"I am not my brother, Isabella," sighed Edward. "We are nothing alike. He's like my father, always--"

"And you're so much like Eleanor?" Isabella cawed with laugher. "Your mother cared what people thought of her. She prided herself on her image. Good Queen Eleanor of Castile, even when she got old and fat she looked more regal than anything I've ever seen from you! Let's go. Be my husband for today."

King Edward II set his jaw, jammed his crown onto his head and followed his wife out onto the balcony.

Cheers reached the ears of the royal couple, the voices rising like bubbles through milk to pop in Isabella's delighted ears. As Edward raised his arm to wave to the crowd below, the queen caught his hand in hers. The peasants below cheered louder at this display of royal love. Edward shuddered inside. Isabella crowed. This was what she had been born for: the adoration of thousands, gold on her head, jewels at her throat and a king at her side. Only fleeting, true, soon enough she'd be sidelined again, but doesn't the roar of the crowd sound like church bells? After the banquet she'd be jostled back between those of brighter plumage, but for now, aren't they cheering for Good Queen Isabella?

All her life Isabella's mother recited an unhappy mantra to her daugher: "You were born into a royal family: you are the daughter of a king. You have less freedom than anyone in the world to control your own life."

Her pessimistic mother had little effect on Isabella. She realized at a young age that powerful men would choose the bare facts of her life, but Isabella knew that she contolled the specifics: her reputation, her lifestyle, her emotions. Of course she wanted to enjoy a life of her choice, but this life would have to be created within the framework of her position: if she was going to be happy, she would have to be happy as a queen.

Isabella was nothing if not pragmatic. She had read the romances, the stories of princesses who ran off with their poor but good-looking lovers; she scoffed at them. They were silly and unreasonable. Isabella knew that she could live happily ever after without leaving royal life behind. When a proposal of marriage came from the King of England, Isabella rejoiced, not at all worried about her future.

Princess Isabella of France married King Edward II of England in 1308. Both bride and groom were young and healthy: Isabella was sixteen and Edward twenty-three. The age difference may have seemed vast to Isabella, but in medieval Europe seven years was nothing; Isabella's own aunt, a girl of twenty, had married a nobleman three times her age.

Isabella was reputed to be the prettiest princess in Europe. This was hyperbole. Her black hair, aquiline beak and pale skin were striking but not beautiful. Ten pounds or ten years would bankrupt Isabella's flimsy claim to loveliness.

Queen Isabella, three years' wife to King Edward II, sat slumped in her banquet hall throne, poking at the half-frozen lump of cow on her plate. "You put Gaveston in charge of food preparation?" she quietly asked her husband. Edward nodded and smiled almost imperceptibly. Isabella answered: "My meal is inedible. Whose idea was it to sabotage the Queen's charity banquet, his or yours?"

The meat would not yield. Isabella tossed down her knife in disgust. She craned her neck and surveyed the table. Frozen burned ice charcoal: the plates of beef alternated neatly between over- and under-done. All were untouched. A few seats down from the royalty, the Duke of Lancaster caught Isabella's eye and cocked his ancient head questioningly. Isabella tossed her yellow gaze to the left, gesturing past her husband to the shimmering man at his side. Ah, Thomas of Lancaster nodded bitterly, Piers Gaveston. That explains the putrid lung on my plate.

Piers Gaveston, the breathtaking Earl of Cornwall, sat at the King's left, dressed in royal clothing and outshining everyone in the hall. His coloring-- pale skin beneath black hair-- paralleled Isabella's, bit what made her look like a bird of prey made him look like something out of myth. Everyone in the hall had sighed over him for five minutes, then moved on when he opened his mouth. Piers Gaveston, a mere french knight, mocked the court with every breath. Without mercy and without deliberation, it was his natural pattern of speech. Moreover he was a good fighter and could justify in a duel the taunts he made at the dinner table. Most courtiers wanted his head on a pike in the Tower of London. Only one person would come to his defense; sadly, that was the King, who sheltered Gaveston from the ill will of the English as surely as Gaveston sheltered the King from the outside world.

