The Queen's Spy

by Caroline Newark

  ‘The king does nothing?’

  ‘No, my lady.’

  All this was perfectly true. My late husband’s sister had been menaced and I knew of a lady whose legs had been broken by Sir Hugh Despenser’s henchmen because she refused to part with her lands.

  ‘Did the queen not tell you about the dowager countess of Lancaster, my lady?’ I asked in all innocence. ‘Sir Hugh threatened her with burning?’

  ‘Alice de Lacy? Jesu!’ Lady Jeanne was understandably horrified. ‘What kind of man would do such a thing?’

  ‘A greedy man, my lady. A man who is impatient for wealth.’

  Even Lady Jeanne could understand that.

  ‘But there has been no intrusion? I mean, how could there have been? Isabella would never, not with a man like that, not with any man. And as for the king?’

  Her cheeks were flushed and her breathing quickened as unwanted images skittered through her mind. I realised she had shocked herself with where her thoughts had taken her so I moved quickly to relieve her anxieties. ‘Oh my lady, that would be quite impossible, surely?’

  ‘The king is a good man,’ she said hurriedly. ‘He was kind to me when I was young, when my husband and I experienced a little difficulty in our own marriage. I know he would do nothing to harm dearest Isabella. Besides which, as you say, I mean, his chamberlain? It would be impossible.’ Her eyes sought mine for reassurance. ‘Quite impossible.’

  The Despensers were much too close to the king for anyone’s comfort and it had been the king’s refusal to listen to any of his advisors other than Sir Hugh and his father that had pushed the queen to the brink. Deprived of her long-time servants, half her income and her husband’s loving presence, what woman would not make a stand? But Isabella was no fool and had wisely waited until a stretch of sea separated her from her husband and his dangerous friend to issue her ultimatum.

  The previous day she had proclaimed in front of her brother and the whole of his court that someone had come between her and her husband, someone who was trying to break the bond of their marriage. She declared she would not return to England and resume her marriage until this intruder was removed.

  I’d heard the audible in-drawing of breath from the Englishmen present, the shocked looks and exclamations of horror. Who could the queen possibly mean? But apparently everyone knew who the queen meant. Even the servants knew.

  ‘She must go back to England,’ said Lady Jeanne firmly.

  ‘She is afraid.’

  ‘Of what? She is the queen. She has no reason to be afraid.’

  But I knew she had every reason to be afraid.

  ‘I cannot return,’ she had said to me. ‘The king is incapable of saving our marriage. He would let Sir Hugh Despenser destroy me.’

  Later, after the household had broken their fast, Isabella took my arm as she often did in our occasional private moments. We were walking round the little courtyard garden followed at a discreet distance by her other ladies.

  ‘What have you discovered?’ she said once she was sure of not being overheard.

  ‘The servants are talking.’

  ‘Of course they are. What are they saying?’

  I gave her an account of the conversation I’d heard that morning, sparing her none of the lewd details and yet she barely flinched.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘The countess of Surrey thinks you should return to England. She says the king is a good man, which of course he is. How could he be otherwise, being your grace’s husband?’

  Isabella gave a twitch of her pale pink lips. ‘Is she not concerned for my safety?’

  ‘She has a little difficulty in accepting the rumours but she believes the king will protect you.’

  ‘Whereas you and I know he will not. You and I know he will do whatever that creature wants. He may value me, but he values Hugh Despenser more.’

  These were the moments when Isabella and I were closest, when she admitted her inner fears and looked to me for comfort.

  ‘Sir Hugh Despenser will try to harm you if he can, your grace. He is careful but he is a dangerous man.’

  ‘He is a malign influence.’

  Of course he was. He was the most evil of men and married to a witch.

  ‘What of Lady Eleanor?’ I asked, wondering if Isabella believed the rumours.

  ‘My spies in England tell me she has put herself at my husband’s disposal.’

  ‘She has served your grace for a long time.’

  ‘And her husband for longer.’

  ‘You think she is no longer loyal to you?’

  ‘I know she is no longer loyal to me.’

  I wondered what else Isabella knew that she wasn’t telling me.

  She gave a little sigh. ‘There are times, Margaret, when I think you are the only friend I have.’

  But I wasn’t her friend however much I wished I was. I might be loyal but friendship required something more. I’d served her for five years and in all that time she’d kept her true self well hidden from me. Even those who’d been with her the longest only saw what she wanted them to see. Her husband must know what she was truly like yet it was from him that she was estranged.

  As the days grew short we entered the darkest part of the year, cold and grey with the prospect of snow filling the air. Riding out into the streets of Paris on an errand for the queen I was barely able to feel my fingers. I longed for a pair of gloves with soft warm fur on the inside but my funds would not run to it. As a widow in possession of just two small manors I often found myself regrettably short of money.

  Returning some hours later, I found Isabella in her chamber. She was dressed in what she had described to me that morning as her robes of widowhood and mourning: a gown of exquisite black velvet and an enveloping black veil. She was positioned against a backdrop of silvery-white curtains where the candlelight made her look as fragile as a Christmas rose.

