The Shadow Queen

by Anne O'Brien

  I looked around at the women who shared my confinement.

  ‘Stand up, if you will,’ I said to a Gascon woman, a young wife of one of Ned’s new subjects who had joined my household, younger than I and with a distinct appearance. I had not noticed, but now that she lived with me every day, it struck me that with the advent of spring her garments had undergone a change.

  ‘Turn around.’ As she did, I heard a murmur from my English woman. ‘I like what I see,’ I said.

  What I saw was flattering. It was a statement of femininity. But there was some disfavour expressed in English voices as being inappropriate for women of their status.

  ‘So it may,’ I agreed as I considered the drift of the material around the lady’s figure. ‘But some might admire it as the new fashion. And how comfortable.’

  ‘I think it is practical, my lady.’ My Gascon lady looked anxious, as if I would insist that she muffle herself to the chin.

  I absorbed the complexities of pleasure, of concern, of censure around me. Perhaps it was the monotony that gave impetus to my decision. I stood, monotony banished.

  ‘Send for the sempstresses,’ I ordered. ‘What the Princess of Aquitaine wears cannot be inappropriate. While our gallant knights are negotiating or fighting or drinking too much ale, we will array ourselves for our emergence into their society. It will pass the hours, and give the court something to talk about that is not taxation and the predations of the French raptors on our borders.’

  We engaged my sempstresses, the embroiderers, the furriers. The weather might be warm as the weeks passed into April but a garment without fur would be no fashion statement at all. We combed and pinned and laughed. The Prince’s court would be the most powerful, the most notable, the most talked about. The court of the Princess would be as a jewel in the Prince’s crown. Together, we would cast the Valois court, and the ageing English court of Edward and Philippa into the shade.

  Did we not have the wealth and the power to achieve the vision that filled my mind in those days? My spirits soared at the prospect of my release. My churching and the christening of my son in the cathedral at Angouleme by the Bishop of Limoges would be the talk of Europe. What I did not achieve in magnificence, I knew that Ned would. There would be none of his new golden coins spared to make this a splash of glory.

  I could not wait to be with him again after so many weeks apart.

  I clad myself in my fine feathers for my churching. Was there no heavy-footed bird to walk over my grave with warnings of what I might have done?

  None. Not one, as I allowed myself to be arrayed by my women.

  Oh, I suspected that Philippa would be quietly horrified, but Philippa was not here, and Philippa was not known for her elegance. Isabella would approve the silk that swathed me from low-cut bodice to sleeves that trailed in sumptuous folds, to skirts that swept the floor regardless of the soft Gascon dust. As the new wife of Enguerrand de Coucy, which she had finally achieved in face of all the family opposition, Isabella would dress as she pleased. My sleeves were trimmed with coveted fur, with royal ermine, my neckline, deeper than I would once have worn, was stitched with jewels. I smoothed my hands where the cloth skimmed my breast and hips, more opulent than when I was a young woman but Ned had no complaint about my curves. An over tunic, open-sided, fluttered in the breeze, giving glimpses of the embroidered under tunic, gold fringing drawing attention to the apertures and my figure beneath. Interwoven with pearls and jewels, my hair was plaited and pleated, the diaphanous veil in no manner disguising the bright colour for it was anchored with nothing more than jewelled pins.

  Thus, regally clad as Princess of Aquitaine and mother of the future heir to the English crown, I made my procession to my churching, escorted to the cathedral by twenty-four lords and twenty-four knights. My ladies, a phalanx of gem-like colours, were likewise enhanced with the product of our industriousness. It was everything I hoped that it would be.

  I curtsied before the Prince, enjoying the open admiration in his face as he offered his hand. The strength of his grasp told me that he had missed me as deeply as I had missed him. But I was not to be distracted. I made my thanks before the Virgin for my safe delivery with a true heart.

  Afterwards I heard the voices raised against us. It was excessive of course, the whole deliberate immoderation of it, but it was not every day that a new King was born and received into the church, and the safe delivery of the Princess of Aquitaine celebrated. Ned spent as lavishly as it was possible to spend, without restraint, to impress English, Gascon and Breton alike. Ned had been liberal in his invitations to any lord who might owe him fealty or friendship. The banquet was magnificent, all that my marriage banquet was not.

