The Pearl of France

by Caroline Newark

  My husband chose the priory’s chapter house to use as his place of business. It was a bare, circular room with no decoration, rather cold and forbidding, which only added to the feeling of oppression. After some whispered discussion, the first captives were brought in. They were two men. I looked towards my husband. He was enjoying this. I closed my eyes against the realisation that this man to whom I was bound could be tender and loving to me yet so vindictive and cruel to others.

  ‘Ah,’ said my husband. ‘Who have we here?’

  ‘Sir Niall Bruce,’ said the clerk, consulting his list. ‘Brother of the traitor, Sir Robert Bruce, caught with certain women at Tain, attempting to buy passage out of the land.’

  My husband looked at the dishevelled, bruised figure, in front of him. The man’s clothes were filthy, his boots in shreds and his cloak torn. He shared a likeness to Sir Robert but looked younger. He seemed quite calm, knowing there was no escape and that all he could do was meet God with dignity.

  ‘I’ll not waste my breath on you,’ said my husband. ‘Doubtless you acted on the orders of your brother, but that is little excuse. Take him to Berwick and hang him. A traitor’s death.’

  By now my husband’s men were used to his peculiar desire for vengeance in this matter. The second man was forced to the floor. His hands were bound tightly behind him and his face was a bloodied mess, one eye half-closed, a huge purple bruise extending over part of his face. His nose was broken but he was defiant, I could see it in his one remaining whole eye.

  ‘John of Strathbogie, earl of Atholl, your grace,’ said the clerk in my husband’s ear. ‘Plucked from the wreck of his ship, attempting to flee the land.’

  My husband eyed the man with particular venom.

  ‘You knelt in front of me a twelve-month ago, my lord earl, when you made homage for your lands in Kent. You swore a liegeman’s oath. Clearly promises made in the sight of God and your king mean little to you, if they are so easily cast aside. You took up arms against your king, and that is treason.’

  ‘I owe allegiance to only one king here in this land, to King Robert,’ said the earl through his swollen lips.

  My husband leant forward and lashed out with his hand across the earl’s mouth.

  ‘Traitorous words,’ he hissed. ‘You condemn yourself.’

  He looked round the rest of the chamber, his eyes noting each man of his who was there.

  ‘Take him to London,’ he said.

  I thought he was going to say, ‘to a dungeon in the tower’, but he didn’t.

  ‘Hang him like the traitor he is.’

  There was a gasp from around the chamber. Earls were not executed. It was unheard of. No king had ever executed one of his earls. Ralph de Monthermer, braver than the rest, stepped forward to my husband’s shoulder.

  Your grace,’ he said softly. ‘Royal blood flows in this man’s veins. You cannot hang him. Your grace’s grandfather is his ancestor.’

  I had been told by Lady de Lacy that the earl of Atholl was descended from a royal bastard of King John, a kinship of which, at one time, the earl must have been justly proud.

  My husband turned his head slowly to look at Ralph.

  ‘As you should know well, my lord of Gloucester, a baseborn connection is never quite as good as the real thing.’

  Ralph flushed a dull red. Few people these days commented on his illegitimacy, in truth most people had probably forgotten, but not my husband. He forgot nothing. Ralph’s example was noted by the others and Humphrey went to my husband’s other side.

  ‘He is an earl, your grace,’ he said as if explaining matters to a small child. ‘He is highborn. It would not be right to hang him as you would a lowborn man.’

  My husband smiled.

  ‘You are quite correct, Lord de Bohun, as always. It would not be right. We shall hang him thirty feet higher than the rest so that all may see and marvel at this traitorous earl who dared to lift his sword against his king. Take him away.’

  I felt like screaming. My head was bursting with the noise and the horror and the stench of sweat and fear. But there was to be no escape for me or for any of the prisoners.

  As soon as the guards had hustled the two men away, the women were brought in. There were four of them, and with them came two small children, a boy of about seven and a girl who could not have been more than ten. For some reason I’d thought the women would be old, but they were young, like me.

