The Pearl of France

by Caroline Newark

  But who was I to know about desire? I who had eyes only for my husband. I knew some men preferred young boys to their wives and I also knew this was a sin. The Church was quite clear on this matter. There had been an elderly lecher at Philip’s court, well-known for his fondness for pretty pages. He’d kept a stable not of smart palfreys but of young lads fresh from the countryside. Blanche used to giggle, wondering what delights they could possibly offer. I thought it disgusting. Certainly one or two of my husband’s comrades showed more interest in the well-made bodies of their squires than they did in those of their wives but I had never taken much notice.

  Ned could not be like those men. As for Isabella? I refused to believe he wouldn’t want her. She was everything a man could desire in a wife: beautiful, gently-raised, sweet-natured if she was anything like her mother, and compliant. And the treaty had been sealed. Of course it would happen. I could see nothing that could possibly prevent it. Just another few years to wait until Isabella was ready for bedding and then everything would be alright.

  A week later we skimmed downstream over the swirling waters towards the palace of Westminster for Ned’s feast. The river was crowded with people making their way to the city for the Confessor’s Fair where according to my women there were bargains aplenty if you cared to look.

  The hall was full to overflowing. All my husband’s friends were in attendance: Earl Thomas, Aymer de Valence, Guy de Beauchamp and the elderly earl of Norfolk who had brought his frosty little filly. There were hundreds of others whose names and titles I didn’t even know. It was a glorious, glorious celebration.

  Every so often Ned’s eyes slid down the hall to where his household sat on their benches and he would exchange a smile with Master Gaveston. I was glad he had a steadfast companion and dismissed Alice’s warnings as malicious and spiteful gossip. Ned would need friends in the years ahead but nothing would give him as much comfort as a good wife.

  I was full of fine food and wine and ready to enjoy Ned’s entertainments. First were the minstrels with the bells and then everyone’s favourite, Matilda Makejoy, the famous acrobatic dancer. She threw herself about with the utmost ease but how could a woman do such things? And in front of a company of men?

  Afterwards was a quiet interlude with Guillame the harper, whose patron was my husband’s old friend, the bishop of Durham, Anthony Bek. My husband liked Bek as much as he disliked that perpetual thorn in his side, Archbishop Winchelsea. There was complete silence as Guillame fingered his plaintive melodies and in case we had been lulled to sleep by the music we were woken up by the exotically foreign Leskirmissour brothers performing a lively sword dance. They stamped and shouted, leaping and thrusting, their scimitars flashing wildly in the light of the torches. My heart leapt into my mouth as a wickedly curved blade slashed close to a head or an arm. No-one was hurt but it looked extremely dangerous.

  The entertainments continued for hours until the torches burned low and we were all sated with wine and food and music. My husband formally thanked his son, and Ned replied, enjoining us all to drink to the health and continued glory of his father. Tears gathered in my eyes. I was always weeping these days.

  Later my husband and his friends disappeared to the king’s privy chamber to discuss private matters. The others sat or lay around in various states of insobriety. Ned went with his father although I was sure he would rather have spent the evening gambling with his friends. Lady de Lacy struggled off to bed muttering about too much wine, leaving Alice with my three stepdaughters to compare notes on what people had been wearing.

  I had no desire to discuss the latest fashions and decided instead to visit my mare in her stall. She had strained her foreleg and Ned had recommended a new ointment which was said to yield marvellous results. I thought I would suggest it to my groom.

  I hurried down the steps and out into the courtyard, followed by two of my women who had showed no desire to leave the warmth and companionship of the hall for a walk in the cold. I could hear them fussing and grumbling as we made our way across the yard.

  Dusk was falling and the torches were already lit but even with the wavering flames there were patches of shadowy darkness where danger might lurk. My husband’s men guarded the gates and there were watchmen everywhere, nevertheless I was nervous.

  I picked my way along the wall to the stables. The grooms were crowded round a travelling storyteller who must have been admitted to the royal precincts on my husband’s word. My women lingered by the glow of the lantern to listen while I wandered along the stalls looking for Griselle.

  The mare whickered gently, recognising my voice and pushed at my hand with her soft velvety nose. I stroked her glossy neck, then felt her leg, pleased to find no swelling.

  ‘Good girl,’ I whispered, resting my head against the sweet-smelling warmth of her body.

  Further into the gloom, I saw a man leading out his horse. He was wrapped in a cloak with a large hat pulled low over his brow. As the two reached the end of Griselle’s stall, he stopped.

  ‘My lady!’ he said in surprise. ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’

  I started at the sound of his voice.

  ‘I might say the same to you, Sir Robert.’ My heart was beating so fast I was almost stammering.

  ‘For myself, I am leaving,’ he replied with a smile.

  ‘Leaving? But it’s dark. You cannot leave in the dark.’

  Sir Robert looked at me in a way which made my legs tremble and my throat tighten.

  ‘The dark can be a man’s friend, my lady, when he doesn’t wish to be seen.’

  I couldn’t understand why I was so discomforted by this man I barely knew. This man who was implacably opposed to my husband’s vision of uniting the kingdoms and whom I knew to be involved in treasonous business. Why did I feel this way when he was nothing to me?

