The Queen's Spy

by Caroline Newark

  A rumour that the English king’s chamberlain had sworn to be rid of the king’s wife, no matter what, reached Isabella who now went in constant fear of an assassin. Her personal cook prepared all her meals and pushed aside the serving boys to accompany the food to the queen’s table. Still clad in his kitchen apron, he insisted on tasting each dish before allowing so much as a morsel to pass the royal lips. In that way he knew the queen was safe from a would-be poisoner and he was safe from accusations of treason.

  But I could have told her that no man, however diligent, could guarantee her safety. My time with the herbalist at Wigmore had taught me the secrets of deadly plants which are tasteless and slow-acting. A victim would have no idea what caused the night-time cramps, the sweating, the purging and the sudden closing of the throat, until it was too late.

  For Isabella the darkest day was the arrival in Paris of the Holy Father’s envoys, the archbishop of Vienne and the bishop of Orange. His Holiness was displeased with the behaviour of all parties to the English queen’s quarrel with her husband and wished to remove the obstacles which hindered their reconciliation. He was insisting a solution be found. This put a halt to the progress of my cousin’s plans while Isabella negotiated several difficult interviews with her brother and the two envoys.

  She dressed in a severe black gown, cut high at the neck, without ribbons or embroidery and, instead of her usual radiance, acquired a fragile pallor. Without Lord Edward and the countess of Surrey giving support on either side of her, the slightest breeze might have blown her away. She solemnly promised the envoys to return to her husband, laying out perfectly reasonable requirements for her continued safety. She was careful to place all the blame for the breakdown of her marriage on Sir Hugh Despenser and none on her dearest and most beloved husband.

  But everyone knew the English king would never agree to her demands.

  Eventually, pleased with the apparent success of their mission, the envoys departed. Their next interview would be with the king of England and his favoured chamberlain after which they would report back to His Holiness.

  One morning, not long after the departure of the papal envoys, I was leaving the chapel when I felt a note slipped into my hand. With a swift movement I drew it into my sleeve, wanting no-one to see. But I needn’t have worried, the note was from Countess Jeanne asking me to break my fast with her.

  She was very welcoming, offering me a plate of dried figs and some white bread.

  ‘Countess, you wished to see me?’

  She looked nervously over my shoulder to make sure I had brought no-one with me and then gripped my hand most painfully. ‘I am worried, Lady Margaret. I do not know where to turn.’

  ‘What concerns you?’ I hoped the conversation was not to be about her faithless husband who was said to be hoping for a reconciliation.

  ‘The queen, Lady Margaret. All these rumours, these treasons people are whispering. You must have heard them, surely? They are everywhere. Only yesterday I overheard two of the queen’s own women discussing it.’

  ‘Discussing what, my lady?’

  ‘It isn’t true. I know it cannot possibly be true. But how to stop people talking? Denials simply fan the flames and if there were to be a conflagration - where would we be? What if the Holy Father were to hear? Or her brother?’

  ‘Countess,’ I interrupted. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Why, your cousin, Lady Margaret. Your cousin, Lord Mortimer.’

  ‘Lord Mortimer?’

  ‘They are saying,’ she lowered her voice and leant forward so that her face was an inch from mine. ‘They are saying that Lord Mortimer and the queen … that Lord Mortimer and the queen … that they …’ She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘Oh Lady Margaret. You do not know what it is like. He is always there. Every morning when I greet the queen, he is there. Not doing anything in particular - just there. He is like a hound at her feet. He leans against her chair and gives his opinions on matters which are no concern of his - personal matters. And he is dreadfully familiar. I have never known her allow anyone the liberties she allows Lord Mortimer. It is …’ She rummaged around for the right word. ‘It is unqueenly.’

  ‘And is there more?’

  I had a horrible suspicion there might be as Lady Jeanne’s face had turned an unbecoming shade of red with what I assumed was embarrassment.

  ‘The women say she withdraws with him into her privy chamber.’

