The Stone Rose

Book 3: The Rose Trilogy

by Carol McGrath

Genres: Medieval; Medieval Romance

Synopsis

The sweeping third instalment of Carol McGrath's acclaimed She-Wolves Trilogy: the gripping series exploring the tumultous lives and loves of three queens of England - and of three women who lived in their shadow, in an era shaped by powerful women.
Based on the extraordinary true story of the female stonemason who carved a queen's tomb, The Stone Rose traces the life of fierce, self-destructive Isabella of France. Wife to a weak king, Isabella finds herself facing enemies from the wild north, in a war with Scotland, and from within her own family: her uncle Lancaster, whose attempts to rein in royal power cause a rift between them.
But Isabella soon comes to realise that this is a love story. And the threat to the kingdom is a threat to her marriage - and to her own life . . .

Release date: April 21, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 256

Sample

A fox darted from the woodland verge across the path with a flash of russet. Isabella’s palfrey shied. She tugged hard on her reins. The horse pawed the ground, trying to rise up. It would have thrown her, if her companion had not speedily edged closer to her side and seized the palfrey’s head straps. Her saviour bent his dark head and spoke in a soft tone to the creature, gentling it. Within moments, Juno was calm and stilled. Sitting firm in her saddle, Isabella leaned down to thank him.

‘If you had not been so quick, Piers, the mare would have thrown me.’

‘Near shave,’ Piers Gaveston gasped, his beautiful dark eyes filled with concern.

King Edward came trotting forward, followed by his pretty green-eyed niece, Margaret de Clare, Piers’ sixteen-year-old wife.

‘Isabella, praise Saint Thomas, you are safe, my sweeting,’ Edward said. He turned to Piers, leaned over and patted his arm. ‘Thank you, my friend. Praise God’s grace, you were right by her side.’

‘Gabriel held fast,’ Piers said, patting his horse’s neck. ‘It was a fox that flashed by in front of the Queen’s horse. I saw its bushy tail.’

Edward began to laugh. ‘You saved my Queen from a nasty fall. You protected her like a devoted knight.’

Piers grinned at Edward, then at Isabella. ‘A pleasure for this knight to protect his Queen.’

Isabella glanced over her shoulder to where the others crowded onto the narrow woodland path; they were led by the extremely well-connected Earl of Warwick, a frowning, dark, sardonic, proud and powerful noble, one of the King’s awkward council, who had been privy to Piers’ previous exile to Ireland. Hunting dogs with their keepers were snapping, barking and straining on leads. Following her nervous glance towards Warwick, Piers muttered, ‘Pity it wasn’t the Black Dog taking a tumble. That fox had unfortunate mistiming.’

Little Meg frowned at her husband, but Isabella’s lips twitched. Piers had amusing names for all the earls he considered enemies. She knew the powerful older men – Warwick and her wealthy uncle Thomas – were both jealous of the young King’s love for Piers, whom Edward called ‘brother’. Her father, King Philip the Fair of France, she mused, would never stand for his barons ordering his friends into exile, as the English barons had poor Piers. Edward had, only a month earlier, called Piers back from exile in Ireland, where, to satisfy the nobles, he had sent Piers as Lord Lieutenant. Now, Warwick, Lancaster and their allies were determined to exile Piers again, just as viciously as they had done a year previously. She liked Piers. He was kind, fun and witty. She had first met him after she arrived in England following her marriage ceremony. Piers had led her to the Privy Council to sit beside her new husband, who blushed and stared straight past her. With a smile, Piers had taken her damp hand and placed it in Edward’s clenched one. ‘I hope we can be friends, my pretty Queen,’ he had whispered in her ear.

The earls had no right to complain that Piers encouraged Edward to be extravagant and inattentive to great matters of state.

Isabella shook her head. These were silly thoughts. The earls had no power to do anything other than what Edward said. Edward was King, she was Queen, and they ruled England by God’s holy grace, not by the permission of people like Warwick, whose role was to help and serve. Warwick and his allies were always complaining about Piers – and now they were threatening another banishment and the withdrawal of Edward’s income. In Parliament, they loudly insisted that Piers was a bad influence and too close to King Edward – far too close. At this thought, Isabella felt her stomach grow so tight, it felt fastened to her ribs. What did they mean by these words, ‘too close’?

‘Your Grace, are you affrighted?’ Meg’s gentle voice broke into her thoughts. She had ridden to Isabella’s side and was offering a vial of infused mint, rosemary and lavender for her to smell. To please Meg, Isabella inhaled and passed it back. She felt better afterwards.

