Harlot Queen Read online

  The King walked alone in his ruined world. With this oath they insult me in the eyes of Christendom.

  Within the glowing jewel of the abbey those two walked to their places; the congregation rose and the voice of the choir swelled in angelic praise; but the King was like a dead man walking. Obedient to the bishop’s hand he allowed himself to be shown to the people. Scarce heeding he heard their joyful acceptance. The words of the bishop, the exhortations fell upon deaf ears. He waited for the dreaded moment.

  And now it was come: the oath must be sworn. In one thing, at least, he had had his way. It was to be sworn in French instead of Latin. Some Latin he had; and besides he knew the accursed oath by heart, but he dared not risk anything being slyly slipped in at the last moment. Even now he found himself wondering what, if they played that trick, he should do.

  My lord bishop was standing now before the King and, in the utter silence, his voice rose.

  ‘Sir, will you guard and keep and by your oath confirm to the people of England, the laws and customs granted them by their ancient Kings, your righteous predecessors, under God? And, in particular will you confirm the laws, the customs and the freedoms granted to the clergy and the people by the glorious King, Saint Edward?’

  And the King’s voice colourless, each word dropping cold as stone, ‘I grant it; and will keep my promise.’

  ‘Will you keep peace according to God and His holy church, towards the clergy and the people, perfectly and entirely and with all your might?’

  ‘I will keep it.’

  ‘Will you, with all your might, cause true justice to be done—and to be seen to be done—in wisdom, in truth and in mercy?’

  ‘I will do it.’

  ‘Do you promise to hold by the laws and rightful customs which the people of your realm shall determine; and will you defend them and enforce them to the honour of God and with all your strength?’

  At this he hesitated… the laws which the people shall determine. Then what became of the divine right of Kings? But the silence waited and he must reply.

  ‘I promise; and will abide by my promise.’

  The first King of England to take that oath. Yet so simple the oath, so right, so proper, how could any man—even the King himself—fault it? Yet its very simplicity hid the full meaning. Few there understood its power to control the King—not even the King himself, resenting only, the affront to his pride. But those that had framed it, barons and bishops weaving each word into a rope, knew well the strength of each strand. Let the King break one strand, one strand only—and what was he then but a King that had broken faith? And to such a King it could be right and proper to break one’s own faith?

  And now came the sacred moment of the anointing. But not even sacred oil upon his head, his hands, his breast, was balm to soothe his wounded pride. And all the while he lay prostrate before the high altar, offering himself to God, he nursed his bitter pride. And when they raised him and robed him in the long white robe and put upon him the tunicle of red bordered with gold and the dalmatic of shot gold and silver, he stood longing to strike the hands that touched him.

  And now came Thomas of Lancaster bearing the Sword of Mercy and the bishop buckled it about the King’s waist. And Henry of Lancaster came bearing the Rod of Peace and the bishop put it into the King’s left hand; and Thomas of Lincoln brought the golden sandals and knelt to fasten the spurs.

  The great ceremony was drawing to its end. They fastened upon the King the square mantle of majesty; they placed upon his finger the ring that wedded him to his people. And now came Gloucester bearing the sceptre and the bishop put it into the King’s right hand.

  So far, so good.

  But what was this? Who was it that came carrying the St. Edward crown? Who but Gaveston making ridiculous this highest moment, belittling the King in his great robes of majesty. Inscrutable in the silence the bishop took it; inscrutable placed it upon the King’s head.

  Sitting there grave and still, a small image of majesty, Isabella knew the anger rising in the abbey; knew it by the anger in her own heart. Hateful the oath forced upon the unwilling tongue but needful; needful to curb this foolish King. Yet it put the power into the wrong hands—the barons’ hands. Power belonged to the King. Then whose were the right hands? Not her own. She was but fourteen and… a foreigner. But she could learn; learn these people and their ways. Yes, she must watch, she must listen, she must learn; forever learn. One day—not too far distant—she might help this foolish King. It was her coronation oath to herself. One thing she had already learned during these uneasy weeks. Patience hid beneath a child’s helplessness is woman’s most potent weapon.

