Isabella: Braveheart of France

ISABELLA

BRAVEHEART OF FRANCE

Colin Falconer

Chapter 1

“You will love this man. Do you understand? You will love him, serve him and obey him in all things. This is your duty to me and to France. Am I clear?”

Isabella is twelve years old, pretty, bony and awkward. She keeps her eyes on the floor and nods her head.

Her father, the King of France, is the most handsome man she has ever seen. In the purple, he is magnificent. His eyes are glacial; a nod from him is benediction, one frown can chill her bone-deep.

He puts his hands on the arms of her chair and leans in. A comma of hair falls over one eye. He rewards her now with a rare smile. “He is a great king, Isabella, and a handsome husband. You are fortunate.”

A log cracks in the hearth.

She raises her eyes. He strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. “You will not disgrace me.”

She shakes her head.

“Much is dependent on this union.”

Her, breathless: “I will not disappoint you.”

Phillip goes to the fire and stands with his back to it, warming himself. It is the heart of winter and this is as cold and draughty a castle as she has ever been in. She can smell the sea. There is ice in the air.

“If he has cause to reprove you, you will listen and obey him. If he is angry, you shall be kind. If he is dismissive, you shall be attentive. Cherish him, give him your attentions. Be sweet, gentle and amiable. Patience is your byword. You will make him love you.”

He stares at her. He can stand like this for an eternity; fix a look on his face as if he is carved from marble. It is unnerving.

“No matter the provocation.”

“Provocation?”

“What do you know of Edward?”

“He is King of England. His father was a great warrior. They say Edward is tall and as fine a prince as England ever had.” (Though it is hard for her to imagine a finer king than her father, or a more handsome man.) She has always promised herself she will have a man just like him: as fair, as strong, as feared.

“Your new husband disputes Gascony with me. One road leads to war. A less thorny path leads to the day when my grandson-to-be inherits the throne of my most ancient enemy.”

“What provocation?” Isabella said.

Phillip frowns.

“You mentioned provocation, Father.”

“Did I? I meant nothing by it. Tomorrow you will be Queen of England. Remember always that you are also a daughter of France. Make me proud, Isabella.”

He nods to her nurse and she is taken from the room.

She can barely contain her excitement. She has rehearsed this moment in her mind for years. A handsome prince, a throne, estates: it is what she was born for. From tomorrow she will live her life at the side of a great king.

Happiness is assured.

Chapter 2

Bells peal across the city. The town is hung with banners. Edward of England arrives in a thunder of hooves, his men dressed in royal livery, scarlet with yellow lions. He jumps down from his horse, his cloak swirling, and tosses back a mane of golden hair. He is like a song a troubadour might sing.

He carries himself with the loose-limbed stride of a man accustomed to having others make way for him. He is tall and blue-eyed, and smiles at her with such easy charm it makes her blush.

It is love at first sight.

Her father presents her, and as she steps forward she raises her eyes, hoping to see that glorious smile again. But his attention is already elsewhere, on her father, on the bishop, on her uncle, Valois.

“We should get to business,” he says.

For three days they talk about Gascony. England camps outside the town, a forest of pavilions flourishes outside the walls, as if they are besieged. There is not a room to be had anywhere; beggars and camp followers sleep in porches and gateways. The town is bursting. Isabella patrols the battlements and passages, anxious for a glimpse of him. They cannot be married until they settle the politics.

She hates it here. Boulogne is grey and cold. The banners seem to be fading in the rain.

She closes her eyes and imagines him. He is hers. Her father was right, she is fortunate. He is beautiful, he is a king, and he is all hers.

***

Our Lady of Boulogne has never seen a day like this. Resplendent in a silver gown and wearing a circlet of fine gold, Isabella meets her groom on her father’s arm. Isabella’s hands shake; she hopes her father will think it is because of the cold. He despises emotion, which he calls weakness.

It is frigid inside the cathedral. Her breath freezes on the air.

Eight kings and queens are present; there are also mere dukes and a handful of princes. Ah here, the King of Sicily, there the French dowager queen, all jewels and velvets, gold and shot taffeta, elbowing for a better view of the twelve-year-old bride.

The archbishop reads the words of the marriage. Isabella spares a glance at her father. His expression betrays nothing.

Edward studies the ceiling, his eyes on a cold bolt of sun that angles through the high lancet window. He looks faintly bored. Isabella tries to catch his eye without success.

Finally he finishes with his looking around and sees his bride; he puffs out his cheeks and raises his eyes at her. He nods at the bishop. Will this old bore never finish?

Her father frowns, but only those standing closest to him might notice. This is not the behaviour he expects from his new son-in-law. But there is no one here who might reprimand the king of England, who now stifles a yawn.

