The Pearl of France

by Caroline Newark

  After a while they walked back up the nave and I could hear them more clearly even though they were still speaking quietly.

  ‘It is agreed?’ said the first.

  ‘Written in blood,’ said the second.

  ‘And sworn on the Holy Book?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If the time comes for a Scottish kingdom ...’

  ‘When the time comes for a Scottish kingdom.’

  I recognized that second voice. It belonged to the earl of Carrick, Sir Robert Bruce.

  ‘Naturally,’ said the first man. ‘Before the old fox dies?’

  ‘That depends on Comyn. If he’s with us, then yes.’

  ‘But for the moment this lies between us and Almighty God.’

  I could see them both now. The light from the windows cut across their faces. The earl of Carrick looked tired. His accomplice, a youngish man with fair hair, seemed vaguely familiar. I tried to recall where I’d seen him. Then I remembered. Without his bishop’s vestments he looked different. This was William Lamberton, bishop of St Andrews, a man I’d last seen at the parliament. I frowned, trying to recall what my husband had said. I’d been told he was a Balliol man, wedded to the ex-king and his Comyn allies, yet here he was having dealings with their sworn enemy, Sir Robert Bruce.

  I shrank back into the hood of my cloak, pulling it across my face. I didn’t want them knowing who I was if they happened to look my way. Shrouded like this I could be any woman come to pray at Our Lady’s feet. But they carried on up the nave without looking to left or right.

  ‘You have counted the blood money due if you don’t live up to our bargain, Sir Bishop?’ said Sir Robert quietly.

  Lamberton laughed, then stifled the noise. ‘I’ve made my decision, Sir Robert. You’ve no need to fear I’ll change my mind and loss of money would not sweeten the folly if I did. Balliol won’t return. We’re certain of that. So if it is your desire, the crown is yours. Just be sure the lord of Badenoch agrees. We don’t want more killings.’

  ‘And Wishart?’

  ‘Ah, the good bishop of Glasgow, my brother in Christ. Never fear, he’s in agreement. But it must be all of us so make certain of the Comyns. You may not like them but we need them and their kin.’

  I held my breath afraid they’d hear me. No mouse could have been as quiet as I was and no cat could have posed as much danger as these two men.

  ‘We must decide on a sign,’ said Lamberton.

  ‘I’ll think on it,’ said Sir Robert, his voice growing fainter as they disappeared up the nave.

  ‘Then it’s to King Robert.’

  ‘Nay. It’s to the kingdom of Scotland.’

  ‘And the early death of unwelcome intruders,’ laughed the bishop.

  I heard nothing more. I stayed where I was, shivering. It was treason but what should I do? Should I tell my husband or should I keep silent? My husband already knew how fragile was the loyalty of men like the earl of Carrick. He had once described Sir Robert as a man whose allegiance changed with the wind, but I felt sick at the casual way Bishop Lamberton had wished my husband dead.

  I stayed where I was for a long time, too frightened to move, but eventually, when I was sure they were gone and would not return, I rose and took my leave. All the way back along the path to the river, despite the sheltering group of women giving me the illusion of safety, I looked fearfully about me, wondering where the two men were and what they were doing.

  Late that afternoon when supping with my husband I noticed how weary he was. He was no longer a young man but somehow this last campaign had drained him of his remaining youth. In private, when we were alone the lines down the side of his mouth seemed deeper and made him look dispirited. His eye, which drooped when he was tired, appeared permanently half-closed, and his hair and beard were now completely white. Yet five years ago, at our marriage how young he had looked.

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  I jumped out of my reverie.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, my lord.’

  ‘The earl of Carrick is back with us. The father’s dead and Bruce has come to do homage for his English lands. I wish I had more like him and fewer like that weasel, Lamberton, who looks you in the eye, mouthing a prayer while all the time he’s planning to knife you in the belly.’

  ‘Is the bishop not to be trusted?’