‘Thank you, dear Meg, the Queen seems quite recovered,’ Edward said smoothly, speaking for Isabella, as he liked to do. It had been different, some years earlier, when she was a child bride and unsure. Now, she could speak for herself, so she said, without hesitation, ‘I am well. Do not fuss so, Edward.’

‘Then, my love, it’s time to break our fast. We’ll eat in that meadow.’ Edward waved his jewelled hand towards a sunlit clearing ringed with beeches. He turned and shouted along the path towards the wiry figure of Warwick. ‘Dog—I mean, Warwick! Tell them to set up the pavilion in that glade, over there. We’ll resume the hunt after we break meats.’

Riding up to them, Warwick nodded. ‘Sire, as you wish.’ He threw a malevolent look at Piers, who sat on his horse watching him with an insolent grin on his face.

Piers does invite enmity, Isabella thought. Such impertinence is not doing his cause any favours. It does Edward no favours either.

‘As well you requested a competent organiser today, sire,’ Warwick said, turning his dark expression into a pleasant smile for Edward. ‘Ride on, sire, and it will be done.’ He kicked his heels against his horse’s flanks and the brown hunter trotted back along the track.

Almost at once, their crowd of followers had a silken pavilion erected in the meadow, with a linen-covered low table, cushions and carpets spread out under the shade of a stand of beech trees. Bowing low, servants placed baskets filled with pears and apples on the table and set out dishes of breads, cheeses and meats. Isabella paused and looked about her, feeling how lucky she was. Their court was all young men and women; they loved each other like brothers and sisters. As well as herself and Edward, there was Piers, of course, who was not from a great noble family, but had served Edward since they were two boys learning to be squires in Wales and Gascony. And her dear friend Isa Beaumont, and her French nurse Thea, and Edward’s red-haired niece, Meg, one of the younger daughters of Edward’s most powerful Welsh lord, Gilbert de Clare. Meg’s sisters, Eleanor and Elizabeth, were often at court, too, though Isabella was less fond of beautiful, cold Eleanor, and knew fiery little Elizabeth not at all. Delicate Meg, however, was her dearest friend. And Edward had married Meg to his dearest friend, Piers. Isabella smiled to see Meg, at this moment, pulling her skirts around herself to sit down on cushions close to the king.

‘Has this forest a name?’ Meg said, turning to Edward.

‘Boarstall Wood. Do you like staying here, at the old palace at Brill, Meg? My ancestor, the first King Henry, built the hunting palace. My mother loved it. She made improvements – a bathing room and new tiles on the floors, with lions and crowns.’

‘I do, very much so, Uncle. Much better than London. The views over the fields, the air, the country lanes . . . I can see how Grandmother Eleanor liked it so well.’

‘And lush hedgerows.’ Edward turned to Piers. ‘Do you know, here, they weave young hawthorn and beech together to make a strong barrier that their sheep cannot penetrate?’ He twisted imaginary boughs in his hands. ‘We’ll get the villagers to show us how, Piers. A new skill to learn.’

Isabella felt herself frowning. Edward was always happier away from the castle and his royal duties. Why must he insist on mixing with peasants the very moment he found an opportunity? It was beneath him. Their job was to rule over the poor, not to associate with them. She popped a grape into her mouth. No, she must not criticise. It was not for her to gainsay her husband. Her duty was to provide him with an heir. And that, she smiled to herself, was sure to happen soon. She had just passed her fifteenth birthday. Edward had only this month bedded her for the first time since their wedding, three years earlier, and now this was happening more often.

It had not been the unpleasant experience she had feared. In fact, it had been delightful. She had enjoyed their lovemaking after the first time – though, even then, he had been gentle and considerate, caressing her in places she would never touch herself. She glanced with admiration at his great height, her eyes appreciating his lean figure and strong muscular arms, glinting with blond hairs. As they had lain naked, thigh to naked thigh, he had told her she was one of the loveliest creatures he had ever beheld.

‘Who are the others?’ she’d dared ask.

He’d snorted, and not answered.

He clearly admired Piers’ handsome looks. She shivered slightly. And there was, too, the unknown woman whom Edward confessed had given him an illegitimate son named Adam, only two years ago. But that woman was no threat, having died giving birth to Adam. The child was growing up on a manor set deep in the Kent countryside. Edward had won Isabella’s approval when he admitted that he would always care for Adam, since it spoke well of his kindness and reassured her that he would always feel responsibility towards his own. He had looked at her with adoring eyes when he said he hoped she would accept the boy when, one day, he joined their court.

