Prayer helped, and by entering gaily into Edward’s eager preparations instead of sulking, Isabel was able to accept their going as a part of the splendid marital adventure. And Edward was so pleased with her that he allowed her to bring Bringnette and Ghislaine and several of her people, and when she said goodbye to her family, he promised that he himself would one day bring her back to visit them.
The sun still shone and even the Channel was calm. Her three young uncles and quite an entourage of French nobles were coming for the Coronation. The whole gay company set off in high spirits. The only people who had any private misgivings were Ghislaine and the Dowager-Queen of England, who had refrained from telling her niece quite everything about the kind of life awaiting her there.
With a light breeze in their sails, they made the crossing in a few hours. Before Boulogne was out of sight they could see the white cliffs of Dover. Isabel stood at the poop rail hand in hand with Edward while he gladly pointed out the coastline of his land. All his thoughts seemed to be projected there before him. “And see, Isabel, it is just as I promised you. As usual my friend has carried out my wishes. La, voila, ma chere. The crowd to welcome us on Dover quay.” White cliffs and crowd seemed to be rushing to meet them. The Marguerite was gliding to her mooring. Sails were being furled. Isabel could distinguish the faces of the waving people. Above the shouts of the crew and the shrill call of gulls she could hear them cheering. Something of Edward’s enthusiasm caught her. She would play her part right royally to please him. “I am Queen Isabel of England,” she told herself, “and in a few minutes I shall be talking for the first time to some of my subjects.”
She tried over a gracious phrase or two in their tongue. She would say all the right things, just as she had tried to do on her wedding day. She would surprise Edward. He would be watching her, a little anxiously perhaps, and she would see to it that he had good cause to be proud of her.
But first she must be quite sure about their names. “It pays to remember people’s names,” her astute father had often told her. There would be the powerful Earl of Lancaster, who was her uncle. Guy Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, and Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke. And her two new ladies. Alicia Bigod, wasn’t it? And the Countess of Hereford. And then there would be the Regent, of course.
Standing beneath the great blazoned standards of England and France, with a glittering suite grouped behind her, Isabel secretly ticked off the names on her little jewelled fingers. “Your friend the Regent will be one of the first to be presented to me, I suppose. But except that he is Earl of Cornwall I do not think that you have ever told me how he is called,” she whispered to Edward in a last-minute flutter of nervousness, as the anchor chain began to rattle down. “What is his name, Edward?”
“Piers,” said Edward, his eyes searching eagerly among the crowd on shore. “Piers Gaveston.”
Chapter Three
With perfect sense of staging Isabel stopped on the raised steps leading down from the sea wall, knowing well that the moored ship’s standards formed an effective background. Because she was not very tall she calculated that this would be the best place in which to stand so that all the assembled company could see her. And, more important still perhaps, it was a good vantage point from which to take a quick preview of them, since inevitably much of her life would be determined by the kind of people they were. While Edward was formally handing her ashore she gave his fingers a purposeful little tug so that he, too, should stop.
But to her surprise he did not. As she was still taking rapid stock of the nobles and ladies drawn up to receive her, he let go of her hand and ran lightly down the steps and across the quay as though impatient to greet someone. The mighty Earl of Lancaster perhaps, or one of those other grim-looking English barons grouped around a bollard. But he was making in an altogether different direction and, like them, she turned to stare after him. It was then that she noticed the tall, dark young man in the gaily chequered cote-hardie with the modishly high-cut collar. He stood there so nonchalantly and was so flamboyantly attractive that he was unlikely to be overlooked in any crowd.
Important as he might be by virtue of some office he held, it was not for him to press forward before a cluster of middle-aged earls, most of them connected with the blood royal. Indeed, no one could accuse him of moving at all. He just stood there, carelessly arrogant, and let the King of England come to him. And even when he could have bent a respectful knee Edward stayed him, seizing his hand and flinging an affectionate arm about his shoulders. And then the two of them, laughing into each other’s eyes, began talking in short, glad sentences as though they had not met for months and were completely oblivious of all others who had travelled equally far and still waited.
