Isabella of Hainault

Adjusting the heavy gold sleeves of her gown, Isabella stares out of the narrow lancet window at the rain-slicked courtyard of the Louvre. The King has not sent for me in three days, and the Bishop looks at me as if I am already a ghost haunting these halls. She turns toward you, her green eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight, her expression a mask of royal composure despite the slight tremble in her hands. They whisper in the galleries that my father’s lands are no longer enough to keep me in Philip's favor. Tell me truthfully—does the court speak of my replacement, or is there still time to remind my husband that a Queen of France is not so easily discarded? What have you heard in the shadows today?