Isabella: Braveheart of France (2 page)

She sits up and retrieves the casket. She runs a finger across the velvet. “One day I will have your heart, Edward,” she whispers. “One day, Edward. I promise you! One day!”

Chapter 4

The white cliffs appear through a curtain of rain. Isabella pays them scant attention. She has been seasick since leaving the harbour at Boulogne, and now clings to the side with her ladies fussing around her, those of them that are not themselves bent over the stern rail. A cold wind buffets her burning cheeks.

Dover castle appears briefly through another flurry of rain. All she wants is to be on dry land again. The Narrow Sea now stands between her and her father; she feels adrift.

She looks around for her new husband; he patrols the deck, wrapped in a red mantle, his servants getting in the way of his pacing. He pushes one irritably aside and searches the shore. Does he fear pirates? Once inside the harbour walls, the anchor splashes down; the royal barge is already on its way to meet them.

He goes ashore first, with his retinue of barons and bishops. Not a backward glance.

When she finally arrives at the quay Edward is lost among a huddle of courtiers. Her own people huddle around her, protecting her from the worst of the wind, while her uncles, Evreux and Valois, supervise the unloading of the baggage. The puddles are ruining her shoes.

The quay is foul, wet and reeks of fish. The forbidding walls of the castle appear through the mist of rain. The scarlet flags with their gold lions are the only colour on this dull day.

She catches a glimpse of the king, arm in arm with one of the gallants, a fine-looking man wearing more jewels than she has ever worn at one time, even for her wedding.

“Who is that?” she murmurs.

Valois makes a clicking noise with his tongue. “That’s Gaveston.”

“Is he a baron?”

“He thinks he is.”

Their eyes meet. This Gaveston smiles at her over Edward’s shoulder. But there is no time for pleasantries. Another flurry of rain sends them all scurrying for the litters.

A blast of trumpets and their escort clatters into position on the cobblestones. They enter through a massive gatehouse, bumping through a narrow passage into a broad bailey, which is a madhouse of smiths and horses and dogs. She sees a butcher sling a carcass on a hook to drain the blood into a tin bucket, and women toss filthy rags into steaming vats. Noises, smells, and a sea of grim faces. All this way and it is just like being back in Paris.

***

Well, this is not how she has imagined it at all.

He has paid her no attention, none. He spends all his time whispering and laughing with this Gaveston. They are like two mating pigeons. She fights down her disappointment, and remembers what her father had told her.

Cherish him, give him your attentions, be sweet, gentle and amiable. Patience is your byword. You will make him love you.

The great hall is long and cavernous, pennants and banners hang from the hammer-beam roof. The windows and arrow slits have been shuttered against the English winter but it finds its way in anyway and the flags above her flutter in the draught. They have built up the fire with logs, but she shivers with cold.

The food is announced with heralds and trumpets, a swan stuffed with a chicken stuffed with capons. There are other plates of venison and boar, roasted and glazed. Edward gasps in delight as if he has never seen such wonders before. What does he usually eat at a banquet, stale bread and haddock water?

She is the subject of much attention, as she has hoped and expected. She is the new foreign curiosity. She does not mind; in fact she rather likes it.

“Look at them staring, Uncle. Will they love me here, do you think?”

“You are their queen. Of course they will love you.”

She watches the king. At first she thinks there are children crawling all over him; now she sees they are his dwarves and fools, they dress in bright colours and some even have their heads shaved like monks. They have names like Maud Makejoy and Greybread and he even lets them eat at the royal table, below the salt. He diverts himself by throwing food at them. He drinks too much and laughs too loudly.

Now Gaveston leans forward and whispers in his ear. Up close he is breath-taking in scarlet and gold satin. His crucifix is studded with pearls and he wears a ruby ring, both among the presents her father gave to Edward as wedding gifts.

“Who is this Gaveston? He has not left Edward’s side since we arrived here.”

“Every king has his favourite.”

I should be his favourite
, she thinks but dares not say it.

“Do not worry, your grace, he will not be at your Coronation.”

“You promise me?”

“The barons have made their position clear on it. You are not the only one unhappy about the king’s behaviour.”

This surprises her. No one has ever dared reprimand her father for anything. It is hard to image living in a country where a king might not do exactly as he pleases.

Edward takes a morsel from his trencher and places it between Gaveston’s lips. They look into each other’s eyes and laugh. The whole court sees this happen. Valois finishes his wine; some of it spills onto his beard. He slams the goblet down on the bench and walks out, kicking one of the dogs as he leaves.

***

Tonight the wind shrieks around the castle walls. Isabella cannot sleep. She pulls back the bed curtains and wraps a fur around her shoulders. She gets up and sits on a low stool by the fire, almost hugging the embers in the hearth.

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.

The chamber they have assigned her is huge, as big as Boulogne cathedral. There are glowing braziers to supplement the fire, but nothing will warm this cavern. Two of her new ladies snore in trundles at the foot of the four-poster bed.

She hears laughter in the passage outside; it is perhaps just a servant, though when she closes her eyes what she imagines is Gaveston pursued by her husband in some wicked game.

She does not want to be here, in this cold castle, so far from the Palais de la Cîté and her father and everything she knows.
But I must win him over and make my father proud of me
, she reminds herself. This is her duty.

She climbs back into the cold bed and listens to the wind moan down the chimney and watches the log crumble to ash in the grate.

Chapter 5

Two weeks later Isabella prepares to become a queen. “How do I look?”