‘Edward,’ she had said dutifully, ‘I shall always be kind to the boy.’

Even so, the sooner she had her own son in her arms, the better.

‘Piers, will you join me thatching?’ Edward said now. ‘I saw a man working yesterday at the windmill near the palace. The miller is in need of more assistance, I’ll warrant.’

Warwick shook his black hair disdainfully, and Piers looked up, annoyed. Obviously goaded, he said, ‘Our friend the Earl of Warwick could do with a lesson in thatching too, sire.’ He laughed, looking away from Warwick’s baleful countenance, then prodded Edward’s side. ‘But it’s time to hunt again, now.’ Piers turned to Isabella. ‘Fair lady, will you ride back into the forest with me? Shall we find us a doe?’

She could not help laughing. ‘As you wish, Piers.’

Edward stood up and shook a fallen leaf from his fair hair. He was the handsomest of them all, and, when he smiled, his face lit up. Isabella watched him stretch his long back and shake crumbs from his tunic.

‘Warwick, summon the horse and gather up the masters of the hounds, would you?’ he said. ‘Hunting is more your pursuit than thatching and weaving hedges.’ He did not wait for Warwick to answer, but leapt to his feet and followed Piers to where their stallions grazed by a stream. He called over his shoulder, ‘Come on, ladies.’

Meg, easily tired, trailed behind them, but Isabella deliberately took her time. She marched over to Warwick, who was rising from his stool, laid a hand on his arm and said, ‘Thank you, Guy, for organising this enchanting day.’

‘Your Grace,’ he replied, with a frown that took her aback. ‘You are young to be riding into danger. Take good care of your royal person.’ He raised a pair of black, bushy eyebrows. ‘And mind where your palfrey steps today. Take particular care when the hounds discover the stag we chased into the forest this morning.’ He paused and drew breath. Lowering his voice, he added, ‘Do not rush forward.’ After bowing, he adjusted his short blue cloak, gave her a half-smile and hurried away to organise the huntsmen and greyhounds. She was left wondering if his words related to more than the avoidance of danger as the hunt closed in on its prey.

It had been unfair when Guy of Warwick and her uncle, Thomas of Lancaster, had demanded a total reform of their young court the previous year, curbing their spending on tournaments, feasts, clothing and jewels, and insisting on Piers’ temporary banishment. She sighed. Life without Piers was impoverished. These lords might control the royal treasury, but a court should appear brilliant. Silks and banquets, musicians and magical courtly entertainments were a necessary expense. Though, she reflected, life without Piers had also been easier, in some ways, because Edward was more attentive to her and her ladies, in his absence. But still she had missed Piers – his quick wit and the way he calmed Edward down. He was necessary to them both.

‘Edward, it will mean Meg will have to leave us, too,’ she had protested at the time. ‘Our closest friends will all be sent away!’

‘They will regret it.’

‘A queen and king should be allowed to live like a king and queen. We need to impress our subjects,’ she had exclaimed, siding with him. ‘And we should be free to choose our own companions, too.’

‘I have an idea, Isabella. You’ll see. Piers is a good soldier. I’ll send him to manage Ireland. He’ll be back soon enough.’ He had smiled at her and mischievously tweaked the ear that was peeping out of her loosened hair. ‘And you’ll still be able to buy lovely gowns, jewels and beautiful books, my little Queen.’ He snorted like a proud Arabian stallion. ‘I strike a hard bargain. There’ll be no stinting my treasury grant, if I agree to the temporary exile. I can stiffen my spine too.’

In the end, she had not been made too miserable by the loss of her friends. Edward had bought her a new pearl necklace and Piers’ absence had given her time alone with her husband, and she had discovered passion in his arms.

Eventually, as Edward had promised, he agreed terms with the earls and recalled Piers. Now, the Earl of Warwick was smouldering again. Piers and Edward increasingly loathed the earls supporting him – in particular, her uncle, Lancaster, whom Piers nicknamed ‘the Fiddler’ on account of his supposed manipulations and his long, brown curling locks, worn like a musician’s.

On their return from Ireland, after that banishment, Meg had confided to Isabella how very frightened she was for Piers. ‘He will go too far. He is openly taunting the earls.’

They were sewing together in Isabella’s bower.

‘Piers is too obvious in his dislike of Warwick and the others,’ Meg said, sticking her needle into a pin cushion forcefully and glancing up, her green eyes earnest. ‘Those nicknames antagonise them all. He thinks they don’t know, but they do.’

