The Pearl of France

by Caroline Newark

  ‘See my dear, what I have here.’

  He thrust the lengthy communication from the papal curia under my nose. ‘His Holiness agrees with me.’

  What a wise man His Holiness must be, I thought. It was always advisable to agree with my husband.

  ‘He has absolved me from the oaths I gave at Lincoln four years ago, and believes the Crown’s rights should be restored. This is the best of news. I wouldn’t give Winchelsea much hope of holding on to Canterbury now. His Holiness will have him out of his archbishop’s robes before Easter.’

  I could read the workings of his mind. With Scotland won, he and his son reconciled, with the Crown’s rights regained and his bitterest critic silenced - what more was there to wish for? He had everything. And I too, I had everything my heart could desire: an affectionate husband, two healthy children and another, snug and safe in my belly.

  How foolish we were. We sat at the top of fortune’s wheel, drinking in the heady nectar of success, never thinking of what would happen when blind fate spun the wheel once more and we were pitched down into disaster. We were careless of the future, heedless as any wantwit, and at God’s own tribunal we would be found guilty of hubris.

  A week later, in the midst of a dripping thaw, we bade farewell to our friends in Dorsetshire and set off for Winchester and the parliament. We were in good spirits but had we known what awaited us there, I doubt if our joy would have been so unconfined.

  In my upstairs chamber in the bishop’s palace at Winchester, I was arranging my books and my chess pieces on the small table by the window while my maids unfolded and shook out my gowns. I was feeling well-pleased. Thomas and Edmund were safely installed in their own apartments not far from mine and were happily exploring their new home when all of a sudden a violent banging on the door brought one of my women running across the floor. She spoke hastily to someone outside then turned back to me, her face white and frightened.

  ‘One of his grace’s men is here, my lady. He has been sent to fetch you.’

  I dropped the book I was holding and ran to the door.

  ‘What has happened?’ Like every mother my first fear was for my children.

  ‘He has c-collapsed, my lady,’ said the lad, fingering his cap and stuttering over his words. ‘He was sh-shouting and s-screaming at his council like a man possessed. Then he fell as if struck by a hammer.’

  A moment of blessed relief that it was not one of my boys but a leap of fear for my husband. I ran as fast as I could, my feet almost flying down the stairs.

  They had placed him on the bed. His eyes were closed and his face was grey but he was breathing. I took his hand. It felt cold and clammy.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He had a letter from the north, and then this.’ Lord de Lacy gestured with distress at my husband.

  ‘What letter? What did it say?’

  ‘The lord of Badenoch has been murdered, your grace,’ said Aymer de Valence, stepping forward to stand beside Lord de Lacy. ‘At Dumfries. In the church of the Greyfriars.’

  My hand flew to my mouth. The lord of Badenoch murdered! John Comyn, the lord of Badenoch! A murder on holy ground! This was sacrilege.

  ‘Who killed him?’ My heart was full of fear.

  ‘We don’t know. The letter didn’t say. His grace read the message and flew into a rage. Then he fell.’

  ‘We’ve sent for his physician and the surgeon,’ said Lord de Lacy looking more worried than I’d seen him look before.

  The two men arrived, my husband’s physician carrying his various bags and vessels. He prodded and muttered, sniffed my husband’s breath, rolled up his eyelids and looked at his eyeballs.

  ‘The humours are unbalanced,’ he said gravely. ‘The surgeon will bleed his grace.’

  My husband’s surgeon consulted his tables, then delved into his pouch and produced a small silver basin and a little blade. One of the servants held the basin while the surgeon incised my husband’s arm. I watched the blood run freely, thick and red.

  ‘Will he recover?’ I whispered to the physician.

  ‘If God so wills,’ he said. ‘The surgeon has done his best. His grace’s heartbeat is strong.’

  He looked at me more closely. ‘And you, my lady, should rest. It will not serve his grace well if you should faint.’

  I nodded my agreement, and sat down again.

