The Queen's Spy Page 7

  Our small world was covered in snow and ice the day the count of Valois died. It was as if God had shaped the frozen landscape to match the coldness which swept into our hearts. Requiem masses were sung in every church in Paris, the shops ran out of black cloth and only Edmund seemed unmoved by the death.

  ‘My mother never liked him,’ he remarked on our return from Perray. ‘He was a bully. He once threatened to put me in a sack and throw me in the river.’

  I was startled at such violence from a family member. ‘When did he do that?’

  ‘Two summers ago when our armies were fighting against each other in Gascony. He made me look a fool. We’d already surrendered and a worthy man would have been magnanimous. But not Uncle Valois. He wanted to rub my nose in our defeat. It would teach me a lesson, he said.’

  ‘But it wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t. It was Despenser. My brother had a fleet ready to sail for Bordeaux to come to our aid, but Despenser stopped the ships saying the winds were not in their favour. Christ’s blood! When were winds ever in anyone’s favour? All he had to do was wait a week. I hope one day Hugh Despenser finds himself on the receiving end of adverse winds, then he’ll know what it feels like.’

  Throughout the days of the Nativity a heavy cloud of black mourning hovered over the palace on the Île de la Cité while everybody waited patiently for the funeral of the count of Valois. My brother left for England, telling us he dare not risk the king’s fury by staying longer. His unlicensed marriage to Henry of Lancaster’s daughter had already cost him a large fine and he had no wish to make matters worse. Being a supporter of the dead earl’s brother was a risky affair but so far, to his relief, the king had made no move against him.

  ‘Perhaps, we too should go,’ suggested Edmund somewhat half-heartedly. ‘Return to face my brother’s wrath.’

  I quailed inwardly at the thought of facing the king as his brother’s new wife, an unworthy woman, married in haste and without permission.

  ‘I cannot desert Isabella,’ I said quickly. ‘I promised her I would stay.’

  ‘Very well, we’ll wait until after the funeral. Then we’ll go home.’

  Apart from a small feast marking the homage done by the earl of Richmond to Lord Edward as duke of Aquitaine, our life was dull with no entertainments. I suspected the queen would have liked a little jollity but was afraid of displeasing her brother. He paid her bills and kept her safe so it wouldn’t do to offend him.

  After two weeks it was decided we should remove ourselves to the castle at Poissy which Monseigneur Charles had most generously made available to his sister. It was a day’s journey away, far enough to be the answer to Isabella’s present predicament. At that distance the men in her household who were paid to spy on her would be unlikely to report each appearance of a wisp of coloured ribbon or a small eruption of minstrelsy.

  As a mark of renewed affection to one who was now married to her brother-in-law, she decided I might accompany her.

  ‘You may not call me sister,’ she said, with frost coating every word. ‘In private and in the presence of others you will call me, your grace. I shall continue to call you Margaret.’

  That was how she was to me. If for one moment I thought I was forgiven, the next I was left in no doubt as to where I belonged, and that was firmly crushed beneath the heel of her shoe. I might have been her sister-in-law but there was to be no sisterly feeling between us. I was allowed to take no liberties.

  ‘I shall follow you in three days,’ said Edmund, holding me close. ‘Cousin Charles has matters he wishes to discuss.’

  ‘Does he wish you to return to England?’

  ‘No. He says he needs my advice on the subject of marriage.’

  ‘Advice?’ I teased. ‘Truly?’

  He kissed my mouth gently.

  ‘Two weeks with you my dearest sweetheart has taught me all I need to know.’

  Despite being a day’s ride from Paris, the queen’s admirers followed her to Poissy and each morning they crowded into one of the smaller chambers to continue their private discussions. Their adherence to the queen’s cause must have been known to the king and to Sir Hugh Despenser and their hopes of a return to England were all but impossible.

  With Edmund still in Paris and the countess of Surrey in attendance on Isabella I was alone when a man arrived with a summons to Lord Mortimer’s rooms. It was, he said, a matter of great importance and would I please make haste.

