‘My lord,’ I said in mock horror, removing myself to the far side of the bed and thinking of Eleanor’s sixteen babies. ‘How many sons are you planning for us?’
He looked at me, all the laughter gone from his face.
‘As many as God gives us, my little pearl, and let us pray it will be many. A man can never have enough sons and you have to admit the making of them is very enjoyable.’
And so saying, he grasped my wrists and pulled me back into his arms. Later, when he lay grunting gently in his sleep, I compared my own pleasing fruitfulness with that of his first wife. We’d been married for barely seventeen months and already had a son in the cradle and another safe in my belly. I wondered how long it had taken Eleanor to produce two children and if they had both been sons.
Beside me in the bed, I felt him stir as he woke. He rolled over on his back and turned his head to look at me. His skin was creased and his eyes still heavy with sleep and now that he was awake, I could see the frown lines on his face.
‘What is the matter, my lord? Are you unwell? Shall I send for something to ease the pain?’
‘Not unless you can bring me a potion to bewitch my council.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Are they still proving difficult?’
We had come to Lincoln for a gathering of all the great men of my husband’s realm, a parliament which was to sanction money for the campaign in the summer. I knew my husband needed agreement to raise a tax and no settlement had as yet been reached.
He pushed himself further up onto the pillows.
‘I’ve told them I am without money and the country must provide if we’re to recommence war with the Scots and I’ve told them I need a fifteenth of their goods but all they do is mutter and grumble and offer me a twentieth. They don’t understand. If we can’t hold Scotland then my dream of a greater kingdom is at an end.’
‘But my lord, your kingdom is already great. Would it matter so very much if Scotland was not won?’
He looked at me with distaste and I felt the whole weight of his displeasure in the silence which followed. I should have heeded my mother’s warnings and not meddled in matters which didn’t concern me.
‘I would not have expected you to say anything quite so stupid,’ he said as he got out of bed. ‘You clearly have not the slightest understanding of what you’re talking about. Eleanor had more sense in her little finger than you have in the whole of your body. You’d better return to your spinning or whatever else it is you young women do.’
And so saying he walked out, slamming the door behind him, leaving me to ponder the wisdom of trying to be a good wife. I wondered how much Eleanor had interfered in his business and whether he’d welcomed it or if he had shouted at her the way he sometimes shouted at me.
While my husband made preparations for his war I spent mornings in my privy chamber with my clerks answering letters and dealing with the dozens of petitions which came from all parts of my husband’s realm. I was constantly surprised at how knowledgeable his people were about the law, being quick to appeal to their lord if they believed their rights breached. And many understood they were more likely to receive satisfaction by petitioning a soft-hearted queen than bothering a busy, battle-hardened king.
I had a letter from a woman in a village near Norwich complaining of injuries done to her business by her bishop, and one from a man in St Albans whose house had been unjustly occupied by another. There were complaints concerning licenses for mills and breweries, dowries unpaid, mothers prevented from seeing their children, requests for cases to be adjourned and for sanctions to be lifted as fines had been paid. It was never-ending.
And after that I had to write letters to my husband’s chancellor requesting monies due to me to be provided for how else was I to finance my household. There were many people to be paid, probably near fifty, and my women needed new robes for the summer. I tried not to worry but I could see why my husband was constantly in debt and perpetually harassed by his shortage of coin.
But the parliament was not the only reason we were in Lincoln. My husband had decided it was time to honour his elder son.
Ned stood before me clad in a truly sumptuous outfit. His embroidered satin robes were covered in pearls and sapphires, so much so that he glittered from head to toe.
‘How do you think I look?’
‘I think you look magnificent and every inch a Prince of Wales.’
‘Piers says earls shine with the reflected glory of their own exalted opinion of themselves and princes glitter but only because of the inordinate amount of jewels they wear upon their person.’
I laughed and clapped my hands. Master Gaveston could certainly provide an amusing turn of phrase for each and every occasion. It was no wonder Ned enjoyed his company.
It was not only expedience which had led to today’s grand ceremony but my husband’s realisation that his son was no longer a difficult boy to be ignored or chastised, but a young man of promise, one of whom he could be proud. Ned was tall, good-looking and manly, and at seventeen, his father’s son in every respect, except for his rather peculiar pursuits. I wondered if he bore any resemblance to Eleanor.
‘Have you seen my coronet?’ he said, removing himself to a seat by the fire.
‘I have, and it’s very fine. With that on your head you will bear the weight of the many Princes of Wales who have gone before you.’
‘Oh lady mother,’ he laughed. ‘Llewelyn ap Gruffudd’s head is on a spike above the entrance to the Tower so I’m not sure there is any weight left to be reckoned with. But from today Wales is mine and I shall enjoy having its men bend their knees to me.’
‘Are you nervous?’ I asked.
‘No.’ He paused. ‘But you know why his grace, my father, is doing this, don’t you?’
‘You’re his eldest son. As a father he naturally wishes to give you lands of your own.’
