Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.
18 November 1022, Cumbrian Embassy, Toulouse
My dearest cousin Armand,
I fear I am wearying your postman; I weary myself when I think of all the stages this letter must travel to arrive at your door. But shoes have been dropping right and left like fat rain drops, and I must write all this out or go mad.
Princess Beatrice made her unwarranted accusations against me two days ago. I was still stewing over it yesterday morning, and had made plans to visit the chapel at L’École—was about to summon the carriage, in fact—when one of the embassy servants came to tell me that His Lordship wished to speak with me.
Lord Ellesmere, de Marigny, and my own Maximilian rose from their seats near the hearth and greeted me when I entered His Lordship’s office. De Marigny approached me, bowed, and took my hand.
“My dear Madame Archer, I fear we have done you a disservice.”
There was nothing of the dashing courtier in his demeanor or tone of voice; and this in a man who would laugh at Death himself, I do believe.
“I am glad to hear you say so,” I said, “for I myself have done nothing to incur Her Highness’ displeasure.”
“Non, non, certainement,” he said, “of course you did not. Please, come, sit.”
It was presumptuous of him to offer me a seat in His Lordship’s office; but Lord Ellesmere nodded and indicated a chair by Maximilian, which I took with as much dignity as I could manage.
De Marigny began again.
“Perhaps, Madame Archer, you remember a note, a little note, which I brought to you in Edenford.”
“Yes, of course; King Charles invited me to attend his wedding.”
The Comte winced. “Mais, non,” he said, “though ma mère, she taught me never to contradict a lady. Non, it invited you to attend him at his wedding.”
“What ever do you mean?” I said, although I feared that I understood him quite well.
De Marigny grimaced apologetically. “I had not known his intentions,” he said. “The note, it was for your eyes only, and I presumed it to be what you say. I did not discover it until this morning.”
I shook my head in frustration. “I absolve you of blame,” I said, “but please do get on with it.”
He bowed his head in gratitude, and continued. “He told me that you were his greatest supporter at the darkest time of his life, and that he wished you to stand with him at his wedding.”
“With him?” My eyes grew wide, and the poor comte flinched. “With him?“
I had to look away, which meant I was looking at the fire in the hearth—welcome for its warmth, but of no conceivable help to me in my present state. I closed my eyes instead and took a deep breath, and swallowed many accurate words of lese majesté. Though I may tell you, Armand, that if King Charles and a duckpond had both been in arm’s reach, His Provençese Majesty would not have escaped a ducking.
At length I opened my eyes again, and I am confident that I had stifled all trace of flame, for de Marigny sighed visibly in relief.
“And he told the Princess yesterday morning,” I said.
“And he told the Princess yesterday morning,” said the Comte.
I nodded, and shut my eyes again for a long moment, after which I addressed myself to Lord Ellesmere.
“My lord, no one has said anything explicit to me, but I presume that it was His Cumbrian Majesty’s desire that I befriend the Princess?”
Lord Ellesmere pursed his lips. “My instructions were not so, ah, precise, what? But in point of fact, yes.”
“Then might I have a free hand?” At his apprehensive look, I added, “I promise not to use any wizardry.”
“Very well,” he said, though he sounded dubious.
I turned back to de Marigny. “Will you carry a message for me? Two messages, in fact.”
“I am your humble servant,” he said.
“Well, then. First, I must write a note to the Princess.” Glancing at Lord Ellesmere for permission, I went to his desk and wrote out and sealed a note—with plain wax, Armand, not His Lordship’s seal. Whatever can you be thinking?—and handed it to Maximilian, who handed it to the the Comte.
I stood with my back to the fire, but better not to see it, took a deep breath, and begin. “Monsieur le Comte, I charge you to deliver this to Her Highness, in His Majesty’s presence, after having delivered the following to him in her hearing. You are to thank him for his esteem, but to tell him that I will on no account attend him at his wedding—please explain to him, my dear Comte, that the people of Provençe would know exactly what to think, yes, and those of Cumbria too. I should be utterly ruined.”
He nodded. “I have already told him so. But I will gladly tell him so again.”
“Further, I will on no account attend his wedding at all if it will displease Princess Beatrice to the slightest degree. I would sooner return to Cumbria than hurt her further than he has already.”
“As you say.”
“And finally, if King Charles values my counsel, he will pledge never to meet me save in her presence, nor to communicate with me save with her full knowledge and consent.”
“My dear Mrs. Archer,” said Lord Ellesmere, with some distress.
“Yes, my lord?”
“You mustn’t give orders to the monarch of a sovereign nation like that, you simply mustn’t!”
“I am not giving orders to a monarch,” I said with some asperity, “I am giving staunch advice to a friend who claims to esteem it. If he takes it, we have a hope of saving this alliance—and of preserving Her Highness’ future happiness.”
“Mais oui,” said de Marigny firmly. “I think this is wise, moi.” He looked at me. “Have you anything to add?”
“Yes,” I said. “Please tell the Princess, in the King’s hearing, that I quite forgive her suspicions; I would have thought the same in her place. And also, that I once pushed a man into a duckpond for a lesser offense than he has given her.” I paused. “And you may tell him from me, but in private, that he had best be diligent in mending his fences with Beatrice.”
The Comte smiled. “I think, when he has heard your words, His Majesty might jump in on his own.” He rose swiftly. “I will do as you have said. And now, I must away; this must not be allowed to linger, n’est-ce pas?” And bowing to all of us in much more his usual fashion, he left us.
And now we wait; and tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock I shall be awaiting Princess Beatrice in the chapel at L’École; and we shall see whether she is minded to join me.
Your apprehensive but determined cousin,
Amelia
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Photo by Dawid Zawiła on Unsplash
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