  Inside the room were the men I’d grown used to seeing gathered round the queen. As well as my cousin I saw the earl of Richmond, Lord John de Ros, Sir Thomas Roscelyn, Sir William Trussell, Sir John Maltravers and several others whose names I didn’t know but whose faces were familiar.

  ‘Countess.’ It was the earl of Richmond who spoke first. ‘On behalf of everyone here, I thank you for coming. You are, of course, acquainted with your kinsman, Lord Mortimer.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, my lord. I have had the pleasure of knowing Lord Mortimer since I was a child.’

  ‘And I believe most of us here are known to you if not by name then at least by sight.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘We have asked you to join us because we believe you have a greater knowledge of the queen’s feelings in this matter, than we men. You have served her for a long time?’

  ‘More than five years, my lord.’

  ‘And you know her well?’

  ‘As well as it is possible to know her grace.’

  He coughed and chewed his lip. He was an old man, slightly stooped, and his present predicament seemed not to his liking.

  ‘We find ourselves in something of a dilemma, my lady. Her grace tells us she despairs of the state of her marriage and desires to have Sir Hugh Despenser removed from the king’s side but we do not know the means she wishes us to employ to achieve this end.’

  I tried to recall Isabella’s exact words when she’d last talked to me of her hatred of Sir Hugh Despenser.

  ‘My lord, the queen wishes to return to her husband but cannot until Sir Hugh is gone. He has threatened her person and she fears the king will not be able to protect her.’

  ‘Would she be content to have Sir Hugh exiled?’

  ‘The queen does not believe exile is a sufficient safeguard. She says we should learn the lessons of the past.’

  We all knew that four years earlier the king had been forced to banish both Sir Hugh and his father but had speedily contrived their return.

  ‘It’s true last time the king had Sir Hugh brought back,’ agreed the earl. ‘But if it is not to be exile, what does she envisage?’

  I hesitated, knowing how much these men loathed the Despensers, yet not wanting to be the one to mention what we all knew must be done.

  ‘How about a blade between the ribs?’ said William Trussel.

  ‘Assassins rarely succeed,’ remarked the earl. ‘And we have no proof the queen would sanction such a move.’

  I chose my words carefully. ‘My lords, despite her natural piety the queen would consider the death of Hugh Despenser an act of mercy towards the king. It is her belief that both Hugh Despenser and his father have usurped royal power and their malign influence has led to great misery for the king’s realm.’

  ‘How far would she go?’ asked Lord John de Ros. ‘Would she stand beside the man who struck the blow? Would she wield the dagger herself?’

  Voices were raised condemning Lord John’s question.

  ‘You mistook my meaning,’ he said bluntly. ‘If a single assassin cannot carry out this deed then there must be more men, many more.’

  ‘What if we were to return to England with a sufficient force to make the king agree to our demands?’ William Trussel suggested.

  There was a moment of silence.

  ‘We are too few,’ said the earl, shaking his head. ‘Be reali
stic Sir William, we would never succeed.’

  ‘Not on our own. But we would have support. Our friends would join us.’

  ‘We’d not get halfway up the shingle,’ observed Sir John Maltravers. ‘Despenser has spies everywhere and the king’s army would be waiting for us.’

  ‘We’d need a goodly number of men if we were to succeed, and a fleet of ships,’ mused Lord de Ros. ‘And for that we need money which, regrettably, we don’t have. Unless the queen has funds.’

  My cousin, who had been quiet up till now, turned to me. ‘How strong would you consider the bond between the queen and the countess of Hainault? You must have observed them together. Is it a deep and lasting friendship or simply one of convenience?’

  ‘They seem close. They often talk privately with no-one else present.’

  ‘Not even you?’

  ‘Not me, nor any other of the queen’s ladies.’

  ‘Are you aware of the subject of their conversation?’

  ‘My lord! Are you accusing me of spying on her grace?’