‘Nothing his grace, my father, does is ever natural. Everything has an ulterior purpose. I had to think long and hard as to why, and why now. Then I remembered the prophecies of Merlin’
I frowned, trying to remember what I knew about the Welsh magician.
‘There’s one, saying my father’s line will be ended by a prince who comes out of Wales and takes the crown.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘So if I am Prince of Wales it’s not possible for me to end our line, is it?’
He smiled at his solution to this conundrum.
‘How clever of you,’ I said, patting his shoulder in what I hoped was an appropriately maternal way.
Yes, he really was an extremely handsome young man with his golden hair and smooth bronzed skin. He possessed a masculine appeal which wasn’t wasted on my women who spent fruitless hours sighing over him, but I thought I would do well to remind myself occasionally that he was my stepson.
The cathedral church of St Mary the Virgin on the hill was, as the earl of Norfolk had once told me, the most magnificent church in England. Three towers with pointed spires rose high into the winter sky dwarfing the drab little houses below. The central spire was, according to the good citizens of Lincoln, the highest man had ever made and closer to God than anywhere else in Christendom.
In the vast nave where great white columns rose ever upwards and pale arches soared high above our heads, hundreds of candles burned steadily. I knew my husband’s memories of this church were sad for it was here he had prayed at the shrine of St Hugh to save his first wife and yet God had taken her.
The day before I’d watched as Ned was endowed with his new title and lands but today we’d come for a more private and personal reason. Yesterday the sun had shone in a sky of perfect blue but today rain came early and now louring clouds threatened yet more inclement weather.
‘You will accompany me,’ my husband had said when he planned the aftermath of the celebrations for Ned’s day. ‘As m
y wife you will assist me in the remembrance of one who was so dear to me.’
Since coming to Lincoln Eleanor’s name had been on his lips all the time. It was as if she was living in the next chamber, someone to be mentioned casually in conversation. He wondered what she would have thought, what she would have done, recalling places they’d visited and happy times they’d spent together. I tried to be kind but found it difficult. Even though I would never have dared criticize my husband, I was very tired of hearing what Eleanor had thought and done and said.
I must, in one of my more unguarded moments, have said something unwise to Lady de Lacy, for she looked at me shrewdly out of her wise old eyes.
‘He cares for you too my dear.’
‘Does he?’ I said rather crossly. ‘Sometimes I wonder.’
‘You must remember he was married to the queen for more than thirty-six years, a lifetime for most men. He is bound to have happy memories. She was only a girl when he first knew her and they were extremely close. You can’t alter that.’
‘Did you know her well?’ I asked, curious to know what someone other than my stepchildren thought of this woman my husband idolised.
‘As well as any.’
‘What was she like?’
Lady de Lacy paused to think. ‘She went everywhere with his grace. They were seldom apart. It was impossible not to see how they loved each other and how their minds worked together. It was a joy to observe them hand-clasped. Certainly there were those who thought she had too much influence over him, but, you know your husband, he’s a strong-minded man and likes to have his own way. He would never have allowed her to interfere in the governing of his realm.’
I wasn’t sure if this told me anything I didn’t already know.
‘But there were those who thought her too foreign, an unlucky queen, and some people considered her greedy,’ continued Lady de Lacy.
‘Greedy? In what way?’
‘She liked to acquire land. The bishops were very unhappy about her methods and so were the people whose lands she took.’
‘Did my husband know what she was doing?’
‘Oh I’m sure he did. There was nothing those two didn’t know about each other. But what king would object to his queen enlarging her own lands? I suspect it would have pleased him. It just didn’t please everybody.’
So the perfect Eleanor had not been perfect in everyone’s eyes, only in those of my husband.
As we knelt in the chantry chapel where the late queen’s viscera were buried, I recalled what Lady de Lacy had said about this woman and wondered if this was truly Queen Eleanor I saw in front of me. The tomb was ornate and her golden effigy chilling. Finely sculpted features depicted a strong, proud face, one full of nobility and womanly suffering. Her hair was unbound, her hands clasped in prayer where they would remain forever resting on the gilded folds of her gown. She was prettier than me.
The church had felt warm but the chantry chapel was cold despite the multitude of candles which burned day and night in everlasting memory of this woman who had been my husband’s first wife.
‘Domine, Jesu Christe, Rex Gloriae.’
I bowed my head and tried to remember the words of the Mass.
‘Lord Jesus Christ, king of Glory.’
My mind kept sliding away into thoughts of this woman who had died so long ago. Our prayers begged for the soul of my husband’s dead wife to be delivered from the pains of hell, from the deep lake and the mouth of the lion, not to fall into darkness but to be guided into holy light. And while we prayed I pondered on the strangeness that her children rarely mentioned her name. It was as if her death had expunged all memory of their mother from their minds.
And my husband? He couldn’t let her go. Each time he said “Eleanor and I” or “the queen and I” I felt stabbed to the heart by a now familiar shaft of pain. At first I hadn’t recognised this feeling for what it was but now I almost welcomed the pain. It was like biting on a sore tooth.
Jealousy was a sin. I knew that. And a sin for which I had not been prepared. I hadn’t realised I could commit such a grievous sin when I’d been unaware of the temptation. How could I possibly be jealous of a shade?