  ‘But my lady, they have secret matters to discuss.’

  ‘For so long a time? And when they emerge the queen’s cheeks are said to be flushed and her gowns disordered.’

  The countess had clearly drawn her own conclusions but I thought she was mistaken. If Isabella and my cousin were engaged in improper conduct in the queen’s private room I wouldn’t look at her gown but at her hair. It was my belief that the first thing a man did in any amorous encounter, was to loosen a woman’s hair. He removed the pins, the ribbons, the veils and any pieces of restraining cloth so that he could run his fingers through those unconfined tresses which were so seldom displayed to men. For a woman to allow a man to fondle her hair was a mark of true abandonment. And I didn’t think Isabella was about to abandon herself to my cousin.

  ‘I am certain they are exaggerating,’ I said firmly. ‘The queen holds herself in too high a regard to consort with a mere baron. And even if she did not, I cannot imagine Lord Mortimer being reckless enough to try.’

  But as I spoke, I knew this was untrue. My cousin was reckless. If he could lead an invasion against his king what was there to stop him from stealing the king’s wife? Such a move would damage our campaign before it began but if my cousin wanted Isabella, I knew he would not think twice.

  ‘Perhaps you could have a word with the queen?‘ I suggested. ‘Tell her to be more circumspect?’

  ‘I cannot. My husband is taking me back to England. He is loyal to the king and has declined to join this folly hatched by the earl of Richmond and Lord Mortimer. But poor Isabella! I fear she has been led astray. and I do not know what will become of her when I leave. She depends on me entirely.’

  As soon as I could, I escaped from my duties and returned to our rooms where I waited impatiently for Edmund’s return. At last I heard the sound of boots, the door opened and a draught of cold air blew across the floor. The fire flared into life and my wandering husband caught me round the waist, kissing me full on the mouth.

  ‘Your lips are cold,’ I protested half-heartedly.

  ‘Whereas yours are delightfully warm, as always.’

  ‘How are your cousins?’ I said, trying to disentangle myself.

  ‘Cousin Robert was in fine form but Charles is mournful. His wife has failed him once again.’

  ‘Poor woman!’ I murmured.

  ‘And how about you, sweetheart?’ said Edmund, kissing my wrist but with his eyes on my waist. ‘Any news?’

  ‘Not yet, my lord.’

  ‘Perhaps we should practise some more?’

  I gave him a look which promised much and then proceeded to tell him what Lady Jeanne had said.

  ‘Do you think it’s true?’ I asked.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I cannot believe Isabella would consider my cousin as a man in that way. I think she looks on him as a stout champion who will give her what she wants.’

  ‘And you think she doesn’t want what other women want?’

  ‘Edmund, she is a queen. She has a husband. No matter what she might want in that respect her position means more to her than anything else. She allows no-one other than her personal women to touch her.’

  ‘And yet you say your cousin takes liberties and she doesn’t object.’

  I had a sudden image of my cousin with his hand laid possessively on Isabella’s arm and of Isabella smilin
g.

  ‘He behaves more like a brother.’ I said hastily.

  ‘But he is not her brother.’

  ‘No, he is not.’

  ‘You don’t really think that she and he … that they …?’

  ‘Do you?’

  In truth neither of us knew what to think. The women who served Isabella since she first came to England might know something but they were saying nothing. Totally loyal, they’d have let their finger nails be pulled out rather than divulge any secrets.

  Springtime came late to Paris that year and with the warmth and the scent of blossom came good news: Madame of Evreux was at last with child.

  ‘Now Charles will have to give her a coronation,’ said Edmund with a smile. ‘I was beginning to think she’d remain uncrowned for ever.’

  It may have been springtime in the hearts of the king and queen of France but in the rooms of the queen of England there was an undercurrent of unpleasantness. Mother and son were not in agreement. Lord Edward was thirteen and in the matter of the French queen’s coronation his objections had become so loud we could all hear.