“You look beautiful, your grace,” Isabella de Vescy tells her. She is much older than her other ladies and has taken her in hand, as if she thinks she needs a mother. Perhaps she does.

“Do I look regal?”

Even in the polished steel mirror she sees the frown of hesitation. “Very regal,” the younger one, Eleanor, tells her and earns a frown of rebuke from de Vescy that she thinks Isabella does not see.

Well of course I do not look regal. I look like a twelve-year-old girl, over-primped and overdressed; if not for these ribbons and artifices I would disappear inside this gown and my uncles would have to hack a way through the taffeta and velvet with their swords to free me.

“Will Gaveston be there?”

De Vescy shrugs with all the eloquence that a mature woman can muster.

“Why does no one want to talk about him?

Valois bursts in. Her uncle comes and goes as he pleases it seems, immune to Madame de Vescy’s cold stares. He still treats her as a child, they all do.

He regards her gown and sighs. He had done much sighing since arriving in England. “Are you ready to become queen of England, your grace?”

She takes a deep breath and nods her head. She is ready for no such thing.

***

A timber pathway has been laid through the mud and is strewn with herbs. Bells peal along the misty river from Saint Paul’s to Saint Stephen’s. Every church in London joins in. Their procession is announced with pipes and drums.

Edward strides beside her, appearing faintly bored with it all. He looks glorious in a scarlet and gold surcoat over a snow-white linen shirt. There is a cape of glory on his shoulders, a jewelled crown on his head.

They walk from Westminster Hall to the Abbey, the barons of the Cinque Ports carrying an embroidered canopy to keep the drizzle of rain off the royal heads.

Every citizen of London is pushing and shoving for a better look at them. Their guard is heavy-handed in their duties but it does no good, they are forced to enter the Abbey by the back door, and Isabella feels herself jostled. Edward has to step in himself to protect her and she smiles up at him, grateful for his gallantry. Her uncle Lancaster, walking ahead of them, looks as if he would like to use Edward the Confessor’s blunted Sword of Mercy on some ruffian with no teeth who tries to pinch her arm.

Warwick shouts at the bodyguard to use the butt end of their lances but it does no good, as the crush is so great that those at the front cannot retreat even if they wish it. The hem of her gown is spattered with mud. Edward mutters a curse.

Another baron - she sees now it is the one she caught staring at her at the banquet - strides ahead, with the royal robes. He glances over his shoulder at her and nods. Perhaps the gesture is meant to reassure; she raises her chin to let him know she is not intimidated in the least by the crowd. It is bravado. She is terrified.

But at last they come to the coronation. Inside the abbey it is no less crowded, but there is not the jostling or the stink. Isabella looks up and sees the bishops waiting for them by the thrones.

And then she sees Gaveston.

He wears silver and imperial purple, a vision in silk and pearls. He has come down from heaven to anoint them perhaps. He bears the crown of England on a velvet cushion.

Isabella’s own robes are made from twenty-three yards of gold and silver cloth, edged and decorated with ermine and overlaid with mother-of-pearl lace. On her head she has a crimson velvet cap, adorned with Venetian gold and pearls.

Yet beside Gaveston she feels underdressed.

Her uncle Lancaster, standing somewhere behind her, mutters a curse. “Look at what he’s wearing,” he hisses. “I should like to spill his guts with the Sword of Mercy!”

The Lord of Lincoln reminds him of Isabella’s delicate presence.

She looks to Edward for explanation but he is beaming at Gaveston, who grins back. One of the earls shouts something but Mortimer steps in and warns him to silence. It was Warwick. Gaveston seems oblivious to them; he has eyes only for the king.

It is overwhelming. There are thousands crammed inside, monks, soldiers, bishops. The choir and sanctuary are ablaze with hundreds of candles. There are banners and flags everywhere, a riot of colour. Two massive wooden pavilions hung with winter roses soar either side of the steps leading up to the sanctuary.

The crowds surge forward; one of her ladies shouts in alarm. Isabella looks around for Isabella de Vescy who gives her arm a reassuring squeeze. There is so much smoke from the candles and thuribles of incense that it is hard to breathe. She thinks she is going to faint.

Finally Edward ascends the platform to the painted coronation chair that his father had made to house the stone of Scone, a sacred relic he stole from the Scots to gall them. But just as the Confessor’s crown is placed on his head, a wall behind the altar collapses and there are muffled screams from beneath it. The bishops look in exasperation at Gaveston. The ceremony continues, while some knights and officials haul at the rubble. It seems someone is trapped underneath.

“I have a man who mucks out my horses could have done a better job of managing this occasion than Gaveston,” Warwick says.

“I can hear the Bruce laughing all the way from Dunbar,” Lancaster says.

***

The coronation banquet is held at Westminster Hall. The food arrives late and is cold, the grease settled. Her uncle Lancaster stands up with a mouthful of goose and shows the assembly that the meat is raw before hurling a haunch of seared and bleeding beef at an usher.

There is no shortage of wine, and several of the guests become bawdy. Her brother Charles approaches her with her uncles and indicates that it is time to leave. Edward has his arm around Gaveston, and their fingers are intertwined. They have no eyes for anyone else. Gaveston kisses his cheek.

“Have you not a care?” the Earl of Lincoln shouts at him and has to be restrained. The King hardly notices.

They retire to an antechamber. Valois has a servant fetch him wine.

“I was once on crusade in Outremer,” Evreux says. “I was lost in the desert among some brute Germans who could do no more than grunt at each other, and because we were starving we ate one of the camels raw. Even so, the company and the food were better than it was tonight.”