  ‘I’d sooner trust a scorpion. But Bruce is sound and soon we’ll have Wallace strung up on a gibbet and that will be an end to it.’

  ‘My lord, there is something I must tell you.’ I began to speak of the overheard conversation when my husband gave a sudden groan. His face twisted in pain and he clutched at his belly.

  ‘My lord?’

  I had a sudden vision of Blanche, mimicking the old men at Philip’s court who moaned of aches and pains. “Always whining about their bellies,” she’d mocked. “If I was married to one such, I’d slip him a potion of devil berries. That would stop his complaints.”

  But I didn’t want my life to be that of nursemaid to an ailing husband. I was young enough to want more from a husband and I most certainly desired another child.

  ‘Shall I get you something to ease the pain, my lord?’ I asked.

  ‘No, keep me company. You may sing for me. A wife’s duty is to entertain her husband, not to talk to him of war.’

  ‘But ...’

  ‘Sing!’

  I picked up my lute and, as ordered, began to sing.

  It was mid-summer and towering above my head was a monster built from wood and ropes. This was my husband’s latest war machine and it looked like the work of the devil himself. The sack for the rocks lay limp under the axle, yet I was told this engine could hurl its missiles right over the walls of the castle.

  ‘I’ve named it Warwolf,’ said my husband, admiring his latest toy. ‘I’ll teach that young puppy, Oliphant, a lesson in warfare. Show him what it means to defy the king. Before the week’s out he’ll be crawling out with his tail between his legs, begging for mercy.’

  I thought of the men trapped inside the castle who’d been nearly three months without supplies. I had rarely been hungry in my life and could not imagine what it must be like to starve. Were they eating rats? I’d heard this is what men did, but I couldn’t imagine it. My brother Louis said men, in extremis, ate their dead comrades but I refused to believe any Christian man would commit such a foul act.

  At that moment we heard a cry from one of the guards. A young man holding a torn white pennant was coming out of the castle gatehouse.

  ‘Aha!’ said my husband, rubbing his hands together with glee. ‘The garrison wish to parley.’

  The man looked half-starved. He was about twenty and thin to the point of emaciation. His cheeks were hollowed and his tattered garments hung on arms and legs which were like sticks. He was covered in grime yet despite his privations he held himself erect.

  ‘Well?’ said my husband. ‘What does Sir William have to say for himself? Does he still wish to write a letter to his master or has he realised who his master is?’

  The young man looked my husband in the eye and began to speak.

  ‘Sir William Oliphant, captain of the garrison of Stirling Castle, wishes to convey to you, Edward of England, his wish to surrender the castle into your hands. He expects you to honour the code of chivalry and treat the garrison honourably. There is to be no loss of life or limb, and no retaliation is to be caused to our people. We acknowledge your superior power and have no wish to prolong our agony.’

  He swayed and looked as if he might collapse.

  My husband smiled.

  ‘A shame he didn’t think of this three months ago. I might have been inclined to accept. But now ... well, now I think we shall continue a bit longer. I’m sure Sir William has eyed my Warwolf and wondered what damage it can inflict, how many it can kill. I’m minded to let
him discover for himself what happens to those who defy me. Return to your captain and tell him I decline his offer. Tell him to ask again in a week’s time - if he’s still alive.’

  Not a flicker passed over the young man’s face. He bowed courteously, turned, and walked slowly back up the hill, eventually disappearing under the gatehouse. In the shadows the gate opened a fraction to let him slip through and then slammed tight shut again.

  ‘My lord,’ I protested. ‘You can’t refuse their surrender. They’re starving.’

  He rounded on me.

  ‘I can refuse anything I like. I am the king and overlord of them all. And, I would remind you, madam, your overlord as well. So get back to your sewing and leave men’s work to men.’

  ‘But my lord ...’

  He lost his temper. I was completely unprepared for the sudden onslaught. It had been so long since I’d seen him like this I had completely forgotten how frightening he could be. Grasping hold of my wrist, he dragged me through the crowd of men to my pavilion, shouting at the three women sewing shirts for their menfolk to get out. They scuttled away like frightened beetles, dropping garments in an untidy heap on the chest.

