The Pearl of France

by Caroline Newark

  ‘You can’t marry him,’ she said, shaking me roughly. ‘You can’t. He is the king. If you marry him you’ll be the queen, and I’m the one who is to be queen of England, not you.’

  There was a chorus of shushing from beyond the curtains.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do about it,’ I whispered. ‘Our mother says Philip has decided.’

  ‘But what’s going to happen to me?’ Blanche wailed. ‘I’ll have to walk five paces behind you and sit on a stool at your feet. I won’t be your poor relation and I’ll never forgive you if you take my crown.’

  ‘Our mother says Philip has other plans for you,’ I said timidly.

  ‘What other plans?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘Well, if you think I’m going to dance at your wedding you’ll be disappointed because I won’t.’

  And with that she turned her back, pulled the covers over her shoulder and refused to speak.

  I hadn’t told her about Isabella but when I did I knew she would be even angrier. I sighed and thought how much more pleasant it would be if I didn’t have to marry anyone.

  ‘You know he’s old, don’t you?’ said my sister next morning as we busied ourselves at our sewing.

  ‘I know he’s been married before,’ I replied, threading my needle with a length of green silk. ‘But he won’t be very old. He would hardly want to marry again if he was, would he?’

  ‘I’ve heard he’s very, very old,’ she said, stabbing the cloth with her needle. ‘He’s older than the oldest person we know.’

  ‘He can’t be,’ I protested. ‘They wouldn’t make me marry him if he was.’

  ‘Of course they would. All Philip cares about is his treaty. He’s not interested in you.’

  That was certainly true. Philip never so much as glanced my way. But then, why would he?

  ‘Our mother won’t let him marry me to someone like that,’ I said doubtfully.

  Blanche paused in her sewing and looked at me as if I was stupid.

  ‘How can she stop him? If Philip wants to marry you to a man old enough to be your grandfather there’s nothing she can do. And it’s what you deserve for stealing my crown. You do realize there won’t be any children, don’t you? All he’ll do is heave and grunt and paw at you with his wrinkled old fingers. He won’t be able to give you a child and much good your English crown will be to you then.’

  With that last bit of spitefulness Blanche jumped to her feet sending needles, silks and precious cloth tumbling onto the floor. The other girls pretended they’d heard nothing, bending their heads over their sewing, not wishing to be party to this particular quarrel and refusing to look me in the eye.

  Naturally they envied me the honour - what girl would not want to be a queen? - but marriage to a decrepit old man was something to be feared. They knew the outward show of my marriage would be glittering but the shell would be hollow, the days and nights would be lonely and the future bleak. There would be no little children to brighten my life, just dutiful obedience and a cantankerous, ailing Methuselah dribbling at my side. It was no surprise there were no joyful congratulations.

  We removed to Vincennes, my brother’s second favourite hunting lodge, to make preparations for my marriage. When our mother casually mentioned the possibility of an imminent betrothal for my sister, Blanche melted into friendship once more.

  By the end of the week Philip had taken a wild boar in the forest. The chase had been tremendous and we were still celebrating his success when the English envoys arrived. They had followed us along the road to our house amongst the trees, saying they wished to look over the person of the English king’s proposed bride and between them decide if she was worthy. To be scrutinized by men I didn’t know was bad enough but I dreaded more what Philip might do to me if they decided I was unsuitable.

  ‘Measuring rod!’ my mother instructed one of the maids. ‘The king of England wishes to know the size of her feet.’

  ‘My feet?’ I gasped, lifting up the hem to expose my pale green hose. ‘Why does he want to know the size of my feet?’

  My mother smiled grimly.

  ‘Not just your feet. He also wishes to know the span of your waist.’

  I promptly clasped my arms tightly around my middle.

  ‘Marguerite, stop being foolish. It is natural to want to know all about you. Any husband would be the same.’

  ‘But what if he doesn’t like what he’s told? What if he calls off the wedding?’

