Isabel the Fair

by Margaret Campbell Barnes

  “Excellently, I hope. If only we can get a good backing from the people. Gaveston has been a popular figure with them, I admit, because of his lavish entertainments and his spectacular prowess in the lists. But our lovely niece and her cause are becoming ever more popular with them.”

  The May Queen, who had been trained to take a national view of affairs, tried hard to hide her dislike of a kinsman who wasted so much time on his own personal grievances. “What a pity, my dear Thomas, that Piers cannot be persuaded to leave without all this talk of ‘causes’,” she sighed. “It is like driving a wedge between King and Queen, and nothing could be worse for the country.”

  “What Aunt Marguerite really means is that I should suffer my marital wrongs in silence,” retorted Isabel.

  “People in high places would often be well advised to do so,” said Marguerite, wishing that her lovely impetuous niece would sometimes learn to curb her tongue.

  In spite of momentary annoyance, Isabel tried as usual to take her advice. In her heart she envied her aunt’s serenity and had the sense to see that complaining to the barons only made things worse for Edward. And soon, God willing, she would have Edward to herself.

  During the feasting which went on for weeks after the Coronation she and Edward frequently ate in public in the vast hall at Westminster, with the doors open to all the gaping citizens and ’prentices who cared to ride out from London. Not only did these people get a view of their new young Queen but they also had a free view of the mummers and acrobats and minstrels who performed during dinner, and it became quite customary for the Guilds and prominent citizens to send congratulatory messages, which were read aloud during the meal. As each vied with the other in the grandeur of their orations and began to present them in more and more original guise this became one of the regular items of entertainment — particularly amusing to Isabel and her ladies because the authors invariably became hyperbolically poetic on the subject of her beauty. Pandering to Edward’s taste for theatricals, the bearers of the orations were frequently disguised as gods or goddesses, satyrs or sprites, and came masked. Their entrance was cheered by the delighted crowd around the doors and the scrolls they brought were read aloud by the King’s Master of the Revels.

  Inventive novelty had reached such a pitch that little more than the usual admiring exclamations rippled from crowd to royal party when a masked woman on a black horse rode into the hall and urged the nervously excited creature up to the dais. Like those who had preceded her, she handed her scroll to the Master of the Revels, who stood waiting to receive her before the royal table. Nobles and ladies alike stared admiringly, and Edward and young Gilbert de Glare were busy laying wagers as to whom she might be. All present were far more interested in the graceful, daring lady than in the message she had brought. The Master of the Revels broke the seal and unrolled the scroll with a flourish. He cleared his throat and began to read the message aloud in his trained, far-reaching voice. Because he had declaimed so many of these orations during the past few days, and was momentarily far more concerned about the powerful black horse prancing restlessly near his feet, his mind scarcely took in the meaning of the words he read. Indeed, it was only when the cheering and talking and laughter died down to a tittering from the direction of the doors and then to a horrified silence on the dais that he took in something of their sense, and began to realize what was amiss. Instead of containing the usual fulsome flattery, the message was a forthright condemnation of the relationship between the King and Gaveston, and a strong appeal to the people to drive a canker out of their country. Mention of the Queen there was, but rather of her neglected state than of her beauty. The writer did not mince his scathing words, and in the first few sentences had made his point that unless the royal favourite were sent away, her Grace could not be expected to know happiness or to produce an heir. The flustered Master of the Revels got no further. Looking up he found himself surrounded by faces that expressed every kind of reaction — fury, horror, fear, grinning amusement and unmitigated delight. His frightened gaze passed to the centre of the table. What mattered most to him was the sight of his royal master’s face, flushed with shame and anger. A few paces from him sat Gaveston. The sardonic grin on his handsome mouth told nothing of his feelings as his strong, fine fingers went on imperturbably paring a peach.

  The unfortunate official, realising that his career as Master of any Revels must be over, ended it with a fitting gesture. Without reading another word he strode to the log fire blazing in the centre of the hall, screwed up the scroll with both hands and threw it into the midst of the blaze.