  All day I stayed by his side, watching and waiting. Before nightfall he began to stir and toss his head to and fro. Soon his eyelids fluttered and he opened his eyes. He looked about him, searching for someone. His eyes briefly rested on me and he frowned.

  I smiled at him. ‘My lord, you are returned.’

  He looked at me more closely, wrinkled his brow again and turned his head to study the others in the chamber. He saw the familiar faces of his body servants and gave them a weak smile. He closed his eyes but a little while later he opened them again.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, my lady,’ said the physician. ‘This is quite usual. Soon he will be as he ever was.’

  I drew some comfort from his words but was afraid my husband didn’t recognise me. Perhaps he was looking for Eleanor and didn’t know who I was.

  ‘Wife?’

  The voice was quiet but perfectly lucid.

  ‘Husband,’ I said, my voice faltering.

  ‘I’ve got the devil of a headache,’ he said. ‘What did you give me to drink?’

  ‘Oh my lord,’ I cried, unable to stop the tears from falling. ‘I thought you were going to die.’

  He looked at me curiously.

  ‘Die? God’s teeth! I may feel a bit out of sorts but I’m not going to die. Here, boy!’ he summoned one of his body servants. ‘Help me upright. Why am I lying here like some feeble girl? Move the pillows. Now, what was I doing?’

  ‘My lord, you mustn’t do anything. You must rest.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said, looking about him again. ‘Ah yes, I remember. That accursed letter.’

  ‘Please, my lord.’

  ‘You understand what this means?’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  ‘It has started again. The killing, the strife.’

  ‘Maybe it is nothing. Just some ruffians. You don’t know yet who killed the lord of Badenoch.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ he replied. ‘I can think of only one man who could have done this, only one man who has the inclination and the temper. I cannot believe he would turn against me. I thought he was too much in my debt, but the earl of Buchan warned me. He said Bruce was not to be trusted.’

  He put his hand to his head and closed his eyes for a brief moment, then opened them again.

  ‘Why were they there? What were they doing? This can have been no carefully planned murder, it must have been a sudden squabble. To kill on holy ground condemns a man to excommunication at the very least. The stakes would have to be very high to make a man commit such a deed, and he would need to be sure of his bishops.’

  I thought of the abbey church at Cambuskenneth, of the two men in the shadows. Sir Robert was sure of his bishops. They had told him they were with him in this.

  The next few days were constant turmoil. My husband had men rushing hither and thither. Letters were dispatched to the north: to Carlisle and Newcastle, to Berwick and Dumfries, to Edinburgh and Stirling. He bit his nails in fury at not knowing what was happening.

  ‘Those fools at Dumfries! How could they have let such a thing take place right under their noses? They must have known what was afoot.’

  Letters arrived telling different stories. The castle at Dumfries had been taken by Sir Robert Bruce’s men. The castle had not been taken but the terrified justices inside had surrendered to a rabble fearing someone would set it on fire. The earl of Carrick’s men had killed both John Comyn and his uncle on the steps of the high altar. The lord of Badenoch was not dead
at all, merely wounded and being cared for by the brothers. The stories became wilder and more horrific, but whatever was true, of one thing there was no doubt - the town of Dumfries was in uproar and the English were fleeing for their lives.

  It was difficult to keep my husband quiet and rested. The chamber was full of his council raking over the embers of past mistakes and planning revenge for the loss of the English castles which had fallen to the earl of Carrick’s men. Hotheads like Earl Thomas wanted to unleash a torrent of fury on the miscreants but the peacemakers like Lord de Lacy preferred to talk rather than fight. Some were for dispatching an army straight away but the older and wiser said they must wait for more news.

  While my husband slept, I drew Ralph de Monthermer to one side. He looked worried as well he might. It had not taken me long to realise he must have been the man who had sent the warning to Sir Robert at Westminster last autumn. Both of us had failed my husband.

  ‘Tell me what will happen, Sir Ralph. What will the earl of Carrick do?’

  He looked at me sadly. ‘It is God’s own truth, my lady, I do not know.’

