by Paul Doherty
‘Lady Isabella,’ he sighed, ‘will not be in her chamber but where she always is, the fountain courtyard.’
We left the hall, down a wooden-panelled passageway, and went back into the cold air. This was no cobbled bailey but a spacious courtyard with buildings of eye-catching honey-coloured stone surrounding it. The paving stones were of the same hue; in the centre a fountain splashed, the leaping water creating the impression of summer though the ice in the basin proved it was still winter. Pots of crackling charcoal sprinkled with a herbal perfume provided some warmth. In a corner two knight bannerets, cloaks pulled close, stood out of the biting wind talking quietly between themselves. The chamberlain gestured. A figure, almost shrouded in a gold-edged blue robe, sat with her back to us, staring at the ice in the fountain bowl.
‘I can’t announce you.’ The chamberlain seemed strangely frightened. ‘The Lady Isabella has a temper. She does not wish to be disturbed when she is talking to Marie.’
‘Marie?’ Monsieur Simon whispered. ‘Who is Marie, is it a pet fish or bird?’
I kept staring at that still figure, motionless, as if carved out of stone. The chamberlain whispered to my companion. Monsieur Simon clasped my hand, then left hurriedly. I never saw him alive again. A short while later he and his entire household were murdered, but, God assoil them, I shall come to that.
At the time I stood until I became aware of the cold, how my thighs and legs ached. I walked across, round the bench, and gazed down at the small figure. She’d hidden her hands beneath the cloak; now these came out, fingers so delicate, and her head came up, the hood pushed back, and I looked on Isabella for the first time. She had lustrous golden hair, parted along the middle, and falling down to her shoulders. A lively, rather thin face with an elfin look, the nose pert, the lips flame-red, but those strange blue eyes with their Moorish slant were truly beautiful, a legacy I later learnt from her mother, Jeanne of Navarre. She peered up at me, swinging her feet in their hard-soled sandals.
‘Who are you?’ She cocked her head to one side and looked me up and down. ‘Just who are you? Why are you here?’
‘Madame,’ I stammered, ‘madame, I am Mathilde de Clairebon. I am to join your household as a demoiselle de chambre.’
‘Come here, Mathilde.’ She smiled. I stepped closer. She abruptly swung her leg back and kicked me viciously in the shin. I yelped in pain, lifting my foot to nurse my ankle. She noticed my anger, my clenched fist. The knights in the corner became alerted by the altercation. I heard their raised voices, the sound of a drawn sword. Isabella’s face grew serious.
‘Don’t do anything,’ she whispered. ‘Fall to your knees.’
She gestured with her hands, indicating at the knights to stand back, then leaned closer, her faint herbal fragrance, rosewater and something else, tickling my nostrils. Her skin was pure and clean, her teeth white, not a mark; the nose didn’t look quite so pert but rather sharp, whilst those eyes were a brilliant blue, so clear yet so striking, and her skin glowed as if dusted with gold. She raised a hand, pushing a few hairs from her forehead, and felt her throat.
‘They say I have a swan neck,’ she murmured. ‘One day I will be truly beautiful. What do you think, Mathilde?’
‘Madame,’ I retorted, ‘you are as beautiful as any jewel. Any painting I have seen of an angel would compare with you.’
She lifted her foot and pressed it against my groin.
‘Are you virgo intacta?’
I was so shocked by the question from one so young, I just gaped back.
‘Who are you, Mathilde, really? You’re frightened, aren’t you? Why are you frightened of me? No one is frightened of me. Yet,’ she turned quickly as if someone was sitting beside her before glancing back at me, ‘Marie doesn’t like you.’
‘Madame,’ I demanded, ‘who is Marie? I can’t see anyone.’
‘Of course, you can’t.’ She laughed; not a girlish giggle, but a deep, throaty laugh as if she was truly amused by my reaction.
‘You can’t see Marie. No one can see her except me. I’ve seen her for years. She always comes with me. She’s my lady-in-waiting. She died, you know, some years ago, or so she told me, of the sweating sickness. Now she comes back and talks to me. She sits on my bed while I sew a piece of tapestry or try to read the book of hours Father gave me. You’ve met my father?’
