by Hilda Lewis
Edward was looking from the ship’s forecastle and staring down into the grey restless water when Madam Queen Margaret came from within wrapped in a fur cloak against the sea-wind. He thought again how young she looked; but then she was not yet twenty-seven—a few years older than himself. He’d always thought it strange she had been content to marry his father; stranger still how truly she mourned his loss. She had never seemed like a step-mother; only like a wise, kind, elder sister. In her gentle goodness she reminded him of his sister Joanna—save that Joanna had been lovely and Margaret was no beauty but none the less lovable for that! Margaret good withouten lack they called her.
‘Sir,’ she said; and then, ‘Son, you are not happy about this marriage.’ And it was scarcely a question.
‘No.’ And he could not lie into those steady eyes. ‘But, if marry I must, this is as good as any!’ He turned his eyes upon the grey and tumbling sea. ‘It isn’t because of Piers,’ he said. ‘If there were no Piers it would be just the same. I don’t like women.’
She had long known it; her calm unshocked look encouraged him to speak further. She was glad of it; he might, a little, ease his heart.
‘All my life there’s been too many women. All those sisters! Eleanor and Blanche and Joanna and Margaret and Mary and Elizabeth; and all their women and their women’s women. A child smothered with women. I had my own household; but I wasn’t allowed to be alone in it, ever. Women; always women! Afterwards when I was older and the palace boys came it was too late; the mischief was done.’
‘Surely not beyond repair!’ But she feared it, she feared it. ‘In a little boy it’s easy to understand; but you’re a man now, free to come and go. Surely you can’t hate us all.’
‘Not hate; but I get no pleasure from women. Hate, you?’ He lifted her hand and kissed it. ‘And Joanna; Joanna I loved; she died too soon. She gave me courage. Never be afraid, she used to say. But, if you must be, never show it! And she lived by it. I never saw her afraid in my life.’
‘Nor I, neither. She had a great spirit.’
‘Never to be afraid, not even of my father!’
‘She had no need; nor you neither—if you had known. Gentleness begets gentleness.’ She sighed; others had called her husband harsh and cold, his own children even; but between him and her there had been much kindness.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘there are few sisters to trouble you now!’ and sighed again. ‘All dead or far away, save Mary and Elizabeth.’
‘Dear Elizabeth. She was—and is—forever my friend. She was a brave one, too. When I angered my father—and that was all too often—she always stood by me. That time, when I angered him over Piers; remember? He cut off supplies, I hadn’t a shilling; and he threatened to punish any that should comfort me. She sent me her own seal, the Hereford seal; and bade me take what I would, if it were to her last shilling. There was courage if you like.’
She nodded. ‘My husband’s anger was no light thing—though myself I never knew it. Could you not like women a little, for the sake of those two?’
He shook his head. ‘Not even for you that were, of all women, the kindest to a lonely boy—and you not more than a girl yourself. I love you, all three, forgetting you are women, remembering only your goodness. But the rest—women! When I was a child there were times I couldn’t breathe for women; and I would remember the brothers that died. Three little boys; and each one of them to have had the crown… and not one of them to live to have it. And I’d think, The women are alive; but the boys, the little boys are dead. And I was sure I must die, too. I was to have the crown; should I not die like my brothers? It seemed to me there was death on the crown. Women the crown and death—they went together.’
‘But,’ she reminded him gentle, ‘it was Joanna that died; Joanna and not you. And childhood is over; you must put away childish things.’ That his life had been shadowed by women she had always known; but his childhood fear of the crown—of death in the crown, that she had not dreamed.
‘Well,’ she said with a brightness she was far from feeling, ‘you have the crown—and you are far from dying. And, if you fear women, you cannot fear your wife, that pretty child. She’s loving and obedient; you may make of her what you will. Come, sir, let us go within; there’s hot wine in the forecastle.’
She saw his face brighten; he liked wine and drank more than was good for him. Still this was an occasion for rejoicing; she’d not have him show himself glum.
He was smiling as he followed her up into the forecastle.