  Once inside, he grabbed hold of my arms with such force that he crushed the fabric of my gown and bruised the skin beneath. I could feel the imprint of his fingers against the bone as he pushed me backwards.

  ‘Why do you do this? Always prodding and poking at my decisions with your sharp little tongue. Eleanor never behaved as you do. She knew what war was and how a royal wife should behave. In all our years together she was a constant support in everything I did, not like you, a continual prick to my conscience.’

  I was frightened by his brutal handling of me but not so much so that I was prepared to ignore his insult. And he should have known better than to mention her: this paragon of virtue, this flawless wife, this shining example of queenly perfection whom I could never hope to emulate.

  I had lived with him for a long time and had had to suffer too many casual reminders of my failure to live up to the example of his beloved ideal companion to accept this latest rebuke. His unjustified attack on my fruitless efforts to make him a better king and a more merciful lord unleashed all the years of unspoken resentment and we were back again in that tower room at Carlisle the year Thomas was born, eyeing each other across a chasm as wide as the Narrow Sea with not the slightest understanding of each other.

  I pulled away from him and stood perfectly still, my hands gripped tight in fury.

  ‘Perhaps your first wife had as little conscience as you seem to have,’ I replied sharply, my voice rising in anger. ‘Perhaps a woman who prefers to ride off on crusade rather than care for her children’s welfare has little idea of God’s teachings.’

  ‘Don’t you dare speak of her like that,’ he shouted.

  ‘I’ll speak of her in any way I want,’ I screamed. ‘You seem to forget who I am. I am not just a vessel for bearing your sons, I am your wife and I’m tired of always coming second in your thoughts, always being compared to her, and I’m tired of being expected to save you from yourself. Don’t you understand the virtue of mercy?’

  ‘I never asked you to save me from myself and mercy is the province of weaklings. A king needs to be strong.’

  ‘So strong you bombard half-starved young men to death? What sort of king delights in crushing men who are already on their knees? ’

  ‘One who wins, madam. That is what war is about – winning. Grinding your enemy into the mud and if he won’t surrender, putting a sword through his gullet. Or would you rather I let the Scots ravage our country unchecked: thieving and killing and violating our womenfolk. Is that what you want, madam? A lusty Scotsman in your bed?’

  ‘How dare you,’ I retorted, appalled by his insinuation. ‘That is a disgusting and degrading thing to say.’

  ‘As disgusting and degrading as war itself. You are no soldier and war, as I have told you before, is men’s business. Women do not interfere. Didn’t your mother teach you that? I should have known better than to marry you. No king of England has had any joy from a French wife. My grandfather’s slut of a wife took so many lovers he ordered them hung from her bedrails, and his father shut his wife away, for interfering in his business. He let her rot for twenty years. So don’t think you can defy me, madam. You were supposed to bring peace and you didn’t. You were supposed to secure me Gascony and you didn’t. Perhaps I’d better return you to your brother - used goods which were not what he promised.’

  My blood ran cold at the thought of Philip’s anger if I was sent back to Paris.

  ‘You wouldn’t, my lord. Not after all this time. You couldn’t.’

  ‘Oh I could, believe me, I could. Isn’t that what one does with French whores? Send them back when you’ve finished with them.’

  I swung my arm back and slapped him as hard as I could across his face. I don’t know which of us was the more surprised.

  He grasped my wrist. ‘So you want a fight do you, my lady?’

  I snatched my hand away and stood there, shivering in anger and fear.

  He stared at me for a moment, then walked over and deliberately laced the tent closed.

  ‘It is best we are not disturbed. Quarrels between a man and his wife should be private, and this time, as you requested, madam, I shall remember exactly who you are. You are my wife and we both know what a wife’s duties are, don’t we? Or have you forgotten what it is to be a wife?’

