The Stolen Queen (21 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

J
OHN GAVE A GREAT FEAST AT OUR RETURN TO WESTMINSTER
, as though he returned a conquering king rather than the miserable vassal he was. He summoned the barons of England to attend our crowning ceremony, but it seemed that there was much business in the shires of England that winter, for most of them relayed their compliments and their excuses, and did not appear. They were waiting, I knew. If John had no heir soon they thought to offer the crown to France and be done with this half-man who sat on their throne. And what would become of me, then? While I was queen, I had the means to defend Angouleme, but how could I do so if I had no money to pay for it? Lord Hugh would swallow up my city like a comfit.

Pierre joined us at court a week after our arrival in London. I had summoned him in his role as seneschal, and the report he made to John's council declared the walls of Angouleme unbreached. I did not care what arrangement he might have made with Lord Hugh, though the reports from my tittering maids on his lavish spending in the city told me where my
gold had gone. It was easy enough to avoid him in that sprawling palace, and he did not seek me out. I had no stomach for another of his conversations, and besides, it was not yet time to employ him. I had a gift of game sent to his lodgings, and another of a pair of spurs, but when he sent to thank me in person I replied only with a message and did not invite him to the queen's chamber.

My husband remained barely a month in his capital before he set off once more to tour his lands, to raise monies and drink and quarrel, which gave him more pleasure than fighting like a king. To my relief, Pierre left too in his lord's retinue. I had business to attend to in the city: there were the levies of the queen's gold to be accounted for; there was my dock at Queenhithe, on the banks of the Thames, to be inspected; there was my wardrobe to order; and my ladies to be chosen. John might care to live like a squire, sleeping in a barn when there was no house to hand on his wanderings, but I should keep a gracious court, I thought, a court worthy of a queen from the south. I had a bathhouse built at Westminster, lined in blue tile from Castile, I ordered a great cleaning of all the rooms in the palace and had their walls freshly limed, I sent to the City merchants for silk cushions and new plate, so that while John had returned from France a disgrace to the name of his father and brother, any ambassador who came to him should see that he was a mighty prince, and make report of it. I did not do this for John, though.

There was something else I did, too. There was a woman spoken of in London then, who had been locked up in the Clink prison at Southwark for the making of poppets. She was a whore,
they said, a
pute
from the stews, who had been abandoned by her keeper, a merchant, and she had made small figures of the man, his wife and son, of cloth and wax, and driven pins through them and left them in the churchyard there, where they had been found by the sexton. The woman was locked up against her trial by the bishop's court, and if she was found guilty, she should burn. I ordered that she be brought from her cell and rowed across the river to Westminster stairs, for the queen had a mind to cast her eye on a witch. My chaplain heard of it and came bustling to see me, daring, if I would permit him, to suggest that it might be a danger to my person to see such a creature, though I knew that what he meant was that it was a scandal for such as I to consort with such as she. Besides, my ladies were as curious as I to see the spectacle of a sorceress, and it would amuse us to view her. I did not care that they might gossip, for I had been capricious when I had first come to London, as John's bride, and for all the court at Westminster knew, I was the king's darling still.

The woman was brought to the guardhouse at Westminster in irons. My women clucked and stared, as though she were a wild animal, but beneath the filth of the prison she looked to me like any girl, perhaps of an age with me, and pretty enough, though her teeth were black and her hair was dull with dust and grease. Her name was Susan. As she entered the guardroom she threw herself forward on the ground, crying at the top of her voice that she was innocent, that she had never made any conjurings, and begged me to help her, to speak to the king on her behalf. She had a child, she said, a little baby, who would
starve without her. I could not address her myself, but I spoke through my herald, instructing him to tell her that she need not be afraid, that the king was merciful, and that she would not be harmed. I had the irons unlocked, and when the manacles came off the room was filled with the stench of putrid flesh. Her wrists were green under her sorry cloak, where they had lain against the metal. My ladies coughed and stared and held their kerchiefs to their noses.

