Isabel the Fair

by Margaret Campbell Barnes

  Isabel the Fair

  Margaret Campbell Barnes

  © Margaret Campbell Barnes 1957

  Margaret Campbell Barnes has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1957 by Macdonald & Co. Ltd.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter One

  They had finished dressing the bride at last. Her excited women had bathed her in rose-water and settled the folds of her wedding gown and bound her cloud of long fair hair with pearls. And now they stood aside or knelt back on their heels to regard the result of their handiwork. Each woman, whether she loved her young mistress, or not, sighed with satisfaction. And the King of France’s daughter herself, seeing the radiant reflection in the mirror which they held for her, knew with a fierce inward joy why men called her Isabel the Fair.

  “In a few hours I shall be Queen of England!” she proclaimed, lifting her bejewelled skirts and letting her little feet dance to the excitement that stirred her blood.

  “It will mean leaving your family,” the old Countess de Bringnencourt, who had been her nurse, reminded her sadly.

  Sixteen-year-old Isabel Capet, who always lived for the moment, pushed the inevitable spectre of home-sickness to the back of her vivacious mind. “Not for weeks yet, Bringnette,” she said. “It is not like the time when my poor Aunt Marguerite had to cross the Channel to be old Edward the First’s second wife. His son has come to fetch me, and as you all know we are going to spend our honeymoon here in Boulogne. And after that,” she added a little wistfully, “perhaps I shall not mind quite so much.”

  Royal etiquette demanded that the second Edward should come to fetch his bride because both of Isabel’s parents were reigning sovereigns, and like any young girl she thrilled to the report that he had hurried away from his wars in Scotland to make sure of their marriage. Of course, his eagerness might have been prompted by some dull political issue, but she hoped that he had heard how many important people had foretold that she would grow up to be one of the most beautiful women in Europe.

  From the apartments so sumptuously prepared for her in Boulogne castle she could see the fine fleet of ships flying the Plantagenet leopards down in the harbour, and the place-at-arms where shining tents had sprung up like a spread of mushrooms to accommodate the English. And yesterday there had been a great deal of ceremonial pother in the great hall when Edward had paid homage to her father for Guienne and Ponthieu, the lands which he had inherited through his ancestress, Eleanor of Aquitaine. He could not have enjoyed doing that, she supposed. No son of the all-conquering Edward Longshanks could have. But it had been part of the price which he was willing to pay for her, and her brothers admitted that he had done it with pleasant grace. She herself had not been allowed to go down and watch. It would have been unpropitious, people said, to meet her bridegroom before the wedding. But to-day was her day. He would be in the great cathedral-church of Boulogne waiting for her, and judging by the sudden commotion down in the courtyard the bridal procession must be forming now.

  “I must see what he looks like!” she cried, pushing aside the two girls who held her mirror and running impetuously to a window.

  At three-and-twenty Edward the Second of England was certainly good to look upon.

  Scarcely less eager than their mistress, all the women in the room crowded forward to see him for themselves.

  Like a scene in some bright, unfaded tapestry they saw the distinguished company forming themselves into a procession in pale January sunshine. Silks and velvets made splashes of vivid colour against old stone walls, bringing an extravagant breath of Paris to the grim utility of a busy port. The men from across the Channel were well enough made, but not half so modish as the Dauphin and his suite, decided the watching Frenchwomen. They spoke disparagingly of short cote-hardies and the cut of woollen hose. But with the tall, splendid bridegroom himself, even they could find no flaw. If he lacked the commanding, warlike aspect associated with his renowned father, his supple limbs had io strength and grace, and his fair-skinned, sensitive face was undeniably beautiful. The sun shone becomingly on his golden crown and bright brown hair. Though Isabel had been betrothed to him since a child of seven, this was the first time she had ever set eyes on him; and, Heaven be praised, he looked the kind of husband she had always longed for! His easy charm would fulfil the secret dreams of any romantically-minded girl. Though whether that was a blessing to be entirely thankful for she was not, on second thoughts, entirely sure.

  “Tell me quickly what rumours you have heard,” she whispered, catching at the sleeve of a worldly-wise countess who had but recently returned from England.

  “Rumours?” The Countess looked both embarrassed and alarmed, so that Isabel’s heart sank.

  “I am not a child,” she insisted, her voice sharp as it was apt to be in moments of anxiety. “I realize that with so handsome a bachelor king there must have been other women.”

  “Other women?” The Countess’s brows shot up, her reply came more glibly. “Oh no, Madam. I was over there in the Dowager-Queen Marguerite’s suite for months, and never heard of any. I do assure your Grace that there will be no need for unhappiness on that score.”