The choir sings the plainchant as they kneel on
prie-dieus
; the clouds of swirling incense make her gasp. The bishop joins their hands; she squeezes Edward’s fingers, hoping for some response. He just sighs and returns his attention to the ribbed vault.

The marriage is contracted on the high altar. She thinks she sees her father sigh with relief when it is done, as if he had thought that even at this last moment Edward might flee the cathedral and run for his ship. The Archbishop of Narbonne sings the “Ite Missa Est” and they walk hand in hand to the nave to the polite applause of every noble house in Christendom.

No one smiles as she leaves the church, except for Edward. When they are outside he leans in and addresses her directly for the first time: “There,” he murmurs. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? I thought you did rather well.”

***

One face stands out from the others as they leave the church; he is one of Edward’s men, a bleak man with a black beard and dark eyes. Even a girl as young as Isabella knows when a man is looking at her in a manner that he should not. He scares her. In that first glimpse there is a savagery to his face that is unmistakeable even in a crowded and candlelit church. He does not belong among the purple, she decides; his real trade is written plainly on his face.

Later, at the feast, she asks one of her ladies who he is. They do not know; enquiries are made of the English party. Someone whispers to her that his name is Roger Mortimer, and he is one of Edward’s barons. Once she catches him staring at her across the hall. She looks quickly away and never turns back in that direction again.

Chapter 3

Her ladies prepare her for bed. Her hair is brushed through a hundred times and arranged beneath the caul. They rub her skin with rose-scented oil and set a fire burning in the grate.

She asks Marguerite what she should do. Marguerite is married to her brother, Louis, and has already been through this ordeal. “What shall I do?”

“Whatever he asks, your grace.”

“But what will he ask?”

Her old nurse pats her head. “Now there’s no need to be frightened.”

“I’m not frightened.”

“You should not be a mortal woman if you were not a little frightened. But he will not come to you tonight, or any night soon.”

“He won’t?”

“
Ma chèrie
, you are only twelve years old.”

“How old were you when you married?”

“I was fifteen. Old enough.”

“I want to make him happy.”

Marguerite finds this amusing. “It is not hard to make a man happy. Be agreeable. Do not vex him. Have his children. Do as he says.”

“And will he love me?”

“Love?” The smile is gone as quickly as it came. Marguerite spares her a look she has never had in her life: pity. “Rest your faith in God, Isabella.”

When her ladies are gone she finds the gift that her husband’s stepmother had sent her, a golden casket with the arms of Plantagenet and Caret in quatrefoils. It is lined in red velvet. She wonders what she might put in it.

The door creaks open. She tosses the box aside and lies down again, her arms stiff at her sides. The casket clatters onto the floor.

Edward picks it up and lays it on the bed beside her. He puts his hands on his hips and studies her. “Well, you’re a little on the bony side. I dare say you shall put some flesh on your bones as you grow. Pretty enough. But they told me you were beautiful.”

Isabella stares at the coverlet. It bears the emblem of France.

Edward sits on the edge of the bed. He reaches for her hand, pats it. “You’re frightened of me?”

She shakes her head vigorously.

“Yes you are. Oh, I think I know what it is. But you needn’t worry on that account. I’m not a monster, Isabella. The Church says we might lie together as man and wife, but I always try to put kindness and common sense before anything the Pope says.”

She still does not move.

“What is this you have here? Did my stepmother give you this? I would have thought the old girl might have done better. You might put jewels in it, I suppose. You shall never suffer a shortage of jewels, Isabella.”

He places the casket on her lap.

A log falls from the hearth. He gets up and kicks it back into the grate.

“Do you like me, my lord?”

A broad smile. “Ah. She speaks! At last. I heard you repeat the vows in Church so I knew you were capable of it.”

“Do you?”

“I hardly know you, girl. Is it necessary for me to like you? I shall treat you kindly either way.”

“Are you pleased that I am your wife?”

“Of course. I need Gascony back.”

“I mean - do I please you?”

Edward frowns and sits down again. “You’re queen of England, Isabella. What else is it that you want?”

She cannot answer him. She wants what her mother had; her father’s endless tears at her funeral, the years of mourning. The longing. All the things that the troubadours sing about, like love and gallantry. She wishes to be a queen who is loved by the king, and that king must be someone much like her father.

But she cannot tell him any of these things, and so she says nothing.

“You will let me know if you need anything? After the festivities we leave for England. Anything you require, just speak to your ladies and I shall attend to it.” He stands up and shakes his head. “I never expected you to be so young.”

“I never expected you to be so handsome.”

There, it is said. He is taken aback; he laughs then tucks the sheet up to her neck. “You should sleep now.”

He makes to blow the candle out but she stops him; tells him she is frightened of the dark. And so he kisses her on the forehead and leaves, shutting the door softly behind him. Before it closes she sees him say something to the guard and pat him on the shoulder; her father never speaks in a friendly manner to anyone less than a duke and so this surprises her.