Maurice Druon - The She-Wolf

‘Sire my Husband, I think my privy purse is already sufficiently controlled,’ said Isabella, indicating Lady Despenser.

Hugh the Younger seemed suddenly to have lost interest in the discussion. The King’s anger was turning at last, as indeed it usually did, against the Queen. Edward had found an object for his vengeance, and Hugh felt all the more triumphant. He picked up a book that was lying near by and which Lady Mortimer had been reading to the Queen before the Count de Bouville had come in. It was a collection of the lays of Marie of France; the silk marker signalled this passage:

En Lorraine ni en Bourgogne,

Ni en Anjou ni en Gascogne,

En ce temps ne pouvait trouver

Si bon ni si grand chevalier.

Sous ciel n’était dame ou pucelle,

Qui tant fût noble et tant fût belle

Qui n’en voulût amour avoir … 10

‘France, it’s always France. She never reads anything that doesn’t relate to that country,’ Hugh thought. ‘And who’s the knight they’re dreaming of in their thoughts? Mortimer, no doubt …’

‘My lord, I do not superintend the charities,’ said Alienor Despenser.

The favourite looked up and smiled. He would congratulate his wife on that remark.

‘I foresee I shall have to give up my charities too,’ said Isabella. ‘I shall soon have no queenly prerogative left, not even that of charity.’

‘And also, Madame, for the love you bear me, of which everyone is aware,’ Edward went on, ‘you must part with Lady Mortimer, for not a soul in the kingdom will understand her being near you now.’

And now the Queen turned pale and sank back a little in her chair. Lady Jeanne’s long pale hands were trembling.

‘A wife, Edward, cannot be held responsible for all her husband’s actions. I am an example of it myself. You must believe that Lady Mortimer has as little to do with her husband’s errors as I have with your sins, supposing you commit any.’

But this time the attack was unsuccessful.

‘Lady Jeanne will leave for Wigmore Castle, which from now on will be under the supervision of my brother of Kent, and will remain there until I have decided what to do with the property of a man whose name will never again be mentioned in my presence except to sentence him to death. I believe, Lady Jeanne, that you would prefer to go to your house of your own free will rather than be taken there by force.’

‘I see,’ said Isabella, ‘that you wish me to be left utterly alone.’

‘What do you mean by alone, Madame?’ cried Hugh the Younger in his fine, well-modulated voice. ‘Are we not all your loyal friends, being the King’s? And is not Madame Alienor, my devoted wife, a faithful companion to you? That’s a pretty book you have there,’ he added, pointing to the volume, ‘and beautifully illuminated; would you be kind enough to lend it to me?’

‘Of course, of course the Queen will lend it to you,’ the King said. ‘I am sure, Madame, that you will do us the pleasure of lending the book to our friend Gloucester?’

‘Most willingly, Sire my Husband, most willingly. And I know what lending means when it’s to your friend, Lord Despenser. I lent him my pearls ten years ago and, as you can see, he’s still wearing them about his neck.’

She would not surrender, but her heart was beating wildly in her breast. From now on she would have to bear the daily insults all alone. If, one day, she found means of revenging herself, nothing would be forgotten.

Hugh the Younger put the book down on a chest and made a privy sign to his wife. The lays of Marie of France would go to join the gold buckle with lions in precious stones, the three gold crowns, the four crowns inset with rubies and emeralds, the hundred and twenty silver spoons, the thirty great platters, the ten gold goblets, the hangings of embroidered cloth of gold, the six-horsed coach, the linen, the silver bowls, the harness, the chapel ornaments, all those splendid possessions, the gifts of her father and relations, which had been her wedding presents and whose inventory had been drawn up by the good Bouville himself, before her departure for England. And now they had all passed into the hands of Edward’s favourites, first to Gaveston and now to Despenser. Even the great cloak of embroidered Turkish cloth she had worn on her wedding day had been taken from her.

‘Well, my lords,’ said the King, clapping his hands, ‘hasten to the tasks I have allotted you and may each of you do his duty.’

It was his usual phrase, another of those formulae he believed to be royal, and with which he closed the meetings of his Council. He went out and the others followed him. The room emptied.

Evening was beginning to fall over the cloister of Kirkham Priory and, with its coming, a little freshness entered by the windows. Queen Isabella and Lady Mortimer dared not say a word to each other for fear of weeping. This was the last time they would be together before being separated. Would they ever meet again, and what had fate in store for them?

Young Prince Edward, his eyes as usual on the ground, came and stood silently behind his mother, as if he wished to take the place of the friend who was being taken from her.

Lady Despenser came over to take the book that had attracted her husband’s eye. It was a beautiful book, and its velvet binding was inlaid with precious stones. She had long coveted the volume, particularly since she knew how much it had cost. As she was about to pick it up, young Prince Edward put his hand on it.

‘Oh, no, you wicked woman,’ he said, ‘you shan’t have everything!’

The Queen pushed the Prince’s hand aside, picked up the book and handed it to her enemy. Then she turned to her son with a smile of understanding that showed, once again, her little carnivore’s teeth. A boy of eleven could not be much help to her as yet; but his attitude was important, all the same, since he was the heir to the throne.

OLD SPINELLO TOLOMEI was in his study on the first floor. He moved the arras aside with his foot and pushed open a little wooden shutter to reveal a secret opening which enabled him to keep an eye on his clerks in the great room on the ground floor. By this judas of Florentine invention, concealed among the beams, Messer Tolomei could see everything that went on below, and hear everything that was said.

At the moment his bank and trading-house appeared to be in considerable confusion. The flames of the three-branched candelabra were flickering on the counters, and his employees had ceased moving the brass balls on the abaci by which they kept the accounts. An ell cloth-measure fell with a clatter to the flagstones; the scales dipped on the money-changers’ tables, though no one was touching them. The customers had all turned towards the door, and the senior clerks were standing with their hands to their chests, making ready to bow.

Messer Tolomei smiled; from the general disturbance he guessed that the Count of Artois had entered his establishment. An instant later, he saw through the spy-hole a huge chaperon with a red-velvet crest, red gloves, red boots with ringing spurs, and a scarlet cloak that hung from the shoulders of a giant. Only Monseigneur Robert of Artois had this peculiarly shattering way of making an entrance. He set the staff trembling with terror; he tweaked the women’s breasts in passing, while their husbands dared make no move; and it seemed as if he could set even the walls quaking merely by drawing breath.

However, the old banker was not particularly impressed. He had known the Count of Artois much too long and had watched him too often. And now, as he looked down on him from above, he was aware of how exaggerated, forced and ostentatious this great lord’s manner was. Monseigneur of Artois behaved like an ogre because nature had endowed him with exceptional physical proportions. In fact he was a cunning and crafty man. And Tolomei held Robert’s accounts.