‘You want to protect Piers, don’t you?’ Isabella had replied, keeping her voice low, so the other ladies could not overhear her words.

‘I do, Isabella. I don’t want him to be in danger. Nor do I wish us to be in constant peril. I hate it.’

Isabella placed her hand over Meg’s. ‘Edward will protect Piers, you’ll see.’

‘If Edward is able to, that is, Isabella.’ And, with that, Meg had excused herself and rushed from the bower.

Something else was bothering Meg, Isabella was sure of it, and it was obvious to her how much Meg loved and cared for Piers. Her heart had beat against her ribs like a stick knocking on a wedding drum. They all loved Piers. What if Edward could not protect him?

The forest canopy rustled. Woodland birds were singing and darting above. Deep in thought, Isabella now nudged her mare forward with her heels and, when the path opened up, she cantered alongside Piers again. Laughing together, they sped through the trees and her concern dissipated into the honeysuckle-scented air. The forest always delighted her. She loved its verdant denseness, especially where trees grew so close together it was impossible to penetrate. Who knew what magical creatures haunted those places? Boarstall Wood was not a place to lose oneself, so they kept strictly to the paths. Earlier, she had caught sight of ribbons tied to branches at the woodland’s edge to ward off danger and appease the mysterious creatures dwelling in its hidden depths. She noticed gifts of cakes, left for faerie creatures, placed daintily below linen knots tied into the tree branches. Villagers feared creatures with the heads of fierce hounds and the bodies of humans – strange devilish beings they called ‘dog people’. She laughed at her imaginings. She had not been frightened of anything or anybody in all her young life, certainly not woodland myths.

Her attention returned to the path. A creamy-brown stag flashed in front of her as it raced over a small clearing further ahead.

Behind them, Warwick yelled to order the hounds loosed.

Isabella drew her palfrey back beside Meg’s mare to wait for the outcome under an ancient oak. Would their dogs catch up with it?

Edward cantered ahead. Piers called back, ‘Are you not riding with us, my lady?’

‘Not this time.’ She did not wish to watch Edward and Piers triumphantly claim the dead stag’s heart and smear their faces with blood. Warwick’s warning had struck a chord with her; though, for the life of her, she could not think why.

Turning to Meg, and meaning to make distracting conversation, she said, ‘Edward says we’ll be riding on from here, to Canterbury, on pilgrimage to St Thomas’s shrine. Will you be able to join us?’

Meg’s forehead pleated with concern. ‘We’re returning north to our castle of Bamburgh.’

Isabella’s horse snorted and she leaned over and patted its neck. It gave her a moment to think about her response. Looking up, she said quietly, ‘Margaret, you are wise. Bamburgh is a safe haven. The earls quarrel bitterly amongst themselves over who owns which lands. They are all jealous of each other and of Piers. Besides, Edward says London is full of ruffians. The mayor himself cannot control the streets. It’s for the best that Piers cares for his safety and for yours, particularly at this time.’ She looked at Meg’s midriff, which, as yet, showed only the slightest swell.

‘Come north again soon, Isabella. Promise me you will, or I shall be lonely.’

‘You have your own ladies for company. But we’ll come north after Christmas to see the baby. Edward loves the north.’

A yell penetrated the forest.

Isabella turned her head. ‘What was that?’

‘It sounded like Piers,’ Meg said.

‘Ah, quiet again, but look up.’ Isabella pointed.

Birds had risen up in a great flurry from the trees and were flying away in the opposite direction.

‘They must have caught the deer,’ Meg said.

They watched anxiously.

A little while later, the hunt returned. A bleeding stag was stretched out on poles. Piers would receive the stag’s crown as a gift to take north to Bamburgh. It would be a handsome addition to his hall’s walls.

But all was not well. Isabella’s smile faded as she saw that Piers’ face was as white as the lacy wild garlic flowers lining the verge. He spurred forward. ‘An arrow nearly caught me,’ he breathlessly informed them both.

Meg’s face paled too. ‘Was it one of the huntsmen?’

‘Just an accident,’ said Edward from behind his friend. ‘There were too many bows raised to make out the culprit.’ He slapped Piers on the back. ‘We were too close to the hunters’ arrows, old friend.’ He looked at Isabella. ‘Worry not, my love. Warwick must investigate who is responsible.’

But what would Warwick actually do? Isabella realised that the onyx-eyed Earl was in some way culpable. Recollecting his earlier words to her, she suspected he was likely to be as guilty as the archer who had fired the arrow. They rode back to the palace at Brill, trotting the horses close together with a guard both in front and behind. Piers remained subdued and silent the whole way. Yes, Isabella mused, Piers and Meg should return north immediately and with a royal guard to escort them.

