Far happier then were the times for men,
Fondly yearned for now!
You heroes, so bred Of gods in those silver days, favor me
As I call you now with my magic song.
The room was mesmerized by Philippe’s otherworldly bass.
“There Peleus first saw Thetis, daughter of Nereus, the god of the sea who told no lies and saw the future. From her father Thetis had the gift of prophecy and could twist her shape from moving water to living fire to the very air itself. Though Thetis was beautiful, no one would take her for a wife, for an oracle foretold that her son would be more powerful than his father."
“Peleus loved Thetis in spite of the prophecy. But to marry such a woman, he had to be brave enough to hold Thetis while she changed from one element into another. Peleus took Thetis from the island and clasped her to his heart while she transformed herself from water to fire to serpent to lioness. When Thetis became a woman once more, he took her to his home and the two were wed.”
“And the child? Did Thetis’s son destroy Peleus as the omens foretold?” a woman whispered when Philippe fell silent, his fingers still drawing music from the kithara.
“The son of Peleus and Thetis was a great hero, a warrior blessed in both life and death, called Achilles.” Philippe gave the woman a smile. “But that is a tale for another night.”
I was glad that his father didn’t give a full account of the wedding and how the Trojan War got started there. And I was even happier that he didn’t go on to tell the tale of Achilles’ youth: the horrible spells his mother used to try to make him immortal as she was and the young man’s uncontrollable rage—which caused him far more trouble than did his famously unprotected heel.
“It’s just a story,” Matthew whispered, sensing my unease. But it was the stories that creatures told, over and over without knowing what they meant, that were often the most important, just as it was these time-worn rituals of honor, marriage, and family that people held most sacred even though they often seemed to ignore them.
“Tomorrow is an important day, one that we have all longed for.”
Philippe stood, kithara in his hands. “It is customary for the bride and groom to separate until the wedding.”
This was another ritual: a final, formal moment of parting to be followed by a lifetime of togetherness.
“The bride may, however, give the groom some token of affection to make sure he does not forget her during the lonely hours of the night,”
Philippe said, eyes twinkling with mischief.
Matthew and I rose. I smoothed down my skirts, my attention fixed resolutely on his doublet. The stitches on it were very fine, I noticed, tiny and regular. Gentle fingers lifted my chin, and I was lost instead in the play of smooth curves and sharp angles that made up Matthew’s face. All sense of performance disappeared as we contemplated each other. We stood in the midst of the hall and the wedding guests, our kiss a spell that carried us to an intimate world of our own.
“I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon,” Matthew murmured against my lips as we parted.
“I’ll be the one in the veil.” Most brides didn’t wear them in the sixteenth century, but they were an ancient custom, and Philippe said that no daughter of his was going to the church without one.
“I’d know you anywhere,” he replied, flashing me a smile, “veil or no veil.”
Matthew’s eyes never wavered as Alain escorted me from the room. I felt the touch of them, cool and unblinking, long after I left the hall.
The next day Catrine and Jehanne were so quiet that I slumbered through their usual morning chores. The sun was almost fully up when they finally pulled the bed curtains aside and announced it was time for my bath.
A procession of women with pitchers came to my chamber, chattering like magpies and filling an enormous copper tub that I suspected was normally used to make wine or cider. But the water was piping hot and the copper vessel retained the glorious warmth, so I wasn’t inclined to quibble. I groaned in ecstasy and sank beneath the water’s surface.
The women left me to soak, and I noticed that my few belongings— books, the notes I’d taken on alchemy and Occitan phrases—had disappeared. So, too, had the long, low chest that stored my clothes. When I asked Catrine, she explained that everything had been moved to milord’s chambers on the other side of the chateau.
I was no longer Philippe’s putative daughter, but Matthew’s wife. My property had been relocated accordingly.
Mindful of their responsibility, Catrine and Jehanne had me out of the tub and dried off by the time the clock struck one. Overseeing their efforts was Marie, Saint-Lucien’s best seamstress, who had come to put the finishing touches on her work. The contributions to my wedding gown that had been made by the village’s tailor, Monsieur Beaufils, were not acknowledged.