THE NEXT DAY, WE RODE IN PROCESSION ACROSS THE new bridge of St Michel, to the island palace of the kings of France. I rode behind my husband in a litter hung with crimson silk, my hair unbound and flowing down the shoulders of the silver dress, my small crown tight on my brow. I had asked Agnes for some rouge to disguise the paleness of my cheeks, and I hoped the shadow of my hair would disguise the hollows beneath my eyes.
The bells of the great cathedral of Notre Dame were pealing as we came into the courtyard before the palace where, as a great honour, the French king’s seneschal held John’s horse as he dismounted onto a tree stump, traditionally the first step for the kings of France to take upon their homecoming. I thought how absurd it was, the significance men gave to such symbols, as though this tree stump was anything more than a lump of firewood, but I could see from John’s face that he deemed it a tribute to his power, and I pitied him, in his ignorance and his pride. When the men had passed into the hall, Princess Blanche and her ladies came forward to welcome me. As the toes of my slippers touched the ground, we both made deep curtseys, precisely timed so that neither of us should appear to be giving precedence to the other, and then Blanche stepped forward and offered me her hand.
‘You are most welcome to the Cité, esteemed Aunt,’ for Blanche was John’s niece, the daughter of his sister Eleanor of England and her Spanish husband, so I was her senior relative, though she was perhaps two years older than me. Her face was round, plain and placid. I had heard the story of how the old, indomitable English queen, John’s mother, had made the last of her long journeys across the mountains to personally select which of her granddaughters should be the next queen of France, and how Blanche’s sister, Urracca, had been passed over in favour of her sibling. I wondered why. Perhaps Blanche was more … biddable? But I could not think of obedience, not today. I complimented Blanche on her elegant white silk mantle, which fell over her blue dress beneath her crown. In turn, she praised my own cloth of silver, and we passed through among our kneeling women exchanging pleasantries, just as I had so often heard my mother do.
Our husbands were presently held bond by a truce; soon, no doubt, they would once again be at war, as they had been so often, but this was not our business. We were to admire, to praise one another’s girdles and cloaks, to speak of the sweetness of the music and the elegance of the banquet, to arrange our sleeves and trill and coo like so many ornamental birds in an aviary. To be light and gracious and charming and never let it be seen that beneath our elaborate trains, a mere yard of which would have kept a merchant man’s family for a year, lay the blood and muscle and bone that would decide more surely than our husband’s armies what the future of their lands would be. Would Blanche’s son rule one day in the south, or mine? It was unbecoming of me to wonder it, though I wondered whether she thought about it, too.
As we progressed into the palace, I saw that the conduits in the outer court had been filled with wine so that the people of Paris could celebrate the meeting of the two kings. We passed through a pleasant garden with vines trellised along the walls and plantings of willow, pear and fig trees.
‘My grandmother planted those,’ remarked Blanche. ‘They are very fragrant, in season, here in the shelter.’
I acknowledged her politely, thinking of old Queen Eleanor, of how she had come here when she was a girl of an age with us, to be queen of France before her divorce and marriage to John’s father. The fig branches were crooked and gnarled now, as she must be. Had she planted them to remind her of her lost home in Aquitaine?
We heard Mass in the chapel of St Nicholas, which looked more like a dragon’s lair than a church, so piled was it with gold ornaments. It seemed hard to believe, among the solidity of such wealth, in the fumes of the incense, and the low murmuring of King Philip’s chaplains in their beautifully embroidered vestments, that my brother believed such things could be easily swept away. I prayed fervently, asking forgiveness for my wickedness at the Louvre the previous evening, asking God for grace and guidance, yet I did not feel any less alone as we rose from our knees and followed the sound of blaring trumpets into the grande salle of the Cité.
The room was lit with candles, for though the casements with their wooden shutters were open, they were narrow, designed for arrows rather than light and air. The Bourges tapestries shimmered as we took our seats, as though the figures they depicted were real and likely to step down and dance among us. King Philip sat on his throne in the centre of the dais, with my husband to his right and, on a slightly lower throne, the French heir, Blanche’s husband, Louis. We were conducted to our seats, I to the right of the prince, Blanche to the left of John. Lower your eyes as the grace is said, Isabelle, raise them respectfully to your husband when the trumpets sound, lean forward appreciatively as the first course is carried in, to show your pleasure to your host. The hours dragged by, and I passed them by playing myself as a model lady, imagining myself into my role so hard that for some of that endless time I even convinced myself.
As the first course of venison in verjuice, gingered beef and a flight of roast egrets and herons, their feathers gilded with saffron and their wings sheltering tiny gold cups of cameline sauce, was carried in, I watched the room discreetly. My mother and Pierre were seated at the first table below the royal dais where the most high-ranking magnates of the two kings had taken their places. My mother caught my gaze, rose and made me a low curtsey, which I acknowledged with a dip of my head, no more. If I looked longer at my maman, I knew I should weep. Pierre was seated a little further along, among the French lords, his hair a blazon in the candlelight, his fine profile attracting admiring glances from the women nearby. The servers staggered in with the entremet, a cockatrice, a pig and a capon sewn together, stuffed with bread, egg and suet, surrounded by tiny quails with piglets’ snouts to represent its litter. I smiled at the praises of the guests, but the thing made me sick, I thought it crude and ugly. The cockatrice was followed by peacocks and swan, a huge side of ox carried by four men, dishes of wild duck in tarragon and cream seated on nests of pastry. I had to force myself to eat. The pungent spices were overwhelming and the mouths of the men, dripping with fat as they gnawed and swilled, appeared grotesque, a carnival of feasting demons. John was drinking hard, but I noticed that the French king took only a little watered wine as his restless eyes spidered around the room.