  ‘But you are his friend. You must know what is in his mind.’

  His shoulders slumped and I felt sorry for him.

  ‘He will revive his grandfather’s claim to the crown. He wishes to be king, my lady. Not so much for his own glory but because he is a Scot. He might have waited until his grace was no more.’ He stopped in embarrassment.

  ‘It is alright,’ I said. ‘I understand. He would not deliberately go against my husband but the prince is a different matter.’

  ‘He admires his grace. He says it will be easier to take a whole kingdom from the son than a foot of land from the father.’

  He had no need to say more. We both knew my stepson was not the man his father was.

  ‘He cannot have done this deliberately,’ I said, repeating what my husband had told me. ‘John Comyn was killed on holy ground.’

  Sir Ralph stared out of the window at the darkening sky.

  ‘Wishart will not excommunicate him,’ he said slowly. ‘He will support him in whatever he move he makes.’

  Inwardly I thanked God. It would be a lonely existence outside the Church.

  ‘What of the others?’

  ‘There are many who will take to the heather with Bruce but by no means all. Those who fear losing their lands under an English crown will fight. But Buchan and Ross hate Sir Robert. And don’t forget John Balliol still lives. In the eyes of many he is the rightful king and, even if he never returns, he has a son. These men regard Sir Robert as a usurper. Dear God, let us hope he sees sense.’

  We stood together, lost in our fear of what was to come, both of us thinking of the same man and how, because of our faith in him, we had betrayed my husband’s trust.

  I fled through the darkness, up the steps of the watch tower at Vincennes with the demons howling at my heels, their leathery wings brushing my hair, their foul breath stinking in my face. I burst out into the freezing cold of the tiny platform where Blanche was laughing. “Jump!” she cried. “Jump!” I grasped the edge of the parapet to steady myself, but the worn stone crumbled to dust beneath my fingers and, with a clarion call from the lone horseman flying towards me through the snow, and a thousand silent screams echoing in my ears, I fell headlong into the void.

  I woke to a flickering candle flame, a hand on my shoulder and an urgent voice. The woman’s eyes were rounded in fear and her face was deathly white.

  ‘What is it?’ My mouth was dry, my heart racing. The dream was still horribly real.

  ‘The Lord Thomas, my lady. The physician is with him. He said you should be called.’

  I was out of bed before she had even finished speaking and out of the chamber by the count of ten. At the door to my sons’ rooms their personal physician stood waiting. In the flaring torchlight his elderly bulk loomed large, his face hidden in shadow, his arm outstretched to bar the door.

  ‘You cannot go in, my lady.’

  ‘Out of my way.’ I tried to walk past, expecting him to move back, but he stood firm.

  ‘The Lord Thomas has a fever,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘And there is variola in the town.’

  ‘Oh Sainte Vierge!’ My knees sagged and I fell against the door post. My women grasped me and held me tight. ‘Variola? The little pox?’

  ‘Yes, my lady. There is a possibility it is just an ordinary fever but we dare not take the risk. We must assume the worst.’

  ‘Variola,’ I whispered. Thomas had the little pox. He might die. Children died of the little pox and if they did not die they were hideously scarred. My firstborn. My Thomas. The tiny baby I thought would not survive. God would not have let him live only to snatch him away now. Thomas! Oh Thomas!

  ‘You must do something.’ I was babbling in my panic, clutching at the man’s sleeve. ‘You must save him. You can’t let him die. Oh please, don’t let him die.’

  ‘I shall have the surgeon bleed him, to bring down the fever, my lady, and there are potions to restore the balance of the humours. A purgative may be beneficial. But I have heard there is a man in London, a doctor of physic, an Oxford man, who has had some success with the variola. New treatments.’

  ‘Fetch him.’

  ‘He is not greatly experienced, my lady, not like myself, but he does seem remarkably gifted. I have heard good reports of his methods.’

  ‘I don’t care if he is as old as the hills or a babe in arms. If he can cure my son, fetch him.’

