The Pearl of France

by Caroline Newark

  ‘Are you planning to spend the whole day gazing at your reflection?’ Louis called from somewhere below. ‘If you don’t hurry, the celebrations will be over and your betrothed will have married someone else.’

  My women giggled and with a rustling of gowns and swishing of mantles we swept out of the chamber and down the stairway. My wedding day was about to begin.

  It was not many yards to the cathedral but as Louis and I walked on a carpet of flowers through the narrow street with a red cloth-of-gold canopy held high above our heads, it seemed like a hundred leagues. We entered the crowded square in front of the cathedral where I could see my betrothed and his friends gathered in the dark recess of the porch. Nearby was the archbishop who would perform the marriage. He was surrounded by bishops, their tall mitres dwarfing the white-robed boys in attendance. I climbed the steps with Louis’s arm beneath my hand, our French party following behind like a trailing veil. No hill had ever seemed as steep as those six shallow steps.

  The king and I stood beneath a golden canopy as the archbishop began the marriage ceremony. First, Louis passed me into the care of my betrothed and then stepped back leaving me alone with this stranger I was about to marry.

  I glanced sideways and noted the furred collar and the richness of his robes. Through the open door I could see row upon row of English women waiting, pale and glittering in the pools of candlelight. Deeper into the nave would be the hundreds of invited barons, knights and other dignitaries, and beyond them the priests and the choristers who would sing the solemn Mass.

  ‘I take thee Marguerite,’ His voice was powerful, full of confidence. ‘For fairer, for fouler, in sickness and in health.’

  I heard the gentle whispering of the crowd below as if it came from a distant land. For me there was nothing and no-one other than this man who was pledging himself to me till death should part us.

  ‘... and thereto I plight thee my troth.’

  I held out my right hand. It was without a single tremor. The archbishop took the heavy gold ring from the silver salver held by the priest at his side and handed it to the king.

  ‘With this ring I thee wed.’

  He held it over my thumb.

  ‘With my body I thee worship.’

  He moved it to just above the next finger.

  ‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.’

  He passed the ring over my other three fingers, finally sliding it onto my ring finger as he said, ‘Amen.’

  I was his wife.

  Nothing could take this away from me. Henceforth and for evermore I would be his. There was nothing and no-one but God who could part us and I would not think about death on a day like today.

  Now all that was left of the ceremony was the handing over of the deniers, the pieces of gold which symbolised the dower my husband was bestowing upon me. The details had been fought over tooth and nail by Philip’s negotiators and the English envoys and I knew that somewhere there was a lengthy and precise inventory of every rent roll and manor, but it didn’t detract from the spiritual element of the occasion, reducing it to a bargain of hard coin. It seemed to me these were, in truth, symbols of marital love and fidelity. My husband was promising to care for me and showing anyone who cared to look that he could do so.

  Side by side we knelt on matching embroidered cushions at the altar rail as the nuptial Mass was celebrated, and side by side we processed slowly down the choir, through the nave and out into the sparkling autumn sunshine and a thousand cheering citizens of Canterbury. My husband waved at the crowds and I managed a small smile. Somehwere behind me I heard a familiar voice and out from the gloom of the cathedral came the little fat English earl, Lord de Lacy.

  ‘Congratulations, your grace,’ he said bowing to his king and then to me. ‘May I be the first to welcome your wife.’

  ‘Checking the inventory, de Lacy?’ said my husband jovially. ‘Is she what we agreed to?’

  The two men laughed but I thought my husband’s remarks unsuited to the occasion and remarkably unkind. We both knew our marriage was an arrangement but he didn’t need to make it sound as if Lord de Lacy was a horse dealer and I, a sway-backed pony. He’d be wanting to examine my teeth next!

  ‘It is good to see you again, my lady,’ said Lord de Lacy. ‘And I must say you look radiant.’

  He was a kind man, a worthy man and would, I thought, be a good friend.

  In the great hall, which was laid out for the wedding feast, we received the congratulations of my husband’s family. The Lord Edward was magnificently clothed today. He outshone every other young man but appeared somewhat subdued in his father’s presence. He welcomed me formally and then turned to introduce his sisters.

  Only two of my husband’s four daughters had come to see him wed, as the other two were married to men whose lands lay far across the seas in the Low Countries. It must be difficult for a daughter to see another woman sit where her mother had sat, receiving the adulation that her mother had received, but they both managed it well.

  Joan, countess of Gloucester, was a tall middle-aged woman with the determined mouth and chin of her father. She was more than ten years older than me and had already been married twice. She eyed me coolly and, barely lowering her lashes let alone her head, made a slight curtsy and bade me welcome.

  ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Countess,’ I said in a small voice. ‘I trust we shall be friends.’

  ‘His grace, my father, is only lately reconciled with my husband and me,’ she said, looking sideways at the king. ‘So I suspect friendship might be a trifle slow in coming, but I too hope our relationship will be cordial.’