  She was undeniably the most beautiful woman in Paris. Her face was a perfect oval, the skin luminous, the cheeks and lips coloured with a delicate blush. Her eyes were grey-blue flecked with amethyst, fringed with thick dark lashes; eyebrows arched and plucked into a narrow line setting off the broad sweep of her brow to perfection.

  Beside her on a small embroidered stool sat her elder son, Edward, duke of Aquitaine, earl of Chester, count of Ponthieu and Montreuil, heir to the throne of England. In the early autumn he had come to Paris to pay homage to his uncle for his lands in France and had not yet returned to his father. He was thirteen years old and a handsome boy, quiet and well-mannered, with a pleasant disposition. As I entered I saw mother and son were reading, their heads close together, a picture of perfect maternal and filial devotion.

  Isabella was very careful of how she appeared to others and just at this moment it pleased her to be seen as a beautiful, wronged woman in need of a champion. Not that I thought she would find one at the French court. Nobody, least of all her brother, would want to rattle the door of the English king’s cage. To do so would set a most unwelcome precedent.

  I’d settled down with my sewing when a messenger appeared with what I assumed was yet another letter for Isabella. Our days were punctuated with letters from her numerous French kin or from whichever bishop had last been sent out from England to remind her of her duty. There were also frequent vituperative letters from her husband demanding the return of his son. He had, it seemed, resigned himself to the fact that his wife was staying exactly where she was on this side of the Narrow Sea, a favoured guest at the court of her brother, the king of France, but he was not going to countenance the loss of his heir.

  I was mistaken. The letter was for me. I raised my eyes to the queen for permission.

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Certainly, Margaret.’ She didn’t smile and despite our supposed closeness she was clearly displeased. ‘We cannot wait to know who
wishes to communicate with you.’

  I broke the seal and quickly read the contents. It was from Thomas, Lord Wake, my brother, my sole companion of our long-ago nursery days.

  I passed the note to the queen to reassure her that it was not part of some evil plot against her person. Even here in her brother’s realm she was nervous of her husband’s intentions and terrified of what the Despensers might do to her. Last night she’d clung to my hands and with tears in her eyes, begged me, as a friend, not to desert her. Many were leaving now that she could no longer pay their wages. Her usher had left that morning and half a dozen squires were already packing their boxes.

  She waved her hand. ‘If Lord Wake wishes to see you - go! I shall manage very well without you. But Margaret, when you return, bring him with you. We should like to have sight of this elusive brother of yours.’

  She was right to describe Tom as elusive as I’d set eyes on him just twice in the years since he was a boy: once at our mother’s funeral and again on the occasion of my marriage. He hadn’t attended to my welfare when I was widowed and yet now he was expecting me to run to his whistle.

  Tom was lodged in a distant part of the palace and by the time I’d crossed a dozen courtyards, walked the length of a magnificently tiled cloister and passed under a score of narrow archways, my fingers and toes were frozen and I was almost weeping with cold. At last the man showing me the way stopped outside a steep flight of steps.

  ‘Ici, madame.’ He bowed and indicated that I should proceed.

  I climbed slowly up the steps and stopped. At the top, waiting for me, was Tom. It was said he resembled our father and I would have recognised him anywhere, even after all this time. He held out his hands.

  ‘Sister, greetings.’

  I curtsied, made a formal greeting, then stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. ‘What brings you to Paris?’

  He took my cold hands in his.

  ‘You.’

  ‘Me?’ I found that hard to believe. I was certain he seldom thought about me. He had only ever thought of his own advantage, never mine.

  ‘Yes. I have something with me I know will bring you pleasure. A little persuasion was involved but it is a gift of great value.’

  What was he talking about? He knew nothing about me. We were practically strangers.

  ‘I wasn’t aware I was in need of anything,’ I said carefully.

  He guided me in the direction of a half-open door ‘Would you like to see what it is?’

  He indicated to his boy to open the door wider and ushered me into his room. I looked around with curiosity, wondering how he lived. It was plainly furnished, only a single threadbare hanging which I recognised from our childhood. There was a hearth and a table and … a man. He hadn’t come alone.

  Leaning against the far wall with his arms folded as if he didn’t have a care in the world was someone I knew only too well. A tall young man with dark golden hair and eyes the colour of a cloudless summer sky. It was nearly two years since I’d last seen him. Two years with no letters, no messages, no words - nothing. Not even a hastily scribbled note. It was two years since I’d promised to wait while he travelled to Paris on royal business. Two years since he’d said he was mine.

  We neither of us moved. Within the room, a half-charred log in the hearth shifted and settled while from outside came the relentless grinding rumble of a heavy cart and a single shouted curse. Behind me, the door closed with a soft muffled thud, leaving us alone.

  One look at his face told me he’d changed his mind. I’d always known it. In the company of his French cousins he’d probably panicked at what he’d almost promised me. It was only to be expected and yet that last time as we’d stood in the shadow of the little church of St Peter ad Vincula, when we’d neither of us known what the future would hold or if we might see each other again, he had asked me to wait for him and I had truly believed he would be constant.

  2

  England 1322 -1324

  It had been a most singular courtship.