  ‘I will not have that man carry my robes. I shall have Richard Bury. He is my tutor and serves me well.’ He stuck out his bottom lip, planted his legs a little further apart and stared defiantly at his mother.

  ‘Dearest,’ said Isabella smoothly, tilting her head slightly to one side and smiling sweetly at her firstborn. ‘We shall not quarrel over the matter. You know how much this means to our plans. If you and I are to return home we need Lord Mortimer.’ She lowered her voice. ‘If you were older you could lead our men yourself but for the moment Lord Mortimer’s presence is necessary. And we must show that he is acting for us and has our trust. What better way than to place him high in the list of those who serve you? And he is your friend.’

  ‘He is not my friend. He is …’

  He couldn’t say it. He must have heard the rumours. They were flying round Paris and by now had probably spread to the merchants who would carry them back to England. It would distress any boy to have his mother the source of such salacious gossip but for Lord Edward it was doubly hurtful. He loved his father. He also loved his mother, as indeed he should. All boys should love their mothers and Isabella could be very lovable when she chose.

  She regarded him with a little frown. She was calculating how to please both my cousin and her recalcitrant son.

  ‘Dearest,’ she said at last. ‘Lord Mortimer is loyal. Never underestimate the value of loyalty. Faithful friends are beyond price. And if occasionally we have to set aside our own self-importance in order to satisfy their very understandable need for recognition, then it is such a little thing to ask.’

  The boy was wrong-footed. He looked warily at his mother. He didn’t wish to be seen as churlish and he was being handled by an expert in the art of getting what she wanted.

  He shuffled his feet. ‘Very well,’ he muttered. ‘Lord Mortimer may carry my robes.’

  ‘Thank you dearest,’ said Isabella. ‘I am very proud of you.’

  If I thought that after the coronation of Madame of Evreux our path would become smoother I was gravely mistaken. No sooner were the celebrations over than we were plunged into a new and potentially even more dangerous crisis. Isabella’s brother began avoiding her. He made excuses not to see her and failed to invite her to any of the court entertainments. She raged, and for those of us serving her, daily life became very unpleasant.

  One afternoon, after yet another rebuff from the French king, I was forced into playing a game of chess with her. She knew I was a skilful player so I couldn’t risk making too many foolish mistakes but Isabella must, of necessity, be the victor. I was manoeuvring to leave my bishop exposed on the board when we were interrupted by the heavy footfall of Monsieur Robert of Artois.

  ‘Cousin,’ said Isabella delightedly. ‘How did you know I was missing you?’

  ‘Where you are concerned, fair cousin, I know everything,’ fawned the count. ‘You are constantly in my thoughts. And today I have brought news for you.’

  Isabella clapped her hands. ‘Good news, I trust.’

  ‘That depends.’ The count lowered his large bulk into the chair at Isabella’s side and nodded to me. He rarely addressed me by name. Perhaps he had forgotten who I was.

  ‘In my house I have an extremely fine piece of silverware,’ he said, rubbing his large fleshy hands together at the thought. ‘The finest workmanship. A tureen of vast proportions. I do not think I have received such an expensive gift before. It shines like the moon in the celestial heavens; it sparkles and glistens like the stars.’

  ‘So did the thirty pieces of silver in the hands of Judas Iscariot,’ remarked Isabella.

  ‘The strange thing is,’ continued the count, ‘each member of our king’s council has received a similar gift. Oh, not exactly the same, you understand; I do believe mine was the largest and the most expensive. But on every sideboard in the Cité you will find a pair of gleaming candlesticks or a wonderfully wrought sauce boat or some other extravagant trinket. And all from a man they do not know but who wishes to become their friend.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said the queen icily.

  ‘Monsieur le Despenser.’

  Isabella pursed her lips. ‘What does he want?’

  ‘Oh cousin, do you really need to ask? He wants you. You and Monsieur Mortimer, trussed up in a barrel on a ship bound for England.’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare. My brother wouldn’t stand for it.’

