Harlot Queen (7 page)

The rest of the guests had departed, the court seemed empty. The King, for the most part courteous, remained cold; both courtesy and coldness enhanced by letters from France. In this court of strangers Isabella knew not who was to be trusted, who avoided. That she must be careful in word and deed she needed no telling. All courts were hotbeds of scandal; and in this court, where Gaveston had the King’s heart, more than most. The King had appointed four ladies to her bedchamber. ‘Two of them you must watch,’ Madam Queen Margaret said. ‘Gaveston’s wife and Despenser’s wife. They’re Gloucester’s sisters and good girls both. But they are not married to good men… and a woman’s first duty is to her husband. Gaveston’s wife would put her own neck under the axe for him, never mind another’s.’

‘I could have liked her,’ Isabella said, regretful.

‘You may still like her; and pity her, too… an open nature driven against itself by such a man! Like her, pity her—but never trust her. Trust her sister still less. She was well enough until she married. Despenser—ambitious as Gaveston and as greedy; but not so warm hearted and cleverer by far. And Eleanor’s under his thumb. Five years under that thumb! It plays havoc with goodwill and honesty.’

‘Five years married? She looks too young!’

‘She’s full eighteen.’

‘Thirteen when she was wed. Did her husband sleep with her?’

Margaret shrugged. ‘He’s one to take what he wants; a brutal young man.’

‘Is a man a brute to sleep with his wife?’

‘Each man must do according to his nature. Now for the other two. You may trust them both. There’s Elizabeth, the youngest Gloucester girl, she’s her mother Joanna all over again; a most lovely person. The other’s Gloucester’s wife; she’s steadfast and true. Pure gold those two; but they’re very young. Discretion may not equal honesty.’

‘I like them both. Gloucester’s wife certainly sleeps with her husband and she’s no older than I am.’

‘Full fifteen; a whole year older.’

‘My age when she began to sleep with him. She’s to have a child; no need to tell me, I use my eyes. All four of them living with their husbands as a wife should live. How much longer must I endure the slight the King puts upon me? Every man to his nature—as you say! And the King’s nature I begin, alas, to understand. But what of woman’s nature; what of
my
nature—answer me that!’

‘It is woman’s part to be patient—especially in such a matter.’

But the girl was right: Edward was a fool.

Between the King and Queen things were no better. To win her husband, a man cold to women, to turn him from love of Gaveston to love of herself—it was a task an experienced woman might well fear; for Isabella it was hopeless.

The advice concerning discretion she did her best to follow. With her ladies she was pleasant, endeavouring to show no preference and guarding her tongue even with those she might trust. But she was too young to be forever on her guard. All about her she felt the watching distrust of Gaveston’s wife, of Despenser’s wife.

To Gaveston, himself, she meant to show herself gracious; yet there were times when she must bite upon her tongue not to retort upon his flippancy, his rudeness. Her courtesy to Gaveston went unnoticed by the King; unnoticed by him, also—though not by others—the mignon’s scanted courtesy to the Queen.

To the King she showed herself debonair, readily obedient, resentment hidden. And he was pleasant enough, affectionate, even, with the affection he might show a small hound. But beyond that—nothing. And Gaveston kept his eyes upon them both. Let him suspect she was with the King and he made it his business to join them; even into her private closet he would come unasked and unannounced. And, so far from reproving, the King welcomed him with outstretched hands. Yet still she showed herself friendly, thrusting down anger but, for all that, her eyes betrayed her. She could not know how fierce her eyes, glowing amber-green.
Like a cat, a little wild cat
, Gaveston would say laughing. And of all this she kept her close account.

The Princess Elizabeth came up from Hereford; she found the little Queen peaked and unhappy.

‘Madam,’ she said, ‘sister—if I may call you so—you have the wit and the will to save us all. Gaveston—he’s no more than the sugar-plum my brother never had, and in his childhood should have had! So bleak a childhood, he and I. We never had a home, forever on the move; never the safe place that’s home.

‘When Edward was two, our parents left England. They were away three whole years. He was five when he saw them again. We went to Dover to meet them. We were both excited; Edward was sick with excitement.
Father, Mother
. He kept saying that over and over again; what it meant to him God knows!