Isabel gazed in bewilderment at the spontaneous intriguing little episode, for once entirely forgetful of the effect which she herself was making. She stood there all alone on her impromptu dais, her pale face slowly reddening with annoyance. She was aware of inquisitive muttering from her own people newly disembarked behind her, and of an unexplained fury harshening English faces. She knew that Marguerite moved to her side, trying to cover the awkwardness of the moment, and found the tall, martial-looking man whom she guessed to be Lancaster taking advantage of his high lineage to waive the neglected formality of presentation. “I am proud to welcome a kinswoman to these shores,” he said, trying to set her at ease.
“Your mother was my maternal grandmother,” recalled Isabel, gratefully suffering his bear-like embrace. His hasty intervention only served to emphasize the King’s lapse, for Edward, realizing his remissness, had already returned to her, with his friend following leisurely at his heels. “I have been acknowledging the care with which Piers Gaveston, Earl of Cornwall, has conducted the Regency of our realm during our absence,” he began, with all the pomposity which ceremonial occasions demanded. “And it will be our immediate pleasure to present him to your Grace.”
But Isabel was not a Capet for nothing. Fortified by a sympathetic relative on either side, she allowed her glance to rest on the Regent of England as briefly and witheringly as though he were some ill-favoured lackey. “It will be my pleasure, too,” she said coolly, “as soon as these noble lords who are waiting have been presented to me and to my uncles.”
Her clear young voice had a way of carrying further than she intended, and she was quick to notice that the scowl on some of the noble lords’ faces softened to an ill-concealed grin and that two beardless young Lancastrian knights, who were standing in the rear, spluttered with delight behind their betters.
Piers Gaveston, far from resenting the snub, stood watching her with indulgent amusement, rather as though he were observing the tantrums of a spoiled child. He was even handsomer than Edward, and Isabel hated him at sight.
To the satisfaction of most people present the King paid heed to his wife’s stricture. Guy Beauchamp of Warwick, a stocky, weather-beaten man with high-coloured cheeks, was presented to her. The tall, lean Earl of Pembroke kissed her hand and looked at her approvingly. There was Lancaster’s heir, Henry of Lincoln, and a pleasant, red-headed youth called Gilbert de Glare, Earl of Gloucester, who, as far as she could make out, was the son of Edward’s sister. Then, in his proper turn, Isabel received Gaveston, who knelt to her with an exaggerated reverence and who, she suspected, was already coining some unflattering nickname for her.
Presently they all went up to Dover Castle, which stood like a grim grey sentinel guarding the fair white cliffs. And to the annoyance of everyone except Edward and his young nephew, Gilbert of Gloucester, this Piers Gaveston, who had planned the occasion, acted as host. But they were all hungry after the crossing and it was impossible not to enjoy his entertainment. Undoubtedly he had a flair for such things and, prejudice apart, it did not seem unwise of the King to have assigned to him the planning of the forthcoming Coronation. After supper he unrolled a long parchment upon which his scribe had set down lists of names and duties, and, impervious to the jealous looks of his fellow su
bjects began discussing the arrangements. “The Archbishop of Canterbury being abroad, I supposed your Grace would wish the Bishop of Winchester to celebrate,” he said, in a pleasant voice flavoured with a faint Gascon accent. “The London Guilds are providing the usual banquet when we get back to the palace, of course. And in honour of the youth and beauty of our new Queen may we not, Sir, break with the custom and ask each peer and knight to bring his lady to the Abbey?”
“Their colourful dresses would certainly enhance the scene,” agreed Edward, who shared his interest in stagecraft.
“And while our guests are with us I propose to arrange a tournament on the scale of the one we all enjoyed so much at Wallingford last year.”
Gaveston grinned round jocundly at his fellow peers, most of whom were still sore from the memory of how easily he had unseated them. But in spite of their glum looks and her instinctive resentment against the man Isabel could not but listen enthralled to the picture he went on to draw so expertly of the projected ceremony which had for so long been a highlight of her dreams.
