The Stolen Queen (14 page)

Before the dessert course, it was time for the gift giving. I saw King Philip give a tiny smirk into his beard, knowing what was to come. The doors of the salle were thrown wide, and though, of course, I might not rise from my seat to peer eagerly like the other guests, I could glimpse the crowd at the outer gate and hear the murmurs of surprise and admiration as a troop of acrobats, wearing nothing but wide blue-and-gold-striped pantaloons and outlandish silk turbans pinned to their heads, their faces and torsos blackened with cork, came flipping and tumbling over the rushes. When they reached us, they formed themselves into a tower, five men at the base, four more grasping their shoulders and turning a long, full circle to grasp the elbows of the first, with three more climbing up to balance,
shaking with effort, on their upturned feet. Then two more, topsy-turvy, then the last one, who shimmied like a monkey along the flanks of his fellows, a gold scroll clasped between his teeth. When he had attained the precarious summit, he unrolled the scroll and feigned to read, the sweat pouring through his makeup all the while, ‘Majesties: an envoy from the East.'

The musicians played a strange, wandering, keening tune, and as the tower of men collapsed itself, each of them rolling to a corner of the salle, heads tucked into knees like jewelled scarabs, a monster was led through the doors. Twice as high as the tallest destrier, with short legs, a pendulous body covered in sagging, grey hide, the beast had huge flapping ears and a monstrous snout that waved before it, thicker than a man's arm. On its back was a litter with a pointed roof, upon which perched a skinny boy, with fat lips, a squashed nose and skin the colour of a bruised plum, truly, not painted, with only a white cloth wound around his limbs. The room fell silent, for as it moved, it was clear the monster was real, not a wooden construction with hidden wheels, but a living thing. Many of the ladies crossed themselves, and though the men kept their right hands on the table, for manners' sake, I watched their eyes slide to their daggers. Closer and closer the thing plodded. The French king caught my eye, looking perhaps for a sign of fear, but I met his gaze clearly. I saw far worse monsters in my dreams.

Slowly, the murmurs rose again, everyone exclaiming as to what the thing could be and where it had come from. A few brave souls even reached out to brush its wrinkled skin. As it approached, the mounted boy, whose head nearly touched the
rafters of the salle, produced a long ebony pole and touched the thing behind one of its drooping ears. Slowly, effortfully, the creature knelt down on its forelegs, the little silk house bucking crazily on its back, and lowered its head in obeisance. I stood up, clapping my hands with delight, and Blanche followed my example.

‘See, ladies,' called the king. ‘Their Majesties are not afraid. This is an elephant!' The word rolled through the room, people milling the sound around their tongues like an unusual sweetmeat. ‘Sent from Persia, a gift from the Sultan,' the king continued. ‘And now, a gift from me to my brother of England.'

I flashed a glance at John, whose face was mangled with drink and irritation. What were we to do with such a thing? What would it eat? How much would it cost? I knew my husband's mean-minded suspiciousness, his quickness to imagine a slight, and fearful that he would give offence, I moved forward, curtsied gratefully to King Philip, and approached the beast myself. Nearby on the table was a dish of baked apples, their skin gilded with saffron and cinnamon. I picked one up and held it towards the creature, keeping my palm flat as though I was feeding Othon, but unsure where its mouth might be.

‘Be careful, madame!' gasped Princess Blanche.

I didn't care whether it ate me or not. I could disappear into its maw with my hose sticking out behind like a soul in Hell being swallowed by a demon for all I minded.

‘Here you are, Elephant,' I whispered.

I recoiled as the huge snout swayed towards me, and then the creature picked up the apple with the end of its nose, and
popped it underneath, to where I could see a surprisingly small opening. This time my delight was genuine.

‘Look!' I cried. ‘It eats apples with its nose!'

The room erupted with relieved laughter, quickly followed by applause. I could hear the remarks ‘How brave she is!', ‘How charming!', ‘How lovely!'