‘And what did he find? Our mother—just another woman. She hardly knew us and she was shy; we thought it a coldness in her. I was disappointed; but Edward! And when it came to our father—there was tragedy! The child had expected to find something younger, warmer, kinder…
human
. And what did he find? An old man. Fifty, my father was—and older than his years; a life of fighting leaves its mark. Think of it! So little a child… and the old man, the old stern man. He shrank back. I saw him. And I saw my father’s face.
My son shrinks from me
.

‘It was the beginning of the trouble between them. My father didn’t understand children; his girls he loved—he didn’t expect too much of them. From his boy he expected too much; the courage, the endurance of a grown man. He tried to strengthen the child with the whip; and that didn’t make things better. Edward was just beginning to know our mother, to go to her for comfort—and then she died. He was just six.

‘So there he was—a motherless, frightened child, the object of his father’s deepest love… and deepest fears. A handsome boy, very strong. He rode well, he made good showing with his little sword; in every sport quick and skilled. But he lacked something; princely dignity, my father thought. Well, that was no wonder! While my father lived Edward was never his own master. When he was too old for a whipping, he’d be punished another way. Humiliated by harsh words, his allowance stopped, forced to trail at my father’s heels like a dog expecting the whip. He lost faith in himself. He began to seek the company of low fellows; and he found some comfort using his hands… making things. He’d plait a basket, or hammer a piece of iron, or make a pattern for my needle. He could stitch better than I could. Once he took my work from me to unpick a fault and my father caught him at it. He snatched the work from my brother and his face went black. In Christ’s name, he roared out, what do you call yourself—a lad or wench? And the contempt in his voice was terrible.’

‘Can you wonder?’ And there was contempt, also, in Isabella’s voice.

‘Yes, you can wonder! To see some beautiful thing his own hands had made—it was a need in him. Oh he’s man enough with sword or spear; but it’s the skill he likes, not the blood. He’ll fight if he must; and give a good account of himself. Even my father admitted it.

‘For eight years after my mother died, my father grieved; a lonely man. And then he married again. Not for love; he loved no woman ever save my mother. He married for peace; peace with France. A good marriage. It meant more to my brother than he’ll ever know. My father’s wife was so good to him. And she was young—seventeen to his fourteen; and that helped. But she had to feel her way; he didn’t trust her. She’d married the enemy—and she was a woman! But she won him. He loves her and he trusts her. And she? She loves him and she fears for him.’

‘She may well do that!’ Isabella said, a little spiteful. ‘Gaveston turns all hearts from the King.’

‘Then you must turn them again; you can do it! Madam, try to understand. Gaveston is come to be the joy in my brother’s life, all the sweetness. Gaveston dazzles him. And, above all, to cherish Gaveston is a symbol of revolt; revolt against my father, still more against those barons that like my father would curb him. It is for you, Madam, to teach my brother a new joy.’

‘Teach him to play the man in his own bed?’

‘Women are wiser in such affairs than men. And you are all of a woman. He’s twenty-four and you, fourteen. Yet still you are older. Bear with him, Madam, and teach him. So you save yourself and him and all England. I beseech you, think upon it.’

‘I have thought and can find no answer. That a man should love another man above all women, it is hard to understand; harder still to bear. Yet I will try; I will try, I swear it.’

Elizabeth took the Queen’s hand and kissed it.

The wisdom of Elizabeth’s advice Isabella accepted. With a patience foreign to her quick and wilful nature she set herself to woo the King. These days she was learning her craft; the craft of a clever woman exploiting her every charm. She was gentle with a gentleness learned from Madam Queen Margaret, she was gay with a gaiety learned from Madam Princess Elizabeth; and she was discreet beyond her years. Above all she made the most of her budding beauty; she was enough to delight any eye that could tear itself from contemplation of Gaveston.

But still the King looked upon her as a child, albeit a precocious one. When he came, as was now his custom, to bid her Goodnight, she would put forth every art to coax him to stay that he might not go to Piers. Sometimes he would allow himself to be coaxed into bed… but no further. Then she would turn to him with passion, locking him in her childish arms. Gentle, he would free himself; kiss her upon both cheeks and take himself off to a more congenial bed. Every failure still further lacerated her pride. But still, though often in despair, she went on trying.

‘Were he set upon a woman,’ she told Queen Margaret, ‘I could, I think, win him. It would be a challenge! But to win him from a man—and such a man! It is a challenge I cannot meet.’