“If you will tell us what you intend to wear, ma petite, we can create an effective colour scheme for the procession through London,” suggested Edward, who, for all his informal tastes, loved the rich trappings of pageantry.
“I have a lovely taffeta, stiff as fine Venice glass with silver threads and golden fleurs-de-lys. And I shall wear all the handsomest jewellery my parents sent,” said Isabel, eagerly entering into their plans. “You, I know, must wear your velvet of royal purple, Edward. And what will our Master of Ceremonies himself be wearing?”
“I have not yet decided,” Gaveston told her negligently. He had rolled up his parchment again and has just blown a grape through it so that it hit the King’s jester on the nose, sending the ebullient young Gloucester into gales of laughter. “Something peacefully frivolous I think, Madam, the better to set off the warlike aspect of my lord Warwick. Though I fear it will be but idle to try to compete with the elegance of your Grace’s entourage,” he added, with a courteous little bow in the direction of her dignified relatives.
It had been a long day of travelling and Isabel, looking round at so many unfamiliar faces, found it difficult to believe that only that morning she had been in France. Most of the company were sleepy with good food and sea air and were thankful when the King arose and took himself off, leaving them free to seek their beds. “Come, Piers, and see the fine sorrel mare my father-in-law has given me,” he invited in high good humour.
The two tireless young men sauntered towards the door together, with arms linked and laughter in their voices, and the two weeks bride was left behind. Everyone in the hall stood still to watch them go. Gaveston turned in the doorway to grin back at them all deridingly, and as one of the servants flung about his fine shoulders a cloak more gorgeous than the King’s, the jewelled clasp of it sparkled almost blindingly.
“Look, I implore you!” cried Isabel, suddenly clutching at her aunt’s arm. “The Gascon is wearing the famous clasp which my father gave to Edward on our wedding day.”
“The blood-red rubies re-set from great Charlemagne’s ring,” echoed her uncle Thomas of Lancaster, starting forward in fury, hand on sword.
“Which was part of my dowry,” cried Isabel.
“And should have gone to your eldest son,” said Marguerite.
The new Queen of England sank down on a stool, covering her face with both hands to hide her tears. Inquisitive faces peered at her, but Lancaster and Warwick were quick to clear the hall of servants. Gilbert, the King’s nephew, had hurried away. Perhaps, she reflected bitterly, to make a jest to Gaveston of the jealous bride’s distress. Pembroke tactfully persuaded guests from the lower tables to retire. Then, together with her outraged relatives and the closest of her ladies, they gathered protectingly about her. Indignation seemed to have welded them into one common cause.
“I cannot believe it — that Edward would have given it to him … Almost as soon as it was in his hands, and knowing what store I set by it,” stammered Isabel, trying to recover herself. “Uncle of Lancaster, can nothing be done to get my jewels back?”
“Since the King himself has made the gift — ” murmured Marguerite, putting a soothing hand upon her niece’s shoulder.
“Who is this low-born fellow?” demanded Isabel’s younger uncle, Louis of Evreux, haughtily.
“He is not low-born,” defended the Dowager-Queen dispassionately. “His father, Sir Amald de Gaveston, fought valiantly for my late husband, and when Sir Amald was killed King Edward had his motherless son Piers placed in his own son’s household. They were brought up together.”
“And apparently conceived for each other a most inordinate affection,” sneered the Count of Clermont.
“The Earl of Cornwall is besotted with him,” corroborated Pembroke.
“Earl of Cornwall!” repeated Guy Beauchamp of Warwick, almost foaming at the mouth in his exasperation.
Isabel was becoming confused. That the royal favourite should have been given the most precious of the Capet wedding presents was surely her grievance — and an insult to her family. That the man was unpopular was evident. But that all these men should be shouting and raging round her betokened something more personal than chivalrous sympathy. Particularly when one considered how far from chivalrous some of them looked. “What is wrong with the title ‘Earl of Cornwall’?” she ventured to ask.