  ‘I would not be so certain, ma chérie. Your brother, you must understand, has a problem. He is besieged with letters from your king and from his special friend, Monsieur le Despenser - who incidentally expresses his devotion to your grace and says he has never harmed a hair on your head, nor ever would. Also letters from His Holiness who says a wife should live with her husband.’

  ‘The …’ Isabella sought for an insult fitting for the occasion.

  ‘I have a fine supply of words, dear cousin, if you cannot think of one suitable for today.’

  The count leaned back in his chair, no mean feat for one of his proportions.

  Isabella eyed him carefully. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Do?’

  ‘Yes, do? I have no intention of ending up in Monsieur le Despenser’s hands.’

  ‘Perhaps it is time to consider moving on.’

  ‘Moving on? Where would we go? Mortimer says we are not ready. We need more time and more money.’

  The count folded his arms across his capacious belly, and regarded Isabella with a little smile. ’Your lands in Ponthieu? Hainault, perhaps? Yes, Hainault. Not too far, and I do believe the air there is most agreeable for the young. The countess’s daughters flourish, so my wife tells me. Rosy-cheeked, pretty girls. Just the sort of diversion for a boy who has become disgruntled.’

  ‘Robert,’ said Isabella, ‘If my heart was not already in another’s keeping, I would give it to you. You are magnificent.’

  The count shrugged. ‘It is nothing, ma chérie. And that tureen will look very fine on my board at home in Artois. My wife likes such extravagances.’

  As the days passed Isabella and I drifted into some semblance of our old relationship of royal mistress and favoured servant. But she couldn’t forget my trickery in marrying her brother-in-law. Ours was by no means a comfortable relationship.

  One morning, not long after Count Robert’s visit she asked me to accompany her to the royal apartments.

  ‘You have little to recommend you, Margaret, but a talent for keeping secrets can be useful in the hands of the right woman and today I require such a woman, one able to hold her tongue.’

  Holding my tongue was a habit I had acquired in my years with Isabella. First I had been the butt of hurtful taunts from Lady Eleanor Despenser and her coterie of friends, and later, on occasions, from Isabella herself. My elev
ation to listening at doorways and reading other people’s letters had taught me to watch what I said. Now I rarely spoke in the queen’s presence without first carefully weighing my words.

  ‘My brother is mourning his first wife,’ she informed me as we walked down the long gallery towards the French king’s chambers. ‘The whore. The faithless Blanche.’

  It was the first time Isabella had referred to her family’s domestic scandal.

  ‘She is dead?’

  ‘Yes, praise be. Even her mother is glad to be rid of the reminder. You don’t expect a child of yours to bring disgrace on your name in that way. If my father had not acted as he did, she would have had the girl strangled.’

  ‘And Monsiegneur Charles?’

  Isabella laughed. ‘He keeps them chained now. Marie, the second wife, was watched day and night and Madame of Evreux dare not even cough for fear of what my brother might do. It’s as well she’s such a timid little mouse.’

  When we reached the huge double doors of the royal apartments we were told the king was busy. Isabella scowled.

  ‘My brother requested my presence and I do not choose to wait while he amuses himself with others.’

  In his gilded chamber the king was indeed busy. With him were his cousin, Philip, the new count of Valois, and the bishop of Beauvais. The bishop was short, fat and expensively clothed, a huge amethyst gleaming on one of his plump white fingers. The count, in contrast, was a tall, thin man with broad but sloping shoulders. His long nose quivered like a greyhound’s and his pale blue eyes had a soft pleading expression as if he’d been whipped once too often. Isabella’s French ladies giggled that his wife ruled him the way she ruled their entire household: with a boot and a rod of iron.

  The table was covered in rolls of parchment and Monseigneur Charles was drumming his fingers in annoyance. He looked up as we entered.

  ‘Madam Isabella, my sister,’ he said. ‘How fortuitous. These men were just leaving.’