‘That arrow deliberately flew my way,’ Piers complained during supper. ‘If I had not ducked to pull my hunting knife out, it would have caught me right here,’ he added, dramatically touching his forehead between his velvety brown eyes.

‘You have had a narrow escape, Piers,’ Edward soothed, as if he were gentling a lover. ‘But here’s what we’ll do this night. We’ll stargaze from the top of the hill out there.’ He waved towards the opened window shutters.

Piers smiled once more, gazing fondly at Edward, his eyes shining with a conspiratorial gleam.

Edward lifted a plate with brie cheese, cut a slice for Isabella’s plate and served it to her himself.

‘My favourite cheese,’ she said, lifting her jewelled eating knife.

He carefully added a stalk of luscious purple grapes to her dish. ‘I ordered the cheese brought here especially for you, my Queen.’ She smiled her thanks. Neither she nor Meg would see their husbands before they broke their morning fast, she realised. Not if they were stargazing.

The next morning, she watched Edward and Piers assisting the miller with his thatching. They were stripped to their waists like peasants. Both possessed fine physiques, but it was the loving way they looked at each other and the lingering slaps on backs as they passed each other which she found herself noting.

Isabella said, ‘Piers could have gone to Bamburgh, as they had planned. That’s far enough, surely, Edward?’

‘Clearly not far enough for Warwick and Lancaster. He decided not to retreat north to Bamburgh because, when he was summoned before Parliament, we thought, since Piers had conducted himself well in Ireland, he would be allowed back at court.’ Piers and Margaret had withdrawn to Wallingford Castle in Oxfordshire and, during the October Parliament, Piers was banished yet again. ‘He has hardly been here and yet he is accused of being extravagant and a reckless influence on me.’

Isabella was furious with her uncle, the Earl of Lancaster, who had threatened to reduce the royal allowance once again. Also, she had heard tales whispered by one of her younger maidens to another maiden whilst walking privately in the herb garden at Westminster. ‘The great earls think the relationship between Lord Piers and the King is too close.’

‘Why?’ the other maiden said. ‘The King and Lord Piers are but friends.’

The first girl hushed her friend, saying, ‘The Queen may be nearby.’ She lowered her voice, but Isabella continued to listen in from behind the hedging. She glanced behind to see that Lady Thea, her attendant that morning, was trying to shoo a cat back towards the gate. It had been worrying a blackbird. The first maiden continued, ‘They look down on him because he is a Gascon knight with little true noble ancestry. I have heard he has gone away again, to France or Flanders perhaps. And his poor lady is with child. So cruel to send him away.’

Piers had indeed sailed to Flanders, leaving the heavily pregnant Meg in seclusion at Wallingford Castle. The eldest de Clare daughter, Eleanor, had arrived at court to take her place as Isabella’s senior lady. But Isabella felt wary of Eleanor and mistrusted her, and she had never formed a close friendship with Meg’s cold though beautiful older sister. Eleanor was controlling, bossing the younger attendants around, looking in a critical way at any whose veil was not perfectly placed on her head and watching too closely what Isabella ate. At their very first meeting, some years earlier, Eleanor had leaned over the supper table and said to Isabella, who loved to eat uncooked pears, ‘Those Wardens will give you a stomach gripe.’ Before Isabella could reply, Eleanor had ordered a servant to replace the peeled pears with freshly sugared strawberries and cream.

‘I believe strawberries cause my skin to spot. I prefer pears.’ With a sweet smile, thirteen-year-old Isabella, used to eating the fruit she preferred, had asked Lady Thea to replace the strawberries with another dish of peeled pears, accompanied with a slice of brie cheese. Eleanor had dared to snort her disapproval, though she had inclined her head.

Isabella never confided in her husband the words she had overheard in the herb garden that day.

‘I miss him,’ raged Edward. This was becoming a recurring phrase. ‘Something must be done about it. It’s Christmas, after all. My niece is about to have his child and she’s vulnerable without him.’ He banged his goblet onto the side table, splashing red wine over the ermine trim of his tunic.

‘Poor Meg.’ Isabella sighed, thinking it would take Edward’s body servant hours to remove the crimson stain. She handed him her linen napkin, and he began to rub at the fur. She had been listening to these complaints daily and was weary of them. It was difficult without Piers around to soothe and cheer them both. When Edward was so morose, her happiness was blighted by his moodiness.