  One by one the peers came to kneel. She did not find the long procession tedious. She sat intent watching each man, weighing him, considering his possibilities.

  And now it was her own turn to be crowned. The ceremony was short, the anointing upon the hands only. But it was done. She was an anointed, a crowned Queen.

  There remained now only the King’s formal offerings in gold; and out they came, blinking a little, into the grey of the February daylight.

  Isabella was tired; the great mantle dragged at her shoulders, the crown weighed heavy upon her head. And she was faint with hunger; she had not yet broken her fast—she had due regard to what one owed to God.

  They returned to the palace to find all in disorder. The tables were spread but of food there was no sign save the stench of burnt meat. She sought her own chamber to rest until all should be ready; but, when the King came to lead her to the feast, the tables stood empty as before. The great golden salt-cellar glittered upon the gold-fringed cloth; but of food—nothing; not even the piled bread.

  The guests were already seated. There had been some disturbances, places had not been assigned; now seated with no order of precedence, they looked upon the empty tables. In their black looks and angry buzzing, anger was plain.

  Gaveston has charge of all. Well, let him take full credit! Faint with hunger, Isabella yet found satisfaction in the thought. Even the King, besotted as he was, could not pretend that Gaveston had done well; he had not even troubled to apportion the honours of serving the King on his crowning-day. Where was the baron with basin for washing the King’s hands, where the baron with the towel? Where the earl with the ceremonial cup of wine to open the feast, where the earl with the ceremonial gloves?

  Of them no sight; nor would be. For now, at last, they were carrying in the first course. The young page kneeling—since no baron had been appointed for her service—offered the cup. Beneath its silver cover the soup was cold. Now came a boar’s head glazed, white tusks shining, it was tough and over-spiced and she put it by. Venison followed but the sauce was lumpy, the cream sour.

  Dish after dish. Heron and swan and a great pike cooked in wine; the birds were not over-fresh and the great fish raw at the bone. The first course ended with a huge pancake; it lacked sugar but she was glad of anything to assuage her hunger.

  They were bringing in the second course. So there was to be no subtlety! She had looked forward to the pretty figures of sparkling sugar which should end each course.

  Now came geese and bittern; the birds were greasy and under cooked. They were followed by a great venison pasty, its raised crust embossed with the arms of England and France. By some miracle it was good to eat. Beef and mutton were carried in next. She was glad she had eaten the pasty for the beef was black as cinder and the mutton running with blood. Now came the centrepiece of the feast—a peacock carried high on a silver platter, and dressed in all his glory; but the tail feathers drooped into the sauce; it had lost its attraction. The second course was over; again there was no subtlety.

  The feast was but two-thirds over and already food was running out. Gaveston has skimped both food and service to fill his own pocket. She caught the rumour as it spread from table to table. And she could see it was true. Not only were some plates empty but what food there was, all but thrown at the guests.

  She
sat there, cheeks burning; she was not the only one out of humour. She caught sight of her French uncles glowering; the barons bent black brows. Only the King sat smiling; he was not sorry, she thought, to affront his magnates. He and Gaveston would, no doubt, sup cosily in the King’s closet. She was sick with fatigue, with hunger and with shame. If only she might rise and go weep away her distress.

  But still it went on, the noise and confusion.

  And now the King’s champion came riding to announce the King’s titles and to challenge any that should question them. There was such a jostling and a pushing and a screaming to get out of the way of the horse’s hooves, it was a mercy no-one was killed. Impossible to hear the words the champion spoke. There he sat high on the great horse his mouth opening and shutting—and no sound. So shameful a thing had never befallen in all the time since Norman William had brought this handsome custom to England.