‘Ask her why she made the poppets,' I instructed.

Susan did not deny that she had made the creatures. They were to shame her keeper, she said, who had got her with child and then left her. He was a rich man, but he would give nothing for their provision. She had only wanted to frighten him, she and her babe were hungry, but she was no witch, I heard her babble, she was a good Christian girl who knew her Hail Mary and her Pater Noster. She began to recite the prayers to prove it, until the herald silenced her.

‘Who is the man who fathered this woman's child?'

The keeper of the Clink unrolled a parchment, the testament prepared for the church court, and gave a name.

‘Have him found. Tell him that unless he agrees to sustain his child, he will find himself in the church courts as an adulterer. It is a disgrace that he has charged this poor girl with witchcraft.'

Hearing my meaning, my women muttered virtuously that it was a shame and scandal that such things could go on.

‘Have her washed and fed and brought to me. We will find a place for her where she can care for her child and live decently.'

Susan began to howl, all the fear she must have lived with pouring from her in a gush of grief and thanks.

Later, I waited for her in my small chamber, Agnes at my side. I did not fear that she would understand our conversation. When the girl returned, she looked quite different, in a decent petticoat, with her hair combed. She had even been found a pair of shoes. I saw her eyes dart around the room, absorbing the thick hangings on the walls, the scent of the apple-wood fire and the perfume in the brazier, the thick curtains of Turkey work at the casement. She would never have seen a room such as this.

‘Now Susan, do not be afraid. I am going to find a place for you, far away from London, in a house of good women, where you can take care of your child. Should you like that?'

She nodded, too awed to speak.

‘But first I would ask you something. I know of … how you earned your living, across the river.'

She shook her head as if to deny it, then began to weep.

‘I do not mean to distress you, nor to judge you. I only wish to know something you may have learned in your, your trade?'

Her eyes slid towards Agnes.

‘She does not speak the English tongue. You may answer freely. What I wish to know is that if there is a way you know to be sure of having a child?'

She hesitated. Such things were the province of midwives and wise women, and to claim such knowledge might see her irons replaced.

‘I have a gold piece for you, if you answer me.'

Another nod.

‘Well.'

When she spoke, her voice was raw from her tears and exclamations. I had some difficulty in making out her words in English, ‘Yes, lady. There is a drink. Not harmful. To be taken before the man fucks you.'

I wanted to giggle. No one had ever spoken that word aloud to me, not even John in the worst of his cups. ‘Can you get it for me?'

‘Yes.'

I might have asked Agnes, who was an expert in the herbs and medicines of Angouleme, but I thought that things might be different here in England. And besides, I could not tell Agnes what I was thinking. They made a song on it, how Queen Isabelle saved the witch who was a whore that was sung for years about London. It pleased me, that I had power to be kind to the girl. And perhaps it made the people like me a little. I had a new litter, hung with white satin and carried by four greys, with cushions of saffron-coloured silk, and in the streets they cried, ‘God save the queen,' as my litter passed through London, when we left the city for the spring.

*

By Lammastide, my court was at Woodstock, not far from the colleges of the city of Oxford. It was one of the oldest of my husband's palaces, built amidst broad rides for hunting, with a fine garden laid out, they said, by old Henry for the pleasure of his mistress, fair Rosalind. The musicians sang ballads of her,
how she had been the king's true love, instead of his rebellious Queen Eleanor, and how the queen had poisoned her for spite, and how the roses in her garden hung their heads and wept for her memory. It was a sweet story, and I thought of it as I walked in the thickly scented garden with my maids in the high heat of that summer.

John was restless as ever, vanishing for days on end on hectic rides through the country, leaving me to the company of Agnes and my women, which I minded not at all. Agnes was old now. It tired her to stand while she combed out and put up my hair, and for all my teasing she had still never mastered the English tongue. She said it was too late for her tongue to twine itself around those strange harsh words, and it pleased me to hear the soft sounds of my childhood in her accent still, as we sat peacefully stitching beneath a sky the colour of the Virgin's robe. We would chat until she dozed off, and then I would run to my maids to play at butterfly catching, or to bathe in the river, smiling to think that Agnes could no longer run after me and remind me to be a lady. I could not be happy, not when Arthur's body still stalked my dreams, but since I had to live, I tried to act as though I was.