Four horses, ridden by young squires in pale blue surcoats showing the French
fleur-de-lys
, now rode down the salle towards the creature. Ladders were brought, and the ‘knights' mounted them as though the poor animal was a castle they were besieging, grasped the supporting poles of the structure on its back and brought it to the ground. As the elephant was led away by its tiny rider, the four opened the litter, which, I could see now, seemed to be made all of silver, and began to pull out gifts: saddles with gilt trappings, mail coats which swam from their hands like fish scales,
cotte
of heavy linen faced with silver, axes with thick ivory handles, knives in curious curved sheaths. One by one, the men stepped up to receive their gifts, making their obeisance towards the dais as they did so. Among them knelt my brother, but I kept my eyes on the elephant and a gentle smile curving at the corners of my lips.

When all the men had received their prizes, the doors of the salle swung wide again, and two pages ran along the length of the hall, laying down a dark blue cloth between them. I could hear more gasps of delight from the crowd outside. John scowled – another unwanted present? Along the waves of cloth came a low cart, bearing a narrow black boat, its prow viciously pointed and mounted with a shining steel horn, close and neat as a coffin.

‘It is one of the boats they use at Venice,' whispered Louis.

‘How original,' I managed to whisper back.

The thing sailed towards us on its watery carpet, the cart's rope drawn by unseen hands. When it reached the dais, I saw that it was loaded with canvas bales, and a figure lying between them. I gasped with surprise as he rose and bowed, swaying a little, for all the world as though he hovered on a real boat on a real Venetian canal, for though his face was lowered, I caught the watery flash of his pale eyes, the colour of the lagoons in my maman's lost stories. The silk man.

My fingers strayed to the cloth of my gown. It had begun with him, that day when the messenger had overtaken him on the Angouleme Road. Was he part of it, too, his silks stretching about like a net, drawing us closer and closer to the madness that waited at Lusignan? Princess Blanche clapped her hands delightedly, and now the ladies came forward, exclaiming over the bales of airy fabric being unpacked from the boat. The silk man flung them about him like a conjuror so that the space around him became a meadow of improbable silk blooms, turquoise and scarlet, leaf green and dull gold. My mother approached, and as she made her curtsey towards the thrones, I saw her eyes slide to meet the silk man's subtly expectant gaze. He reached into the boat and handed her two small parcels of white linen. One she offered, with another deep curtsey, to Blanche, and then she turned to me.

‘Majesty.'

‘Lady Mother.'

Our words were hidden under the gasps of the swarming women. The men on the dais looked on, indulgent and slightly bored.

‘I trust you are well, my daughter.'

‘Quite well, thank God.'

‘Would it please you to accept a gift?'

‘Gladly, Mother.'

It astonishes me still, how much suffering the heart can accommodate. Like a swelling muslin bag of cheese in a dairy, it bellies out with pain, bulging and dripping, yet always there is space for more. The cold formality of my mother's words, the familiar sight of her smooth, lovely face, felt more than I could bear. And yet, I did. As she stretched her hand towards mine, our fingers brushed, and all I wanted to do was hurl myself into her arms and sob out my pain as I had done as a child until she soothed me against her breast and the world was restored to sense. I took the parcel, and a small, mean pleasure, too, in turning my head away, dismissing her.

‘Isabelle!' she gasped.

Through my teeth, the bright, easy smile still clamped to my face. ‘What is it, Lady Mother? What can you possibly have to say to me?'

‘I sent Pierre to you,' she tried to reason.

‘Indeed.'

‘And you understood?'

‘Quite clearly. It is so kind of you. My thanks,' my sarcasm palpable.

‘And your answer?'

One of Blanche's women stood nearby, holding a length of buttercup sarsenet. I reached out to touch it, murmured something about how pretty it was.

‘I have no answer, Lady Mother. You see, I have nothing to say to you at all.' I laughed gaily, at nothing, and she returned it so that for a moment our voices rang above the murmur in the salle, lost and bitter and shrill as the voice of a banshee, screaming round a battlement. Then King Philip stood, scattering the ladies before him, and offered me his hand to lead me out to dance.

Only later, when we left the men to their drinking, and I had bidden a courteous farewell to Blanche, after I had been handed into the king's barge and returned under the curious eyes of the citizens to the Louvre, after I prayed, and had my face washed and my hair combed out and was finally, finally, alone in my chamber with Agnes, did I ask for the parcel to be opened. Under the linen lay a thin red cord, such as I had seen my mother wearing, bound about her leg on the day she went from Lusignan.

‘You must wear it, little one,' said Agnes tentatively. ‘It is what they wish.'