  I clamped my lips together and said nothing. I was terrified at what I had done and even more terrified at what he might do in return. But simmering beneath the fear was an anger so huge I was not sure it could be contained.

  ‘I told you clearly at the beginning of our marriage what your duties were as my wife and they didn’t include rebuking me in front of others. If you were one of my children I would have you whipped.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’ I cried. ‘Go on! If it will slake your bloodlust I’d rather you beat me than make those poor wretches endure another day of your bombardments. Go on! Have me whipped. Strike me with your fists.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ he hissed, coming close and putting his mouth to my ear. ‘If I thought that beating you would make you see reason, make no mistake I would do just that. But I have lived a long time and have never yet raised my hand in anger against a woman. If I want to bend you to my will there are far better ways.’

  I was foolish and didn’t see the danger but as my husband had just told me, I was no soldier.

  ‘If there are better ways then perhaps you’d better use those,’ I spat back, shoving him away from me.

  He grasped the tops of my arms and pushed me slowly back against the bed. ‘War makes a man thirsty for conquest, madam, and I’ve not yet had satisfaction of that castle. Now cease struggling and raise your skirts.’

  ‘My lord!’

  I was horrified. I could not believe he meant it and yet it was obvious what he had in mind. This was the behaviour of varlets and churls, of men in their cups, not of a king and certainly not of my husband. I had never refused him and he had never taken me in anger, it was not the way things were between us.

  Despite our occasional quarrels he had never behaved towards me other than with the utmost propriety and I did not recognise this monster who had arisen out of nowhere. He moved his hands to my shoulders and with one swift movement ripped my surcote down the front. I tried to free myself, twisting this way and that, but he was determined and much stronger than me. He grasped my wrists with one hand while with the other forced up my chin so that he could look into my eyes. Then he pushed me till I was half bent back.

  ‘Make no mistake, madam. This time you will do as I say.’

  He pinned my body with one arm while, with his other hand, groped at the folds of my skirts.

  ‘My lord,’ I cried. ‘This is unworthy of you.’

  �
�As were your words,’ he grunted.

  ‘Stop!’ I cried. ‘Stop it! You can’t do this.’

  ‘I can,’ he said, fumbling at his own clothes. ‘I can do anything I like. I am your husband and your king. And you are my wife.’

  His beard was rough and his breath hot on my face as he pressed his body against mine, and for the first time I realised just how powerless I was. He could crush me with a single clench of his fist if he wished and there was no tenderness, none whatsoever. I could have been a street whore.

  ‘Look at me, madam, and remember this: I will not be defied. Now, stop fighting me for this is a battle you can’t win. Besides which, I thought you wanted another child.’

  ‘I do,’ I sobbed. ‘I do, I do. But not like this.’

  ‘So be quiet,’ he said, covering my mouth with his hand. ‘You need to be taught a lesson in obedience.’

  Afterwards, when he was done with me, he stepped back and watched impassively as I vainly tried to repair the damage to my clothing. I was crying. I saw rents in my gown and my kirtle and, all over my arms, bruises and scratches which he had inflicted upon me. I wouldn’t look at him but could hear his rasping breathing slow down until at last there was silence. Whatever demons had driven him were now at rest.

  ‘I shall send your women to you,’ he said stiffly. ‘And I shall instruct two of my men to stand guard outside your pavilion. You are not to leave without my permission. I would prefer not to have you criticise my every move nor sully the name of Queen Eleanor in front of my men. Do I make myself clear?’

  And with that he unlaced the door and went out, leaving me to weep in the dust and heat of the afternoon amidst the ashes of my love for him.

  Warwolf was completed five days later and, accompanied by much jubilation from my husband’s men, commenced its awful work. Rock after rock was hurled at the walls of the castle. Even if I wanted to look, I could see little through the small window in our pavilion. The dust rose in clouds from the breached walls and the attendant crashes masked any shrieks or cries from within. I wondered how men could survive such an onslaught. If the attack carried on all the men would be dead and there would be no castle left for either side to possess.