  Before anyone had the wit to stop her the masked lady had wheeled her horse and clattered out of the hall. No man put out a hand to stop her. And the people clustered around the doors, cheered her with a whole-hearted vehemence which blanched the King’s face from red to white.

  After that the laughter-loving Londoners, who had hitherto derived some of their best jokes from the ways in which Gaveston managed to score off the barons, for once joined forces with his haughty enemies, and the result of the Parliamentary debate was a foregone conclusion. The King’s beloved friend was to go.

  The woman who had ridden into Westminster Hall was found and questioned. She had probably been chosen for her dangerous mission, people said, because no Plantagenet — least of all the second Edward — would torture information from a woman. Judging by the steadfastness with which she refused to give away the man who had employed her it was felt that she must be ardently in love with him, and because her fine horsemanship was traced to friendly instruction she had had from le Messager, suspicion quickly fell upon the Queen’s Master-of-Horse.

  The moment Isabel heard of this she sent for him to warn him, and because of the dangerous nature of the matter she dismissed her women from her room. “Is it true that it was you who took this crazy risk at dinner time?” she asked, remembering the extravagant vow which he had made to get Gaveston out of the country.

  “It would be useless to deny it,” he said, wishing her to know what risk he had taken for her sake.

  “As Ghislaine du Bois crossed the courtyard just now she overheard the King giving the Captain of the Guard orders to arrest you in your lodgings before dawn.”

  “Then we have only to-night,” said the hot-blooded young man, and had the hardihood to take her in his arms. He had been hungering for her for weeks. The ardour in his eyes promised exciting hours. Her great bed stood empty and, as the widowed Marguerite had said, nights in an empty bed can seem so long. Isabel had intended only to chide him lovingly and warn him. Instead, persuaded by his passion, she closed her eyes and allowed herself the intoxicating experience of being so eagerly desired. It was what she had expected of marriage. “Oh, Robert, Robert, why did you have to do this dangerous thing for me?” she whispered with what little breath his embracing left her.

  “Because I love you to distraction,” he said, his mouth urgent against hers.

  “Distraction? Indeed, we must both be distracted!”

  With a little cry of horror, she pushed him from her. It cost her the greatest effort at self-denial of which she was capable, but once free of his touch sanity began to return to her. “You will have to go. Now, before they take you,” she said.

  “What do I care?” he argued. “Even if they kill me I shall know that you live more happily. Isabel, I entreat you, let me stay this night. God knows I may not live to see another!”

  Isabel shivered and, by a touch of inbred hauteur, reminded him of her regality. “They will not kill you,” she assured him. “They mean to put you in that terrible Tower.”

  “I may find means to escape.”

  “No one ever does,” she said, touched to pity by a memory of its gloom.

  The thought of it seemed to cool his crazy ardour. “Forgive me, Madam, if I have presumed.”

  It was Edward Plantagenet her husband, whom she loved. The great lifelong romance which she had dreamed of was something to share with a king, too
fine to shame by an hour’s cheap tumbling with some impertinent Master-of-Horse. Pride came to her aid — pride, the cold deterrent. Though she had ached for the warmth of Robert le Messager’s embraces, she sent him away.

  Chapter Seven

  “They drove me to it, Piers. To think that I, their Sovereign, was forced to fix my seal to their horrible sentence upon you. Sentence of banishment, on pain of death and Excommunication if you should ever return to this country!”

  “What else could you do, my dear Ned, seeing that your pugnacious barons had taken the precaution to come to Westminster fully armed? Not that I imagine my sanctimonious friends among the people would have raised a finger to protect me now — not since that charming little recommendation Robert le Messager sent us by the black horse lady.”

  “At least the meddling fool is caught and in the Tower for his pains,” replied Edward.

  Gaveston glanced affectionately at his worried friend. “You have no need to reproach yourself on my account. Their smug Parliamentary findings may prove equally bad for you. It was the shrewdest thing I ever heard of, trying to cover their insubordination by an announcement that their oaths of allegiance were made rather to the Crown than to the man who happens to be wearing it. That buffoon of Lancaster’s idea, no doubt.”