Before the dessert course, it was time for the gift giving. I saw King Philip give a tiny smirk into his beard, knowing what was to come. The doors of the salle were thrown wide, and though, of course, I might not rise from my seat to peer eagerly like the other guests, I could glimpse the crowd at the outer gate and hear the murmurs of surprise and admiration as a troop of acrobats, wearing nothing but wide blue-and-gold-striped pantaloons and outlandish silk turbans pinned to their heads, their faces and torsos blackened with cork, came flipping and tumbling over the rushes. When they reached us, they formed themselves into a tower, five men at the base, four more grasping their shoulders and turning a long, full circle to grasp the elbows of the first, with three more climbing up to balance, shaking with effort, on their upturned feet. Then two more, topsy-turvy, then the last one, who shimmied like a monkey along the flanks of his fellows, a gold scroll clasped between his teeth. When he had attained the precarious summit, he unrolled the scroll and feigned to read, the sweat pouring through his makeup all the while, ‘Majesties: an envoy from the East.’
The musicians played a strange, wandering, keening tune, and as the tower of men collapsed itself, each of them rolling to a corner of the salle, heads tucked into knees like jewelled scarabs, a monster was led through the doors. Twice as high as the tallest destrier, with short legs, a pendulous body covered in sagging, grey hide, the beast had huge flapping ears and a monstrous snout that waved before it, thicker than a man’s arm. On its back was a litter with a pointed roof, upon which perched a skinny boy, with fat lips, a squashed nose and skin the colour of a bruised plum, truly, not painted, with only a white cloth wound around his limbs. The room fell silent, for as it moved, it was clear the monster was real, not a wooden construction with hidden wheels, but a living thing. Many of the ladies crossed themselves, and though the men kept their right hands on the table, for manners’ sake, I watched their eyes slide to their daggers. Closer and closer the thing plodded. The French king caught my eye, looking perhaps for a sign of fear, but I met his gaze clearly. I saw far worse monsters in my dreams.
Slowly, the murmurs rose again, everyone exclaiming as to what the thing could be and where it had come from. A few brave souls even reached out to brush its wrinkled skin. As it approached, the mounted boy, whose head nearly touched the rafters of the salle, produced a long ebony pole and touched the thing behind one of its drooping ears. Slowly, effortfully, the creature knelt down on its forelegs, the little silk house bucking crazily on its back, and lowered its head in obeisance. I stood up, clapping my hands with delight, and Blanche followed my example.
‘See, ladies,’ called the king. ‘Their Majesties are not afraid. This is an elephant!’ The word rolled through the room, people milling the sound around their tongues like an unusual sweetmeat. ‘Sent from Persia, a gift from the Sultan,’ the king continued. ‘And now, a gift from me to my brother of England.’
I flashed a glance at John, whose face was mangled with drink and irritation. What were we to do with such a thing? What would it eat? How much would it cost? I knew my husband’s mean-minded suspiciousness, his quickness to imagine a slight, and fearful that he would give offence, I moved forward, curtsied gratefully to King Philip, and approached the beast myself. Nearby on the table was a dish of baked apples, their skin gilded with saffron and cinnamon. I picked one up and held it towards the creature, keeping my palm flat as though I was feeding Othon, but unsure where its mouth might be.
‘Be careful, madame!’ gasped Princess Blanche.
I didn’t care whether it ate me or not. I could disappear into its maw with my hose sticking out behind like a soul in Hell being swallowed by a demon for all I minded.
‘Here you are, Elephant,’ I whispered.
I recoiled as the huge snout swayed towards me, and then the creature picked up the apple with the end of its nose, and popped it underneath, to where I could see a surprisingly small opening. This time my delight was genuine.
‘Look!’ I cried. ‘It eats apples with its nose!’
The room erupted with relieved laughter, quickly followed by applause. I could hear the remarks ‘How brave she is!’, ‘How charming!’, ‘How lovely!’
Four horses, ridden by young squires in pale blue surcoats showing the French fleur-de-lys, now rode down the salle towards the creature. Ladders were brought, and the ‘knights’ mounted them as though the poor animal was a castle they were besieging, grasped the supporting poles of the structure on its back and brought it to the ground. As the elephant was led away by its tiny rider, the four opened the litter, which, I could see now, seemed to be made all of silver, and began to pull out gifts: saddles with gilt trappings, mail coats which swam from their hands like fish scales, cotte of heavy linen faced with silver, axes with thick ivory handles, knives in curious curved sheaths. One by one, the men stepped up to receive their gifts, making their obeisance towards the dais as they did so. Among them knelt my brother, but I kept my eyes on the elephant and a gentle smile curving at the corners of my lips.
