Harlot Queen (2 page)

Everything pleasantly settled.

King at last. Twenty-four and healthy; handsome—he couldn’t but know it. And free. All set to enjoy life.

But… within a day or two he was to be married.

A shadow fell across his joy.

Well, in this at least, he was carrying out his father’s commands; and, like all those commands, it brought him little pleasure. But to marry was a King’s duty—he knew that! And marriage, what was it after all? It hadn’t made much difference between himself and Piers. And, since marry he must, there was surely no bride to equal his. Never had a King of England so royal a wife. Isabella of France was not only the daughter of Kings, she was daughter to a Queen in her own right—Jehanne, Queen of Navarre. She was pretty, the young Isabella, they said, pretty and well-dowered. There at least, his father had served him well—though for looks the old man had cared little. For the dower he’d cared a good deal; and for a firmer friendship with France, a smoothing out of irritations between the two countries—for that he’d cared most of all.

But… the business of sleeping together! Too soon to trouble one’s self for that. The girl was young, fourteen at the most. A couple of years would arrange that matter; time always did.

He stretched voluptuously, throwing out his arms. The sleeper stirred, opened a drowsy eye and came awake at once. That was one of the endearing things about Piers. No yawning, no wondering where he was; a half—open eye—and then wide awake!

‘Well!’ Piers sat up in the bed, his admirable body lean and golden against the peacock lozenged pillows; Edward had chosen them for that very reason. ‘So today you sail for France!’

‘You’ll catch your death!’ Edward said, pettish; he didn’t need reminding of that! ‘The room’s cold as death.’ He pulled Piers down into the warmth of the bed.

‘They say—’ Piers spoke with his mocking grin, so delightful when it mocked at others, ‘you’re in such haste to be wed that you’ve called a halt to the fighting. They say it’ll cost you Scotland.’

‘They couldn’t be wider the mark! If fighting holds no charm for me, marriage holds still less! But—the thing must be done!’ Edward shrugged.

‘A reluctant groom! Can it be that Edward of England’s frightened; frightened of a little girl?’

Piers at his mocking again! Edward’s mouth, sensitive and sensual—a woman’s mouth—tightened.

‘Frightened!’ And he laughed a little. ‘No! But…’ he hesitated’ ‘how if she takes it ill… about you and me?’

‘She’s too young to understand such matters. Besides, I’ll win her, never fear. I never failed to win a woman yet.’

And that was true enough. That Piers was the King’s sweetheart didn’t lessen his attraction in the eyes of women. It was a charm that didn’t extend to men; Piers made many enemies. If only he’d guard his tongue a little! But with women he was debonair; his wife was hopelessly in love with him; she was complaining that she saw nothing of him. Well, what could she expect!

Edward said, a little sulky, ‘It’s a poor lookout if I can’t handle a wife, a child of thirteen.’

‘Fourteen,’ Gaveston corrected him. ‘Between thirteen and fourteen there’s a world of difference. In a year a child grows to be a woman. As for handling her—a wife isn’t a hound, nor yet a mare. Believe me, of all God’s creatures, a wife, even the most loving, is the hardest animal to handle.’

‘I am the King!’

‘And she’s the Queen—and as royal as yourself; mark it!’ Then noticing the King’s frown said, with a sudden change of subject, ‘I wish I were going to your wedding, Ned. Of all things, I do like feasting and junketing!’

‘I’ll not risk to carry you into France; this is no time to set French tongues wagging. And after all I leave you as Regent; there’s greater honour in that! And, if you may not come to my wedding, you shall shine at my crowning; I leave it all to you! Well, it’s time to rise; I ride within the hour.’

He called aloud and a page came running to pick up the tumbled clothes, no expression on his young face. Afterwards he would tell the others how the King and his sweetheart had been so eager for bed they’d flung their clothes to the floor, which clothes had lain themselves embraced like lovers.

Now came the servants bearing fresh linen, bearing ewers and hot water and fine towels, the barbers at their heels. And now travelling clothes for the King—fine woollen cloak, soft leather riding-boots; and for Piers garments of velvet gold-embroidered, fit for a King’s favourite.

‘Adieu,’ the King said, his lips on Gaveston’s. ‘I leave everything with you—the crowning and the feast, and above all my heart!’

