Prologue
Isabella:
Boulogne, France – January 25th, 1308
The
first time I saw Edward II of England was on our wedding day in the
cathedral of Our Lady of Boulogne. He was twenty-three, a king newly
come to his throne. I was not yet thirteen – a girl on the lip of
womanhood: nervous, excited, and awestricken by my tall and slender
groom. Far too curious to pretend coyness, I stole quick glances at him
as we stood before the altar. Faint winter sunlight penetrated the
vaulted expanse from high lancet windows and fell about him in a silver
haze. The ivory satin of his tunic reflected the smoothness of his
complexion and the jewels on his cloak glittered like the bright blue of
his Plantagenet eyes.
I was the only daughter of Philip IV of France and, of all
the kings in Christendom, Edward had been chosen for me. For years, I had
waited for this day, dreamed of it, planned for it.
All morning my damsels had fussed over me, like bees
humming about freshly bloomed clover: arranging my pale, silken hair beneath my
gold caul with delicate care, plucking my brows into precise arches and rubbing
my skin with rose-scented oil until it glistened. They dressed me in a gown of
gold and brightest blue, to match my hair and eyes. Next, they hung a mantle of
red lined with yellow sindon over my shoulders and secured it with a brooch
encircled with sapphires and rubies. Then, with tears of joy, they hugged me
and told me I was the fairest woman in all of France and any man who was not
struck dumb by my beauty was certainly blind.
Not once during the ceremony did Edward look at me.
I stared intently at him, certain he would sense my tacit
plea for attention and glimpse my way, but he kept his eyes fixed on the bishop,
a look of sleepy boredom dulling his countenance. As the hour wore on, a chill
seeped beneath my skin and gripped my bones. Frigid sweat dampened my chemise.
I clasped the edges of my mantle and drew it closer to my shivering body. One
of the pins that held the tightly wound plaits of my hair in place dug into my
scalp. The beautiful coronet studded with amethysts, emeralds and pearls that I
had donned so gleefully that morning began to feel like a jagged band of iron
clamped across my forehead. I wiggled numb toes. My shoes were pinching my
feet and my back ached from standing so dreadfully long.
Edward gazed up at the web of vaulting ribs that sprung
from the fluted columns. He shifted on his feet. Yawned. And sighed.
When the bishop gave his final blessing, Edward’s cold kiss
barely grazed my lips. He stuck his elbow out stiffly, flinching as I curled my
fingers around his arm. We started forward down the central aisle of the nave,
our steps mismatched. His stride was long and hurried, mine hindered by the
long train of my gown. While a thousand eyes appraised us, I forced myself to
match his pace and pressed the corners of my mouth into a false smile.
At our wedding feast, he leaned close and whispered, “You
needn’t wear your dread so plainly. You are… how should I say this – not yet
ripe for the picking. There will be time, later, for that.” He attempted a
half-smile of apology, but it looked to me more like a sneer of disdain.
We spoke no more that day. I fell asleep alone in my bed
that night, thankful that he had kept his word and not come, but bewildered as
to why he had paid so little attention to me, his new bride. Had I been thrust
upon him against his wishes? Did he love another? Did the sight of me so
repulse him that he could not bear my presence? Whatever the matter, I vowed to
learn how to become a good wife and queen to him. It was my duty.
I was still young then… and naïve. I had so much to learn.
Thirteen days later, beneath a lowering sky, we disembarked
at Dover, England. There, I discovered the cause for my husband’s distraction.
Piers de Gaveston stood on the dock swathed in velvets and furs, waving a
kerchief high in the air. Edward sprang across the plank, took Gaveston into
his arms and showered him with kisses. Then, he presented him with a trunk
filled with gifts – gifts which only the week before had been given to Edward by
my father. With a flourish of praise for serving as Keeper of the Realm in his
absence, Edward draped a gilt chain around Gaveston’s neck, from which hung a
lion of gold, each foot balanced on a shimmering pearl and its eyes set with two
fiery rubies. If my father were to hear of this, it would be cause enough for
war.
“Those were for you,” I reminded him meekly as I
approached. The weathered boards creaked beneath my feet and a cold sea wind
nudged me toward the edge of the dock. My damsels were still aboard ship to
oversee the unloading of my trousseau, but my brother, Charles, who had followed
close behind, came abreast of me. I stood firm and pulled the hood of my
favorite red, ermine-lined mantle up over my head.
Edward’s laughter broke off. The hint of a scowl twisted
his mouth. “What did you say?”
I moved closer and raised my chin, trying to sound more
confident than I actually was. I thought it only fair to warn him. “Those
gifts – the jewels, the brooches and chains – they were given to you by my
father. You cannot give them away like that. He would not approve.”
He scoffed and shook his head dismissively at me. “They’re
mine now. I’ll do with them as I please.” Then, he threw an arm about
Gaveston’s shoulder and together they walked away, laughing at jokes only they
understood. Like an impertinent child, I had been dismissed. My chest burned
with indignation.
Charles clasped my hand and said lowly, “If you ever need
my help, Isabeau, you only need ask and I’ll do whatever I can for you.”
I squeezed his fingers and tried to smile, but could not.
Was it because my cheeks were too stiff from the cold, or because some dread had
seeped into my heart and begun to blacken it like a frost that withers still
green leaves?
Although only a year older, Charles had always been
protective of me; however, the time for that would soon end. I had a husband
now, a new home, new life. “But Charles, my coronation is in less than a
fortnight and after that you’ll be gone. Who knows when we will ever see each
other again? What help could you possibly be, so far away?”
“Come now, our father is King of France – and you ask what
I can do?” He touched my face, his thumb stroking my cheek lightly. “Remember,
I’m only as far as a letter. Already he neglects you, dear sister. I will not
have it so.”
Neglect? That seemed too harsh a word. But had I not just
done worse? In speaking my mind, I had made a poor start of our marriage. If
there was ever to be some measure of affinity between us clearly it would have
to begin with me. “Perhaps, perhaps I have made too much of too small a thing?”
With a sigh, Charles kissed me on the forehead and offered
his elbow. “Oh, Isabeau, are you truly such an innocent?”
A sharp voice cut above the roar of the sea wind. At the
door of the aftcastle on the ship, my damsel Julia clucked at a pair of pages as
they carelessly hoisted a trunk filled with my gowns onto their meager
shoulders. Beside her, Marie shivered within her cloak, her wide eyes darting
shyly from one pale English face to another. I lowered my voice as I tucked my
arm into my brother’s. “You mock me, Charles. Please don’t. It’s only that…
well, that there is so much Edward and I have yet to learn about each other.
This Gaveston is an old friend, I hear. They were overjoyed to see each other.
Surely, that is all?”
A bemused grin tilted the corners of his too delicate
mouth. “You think you can change him, do you? That your marriage will get
nothing but better? I wish you luck, then. Luck and a long streak of
tolerance.”
We turned and walked toward the carriage that would carry
me first to Dover Castle to refresh overnight, and then off to the Palace of
Westminster for my crowning. Tufts of white drifted across my vision and I
blinked. Snow tumbled down, melting as it touched the earth. I looked out over
the somber, glassy surface of the harbor to one side and then far up at the
imposing castle of Dover, its stout, gray walls shouldering a joyless sky. With
Charles’ help, I climbed inside the carriage. Draping a fur across my lap, I
peered out the back as my trousseau was loaded onto wagons to the rear.
Luck, as it turned out, I did not have. Tolerance? Too
much for my own good, I dare admit.
Some things, some people – as I was to learn – they do not
change, no matter how much we wish them to. We are foolish to even hope they
might.
And to hope in vain is to live in despair.
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