  “And he my own cousin. As though they could juggle with the powers of an anointed king!”

  With the Queen and a few of their more intimate friends the pair of them had retired immediately to Windsor in order to recover from their defeat, and to steal a few weeks together before Gaveston’s irrevocable departure. Although they were in Isabel’s apartments they sprawled before the fire discussing their own affairs with the utmost freedom.

  “I will give you Carisbrooke Castle, Piers,” offered Edward, desperately anxious to make amends.

  “Where is that?”

  “On the Isle of Wight. The Lady Isabella de Fortibus, whose family owned it, sold it to the Crown when she died. My father had always coveted it because the island makes such an effective screen between the French and Southampton.”

  “You have already made me Lord of the Manx. Why this obsession about remote and unproductive islands, Ned?” enquired Gaveston, more sore than he cared to admit at having been stripped of all his more productive English possessions.

  “I thought I could slip across the sea sometimes. That at least I could hope to see you.” Edward pushed aside an importunate hound and began pacing the room. “The thought of your being right down in Gascony again leaves me desolate. It takes days even to send a letter.”

  Isabel, sitting embroidering by the window remembered that most of the court folk from London had, officially, been in France to arrange about her marriage — the marriage which her betrothed had appeared to be arranging with so much urgency. Could it be possible, she wondered, that even that had been only an excuse for sending them with messages to his exiled friend?

  Her hands had dropped from her embroidery to fondle a small, fluffy kitten in her lap. She had made a pet of her in the first place chiefly because Minette arched her back and spat so courageously at the hounds which were for ever around Edward’s feet. But now she doted on the dignified little creature, as well as envying her ability to express so effectively some of the sentiments which a King’s wife dared not voice.

  Isabel herself would have liked to spit out her annoyance over Edward’s latest manoeuvre. Whenever he was not out racing or hunting he spent much of his time lounging or dealing with necessary State business in her apartments — but invariably brought Piers Gaveston with him. Their manners towards her were charming and they were punctilious about inviting her to join in any music or games of chance which they enjoyed, so that no one could deny that it was her own fault if she sat proud and dull with her ladies at the far end of the room. Haughty daughter of France and Navarre as she was, her husband was King of England, and she could scarcely turn him out, even had he chosen to bring his grooms along.

  And so Isabel endured this odd, three-cornered ménage. She knew that Bringnette and Ghislaine fumed on her account, and that because of her outraged withdrawal from them Edward and Gaveston had fallen more and more into the habit of discussing their own affairs regardless of her presence.

  And yet at times, because they were all three young and gay by nature, she had felt herself drawn irresistibly into their conversation. Their comradeship was such that she could even enter into their feelings about this approaching parting. “Were you not discussing at supper last night the deplorable state of affairs in Ireland?” she asked of Edward, as his restless peregrinations brought him near her chair.

  “Why, yes, my dear,” he answered, dragging himself from his own preoccupations with surprise. “Each month more and more of the dissatisfied Irish are forcing their way inside the Pale.”

  “The Pale?”

  “A kind of reserve we keep for English settlers in order to strengthen our rule there.”

  “You were saying that your Lord Lieutenant there is not nearly firm enough with them?”

  “I may have said so. Certainly Aymer de Valence and old Hugh le Despenser, one of my father’s ablest advisers, seemed to consider him inefficient.”

  “Then why do you not recall the man, and make Piers Lord Lieutenant of Ireland in his place?”

  At least, she thought, it would get him out of the country and lessen for both of them the painful reproach of exile.

  Edward stopped short in his tracks, clapping a dramatic hand to his forehead. “God, why did I not think of that before?” he exclaimed.

