Harlot Queen (3 page)

‘I cannot wait two years, or even one!’ She said, finger—tip smoothing the fine winged brows. She had thought once or twice of plucking them in the fashionable way. But plucked brows gave the face a stupid egg-look; her own brows gave her a fay look, as though any moment she might fly away—so the latest chanson assured her. No need to follow the fashion; fashion would always follow obedient at her heels. ‘Suppose he find me not woman enough?’ Her hands went to her small budding breasts.

‘Then he’ll be a fool!’

‘You talk of the King of England!’ the girl reminded her, severe.

‘He’s but a man like the rest!’

Like the rest!
Reassuring thought. If this unknown husband were truly like the rest, life would be pleasant, indeed. She nodded and smiled to herself in the looking-glass.

‘Madam is well pleased with her match!’

‘Should I not be? The blessed Virgin has, I think, a care for me. For, being of some account in the marriage-market, I might have been forced to wed an old man,’ and she shuddered in disgust. ‘My Aunt, Madam the Queen of England—the
Dowager Queen
,’ she corrected herself, ‘was wed to an old, old ancient man, and she no older than I am now! He would have frightened me into the grave!’

‘It was a happy marriage! When the old King died she was desolate—and still is!’

‘She’ll soon dry her tears.’ The girl spoke with startling precocity. ‘There’s not a young widow will weep for an old husband for ever… save she cannot get another! But,’ she shrugged, ‘that concerns me not at all. I’m to wed a young man, handsome and pleasant, they say.’

‘There’s other things they say. Extravagant; money runs through his fingers like water through a sieve.’

‘I’ll not quarrel with that as long as he spends it on the right things.’ Her laugh rang out soft and full; a pretty laugh. ‘If he love a good horse, hound or hawk; if he love fine furnishings, fine clothes, fine food I’ll like him the better! Well now, what more of him?’

‘Nothing, Madam, nothing you don’t already know.’

‘I think there is. I hear about a favourite; a Gascon or a Béarnais. But, ask as I may, I find out nothing. Yet something’s to be found, or why this silence? Come, tell me what you know!’ It was half command, half entreaty.

‘I, Madam? I know nothing.’ Madam de St. Pierre, sallow cheeks flushing, spread deprecating hands.

‘I know that tone, I know those hands, and I know that blush! Come now, if there’s anything to know, I should be warned.’

‘It’s the young man, the King’s friend, they call him greedy. He knows what it is to be poor—and means never to be poor again.’

‘Very wise. All men take what they can get—but let him be wise in his taking!’

‘He’s very proud…’

‘Let him bear himself as he will—as long as he bear himself seemly to his Queen. What else?’ ‘A sharp tongue they say.’

‘It could be amusing—as long as he keep it from me. Is there more?’

‘No, Madam… except that the old King advanced him for courage in the field and thereafter took a dislike and banished him. The young King brought him back. There’s nothing more except that ladies find him charming; and, oh yes, his mother was burnt for a witch.’

‘And was she a witch?’

Théophania de St. Pierre shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

‘One hopes she was, since she was burnt for it. I hate injustice. Maybe that’s why folk purse their lips and say nothing when I ask about the son. Maybe they fear the curse from the grave. Well, and one thing more. The name of this handsome, proud, spendthrift gentleman with the sharp tongue?’

‘Gaveston, Madam. Piers Gaveston.’

‘Piers Gaveston.’ The dark winged brows flew together. ‘I shall remember it!’

They looked at each other—groom and child bride. Beneath her quiet, her heart exulted. He was everything her husband should be. He was very handsome—no courtier’s flattery there; golden looks and grace of person. And if she missed the weakness about the mouth she was scarce to be blamed; fourteen is over-young to judge of men. For his part he saw a pale, pretty child—no more. And if he missed the strength of mouth and chin it was not surprising; he’d never been a judge of character.

Her father spoke the words of welcome; she went down in her curtsey and the young man bending from his tall height to raise her, saluted her hand. That was all. But it was enough; enough!

She had not, as yet, spoken with him; but she had spoken with Madam Queen Margaret her father’s own sister. She remembered her aunt not at all; she had been but four when Margaret left for England. She was glad, indeed, to talk with her aunt—there was very much to learn.