  My cousin laughed. ‘No, merely wondering how far your womanly curiosity might lead you.’

  A blush spread across my neck and my cheeks. Of course I knew what the queen and the countess had been discussing. I wasn’t that stupid.

  ‘I believe they were discussing the marriage of the countess’s daughter.’

  ‘The Lady Philippa?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did the countess have any suggestions as to whom the Lady Philippa might marry?’

  ‘I don’t know, my lord.’

  ‘Or the queen?’

  ‘I don’t know, my lord.’

  ‘Countess.’

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘Next time, move a little closer.’

  I itched to rebuke him for his rudeness but my years in Aunt Mortimer’s household had left me with a great respect for my cousin’s authority. Roger Mortimer was not a man to cross.

  ‘I think it is time we went back to England?’ I told Edmund that evening. ‘After the funeral Isabella will release me.’

  He hesitated. ‘I now think it might be safer to remain here a while.’

  ‘Safer?’

  ‘I have received a letter. My brother is extremely angry. He has cut off my allowance.’

  I gasped. ‘Edmund! How shall we live?’

  ‘My love, as my wife you do not need to worry about money. Rest assured, I shall not leave you to starve like your first husband did.’

  ‘But the king?’

  ‘It is not my brother, it is Despenser. These days everything is done to please him and Sir Hugh wants rid of anyone who has influence over my brother. He looks at me and considers me a threat. He is aware my brother is fond of me and - who knows? - in the future he might turn to me for advice. Despenser won’t allow that to happen.’

  ‘What of your other brother, the earl of Norfolk?’

  ‘He has no love for Despenser either but won’t wish to cross him. I believe he keeps to his manors.’

  And so we stayed. I continued to serve Isabella and Edmund passed the days talking and riding with the other men exiled from England who would also have liked to go back were it not for the vicious rule of the Despensers.

  In mid-January we returned to the Cité for the funeral of the count of Valois. Arrangements had been complicated by the fact that his many children must journey the length and breadth of Christendom to come and say farewell to their father. Seemingly dozens of daughters arrived daily together with their husbands and their retinues from Brittany, from Calabria, from Naples, from Blois and from Artois.

  The count’s two elder sons, Philip, now count of Valois in his father’s stead, and Charles, count of Alencon, swooped down with their wives like a small flock of scavenging gulls. They were seen everywhere, dressed in black, as sombre and long-faced as one would expect of the recently bereaved. Edmund said they were squabbling over the rings on the count’s fingers.

  ‘They’re wondering who’ll wield power now their father’s gone. It won’t be Cousin Charles. He may have a crown on his head and he may think himself clever, but that doesn’t mean much if nobody listens to you.’

  Edmund was sprawled on a chair in the queen’s outer chamber, dressed in his funerary garments and looking very smart.

  ‘But he is the anointed king,’ I protested.

  ‘Ah yes, but his first wife, the beautiful Blanche, made him a cuckold and a man who cannot keep his wife is judged by others as a fool. They do not respect him.’

  I sank into a curtsey as Isabella entered.

  ‘Black doesn’t suit you, Margaret,’ she remarked in her usual icy tone. ‘You look better in grey, it is more becoming to your pallor.’

  This had the desired effect of making me feel unsuitably dressed for such an important occasion.

  ‘Don’t worry, Isabella. If the garment offends you, I’ll remove it. If that’s what you’d like?’ said my husband carelessly, as if it were nothing to undress his wife in front of the queen.

  ‘Edmund!’ I said in horror. ‘This is your uncle’s funeral!’

  ‘We’ve been burying him for months. I should imagine the gatekeepers of Purgatory are weary of waiting for his arrival.’

  Isabella swept past, pretending she hadn’t heard a word.

  ‘Come wife,’ murmured my husband. ‘Everything is ready, you look beautiful and it’s time to say farewell to my uncle.’