‘Burn it.'

Agnes's face worked painfully, she was afraid.

‘Agnes, it is nothing. See?' I held it up and cast it onto the brazier, where it curled and charred like a cast-off snake skin. ‘It is nothing to do with us. Please don't be afraid, now. We will have nothing to do with their folly, with their … wickedness. I am queen, and I will keep you safe. Look. It is quite gone.'

‘We should throw away the ashes.'

‘Why, Agnes? In case a witch comes in the night, to take them for a charm?' One look at her poor old trusting face showed
me that this was precisely what she feared. I sighed, ‘Very well. Empty the brazier into the river, then go to your chamber and rest. We go south tomorrow.'

I had kept my countenance. I had survived this interminable day. I did not believe what I had said to Agnes, that I could protect her, but I saw that I had, at least, to try. To protect Agnes, and John, and that way, myself. The sun was setting over the city. Glancing up at the casement, I saw a red streak across the sky, in the direction of Normandy, spooling through the clouds like a skein of red silk. I called for a maid, and had her close the window tight.

CHAPTER TEN

T
HE GATES OF PARIS HAD BARELY CLOSED BEHIND THE
last of our baggage trains when we saw the first signs of the Lusignan rebellion. Leaving the royal demesnes of France near Orleans, John planned to traverse the county of Blois towards his own lands in Maine, moving west towards Chinon and then south to Poitiers, where his mother Queen Eleanor had kept her capital. Encumbered as we were by mule carts bearing our furnishings and provisions, our tents where we slept, our kitchens, our regalia, moving at the pace of the foot guards who surrounded my ladies' litters, we travelled far more slowly than King Philip's marshals, who paused to pay their respects to John as they passed us on the road. It was only as we approached Le Mans that the captain of my husband's garrison rode out to explain, fearfully, to John, that Lord Hugh and his brother, Ralph of Eu, had taken their complaint to the French king, demanding the county of La Marche as recompense for my betrothal, and that Philip had declared John's holdings in France forfeit. The English standard flew alone above the Le
Mans keep, fluttering high over the green July country, showing that my husband was in breach of his obligation to his liege lord. If the Lusignans attempted his dominions, the empty space next to the standard declared, Philip was not bound to defend his oath. Philip, who knew nothing more of the Lusignans' plans than my poor husband, was quite content in his greed for Angevin fields and castles. If the Lusignans made war on John, there would be ample spoils for the French king if he supported them.

I instructed the maids that we would dine quietly in our quarters that day, but even from the distance of my chambers in the tower I could hear my husband screaming, ranting out his fury at the treachery of the Lusignans and the French king. He came reeling and stinking to my bed that night, and vomited in the rushes before falling into a muttering sleep from which I could not rouse him until long after the rest of the household had heard Mass. For days, he continued so, summoning his captains each morning, issuing orders to his seneschals for funds to raise troops, then drinking away all his plans through the afternoon and snoring hopelessly late each morning, clutching me to his sour-smelling body, mumbling of traitors and vengeance. I had the maids lay fresh linen and rushes each day, keep the windows wide to the summer air and burned sweet herbs in my rooms, but nothing could drive the stench of him away, so it seemed as though my own skin was polluted with his folly and helplessness. I tried to be meek and gentle, to speak only soft, encouraging words, and asked Agnes to discreetly command his servers to water the king's wine, but the longer John tarried, the more fearful I became. Was he intending to let his lands, and
me, slip away in his drunken lassitude? As I passed to the chapel or the gardens among my women, I felt the same uncertainty and discontent among the garrison, and I saw in their disgusted glances that they felt I was to blame. What kind of a king was this, whom, when his holdings were challenged by his enemies, preferred to stay swilling and lolling in bed with a woman who was no more than a child?

Each day, messengers poured into Le Mans with news from the south. I was shamed to see them waiting anxiously in the hall as my husband rolled and grunted through his drunken dreams in the tower. Duke Arthur raised his standard in Brittany, calling on his men to defend his title to the English throne, and my husband did nothing. Duke Arthur was at Tours, where the Lusignans declared for him, and my husband did nothing. The lands of the south were in open rebellion, with the peasants leaving their fields before the harvest to join the Lusignan host, and my husband did nothing.