  And then that fatal aside, that no one could pretend to mishear.

  ‘I know nought of such affairs as women’s raiment, but I would not wish my wife to be dressed in such a fashion as the women of this English Plantagenet court.’

  The declaration issued by a man conversing in a little group of Gascon and Breton lords to my right. My ears sharpened. My head turned.

  ‘The Princess of Aquitaine is pleased to draw undue attention.’ The same voice.

  ‘The Princess of Aquitaine most certainly wishes to draw attention to herself,’ I spoke gently. ‘And to the Prince who rules this land. To whom you have sworn your loyalty, my lord.’

  If he was disturbed by my directness, he hid it fast enough, managing a stiff bow. An important Breton lord, Jean de Beaumanoir, Marshal of Brittany, was a man to be wooed to our side, but I detected an immediate dislike in the flat stare that appraised my person. But what did men know of robes and veils? I would speak for myself as Princess of Aquitaine.

  ‘Would you not allow your wife to adopt our fashions, sir?’

  ‘I would not.’

  ‘But you have only to look at the women of my court. Are they not superbly decorative? And this is a celebration. Do you disapprove of fur and silk to mark so notable occasion as the birth of a new prince?’

  ‘I have no liking for it.’

  He looked at my household, he looked at me. I liked neither his comment nor his manner, and certainly not the slide of his eye over my raiment, yet I refrained from provocation, this being neither time nor place.

  ‘I am sorry for it, sir.’

  There was no such restraint in the Marshal’s response. ‘If it is a matter of fur, my lady, of which you are wearing much, then I will provide my wife with such. What I will not do is have her dress as if she were the mistress of some Languedoc brigand, flaunting herself in unseemly manner before her guests in garments more fitting for a whore.’

  I experienced a species of shock, that I should be denounced in such a fashion, while a silence fell, that could be tasted on the tongue.

  ‘I would have her dressed as an honest woman, with or without fur,’ he added.

  I felt my spine stiffen, my skin heat as I considered a sharp response to this lord who dare to be critical, but my tone remained even. ‘Are we not all honest women, sir?’

  ‘That may be so, but to my mind honesty has to be exhibited. I would not have my wife follow your example, my lady, into excess.’

  ‘You are unwarrantably discourteous, my lord.’

  Anger bloomed beneath the light silk of my bodice that had caused all the trouble when my lord of Beaumanoir looked me up and down.

  ‘Your face is as fair as your repute, my lady, but you lack the propriety due to your position, and I have no hesitation in telling you so. If you wish to be honoured as Lady of Aquitaine then you will not do it by this show of excess. Tunics slit from neck to hem. Closefitting garments that reveal what only a husband should see. Hair all but naked. I will not have my wife dressed as a bonne amie of a pirate.’

  I allowed the attack on my virtue to hang in the air, unexpected as it was, while around me I could hear the continuing silence, heavy as an approaching storm, but I knew it behoved me, impeccably gracious, to control this situation.

  ‘Is
that what I am, sir?’

  His face was flushed, perhaps knowing that, in his ire, he had gone too far. ‘I did not say that, my lady. But your appearance suggests a decadence of which I cannot approve.’

  I smiled, allowing the despised fur-enhanced silk of my sleeves to brush his tunic.

  ‘My thanks, my Lord Jean. I like my appearance very well. I like it even better now, for I consider you to be no judge of female raiment. I know that the Prince does not see me in the light of a thief’s mistress, but as a royal consort of some distinction.’

  Delighted and scandalised in equal measure, the court divided to let me pass as I walked through to Ned’s side.

  ‘Did I detect an exchange of some heat with Beaumanoir?’ Ned asked.

  Although I shivered with my anger: ‘A little, but of no moment.’

  There was nothing with which to trouble him. All was as it should be. I had made an enemy perhaps, but my control had been exemplary.

  Do they not say that pride comes before a fall from grace? Not for me. I would not allow it to do so. Was I not above such overt criticism?