  Isabel’s heart soared high again. The carefully picked words pleased her even more than they must have relieved the embarrassed Countess. She was too inexperienced to perceive their sting. And in any case her old nurse broke abruptly into the whispered conversation, deliberately distracting her attention. “Look, my lady, there is your Aunt Marguerite. The tall crowned one in lovely furs. She seems to have acquired more poise and grace during these past few years. So strange to think that you were betrothed to your Edward on the same day that she married his father!”

  “It was all part of France’s foreign policy. I remember how everybody in Paris went about crying after she left.”

  “Every night I thank the blessed saints that she will be over there in England to advise you. She is so sensible. Although she had to take the place of that legendary Queen Eleanor of Castile whom the first Edward loved so dearly, they say she never made an enemy of anyone. And see with what affectionate courtesy her step-son leads her forward to your lady mother.”

  “When he turns and smiles like that he is ravissant,” murmured Isabel, looking forward to the time when all his most intimate smiles would be for her.

  But there was no more time for dreaming. “The bridegroom’s procession is leaving the Castle, and the moment arrives for Madame la Princesse to descend!” announced the resonant voice of the Master of Ceremonies. And down in the g
reat hall King Philip of France, the handsome father from whom Isabel inherited her beauty, was waiting to take her to the church so that her young body might set a further seal upon the alliance which he had planned.

  No daughter of the house of Capet had ever been given a more splendid wedding. For was not her mother Queen of Navarre, and were there not several reigning sovereigns and half the nobility of the land scintillating among the guests? Formally and obediently, and with a touching effort at composure, Isabel moved through the ceremonial pattern of the day. She strove to please her parents, who were watching her with fond pride — a pride in the dignity of their royal line in which she fully shared. Her youthful craving for importance was satisfied by the grandeur they had provided, her vanity fed by finding herself so suddenly blossoming from the schoolroom to become the magnet for all men’s admiring eyes. But most of all she hoped, with childish uncertainty, that the tall bridegroom by her side admired her too.

  Because she was eager and impressionable it was the sacrament of marriage inside the vast church which moved her even more than the pomp of the public ceremony enacted upon the steps for all to see. Long after the thrill of fanfares had faded she would remember the hush that followed cheering, the solemn chanting, the tall candles on the altar, and the sudden sense of irrevocable reality as she and Edward approached the golden haze of light. Because he held her hand all her vows to love and cherish were made with willing gladness. A new awareness of spiritual values informed her, temporarily swamping all tawdry pride. In a brief moment of maturity she glimpsed those elements in marriage which lie beyond the lure of physical attraction. It was as though she and Edward were setting out from that hallowed place upon a hazardous journey. They were both young and had so far to go — so much to learn about each other. There would, she felt, be such alarming need of patience. And she was not a patient person. “To have and to hold until Death us do part,” she heard the Archbishop say in sonorous Latin. She looked up from beneath the priceless lace of her veil and Edward Plantagenet looked down. He smiled, and she hoped that Death would be a very long way off for both of them.

  Afterwards, highborn guests and the crowds still cheering in the streets were all in agreement that it had been the most gorgeous wedding they had ever seen, and that no royal pair had ever looked so attractive.

  “God send that it was worth it!” muttered Philip le Bel, thinking of the depleted state of his Exchequer.

  “It will be worth any price, dear Philip, if it ensures a lasting peace between our two countries!” said his sister, the Queen-Dowager Marguerite of England, who only nine years ago had been called upon to give her youth to an elderly widower in the same cause.

  The day was by no means over. Back at the castle bride and groom must welcome their guests, graciously acknowledging gifts and congratulations. The representatives of each royal house must be received according to rank and with an eye to existing political relations. At sixteen, decided Isabel, it is difficult to be sure of saying the right and tactful thing, particularly when one’s head is beginning to ache beneath an unaccustomed veil of priceless old lace. But, by the grace of God, she now had a husband — a pleasant-voiced young man who good-naturedly took most of the conversational burden from her. Whether he said the right thing or not seemed to matter much less since he was a foreigner and remarkably adroit at shearing away from any

  profound or controversial topic. “How do you manage to speak French so fluently?” she asked with gratitude, between receiving one batch of guests and the next.

  “We are not quite savages,” he said, laughing without offence. “Although we speak English with the people, French is the language of my Court.”

  “I should have remembered,” said Isabel abashed. “But you have no accent like most of the people in your suite. Or if you have it is not at all Norman, but rather — of the South, I should say?”

  “Scarcely surprising, my little sage, since my best friend is of Gascon lineage.” He seemed quite pleased that she should have detected it and, rising from the double throne they shared, held out an inviting hand. “And now that we appear to have done our duty by all those pompous people let me give myself the pleasure of taking you to talk with the May Queen.”

  “The May Queen?”

  “My stepmother. The people always call her that — possibly because they associate her with the kind of happiness they feel on May Day. Or maybe my Gascon friend invented it. He has a nickname for everyone.”