  I thought the youngest must be Sir Robert’s wife. She was pushed forward onto her knees. Yes, I was sure this was Sir Robert’s wife. She had fair skin and reddish-gold hair and was less ragged and filthy than the others.

  ‘The Lady Elizabeth de Burgh,’ said my husband’s clerk. ‘Wife to the traitor, Sir Robert Bruce, taken at Tain in the company of Sir Niall Bruce, attempting to leave the land.’

  ‘Madam,’ said my husband. ‘You have been unfortunate in your father’s choice of marriage for you. I regret you did not leave for the south while you had the opportunity but chose to follow your lord and master.’

  ‘It is a wife’s duty, your grace,’ she said, looking somewhat boldly at him.

  She clearly believed her father’s friendship with the king would save her from any punishment. I wondered what my husband would do with these women and why he’d been so insistent on their capture. Perhaps he believed he could lure Sir Robert back to rescue his womenfolk. If he did, I was certain he was mistaken. Sir Robert’s only care would be for his child, of that I was sure.

  ‘Indeed,’ said my husband, smiling at the Lady Elizabeth. ‘How very correct. I like to hear of obedient wives. I also hear you chided your husband at Scone for playing kings and queens. That was far-sighted of you, madam, for his so-called kingship has not lasted the summer, as you foretold.’

  She returned the smile, relaxing her shoulders slightly. She believed she was safe.

  ‘But,’ he said more severely. ‘I cannot have you free.’

  He turned to his men.

  ‘Have the Lady Elizabeth conveyed to the manor at Burtstwick, in Holderness. She may have two women to care for her but they should be elderly and sober, certainly not of a joyful nature. And she is to be closely confined.’

  A severe punishment for a young woman who had no say in her marriage, but by now I was used to my husband’s wrath and the way it was being visited upon his captives.

  ‘The Lady Christian Bruce,’ said my husband’s clerk lifting his head from his parchments. ‘Sister to the traitor…’

  As he read out the details of her capture, I looked at Sir Robert’s sister. Older than me, I thought, but not by much. She resembled her brother: dark hair and eyes, the same nose and cheekbones; a woman who under other circumstances would be considered handsome. I wondered who her husband was.

  ‘I have sent your husband to hang, Lady Seton,’ said my husband. ‘Did you know that?’

  Sainte Vierge! I thought. This was the wife of the Yorkshire knight, Sir Christopher Seton. The face of the woman on the floor was white and her eyes were blank with pain.

  ‘He died at Dumfries. Would you like to see his body? No, I thought not, for to tell the truth there is not much of it left after my executioner finished with it.’

  Christian Bruce’s eyes filled with tears. She lifted up her bound hands and covered her face.

  ‘Too late for tears, my lady,’ said my husband. ‘Take her south.’

  He turned to his clerk. ‘Where did I say?’

  ‘Sixhills, your grace. In Lincolnshire.’

  ‘Ah yes. The Gilbertine Priory of St Mary at Sixhills. It will be a good place to dwell upon your sins, madam. I hear the walls are very high, and the food scant and plain, but you won’t notice that as you do penance for your sins. Take her away.’

  I thought of the girls at Maubuisson and my heart felt squeezed with the pain of it all. It was not ju
st fathers and brothers who would imprison girls behind convent walls but vengeful kings. How could my husband do this to these poor women who had played no part in this rebellion? It was not their fault if their husband or brother took up arms against my husband. Nobody would have consulted them in the matter just as my husband didn’t consult me when he went to war.

  The guards pushed the little boy forward. He was probably not old enough to understand what was happening but he sensed the women’s fear and was crying. He was of tender years, perhaps not out of the nursery. His hair and eyes were dark and he looked a picture of complete misery. As he was pushed forward he turned to clutch at a woman’s gown, but the guards wrenched his hands free. He crouched in front of my husband like a small dog, whimpering in fear.

  ‘Donald, son of the late earl of Mar, nephew to the traitor, Sir Robert Bruce,’ intoned my husband’s clerk. ‘Taken at Tain, in the company of Sir Niall Bruce and others.’