  And yet it sowed that tiny seed of anxiety that I could not quite slap away. Would Queen Philippa have allowed herself to be held up to such censure by one of her subjects? I could not imagine it. But since I was not Philippa, I had long accepted the difference in our character. We were both extravagant, but Philippa, the only measuring stick I had, always trod a careful line, to be accepted, to be a stalwart support for her beleaguered husband in the early years of their marriage. Nor had she ever changed, remaining loyal even in these days of her distress with Edward’s betrayal of her love. It was not in my nature to be so self-effacing. The Lord of Beaumanoir’s observations had brought my temper to life. What’s more it strengthened my resolve to create a new court, a new style. The lords of Aquitaine must become accustomed to it.

  ‘If I might have a moment to speak with you, my lady.’

  Sir John Harewell bowed himself into my presence.

  Here was a man whose ability I admired, a man of proven friendship and loyalty to Ned, one of the group into whose hands Ned left the affairs of day to day administration in Aquitaine. Sir John Chandos proved to be a most efficient Constable; Thomas Felton, the Seneschal. John Harewell was Chancellor and Constable of Bordeaux, a professional administrator of considerable worth. I had a liking for him, for his quiet demeanour that gave no indication of the organisational abilities beneath a smiling appearance.

  ‘Certainly, Sir John.’ We sat. ‘Is it a matter of importance?’

  It was rare that Sir John had need to speak with me rather than with Ned. It intrigued me that he should find such a need.

  Sir John was not smiling today. Formally severe, he did not hold back, his hands planted on his knees, his face drawn in austere lines as if about to administer some fatherly advice to a child caught out in some mischief. ‘Considerable importance. We are losing the loyalty and allegiance of the Gascon lords, my lady.’

  ‘And why is that? Other than that they resent English governance, which was to be expected.’

  ‘It is the profligacy of the court, my lady. It is stirring up a fury of resentment.’

  Profligacy. Dramatic words from Sir John, for whom diplomacy was second nature. Was this a personal criticism? After the Beaumanoir clash, I was in no mind to be so censured, thus I permitted my brows to climb.

  ‘Do I dress as a beggar, sir, to please them?’

  ‘No, my lady. Nor should you. But there is resentment at the size and style of the household you keep.’

  ‘In what manner?’

  ‘Have you ever considered the cost?’

  ‘No. How should I? Are our coffers empty?’

  Which he chose not to answer. Instead: ‘We feed four score knights and four times as many pages at our table – sometimes up to four hundred people in one day. You are aware of the huge retinue that you employ, of course.’

  Yes I was, of course I was. Squires, pages, valets, stewards, clerks, falconers and huntsmen: all considered essential by the Prince and Princess of Aquitaine to administer a princely household.

  ‘The food is extravagant, my lady.’

  ‘It is suitable to our estate,’ I replied. ‘We need to feed the household, Sir John.’

  ‘It is too costly.’

  ‘Do we not have the money?’ I repeated.

  Our exchange was becoming sharper. I was conscious of the edge developing in my replies as I resented the reproof from my own Chancellor.

  ‘Money is lavished on the work of goldsmiths and embroiderers, my lady, at the same time as we lack coin to expand our administration to all corners of the province.’

  For a moment I looked down at my lap. I was clad in the most costly silk embellished with the infamous six diamond buttons which had cost Ned all of two hundred pounds. The embroidery on my gown had been produced by a master embroiderer who had earned more than seven hundred pounds for his skills.

  ‘It is expected that a princess should use her appearance for the purpose of enhancing the regal image.’

  I was sure of my ground: Philippa spent far more than I on personal adornment.

  ‘It is not my place to comment on your appearance, my lady,’ Sir John said with what I could only interpret as a grave concern. ‘But it may be that the hunting parties, the banquets and tournaments give the wrong impression. And it has to be admitted that your garments have given cause for adverse comment in some quarters. It is not my intention to offend. I have come to ask if you might speak with the Prince? He might consider moderation, if you advised it.’