We rode to Oxford for the feast of the first fruits, to watch as the priest broke a new wheaten loaf into quarters and placed one at each corner of the church for luck. Afterwards we listened solemnly to a long discourse in Latin from one of the university scholars, and I did not chide my maids for ogling and making eyes at the poor young man. I had couriers from John each day, from Westminster, from Rochester, even from Portsmouth, but
so long as he stayed away we were peaceful there together, with our music and our games.

On Lammas Eve, I entertained the Bishop of Oxford to dinner in a white silk tent to protect us from the heat, and afterwards, though we had few gentlemen, I permitted my ladies to dance. I even stepped out with the bishop himself, a dear, gentle old man, who giggled to see himself hitching up his cassock in an
estampie
. The bishop was mopping his bald head and helping himself to a large bowl of cream cheese with tiny wild strawberries when I heard whispers and laughter from the doorway of the pavilion, and then the familiar rustle of a crowd of women curtseying. I did not need to turn my head to know that it was Pierre. My brother needed no herald, it was enough to follow the sound of women sighing. I stood to receive him as he walked between the stooping flowerbed of bright gowns, a mail coat slung over a yellow mantle as bright as his hair. As ever, I remarked on Pierre's beauty, and as ever, I hated myself for it.

I greeted him, waited while he washed his hands and was served with cooled sweet wine, blessed by the stammering bishop, asked if he would eat. ‘You are come from my lord the king, Brother?'

‘Indeed. His Majesty is at Eltham, presently.'

‘And so?'

‘And so he is well, Majesty. He asked me to send you his blessing.'

‘Thank you. You may return my blessing to him.'

‘His Majesty instructs me to remain a while. It is so pleasant here. And he fears you might be starved for company.'

‘His Majesty is most kind. And you are welcome, Brother. I shall be glad to hear your news of Angouleme, and to thank you for your good stewardship there.'

At least my ladies would make him welcome, I thought grimly. It seemed that Pierre had chosen his knights for their looks for this visit. After I had received their greetings, I said that I would retire, and leave them to refresh themselves and continue the dance. Another ripple of sighs followed me as I left the pavilion, which meant Pierre was behind me. The girls would have to make do with the bishop, I supposed.

My chambers at Woodstock occupied a tower at one end of the palace. I quickened my pace as I crossed the walk. I had no wish to speak with Pierre, but in the doorway I wearily told my guards they might wait below. I could not avoid listening to him, he would not leave until I did, and I did not believe for a moment that he was come with John's good wishes. Agnes was already sleeping, so I waited for him in my closet, seating myself in the deep recess of the window, drawing up my knees beneath my light summer gown.

‘Well?' I would make no more show of courtesies, at least.

‘It is Lammastide, Sister.'

‘And what of it?'

‘I need you to come with me, tonight.'

‘Where?'

‘Why, to the sabbat, Sister. We will fly to the sabbat and dance beneath the moon.'

The scar on my shoulder twitched at his words. ‘I will not.'

‘You must.'

‘Is
must
a word you would use to your queen? You forget yourself, Brother.'

‘Do you recollect,
Sister
,' he drew out the word, the sound recalling the time he had come to me in Paris and begun the slow poison-drip of the Lusignans' schemes. ‘Do you recollect a certain Gilbert, who served your husband in Rouen when he still called himself Duke of Normandy?'

The crouching figure in the passage the night of Arthur's death. One of the old religion, a man of the south. What had I promised him? That he should dance with me skyclad, and twine his fingers in his queen's unbound hair? ‘No,' I lied. ‘I pay no mind to servants.'

‘Perhaps your nurse will. He is with her now.'