II
Isabella, daughter to the King of France, stood looking out of a narrow window in Boulogne Castle. Standing on tip-toe, for she was not tall, she could see little but the dull sky. She brought a stool and, so standing, could see the tents spread for the reception of Edward King of England. Today her groom was crossing the sea to make her his wife.
His wife. She knew well what that entailed; she was fourteen and marriage-ripe. She desired ardently to be wed to the handsome young man; equally she desired to hear herself called Queen of England. But for all that she was a little frightened; fourteen, after all, is not very old. All night she had not slept; once she had come from her bed to pray heaven would be kind to her husband—as she herself would be kind. She had gone back to bed thoroughly chilled and less than ever able to sleep. Even now, her whole body would suddenly start and tremble like the plucked strings of a lute.
She was well pleased with her match. The King of England was well-endowed. He was lord of Normandy, of Guienne, of Aquitaine and Gascony—though for these he must do homage to her father. He was, besides, King of Ireland, King of Wales… and King of Scotland. At that last she frowned. She’d heard whisperings. Too much in haste to claim his bride, they said. Had he tarried a little longer he must have thoroughly defeated his rebellious Scots; now the crown of Scotland threatened to wobble upon that handsome head.
In haste to wed his bride; she could scarce quarrel with that! But when they were wed she’d send him north again. And she would ride with him—as his mother and step-mother had done, both of them—to keep him in good heart and to share his triumphs.
She argued childishly knowing nothing of policies, still less of the machinery of war. All she could see was herself—the crowned Queen riding beside her King to battle. A tale of chivalry come alive.
But if her reasoning was that of a child, her will was that of a woman, not to be set aside save by love alone—and not always then. She was used to having her own way. Whatever she wanted was immediately put into her hand; whatever she commanded, immediately done. But she had a shrewdness that forbade her to push her luck too far. Quick to hide her anger at rare refusals she had won a name for gentle obedience. But her women could have told another story. Let one of them prove clumsy or forgetful, and displeasure would be clear, retribution certain. Even Théophania de St. Pierre, the governess that Isabella truly loved, trembled before this formidable child.
The girl, herself, was perfectly aware of her own nature. It pleased her to know the strength of her hidden will; pleased her to know she could control her anger or let it fly as she chose. But occasions for anger were few. Who would presume to argue with the Princess Isabella, Madame of France? Yet from her governess she would take guidance; where Isabella loved she could be won. But Madam de St. Pierre rarely offered advice; her pupil’s wits were sharper than her own. And the child was charming, her manners beautiful. Madam de St. Pierre was well-satisfied with her charge.
From her place at the window Isabella turned to the clatter of small noises in the room beyond. A page came in carrying wine and white bread wrapped in a napkin. Madam de St. Pierre, at his heels, cried aloud seeing the girl kneeling all but naked at the window; she cried louder still at the dark—ringed eyes.
‘No, I did not sleep. Did you expect it?’ Isabella shrugged. ‘But I am well enough!’ She broke a roll in two and spread it thick with butter and honey; Madam de St. Pierre poured the wine. ‘How could a girl sleep expecting her
groom—and he the handsomest man in Christendom? At least so they say; but I’ll not believe it till my own eyes tell me so. Princes are forever flattered. Myself now. They swear I’m the beauty of France; but I know for myself the truth of that! There’s my cousin Marie—all blue eyes and bright gold hair; angel-face! And there’s a dozen I could name all handsomer than myself.’
She waited for Madam de St. Pierre to contradict her; Madam de St. Pierre said nothing.
‘Wouldn’t you say so?’ Isabella asked.
‘You’re not full-grown. They’re in the prime of their looks. A year or two—and there’ll be none to touch you!’
Isabella was piqued. She longed to hear that here and now she was the fairest woman in France. She picked up a hand-mirror, her most cherished possession; not because of the cunningly wrought back and handle but because of the glass the jewelled frame enclosed. Glass was a rare possession; it reflected one’s beauties—and one’s blemishes, were one so unfortunate as to possess them—more clearly than any burnished metal.