When all the men had received their prizes, the doors of the salle swung wide again, and two pages ran along the length of the hall, laying down a dark blue cloth between them. I could hear more gasps of delight from the crowd outside. John scowled – another unwanted present? Along the waves of cloth came a low cart, bearing a narrow black boat, its prow viciously pointed and mounted with a shining steel horn, close and neat as a coffin.
‘It is one of the boats they use at Venice,’ whispered Louis.
‘How original,’ I managed to whisper back.
The thing sailed towards us on its watery carpet, the cart’s rope drawn by unseen hands. When it reached the dais, I saw that it was loaded with canvas bales, and a figure lying between them. I gasped with surprise as he rose and bowed, swaying a little, for all the world as though he hovered on a real boat on a real Venetian canal, for though his face was lowered, I caught the watery flash of his pale eyes, the colour of the lagoons in my maman’s lost stories. The silk man.
My fingers strayed to the cloth of my gown. It had begun with him, that day when the messenger had overtaken him on the Angouleme Road. Was he part of it, too, his silks stretching about like a net, drawing us closer and closer to the madness that waited at Lusignan? Princess Blanche clapped her hands delightedly, and now the ladies came forward, exclaiming over the bales of airy fabric being unpacked from the boat. The silk man flung them about him like a conjuror so that the space around him became a meadow of improbable silk blooms, turquoise and scarlet, leaf green and dull gold. My mother approached, and as she made her curtsey towards the thrones, I saw her eyes slide to meet the silk man’s subtly expectant gaze. He reached into the boat and handed her two small parcels of white linen. One she offered, with another deep curtsey, to Blanche, and then she turned to me.
‘Majesty.’
‘Lady Mother.’
Our words were hidden under the gasps of the swarming women. The men on the dais looked on, indulgent and slightly bored.
‘I trust you are well, my daughter.’
‘Quite well, thank God.’
‘Would it please you to accept a gift?’
‘Gladly, Mother.’
It astonishes me still, how much suffering the heart can accommodate. Like a swelling muslin bag of cheese in a dairy, it bellies out with pain, bulging and dripping, yet always there is space for more. The cold formality of my mother’s words, the familiar sight of her smooth, lovely face, felt more than I could bear. And yet, I did. As she stretched her hand towards mine, our fingers brushed, and all I wanted to do was hurl myself into her arms and sob out my pain as I had done as a child until she soothed me against her breast and the world was restored to sense. I took the parcel, and a small, mean pleasure, too, in turning my head away, dismissing her.
‘Isabelle!’ she gasped.
Through my teeth, the bright, easy smile still clamped to my face. ‘What is it, Lady Mother? What can you possibly have to say to me?’
‘I sent Pierre to you,’ she tried to reason.
‘Indeed.’
‘And you understood?’
‘Quite clearly. It is so kind of you. My thanks,’ my sarcasm palpable.
‘And your answer?’
One of Blanche’s women stood nearby, holding a length of buttercup sarsenet. I reached out to touch it, murmured something about how pretty it was.
‘I have no answer, Lady Mother. You see, I have nothing to say to you at all.’ I laughed gaily, at nothing, and she returned it so that for a moment our voices rang above the murmur in the salle, lost and bitter and shrill as the voice of a banshee, screaming round a battlement. Then King Philip stood, scattering the ladies before him, and offered me his hand to lead me out to dance.
Only later, when we left the men to their drinking, and I had bidden a courteous farewell to Blanche, after I had been handed into the king’s barge and returned under the curious eyes of the citizens to the Louvre, after I prayed, and had my face washed and my hair combed out and was finally, finally, alone in my chamber with Agnes, did I ask for the parcel to be opened. Under the linen lay a thin red cord, such as I had seen my mother wearing, bound about her leg on the day she went from Lusignan.
‘You must wear it, little one,’ said Agnes tentatively. ‘It is what they wish.’
‘Burn it.’
Agnes’s face worked painfully, she was afraid.
‘Agnes, it is nothing. See?’ I held it up and cast it onto the brazier, where it curled and charred like a cast-off snake skin. ‘It is nothing to do with us. Please don’t be afraid, now. We will have nothing to do with their folly, with their … wickedness. I am queen, and I will keep you safe. Look. It is quite gone.’
‘We should throw away the ashes.’
‘Why, Agnes? In case a witch comes in the night, to take them for a charm?’ One look at her poor old trusting face showed me that this was precisely what she feared. I sighed, ‘Very well. Empty the brazier into the river, then go to your chamber and rest. We go south tomorrow.’
I had kept my countenance. I had survived this interminable day. I did not believe what I had said to Agnes, that I could protect her, but I saw that I had, at least, to try. To protect Agnes, and John, and that way, myself. The sun was setting over the city. Glancing up at the casement, I saw a red streak across the sky, in the direction of Normandy, spooling through the clouds like a skein of red silk. I called for a maid, and had her close the window tight.