by Hilda Lewis
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.
III
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.
She stood by her husband, a lonely little creature, smitten into shyness at the company drawn up on the shore. Edward brought up the ladies one by one; and down they went in their curtseys upon the wet stones. The Princess Mary she knew at once by her nun’s habit. Elizabeth she knew, too, by her likeness to the King; she looked to be about the same age, and like him as two peas—save that her charming face held more warmth.
‘This is Margaret, wife to Gilbert of Clare, my nephew of Gloucester.’ He gave his hand to a very young girl scarce older than the Queen herself. Isabella caught the moment’s shadow on his face and remembered that Gilbert’s mother had died less than a year ago; of all his sisters the King had loved Joanna best.
And now the King led forth my lady of Lancaster, my lady of Pembroke, my lady of Norfolk, my lady of Lincoln—their husbands she had already met in Boulogne. Lady after lady…
She stood there smitten into an appalling shyness, overcome with the need to weep for her most shocking loneliness. But, child of her breeding, she forced her mouth to smile; and they, seeing the pretty, gentle-seeming child, smiled back from joyful faces. And no-one could have foreseen the future; least of all the forlorn child that stood smiling from a stiff; cold face.
It was only later, in face of the King’s expressed disappointment, that she realised Gaveston had not come to greet his King; neither he nor his lady.
‘It’s his way,’ Elizabeth, my lady Hereford, whispered in her ear. ‘He keeps the King waiting to send up his value—if that could be!’
‘And his wife; is she so proud she cannot come to greet her Queen?’
‘No. She’s gentle. I know her well; she’s my niece—my sister Joanna’s girl. But she does what her husband bids her. And, besides, they’re new-wed; she cannot bear him from her sight.’
‘Respect to her Queen comes first!’ Isabella said. It was her first prick on account of Gaveston.
Yet still she was prepared to like him; at the very least to accept him. He did not care for women? She would teach
him better. They would all three be friends: her husband’s friends must be her own.
When she saw the man himself she was not inclined to take him seriously. His handsome looks, his airs and graces did him no good in her sight. He came swaggering in a mantle and suit finer by far than the King’s. And the cut of his clothes scandalised her.
Her first thought was that he had forgotten his cote. He wore a tight-fitting jacket that reached no further than his waist, where, beneath the hose his virile charms were clearly displayed; and, as though to attract further attention to those charms, one leg was striped blue upon green, the other green upon blue. Never had she seen such odd hose nor so short a jacket. Even in Paris where they wore the cote shorter than here, the most fashionable of young men carried it midway between thigh and knee. Yet surely this must be his outer cote, for there were the long tight sleeves of his undercote showing beneath the long, wide sleeves extravagantly dagged and sweeping to the ground. And if the scandalous cut of his cote didn’t call enough attention to itself, the material of rich silk ran in crossways stripes of blue and green. Such a fantasy of dagging and striping she had never seen before; it made the head spin. She was to hear later from an admiring King that this most daring of garments had come direct from Italy, leader of fashion in the courts of Christendom.
He came walking gracefully with a slight kick forward to avoid tripping over the absurd points of his shoes, the longest she had ever seen. He wore his fantastic clothes, she must admit, with elegance. He did not bow to the King but flinging his arm about Edward’s neck, Brother! Brother! he cried—and even the King’s own brothers had not dared as much. And there they stood, hugging and kissing like a pair of sweethearts and a fine pair of fools they looked! They offended her fastidious taste; nor was the offence less that they behaved as though she were not there at all, she, Queen of England, Madame of France.
Margaret of Clare, Gaveston’s wife, made her reverence. Isabella could have liked her—the shy, elegant creature, the King’s niece and now her own. But she must allow herself no kindness for this charming girl scarce older than herself.
‘She was born honest but she’s mad for love of her husband. He neglects her and she’d sell her soul for a kind word from him!’ Elizabeth had said. ‘I love her dearly but I must warn you—watch your words; be sure they’ll go straight back to him!’
Nor did Isabella find her annoyance with Gaveston less as they took the road to Eltham, there to stay until preparations for the crowning were complete. After that first meeting he had tried to win the offended Queen. He had been over-gallant, over-familiar. A certain look in his eye she found both offensive and disturbing. It was a look half-ardent, half-amused, and wholly disrespectful. His eye would linger upon her thin body, and especially upon the budding breasts beneath the tight gown. She was conscious of her immaturity; did he admire or did he mock? She would feel her breasts tingle and rise—for that disliked him the more. Nor did his biting tongue amuse her; she doubted not at all that, alone with the King, he spared herself nothing of his wicked wit; nor that, so far from reproving, the King would smile his lazy smile. Even in this short time she had wearied of the man—the swagger, the flaunting of his power over the King; and she was ashamed, young as she was, of the familiarity between them—the sickening fondling.
And now they were for London, Gaveston fantastically riding in dagged and lozenged velvet. A foolish fashion for the miry roads, Isabella thought; it showed poor taste and poorer sense.
The great procession took its slow way upon the rutted roads and, lumbering in its wake, came the baggage-trains carrying the new Queen’s furnishings—the carved beds, the chairs, the chests and presses heavy with clothes, with household linen; the carpets, the cushions, the tapestries, the feather-beds; and the two baths without which she never travelled.