She examined her face in its clear depths.
A pretty face. But more; surely more. Unusual. Framed in the pale hair, green-gold, not such another to be found in all France. She looked with love upon the skin, pearl-pale through which light seemed forever to flow—so one of the troubadours had sung only this last week. And what of the strange eyes? Changing eyes; now green flecked with gold, now gold flecked with green. She could narrow them so that the green-gold shone, arrows of light between thick fringed lashes, dark by heaven’s own miracle. She could widen them so that the pupils threw up the splendour of the iris jewelled in emerald and topaz. And, young as she was, she knew how to use them—open and innocent or veiled and mysterious—to get her way with any man.
‘I cannot wait two years, or even one!’ She said, finger—tip smoothing the fine winged brows. She had thought once or twice of plucking them in the fashionable way. But plucked brows gave the face a stupid egg-look; her own brows gave her a fay look, as though any moment she might fly away—so the latest chanson assured her. No need to follow the fashion; fashion would always follow obedient at her heels. ‘Suppose he find me not woman enough?’ Her hands went to her small budding breasts.
‘Then he’ll be a fool!’
‘You talk of the King of England!’ the girl reminded her, severe.
‘He’s but a man like the rest!’
Like the rest! Reassuring thought. If this unknown husband were truly like the rest, life would be pleasant, indeed. She nodded and smiled to herself in the looking-glass.
‘Madam is well pleased with her match!’
‘Should I not be? The blessed Virgin has, I think, a care for me. For, being of some account in the marriage-market, I might have been forced to wed an old man,’ and she shuddered in disgust. ‘My Aunt, Madam the Queen of England—the Dowager Queen,’ she corrected herself, ‘was wed to an old, old ancient man, and she no older than I am now! He would have frightened me into the grave!’
‘It was a happy marriage! When the old King died she was desolate—and still is!’
‘She’ll soon dry her tears.’ The girl spoke with startling precocity. ‘There’s not a young widow will weep for an old husband for ever… save she cannot get another! But,’ she shrugged, ‘that concerns me not at all. I’m to wed a young man, handsome and pleasant, they say.’
‘There’s other things they say. Extravagant; money runs through his fingers like water through a sieve.’
‘I’ll not quarrel with that as long as he spends it on the right things.’ Her laugh rang out soft and full; a pretty laugh. ‘If he love a good horse, hound or hawk; if he love fine furnishings, fine clothes, fine food I’ll like him the better! Well now, what more of him?’
‘Nothing, Madam, nothing you don’t already know.’
‘I think there is. I hear about a favourite; a Gascon or a Béarnais. But, ask as I may, I find out nothing. Yet something’s to be found, or why this silence? Come, tell me what you know!’ It was half command, half entreaty.
‘I, Madam? I know nothing.’ Madam de St. Pierre, sallow cheeks flushing, spread deprecating hands.
‘I know that tone, I know those hands, and I know that blush! Come now, if there’s anything to know, I should be warned.’
‘It’s the young man, the King’s friend, they call him greedy. He knows what it is to be poor—and means never to be poor again.’
‘Very wise. All men take what they can get—but let him be wise in his taking!’
‘He’s very proud…’
‘Let him bear himself as he will—as long as he bear himself seemly to his Queen. What else?’ ‘A sharp tongue they say.’
‘It could be amusing—as long as he keep it from me. Is there more?’
‘No, Madam… except that the old King advanced him for courage in the field and thereafter took a dislike and banished him. The young King brought him back. There’s nothing more except that ladies find him charming; and, oh yes, his mother was burnt for a witch.’
‘And was she a witch?’
Théophania de St. Pierre shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
‘One hopes she was, since she was burnt for it. I hate injustice. Maybe that’s why folk purse their lips and say nothing when I ask about the son. Maybe they fear the curse from the grave. Well, and one thing more. The name of this handsome, proud, spendthrift gentleman with the sharp tongue?’
‘Gaveston, Madam. Piers Gaveston.’
‘Piers Gaveston.’ The dark winged brows flew together. ‘I shall remember it!’