Edward was looking from the ship’s forecastle and staring down into the grey restless water when Madam Queen Margaret came from within wrapped in a fur cloak against the sea-wind. He thought again how young she looked; but then she was not yet twenty-seven—a few years older than himself. He’d always thought it strange she had been content to marry his father; stranger still how truly she mourned his loss. She had never seemed like a step-mother; only like a wise, kind, elder sister. In her gentle goodness she reminded him of his sister Joanna—save that Joanna had been lovely and Margaret was no beauty but none the less lovable for that!
Margaret good withouten lack
they called her.

‘Sir,’ she said; and then, ‘Son, you are not happy about this marriage.’ And it was scarcely a question.

‘No.’ And he could not lie into those steady eyes. ‘But, if marry I must, this is as good as any!’ He turned his eyes upon the grey and tumbling sea. ‘It isn’t because of Piers,’ he said. ‘If there were no Piers it would be just the same. I don’t like women.’

She had long known it; her calm unshocked look encouraged him to speak further. She was glad of it; he might, a little, ease his heart.

‘All my life there’s been too many women. All those sisters! Eleanor and Blanche and Joanna and Margaret and Mary and Elizabeth; and all their women and their women’s women. A child
smothered
with women. I had my own household; but I wasn’t allowed to be alone in it, ever. Women; always women! Afterwards when I was older and the palace boys came it was too late; the mischief was done.’

‘Surely not beyond repair!’ But she feared it, she feared it. ‘In a little boy it’s easy to understand; but you’re a man now, free to come and go. Surely you can’t hate us all.’

‘Not hate; but I get no pleasure from women. Hate,
you?
’ He lifted her hand and kissed it. ‘And Joanna; Joanna I loved; she died too soon. She gave me courage.
Never be afraid
, she used to say.
But, if you must be, never show it!
And she lived by it. I never saw her afraid in my life.’

‘Nor I, neither. She had a great spirit.’

‘Never to be afraid, not even of my father!’

‘She had no need; nor you neither—if you had known. Gentleness begets gentleness.’ She sighed; others had called her husband harsh and cold, his own children even; but between him and her there had been much kindness.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘there are few sisters to trouble you now!’ and sighed again. ‘All dead or far away, save Mary and Elizabeth.’

‘Dear Elizabeth. She was—and is—forever my friend. She was a brave one, too. When I angered my father—and that was all too often—she always stood by me. That time, when I angered him over Piers; remember? He cut off supplies, I hadn’t a shilling; and he threatened to punish any that should comfort me. She sent me her own seal, the Hereford seal; and bade me take what I would, if it were to her last shilling. There was courage if you like.’

She nodded. ‘My husband’s anger was no light thing—though myself I never knew it. Could you not like women a little, for the sake of those two?’

He shook his head. ‘Not even for you that were, of all women, the kindest to a lonely boy—and you not more than a girl yourself. I love you, all three, forgetting you are women, remembering only your goodness. But the rest—women! When I was a child there were times I couldn’t breathe for women; and I would remember the brothers that died. Three little boys; and each one of them to have had the crown… and not one of them to live to have it. And I’d think,
The women are alive; but the boys, the little boys are dead
. And I was sure I must die, too. I was to have the crown; should I not die like my brothers? It seemed to me there was death on the crown. Women the crown and death—they went together.’

‘But,’ she reminded him gentle, ‘it was Joanna that died; Joanna and not you. And childhood is over; you must put away childish things.’ That his life had been shadowed by women she had always known; but his childhood fear of the crown—of death in the crown, that she had not dreamed.

‘Well,’ she said with a brightness she was far from feeling, ‘you have the crown—and you are far from dying. And, if you fear women, you cannot fear your wife, that pretty child. She’s loving and obedient; you may make of her what you will. Come, sir, let us go within; there’s hot wine in the forecastle.’

She saw his face brighten; he liked wine and drank more than was good for him. Still this was an occasion for rejoicing; she’d not have him show himself glum.

He was smiling as he followed her up into the forecastle.

Isabella, daughter to the King of France, stood looking out of a narrow window in Boulogne Castle. Standing on tip-toe, for she was not tall, she could see little but the dull sky. She brought a stool and, so standing, could see the tents spread for the reception of Edward King of England. Today her groom was crossing the sea to make her his wife.