  ‘He won’t do that. When a man asks questions about the person of his betrothed he has already made up his mind. He is firmly caught in the net. This is just the final struggle before he surrenders. It is to be expected.’

  ‘And if he thinks your feet are too big he’ll simply chop off your toes,’ remarked Blanche.

  I gave a shriek and my sister received a slap and a stern maternal rebuke which resulted in tears.

  ‘We need to impress upon these men your good points,’ said my mother, returning to the matter in hand.

  I gave an inward sigh, for with my mother it was always the same. Beside Blanche I was found sadly lacking. Whereas my sister had grown steadily more beautiful, I had, if anything, grown plainer. My face had become narrower and my nose more pointed and my hair was the same unexciting shade of pale brown.

  ‘You are pious,’ said my mother firmly as if this was what my husband would value most. ‘And you are well-formed.’

  By that she meant I wasn’t gap-toothed or hump-backed.

  ‘And you are knowledgeable.’ She paused. ‘Although I’m not sure if that is an advantage as many men prefer a wife who is ignorant and will thus refrain from interfering.’

  I had no idea how one might pretend ignorance but vowed I would not interfere with anything my husband might choose to do.

  ‘You are docile, which is a quality highly prized by husbands,’ she continued. ‘They like a wife who is soft and yielding and agreeable. You have to admit, my dear Marguerite, that describes you perfectly.’

  Soft, yielding, and agreeable. Was that really me? It made me sound like a comforting goosefeather pillow.

  Now my mother was all briskness. ‘The English envoys will have questions to ask but remember what I told you - if you don’t know what to say, say nothing. A silent woman is always preferable to a foolish one.’

  ‘But what if I give the wrong answer and the English king changes his mind?’

  My mother sighed for the twentieth time that morning. ‘He won’t change his mind. His council has already agreed to the marriage.’

  ‘His council?’ I squeaked. ‘What is it to do with his council? Are they going to want to inspect me as well? Why can’t the king make up his own mind?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said my mother patiently. ‘In England, it is the way.’

  ‘They’ll make you walk down their great hall in your shift to see if you’re worth what he’s paying for you,’ said my sister.

  ‘Blanche!’ said my mother with ice in her voice. ‘Be silent!’

  It was stiflingly hot and the many elaborate layers of brocade, which my mother said brought colour to my cheeks, felt stiff and uncomfortable. I wore a simple gold circlet catching my hair on both sides so that it hung loosely down my back like a bride but I was only too aware of the beads of sweat trickling under my breasts and down my ribs.

  I knew there were to be three of them carrying out the inquisition: the earl of Warwick, the earl of Lincoln and the count of Savoy who was married to my mother’s niece. My mother said the count was widely respected for his wisdom so naturally His Holiness had insisted on his presence. She assumed the two earls were those the English king valued most but she considered the earl of Lincoln untrustworthy in the extreme.

  The door of Philip’s chamber opened and I walked in, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the tiles, small lozenge
s of rose and cream with narrow borders of dark red. I sat on the stool placed ready for me and waited for my ordeal to begin.

  The room was airless and crowded with dozens of people. Clerks in black stood hunched over their parchments and inks like an audience of wizened moles, and facing me, behind a long table, were my brother and an array of men I didn’t know. Two of them, I noticed to my horror, were cardinals sent by His Holiness to witness my humiliation.

  At first the conversation was about the intricacies of dowries and settlements and the possibility of annulments and papal dispensations. I found the words difficult to follow but knew agreement over these details was necessary to protect both my future husband and myself. It seemed as if my marriage was to be like a bargain in the marketplace where both sides had to be certain they were getting what they thought they were getting, and that what they were paying for was worth the coin. I knew the matter of who controlled Gascony and the other English possessions on this side of the Narrow Sea underlay my marriage, and I also knew how important this was both to Philip and to the English king. So I tried my hardest to concentrate.