I shook my head, the ice was soaking through my knees. I was aware of how cold the air had become. The knights ignored us as if they were used to such scenes. I turned my head slightly to see what they were doing and received a stinging slap on my face.
‘I am the Princess of France.’ Isabella smiled at me. She touched me gently where she’d struck me. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt. I have talked to Marie about you. I’m afraid she truly doesn’t like you. Now, what answer do you make to that, Mathilde?’
‘I don’t like her either, madame,’ I replied.
‘Now isn’t that strange?’ Again the laugh. Isabella watched me curiously. ‘Here I am, Isabella of France, the only daughter of the great Philip, soon to be the wife of the King of England, mother of his heir. Every time I mention Marie they humour me, Mathilde. Some people even claim they can see her. So I ask them to describe her and they always describe me. If you really could see her, you’d know that she has black hair, black as a raven’s wing and very dark eyes. She looks like one of the moon people, the road wanderers. Anyway,’ she continued, hands resting in her lap, swinging her feet like any little girl, ‘anyway, I’ve asked Marie why she doesn’t like you. She won’t reply. You say you don’t like her, which will be interesting.’ She leaned nearer. ‘We’re leaving soon, you know that? I am to go to England, to become queen of that fairy isle, to sit on the throne at Westminster to be crowned, and to share the bed of Edward. Do you know Edward, the young king?’
I shook my head.
‘They say he is very handsome,’ she continued. ‘He looks a little like me, a distant kinsman; Father explained how we are related. They say he too has golden hair, blue eyes and a lovely beard and moustache. They also say other things: how he prefers to dig a ditch, thatch a cottage or be taken along the river in a barge and joke with varlets, labourers and other servants of the meaner sort. He has a pet lion and a camel in his great fortress, the Tower of London. Do you want to know something else?’ She looked around. ‘I’ve discussed this with Marie: they say he likes other men. I’ve heard of that; brother Louis told me what they do to each other: they put their thing,’ she pressed her sandalled foot against my groin, again, ‘not into a woman’s place, because a man doesn’t have that, but elsewhere.’ She turned slightly and patted her own rump. ‘Do you know what they mean, Mathilde?’
I did, but I shook my head, only to receive another slap, this time softer, on my face.
‘You’re not a very good liar, Mathilde. You will be, if you serve me and live in my household. You do know what I am talking about?’
She turned, cocking her head slightly as if listening to her invisible companion. She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.
‘Shall I tell you something, Mathilde? Marie has changed her mind. She thinks she likes you, and so do I.’ She began to sing softly under her breath, a Goliard hymn, a wandering scholar’s filthy song. I wondered who could have taught her that.
‘Can I trust you, Mathilde?’
‘With your life?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ She pouted. ‘Can I trust you?’
‘Of course, madame, I am your servant.’
‘Of course you are,’ she mimicked, eyes dancing with merriment. ‘I told a lie. They are frightened of me! They want me to leave and I want to go. Mathilde, have you heard the stories? How my father may have poisoned my mother? That’s what the gossips claim. Father heard a servant girl repeat it; she was burned and her lover was hanged in Father’s apple orchard. He claimed they were guilty of treason, but why should he burn a girl and hang a boy because of rumour and malicious gossip? Anyway,’ she continued, ‘they’ll
be glad to see me leave here. They’re frightened, you know.’
‘What of?’ I asked.
‘Ah, you’ll see. Virgo intacta,’ she murmured. ‘I am supposed to go to Edward virgo intacta.’
‘Of course you are, your grace,’ I hastily replied, just wishing I could get up from my knees.
‘You may sit beside me now.’ The order came so swiftly, I wondered if she knew exactly what I was thinking and who I really was. I sat down beside her. She edged closer, pressing her body against me. I felt her warmth and realised she must have a jar of heated coals beneath her cloak to fend off the cold.
‘You see, Mathilde, no one really wants to come with me to England. Father has chosen the ladies for my retinue as well as the servants for my household. Most of them will be his spies and dutifully report back. I told him that I wanted servants I could trust, people not from the court. Father, of course, has had his way, so he’s become too bored, or too busy, to deal with it. Uncle Charles said he would do what he could. He mentioned you. Anyway, you are a change!’
