stinging slap on my face.
‘I am the Princess of France.’ Isabella smiled at me. She touched me gently where she’d struck me. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt. I have talked to Marie about you. I’m afraid she truly doesn’t like you. Now, what answer do you make to that, Mathilde?’
‘I don’t like her either, madame,’ I replied.
‘Now isn’t that strange?’ Again the laugh. Isabella watched me curiously. ‘Here I am, Isabella of France, the only daughter of the great Philip, soon to be the wife of the King of England, mother of his heir. Every time I mention Marie they humour me, Mathilde. Some people even claim they can see her. So I ask them to describe her and they always describe me. If you really could see her, you’d know that she has black hair, black as a raven’s wing and very dark eyes. She looks like one of the moon people, the road wanderers. Anyway,’ she continued, hands resting in her lap, swinging her feet like any little girl, ‘anyway, I’ve asked Marie why she doesn’t like you. She won’t reply. You say you don’t like her, which will be interesting.’ She leaned nearer. ‘We’re leaving soon, you know that? I am to go to England, to become queen of that fairy isle, to sit on the throne at Westminster to be crowned, and to share the bed of Edward. Do you know Edward, the young king?’
I shook my head.
‘They say he is very handsome,’ she continued. ‘He looks a little like me, a distant kinsman; Father explained how we are related. They say he too has golden hair, blue eyes and a lovely beard and moustache. They also say other things: how he prefers to dig a ditch, thatch a cottage or be taken along the river in a barge and joke with varlets, labourers and other servants of the meaner sort. He has a pet lion and a camel in his great fortress, the Tower of London. Do you want to know something else?’ She looked around. ‘I’ve discussed this with Marie: they say he likes other men. I’ve heard of that; brother Louis told me what they do to each other: they put their thing,’ she pressed her sandalled foot against my groin, again, ‘not into a woman’s place, because a man doesn’t have that, but elsewhere.’ She turned slightly and patted her own rump. ‘Do you know what they mean, Mathilde?’
I did, but I shook my head, only to receive another slap, this time softer, on my face.
‘You’re not a very good liar, Mathilde. You will be, if you serve me and live in my household. You do know what I am talking about?’
She turned, cocking her head slightly as if listening to her invisible companion. She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.
‘Shall I tell you something, Mathilde? Marie has changed her mind. She thinks she likes you, and so do I.’ She began to sing softly under her breath, a Goliard hymn, a wandering scholar’s filthy song. I wondered who could have taught her that.
‘Can I trust you, Mathilde?’
‘With your life?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ She pouted. ‘Can I trust you?’
‘Of course, madame, I am your servant.’
‘Of course you are,’ she mimicked, eyes dancing with merriment. ‘I told a lie. They are frightened of me! They want me to leave and I want to go. Mathilde, have you heard the stories? How my father may have poisoned my mother? That’s what the gossips claim. Father heard a servant girl repeat it; she was burned and her lover was hanged in Father’s apple orchard. He claimed they were guilty of treason, but why should he burn a girl and hang a boy because of rumour and malicious gossip? Anyway,’ she continued, ‘they’ll be glad to see me leave here. They’re frightened, you know.’
‘What of?’ I asked.
‘Ah, you’ll see. Virgo intacta,’ she murmured. ‘I am supposed to go to Edward virgo intacta.’
‘Of course you are, your grace,’ I hastily replied, just wishing I could get up from my knees.
‘You may sit beside me now.’ The order came so swiftly, I wondered if she knew exactly
‘I am the Princess of France.’ Isabella smiled at me. She touched me gently where she’d struck me. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt. I have talked to Marie about you. I’m afraid she truly doesn’t like you. Now, what answer do you make to that, Mathilde?’
‘I don’t like her either, madame,’ I replied.
‘Now isn’t that strange?’ Again the laugh. Isabella watched me curiously. ‘Here I am, Isabella of France, the only daughter of the great Philip, soon to be the wife of the King of England, mother of his heir. Every time I mention Marie they humour me, Mathilde. Some people even claim they can see her. So I ask them to describe her and they always describe me. If you really could see her, you’d know that she has black hair, black as a raven’s wing and very dark eyes. She looks like one of the moon people, the road wanderers. Anyway,’ she continued, hands resting in her lap, swinging her feet like any little girl, ‘anyway, I’ve asked Marie why she doesn’t like you. She won’t reply. You say you don’t like her, which will be interesting.’ She leaned nearer. ‘We’re leaving soon, you know that? I am to go to England, to become queen of that fairy isle, to sit on the throne at Westminster to be crowned, and to share the bed of Edward. Do you know Edward, the young king?’
I shook my head.
‘They say he is very handsome,’ she continued. ‘He looks a little like me, a distant kinsman; Father explained how we are related. They say he too has golden hair, blue eyes and a lovely beard and moustache. They also say other things: how he prefers to dig a ditch, thatch a cottage or be taken along the river in a barge and joke with varlets, labourers and other servants of the meaner sort. He has a pet lion and a camel in his great fortress, the Tower of London. Do you want to know something else?’ She looked around. ‘I’ve discussed this with Marie: they say he likes other men. I’ve heard of that; brother Louis told me what they do to each other: they put their thing,’ she pressed her sandalled foot against my groin, again, ‘not into a woman’s place, because a man doesn’t have that, but elsewhere.’ She turned slightly and patted her own rump. ‘Do you know what they mean, Mathilde?’
I did, but I shook my head, only to receive another slap, this time softer, on my face.
‘You’re not a very good liar, Mathilde. You will be, if you serve me and live in my household. You do know what I am talking about?’
She turned, cocking her head slightly as if listening to her invisible companion. She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.
‘Shall I tell you something, Mathilde? Marie has changed her mind. She thinks she likes you, and so do I.’ She began to sing softly under her breath, a Goliard hymn, a wandering scholar’s filthy song. I wondered who could have taught her that.
‘Can I trust you, Mathilde?’
‘With your life?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ She pouted. ‘Can I trust you?’
‘Of course, madame, I am your servant.’
‘Of course you are,’ she mimicked, eyes dancing with merriment. ‘I told a lie. They are frightened of me! They want me to leave and I want to go. Mathilde, have you heard the stories? How my father may have poisoned my mother? That’s what the gossips claim. Father heard a servant girl repeat it; she was burned and her lover was hanged in Father’s apple orchard. He claimed they were guilty of treason, but why should he burn a girl and hang a boy because of rumour and malicious gossip? Anyway,’ she continued, ‘they’ll be glad to see me leave here. They’re frightened, you know.’
‘What of?’ I asked.
‘Ah, you’ll see. Virgo intacta,’ she murmured. ‘I am supposed to go to Edward virgo intacta.’
‘Of course you are, your grace,’ I hastily replied, just wishing I could get up from my knees.
‘You may sit beside me now.’ The order came so swiftly, I wondered if she knew exactly
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