  My husband stared impassively at the pathetic scrap in front of him. Poor child, I thought.

  ‘Take him to Bristol, to the castle. Confine him there and make sure he cannot escape, for he is close kin to the traitor, Bruce, but there is no need to fetter the child, he is too young.’

  It was the first sign of compassion I’d seen in my husband since this nightmare had started some three months ago. Perhaps the other three, the two remaining women and the little girl, would also be treated leniently.

  How very wrong I was.

  ‘The Lady Isabel McDuff, countess of Buchan.’

  My heart leapt. This was the woman my husband had described as Bruce’s whore. She was small and dark-haired and rather beautiful in a wild way. Her lips were full and her eyes wide-spaced. Beneath her filthy gown she was small-boned, her breasts high, her hips slim. Her legs, which were bare and half-exposed for all to see, were long and well-shaped, her thighs gleaming white where the skirt had been split in two. One of the guards eyed her with interest, his tongue flicking across his lips.

  Had these women been violated by Earl Ross’s men? I was certain no-one would have defiled Sir Robert’s wife for the Lady Elizabeth had an untouchable air and her captors would surely have stopped short of abusing a lady of high estate. But what of this woman who was an acknowledged whore? One part of me hated her, but the other, the better part, felt only pity. I couldn’t imagine how it would feel to be in the power of such men, to be defenceless against their lust.

  My husband looked particularly pleased to have the countess of Buchan in his power. I wondered if he had consulted with the earl on her punishment. Perhaps she would be returned to her husband who would doubtless whip her for her disobedience. Perhaps he would imprison her in one of his castles. I didn’t know how a husband would behave to a faithless wife but I was sure the earl of Buchan would not be gentle.

  ‘The whore,’ said my husband evenly, noting every detail of the countess’s disarray. ‘The gallant Lady Buchan! The lady who preferred a traitor’s bed to that of her husband. The lady who dared put a crown on her lover’s head and thought to call him her king. I trust you will think the delights you found in your lover’s arms fair recompense for what will happen now, madam.’

  His words were like repeated thrusts of a dagger.

  ‘I have a little surprise for you, lady,’ he sneered. ‘I hear you love your country, is that not so?’

  He looked enquiringly at the woman before him but she said nothing, just glared at his feet through a tangle of hair.

  ‘No words then, madam? A pity, for soon you’ll regret the chance to converse with someone. I intend to remove you from the land of your birth. Ah, that hurts, doesn’t it, my lady? I thought it would.’

  At his words the countess had jerked her head up and looked my husband straight in the eye. He smiled thinly.

  ‘But, I am a merciful man, am I not Lady Buchan? I shall afford you a pleasant view of the Scottish hills to give you comfort in the days ahead. I have prepared a small house for you, madam. Nothing of great size, just a little latticed cage.’

  There was the sudden sound of indrawn breath from two of the men.

  ‘A cage,’ he went on, ‘some four feet measured on each side, not large, but cosy enough. And this cage will hang on the walls of the castle at Berwick which is now an English castle on English soil. From there you will see your precious Scotland and the people of my realm will see you. I hope they are kind to you, my lady Buchan, for you will hang there, in your cage for many years until the fire in your belly has grown cold.’

  I closed my eyes. How could anyone devise such a savage punishment for a young woman? I tried to imagine how much four feet would be. Not large enough to lie full length. I stared blankly at the young woman who appeared dazed by the severity of her punishment. I wondered if it had been my husband’s idea or that of the cuckolded earl of Buchan.

  I could not hate a woman who would have to live exposed to the wind and the rain, year after year with no shelter and no comforts, jeered at by the people of the town and tormented by anyone who chose to do so. It was a savage cruelty.

  The other woman was Sir Robert’s sister, Mary. I barely heard as my husband condemned her to the same fate as the countess of Buchan, a cage hung on the walls of Roxburgh Castle. It was said she had encouraged her brother in his rebellion and had spoken harsh words against my husband.

  By now the women were huddled together, weeping in great distress, knowing that soon they’d be parted and their years of solitary punishment would begin.