She was no beauty, Madam Queen Margaret—the only plain one in the handsome Capet family. Her nose was long and her eyes small. But for all that it was a comely face, wise and kindly; she was one, Isabella thought, to trust. She was twenty-six now; and, even to Isabella, twenty-six was not very old. Twenty-six and her husband above seventy when he died! Yet still she mourned for him. When he died, all men died for me, she told her niece.

That was, of course, absurd. A young woman should weep as was seemly—but not for too long. Thereafter she should dry her tears. ‘We shall find you a new lord,’ Isabella said, reigning Queen to Dowager.

‘My niece is kind. Let her not trouble her heart for me!’ And Margaret pitied the girl that knew so little.

‘We shall see to it…’ the girl began. Something about her aunt forbade further talk on the matter; not well pleased Isabella bent to that gentle authority.

Margaret, seeing the hurt given for kindness meant, said quickly, ‘All England is wild with excitement; they talk of nothing but their new Queen. At Westminster great preparations are going forward. The royal apartments have been completely rebuilt; they were damaged by fire last year. The stonework is new and everything’s bright with colour—scarlet and gold and blue; very gay. And your tapestries have come. The royal arms of France look wonderful; they’re hanging in the Queen’s chamber to welcome you. And the furniture is new and splendid. The great bed’s a marvel of carving; the tester and the curtains are all green and gold.’

Green and gold. Green brought out the colour of her eyes, gold the colour of her hair. She’d look her best in bed…

‘The gardens at Westminster, I’ve never seen them so fine. The lord my husband cared little for gardens; he was a soldier first and last. But his son’s different. He tells the gardeners what they must do and sees they do it. And he’s always right; he has green fingers. I think at times his fingers itch for the spade.’ She saw amazement in the girl’s face and did not repeat what they said of him—that, give him the chance, he’d turn his hand to spade or bellows, to chisel, to hod or any other unkingly thing. A pity, they said, he didn’t show the same love for his own craft—ruling and fighting; a King’s craft.

‘And the King has commanded a new landing-stage; it’s called
the Queen’s pier
. And anchored there you’ll find your own boat. She’s called
The Margaret of Westminster
.’

She should be the Isabella
… The girl’s face spoke clear.

‘She was my ship; my husband’s gift to me,’ Margaret said, softly. ‘And now I give her to you with all my love. She’s a lovely ship, very swift; a bird of a ship. She’s new-painted—red and gold and white; and so, too, her barges, all three. She’s smooth and strong—even to cross the sea. You will like sailing down the Thames to Windsor, perhaps as far as Oxford. It’s a gay river…’

Isabella’s mind, quick-darting and impatient, had had enough of gardens and rivers. Now she asked about the most important thing of all.

‘Great preparations for the crowning,’ Margaret said. ‘You may imagine! They say a King and Queen of England have never been crowned at one and the same time. It will be magnificent.’

‘Who has charge of our Kingdom in our absence?’ The question came sudden and unexpected.

Margaret was tempted to smile at the girl’s self-importance; but the young are tender and must be tenderly cherished.

‘The earl of Cornwall.’ She had no more desire to smile.

‘I have not heard of him!’

‘He’s but new-made.’

‘And who may he be, this new earl of Cornwall?’

Margaret said slow and unwilling, ‘It is Piers Gaveston.’

The winged brows flew upwards.
Gaveston again!

‘The King holds Gaveston dear,’ Isabella said. ‘But others, I hear, do not share this liking. The man I’m told is insolent; he pays little respect to any—scarce even to his King. He has a spiteful tongue, a tongue to draw blood—I’ve heard that, too. Well he’d best carry himself respectful to me and watch that tongue—lest he lose it altogether. But—’ and she laughed a little. ‘I have no fear of him—nor of any man. There’s no man in Christendom but I can win him.’

‘Gaveston is not like other men,’ Margaret said troubled. ‘He doesn’t like women; you cannot hope to win him. As for threat of punishment—niece, niece, have a care. My son of England is easy enough in his nature, save in this. If you would live pleasantly with him, you must accept Gaveston.’

She saw the fine jawline harden; the eyes glowed green as a cat’s. ‘Have patience, niece,’ Margaret said. ‘It is a madness; the King will grow from it.’ But she did not sound hopeful.