‘Agnus Dei qui tolis peccata mundi.’
‘Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world.’
The Mass was nearly over but my mind, which should have been full of prayer, was tortured by unwelcome thoughts. I looked at the tomb and the thoughts came unbidden. She may have been the first wife, but I would be the last. I would be the one who would soothe his brow in old age and whisper of our long years together. Her children no longer cared for her but they liked me, they needed me. I gave them the love which she had denied them. They may have been her children but I was the one who cherished them. Her sons had died but mine would live. I was young and alive and in his bed and she was old and dead and lying in a tomb. She could never have what was now mine.
‘Dona eis requiem.’
‘Grant them rest.’
‘Agnus Dei, qui tolis peccata mundi. Dona eis requiem sempiternam.’
‘Lamb of God ... Grant them everlasting rest.’
My ears were full, my senses swimming in a sea of smoke and incense until at last we were done.
‘Pie Jesu Domine. Dona eis requiem. Amen.’
‘Merciful Lord Jesus. Grant them rest. Amen.’
As I rose from my knees I looked at my husband’s face, at the pain etched in every line, at the depths of sorrow in his eyes and knew at once I was mistaken. I had taken nothing of hers because she held him still. She had been dead for more than ten years but it was as if she still lived and breathed and smiled, as if her absence was just for a moment, and then she would be amongst us again. She would touch his arm and he would turn, his face lighting up in the way a man’s face does when he sees the woman he loves. She was his reality, and I was nothing but her shadow. He might bed me and enjoy me, welcome our children and have me at his side when he required the companionship of a consort, but she was his true wife and she was his only queen.
I had known when I married my husband that I would be a second wife. My mother had warned me of the difficulties I might face and I had accepted my place in his life with no complaints. I’d even said I would not be jealous. But I should have taken care and heeded my mother’s warnings.
This was my first visit to the castle at Kenilworth and we were supping en famille. I never enjoyed being on display and it was pleasant for once not to sit in the great hall. I much preferred the quiet domesticity of moments like these. Not that our meal was entirely domestic as my husband was discussing strategies for his campaign. The dishes on the table were designated as various Scottish castles and our cups were armies. I thought my own cup was in danger of being swept onto the floor along with the disobedient Scots.
‘The prince’s army will attack in the west. He’ll secure the Bruce castles at Ayr, here, and at Turnberry, here,’ said my husband, moving my cup of wine to his left. ‘My men will come in from Berwick and we’ll head by Selkirk forest to Glasgow. ‘
‘Pincers,’ said Earl Thomas.
‘As you say. Then we turn our attention to Stirling and the access to the north.’ He moved the dish of perch in gudgeon sauce to the centre of the table. ‘It’s well defended and we’ll need every bit of our firepower.’
Joan yawned, her handsome face flushed and pretty in the candlelight. My intercessions on her behalf had at last borne fruit and Ralph de Monthermer sat amongst us, fully restored to royal favour. But my husband kept eyeing his daughter as if somehow she’d got the better of him, perhaps by trickery or other underhand means.
‘Are you weary?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘Merely bored. I shall be glad when they’ve gone, at least then we can discuss something other than the failings of the Scots and their raggle-tailed armies.’
�
��They quarrel amongst themselves like scavenging dogs,’ said my husband. ‘The Bruces and Comyns would tear out each other’s hearts rather than fight together. If old man Bruce had supported Balliol it might have been different, but he didn’t. He thought the crown should be his. Now he’s dead and the Comyns know his son’s not the stuff of kings.’
‘The Comyns will never give up on one of their own,’ said Ralph de Monthermer quietly.
‘How is Balliol one of their own?’ I asked.
‘John Comyn’s mother was Balliol’s sister,’ explained Lord Henry. ‘They’re bound in blood.’
Elizabeth, who sat on my husband’s other side, talked very little. She was wearing her best blue gown and looked a picture of loveliness with her rosy cheeks and red lips but I noticed how she was alert to every footstep.
This was the last day before my husband headed north but when I suggested a stroll in the garden he said there was no time for idle amusement. Elizabeth refused saying she was otherwise occupied but I discovered Mary who was happy to accompany me.
‘Let’s go to the tiltyard causeway,’ she suggested. ‘We can watch the birds on the mere or if we’re in luck the canons might be out fishing in one of their rickety boats.’
The causeway stretched all the way to the great gatehouse at the far end. To our left lay the lower pool and to the right, curling round to the west, the great mere, its waters stirring slightly in the morning breeze.
‘It’s enormous,’ I said in admiration. ‘His grace, your father, said that when his brother besieged the castle in the days of de Montfort’s Great Revolt it took six months to capture it.’
‘Did he tell you how the captain of the garrison cut the hand off my uncle’s envoy sent to demand the surrender?’
‘No, he didn’t tell me that.’
I shuddered at the cruelties of war. We passed under the little gatehouse which protected the inner courtyards and walked out onto smooth hard surface of the causeway.
The Pearl of France Page 14