  The only prisoner left was the girl. She was not one of those girls on the brink of womanhood, almost ready for the marriage bed. She was a child, thin and terrified. Her lank brown hair straggled over her ragged gown and her skin seemed tightly stretched over her shoulders. She clutched a small doll in her hands, a mean little thing made of carved wood. She looked barely old enough to be betrothed. She was given a push by one of the guards and sent sprawling. She hauled herself up and squatted down in front of my husband, her face pointing at the floor, not looking at him.

  ‘Marjorie, daughter of the traitor, Sir Robert Bruce, by his late wife, Isabel of the House of Mar, taken at Tain with Sir Niall Bruce and others,’ said my husband’s clerk, rolling up his parchment. This was the last prisoner to be dealt with today and the man was clearly glad to be rid of such unpleasantness. From the look on his face he had as little appetite for this savagery as I had.

  The child began to weep large silent tears.

  ‘The devil’s spawn,’ said my husband, looking with some disappointment at Sir Robert’s daughter. ‘The young of the serpent.’

  He turned to his clerk once more.

  ‘Where did I say?’

  ‘The Tower,’ said the man without looking at his roll. He knew the punishment well enough.

  ‘Ah yes, the Tower. A fearsome place, child. Your father will not rescue you from there. It is too far distant and its walls are too high and too thick. People do not escape from the Tower. They remain there until they rot.’

  I couldn’t believe my husband meant to send this child to be locked away in a room in the Tower. And I was right. That was not what he had in mind at all. He bent down and peered at the figure on the floor.

  ‘A latticed cage, like the others.’

  ‘No, my lord!’

  I couldn’t allow this to happen. I couldn’t see this child sent to live in a cage in the Tower where she’d join my husband’s other beasts: his lions and bears, locked away from prying eyes, displayed to him and his friends whenever he had the fancy.

  He turned to look at me. He didn’t seem angry merely surprised. I thought he’d be driven into a fury because I hadn’t forgotten our quarrel at Stirling two years ago.

  I rose from my seat and knelt in front of him. My hands were trembling as I bent down and kissed his feet in the most abject way possible. I raised my head and looked deep into his eyes.


  ‘My lord,’ I whispered. ‘As you love me, do not do this. I know you are not an unworthy man. I know you for the noble and merciful king that you are. Send her to a priory, my lord. Do not place her in a cage.’

  I hadn’t meant to cry but as I knelt on the hard cold stone I felt tears gather on my lashes. I bit my lip waiting for the tirade to start. I bent my head knowing he would never strike me. He never had, not in all the years of our marriage. There was complete silence other than snivelling from the child behind me. After what seemed like hours but which could only have been a few moments, my husband leaned over and raised me to my feet.

  ‘You are right, my lady,’ he said slowly. ‘I am merciful. The child is too young. I had thought her to be better grown.’

  He considered for a moment then turned to his clerk. ‘Have her taken to the Gilbertine priory at Watton, near Beverley. It is a suitable place for a traitor’s daughter. Doubtless the girl will learn the error of her father’s ways amongst the nuns at Watton.’

  He rose to his feet and waved to his men-at-arms.

  ‘Take the prisoners out. I’ve seen enough.’

  Together we walked from the chapter room back to my chamber. My husband settled himself down in front of the fire. One of his attendants hurried with a small fire pot for him to warm his hands. It had been chilly in the chapter room and his face had taken on a bluish tinge. Even wrapped warmly in my fur-lined cloak I’d felt frozen to my bones.

  ‘‘Well, wife,’ he said. ‘Your pleas worked this time. But remember, I don’t expect to hear your voice raised when Sir Robert Bruce is brought in.’

  ‘Do you have him?’ I said, trying not to show my fear.

  ‘No, but we will. De Valence will catch him.’

  I sat and stared at the fire, at the flames flickering round and over the logs, and thought of the days long ago when he and I had been happy. I thought of our children and I thought of Sir Robert, so very far away, not knowing what horrors were being visited upon his women. As the servant piled more branches onto the blaze, I prayed silently that it would be a long time before he knew.