Again she turned away to talk to the invisible Marie, chattering away in a language I couldn’t understand. She glanced back at me.
‘You’re wondering what tongue I’m using. Well, I will tell you, it’s a language only Marie and I understand.’
‘How long has Marie been with you?’
‘Oh, as long as I remember. I was telling you why they are frightened, my brothers and my father? Well, for the last two years my brothers have come into my bedchamber. Oh yes they do.’ She nudged me playfully. ‘They slide between the sheets and fondle my body; even Father, when he wishes to embrace me, puts his hands where he should not. I know that, Mathilde, because of Ursula; she was an old lady-in-waiting, one of my mother’s people, dark of skin, with a sour disposition but a keen eye and an even sharper tongue.’
‘And what happened to Ursula?’
‘She protested. She objected to what she had seen and became angry with my brother Louis. Anyway,’ she shrugged, ‘a week later Ursula fell down some steps and broke her neck. They buried her in the poor man’s plot in the cemetery, the one the soldiers use, as no one claimed her body. She had no relatives here.’
The two knights remained huddled in the corner, lost in their own conversation, no longer bothered about me or the princess they were supposed to be guarding.
‘Yes, they are frightened,’ Isabella repeated. ‘They don’t want me to tell Edward what has happened. Can you imagine, Mathilde, if the new King of England, that lusty warrior, discovered I had shared my bed with my own brothers, where we’d played tumble games? He’d object. He’d write to the Holy Father in Avignon. I have sworn an oath to my father and my brothers to keep silent on that matter, provided I have my way in certain things; one of them is you, Mathilde. You will sleep at the door of my chamber.’ She rose to her feet and thrust the small heated pot she brought from beneath her cloak into my hands.
‘Warm yourself and come, follow me.’
We entered the palace, and climbed a wooden staircase. The princess’s chambers stood along a small gallery, three rooms in all: a main chamber, flanked by a waiting room and another for stores. The gallery was of polished wood, panelling along one wall and against the outer one deep window seats overlooking the fountain courtyard. Ladies-in-waiting were sitting there muffled against the cold, warming themselves over chafing dishes, pretending to be busy with embroidery; of course they had been watching us all the time. They rose as the princess approached. One hastened forward and grasped her by the hand, exclaiming loudly how cold her mistress felt. The princess shrugged this off and dismissed them. She swept into her own chamber. I followed.
‘Close the door,’ the princess called out over her shoulder. I put down the warming pot and hastened to obey.
‘Pull the bolts at top and bottom,’ she continued. ‘So no one can disturb us.’
I did so. Isabella turned, unfastened her cloak and let it fall. She was dressed in a blood-red woollen gown edged with ermine, fastened at the neck by a silver cord. Before I could protest, she undid this, easing the gown over her shoulders to fall at her feet. She then removed her kirtle, and her undergarments, until she stood naked before me, a young woman’s body, breasts already sprouting, hips widening. She turned, spreading out her hands.
‘Demoiselle Mathilde, this is what I will take to Edward of England. Now it’s time for something warmer.’
She redressed in woollen undergarments, quickly putting on a blue and silver gown, taking a pelisse from a peg on the wall to wrap about her shoulders. I was so embarrassed at her actions I glanced round the chamber, at the bed drapes, the Turkey rugs, the glorious coloured arras and tapestries resting against the pink-painted plaster. Above me hung a wooden chandelier; it carried six candles and could be lowered by a rope to shed greater light. Across the room stood a small writing desk and high-backed chair. The desk was covered with pieces of parchment and quills. Around the chamber ranged chests, some sealed and locked, others, with their lids thrown back, from which spilled precious cloth, brocaded clothing, belts, books, all the possessions of a rich, spoilt, pampered girl. Well, that was my first impression. I was yet to realise how Isabella could have performed in any mummers’ play, shifting from mood to mood, sometimes a child, at others a young woman. Now and again she’d act the innocent until her face assumed a cunning look as if she was calculating everything, weighing all she saw and heard in the balance. Whatever Marie had told her, Isabella had seemed to greet me as if I was a long-lost servant, as if we had known each other for years. Now she walked across and sat on the high-backed chair before the writing desk. She snapped her fingers, gesturing at a quilted stool in the corner.
