princess, but she couldn’t be certain. After all, he’d failed to win any of them and a paper claim was worthless when he could only froth and strut and write furious letters. She hated him. As she stood there, she flushed at the memory of a conversation with her mother. Margaret had demanded to know why he couldn’t just leave again. In response, her mother’s mouth had pinched tight like a drawstring purse and she had spoken more harshly than Margaret could remember before.

Margaret sensed the slug was coming to the end of his tirade.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said humbly.

‘What?’ he demanded, his voice rising. ‘What do you mean, “Yes, sir”? Have you even been listening?’ Spots of colour bloomed on his white cheeks as his temper flared. ‘Just get out!’ he snapped. ‘I don’t want to see your face unless I call for you, do you understand? I have better things to do today than teach you the manners you obviously lack. Running wild! When the king is gone, I will consider some punishment you won’t forget so easily. Go! Get out!’

Margaret fled, red-faced and trembling. She passed her brother Louis in the corridor outside and for once he looked sympathetic.

‘John’s looking for you in the banqueting hall,’ he murmured. ‘If you want to avoid him, I’d go round by the kitchen.’

Margaret shrugged. Louis thought he was clever, but she knew him too well. John would be in the kitchen, or close by, that much was obvious. They would not be able to put her in a cauldron, not with so many staff preparing a king’s feast, but no doubt her brother would have thought of something equally unpleasant. With dignity, Margaret walked rather than ran, struggling with tears she could hardly understand. It didn’t matter to her that the slug was angry; why would it? She resolved to find her mother, somewhere at the centre of the bustle and noise that had been quiet just a few days before. Where had all the servants come from? There was no money for them and nothing left to sell.

By sunset, her brothers had given up their hunt, to dress for the feast. The population of Saumur Castle had increased even more as King Charles sent his own staff ahead. As well as the cooks hired from noble houses and the local village, there were now master chefs checking every stage of the preparation and half a dozen men in black cloth examining every room for spies or assassins. For once, her father said nothing as his guards were questioned and organized by the king’s men. The local villages all knew by then that there would be a royal visit. As darkness fell, with swallows wheeling and darting through the sky, the farmers had come in from their crofts and fields with their families. They stood on the verges of the road to Saumur, craning their necks to catch the first glimpse of royalty. The men removed their hats as the king passed, waving them in the air and cheering.

King Charles’s arrival had not been as impressive as Margaret thought it would be. She’d watched from the tower window as a small group of horsemen came riding along the road from the south. There had been no more than twenty of them, clustered around a slender, dark-haired figure wearing a pale blue cloak. The king did not stop to acknowledge the peasants, as far as she could see. Margaret wondered if he thought the world was filled with cheering people, as if they were part of the landscape, like trees or rivers.

As the royal group rode through the main gate, Margaret had leaned out of the open window to watch. The king had seemed rather ordinary to her as he dismounted in the courtyard and handed his reins to a servant. His men were hard-faced and serious, more than one looking around with an expression of distaste. Margaret resented them immediately. She had watched her father come out and bow to the king before they went inside. René’s voice carried up to the windows, loud and coarse. He tried too hard, Margaret thought. A man like the king would surely be weary of flattery.

The feast was a misery, with Margaret and Yolande banished to the far end of a long table, wearing stiff dresses that smelled of camphor and cedarwood and were far too precious to stain. Her brothers sat further up the table, turning their heads to the king like travellers facing a good inn fire. As the oldest, John even attempted conversation, though his efforts were so stilted and formal that they made Margaret want to giggle. The atmosphere was unbearably stuffy and of course her sister Yolande pinched her under the table to make her cry out and shame herself. Margaret poked her with a fork from a set of dining silver she had never seen before.

She knew she was not allowed to speak; her mother Isabelle had been quite clear about that. So she sat in silence as the wine flowed and the king favoured her father or John with an occasional smile between courses.

Margaret thought King Charles was too thin and long-nosed to be handsome. His eyes were small black beads and his eyebrows were thin lines, almost as if they had been plucked. She’d hoped he would be a man of panache and charisma, or at least wearing a crown of some kind. Instead, the king fiddled nervously with food that obviously didn’t please him and merely raised the corners of his lips when he attempted to smile.

Her father filled the silences with stories and reminiscences of court, keeping up a stream of inane chatter that made Margaret embarrassed for him. The only excitement had come when her father’s waving hands had knocked over a cup of wine, but the servants moved in swiftly and made it all vanish. Margaret could read the king’s boredom, even if Lord René couldn’t. She picked at each course, wondering at the cost of it all. The hall was lit with expensive fresh tapers and even white candles, which were usually only brought out at Christmas. She supposed the costs would mean months of hardship to come, when the king had gone. She tried to enjoy it all, but the sight of her father’s long head bobbing in laughter just made her angry. Margaret sipped her cider, hoping they would become aware of her disapproval and perhaps even abashed. It was a fine thought, that they would look up and see the stern girl, then glance at plates heaped with food they would scarcely touch before the next course came. She knew that King Charles had met Joan of Arc and she longed to ask the man about her.

At the king’s side, her aunt Marie listened to René with a disapproving expression much like Margaret’s own. Again and again, Margaret saw her aunt’s gaze drift to her mother’s throat, where no jewels lay. That was one thing René had not been able to borrow for the dinner. Her mother’s jewels had all gone to finance his failed campaigns. As the king’s wife, Marie wore a splendid set of rubies that dripped right down between her bosoms. Margaret tried not to stare, but they were meant to attract attention, weren’t they? She would have thought a married woman would not want men to stare at her bosoms in such a way, but apparently she did. Marie and René had grown up in Saumur and Margaret saw her aunt’s assessing eye flicker from