The Pearl of France

by Caroline Newark

  The following day my husband had his son and Piers Gaveston brought to him in the castle chapel and there in the presence of God, with their hands laid upon the Host, they swore to obey his order. Sir Piers would leave and the prince would remain.

  With this unpleasant duty done, my husband turned his attention to his campaign against the Scots and I was burdened once more with information of Aymer de Valence’s tortuous progress across the hills and through the glens in pursuit of Sir Robert and his men. The news was not good. Our army had attacked Sir Robert’s army near a place called Loch Trool and were beaten back. My husband was in despair. But the bad news from the north was nothing compared to the news which came to us from the south, from Kent.

  The man rode into the castle on a sunny morning when I was feeling happier than I had for many a day. Ned had gone with Piers Gaveston to see him safely off on his voyage into exile. Of course his father didn’t want him to go, but I persuaded him it was for the best and would make Ned more compliant if he was allowed this time to be alone with his friend.

  My husband was feeling unwell and had retired so the messenger was sent to Bishop Langton who sent him to me. I had no warning. Nothing prepared me for the shock. When I saw the Gloucester livery I assumed this was news of Joan’s birthing and took the letter eagerly. Then I noticed the black tunic and my mouth went dry.

  ‘Who is it?’ I asked, my voice full of fear.

  ‘My Lady Joan,’ he replied. ‘The countess. These nine days past. Her and the child she was carrying.’

  I undid the seal. It was from Eleanor who’d been with her mother at the end, when they knew she was dying. She wrote that Joan had suffered much but was now at peace. She asked the king, in his infinite kindness, to inform her brother who was in the Lady Marguerite’s keeping, and her stepfather whose whereabouts were unknown to her.

  My husband was surprisingly sanguine about Joan’s death.

  ‘She was a difficult child and she grew into a difficult woman. Eleanor and I often wondered what we’d done to deserve such a daughter. We gave her everything but she was never satisfied.’

  He lay staring into the darkness beyond the candlelight, thinking of his daughter.

  ‘I was angry with her about de Monthermer. It was her idea of course. De Monthermer’s a good captain but she’d have been better off marrying Count Amadeus and we’d have benefitted from the alliance. I could have killed the pair of them, I can tell you. There she was, standing in front of me, bold as brass, telling me she’d married this squire in her husband’s household, this base-born squire, and no, she couldn’t possibly marry the count of Savoy.’

  ‘I know,’ I said gently. ‘I know.’

  ‘Poor girl,’ he said. ‘Poor little Joan. They’re all gone: my Eleanor, Alphonso, John, young Henry, Nell and all those little girls, and now Joan.’

  He was becoming very melancholy so I drew up my chair beside him and talked to him of his grandchildren. This always gave him pleasure for they were mostly far away which meant they didn’t try his patience. He liked the idea of his granddaughters growing up, a cluster of pretty girls with red-gold hair and childish laughs, all being made ready to take their places as wives of his favoured men. And his grandsons: tall and strong like young Gilbert de Clare, all there to follow in his footsteps.

  After he’d fallen asleep I tiptoed away and went down to our private chapel feeling the need to pray and be alone. The candles on the altar burned steadily, filling the tiny space with a golden glow. The walls gleamed red, green and gold in the candlelight and the ceiling above shone with a multitude of silver stars. The chapel had been made beautiful by my husband, and I loved it dearly.

  I knelt in front of the statue of Our Lady, thinking of Joan and of her kindness to me all those years ago when I first came to England as a frightened young bride. I vowed I would be especially loving to Isabella when she came - if she came. The hours passed and when I’d exhausted my prayers and my thoughts I rose and walked slowly back to my chamber thinking how, with Joan’s death, nothing would be the same again.

  16

  Summer 1307

  I prayed daily for my husband, spending hours on my knees until the skin was rubbed raw and my bones ached. I offered my suffering as a small sacrifice to God for the easing of my husband’s pain, but Our Lord was deaf to my pleas and my husband’s agony continued. The end was near and however much I wanted him to live I knew there could not be many more weeks left. Everyone knew it, even the Scots. Rumours were spreading through the towns and villages that the English king was already dead, and people said openly that God had destroyed his power and victory would go to King Robert. They said the prince was not the man his father was. Even our own men were beginning to lose heart.

  After two defeats for Aymer de Valence’s men in late spring, my husband had given orders for more men to join a muster at Carlisle in the middle of July. He was determined our armies should press on and was convinced Sir Robert would be caught.

  He sent word to Ned to return immediately but my stepson failed to arrive. I didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. Piers Gaveston had left Dover in early May laden with costly gifts from Ned, that much we knew. But it was now the middle of June and there was still no sign of the prince.

  I was summoned to my husband’s chamber. He was surrounded by physicians and attendants and looked extremely ill. His face was grey and shrunken, the papery skin stretched tight over the bones in his cheeks. His eyes were closed but when he opened them I could detect fire somewhere in the depths. He would fight this to the bitter end and death would not defeat him as long as he had one single breath left in his body.

  ‘My son has not come,’ he said to me as I made myself comfortable beside him. ‘But my army must leave and it is not fitting it should do so without its leader.’