  ‘Where are you going in the dark?’ I said, my lips finding difficulty in forming the words.

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘To Scotland.’

  I felt panic well up inside me.

  ‘Scotland?’ I repeated stupidly.

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ he said gently. ‘To my castle at Lochmaben.’

  A shout of laughter echoed down the passageway from the group by the door.

  ‘The one you were rebuilding?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With stone?’

  ‘You remembered. Yes, with stone.’

  ‘But wouldn’t it be more sensible to wait till morning, when it’s light? You cannot want to risk the dangers of the night road. I wouldn’t... I wouldn't want anything to happen to you.’

  He looped the horse’s reins over the post at the end of the stall and stepped closer to me. Far too close. I wanted to step back but there was nowhere to go. My escape routes were all blocked. He lowered his voice to a near whisper.

  ‘The night road may be perilous, my lady, but the danger here is greater. I have been forewarned.’

  He reached into his battered pouch and held up a pair of spurs. There was nothing special about them, they were just an ordinary pair, the same as any man might use.

  ‘I received a gift from a friend.’

  I was puzzled.

  ‘A pair of spurs?’

  He leaned closer. His face was near to mine and in the half-light I could see the glint of his eyes, the beads of sweat on his forehead and the dark tendrils of hair against his cheek. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face and the brush of his cloak against my sleeve.

  ‘It is a warning,’ he whispered. ‘The meaning is clear. Flee for your life.’

  ‘But who sent them?’

  ‘I cannot tell you that. He has risked much to give me this chance to escape and I won’t prejudice his position with your husband.’

  I had no need to ask where the danger lay for I already knew. H
is enemy, the earl of Buchan, had whispered once too often in my husband’s ear. I wondered if Buchan knew of the meeting at Cambuskenneth and, if so, what he had told my husband.

  ‘So you will go?’ I said miserably, suddenly unable to bear the thought of his leaving.

  He turned back to his horse and undid the reins.

  ‘I must.’ He paused. ‘I shall return to my castle and to my wife.’

  ‘Yes, ‘I replied dully. ‘Of course, to your wife.’

  He looked at me with his dark hooded eyes which saw more than they should. The moments passed as he stood there, half ready to go, looking at me while I looked at him.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me, my lady,’ he said gently. ‘I have a greater loyalty than that which I bear to your husband or to my wife; one that binds me closer.’

  I lowered my head so that he couldn’t see my face.

  ‘We are all bound, Sir Robert,’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes, my lady. Duty binds us hand and foot. And you are tied to your husband and his lands as you once told me.’

  The horse at his shoulder shifted its powerful body. He put out his hand to take mine.

  ‘Will you say farewell, my lady?’

  I didn’t want this moment to end so I hesitated. Then, forgetting my promises to God and my duty towards my husband, I took two steps across the void and slipped my hand into his. Mine was small and pale and trembling, his, firm and all-encompassing. I felt a shiver pass through my body as he tightened his grip.

  ‘Farewell, my lady,’ he said softly. ‘May you be happy and live long.’

  I blinked back my tears.

  ‘You too, Sir Robert. May Christ and His Saints be with you on your journey.’

  He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it lightly, his lips barely brushing the skin. He gave me a brief smile, held my eyes for a moment, then turned and led his horse away, disappearing into the gloom.

  There was silence. I could hear no sound but the gentle movements of the other horses. Where he had stood a moment ago there was nothing but the slight imprint of his boot in the straw. There was no longer anyone here, no-one of importance, just the grooms and my women and the storyteller.

  As I stood alone in the darkness, not knowing who I was anymore, I realised that we were both wrong. It was not just duty which bound me hand and foot to my husband. My heart was bound by something stronger; it had always been so, right from the beginning. As my breathing slowed and my heartbeats became steady once more, I reminded myself I was not a woman to throw everything aside for an illusion. Blanche had been the impetuous one. I was sensible. So with one last glance behind me, I counted my blessings and tucked the memory of a tall dark man, who for a few brief moments had touched my heart, safely away where it could not be found. Then, drying my eyes on my sleeve I went back through the stables to collect my women and return to my husband’s care.

  As we walked quickly through the courtyard I looked up. There was no moon and already wracks of dark clouds were rushing swiftly across the night sky bringing the first welcome signs of rain. I thought of a lone rider galloping through the darkness, a ship somewhere waiting, moored close by, ready to cast off, its lanterns covered. A good night to hide one’s flight from one’s enemies. I was certain he would be safe.

  At the door I met Alice. She was standing in the shadows, wrapped in her dark-green cloak, and looked as if she had been weeping. I hurriedly waved my women away.

  ‘The countess will bear me company,’ I said to them. ‘You can run back to the others.’

  As they disappeared up the stone steps, I took Alice’s hand.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I said softly.

  ‘I saw him leave,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t play with me, Marguerite. You know who.’

  I remained silent, waiting for her to say something. I wasn’t sure what she had seen or what she meant to do.

  ‘I don’t know what game you’re playing,’ she said angrily, ‘or what you intend, but as you are my friend, please be careful.’