Piers Gaveston was the only wall between Isabella and her husband. Whenever she sought Edward Gaveston was there, and it was an unmatched battle, he with cruel words and the latest fashions, she in patched dresses with nothing but her glare to defend her. Gaveston had been the king's lover for many years, before Isabella's marriage was contemplated at all. She could not compete. Before Edward's coronation Gaveston had suffered through two exiles, the result of the old king's wrath over the open closeness between the heir apparent and the knight. They were never very good at secrets, any of them. After the old king died and the heir apparent became Edward II, Gaveston was recalled from his exile and even ruled England while Edward fetched his bride from France. Edward had even made Gaveston the Earl of Cornwall, a title usually reserved for kings' sons.

Isabella laughed: it was like one of the silly, stupid romances she always ran from. Gaveston was the thorn in her throne, the obstacle in the way of her happiness. Not the poor-but-handsome paragon of chivalry. An infuriating thief. Silly and stupid.

The next morning the royalty held court in the great hall of the castle. It was divided into three levels. On the bottom level stood anyone who wished to address the king. A raised platform held the great lords of England. In the middle of this platform another level rose, with stairs leading to a dais where three thrones rested. Edward, resplendent in burgundy velver, sat in the middle, on the throne of his late father. Isabella perched on aa smaller chair to his right, Gaveston to his left. The Earl of Cornwall toyed idly with the golden chain at his throat as a shabby man approached. One of the man's eyes stared wildly into space and the other was fixed on King Edward.

"My lord," said the man in a silky voice more polished than one would expect from his unkempt appearance, "I am William Wycliffe, an alchemist. By your grace I am here to plead for royal, ah, monetary support."

Edward blinked slowly. "And what is an alchemist, Wycliffe? Enlighten us."

"An alchemist practiced alchemy, an age-old science whose secrets were brought from Egypt in books belonging to the patriarch Abraham. A skilled alchemist finds and translates these ancient texts, creating from them a Philosopher's stone. With the stone an alchemist can change base metals to gold." The old man continued his oratory as he noticed the whole hall listening. "A worthless lump of tin could be transformed to precious gold in a moment. A king's ransom could be created in an hour."

Gaveston and Edward were leaning forward eagerly. Any prospect of gold enthralled them. "You've discovered the secret?" asked Gaveston breathlessly. Isabella snorted and got a venemous glare in return. "Not yet." The old man shuffled his feet. "That is why I am here. I recently purchased some Egyptian texts from a Crusader who did not know their worth. But some of the ingredients specified for the stone's creation are expensive, and I am very poor..."

Isabella drew her husband into a private conference. "Don't give him anything," she whispered. "He's a fraud-- just listen to his voice and then look at his clothes-- it's a sham. And you can't turn lead into gold." But if Edward had any doubts, his wife's objections drove him the other way. And to solidify his decision further, Gaveston was tugging at the royal sleeve and saying "Give the alchemist what he wants!"

"William Wycliffe, the Crown supports your venture. Our treasury is open to you, up to, say, two hundred pounds. Keep us informed of your progress."

Isabella grumbled in disgust as the alchemist thanked the king profusely and retreated from sight. "He's only going to take our money and disappear with it. You just cost the Exchequer two hundred pounds, dear."

Piers looked down his nose at Isabella. "Did he not say that alchemy comes from the great Abraham himself, o ye of little faith? What's the matter, Isabella? We realize that you don't trust good people-- and now you don't trust the Holy Bible?" "I am your queen, goddammi--" "Isabella! Control yourself," exclaimed Edward. "You could stand a lesson in faith. And you are to address us as "Your Majesty". "Dear" is too... informal."

Piers laughed, "Stupid woman!"

From the lords' seats Thomas Lancaster flew to his feet. "My Lord Cornwall!" he called as he approached the dais, "I cannot permit you to address a royal woman this way!"