‘Send for him,’ she said, trying to be patient. ‘Tell the earls that it’s only for Christmas and because Meg is about to give birth.’ Though, there was a sneaking thought in the back of her mind: And pray let it just be that.

‘They’ll kill him if he returns here,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll visit Meg myself.’

‘Then, I must accompany you.’

He shook his head. ‘We’ll see.’

‘Lady Eleanor is efficient enough as my senior lady –’ Isabella drew breath – ‘but we are not close. I miss Meg.’

‘Yes, Eleanor is as cold as a piece of marble. She has that Hugh Despenser to husband, whose loyalty . . . well . . . he is far too close to his kinsman, Warwick. I’ll work out a plan. Piers must see his son when he is born.’

Hugh Despenser: a handsome, but landless knight. Isabella had seen him from a distance, though he was not often at court. He had been poor when he married Eleanor, and still was, she thought – he had a hungry, skulking look about him.

She returned to the matter at hand. ‘But Meg might have a girl.’

‘Then she’ll have a boy next time. It matters not.’

Having heirs is all men care about, she thought with a frown. It’s instilled into them. One day, England will be ruled by a queen, and she will be powerful.

The twelve days of Christmas brought many distractions. Isabella loved the carrying in of the Yule log on Christ’s Eve and the feasting following the Christmas Day Mass, when she danced and sang. She adored the scent of spiced wine and the delicate smell of sugared fruits wafting about the hall, and she ate marzipan sweetmeats and saffron cakes greedily.

By the last day of December, she was exhausted. She sat warming her slippered feet by the hearth, where the Yule log crackled and sparked. Anticipating the New Year’s Day exchange of presents, she hugged the excitement of her secret gifts to herself. She had a new riding whip for Edward, its silver hilt engraved with intricate and unusual swirling designs. It had been worked in faraway Iceland and she could hardly wait to see his look of delight when she presented it to him.

Her much-loved greyhound, Silken, yawned by her skirts. Edward knocked back his wine and, as he rocked the emptied glass in his hand, firelight caught the crystal, casting jewelled colours on the floor tiles. For a few moments, as her husband seemed to gaze at the moving pattern, Isabella held her breath; Edward was clearly coming to some decision. She nodded to a page, who refilled the King’s goblet, then she dismissed him with a flick of her hand so she and Edward could speak without being overheard.

‘I know you feel Piers’ absence deeply. We have all missed him this Christmas,’ she said, scarcely as audible as a mouse rummaging through a sack of grain. ‘I wrote to Papa again with my New Year greetings and I sent him a gift. It’s a belt purse covered with pearls. I asked him to receive Piers at his court and protect him.’ Her father remained close to her and she hoped, to please her, he would be kind to Piers. Her mother had died when Isabella was a very young child, and her father, when he was not concerned with affairs of state and controlling his own nobles, had indulged her, his only daughter. Her brothers were always close to her and she had felt loved and admired by them all of her young life. But Isabella knew her father and his sister, Marguerite, who was also Edward’s stepmother and attended his court, had despised Piers ever since the coronation, three years earlier, when French diplomats had reported that he was a Gascon upstart who had taken precedence at the ceremony over the old nobility, and who sat with Edward during a disastrous coronation feast he was supposed to have organised. Meats were presented not properly cooked and sauces had congealed on plates. Isabella’s father considered Piers a good soldier, but an indolent, lazy and useless courtier, who could not even command a perfect banquet. She was aware Piers would never be welcome in Paris. Even so, she had been loyal to Edward and had asked.

Edward was not really listening to her. He glared in the direction of a game of chess being played in a corner alcove of the hall between Aymer of Pembroke and Warwick. Following Edward’s eyes, Isabella noted that Aymer’s sandy head was bent in concentration over the board and Warwick’s thick black beard was almost touching it as he leaned closer towards his opponent. She was convinced they were plotting more than chess moves.

Aymer was another noble lord, the son of Edward’s great-uncle, William of Valence. She liked Aymer well because he treated her as older than she was; recently, he had even asked her opinion about a bishop’s appointment. Did she consider him learned enough? Thus, she had thought him fair minded and honourable; unfortunately, he appeared to be under Warwick’s dark influence. Aymer had sided with Thomas of Lancaster and Warwick against Piers over the recent exile. He was softly spoken, perfectly mannered and he always considered what he said before speaking. She studied the back of his head for a moment longer, feeling sad that he, too, had voted in Parliament for Piers’ exile.

Edward turned to her as if r