  Of course I’d seen him many times at a distance and once or twice close to when he’d visited the queen’s chamber, but we’d never spoken. I doubted he knew my name.

  We met on the day the earl of Lancaster died, when the uprising against the king was finally over. The ringleaders were either dead or in prison and the king’s cousin had paid with his life for his many treasons over the years. A great deal of blood had been spilled and for miles around the roads were full of fleeing Lancastrian knights, discarding their armour and their fine garments as they ran. Better to wander bare-arsed begging your bread, it was said, than be named as one of Earl Thomas’s men.

  Apart from the hall where the king’s men were noisily celebrating their victory with food and wine from the earl’s storerooms, the rest of the great Lancastrian fortress of Pontefract lay brooding and silent in the moonlight. The castle was unfamiliar and, taking a wrong turning, I lost my way. Lit by torches all buildings looked alike and I couldn’t find the entrance to the queen’s rooms. At the joining of two walls I saw an archway with a flight of steps leading upwards but there was no velvet padding on the hand rail. The stones were clean-hewn and paler than the rest, and the treads were unworn. This must be the new tower which the earl of Lancaster had built and where he’d been confined the night before his execution. The king had ordered his cousin locked in the self-same room which the earl had intended as a prison for his king.

  I placed one foot cautiously on the bottom step, curious as to how it would feel to be a man facing his end. But it didn’t do to dwell too long on such matters, not at a time like this. Ahead of me, the stairway was cold and dark and uninviting. I peered upwards. The frost had returned and the earl must have spent a bitter and uncomfortable last night in his tower room repenting of his sins.

  I heard a noise, a small scrape, and turned round. A black shape moved fast, blocking the light from the torch on the wall. Whatever sort of creature it was, it filled the recess and where a head should have been was a flaring crown of flame.

  I wasn’t a woman much given to imagining demons, I left that to my maid who saw hobgoblins round every corner, but that night at Pontefract I felt the hairs on the back of my neck start to prickle. I told myself I was not afraid of the dead. This could not be Thomas of Lancaster returned. I held fast to the rail, squashing down a terror which threatened to engulf me.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  The dead do not speak, or if they do, they do not ask questions like that. I couldn’t tell who it was because the man’s face was in shadow and I didn’t recognise the voice. As he moved towards me, I froze.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘I …’ The words died on my tongue.

  ‘Let’s have a look.’

  He reached out and grasped my chin. I jumped as if I’d been struck.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Lady Margaret, Isabella’s little lapdog.’

  It was Lord Edmund, the younger of the king’s two half-brothers.

  ‘My lord.’

  With one foot still on the step I tried to lower myself into a curtsey, all the while seething with fury. The king’s brother should know better than to insult one of the queen’s ladies.

  He moved away from me and positioned himself against the entrance to the recess with one of his boots resting on the opposite wall, blocking my escape. If I wanted to leave I would have to climb over his leg because it was obvious he had no intention of moving.

  ‘Do you often go wandering about strange castles in the dead of night, Lady Margaret?’ he enquired. ‘Or are you on a commission for the lovely Isabella? Does she crave a memento of her late departed uncle: some rag he wiped across his face or a half-chewed crust of bread bearing the imprint of his teeth?’

  ‘The queen is at prayer.’

  He was watching me carefully. He could not have been more than
twenty, several years younger than me. Close to he bore little resemblance to his brother, the king. His face was finer-boned, the skin drawn taut, the mouth wider, the lips firmer. His hair was more the colour of dying beech leaves than ripe golden wheat, and his eyes were blue like the sky on a bright summer’s day when the sun shines hot and your heart lifts with joy. He was not much like his other brother either, the one whose hair was night-black and was said to be a seducer of young women in Norfolk.

  He removed his foot from the wall and took a step towards me. ‘Are you frightened, Lady Margaret?’

  My heart was racing. ‘No, Lord Edmund. I am not frightened.’

  But I was. He stopped just a hand’s breadth away, his toes almost touching mine. I could hear his breathing and inhaled the scent of some rich aromatic perfume. The folds of my green velvet gown brushed the creases in his brown leather boots and I felt the heat from his nearness. If I’d been so minded I could have put my fingers on the beating pulse just above the collar of his fine linen shirt.

  He wore a single jewel on his right hand, a magnificent ruby ring, which gleamed as it caught the light. His fingers touched my cheek, smoothing away a tendril of hair which had come loose.

  ‘You must not be dishevelled when you return.’ His voice was low, the words slurred. ‘Or they’ll think I have dishonoured you.’

  My tongue was thick in my mouth. I could smell wine on his breath and knew he was drunk. The tell-tale signs were there: the over-bright eyes, the flush high on his cheekbones and the slight tremor in his hands.

  ‘You have beautiful hair,’ he murmured, his fingers easing under the cloth of my headdress and gently caressing the soft strands above my ear. ‘Yes, quite beautiful.’

  I felt a pit open beneath my feet and I shivered.

  ‘Are you cold, Lady Margaret? Shall I warm you?’

  I was terrified of what he might do. I’d seen too much drunkenness in my life to dismiss the danger to a woman like me from a man like him, even here just a stone’s throw from the royal apartments.