  In came the third course; she caught the stale whiff of crabs and lampreys as she waved them away. Cranes and curlews stuffed; antelopes and conies cooked in wine. The air was heavy with the smells of meat and fish. And now to end the feast, mercifully to end it, a subtlety. It was carried high upon a dish of gold. Two sugar figures represented herself and the King; she guessed it by their crowns, for already the sugar that should have been as hard as ice and glittering was soft and sweating; a sugar child kneeling, offered a scroll.

  The King turned about, and, for the first time, spoke to her reading the rhyme aloud.

  ‘In your glance

  Queen from France

  England rejoices

  With all her voices.’

  She could not force a smile at the wretched lines.

  It was over; over at last. My lord bishop had pronounced the blessing. Had she thought the long misery over? The King was adding the crowning-piece. He was leaving the table affectionately entwined with Gaveston—and both of them staggering.

  He had left her to make her exit alone; again, again he had forgotten her. She rose in her place; her ladies picked up the train. Charles of Valois came from his seat to take her by the hand. She passed between the standing guests; save for her whiteness she gave no sign.

  Unsmiling, unspeaking, she let the women undress her; they removed the crown, loosed the long, pale hair, put her bedgown upon her. Théophania brought her wine, white bread, cold chicken and the little almond cakes she loved. She did not even see them. And now, all of them dismissed, she sat alone. So she had sat too many nights; but this night of her crowning she had thought must be different. She gave herself to bitter thought.

  The crown of state she had worn earlier lay upon its cushion; it drew her eye. The hateful, vulgar muddle is nothing, is less than nothing. The crown, the crown is all…

  She rose and step by slow step walked across the room to take it in her hands. Again it surprised her by its weight; yet already she had felt it heavy upon her head… the crown, the crown.

  She turned it about, eyes fascinated, lips drawn to a thin line, jaw set so that the bones strong and beautiful showed clear.

  She raised the crown and set it upon her head. Now she expected the weight; now she was ready. And so standing, crowned and indomitably proud she was beautiful; she was formidable. Had her husband come upon her now he must have seen the truth of Queen Margaret’s words. No child this, for all her tender years, but a woman purposeful, not to be set aside. But he did not come. He was in his closet toying with Gaveston.

  For some moments she stood; the crown grew heavier still upon her head, the young neck began to tremble. With reverent hands she lifted the crown from her head and set it again upon the cushion. She sat down and could not take her eyes from its glory.

  Of a sudden hunger took her. She fell upon the food, swallowing bread, chicken and wine; since there was none to see, she picked up the crumbs that, in her haste, she had let fall upon gown and floor and ate them too. And now she could sleep. She fell asleep at once, and in her dreaming smiled—for a hand, bright as a sword, reached down from the sky to set the crown upon her head.

  VI

  Early in the morning her French uncles came to bid her farewell. Feasts and tournaments had been prepared for their entertainment. But of English hospitality they had had enough; she could not blame them. Gaveston has insulted the majesty of France. The King of England cares more for his mignon than he does for his wife. Unspoken the message passed between them. Her father had considered her too easily offended; he had made little of her letter. Now her uncles would show him that, without cause, a princess of France had been insulted. Surely, now, he would bring this foolish husband of hers to his senses.

  The rest of the guests had departed, the court seemed empty. The King, for the most part courteous, remained cold; both courtesy and coldness enhanced by letters from France. In this court of strangers Isabella knew not who was to be trusted, who avoided. That she must be careful in word and deed she needed no telling. All courts were hotbeds of scandal; and in this court, where Gaveston had the King’s heart, more than most. The King had appointed four ladies to her bedchamber. ‘Two of them you must watch,’ Madam Queen Margaret said. ‘Gaveston’s wife and Despenser’s wife. They’re Gloucester’s sisters and good girls both. But they are not married to good men… and a woman’s first duty is to her husband. Gaveston’s wife would put her own neck under the axe for him, never mind another’s.’

  ‘I could have liked her,’ Isabella said, regretful.