Already homesick, Isabella looked out upon the winter-bound countryside and wondered if, at this rate, they should ever reach London; and whether she should find it gay as Paris. She sat within the red-and-gold charette with Madam de St. Pierre while Gaveston rode with the King, those two bending towards each other laughing and chatting. Her anger against them both grew steadily. She longed to be riding with the King instead of being shut within the cold and stuffy charette. More than once she had invited Madam Queen Margaret, but at the suggestion that she should get to know her husband’s sisters, she had invited Mary and Elizabeth. Mary, a gay and gossipy thirty, could tell a good tale—not always suitable in a nun; she liked rich clothes and rich food. The wonder was that she had ever become a nun. ‘I had no choice,’ she said. ‘At five years old I was offered to God. No, the rigours of the cloister trouble me not at all. I am free to come and go as I please. And, indeed, there are so many family occasions—betrothals, marriages, births and deaths—I am scarcely in my convent at all! And Mother Abbess approves; the convent is always the richer for my journeys. I come back with my hands full of gifts.’
Isabella found Mary amusing and sent for her often. But even more she liked Elizabeth; warm and gay she made a charming companion. She knew everybody; her advice was wise, tactful and to the point. Once Isabella thought of inviting Gloucester’s sister; the girl was, after all, her own niece by marriage. But the girl was Gaveston’s wife; the Queen had no mind for a constant watch upon her tongue.
Day after day shut within the charette save when they came to a town; then she came forth to ride beside the King, and Gaveston must fall behind. The people would press forward to cheer and kiss their hands to the pretty child. Her tender years, her ready smile, her slight and childish grace moved all hearts; and the King, popular and charming, was showered with yet more approval for his most happy choice.
London at last. And the Mayor and sheriffs and all the guilds riding out to meet them, to bring them into the city where the gay colours of holiday dress, the tapestries floating from the windows, the ribands and evergreens turned winter into summer. And, warm as summer, those two felt the joy, the blessings called down upon their young heads. Never so well-loved, so well-graced a couple. Everything set fair.
And so to Westminster. Used though she was to the luxury of the French court, Isabella could find no fault with the Queen’s lodgings. The fresh stone, the walls new-painted with fanciful devices pleased her well; her own tapestries worked with golden leopards and lilies upon scarlet gave her a happy sense of home.
Time, a little time; and she would woo the King to her bed and send Gaveston packing. Here her new life began; it should be a happy one. She was singing under her breath as she watched the women about their unpacking, the clerk to the Queen’s Wardrobe standing by.
First the gowns and mantles, with Madam de St. Pierre watchful to see them shaken and laid within presses. Such gowns, such mantles! Scarlet-cloths of every dye; deep-piled samites and lighter taffetas, gold and silver tissues and most beautiful of all six gowns of marbrinus; she liked the white one best, its stiff silk marbled with gold.
Out came the furs—miniver and mink, ermine and vair; and now piles of shifts fine enough to pass through a wedding ring, and with them gorgets and headveils transparent as water. Half-a-dozen men staggered beneath the weight of heavy linen; one hundred and forty yards of it to hang about her bath for privacy.
And now for the jewels, casket after casket. Coronets to hold the headveil in place—seventy-two of them, some simple, some heavily jewelled. And two crowns; one for state occasions set with great gems, emeralds and rubies, sapphires and diamonds; and the other for lesser occasions set with pearls to sit light upon a young, small head. Out came brooches and clasps, bracelets and rings. The winter sun struck forth arrows of rainbow light.
Quite suddenly she was tired of it all; the rest must wait until tomorrow.
‘I have the list of Madam the Queen’s household plate,’ Théophania told John of Falaise, Master Clerk to the Queen’s Wardrobe. ‘Twelve great dishes and three small ones, together with forty-eight porringers, all of fine silver for Madam the Queen’s daily u
se. For great occasions, six great dishes of pure gold and six smaller ones, likewise of gold. Of porringers…’
‘If Madam the Queen will make choice of things for her immediate use, the rest shall go to the Tower; the Queen’s Wardrobe is stored in the northern turret. We shall need, I fancy, ten wagons.’
She smiled her gracious thanks, glad that so honest a man and one so faithful to her service should have in charge these precious gifts.
Master John dismissed at last, Madam de St. Pierre watched the women change the Queen into a gown of fine green scarlet-cloth, for the air struck chill in this palace by the river. The clear colour of the gown brought out the green in her changing eyes; should she, she wondered, wear her hair free-flowing? She was a married woman and should enclose it beneath a guimpe; but some married women wore their hair flowing free. And besides, she was a virgin; she might do well to remind her husband of the fact! She preferred her hair hanging loose; beneath the guimpe her face appeared too thin, too young. Madam de St. Pierre loosed the long, pale locks and set the lighter crown upon them. She handed her mistress the looking-glass, stopped to arrange the folds of green and bowed herself from the room.
Patient, Isabella awaited the King. Surely he would come to welcome her this first night in her new home, to lead her down to supper.
He did not come. Into the great hall she went alone, Théophania at her right hand and the page carrying her train. She took her place by the King; but all she got of him was his turned cheek and back as he bent to Gaveston.
She sat there cheeks and pride aflame, picking at the food offered upon bended knee. When the cloth had been cleared and the jugglers come, she rose and curtseyed to the King. He did not rise to lead her from the room, he did not even see her. Absorbed in his friend he had forgotten her.
In her chamber she bade the women undress her and go. Minutes passed to hours; hours stole the night away. But still he did not come. He had forgotten even the cold courtesy of the Goodnight salutation.