  ‘She is somewhat small,’ said the count suddenly, peering closely at my face. ‘Has she been unwell?’

  ‘Her mother informs me she is never sick,’ said Philip in a cold voice.

  ‘And her womanly health?’ enquired the count.

  Philip’s mouth twisted in distaste at the mention of such a private concern.

  ‘You can be assured that she is fertile and will breed.’

  ‘But what of the family?’ asked the tall dark-haired English earl with the bushy eyebrows. ‘Her mother? Her grandmothers?’

  My brother gave the glimmer of a smile. ‘Her grandmother, as you know, gave the blessed Saint Louis, eleven children, and her other grandmother came from good Burgundian stock whose breeding is impeccable. Her mother raised all her children. The family is strong. You see, messires, you need have no fear on that account. My sister will give your king healthy sons, provided of course ...’

  Philip left hanging in the air the thought that a failure to produce sons would not be my fault but that of the English king.

  ‘His grace has sired sixteen children and is still lusty,’ replied the dark-haired earl testily. ‘There will be nothing lacking in that department, you can be sure of that.’

  ‘It has been a long time,’ said my brother silkily. ‘Nine years since his queen died.’

  ‘Nine years is nothing to a man of such appetites,’ the earl retorted. ‘And the lady has a youthful charm which should lend spice to the encounter. Does she sing?’

  ‘Like an angel,’ said my brother. ‘A sweet clear voice.’

  ‘And has she skill with an instrument?’

  ‘The lute.’

  ‘Perhaps, in that case, she would care to entertain us.’

  ‘I don’t think we have time for minstrelsy, Sir Guy,’ said the count, taking charge of the inquisition once more. ‘We have not yet discussed the lady’s education. Can she read? His grace is greatly interested in books and would not welcome an unlearned wife.’

  ‘My sister has been excellently tutored in all the disciplines,’ said Philip as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a daughter of the House of Capet to be able to read and write and understand the philosophies. ‘I think my cousin will be pleased at her skill in these matters.’

  So I would not be required to pretend ignorance after all, which was a blessing. Perhaps my future husband and I might find companionship in books?

  ‘Our king places great store on piety in a woman,’ said the stout little English earl, the one they called de Lacy. ‘As you know, monseigneur, he has raised several foundations in memory of his beloved Queen Eleanor. He wishes for a wife who is equally willing to embrace the teachings of the Church.’

  ‘My sister is properly devout,’ said Philip. ‘I do not think you can fault her teaching.’

  ‘But she is very small,’ said the one they called Sir Guy.

  ‘Now come Guy, that is not important in a woman,’ said the other Englishman jovially. ‘Size doesn’t matter, not like it does for a man.’

  There were smothered laughs from the listening crowd and smiles from those at the table.

  ‘She does speak, doesn’t she?’ said the count in a worried tone. ‘She’s not mute?’

  Philip gave him a withering look which would have felled a lesser man.

  ‘Sister,’ he instructed me. ‘Tell these men who you are.’

  I opened my mouth but, horror upon horror, no words came out. I tried again and this time all I managed was a whisper.

  ‘Speak up, my lady,’ said Philip in his iciest voice. ‘These men are from England and cannot understand unless you speak clearly.’

  ‘I am the Lady Marguerite,’ I said quietly. ‘I am the granddaughter of Saint Louis of blessed memory, may God keep and preserve his immortal soul.’

  Philip held up his hand for me to be silent.

  ‘You see,’ he said. ‘A sweet voice with honeyed tones. What man would not be seduced by such a voice?’

  Sir Guy coughed. ‘Our king has a preference for a Castilian marriage. His interests are much engaged in that direction. You must appreciate the honour he does your sister by considering her as a wife.’

  Philip threw him a look of such fury I was surprised the earl did not wince.

  ‘My sister has numerous opportunities. She is young with many fruitful years ahead and it is a great sacrifice on her part to ally herself to your king who, at best, is past his prime.’

