The Pearl of France

by Caroline Newark

  The Pearl of FrancE

  Caroline Newark

  Copyright © 2017 Caroline Newark

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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  ISBN 9781788034326

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For Natasha and Alexandra

  Contents

  List of Main Characters

  Prologue

  1 Summer 1299

  2 September 1299

  3 Autumn 1299

  4 Winter 1299

  5 Spring 1300

  6 Summer 1300

  7 Autumn 1300

  8 Spring 1301

  9 Winter 1301-2

  10 The Year 1303

  11 The Year 1304

  12 Autumn 1304 - Summer 1305

  13 Autumn 1305

  14 Spring 1306

  15 Autumn 1306

  16 Winter 1306-7

  16 Summer 1307

  17 Autumn 1307

  Epilogue

  What happened after Edward I’s death?

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Caroline Newark

  Coming soon

  About the Author

  List of Main Characters

  AT THE FRENCH COURT

  The king

  Philip IV

  His wife

  Jeanne of Navarre

  His brother

  Charles, count of Valois

  His half-brother

  Louis, count of Evreux

  His half-sisters

  Marguerite

  Blanche

  His stepmother

  Marie of Brabant

  At the English Court

  The king

  Edward I

  His children

  Edward of Caernarfon (Ned)

  Joan, countess of Gloucester

  Mary, a nun at Amesbury

  Elizabeth, countess of Holland

  His son-in-law

  Ralph de Monthermer

  His nephews

  Thomas, earl of Lancaster

  Henry of Lancaster

  Others

  Henry de Lacy, earl of Lincoln

  Margaret de Lacy, his wife

  Alice de Lacy, his daughter

  Roger Bigod, earl of Norfolk

  John de Warenne, earl of Surrey

  Guy de Beauchamp, earl of Warwick

  Humphrey de Bohun, earl of Hereford

  Robert Winchelsea, Archbishop of Canterbury

  Walter Langton, bishop of Lichfield

  Piers Gaveston, a Gascon

  John Gaddeson, a physician

  In Scotland

  The king in exile

  John Balliol

  The nobles

  Robert Bruce, earl of Carrick

  John Comyn, earl of Buchan

  John “The Red” Comyn, lord of Badenoch

  The bishops

  Robert Wishart, bishop of Glasgow

  William Lamberton, bishop of St Andrews

  Prologue

  With a single sweep of his powerful right arm the king consigned five weeks of painstaking diplomacy to the floor.

  ‘I will not be told what to do,’ he roared.

  Henry de Lacy, well-accustomed to his old friend’s sudden explosions of rage, moved smoothly out of reach. He had no desire to be seized by the furred collar of his expensive new robes and shaken like a rat.

  ‘There is nothing more we can do, your grace,’ he said apologetically. ‘You are fully aware of your situation.’

  Of course he was fully aware. Why would he not be? He was Edwardus Magnus, king of England, warrior, crusader, conqueror; destroyer of Welsh princes, maker and un-maker of Scottish kings. All this yet his war chest was empty and the Holy Father was demanding he make peace.

  The long years of hostilities had cost him the goodwill of most of his friends and if he had not been personally constrained by respect for the status of a brother monarch he would have strangled Philip in full view of his council. The turd might call himself king of France but he was nothing more than a lying, sanctimonious, duplicitous snake-in-the-grass.

  ‘If you are to save Gascony, your grace,’ said de Lacy, ‘this is the only way. You must see that.’

  Ah yes - Gascony, where once he’d taken his beloved wife, Eleanor. Bordeaux, the windblown marshes of the Landes, the wide river valleys with their tiny walled towns and lonely monasteries. And the vineyards. English kings had held Gascony as dukes of Aquitaine and vassals of the kings of France for nigh on one hundred and fifty years and he was damned if he’d yield Philip a single foot. Losing Eleanor had nearly destroyed him but to lose Gascony would be beyond bearing.

  ‘Tell me again,’ said Edward, his anger giving way to a bone-sapping grey tiredness. ‘Keep it simple and spare me your flowery embellishments.’

  De Lacy struggled to recall the exact points of the treaty recently agreed with the French. He would have liked to retrieve his documents from their resting place amongst the rushes but thought it more politic to deploy his memory.