  I thought it a cold little speech but then she leaned forward and said, ‘If it pleases you I shall bring my daughters to visit. I expect his grace, my father, will be off to war again soon and I doubt you will care to accompany him. Life is tedious under canvas and northern castles are horribly draughty. If you stay behind you may find yourself in need of company.’

  She arched her delicate eyebrows enquiringly at me.

  ‘Thank you, that would indeed be pleasant,’ I replied in surprise. ‘How many daughters do you have?’

  ‘I have five: my three de Clare girls, Eleanor, Margaret and Elizabeth; little Mary, who is nearly two and a babe still in the cradle.’ She turned to the young woman behind her. ‘This is my sister, Mary. Doubtless you have heard she is a religious but I swear you wouldn’t know it.’

  Mary was dressed in a gown of the finest cloth and a distinctly fashionable headdress. I’d never before met a woman who had been veiled and yet went out into the world. I thought of the poor girls locked away in the abbey at Maubuisson with no vocation to give them strength, and was puzzled. How did Mary manage to acquire such freedom? Surely convent doors were locked? My thoughts must have shown plainly on my face.

  ‘You are horrified to see me away from my devotions, are you not, my lady?’ she said, smiling. ‘You think I should be shut in the priory, praying on my knees for the happiness of your marriage to his grace, my father, instead of being here to welcome you into our family.’

  I didn’t know what to say at such outspokenness.

  ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance,’ I said feebly, repeating the only words I could find. ‘I trust we shall be friends.’

  She looked at me out of her wide grey eyes.

  ‘You are younger even than me, I think, and you may have need of friends. A royal life is a cold one for those who come late to the feast and there are many here who will not wish you well. But if you need a friend, I shall always be there.’

  She had one eye on my husband who was conversing with Lord Henry and a man I took to be Lord Henry’s brother, Thomas, earl of Lancaster.

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied, unsure of what to say to this supremely confident young woman. ‘However I am well acquainted with a ro
yal life.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you are,’ said Countess Joan, breaking into our conversation. ‘But things are done differently here. Though what my sister knows of royal life I’m at a loss to imagine.’

  With that she excused herself and drifted away down the hall. I was surprised at the spitefulness in her last comment. Perhaps the sisters were not as friendly as I’d first thought.

  ‘You have a sister?’ Mary enquired.

  ‘Blanche, and she is dear to me.’

  ‘That is a blessing. But I know what it is like to be imprisoned with a parcel of women. The life you will lead in our royal palaces will be little different to mine in the priory,’ said Mary. ‘And if you are troubled you may send for me. My brother and sisters often ask for my help when they are in debt or at odds with his grace, our father. I am called upon to be banker or peacemaker, whichever is required more urgently. And it’s easy for me because I have no earthly husband to command me. I am my own mistress.’

  I saw the trumpeters raise their instruments and knew the feast was about to begin. My husband came to my side and without a word took my arm and escorted me to our canopied chairs on the dais. My women seated me, twitching my mantle and smoothing my gown, before retreating to their places lower down the hall.

  After my step-children’s kind welcome I found my husband’s continuing silence deeply worrying. We sat side by side throughout the wedding feast and if I’d put out my hand I could have touched him. But he didn’t say a single word to me until he noticed I’d barely tasted any of the dishes put in front of me.

  ‘I see you are not hungry, madam,’ he said in a cool voice. ‘Master Lovekyn will be sorely disappointed. He has spent many days and nights preparing this spread for your delight.’

  What could I say? My appetite had vanished at the sight of the hundreds of guests, all the unknown English people who had come to stare at the plain little daughter of France their king had been forced to marry in order to buy peace for the realm. The feast was one fit for a king, or a queen, but when I tried to swallow, my throat was full of rocks. Each dish was more magnificent than the one before and everyone else ate greedily. I toyed with a slice of partridge dipped in sweet plum sauce but after a moment replaced the sticky meat onto my platter.

  I saw curious looks from the younger women, unfriendly and pitying ones from their elders. The men paid me no attention whatsoever apart from an initial cursory glance, but men had never paid me much attention. I lowered my gaze and stared at my hands and the heavy gold band encircling my finger, a ring which bound me to this stranger beside me.

  The king snapped his fingers and a man appeared at his shoulder to do his bidding. He disappeared only to reappear a few moments later carrying a large casket which the king indicated he should set on the table in front of me. I looked at the wooden box banded by silver with ivory inlay round its lid, wondering what it was.

  ‘My wedding gift,’ said the king.

  Cautiously I lifted the lid and peered inside. The casket was full of wonders: gleaming emeralds and dazzling sapphires; a brooch of sparkling diamonds, a clasp fashioned from silver and decorated with topaz, stars of pearls and a narrow collar studded with deep-glowing rubies. I had never seen such a wonderful array of jewels.

  ‘They belonged to your great-grandmother, the Infanta of Castile, mother of the blessed Saint Louis. I thought you would like them.’

  His voice was soft.

  I could find no words for my heart was too full to speak. Where there had been coldness, I felt warmth rushing in, flooding me with joy. He had thought of me and chosen a gift which he believed would please me.

