‘Mathilde,’ Isabella called out.
‘Your grace?’
The princess smiled and patted the bed beside her. ‘Come. I must get used to that title.’ She handed the comb to me turning slightly so I could smooth out her hair at the back. ‘As I must get used to my husband’s determination to avenge all insults and demonstrate he is king.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘That is the radix malorum omnium, Mathilde, the root of all evils here. Edward is, in many ways, a child younger in years than me. He was snubbed and insulted by his own father and his nobles, and he never forgets.’
‘And the Lord Gaveston?’ I asked.
‘I must accept things for what they are, Mathilde. Gaveston is Edward’s soul. He fills an emptiness that I could never hope to; I must learn to accept that.’
‘And yourself?’ I asked. ‘What about your emptiness? ’
I thought Isabella was crying; her shoulders shook slightly. When I tried to turn her, she pushed me away.
‘I don’t know, Mathilde. I don’t know where the emptiness is and I am not too sure if it can ever be filled.’ She turned to me. ‘You do that for me. Can’t you see? In the friendship I have for you?’ She touched me gently on the shoulder. ‘I can understand Edward’s love for Gaveston; we mirror each other.’
‘He should be more cunning, astute.’
‘That, Mathilde,’ the princess whispered, ‘comes with years. The king is insistent on one thing. Tonight we dined in public, but tomorrow, he, Gaveston, you and I will dine alone in his chambers. He has told us to rest as we shall talk and drink until the early hours. I understand that. Soon,’ Isabella pulled a face, ‘Marigny and the rest arrive; they will watch us like a cat does a bird.’
Chapter 8
All the land of England is moist with weeping.
The following evening Isabella and I, both greatly refreshed, joined the king and Gaveston in the small dining chamber in the royal quarters. The room had been specially prepared, its windows shuttered, Turkey rugs laid on the floor, a great oval oaken table placed before the hearth so we could all feel the warmth from the flames licking the sweetly scented pine logs. The king and his favourite were dressed sombrely in dark Lincoln green, boots on their feet, their only concession to finery being the glittering rings on their fingers. They both looked purposeful, sober and eager to talk. As the various courses were served, pheasant and hare cooked in different sauces, Edward described what would happen over the next month, advising Isabella about the coronation and the rituals which would have to be followed. Only towards the end, after the quince tarts were served with sweet white wine, did he order all the servants to leave, no lesser person than Sandewic being left outside to guard the passageways and doors. Edward pushed back his chair, turning slightly towards the fire.
‘I like Dover,’ he murmured, ‘always on the edge of the kingdom, a place to come if you want to escape.’ He turned back to us. ‘Ah well.’ He sighed. ‘And now to business.’
Both king and favourite lounged languidly; no more pretence, no acting, no slurping from cups or bellowing guffaws of laughter. No one else was present, though I wondered why a fifth chair had been placed at the table. Edward, tapping his goblet with his fingernails, chattered about our entry into London then straightened in his chair, playing with the ring on the little finger of his left hand. He described the situation in Scotland, the power of Bruce and his threat to the northern shires. He detailed the problems with the exchequer, his lack of monies, the pressing need to raise taxes from both parliament and the Convocation of Clergy. Gaveston remained quiet throughout. Now and again he’d glance at me, but for the most part he sat, head down, listening intently as Edward listed his problems with the earls. He described how his great-grandfather John, grandfather Henry as well as Edward I had all faced strong opposition from the leading nobles with their private armies and retinues, their deep-rooted determination to control the power of the crown.
‘Ask Sandewic,’ the king scoffed, gesturing at the door. ‘Forty-seven years ago he fought for the rebel Earl of Leicester, Simon de Montfort, against my father and grandfather. He escaped the traitor’s block because my dear father admired his integrity. One decision,’ Edward added wryly, ‘on which both Father and I agreed.’
The more Edward talked, the less certain I became. In all this there was some mystery, a puzzle, an enigma. He was talking fluently and logically. Yet why play the other Edward, the feckless king supporting his favourite, patronising jesters whilst publicly insulting the leading earls, not to mention his powerful father-in-law? Edward of England showed a shrewdness not even Isabella had guessed at. She too appeared disconcerted, mystified, as if the husband she was now meeting was a different man from the one she had married at Boulogne; a king who had the astuteness to realise the true relationship between herself and her family as well as that with me, whom Edward and Gaveston now accepted as Isabella’s confidante. I hid my own smile. Casales and Rossaleti had reported faithfully back: both the king and his favourite acted as if they had known us for years. Isabella’s puzzlement expressed itself in certain questions about the Templars and about her marriage. Edward dismissed these, repeating what we had already learnt from Sandewic: both matters were of political necessity. Edward conceded that there would be no bloody prosecution of the Templars, only the seizure of their wealth, which he desperately needed. He courteously included me in the conversation, though I realised Isabella had not confided the full truth about me to her husband.
Eventually Gaveston rose and placed logs on the greedy fire, then, taking a taper, lit more candles, replacing those which had burnt low. The light flared, bringing to life the beautiful tapestries decorating the walls. Gaveston secured one of the shutters which had slipped loose, then walked over to the door, opened it and had a brief conversation with Sandewic outside. I heard the name Clauvelin mentioned, the mournful notary from Soissons. Gaveston then closed the door and rejoined us at the table. Edward moodily drank his wine as Gaveston began to question both of us about the deaths of Pourte and Wenlok. He drew me skilfully in until I virtually admitted my suspicions that both men might have been murdered. Gaveston and Edward seemed concerned at this but passed swiftly on, asking Isabella if she had known the merchant Monsieur de Vitry. Isabella glanced at me to remain silent. I don’t think the look was lost on Gaveston. He chewed his lip as he accepted Isabella’s assurance that, of course, Monsieur de Vitry had been known to her as one of her father’s bankers, whilst the bloody murder of him and his household had shocked all of Paris. The wine cups were refilled and both men fell silent, lost in their own thoughts, until Edward leaned across the table and grasped Isabella’s hands.
‘Two things, mon coeur, I will ask. I want the truth. Before I ask, let me assure you, on my solemn oath, that you are my princess and wife, the only woman in my life, never to be supplanted.’ He spoke with such fervour, face flushed, eyes gleaming. If ever a prince spoke the truth, on that night Edward of England certainly did. Isabella bowed her head to hide her blushes. Edward pressed his fingertips gently against her lips.
‘Now tell me, ma plaisance, do you accept the Lord Gaveston? If you don’t, say the truth. Do you accept him for what he is, for himself and to me?’ The silence which followed was tangible, as if some unseen presence leaned forward, eager to listen to Isabella’s reply. Gaveston sat, shoulders hunched, no longer the arrogant popinjay.