  ‘Our king, let me assure you, is in full possession of his powers and is equal to any man on the battlefield, monseigneur,’ retorted Sir Guy. ‘You included.’

  The count leaned forward to intervene.

  ‘I do not think we acquit ourselves well by bickering,’ he said firmly. ‘Let us proceed to the next point - the lady’s agreement.’

  ‘I will answer for my sister,’ said Philip.

  One of the cardinals tapped the table.

  ‘I am sorry, monseigneur, but that is not sufficient. The Church requires an assurance from the lady.’ He turned to me. He had a lined face with fleshy jowls and great sad eyes.

  ‘You are of age, daughter?’

  ‘Yes, your eminence,’ I said quietly.

  ‘And you understand that a proxy betrothal will be binding in the eyes of the Church?’

  ‘Yes, your eminence.’

  I thought how gentle he was, how understanding, how kind. Then I became aware of a sudden silence.

  ‘Is it your wish?’ said the dark, heavy-browed Sir Guy whose long nose was quivering with impatience.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I didn’t hear the question.’

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ said my brother.

  The other earl, the kind one, smiled and said, ‘Is it your wish, my lady, to marry our king, the great Edward of England, to be his queen? It is necessary for you to agree. The Church requires it.’

  I looked from one to the other wondering if any young woman would dare to say no at a moment like this.

  ‘Yes, messire,’ I whispered. ‘I agree.’

  To my mother’s satisfaction there followed a magnificent formal ceremony of betrothal after which my status as the English king’s future wife was official. Everyone was very kind, praising my good fortune and telling me how lucky I was. But the more they made much of me, the more I feared I was nobody’s idea of a desirable wife. No-one said that an old man such as my betrothed should be grateful for any young girl in his bed, no matter that she was small and plain. If only I could have been taller or prettier. If only I could have been more like Blanche.

  The burning heat of July turned the roads to dust but the treaty was still not signed. According to my brother, Louis, the envoys were sailing back and forth across the Narrow Sea dealin
g with the finer points, trying to get both Philip and the English king to agree.

  ‘It’s not you,’ said Louis, kindly, ‘it’s Isabella. Philip is terrified of arranging a marriage for her which will not be to his total advantage, and Edward of England is equally determined to have the best of the bargain. They say he wanted his son married to a Castilian Infanta but is having to agree to this marriage in order to save his lands in Gascony. His first wife came from Castile so he has romantic attachments to the country whereas, for us, he feels nothing but a desire for possession.’

  ‘But they will sign, won’t they?’ I said, not caring one bit about Gascony or a Castilian Infanta but becoming more and more anxious for my marriage as each day passed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Louis. ‘Neither of them is completely happy, but they’ll sign. I’m sure of it. Philip is travelling to Montreuil tomorrow. He wants to make a grand gesture and he won’t want to wait while the lawyers argue over side clauses.’

  Madame Jeanne smiled at me over the head of little Isabella.

  ‘My husband is talking of marriage between the English king’s son and our daughter,’ she said planting a kiss on top of the child’s soft curls. ‘Not yet, but soon. Think, my dear Marguerite, you will have your niece on the throne of England before long.’

  I wondered at Madame Jeanne’s carelessness in consigning my betrothed to an early grave, but said nothing. If it had been my nature to be jealous I would have minded dreadfully about the fuss over Isabella’s marriage. It wasn’t as if she was more royally connected than me. My blood was as sacred as hers. But I knew Philip would toss me over to the English king without a second thought if he could keep Gascony, whereas with Isabella he was insisting on guarantees and assurances, pledges under seal and promises made before God.

  ‘You are a lesser dish,’ said my sister spitefully. ‘It is Isabella who is the haunch of venison and the roasted peacock. whereas you are simply a small bowl of wrinkled olives.’

  Madame Jeanne patted my hand and said consolingly. ‘You mustn’t mind if there are no babies, my dear Marguerite. The English king is very old and can hardly expect to ...’