She stands in her satin gown,
If anyone touches her,
The gown rustles,
Eia —
She stands in her golden gown,
Her face like a rose and her mouth like a
flower,
Eia.
The object of all this merriment and rejoicing remained ivory-faced, blue eyes staring. She hardly drank at all but sat, lips moving wordlessly. Once the banquet was over and the king’s favourite lurchers had been allowed into the chamber, Isabella withdrew, gesturing at me to follow. She ordered the pages who carried the flambeaux to escort her to the small chapel she was accustomed to visit. Once inside she dismissed them, telling me to lock and bolt the door. The chapel was freezing cold, its brazier nothing more than a pile of ash and cinders. Isabella, ignoring my protests, took off her gown and robes. Dressed in nothing but her shift, she walked barefoot up to the sanctuary and prostrated herself about two yards before the rood screen. Stretched out on the ice-cold flagstones, she crept forward like a penitent crawling to kiss the cross on Good Friday and lay beneath the rood screen, arms extended, face down. I tried to cover her with my cloak, but she shrugged it off. I squatted at the foot of a pillar, the cold creeping up my own legs, the muscles of my back cramping in discomfort. Palace bells marked the passing hour, but still the princess lay as if asleep. Eventually she rose, dressed and smiled at me, pinching my cheek.
‘Mathilde, I have given thanks for my deliverance from hell. Now come,’ she teased, ‘tonight we pray, tomorrow we act all merry.’
Casales, Rossaleti and the other three English envoys arrived early on Christmas Eve bearing gifts and letters from Philip’s ‘sweet cousin’ the King of England. Isabella was ordered to meet them in the royal council chamber shortly after the Angelus. Casales and Rossaleti, however, still unshaven and ill-kempt after their hasty return, first attended her in her chamber to explain the status, power and purpose of the other three envoys. Both sat close to the hearth, muttering about the freezing weather and how it chilled their very bones, before describing the men Isabella would meet. Sandewic was an old soldier, Keeper of the Tower and Justice of Gaol-delivery at Newgate, the most foul prison in London and the last resting place of many outlaws. ‘He’s hanged more felons than I’ve drunk cups of wine,’ Casales exclaimed. ‘A royal bully-boy, an intimate friend of the old king, he loves that grim fortress the Tower of London; he regards it as his own personal fief. He even pays for the upkeep of its small chapel, St Peter Ad Vincula, from his own pocket. Sandewic is fierce,’ Casales continued, ‘the English crown’s man, body and soul! He once arrested a papal tax collector who’d vexed the old king; he took the tax collector’s money and told the fellow to be out of the kingdom within three days or he’d hang him from the Tower walls.’
‘Oh dear!’ Isabella pretended to be frightened. ‘And is Sir John Baquelle a greater beast?’
‘Ah, Baquelle is a London merchant, a friend of Pourte’s, rich and powerful. A justice of the city. Whereas the citizens of London are terrified of Sandewic, Baquelle they hate because he’s a royal appointment.’
‘And Lord Walter Wenlok?’
‘Abbot of Westminster,’ Rossaleti scoffed, ‘and very much aware of it.’ He coughed, recollecting himself. ‘He’s been abbot for over twenty years, a close friend of the old king and a special confidant of the new. He is much liked by my Lord Gaveston.’
‘And the death of Pourte and the attack on you?’ Isabella asked. ‘What are your thoughts now?’
‘Suspicion is not evidence,’ Casales replied, chewing his lip. ‘Of course mon seigneur the king knows of it and has protested.’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘But that is just straw in the wind.’
‘And my betrothed’s abrupt change of mind?’
‘Only God knows!’ Casales murmured. ‘My lady,’ he smiled, ‘soon to be your grace. Perhaps the change is just hard politic, the inevitable.’
My lady glanced sharply at Rossaleti, who nodded.
‘My lady,’ Casales repeated, ‘this is not some speech from a romance, but please remember, mon seigneur the King of England has undiminished love for you.’
‘And the Lord Gaveston?’ Isabella’s ambiguous question startled Casales, who glanced quickly at Rossaleti. The clerk just smiled serenely back as if that answer was not his to give.
‘Mon seigneur the king,’ Casales hastily declared, ‘loves his lady, whilst his love for Lord Gaveston is that for a dear brother. These new envoys will assure you of this.’
‘In which case, monsieur,’ Isabella rose, smoothing down the folds of her gown, ‘it is time we met our visitors.’
We went down to the council chamber. Everything was prepared as if for a mass, candles glowing along the polished table, the fire fiercely crackling the scented pine logs, the braziers sparkling, the tapestry-covered walls hidden in the shadows, pierced no doubt by peep-holes and confessional gaps where Marigny and his Secreti could lurk. The three envoys were grouped at the far end of the table. Sandewic was what he looked, a veteran soldier, an old knight, who’d kept his fealty to God and his king. I took to him immediately; my heart warmed to his blunt goodness. He reminded me so much of Uncle Reginald. Looking back, I realise, in truth, that some men possess an innate decency, a richness of the soul. Sandewic was one of these. He had a falcon-like face, a beaked nose, a hard mouth and glaring eyes beneath bushy brows. He was dressed in the old fashion, no fripperies, simply a long, sleeveless dark-green gown over a jerkin of rich murrey, a sword-belt wrapped round his waist, a silver chain of office hanging about his neck. Sandewic’s steel-grey hair straggled down to his shoulders though his white moustache and beard were neatly clipped. He knelt when Isabella approached, kissed her hands then, most movingly, turned to me and did the same, clasping my fingers. My soul kissed his, my life touched his. Jesu miserere mei; his brutal death struck deep and hard with me.
Baquelle was different, small, fat and pompous, a radiant, jolly face under a mop of black hair. He was dressed in the finest jagged coat, particoloured hose and blood-red Cordovan riding boots. Baquelle didn’t know whether to bluster or fawn, whilst his so-called courtly speech was clumsy enough to make Rossaleti hide his smile. A true merchant prince full of his own importance, he was very much the royal envoy and gave my mistress the sketchiest of bows.
Lord Walter Wenlok, Abbot of Westminster, was garbed in the black robes of a Benedictine but they were of the purest wool and edged with ermine, whilst his stiffened hood, pulled elegantly back, was lined with costly purple samite. Wenlok was proud in both manner and appearance. The tonsure on his head neatly cut, his smooth-shaven patrician face composed in a mask of sanctimonious serenity. A thin-lipped, arrogant-eyed man who, in the circumstances, should have looked into his soul and the coming call for its reckoning rather than emphasising his power. He stretched out a claw-like hand so we could kiss his thick abbatial ring. Isabella did so quickly, I followed suit, then we settled down to exchange pleasantries. Courteous questions provoked courteous answers. Old Sandewic, however, broke from this.
‘My lady,’ he leaned against the table, ‘you shall certainly be called Isabella La Belle. You will win the hearts of all loyal subjects with your beauty and grace.’