  ‘You may still like her; and pity her, too… an open nature driven against itself by such a man! Like her, pity her—but never trust her. Trust her sister still less. She was well enough until she married. Despenser—ambitious as Gaveston and as greedy; but not so warm hearted and cleverer by far. And Eleanor’s under his thumb. Five years under that thumb! It plays havoc with goodwill and honesty.’

  ‘Five years married? She looks too young!’

  ‘She’s full eighteen.’

  ‘Thirteen when she was wed. Did her husband sleep with her?’

  Margaret shrugged. ‘He’s one to take what he wants; a brutal young man.’

  ‘Is a man a brute to sleep with his wife?’

  ‘Each man must do according to his nature. Now for the other two. You may trust them both. There’s Elizabeth, the youngest Gloucester girl, she’s her mother Joanna all over again; a most lovely person. The other’s Gloucester’s wife; she’s steadfast and true. Pure gold those two; but they’re very young. Discretion may not equal honesty.’

  ‘I like them both. Gloucester’s wife certainly sleeps with her husband and she’s no older than I am.’

  ‘Full fifteen; a whole year older.’

  ‘My age when she began to sleep with him. She’s to have a child; no need to tell me, I use my eyes. All four of them living with their husbands as a wife should live. How much longer must I endure the slight the King puts upon me? Every man to his nature—as you say! And the King’s nature I begin, alas, to understand. But what of woman’s nature; what of my nature—answer me that!’

  ‘It is woman’s part to be patient—especially in such a matter.’

  But the girl was right: Edward was a fool.

  Between the King and Queen things were no better. To win her husband, a man cold to women, to turn him from love of Gaveston to love of herself—it was a task an experienced woman might well fear; for Isabella it was hopeless.

  The advice concerning discretion she did her best to follow. With her ladies she was pleasant, endeavouring to show no preference and guarding her tongue even with those she might trust. But she was too young to be forever on her guard. All about her she felt the watching distrust of Gaveston’s wife, of Despenser’s wife.

  To Gaveston, himself, she meant to show herself gracious; yet there were times when she must bite upon her tongue not to retort upon his flippancy, his rudeness. Her courtesy to Gaveston went unnoticed by the King; unnoticed by him, also—though not by others—the mignon’s scanted courtesy to the Queen.

  To the Ki
ng she showed herself debonair, readily obedient, resentment hidden. And he was pleasant enough, affectionate, even, with the affection he might show a small hound. But beyond that—nothing. And Gaveston kept his eyes upon them both. Let him suspect she was with the King and he made it his business to join them; even into her private closet he would come unasked and unannounced. And, so far from reproving, the King welcomed him with outstretched hands. Yet still she showed herself friendly, thrusting down anger but, for all that, her eyes betrayed her. She could not know how fierce her eyes, glowing amber-green. Like a cat, a little wild cat, Gaveston would say laughing. And of all this she kept her close account.

  The Princess Elizabeth came up from Hereford; she found the little Queen peaked and unhappy.

  ‘Madam,’ she said, ‘sister—if I may call you so—you have the wit and the will to save us all. Gaveston—he’s no more than the sugar-plum my brother never had, and in his childhood should have had! So bleak a childhood, he and I. We never had a home, forever on the move; never the safe place that’s home.

  ‘When Edward was two, our parents left England. They were away three whole years. He was five when he saw them again. We went to Dover to meet them. We were both excited; Edward was sick with excitement. Father, Mother. He kept saying that over and over again; what it meant to him God knows!

  ‘And what did he find? Our mother—just another woman. She hardly knew us and she was shy; we thought it a coldness in her. I was disappointed; but Edward! And when it came to our father—there was tragedy! The child had expected to find something younger, warmer, kinder… human. And what did he find? An old man. Fifty, my father was—and older than his years; a life of fighting leaves its mark. Think of it! So little a child… and the old man, the old stern man. He shrank back. I saw him. And I saw my father’s face. My son shrinks from me.