  We entered the shadowy vastness of the church and sank to our knees in front of the embalmed corpse of the count of Valois. A hundred candles burned in silver holders placed round the bier and thirty black-veiled widows knelt in silent prayer. The count’s bulky body was clothed in the finest of his fur-lined robes and his stern fleshy face stared upwards as if commanding God’s angels to prepare a path for him. He would demand one strewn with the fairest of summer flowers and suitably lined with adoring and reverential crowds. He looked twice the man in death that he’d been in life and it seemed an imposition to leave his presence and return to the palace, but, after a suitable time on our knees, we made our final farewells and walked softly away.

  Later, together with the king and queen, the widow and other members of the count’s extended family: the sons, the daughters, the widowed queens, the innumerable royal cousins; and the dignitaries: the constable, the exchequer, the parliament, the bishops and numerous lesser clergy, we accompanied the count’s body to the church of the Minorites on the Rue St Jacques. He was to be laid to rest between his first two wives, both long gone to dust. The third wife, blank-faced and trembling, stood clutching her husband’s heart encased in an elaborate silver vessel. The entrails, Edmund whispered, had already been sent for burial to the abbey at Chaalis.

  The day after the burial the queen made preparations to receive her kin. The daughters of the count of Valois came one at a time, together with their husbands, to greet their dearest cousin and to enquire how she did. Although nothing was said, it was perfectly obvious that their other purpose in coming was to look me over. I was an object of intense curiosity - a woman with no connection to any royal family who had somehow managed to capture a king’s son. Sadly, they took one look and seeing no great beauty, decided I was not worth a second glance.

  The countess of Hainault, the last of the day’s visitors, stayed longer than the others and the afternoon lost its formality as the two women talked. The countess would soon be leaving Paris to return to her husband in Valenciennes and I knew Isabella would be sorry to lose her.

  After a short while my cousin joined us. He nodded to me and then made his greetings to the queen and the countess.

  ‘Handsome,’ whispered one of the young French ladies in my ear. ‘Such dark hair, and, Sainte Vierge! Look at those lips!’

  ‘He is my cousin,’ I replied frostily, not wishing to be drawn into con
versation.

  She laughed. ‘My own cousin, he is very attentive. He tells me - best to keep it in the family.’

  ‘His wife is my friend.’

  ‘Et alors! Does the existence of a wife stop anyone? It does not stop your queen.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She regarded me coolly. ‘Your queen, she is very taken with the handsome Lord Mortimer. Do you not see how she simpers at him? It is Lord Mortimer this, Lord Mortimer that. Oh Lord Mortimer how kind you are. Please to pick up my glove, Lord Mortimer.’

  ‘She speaks in that way to all her admirers. Look how she treats the count of Beaumont-le-Roger.’

  The young woman collapsed into giggles. ‘Count Robert? He is a lecher. If she was not a queen he would have his hand up her skirts. But I do not think a crown will protect her where your Lord Mortimer is concerned. Regardez! You can see it in his eyes.’

  I turned to look at my cousin as he talked to the queen. Their conversation seemed very correct but I noticed Isabella occasionally place her hand on his arm, too often for it to be by chance. He was listening to her but I couldn’t see his eyes. If I could have seen his eyes I would have known his intentions.

  The following day Edmund and I were required to visit Monseigneur Charles. Although this was a purely private visit, a royal command had been issued which was impossible to ignore. I was nervous. I had changed my gown three times until Edmund said if I didn’t hurry he would take me in my shift.

  ‘Don’t be frightened. It’s only Cousin Charles.’

  ‘But what shall I say?’

  ‘Men do not expect women to say anything sensible. You can discuss the weather or the state of the roads if you like.’

  As we entered the royal apartments I felt my heart sink into my stomach. When I was merely one of Isabella’s ladies, I had walked three paces behind her with my eyes fixed firmly on the hem of her gown. Now I was someone of importance, I was able to gaze at the gilding, the painted walls, the great circles of light and the slender white columns soaring upwards to the galleries above, but it didn’t stop me from feeling nervous.