His wife. She knew well what that entailed; she was fourteen and marriage-ripe. She desired ardently to be wed to the handsome young man; equally she desired to hear herself called Queen of England. But for all that she was a little frightened; fourteen, after all, is not very old. All night she had not slept; once she had come from her bed to pray heaven would be kind to her husband—as she herself would be kind. She had gone back to bed thoroughly chilled and less than ever able to sleep. Even now, her whole body would suddenly start and tremble like the plucked strings of a lute.

She was well pleased with her match. The King of England was well-endowed. He was lord of Normandy, of Guienne, of Aquitaine and Gascony—though for these he must do homage to her father. He was, besides, King of Ireland, King of Wales… and King of Scotland. At that last she frowned. She’d heard whisperings. Too much in haste to claim his bride, they said. Had he tarried a little longer he must have thoroughly defeated his rebellious Scots; now the crown of Scotland threatened to wobble upon that handsome head.

In haste to wed his bride; she could scarce quarrel with that! But when they were wed she’d send him north again. And she would ride with him—as his mother and step-mother had done, both of them—to keep him in good heart and to share his triumphs.

She argued childishly knowing nothing of policies, still less of the machinery of war. All she could see was herself—the crowned Queen riding beside her King to battle. A tale of chivalry come alive.

But if her reasoning was that of a child, her will was that of a woman, not to be set aside save by love alone—and not always then. She was used to having her own way. Whatever she wanted was immediately put into her hand; whatever she commanded, immediately done. But she had a shrewdness that forbade her to push her luck too far. Quick to hide her anger at rare refusals she had won a name for gentle obedience. But her women could have told another story. Let one of them prove clumsy or forgetful, and displeasure would be clear, retribution certain. Even Théophania de St. Pierre, the governess that Isabella truly loved, trembled before this formidable child.

The girl, herself, was perfectly aware of her own nature. It pleased her to know the strength of her hidden will; pleased her to know she could control her anger or let it fly as she chose. But occasions for anger were few. Who would presume to argue with the Princess Isabella,
Madame of France
? Yet from her governess she would take guidance; where Isabella loved she could be won. But Madam de St. Pierre rarely offered advice; her pupil’s wits were sharper than her own. And the child was charming, her manners beautiful. Madam de St. Pierre was well-satisfied with her charge.

From her place at the window Isabella turned to the clatter of small noises in the room beyond. A page came in carrying wine and white bread wrapped in a napkin. Madam de St. Pierre, at his heels, cried aloud seeing the girl kneeling all but naked at the window; she cried louder still at the dark—ringed eyes.

‘No, I did not sleep. Did you expect it?’ Isabella shrugged. ‘But I am well enough!’ She broke a roll in two and spread it thick with butter and honey; Madam de St. Pierre poured the wine. ‘How could a girl sleep expecting her groom—and he the handsomest man in Christendom? At least so they say; but I’ll not believe it till my own eyes tell me so. Princes are forever flattered. Myself now. They swear I’m the beauty of France; but I know for myself the truth of that! There’s my cousin Marie—all blue eyes and bright gold hair; angel-face! And there’s a dozen I could name all handsomer than myself.’

She waited for Madam de St. Pierre to contradict her; Madam de St. Pierre said nothing.

‘Wouldn’t you say so?’ Isabella asked.

‘You’re not full-grown. They’re in the prime of their looks. A year or two—and there’ll be none to touch you!’

Isabella was piqued. She longed to hear that here and now she was the fairest woman in France. She picked up a hand-mirror, her most cherished possession; not because of the cunningly wrought back and handle but because of the glass the jewelled frame enclosed. Glass was a rare possession; it reflected one’s beauties—and one’s blemishes, were one so unfortunate as to possess them—more clearly than any burnished metal.

She examined her face in its clear depths.

A pretty face. But more; surely more. Unusual. Framed in the pale hair, green-gold, not such another to be found in all France. She looked with love upon the skin, pearl-pale through which light seemed forever to flow—so one of the troubadours had sung only this last week. And what of the strange eyes? Changing eyes; now green flecked with gold, now gold flecked with green. She could narrow them so that the green-gold shone, arrows of light between thick fringed lashes, dark by heaven’s own miracle. She could widen them so that the pupils threw up the splendour of the iris jewelled in emerald and topaz. And, young as she was, she knew how to use them—open and innocent or veiled and mysterious—to get her way with any man.