  ‘Alice, it is not what you think. Not at all.’

  ‘I don’t know what I think,’ she said. ‘But I know his reputation. And you are the king’s wife.’

  ‘Alice, please believe me. I have done nothing. I have said nothing.’

  ‘And he?’

  ‘Nor him. We were saying farewell, that is all. Nothing more, just farewell.’

  ‘So why have you been crying? Don’t pretend you haven’t. I can see tear stains on your face. You’d better wipe them away before someone else notices.’

  I rubbed my eyes again on the end of my sleeve.

  ‘Is that better?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She looked at me bleakly.

  ‘Oh Marguerite, I do understand. I know how lonely a marriage can be, you know I do. But you cannot be seen like this. It is very dangerous. What if someone should tell his grace?’

  I felt a moment of complete terror run through me and a chasm open up beneath my feet.

  ‘There is nothing to tell,’ I said stoutly, fear making my voice tremble.

  She seized my hands and pulled me closer.

  ‘He has many women,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows what he’s like. He is a seducer. I could tell you the names of a dozen women who’ve shared his bed: good women, women with husbands and children, women just like you. To be seen in his company is enough for people to start talking. And you are so very loving.’

  I put my arms around her.

  ‘Alice, there is nothing amiss. Believe me. I went to see my mare because her leg was strained and found he was leaving. We said farewell, that was all. Nothing more. Nothing sinister, nothing underhand, nothing which I could not tell my husband.’

  I told myself it was not a lie. Nothing outward had happened and my innermost thoughts I would confess to God, not to Alice or my husband. I told myself to cease thinking of the man with the dark eyes and the castle of stone, to cease thinking of him and put our encounter behind me, not to think of it again.

  14

  Spring 1306

  If only one knew. If only God had granted me the gift of foresight. If only I could have known that this was to be our last truly happy time together. Would I have done anything differently?

  It was the feast of Candlemas and my husband and his men spent the morning hunting. They rode through snow-covered copses of tangled thickets and bare-branched trees, but there was little to be found. I, of course, was not permitted to hunt so contented myself with re-reading the precious letters from my mother and keeping an eye on my younger women.

  There had been no new wandering players for weeks and although the women were not complaining, I could tell they were fretful by the petty quarrels which kept breaking out in my chamber. The day before, two of them had fought like cats over a hank of green silk, and that morning there had been disagreeable words over who had cleaned my best leather boots and failed to remove the white marks caused by the snow.

  My husband returned to the manor, red-cheeked from the cold and not the slightest bit dispirited. But later, as we sat in the hall, he bewailed the lack of fresh meat, complaining a coney from the abbey warren was not the same as a haunch of venison. There were very few at our tables these winter days other than our own household because the inclement weather kept people away. Nobody travelled unless it was essential.

  The snow had arrived shortly before Christmas. At first the soft flakes dancing and twirling in the sky had given me a childish joy but the snow became heavier and by dusk everything was engulfed in a thick, ghostly shroud. Now, weeks later, highways were blocked with snowdrifts, bushes laced with frost and everywhere I looked, woods and hills were covered in cloaks of perfect shining white.

  I sat there, thinking how happy I was, how fortunate we were, when I suddenly had that ind
efinable feeling that something was wrong. My immediate thought was for my unborn child. I placed my hands on my belly but all seemed as it should.

  ‘You feel unwell?’ enquired my husband, leaning towards me.

  ‘No, my lord,’ I said doubtfully. ‘I am perfectly well. But something is wrong.’

  I shook my head as if trying to rid myself of a voice telling of misfortune.

  ‘The rabbit pie,’ he said. ‘I knew it.’

  ‘No, my lord, the food was excellent. It is not that.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Something is amiss. I know it. A peculiar sensation.’

  ‘Aha!’ he said smiling. ‘It is the goose walking across your grave again.’

  ‘Don’t mock me,’ I said. ‘I know something has happened, somewhere.’

  ‘Be careful, wife,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘Winchelsea will have you burned as a witch if you say such things.’

  ‘He will do no such thing and you are only trying to frighten me, my lord. It isn’t kind.’

  He laughed and patted my hand.

  ‘Come along my plump little goose. Let us retire to our chamber where it is warmer and I can stroke your feathers.’

  Throughout the rest of the day I fretted. I didn’t know if these feelings were sent by God or the devil, whether I should pay heed to them or pray they would leave my mind. Eventually I told myself there was no point in thinking of disasters which might never happen and when, next day, Lord de Lacy arrived through the snow in a bustle of braying horns and sweating horses, I laughed to think I had mistaken his visit for trouble.

  He came from the papal court bearing letters from His Holiness. Last autumn, there had been another falling-out between my husband and Archbishop Winchelsea and I knew part of Lord de Lacy’s mission to His Holiness had been connected with this.

  ‘Well done, old friend,’ said my husband, clapping Lord de Lacy on the back. ‘I knew my sending you to Lyon was a clever move. You and Bishop Langton have succeeded beyond my expectations.’

  He hurried over to me, waving a roll of parchment.