  ‘It has been resolved that England and France will create a lasting peace,’ he began. ‘His Holiness will rule on the matter of Gascony, and your son will be betrothed to the Lady Isabella, daughter of the king of France.’

  ‘So our two families are to live in perfect harmony?’

  ‘That is what His Holiness desires.’

  ‘What else? You said there was more.’

  De Lacy shifted his feet uneasily. ‘The French say their Lady Isabella is too young, your grace. They say the betrothal cannot be binding and in consequence are demanding something more proximate.�
�

  The room vibrated with an ugly and ominous silence.

  ‘Which one?’ said the king in a still, cold voice.

  De Lacy hesitated.

  ‘By the blood of Christ!’ snarled Edward. ‘I know I must marry one of them. Which one is it?’

  ‘The elder,’ said de Lacy. ‘The Lady Marguerite.’

  Edward felt a momentary pang of disappointment. Plain and pious, his brother had said when he’d seen the sisters. Philip, of course, would never give him the Lady Blanche - a tasty morsel, dazzlingly beautiful but willful. Just the kind of girl to appeal to a jaded old man like himself.

  Not that it mattered. He’d have the marriage contract dissected, sealed, nailed to the cross and signed in Philip’s own blood. Then he’d wed his plain and pious bride, bed her, get her with child and return to his campaigning. Peace with France was what he needed. He didn’t need a wife but it seemed he had no choice.

  1

  Summer 1299

  I was nineteen that summer when the English king sent his envoys back to Paris. They came from their damp little fog-shrouded island to our palace on the Île de la Cité when the bonfires were lit and my sister and I wore yellow flowers in our hair. We had returned from a visit to the abbey at Maubuisson and spied them at the cat-burning down by the river. Amidst the stench of charred flesh and wreaths of swirling smoke I saw their laughing faces and wondered why they’d come.

  ‘To talk about my marriage?’ said my sister wistfully.

  There had once been a time when Blanche was betrothed to Edward of Caernarfon, the golden-haired son of the English king. She and I had new silk gowns and the family celebrated for a week. At the tournament, Blanche was placed on cushions in the women’s pavilion and for three years she believed that one day she would be queen of England. But war had come and in the turmoil which followed we’d heard nothing more of the young Lord Edward. Someone said he was pledged to a daughter of the count of Flanders although Blanche swore such a thing could not be true.

  ‘You cannot marry the son of your brother’s enemy,’ our mother had said firmly. ‘So long as the English persist in their claim to our lands in Gascony they are not our friends. Philip has torn up the contract of marriage. He refuses to honour the agreement and neither the lawyers nor His Holiness would expect otherwise.’

  As good daughters of France there was nothing we could do but agree with our mother although in secret my sister wept hot bitter tears until her face became blotched and the tip of her nose turned horribly pink.

  But now, after five years, war was over, the Holy Father’s cardinals were busy making peace and the English king had sent his envoys back to Paris.

  The summer twilight was fast disappearing and the evening candles already lit when I was summoned to my mother’s presence. She was waiting for me in the room where she conducted her private business, a small casket of jewels placed on the table in front of her. She held up a string of rubies which, as they moved against the white of her gown, caught the flickering light and reflected a wash of colour across her face.

  My mother was a handsome woman, with a broad smooth forehead. The eyes beneath her neatly arched brows were well set but her mouth had a perpetual look of discontent. She had been my father’s second wife and gave him three healthy children but when he died it was Philip, the son of the first wife who became king and that did not please my mother. She didn’t care for Philip. She didn’t care for his brother Charles either.

  ‘I have news for you,’ she said, replacing the jewels reverently in their box and closing the lid. ‘Good news.’

  Her brow furrowed and I felt a well-accustomed pain as my belly twisted and knotted. I knew that compared to Louis and Blanche, her other two children, I was a grave disappointment. No amount of effort on my part could change the look of aggrieved annoyance which clouded her face each time she saw me. I had few redeeming features. I was small and plain with hair the colour of mouse fur, a sort of miserable drab brown. Blanche said my ears were small and neat. But who bothers to look at a young woman’s ears?

  ‘Yes, maman,’ I said, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on my slippers. I wondered what she could possibly have to say to me. I had done nothing wrong and besides she had said the news was good.

  ‘Your brother, Philip, has seen fit to arrange a marriage for Isabella.’