  I turned to him, my cheeks flushed and my eyes brimming with unshed tears.

  ‘Oh, thank you, my lord’ I whispered. ‘They are beautiful, the most beautiful jewels I have ever seen.’

  I picked out a brooch of sapphires which would have suited Blanche. I turned it over in my hand and wondered how my husband had possession of my great-grandmother’s jewels. But of course, I had forgotten - his first wife was also an Infanta of Castile. They must have belonged to her.

  ‘What of your daughters, my lord? Should these jewels not go to them?’

  I had said the wrong thing. I knew it. At once his face lost that gentle expression and became shuttered and dark.

  ‘If I had wanted to give them to my daughters,’ he said in a hard clipped voice, ‘I would have done so. I wished to give them to you but perhaps I was mistaken.’

  He looked away. For a moment I had believed I was favoured but now I felt the full weight of his disapproval and ice slipped back into my heart. I was nothing to him and the gift was just a formality. It meant nothing either.

  When the feasting was over and the dishes removed, the minstrels struck up their tunes and the gathering descended into an orgy of singing and dancing. I sat rigid with embarrassment, a small polite smile fixed on my face. No-one spoke to me, although my husband had conversations with his elderly friends. The men had wrinkled skin and grey hair and I was more than ever aware of the vast chasm of age between us.

  I looked out across the hall at the young people enjoying themselves and thought of my sister. Where was she? Was she thinking of me on my wedding day?

  After what seemed a lifetime my husband rose to his feet, signalling for the music to cease. He held out his hand and helped me rise. Together we walked round the hall past the crowds of great men and their families. Some smiled knowingly, some sniggered, expecting a royal bedding to be as much fun as any other.

  I’d been told that in England a couple would be teased unmercifully and a husband and wife who escaped into the marriage bed without some indignity being forced upon them were fortunate indeed. I couldn’t imagine how anyone would dare to play a joke upon the king but I was nervous for myself. We walked up the stairway towards the chamber where we would spend our first night together but when we arrived at the door, my women appeared and whisked me away.

  I endured another round of sponging and scenting and rubbing in of oils. Each part of my body was prepared for my husband’s delight and I had to be as perfect as I could be. Pins were removed and my hair combed out so that it flowed over my shoulders. As I fingered the fine dun-coloured strands covering my breasts I wished for the hundredth time they could have been golden.

  Once my women had me suitably clothed in the soft silk nightgown, I fastened a pale green mantle round my shoulders, slid my feet into a pair of fragile satin slippers and walked from my privy chamber into the bedchamber beyond. My women followed, smothering their giggles as they eyed the king’s attendants.

  My husband looked equally as frightening in his nightgown and crimson bed-robe as he had in his wedding finery. His hair and beard had been neatly combed and I was glad to see he wasn’t wearing his boots. But I was still terrified.

  He took my hand and we knelt at the foot of the bed. The elderly bishop, raised his hands and there was silence in the chamber. Interminable prayers were said, our union was blessed and holy water sprinkled over the fine silk sheets where we would lie. Everything was done, which could be done by others, to ensure that our bedding would be fruitful.

  We stood up and one of my women undid the gold clasp and helped me off with my mantle and slippers. In just my nightshift and holding my husband’s hand, I mounted the steps and climbed between the sheets. He walked round the other side, handed his bed-robe to his valet and climbed in beside me. The mattress dipped and the bed ropes creaked at his heavy weight. As the curtains were drawn round the bed, I heard the first bawdy joke followed by gales of laughter. The king twitched the curtains aside and roared at the top of his voice. There was more laughter, more vulgar comments, a running of feet and a muddle of girlish screams disappearing into the distance. I heard the door bang shut and at last there was silence.

  I looked resolutely at the folds of curtain pulled across the sides of the bed: gre
en and bronze, darkest brown, almost black in the depths, heavy and ornate and, I was certain, exceedingly costly. Thick enough to keep out night-time draughts and weighty enough to keep whatever passed between us hidden within. I could hear my husband’s breathing and my own heart beating.

  I had known this moment would come and thought I was prepared but now it had arrived all I wanted was more time, more moments of waiting. I didn’t want to be a wife. If my husband found me displeasing I would have nothing more to hope for. I would have to live the rest of my life knowing I had failed at the one task I had set myself - to please my husband and do my duty by him.

  After a moment, when nothing was said, my husband sighed and swept back the curtains on his side of the bed. He heaved himself out and stood there with his hand out.

  ‘Come!’

  Memories of my mother’s tale of her wedding night flooded into my mind and I sat frozen with fear.

  My husband leaned closer and I shrank back against the pillows.

  ‘Come, my lady,’ he said gently. ‘If we are to be husband and wife I think we shall be easier with each other if we are better acquainted. Let us sit by the fire with a cup of wine and talk.’

  I stared at him, disbelieving.

  ‘Don’t you ...,’ I said falteringly. ‘Don’t you wish to ...?’

  ‘Wish what? To ravish you before you have even called me husband? No, my lady, I do not.’

  He looked at me impatiently.