Braveheart Read Online Free PDF Page B

each other.
    What if her betrothed, Prince Edward, son of Longshanks—what a peculiar name; did his subjects dare use it openly?—was a sullen man, suspicious, always watching others for the thoughts they kept hidden, as he hid his own? She had observed many of that kind of man in the courts of France, and surely there were many like that here. It would not surprise her, but she would be disappointed. She had met the prince but once, and that at a distance, nodding to him from opposite sides of a U-shaped table at a dinner given in her honor to welcome her. The prince and his friends had sat on one side and the princess, with her attendants from France and the new ones now provided her from the English court, had sat on the other. The center table was empty; Longshanks was in Wales, someone had said, advising his military advisors.
    The prince was a slender young man with fine features. She had not spoken to him except to curtsey and say, “The pleasure is all mine, m’lord,” after he had said he welcomed her with great pleasure before sitting down to start the meal. But she had watched from the corner of her eye while exchanging whispers with Nicolette. She had noticed young Edward had a quick smile, though he kept watching his friends as he smiled as if he needed their approval. A strange habit in a prince.
    Isabella of France lay there in her English bed and thought on all these things without opening her eyes.
    Nicolette, moving soundlessly by her bed on her way to tend the fire, thought, What a strange girl this princess is, frowning in her sleep on her wedding day.
     
    She sponged her body in warm water scented with the petals of roses brought live all the way from Italy. She put on new undergarments, and a whole flock of attendants, chattering with excitement, dressed her for the wedding. Yards and yards of fabric, light as air, bleached white, wrapped around her shoulders and flowed to the floor; a royal blue bodice hugged her wait; tiny gold chains adorned her shoulders and a necklace of diamonds embraced her throat. Two more attendants brushed her hair, plaited and coiled it, then placed the veil, falling like a cloud from her head to her waist. Nicolette oversaw it all, inspecting each button, each chain, each buckle; snapping instructions; making adjustments; and always beaming.
    The attendants kept flapping; it seemed the more beautiful she became, the faster they worked, until finally Nicolette clapped her hands together loudly and said, “It is done!” They all stopped and looked at the glory they had created, a princess they would all be proud to serve.
    Isabella turned to the polished silver mirror and studied herself. She barely recognized the reflection. It was rare for royalty to show gratitude—servants were expected to do no less than their best, and appreciation was thought to ruin them—but Isabella turned to the women who had dressed her and said, “Thank you. I . . . thank you.”
    It seemed to embarrass them. Nicolette stepped forward and commanded, “Tell them we are ready.”
    The attendants snatched up all their spare cloth, their shears, needles and pins, and hurried out; but as the last one was leaving Isabella said, “Wait. Tell them I need a few more minutes. Just a few. Alone with Nicolette.”
    The last attendant curtsied and was gone.
    “Last-minute nerves?” Nicolette asked.
    “No, I…”
    “Well, what is it?”
    “I need … to speak with you.”
    “Of course. What about?”
    “I … we must talk.”
    “You just said that! Please, Isabella! Would you stop this fidgeting? Don’t you understand we have the whole country waiting? What could you possibly need to talk about now, enough to keep the king, the prince, the elite of the entire kingdom standing around scratching their noses?!”
    “Sex.”
    At that moment another attendant knocked on the outer door and called, “M’lady, please! We are all ready!”
    “Tell them to wait!” Nicolette shouted, then