  “I hope he will not invent one for me.” Isabel Capet was on her dignity. Most of the people he had alluded to as pompous were her grandest relatives. She was tired and hungry, and not a little piqued by his obvious devotion to the May Queen. He had even called his stately new ship after her, whereas Isabel had hoped to find her own name on the prow. The easy comradeship they shared made her feel like a child. While talking respectfully enough to this widowed aunt of hers, she decided that although the Dowager-Queen of England might be kind and full of common sense, as old Bringnette had said, yet she looked far too young to be a grown man’s stepmother. Having always had to give place to her three brothers, Isabel’s besetting sin was jealousy. She took stock of Marguerite’s frank, serene face and caught herself thinking reprehensibly, “Well, at least she is not as beautiful as I am.”

  She knew that she was being cat-like and falling away from that grace which she had felt in church; but she wanted Edward to smile down at her like that. “Tomorrow, dear Aunt Marguerite, we must have a long gossip together and you must tell me what it is like living in England,” she said, to make amends.

  Heralds were summoning the wedding-party to supper and when bride and bridegroom were seated side by side beneath a golden canopy at the dais table, they contrived to further their acquaintance a little.

  “My parents have made me learn English for years. Ever since they arranged for me to marry you,” Isabel told him.

  “That was very wise of them. It should help you to feel at home, being able to talk to your grooms and falconers and such.”

  “It is very difficult because you have so many words which mean the same thing,” pouted Isabel, who had no particular desire to do so.

  “That must be because we are mongrels, with a language made up of Latin, Norse, Saxon and Norman.”

  “But you are a Plantagenet,” reproved Isabel, a little shocked.

  The King of Sicily claimed her attention for a while and Edward was being polite to the Archduke of Austria, but while the roast peacock was being brought in they were able to snatch another moment to themselves. “Does it not tire you talking to so many people?” whispered Isabel.

  The idea appeared to surprise him. “Tire me? No. I suppose I am very strong.”

  “So am I, really. But I could sleep and sleep. Perhaps it is the hours they spent dressing me and having to act for hours on end as if one were part of a pageant.”

  “It must be worse for the bride, whom everyone stares at,” he allowed kindly. “And perhaps I am more accustomed to all this ceremony. I endured hours of it only yesterday when I had to do homage to your father.” And King of England though he was, he made such a comical grimace and spoke so boyishly that, in spite of his six years seniority, his little bride ceased to stand in very much awe of him. “I wanted to come and watch, but they would not let me,” she told him.

  “If you had I am afraid you would have found it very dull. But your father was most generous. He gave me some splendid presents in return, including the loveliest sorrel mare.”

  “Oh, I am glad!”

  After a polite conversation about mural paintings with the Archbishop, Edward returned eagerly to the subject of the well-chosen gift. “She has a white star on her forehead and one white hind fetlock. Nothing will ever make me part with that animal.”

  Isabel laughed at his enthusiasm. Hounds and horses, she had always understood, were an obsession with the English. “I hope nothing will make you part with anything my father has given you — ”


  Edward turned and grinned at her. “Including the bride!” they both said in merry unison.

  The main courses were over. The board was being cleared and the best wines of France were circulating freely. Jugglers and mountebanks and mummers were beginning to entertain the company. “My mother has had some wonderful dresses made for me to bring to England. My women say they will give the ladies of your Court something to talk about for the rest of the winter,” confided Isabel. But Edward was laughing at the antics of a clever little dwarf and did not hear her. “Do you always have such clever jugglers in this country?” he was asking of her father. His naive delight in them was flattering to his host. Wine and candlelight had brought a flush to his fair skin, and his laugh rang out spontaneously. He was so engagingly ready to be entertained.

  “Some of the new dresses I am bringing to England are rose red. It is supposed to suit me,” persisted Isabel.

  The mummers had begun declaiming a dull classic oration. Edward’s swiftly darting mind was suddenly interested in her again and she was delighted to find him far more knowledgeable about dresses than were her brothers. “Deep rose red by candlelight, with a touch of that silvery stuff, should be enchanting,” he agreed, discussing the problem as earnestly as any woman. “But the blue and white of your lovely fleur-de-lys by sunlight, I think, so as to bring out the gold in your hair.”

  Isabel felt pleasantly important and grown-up again. “Do you think they will like me at West-min-stair?” she asked, attempting a sideways glance from beneath lowered lashes such as she had often seen her father’s favourite mistress make use of very effectively.

  “How could anyone help liking my new Queen when she is so young and beautiful?” Edward disengaged her fingers from the half-filled goblet she had been toying with and lifted them gallantly to his lips. Sentimentally approving smiles settled foolishly on the faces surrounding them. His manners were certainly exquisite, but Isabel felt sure that half his attention was back on the slick movements of the mummers. And she hated having him think of her as someone too young for passionate attention.