The Duke's Pawn

Chapter 3: A Maiden's Answer

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Dijon, 24th of January 1474

The bells had not yet rung the sixth hour when Oger entered Alienor's room. He had slept very little, having spent most of the night turning the Duke's words around in his mind. Saying he was worried would have been an understatement; he loved his daughter dearly, and blamed himself severely for her unfortunate situation. She deserved a family of her own, having sacrificed all her childhood to the welfare of her brother.

It was his fault, for failing to foresee the consequences of her unusual education on her future. And things had just taken a turn for the worse. He could imagine how attractive the Duke's offer would be for her. She would have a husband, freedom, and could use her skills, all things she thought she would have to renounce. Yet all he could consider was the dangers inherent to a spy's life; he couldn't let her expose herself to them. But he had to obey the Sovereign's command regardless and bring her to him.

"Alienor," he whispered while tapping her shoulder, "wake up, daughter, His Lordship is awaiting us."

A glazed pair of grey orbs stared at him, unfocused. "Is that you, father? What time is it? Did I oversleep?" she asked quietly.

"It is still very early, not dawn yet. You need to get ready and look your best. The Duke has requested your presence this morn, at first light. You have one hour."

Alienor sat in the bed, suddenly wide awake. "One hour! You'd better leave anon, I must wake Isobel this instant."

A grunt and a yawn coming from the floor on the opposite side signalled them that this task was already completed. Oger smiled and left, allowing his daughter to deal with her sleep-ridden maid.

While Isobel revived the fire and heated water in a copper pot, Alienor foraged through her luggage, searching for the most appropriate garb for this important meeting. She settled for her richest dress, despite knowing it wasn't of the last fashion. She had not requested for new ones, as she wouldn't have use of them in a nunnery. She'd rather spare her father the expense if it could get Enguerrand better weapons. It could save his life, when hers was wasted anyway.

The bright blue velvet gown had the strange ball sleeves favoured by the previous duchess, very wide at the elbow and narrow at the wrist, and left her neck and shoulders bare. The front, trimmed in white fur, plunged in a deep V to the belt under her breasts, a triangular piece of silver brocade filling the space between them for modesty. The fabric clung to her chest, flattening it, and hugged her waist, before flowing loosely at the skirt. A silver embroidered ribbon adorned the neckline and wrists.

She chose an assorted huve, and picked the long pins necessary to fix the silver and linen veil to the silk net on her hair. She disliked the high conical or bisected headdress for its sheer impracticality, forcing its bearer to bend low under the doorways.

Isobel handed her the warm water and she cleaned quickly with a cloth. She had ordered a bath upon her arrival, the previous evening. Having secured the band holding her breasts, she put on a fresh chemise and shimmered into her dress, her maid tightening the strings in the back to adjust the thick, corset like bodice. Last, she slipped on her chauses, adjusted them with the garters and sat, allowing Isobel to brush and part her long light-brown hair, braiding and intertwining it in a complex arrangement, before pinning the veil on the fillet.