They looked at each other—groom and child bride. Beneath her quiet, her heart exulted. He was everything her husband should be. He was very handsome—no courtier’s flattery there; golden looks and grace of person. And if she missed the weakness about the mouth she was scarce to be blamed; fourteen is over-young to judge of men. For his part he saw a pale, pretty child—no more. And if he missed the strength of mouth and chin it was not surprising; he’d never been a judge of character.
Her father spoke the words of welcome; she went down in her curtsey and the young man bending from his tall height to raise her, saluted her hand. That was all. But it was enough; enough!
She had not, as yet, spoken with him; but she had spoken with Madam Queen Margaret her father’s own sister. She remembered her aunt not at all; she had been but four when Margaret left for England. She was glad, indeed, to talk with her aunt—there was very much to learn.
She was no beauty, Madam Queen Margaret—the only plain one in the handsome Capet family. Her nose was long and her eyes small. But for all that it was a comely face, wise and kindly; she was one, Isabella thought, to trust. She was twenty-six now; and, even to Isabella, twenty-six was not very old. Twenty-six and her husband above seventy when he died! Yet still she mourned for him. When he died, all men died for me, she told her niece.
That was, of course, absurd. A young woman should weep as was seemly—but not for too long. Thereafter she should dry her tears. ‘We shall find you a new lord,’ Isabella said, reigning Queen to Dowager.
‘My niece is kind. Let her not trouble her heart for me!’ And Margaret pitied the girl that knew so little.
‘We shall see to it…’ the girl began. Something about her aunt forbade further talk on the matter; not well pleased Isabella bent to that gentle authority.
Margaret, seeing the hurt given for kindness meant, said quickly, ‘All England is wild with excitement; they talk of nothing but their new Queen. At Westminster great preparations are going forward. The royal apartments have been completely rebuilt; they were damaged by fire last year. The stonework is new and everything’s bright with colour—scarlet and gold and blue; very gay. And your tapestries have come. The royal arms of France look wonderful; they’re hanging in the Queen’s chamber to welcome you. And the furniture is new and splendid. The great bed’s a marvel of carving; the tester and the curtains are all green and gold.’
Green and gold. Green brought out the col
our of her eyes, gold the colour of her hair. She’d look her best in bed…
‘The gardens at Westminster, I’ve never seen them so fine. The lord my husband cared little for gardens; he was a soldier first and last. But his son’s different. He tells the gardeners what they must do and sees they do it. And he’s always right; he has green fingers. I think at times his fingers itch for the spade.’ She saw amazement in the girl’s face and did not repeat what they said of him—that, give him the chance, he’d turn his hand to spade or bellows, to chisel, to hod or any other unkingly thing. A pity, they said, he didn’t show the same love for his own craft—ruling and fighting; a King’s craft.
‘And the King has commanded a new landing-stage; it’s called the Queen’s pier. And anchored there you’ll find your own boat. She’s called The Margaret of Westminster.’
She should be the Isabella… The girl’s face spoke clear.
‘She was my ship; my husband’s gift to me,’ Margaret said, softly. ‘And now I give her to you with all my love. She’s a lovely ship, very swift; a bird of a ship. She’s new-painted—red and gold and white; and so, too, her barges, all three. She’s smooth and strong—even to cross the sea. You will like sailing down the Thames to Windsor, perhaps as far as Oxford. It’s a gay river…’
Isabella’s mind, quick-darting and impatient, had had enough of gardens and rivers. Now she asked about the most important thing of all.
‘Great preparations for the crowning,’ Margaret said. ‘You may imagine! They say a King and Queen of England have never been crowned at one and the same time. It will be magnificent.’
‘Who has charge of our Kingdom in our absence?’ The question came sudden and unexpected.
Margaret was tempted to smile at the girl’s self-importance; but the young are tender and must be tenderly cherished.
‘The earl of Cornwall.’ She had no more desire to smile.
‘I have not heard of him!’
‘He’s but new-made.’
‘And who may he be, this new earl of Cornwall?’