Gaveston whirled towards Lancaster, his face marred with indignation. "I am under the King's own protection. I can say what I want. I could tell all of England of the livestock in your bedroom, sheepfucker, and you couldn't do a thing to stop me... You people! Does a dukedom give you divine right? Royal favor is the only thing that matters, and I have it. Not this buzzard bitch--" he leveled a bejewelled finger at Isabella "--not you, Lancaster. Me. And the protection I have is better than armor."

"Draw your sword," a metallic-voiced Lancaster replied, "Let's see if that's true." Gaveston began to comply when the king leaped between the two antagonists.

"Gaveston! Dearest Pierrot," cajoled the king. (Isabella blushed to hear him wheedle) "Please, not here, not now. You're angry; so am I. But please wait. For my happiness?"

The Earl of Cornwall was torn. He looked from the scowl of Lancaster to the anxious king to Isabella, whose chin had gone soft. "Fine. For your happiness." Gaveston resheathed his dagger and decided upon a little revenge. He threw his arms around the king and kissed him, staring down in amusement at Isabella over Edward's slumping shoulder.

After a frozen moment it was over, and Gaveston strode out of the hall smirking. Only the king followed him, choking out some garbled excuse.

Thomas Lancaster approached the shuddering queen. Without a word he placed a sympathetic hand of her shoulder. Isabella sobbed for the first time in a long time. Why were they controlling her specifics? The rest of the nobility surrounded the throne, clucking words of compassion. Lancaster spoke. "I trust you know what must be done." Isabella stared at him in silent, watery-eyed incomprehension. "England cannot be ruled by a murderous madman and a weakling. The Magna Carta gives us the right to deal with... with situations... like this. Either that boy or the country must go.
The other lords and I have written this." Lancaster pressed a slip of paper to Isabella's palm. "You need only to sign it."

Isabella read. Instead of the exile paper she expected her eyes widened and she exclaimed "You ask me to sign a death warrant! Gaveston may be hell but to kill him? He's under my husband's protection-- this letter is treason! I could give it to King Edward and what would you do then?"

Lancaster stared levelly at Isabella with the same steely eyes that had dared Gaveston to fight him. "You could do that. But what has your husband done to warrant such loyalty?"

"Still-- you're asking me to approve a murder."

"An execution. For England's welfare."

"For your own satisfaction!"

"And yours?"

It was too much. Isabella fled the courtroom, retreating to the nest of her room where a fire was dying. She had no more than flung herself onto the bed when there was a short rap on the door. "Come in," said Isabella.

It was her husband, wearing a haughty expression and nicer clothes than hers.

"I don't want to talk to you, Edward."

"Well, I want to talk to you. I'm your lord. I have that right.
You acted shamefully today. The way you spoke to us-- you even cried in front of the entire court! It's embarassing, Isabella." He turned to leave but Isabella held him back with angry words.

"Unbelievable! I am the daughter of a kind and the husband of another, and you're scolding me for acting unroyal when you yourself can't finish one day without degrading yourself below even Gaveston's level!"

"Gaveston's level! Everyonein England falls under it! He is--"

"Please, don't continue. I know what you're going to day," sneered Isabella, "You're going to say something trite about love. To justify yourself. He's your True Love, like in the stupid stories?"

"Of course. Who else would I love?" Edward replied evenly. "My father, who hated me and and who banished Gaveston? My absentee mother? You? Certainly not you. Gaveston was right when he called you a buzzard. You live on others' pain!"

"That's just spiteful!... It appears that power skipped a generation in your family. They didn't in mine. I can do much within the confines of my queendom, Edward, I don't have to circle passively. Don't antagonize me. Now get out!" Isabella pointed a manicured talon and Edward left.

The lords' declaration lay crumpled in Isabella's hand. Should she sign the fateful scrap? So far her alchemy had failed; her king was still a dense block of lead. Would the death of Gaveston be the Philosopher's stone that would turn Edward to gold?
By the light of a dwindling fire Isabella signed a little scrap of paper.

On the other side of London a fraud named William Wycliffe sat counting his money and laughing at England's silly royalty. Alchemy wasn't a real science at all. No one can turn lead into gold.