‘Handsome enough; but stupid. One day he’ll make his blunder.’

‘The King’s blind with love; he’ll never see it.’

‘But others will see it; and others will punish. They bide their times, our lords. They’ll not endure for ever the way he stands between them and the King so that it’s hard for them to come at the King’s private ear. Nor will they long endure the way he speaks to them as though they were his servants—this petty Gascon squireling…’

‘…whose mother was burned as a witch.
A pity they didn’t burn her litter with her!,
that is what my uncle of Lancaster says and doesn’t care who hears him!’

‘Yet he should have care. It is not wise, even for Lancaster, to offend Gaveston.’

But, indeed, Lancaster and his brother Henry of Derby had their own grievance against the man. Uncles by blood to the Queen—sons of her grandmother of Navarre—they were not likely to countenance rudeness to their niece.

Gaveston and his rudeness was not the Queen’s only cause of distress. Great Edward, piling up his glory, had piled up, also, his debts. About those the King was not disposed to trouble—he had enough of his own making. There was no money in Treasury or Wardrobe, but still he went on crazily bestowing gifts upon his friend—lands and titles, jewels, horses, hounds, and hawks, what ever he deemed worthy of acceptance. And now it was May; four months since her marriage and the Queen had received nothing of her revenues. When she complained to the King that she had not the wherewithal to pay her servants, he retorted, Gaveston prompting, that her French household must go—ladies, women, priests, knights, esquires and pages.

‘Sir… my
friends
!’ Hands flown to her breasts she turned her frightened eyes upon the King.

‘It is not unusual,’ he said. ‘When Madam Queen Margaret came from France my father, within a little, sent her ladies home. Nor did she complain.’

She had no need. She was her husband’s dear companion
. She bit back the words. She turned on him the look of a little frightened animal, a cornered animal, so that his heart a little relented.

‘Madam de St. Pierre you may keep; and your confessor, also!’

She thanked him for that, grateful smile and bitter heart.

This, this, too, she would add to the long account with Gaveston! Alone in her closet—narrowed eyes, teeth caught upon her under-lip—she swore it.

She gave no sign of her anger. She went about white-faced and quiet; her quiet must have warned a wiser man. Madam Queen Margaret was not deceived. She went to the matter roundabout.

‘Madam the Queen has not received her revenues,’ she reminded him. ‘She has no money…’

‘She may save it upon her servants; these French—spendthrifts all! And for what also does she need money? She has gowns of tissue, gowns of silk, and gowns of scarlet-cloth. She has cloaks for summer and cloaks for winter and furs more than I can count. What else does she need?’

Margaret could have told him of many things, including the freedom to reward those that had rendered especial service.

‘And the jewels? And the gold plate she brought with her? They are not in her possession nor yet safe in the Tower. Where are they?’

No need for him to answer. She knew—and everybody knew—the answer. That the mignon might go richer the Queen must go poorer.

He shrugged. ‘What am I to do? I can get no more from the Wardrobe. You cannot squeeze blood from a stone!’

She sent him a long glance.
Let Gaveston need aught and the stone will bleed
. ‘Then give her the revenues of Ponthieu and Montreuil,’ she said.

His face darkened. He remembered—as she had meant—that once he would have given Ponthieu itself to Gaveston; that over this very matter he had quarrelled bitterly with his father.

She said, ‘Ponthieu and Montreuil—you had them from your mother. It is fitting, I think, they should be given to your wife.’ And when still he hesitated she put the matter plain. ‘You would have given both cities—not merely the revenues—to Gaveston that had no right. Shall you do less for your wife that has every right?’

He sent, sore against his will, for Lancaster. ‘Cousin, we are pleased to assign the revenues of Ponthieu and Montreuil to Madam the Queen for her own use. See that the seneschal of those towns have their orders.’

Madam the Queen said her thanks; she said them prettily… but her heart burned. These were her rightful revenues. They should have been given without this delay, this show of gratitude; nor could it compensate for friends sent away. That Gaveston had urged both the despatching of her friends and the withholding of her revenues she knew well; it was common property. That he was angered by this turn of affairs was clear. He showed himself sullen to the Queen; he behaved more rudely even than before. For this, also, Gaveston should pay one day! And, to judge by her uncle of Lancaster, that day would not be long coming.