  ‘I will consider it, Sir John.’ And as he was opening the door: ‘Why did you not broach this with the Prince himself?’

  ‘He will not listen, my lady.’

  And so I considered it, for if Sir John showed an element of concern, it behoved me to give more than a passing thought to the matter.

  Too much. Too wasteful. Was that the truth of it? But what would we do? Practice dull abstemiousness, living in rags, entertaining our vassals with plain fare? Would it be in any manner advantageous to us if they could sneer, claiming to eat better at home? I did not think so. We were rulers of Aquitaine. Our Gascon subjects must accept their new rulers and what was due to their rank as heirs to the throne of England.

  But then, my convictions wavered as I recalled some of Sir John’s concerns. Did we truly feed four score knights and so vast a number of pages? Did we need them? Perhaps it would be advisable to be more circumspect in our show of wealth. Only a foolish woman would be blind to the undercurrent of dissatisfaction I had seen, the whispers of revolt. I spoke with Ned about our state.

  ‘Do we spend too much?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do we need to feed so many at our table?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I abandoned the attempt and Ned dismissed Sir John as a perennial worrier who would be better keeping his mind on the raising of taxes, while I considered it fortunate that Sir John had as yet no notion of the grandiose expenditure that Ned had lavished on the betrothal of three of my Holland children, for Ned was nothing if not thorough. With Tom allied to the FitzAlan Earls of Arundel through a marriage to daughter Alice, Maud was to wed Hugh Courtenay, the Earl of Devon’s grandson and heir. Joan’s hand was matched with that of the widowed John de Montfort, Duke of Brittany, as Thomas and I had once envisaged. Such prestigious marriages, such a bulwark against insecurity, they warmed my heart although the girls were still too young, even younger than I when I wed Thomas, so that they must remain with me until maturity allowed them to formalise the betrothals.

  ‘You have honoured Thomas greatly,’ I said, fully aware of Ned’s commitment to the negotiations with these powerful families, with its endless discussion of dowers and settlements of land.

  ‘Why would I not? Such alliances can only strengthen Plantagenet rule in England.’

  ‘So you had no thought of the happiness of my children?’

  ‘As much as
you did, I imagine.’

  Who knew better than I that happiness in such affairs was never of foremost consideration, even though I knew John of Brittany to be a fine young man, but Ned’s callous dispatch of the matter rankled.

  ‘I just thought that I should thank you for your care of my children,’ I remarked, infusing the warm air with winter-chill, ‘even if it was a cold-blooded means towards an end.’

  Which earned me a passing kiss to my brow, and a smile that confirmed all I knew of Ned’s affection for them and for me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  What did the quality and style of my raiment and my hair have to bear on any matter of importance, or the number of knights who sat at our table? Within a handful of months we were dragged into war and bloodshed, a war that Ned felt he could not ignore, involving the little kingdom of Castile on our southern border. King Pedro of Castile came under attack from his half brother, the illegitimate Enrique of Trastamara who, ousting King Pedro, had an eye to the throne for himself.

  ‘Why does it involve us?’ I asked, not at all certain that we should be involved.

  I was breeding again, queasy with the heat and inclined to be fretful, but fast learning the importance of the alliances gathering strength around us. Ned, still struggling to command the loyalty of his new subjects, was burning with a desire to make his mark once more on a battlefield.

  ‘Trastamara is in alliance with France, against King Pedro,’ he said between issuing orders to a relay of pages. ‘Pedro has asked me for aid. For troops, in effect, to destroy his bastard brother and put him back where he belongs on the throne of Castile.’ He put a signature to one document, snatching at another. ‘If I refuse, Pedro himself might go cap in hand to France, to offer them more incentives than the bastard can, and I don’t want France involved to any degree in Castile. It would not be to our benefit. In effect we would be trapped like an English nut between two French stones, and I’m in no mind to give the King of France the opportunity to crush us. A King of Castile who is a friend of France is a danger to England and Aquitaine. So I have agreed.’ He scowled. ‘And had to pay a ten thousand pound weight in gold to tempt Pedro away from France, from the English treasury. My father consented with ill-grace.’