‘Do I have your word,’ Isabella insisted, ‘that Catherine de Clairebon of Bretigny will not be abused or ill treated?’
‘I cannot say. . I. . I do not know. .’ Marigny paused. Alexander, white-faced, was clutching his stomach in apparent discomfort.
‘Yes you do,’ Isabella insisted, ‘as will my father in my next letter to him. I will tell him that is my wish. Catherine de Clairebon is to be treated most tenderly and fall within his love as she must within yours, Monsieur de Marigny! Do I have your word? If I do not, your friend and companion will certainly fall ill. I shall still write to my father explaining how you frustrated my wishes. Do I have your word?’
Marigny shrugged. ‘Your grace, provided your father agrees, you have my word.’
‘And you, Monsieur Alexander?’ Isabella turned, all smiles, and the Portuguese, hand on his stomach, stared fearfully at her. ‘Do I have yours?’
‘Yes, your grace,’ he gasped.
‘And this La Maru — he has now come from France? He is with you here in England?’
‘Yes, your grace.’
‘He is to be dismissed from your company immediately, without stipend or payment. Do you agree?’
Alexander of Lisbon looked quickly at Marigny, who nodded imperceptibly.
‘Yes, your grace.’
‘Good.’ Isabella rose to her feet, walked across to a side table and poured a beaker full of water, then took it back and thrust it into the Portuguese’s hand. ‘Drink, Alexander.’ She patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘You have nothing more than a mustard paste in your stomach. No, no.’ She daintily held up a hand to fend off his protest. ‘The point I am trying to make is that this time what you drank was innocent; it will cause some discomfort, but it will pass. Next time, Alexander of Lisbon, if you try to hurt Catherine de Clairebon or any of her family and friends in France, the potion you shall drink will be deadly.’
Isabella sat back on the throne-like chair, hands folded across her stomach. She smiled sweetly at her two guests.
‘You see, Monsieur Marigny, I too have power and influence. If I cannot protect those I love, what princess am I? What queen am I? Reflect carefully on what I have said and done today. Moreover, what can you do: protest to my father in Paris? He’ll be angry, but in his secret chamber, he will reflect and laugh behind his hand at what happened. And you, Master Alexander — do you want to tell your company how you were tricked and deceived by a mere girl and her maid?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. You delivered a warning to Mathilde. I have delivered one back. I have drawn a line; cross that line and we will be enemies. Observe the truce, and so shall I. You see, Monsieur Marigny,’ Isabella held her hands up, clasping them together as if in prayer, ‘what my husband and Lord Gaveston do is one concern; what happens in my own household is another. You must observe the division, you must observe the line. Do I have your word?’
Marigny cocked his head to one side and stared impudently at my mistress as if assessing her for the first time.
‘Your grace,’ he leaned forward, ‘do you wish to have further words with us? My companion, as you can see, is distressed and we should retire.’
‘I have spoken what I wish, Monsieur Marigny. You and Alexander of Lisbon may withdraw.’
Marigny and the Portuguese rose to their feet. The Lord Satan bowed. He was about to turn away but, of course, he had to say it, end our meeting with some subtle flattery.
‘Your grace,’ he smiled, ‘now I can see you are truly your father’s daughter.’
‘And so I am, Monsieur Marigny,’ Isabella replied, ‘and you must remember that. I tell you this.’ Her voice thrilled slightly. ‘Monsieur Marigny, you should look to yourself and to your own. You tie yourself to my father’s belt, and if he rises, you rise with him, but have you ever thought what happens when he falls, if he falls?’
Marigny looked shocked, as if he had never contemplated such a possibility.
‘You should be careful, Monsieur Marigny. The world is changing, and so must you. I bid you adieu.’
Once they had gone, Isabella leaned forward, face in her hands, and giggled quietly to herself. She let her fingers fall away.
‘Well, Mathilde, did we do well?’
‘Very well, your grace, very well indeed.’
Isabella took a deep breath and sighed noisily.
‘Mathilde, what I said to Marigny is true. Everything is changing. This is a time of weeping and waiting. Yet I’ll confess this to you. One day my Lord Gaveston must go. He cannot remain dancing on the green for ever.’
‘You oppose him, mistress?’
‘No, Mathilde, I do not. I have studied Edward most closely; I must control him as any woman must a man. Edward and Gaveston,’ she locked two fingers together, ‘they are not two but one: one body, one soul, one heart. Some day, tomorrow, next week, next month, next year, the Great Lords will seize Gaveston and kill him. Once he dies, Edward will retreat like a hermit into his cell. He will hide deep within his soul and plot vengeance. Anyone who had anything to do with Gaveston’s fall or destruction will rue the day. When that happens. .’ Isabella half smiled, ‘I want to ensure that my name is not on that list of those who caused his fall.’
‘So you will not move against the favourite?’
‘I did not say that, Mathilde. All I will ensure is that my name is not on that list. Now come.’ She got to her feet. ‘What is that magpie riddle? Let’s dance to it. How does it go, Mathilde?’
‘One for anger, two for mirth. .’
‘Ah, that’s right.’ Isabella took it up. ‘Three for a wedding, four for birth, five for rich, six for poor, seven for a bitch, eight for a whore, nine for burying, ten for a dance, eleven for England, twelve for France. You see, Mathilde, I have learnt it well. Now come. .’ She spread her hands. ‘Show me the dance.’
My mistress was in a strange mood. When we had finished, she collapsed on the bed, laughing, begging me to bring some fresh water. She straightened up, drained the cup and handed it back to me.
‘Mathilde, let us go to St Stephens’ Chapel and pray for your mother. After that,’ she gestured across the tables strewn with manuscripts, ‘my lord wishes to entertain me and the Lord Gaveston. I will be absent this evening. You need not be in attendance.’ She peered at me. ‘I will leave you to your own thoughts. Perhaps it is time, yes, we try to thread this maze.’
Chapter 11
He who dwelleth on high and looketh down on low things hates pride above all things.
Later that evening, my mistress left to join the king and Gaveston for a private supper party. I was always excluded from such meetings. The Evangelist be my witness, Isabella rarely talked about what happened there. On that night, I recalled what she’d said about staying close to the king. God knows how she did that. Perhaps Edward welcomed unreserved support for his favourite when no one else gave it. Perhaps her friendship for Gaveston confirmed the king’s perception of his own morality. If Isabella, his beautiful young queen and wife, accepted the favourite, then what fault was there in it? The chroniclers have written about Isabella as the Virago, the Jezebel. They talk of her arrogance, her adultery, her wickedness — that is only monks feeding on their own pleasures. Isabella had many virtues; chief amongst these was her patience, tried and tested long before she ever came to England. She could wait and watch. She would accept insults and jibes with the sweetest smile, then smile and smile again. ‘A time and place under heaven for everything,’ so says Ecclesiasticus; it could well have been Isabella’s personal motto.
On that particular evening, once the queen had left, I was closeted in my own chamber, warm and secure, the doors and shutters locked, a brazier crackling, a copper chafing dish fiery with charcoal nearby. I wrapped a cloak about me, prepared my writing tray and reflected like any good student of physic on the symptoms I had observed.