  Piers Gaveston himself turned from the hearth, where he had been moodily kicking at a half-burned log. From where she sat Isabel could see his quickly veiled glance of admiration for a mind quicker than his own. It took him only a moment or two to assimilate the idea and find it good. His handsome face, from which he was usually so careful to exclude any real personal emotion, lit up with relief. “It needed your brilliant little French Queen to stir up the wits of both of us,” he said, and strode across the room in a flurry of flowing scarlet scolloped sleeves to kiss her hand.

  “What should we do without you, sweet?” applauded Edward, leaning over the back of her chair to kiss her. “I will send for old Hugh le Despenser and my Treasurer Walter Reynolds and set the plan in motion this very hour. Apart from anything else, it holds the pleasing possibility that, in the event of the Irish becoming still more troublesome, I can legitimately recall my Lord Lieutenant for consultation.”

  “And, by Heaven, how it will enrage my enemies in England!” chuckled Gaveston.

  “I am glad that the prospect pleases you, Sir Piers,” said Isabel stiffly, by the form of her address rubbing in the loss of his earldom. “I only hope that it will please your wife as well. Ireland, by all I hear, is an even poorer place to live in than this country. But perhaps you will find that a useful excuse to leave her behind!”

  Gaveston stood before her, smilingly immune to her stings. He picked up Minette, who was pawing her way delicately towards him, and ruffled the fur about her neck until she purred with sensuous pleasure beneath his caressing hand. “The nimbleness of your Grace’s suggestion has scarcely left me time to give the matter a thought. I should imagine that Margaret, being a Glare with possessions in Ireland, will probably prefer to come. But why the savage thrust?”

  “Because we do not have the pleasure of seeing her at court. Indeed, I had been in England several weeks before I even knew that you were married. My ladies here were remarking only this morning that they do not even know what the Countess of Clare looks like. And she the King’s niece!”

  “Ah, I see. Between you, you have invented a pretty legend about my keeping my wife locked up in the grimmest dungeon at Wallingford.” Edward laughed, and Isabel could have sworn that Gaveston winked at Ghislaine and that the silly girl blushed at the conspiratorial attention.

  “A legend which can soon be disproved if we all go and visit her,” suggested Edward, glad of the diver
sion. “Piers will in any case need to go home to make arrangements for his journey, and we can take young Gilbert along to bid his sister farewell.”

  “The hospitality of my house is always yours, Ned. And even though Margaret may be unaware of your tender solicitude on her account, Madam, I am sure she will be happy and honoured to have your Grace’s company,” said Gaveston, bowing with that faint suspicion of irony which always informed his more formal utterances — perhaps because he had small need to make them in private.

  “Where is this Wallingford of which we have heard so much?” asked Bringnette, whose ageing bones were already beginning to rebel against the dampness of the climate.

  “Only a morning’s ride, Madam, and I will tell Dickon, my head groom, to find you the softest saddle,” promised Edward.

  And so they all set forth from Windsor Castle, leaving that lovely reach of the Thames and riding briskly through the greening Berkshire lanes, eating up the miles with spontaneous laughter and zestful enjoyment of a sunny morning until the stately walls of Gaveston’s manor rose before them. “It is a fair enough place,” allowed Bringnette, as the menfolk rode ahead through the gates, “but I should be sorry to be the royal favourite’s wife and so neglected.”

  “For which reason I shall be glad to meet her,” said Isabel. “Perhaps we can be of comfort to each other.”

  “If he does leave her behind perhaps your Grace could persuade the King to arrange for her to come and live with us at Westminster or Windsor,” suggested Ghislaine of the tender heart.

  The entrance hall into which they were shown was as luxurious as all the rest of his possessions, and Isabel’s fury rose at the sight of one of her mother’s finest tapestries hanging on one of the walls.

  “Fetch wine for our guests, Dragon, while I go to warn milady,” the Master of Wallingford called to a wizened Gascon servant with a long scar down his cheek. But Isabel would have none of it. Tired as she was from trying to ride just as Robert le Messager had taught her, she preferred to meet a hostess unprepared. “Let us go to her now, so that she may drink with us,” she said.