‘Bring that over here, Mathilde, sit next to me.’
I did so, and Isabella rubbed her hands. ‘I’m cold.’ She pointed to the wheeled brazier just inside the door, the charcoal spluttering, small tendrils of smoke escaping, mingling with the perfume of sweet powders sprinkled on top. ‘Bring that across, Mathilde’. I hurried to do so. Once I had taken my seat, she gestured at another table where there was a jug of fruit juice and two goblets.
‘Fill both, one for you and one for me.’ So the game continued as she sent me hither and thither around the room, for this or that. Eventually she tired and turned to face me, once again swinging her legs, as if wondering whether to kick me or not.
‘Well, Mathilde, what are we to do?’ She steepled her fingers, pressing her hands hard. ‘We should be in England now.’ She smiled. ‘But Edward refuses to arrest the Templars! Now he is saying he doesn’t want to marry me.’ She threw her head back and laughed. ‘Father’s rage is to be seen to be believed. Spots of anger appear,’ she tapped her own cheek, ‘on either side, red splotches like those on a jester, and here,’ she pulled her lower lip down, ‘a white froth bubbles. They say my father has a heart of ice; I know different. He throbs with fury at the English king’s insults. So, Mathilde, we might spend a long time together before we take the road and cross the Narrow Seas to that mysterious island!’ She pushed her face closer, as if I was a child. ‘The mysterious island.’ She grimaced. ‘Nothing mysterious about it; only wet, dark and green, with elves and goblins living in the forest. They do say London is a magnificent city, like Paris, with a great thoroughfare and stalls which sell everything, and I,’ she tapped her chest, ‘will be queen of it all, but only if Edward stops baiting Father. Now, this is what I want you to do, Mathilde. I want you to listen to me.’ She wagged her finger. ‘No, don’t object.’ She blinked. ‘Looking at you, Mathilde, I suspect you are a keeper of secrets. If I told my father about that, he would have you investigated. Why do I know that? Well, you are the only person who really wants to go to England, so what are you hiding? Why do you want to flee?’
I kept my face impassive and held her gaze.
‘The more I look at you, Mathilde,’ she gossiped on, ‘the more I like you.’ She smiled. ‘You’re wondering why I am telling you all these secr
ets? Quite simple!’ She clapped her hands. ‘If you told other people they wouldn’t believe you, whilst if my father or brothers realised you now know, they’d certainly kill you! Oh, Mathilde,’ she breathed, ‘it is so good to talk to flesh and blood!’
She got up to confront me squarely, staring at my face as if seeing me for the first time. ‘I wonder who you really are,’ she repeated. She screwed her eyes up, no longer a young lady, more a mere chit of a child, yet there was something highly dangerous about her. Isabella was quick-witted, her moods ever changing; she had yet to learn how to school her expressions, she was still young and innocent enough to let her mask slip. She was weighing me carefully in the balance. She touched my face. ‘Olive skin and smooth,’ she murmured. ‘Thick eyebrows over green eyes, black hair, like Marie’s, cut into a bob. They say you’re trained as a leech, an apothecary.’ She laughed. ‘You’re a woman and too young to be an expert, a peritus, but you can stare and watch. I believe you’ll be the sharpest arrow in my quiver. Stretch out your hands.’
I did so. She gently eased back the sleeves of my gown and scrutinised my wrists and hands. ‘Soft but used.’ She held up the callused finger of my right hand. ‘And a quill? Do you play hazard, Mathilde?’
‘At times, my lady.’
‘Good, I like to play. I have my own dice. They are made out of ivory. What my brothers don’t know is that they are cogged; I always win.’ She laughed behind her fingers. ‘Now, Mathilde,’ she rapped me again on the ankles, this time more gently, ‘you will hold office in my household. You will be my dame de la chambre: where I go, you follow. If I ride, you will either accompany me on horse or run beside me. You are my messenger and my taster. Oh yes, I want you to make sure that if wine and food are brought to my chamber, they remain pure and untainted.’ Again the low laugh behind splayed fingers; all the time those keen blue eyes scrutinised me carefully.