January twenty-fifth, in the year of grace thirteen hundred and eight, Isabella and Edward were married. Never in Christendom so splendid an assembly—four Kings, five Queens, princes and archdukes three to the sou! The great church lit by a thousand lamps and tapers, the gilt crosses, the robes, the jewels, the swords of state—a fitting background for those two that knelt at the high altar.

So handsome a couple—the groom not as yet twenty-four carrying his magnificence with grace; the bride, the pretty child almost extinguished beneath her own glories. From her narrow shoulders a cloak of cherry velvet lined with gold tissue fell back from a gown of cloth-of-gold; beneath the light coronet the straight, pale hair flowed like water either side of the small face. So white she was, so still, so earnest she might have been a little stone saint.

Madam Queen Margaret watching, chided herself for a troubled spirit. Surely these two were made for happiness. If the bride were so little a girl, she would grow; and if the groom were not overwise, he would by God’s grace come to wisdom. Two such blest young creatures were bound to aid and comfort each the other… unless… unless…

Piers
Gaveston
.

Did Edward, too, think of him in this moment? She crossed herself against the thought.

They had put the bride to bed with all the ceremony of custom—the games, the jest, the drinking by bride and groom from one cup. And now the nuptial blessing given and all custom duly observed, the guests, reluctant, departed. In the stillness they had left behind, the groom came from the bed and reached for his bedgown. She looked at him with unbelieving eyes. Could be he leaving her. But he must stay! The lewd jest, his splendid nakedness had excited her. She wanted to sleep in his arms—no more than that; she had to feel her way into womanhood. He bent to take his Goodnight; she put her thin child’s arms about his neck. ‘Will you not stay… a little?’ Gently he unclasped them. He had no desire for women and she, mercifully, was a child.

‘Not tonight,’ he told her. ‘So long a day; I’ll not weary you. God keep you in his care.’ He kissed her courteously upon both cheeks and was gone.

A full fortnight of ceremony—public prayers, processions, feasting and tournaments. But for all their gracious smiling, neither bride nor groom was happy. She was pricked with desire for her husband. The sight of his maleness, the mere naming of her as
wife
had forced her, already precocious, into too-early blooming: and making more painful her desire, pride burned that he had no desire for her. As on their bridal night he commended her to God and left her. Free of demand upon his manhood he was already wearying for Piers. Nor had it pleased him to kneel to his father-in-law in homage for his French lands. It seemed to him unworthy of a King of England to kneel before a King of France. As her pride burned with neglect so his with the homage given. He could not quickly enough leave for home.

February the fifth; and all ready for the journey. ‘Home!’ Edward said with joy; ‘We are going home!’

Isabella said nothing; already there was question in her eyes. She carried with her a vast retinue, but of the gentlemen she found comfort in her uncles alone—Charles of Valois and Louis of Evreux; of the ladies in Madam Queen Margaret and Théophania de St. Pierre.

‘I am glad of my uncles,’ she told Théophania. ‘They will be fathers to me in a strange land.’

‘What need of fathers?’ Théophania said, troubled. ‘You have a husband now!’

‘Yes, I have a husband.’ She said no more. Resentment was hard within her; a hardness ready to melt at the first sign of warmth. Kindness and courtesy in him were never-failing; but of warmth, of loving—never a sign.

A smooth journey but cold, cold as the cheer in her own heart; she remained within the forecastle with Madam Queen Margaret.

On the deck the King paced with ever-rising excitement. There they were, his cliffs, faint on the skyline! Soon he would hold Piers in his arms again. Piers, Piers!

He turned from joyous contemplation to see his Queen wrapped in a fur hood that framed her small wind-bright face. He took himself from the thought of Piers to consider the child he had married.

‘Home!’ he cried out and pointed towards the land.

‘Yes,’ she said. There was about her an air of desolation. For the first time it came to him that she might need reassurance.

‘I hope you will be happy!’ He took her by the hand. ‘Mary and Elizabeth long to meet their new sister. Mary’s a nun but she’s often at court. She travels a good deal; she has an especial dispensation. She’ll give us all the news—she’s a gay person, you’ll like her. And Elizabeth’s the kindest, the best of sisters. You’ll find the chief ladies of our court waiting besides; they were summoned at our command. They ask nothing but to serve you; you will like them all.’

You will like them!
not,
They will like you!
Neither for the first time nor the last was he to wound her with his careless kindness.