  ‘Of course his so-called miraculous cures may be nothing other than self-aggrandisement, as is often the case with young men. Perhaps it would be better to try another remedy first.’

  ‘Fetch him!’ I screamed. ‘Get me my clerk. I’ll write a command this moment and you can tell the messenger where to go.’

  We waited three days by which time I was a wreck of a woman. They wouldn’t let me see Thomas because of the miasmas which might damage both me and the baby. Edmund, we sent to safety, to a house outside the town, protesting loudly as he was bundled into a litter together with his nursemaid. He had to be kept away from Thomas at all costs, for in my worst moments I recalled other children taken together in death. I cried and I prayed. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. My women tried their best, reminding me of the life I had inside my belly which must be nurtured.

  Thomas’s fever continued. He complained of pain in his arms and his legs and he vomited frequently. The light hurt his head and his eyes. Dark curtains were hung across the windows and only a single candle was left burning.

  On Thursday the messenger returned bringing with him the doctor of physic from London.

  ‘John Gaddesden, your grace.’ All I noticed were the hands which were slender and firm, long fingers stained with something blue at the tips; and his eyes: hooded, piercing, intelligent. All I could see was my son’s saviour.

  ‘What can I do?’ I pleaded.

  ‘Pray,’ he said kindly, noticing my trembling hands, my swollen belly and my distress. ‘My place is with the child. Yours is on your knees. Between us we shall do our best.’

  That evening he came to me.

  ‘The fever is abated.’

  ‘He has recovered?’

  ‘No, my lady. The fever dies as the variola takes hold. Tonight the lesions will occur.’

  ‘Lesions?’

  ‘Yes. In the mouth and on the tongue and then the forehead.’

  ‘And if there are no lesions?’

  ‘The lesions will come. Tomorrow we shall see the first signs. I have charged your men with covering the room in red cloth. We shall swathe the bed and the shutters with crimson velvet which I believe is to hand, and the child himself will be wrapped in scarlet linen. He will be given red liquids - wine or cordials. But they must be red.’

  ‘And that will cure him?’

 
He smiled a thin little smile.

  ‘Our lives are in God’s hands, my lady. All we physicians do is to aid the Good Lord in his tasks.’

  ‘But the red cloth, the red drinks? They will help?’

  ‘I have had some success with patients in Oxford and London, particularly with the young.’

  He was strong; I could feel his strength. And he was clever. He would save Thomas. God and Master Gaddesden would save my boy.

  The next day the rash appeared and word spread throughout the palace. I had to tell my husband before he heard it from someone else. As I stumbled over the words, he turned his face to the wall and didn’t speak.

  ‘He is a clever man,’ I said with fear in my voice. ‘He is only twenty-five and already a doctor of physic. If anyone can save Thomas, he can.’

  He turned back to me, his face etched with lines of pain.

  ‘It is no use. I thought I could outrun the past. I thought I had done with dead children. Eleanor wept over so many dead babies and when our son Alphonso died, it destroyed her.’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ I screamed. ‘Thomas is not Eleanor’s child. He is mine and he is not going to die. He is going to live. Master Gaddesden is going to save him and I won’t have you or anyone else say otherwise.’

  I wrapped my arms round my head and wept. My husband had given up on our son. He believed he was going to die and had already prepared himself for the inevitable. I wanted to howl. Oh God, please save my son. Oh Blessed Lady in Heaven, please, please, don’t let my Thomas die.

  He didn’t die. He recovered. In his red-swathed room he opened his eyes, and gradually returned to the Thomas I knew. When Master Gaddesden said all danger was past, I was permitted to see him.

  ‘It hurt, Mama.’

  He had reverted to his baby self and cried easily, but he wasn’t going to die.

  ‘Oh Thomas, I love you, mon petit.’

  He gave me a little smile and permitted an embrace and a gentle kiss on his forehead where the last of the variola pock marks were fading. His hair would soon grow to cover them and no-one would ever know he had been afflicted.