  ‘My lord,’ I said. ‘You cannot mean to go yourself. You are far too sick. You must rest.’

  He held up his hand.

  ‘I hear they say I am dead so I must show them I am not. Otherwise what hope will our men have?’

  ‘My lord, such a journey will be impossible and your litter would ...’

  ‘A king cannot lead his men to war in a litter. Think how that would look.’

  ‘By the love of the Virgin, you cannot mean ...?’

  My hands flew up to my mouth in horror at what he meant to do.

  He looked at me with infinite sadness in his eyes. ‘I shall ride in front of my men as I have always done. I shall don my armour and ride out like a king because what else is there for me? It is who I am.’

  I could think of nothing to say. I knew him too well to argue. He might listen to me about his children or about some merciful gesture he was prepared to make but on this, his mind was made up, and nothing I said or did would make any difference.

  *

  Next evening as the sun was going down, when all the candles were lit and I was preparing for bed, there came a knock at my door. It was my husband’s youngest attendant, a lad of about ten. He stood there, clutching his hands, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, trying not to look at the women beyond the threshold.

  ‘Your grace,’ he began nervously. ‘His grace, the king, has requested your presence in his chamber.’

  ‘Is he worse?’

  ‘No, your grace. He simply wishes for your presence.’

  I thought of my delicate satin slippers and the silk nightgown, hastily covered with a woollen mantle. Not the clothes for wandering around at night with one of my husband’s servants, but if my husband needed me then I would go. I wrapped my mantle closely round my shoulders and followed the boy down the stairs and through dimly lit rooms and across the hall. Outside my husband’s chamber were two armed guards leaning wearily against the walls but they jumped to attention when they saw us coming. The boy opened the door and stood back while I entered the room. My husband was lying
in the depths of his great bed. I thought he was asleep so tiptoed softly not wishing to disturb him but as I drew nearer he opened his eyes and smiled.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said quietly, his voice rasping in his throat. ‘I trust you had not retired to your bed for the night.’

  He was finding it difficult to speak and I had to lean close to hear what he was saying.

  ‘No, my lord. I had yet to say my prayers. But you know I would come. You are my lord and I am ever obedient to your wishes.’

  There was a small matter of constraint between us. In the past year we’d not been close and had shared no intimate conversation. I hardly knew what to say to him now that we were alone and it was difficult to see in this old sick man, the husband who’d been my companion in the past. His hand clutched his chest and he appeared to be in some distress.

  ‘Shall I call one of your servants, my lord? Or your physician?’

  ‘No.’

  For a moment he said nothing more, then, with a small movement of his hand he lifted up the heavy coverlet.

  ‘Will you share my bed one more time, wife?’ he asked, looking at me with his tired old eyes.

  All of a sudden I began to weep. I didn’t even know the tears were lurking there, waiting to be shed, but at his words and the look on his face I remembered all the nights we’d spent together, all the good times, the happy times, and I was stricken with the knowledge that it was gone. The past year had been an agony for us both but if I could put it behind me I would be able to remember what had gone before.

  ‘I cannot offer you much,’ he began.

  ‘But you have given me everything already,’ I said. ‘What is there to left to offer?’

  Tears were blinding my eyes and running down my cheeks. I slipped off my mantle and my slippers and climbed carefully onto the bed beside him. He was dreadfully wasted. I hadn’t realised quite how much flesh he’d lost until I laid my body against his. It seemed as if there was nothing but bones beneath his nightgown.

  ‘As long as you are not expecting a night like those we enjoyed at Leeds,’ he whispered.

  I gave a great sob and tried to hide my face from him.

  ‘I’m sorry there’ll be no more babies, my little pearl,’ he said quietly. ‘We have our two boys and our queen of the may, but I know you wanted more.’

  ‘What is there if I don’t have you,’ I sobbed. ‘Without you there is nothing. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to weep. I meant to be brave and strong.’

  ‘You will be. I know you will. In the years ahead you’ll find strength. Speak to our children of me.’

  We lay for several minutes holding each other, saying nothing. Then he turned his head on the pillow.

  ‘Little pearl.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Pray for me.’

  ‘I shall pray for you every day for the rest of my life, until my dying day, for you have been my whole life.’

  ‘And care for my son.’

  I knew who he meant. I’d no need to ask for there was only one of his sons who needed my care just now.

  He slept a little, but when he woke he was in a great deal of pain.

  ‘You’d best call my physician, wife,’ he gasped, gritting his teeth against the agony in his belly.

  I slipped from the bed and ran to the door. Within minutes the chamber was full of men carrying armfuls of towels and I was no longer wanted.

  I closed the door behind me and went upstairs to our little chapel. I knelt in front of the statue of Our Lady and tried to find the words but nothing came. My mind like my heart was empty.

  Soon after dawn I stood on the castle steps as I had many times before - a lady saying farewell to her lord as he set off for war. It was a warm morning, yet I was shivering and felt chilled. I’d dressed myself in my finest gown so that his last sight of me would be joyful. As I pulled my cloak tightly around my shoulders, my thoughts slid unbidden to the hundreds of times I’d clothed myself for his delight in my favourite green brocade gown which he admired or the scarlet and gold surcote worn over the blue silk. All these garments I’d worn to please him. I had little interest in fashionable clothes, unlike most women, yet my husband had a keen appreciation of the cut of a gown.