“Everything, in this case, Madam, because it is usually reserved for a member of our royal house,” explained Aymer de Valence of Pembroke. “If it is to be bestowed upon anyone but the King’s son there are some of us here who have Plantagenet blood in our veins. But when your Grace blesses our country with an heir the unfortunate matter will be settled, and we can only regret that here on your first night in England you should have suffered such an unnecessary affront.”
Although Pembroke spoke to her gently Isabel could hear the others still muttering among themselves. “Some such betise was bound to happen with that upstart in the saddle,” she overheard someone saying apologetically to the Countess of Bringnencourt. And then caught odd scraps of conversation like “offending the French” and “He may have a play-acting sense of colour, but certainly no tact.” To be summed up by someone less tolerant, “Tact, my dear fellow! When we all know that it was done purposely. To flaunt his favour at us.”
Isabel sighed deeply and stood up. “Tell me, my lords, why do you all hate him so?” she asked straight out.
There was no lack of answers.
“In truth, he is the King’s evil genius, Madam,” Lancaster told her seriously. “Only a year ago he was sent out of the country for it. And last summer before the first Edward died — God rest his upright, valorous soul — he made me, his cousin, swear by all I held most sacred that I would not allow Piers Gaveston to return unless the people themselves wished it.”
Warwick was prowling up and down before the fire looking, Isabel thought, as fierce as the wild boar on his quarterings. “He makes your husband lily-handed,” he said, “stuffing his thoughts with frivolities and turning them from his promise to pursue his father’s wars.”
Aymer de Valence, standing tall and dignified beneath a torch which lighted the clever, Semitic lines of his face, settled his belted, fur-lined gown more gracefully about him. He would have made a very effective Regent himself during the King’s brief absence, and was well aware of it. “Every honour in the country which should be ours goes to that Gascon,” he said, voicing his opinion quite as fervently as his fellows.
“And now the distribution of all the most coveted duties at the Coronation lies in his hands,” complained the Earl of Lincoln who, as Lancaster’s heir, was jealous for the family privileges.
“If there is a Coronation,” muttered Warwick.
Isabel looked up quickly. How could there not be a Coronation, since that was what so many of her friends and relatives had come for? Yet she shivered at sight of Warwick’s dark vengeful looks. Remembering that,
what with marching on Scotland and crossing to France to fetch a bride, Edward had not yet had time to get himself crowned, she suddenly felt insecure. She began to wish that she had not inflamed his fierce barons’ grievances still further by stressing her own. Annoyed as she was with Edward, she had no desire to be disloyal to him or to do him any harm, and her aunt’s serious looks made her uncomfortably aware that she had been behaving like a spoiled child. Realizing that Bring-nette was anxious to get her to bed, Isabel allowed Ghislaine to put her sable wrap about her so that she could pass in comfort through the draughty passages. All the men present bowed and stood aside for her to pass. “I shall write to my father about the ruby clasp,” she said, with her pert little nose high in the air.
“There is nothing they would like better,” remarked Marguerite sadly, following her from the hall.
“You mean you think I should not?” snapped Isabel.
But the King’s practical step-mother seldom preached. She stooped to kiss Isabel at the door of her room, and the compassionate spontaneity of the gesture suggested her rare genius for comprehending other people’s pain. “If you must, let the letter go privately,” she advised.
As Isabel was about to enter the firelit room, a young man stepped forward from the shadows outside her door. He appeared to have been waiting there on duty, and could not have helped overhearing them. He bowed respectfully to both Queens, but the elder he had often seen before. His eyes were bright with approval as they rested upon his new young mistress. “If your Grace wishes a letter sent to France I myself will row out to the Felicite and give it into the hands of her captain. He has orders to weigh anchor at dawn so that he may take King Philip news of your Grace’s safe arrival.”
Isabel looked up in pleased surprise.
“He is Sir Robert le Messager, whom Edward has appointed your Master-of-Horse,” explained Marguerite at parting.
Isabel the Fair Page 3