  Isabella was three years old. She was my brother’s only daughter and his favourite child. He and Madame Jeanne had four sons but Philip didn’t care much for them.

  ‘Who is she to marry?’

  My mother sniffed, a sure sign of disapproval. ‘Edward of Caernarfon, the son of the English king.’

  No wonder she was annoyed. It was Blanche, her own daughter, who was supposed to be crowned queen of England, not Philip’s Isabella.

  ‘It is a marriage designed to seal a treaty of peace between our two families,’ said my mother in a cold voice. ‘The choice is regrettable in many ways.’

  ‘She’s very young,’ I ventured.

  ‘Exactly,’ said my mother, eyeing me with an unusual degree of interest. ‘Too young for the betrothal to be binding so it has been agreed that a more proximate marriage will be arranged.’

  ‘More proximate?’

  I thought I would like to leave before anything more was said but that was impossible so I held my breath and waited.

  ‘You should always remember, Marguerite, that the English are not to be trusted. Their ways are slippery and they are, by their very nature, treacherous. If we are not careful they will slither their way out of this treaty and all your brother’s efforts will have been in vain. So to make certain of their compliance your brother has decided that you are to be married.’

  ‘Me?’ I said in disbelief.

  ‘I see no other person,’ said my mother. ‘Unless some girl is loitering behind the arras. Of course I mean you. Philip believes you are clever enough to do this and I very much hope he is not mistaken.’

  There was a moment of complete silence while I tried to make sense of what she had said. Who was I to marry? The English king had only one son. Perhaps there was a cousin I hadn’t heard of, a cousin who might do for me.

  I looked up, not quite meeting her eyes.

  ‘Maman?’ I whispered. ‘Whom am I to marry?’

  ‘Why, the English king of course. Edward of England. Who did you think you were going to marry? I have assured the English envoys that you are both obedient and fertile and it is all agreed. You, my dear Marguerite, are to be queen of England.’

  Queen of England! The words were unreal. How could I be queen of England? Then I remembered my sister.

  ‘What about Blanche?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Surely she is to be queen of England?’

  My mother shook her head.

  ‘Sainte Vierge! Use your common sense, Marguerite. If Philip has chosen you he will have other plans for Blanche. In the meantime, this is your opportunity.’

  She smiled in anticipation of my brilliant marriage for it truly was a brilliant marriage. I swallowed hard and tried to think of what it meant for me.

  ‘Maman, how old is the English king?’

  ‘What does his age have to do with anything?’ she snapped. ‘He is a king and you will be his queen. That is all you need to know.’

  ‘Shall I have to live in England?’

  My mother looked at me in exasperation. ‘You could hardly expect the English king to live here, Marguerite. Don’t be foolish. You will travel to England and once you are married, England will be your home.’

  ‘But I can come back?’

  My mother sighed. ‘Listen child. When you marry, your husband becomes your lord and your master. You do as he says and go where he bids you to go. Once you have given him sons he may permit you to visit us but until then, you stay.’

  I thought of
the loneliness of being without my sister and prayed the marriage would be many years away.

  ‘When will I be married?’

  ‘As soon as possible,’ said my mother happily. ‘The English king is anxious for the wedding to take place by the end of the summer. Now smile. You are a very fortunate young woman.’

  I didn’t feel fortunate, I felt miserable. I walked slowly back through the palace rooms to our chamber where the other girls were mostly asleep. One or two were snoring gently but Blanche was sitting up in the bed we shared, fidgeting with impatience.

  ‘Well?’ she said as soon as the door was shut.

  One of the maids slipped, shivering, out of the warmth of her pallet bed to help me undress. After she had drawn the heavy curtains round our bed, I clambered between the linen sheets and snuggled up against my sister’s body hoping to warm myself.

  ‘Lie down,’ I said. ‘And I’ll tell you.’

  She wriggled under the covers and put one of her arms around me.

  ‘I am to be married.’

  ‘You?’ Blanche snatched her arm away. ‘But I thought you were talking about me.’

  She was annoyed, I could tell from the tone of her voice.

  ‘Who are you going to marry?’ she asked in a grudging tone.

  ‘Our father’s cousin, Edward of England.’

  ‘What?’

  She shot up in bed and grasped me by both shoulders.