  His men assisted him to his great black warhorse and with agonising slowness he half-climbed and was half-hoisted into the saddle. He straightened his back. He wasn’t going to let his men see him slumped like a sack of corn. In his armour, the scarlet overtunic emblazoned with the golden leopards of England, he looked as magnificent as he had always done. Beneath his helmet, his hair was white, his face gaunt, yet he was still a warrior king and I knew there would never again be one like him.

  Lord de Lacy was there as was Guy de Beauchamp, two of his greatest friends now that the earl of Surrey was gone. Aymer de Valence and the earl of Lancaster were close by and to the rear I saw Humphrey on his bay stallion. Slowly the group of horsemen turned and began to file across the courtyard and out under the gatehouse and down the hill towards the road to the north-west.

  As I watched the huge army fall in behind the line of men and horses, I wanted to cry out for him to come back, but of course I did no such thing. I’d been raised to be the wife of a great man and I knew how to behave. I watched his figure gradually disappear in a cloud of dust behind the shoulder of the hill until he was no more. Then, and only then, I walked back up the steps, went straight to my chamber, and once I was alone with my women, I lay on my bed and wept.

  I couldn’t sleep and became hollow-eyed with exhaustion but one night when he’d been gone a week, I heard the sonorous ringing of the bell for Matins and then fell into a dreamless slumber. I was woken by full daylight and the sound of a herald’s horn. Moments later six horsemen came riding fast under the gatehouse and clattered into the courtyard. I was out of bed and making myself ready, frightened to stay where I was, yet afraid to go and see who had come. I’d barely covered my hair when a knock came at the door. It was Lord de Lacy.

  He signalled for my women to leave us and waited until they’d gone before he turned his attention to me. He began to speak but he had no need for I already knew why he’d come.

  ‘I bring sad news, my lady,’ he said from somewhere a huge distance away, his words echoing in my ears. ‘Yesterday afternoon, his grace, the king was commanded by God.’

  He held out a sealed letter.

  ‘This is for you,’ he said gently. ‘It is necessary you have an official document.’

  I took the letter, feeling the parchment stiff and smooth beneath my fingers, seeing the red seal dance in front of my eyes. Once I opened the letter there would be no more hope and what I already knew to be true, would be real. I must have looked bewildered because he came, removed the letter and placed it on the table. Then he took my hands, something he’d never done before.

  ‘Sit down, my lady. You look as if you might fall. Come, sit here and I’ll fetch you some wine. It’s good for shock, they say.’

  ‘Thank you, Lord de Lacy,’ I said steadily. ‘But I shan’t faint; you need have no fear.’

  Nonetheless he poured me a cup of wine and insisted I drank it. I wanted to comfort him so I did as he asked. I had no idea what to say or what to do as the whole of my world had been destroyed in that one single moment. What was I supposed to say? What was I meant to do? A thousand words and thoughts chased themselves round in my head.

  ‘The prince,’ I said at last. ‘He must be told.’

  ‘You must not worry over these matters, my lady. The royal messenger is already on his way to London. We believe the prince is there.’

  ‘How long will he take?’

  ‘Four days if nothing goes amiss, and the prince should return straight away, God willing.’

  ‘Lord de Lacy.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘My husband. Please, Lord d
e Lacy. Tell me. Where did he die? So that I know. I would very much like to know.’

  ‘Of course, my lady. We were not gone far, only to the shores of the firth, to a little place called Burgh-by-Sands, on the flat land near the Solwaeth. Yesterday was a fine clear day and his grace could see the land of the Scots on the other side of the water. It wasn’t any distance but we made camp. Then his men went to give him some food. They raised him up and he died in their arms. It was over in an instant. May God have mercy on his soul.’

  Poor Lord de Lacy. He was overwhelmed by sudden unexpected tears, unbidden and shameful, and yet I could understand. He was exhausted and bereft. He’d seen his friend, the king, die in front of him, and then ridden hard to Carlisle to pass on the awful news. And he wasn’t a young man. In my grief I felt some consolation that my husband had known the comfort of men’s arms about him in his last moments, that his friends had been with him, that he had not died alone. It had been a good death.

  ‘Lord de Lacy,’ I said. ‘Is there anything I should do or anyone I should inform? Are there duties I should undertake? I am afraid I’m very ignorant of these matters. I’ve never before lost a husband.’

  ‘No-one will be told other than those who need to know,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ve given orders that the death of his grace is kept secret until the prince arrives and is made king. It would be dangerous if the Scots heard that the king is dead and the kingdom unguarded.’

  ‘Are there many who know?’

  ‘No, only those of us who were there. The bishop of Lichfield, has been summoned from Wentworth but I’ve given him no reason. However, he’s not a stupid man and will be certain to guess. His grace, God rest his soul, made Langton the executor of his will, so we need his presence because nothing can be done without him. There are only three letters telling of his grace’s death: one for the prince, one for you, my lady, and one which I have with me as surety for my actions.’