The Battle of the Queens (32 page)

‘Moreover,’ he added, ‘I have heard that the King of England is planning to send over a large army, which is what I expected he would do. He is going to make an attempt to regain what he has lost. I fear a long and wretched war, Blanche.’

‘Yet you would go to war against the Albigensians.’

‘That is a holy war. The Albigensians are not a well-equipped army. Depend upon it, this war will not be nearly so deadly nor so costly as war against England.’

‘The Albigensians are a people fighting for their beliefs, Louis. Such people are apt to be fierce fighters.’

‘I know it, but if I take up the Cross and go against the Albigensians, the Pope will forbid the English to make war on me.’

‘You mean that war against the Albigensians is more to your taste than war against the English.’

‘I want no war,’ said Louis, ‘but if war there must be I had rather it was a holy war.’

Blanche made no attempt to dissuade him, but she was deeply concerned for she thought he had aged considerably during the last campaign and indeed looked exhausted.

She could almost welcome this controversy over the Count of Flanders to give him some respite and with Sybil de Beaujeu they discussed how best to tackle the matter.

‘Leave it to me,’ said Sybil, ‘I will ask him a few questions which only my brother would know.’

When the man calling himself the Count arrived at Péronne, Sybil admitted that he bore a strong resemblance to her brother, although Baldwin had never been so arrogant. His over royal manner, she declared to Blanche, betrayed him; and she was almost certain that he was an impostor.

It did not take her long to discover the truth. For when the man heard that he was to be brought face to face with Sybil he was clearly disturbed. He found the questions she fired at him quite disconcerting and he declared that he was in no mood to be treated so discourteously by his sister and he would answer no questions that night, but in the morning he would answer all the questions to her satisfaction and he would ask that first of all he might be granted the courtesy of a bed and his supper.

The end was in sight for the bogus Count. The next morning it was discovered that he had fled during the night. The game was up. Although he could pose as the adult Baldwin – having probably been on a crusade to the Holy Land and possibly in Baldwin’s company for he had scars on his body to show the people and these could certainly have been inflicted by a Saracen sword – he had no knowledge of Baldwin’s childhood.

Joanna was delighted. The impostor was eager to get as far away as possible from Flanders. He was later discovered and brought to the Countess Joanna who had no compunction in having him publicly hanged.

So the affair was satisfactorily settled from the Countess’s point of view and at least it had given Louis a short respite from the wars.

Blanche who had been expecting a child gave birth to a girl. After five boys it was pleasant to have a girl but when Louis suggested the child should be called Isabella she felt an immediate revulsion because she was reminded of Isabella de Lusignan, the woman whom she hated more than any other.

Isabella was a royal name. Louis had wanted it, and when she had said that she did not care for it he had immediately remarked that it was because it reminded her of the Queen Mother of England.

He smiled at her almost teasingly. ‘You hate her, don’t you? Why? She’s a very attractive woman.’

How could she explain that it was not because of her attractiveness that she hated Isabella? Yes, hated her, for hate was not too strong a word to describe her feelings. How could she explain that some premonition warned her and she disliked being reminded of her?

A sensible woman such as Blanche of Castile, Queen of France, must not have odd fancies.

‘What nonsense,’ she said lightly. ‘I do not dislike the name so much. Isabella. Yes, it’s a pretty name … a worthy name. Let us call her Isabella if it is what you wish.’

‘It is the name of my mother,’ said Louis quietly.

‘Then you wish it and it shall be.’

So the little girl was Isabella after all.

Before Louis left Blanche was once more pregnant.

Thibaud of Champagne was sighing over the poem he was writing. He was prepared to spend his life in sighing, for the lady he loved was unattainable and his poet’s heart told him that her desirability was in a measure enhanced by the fact that she was out of his reach.

There he was – not unhandsome in spite of too much weight, about which he had been teased all his life. Perhaps that was why he had turned to the pen. He could write glowing verse of his longings, his aspiration in the field of love, and find great satisfaction therein, for he was beginning to be recognised as one of the finest poets of his day.

Surely this must impress the Queen who had been brought up in a cultivated court. Her parents had loved the troubadours and had always encouraged them. And he was a royal troubadour, Thibaud le Chansonnier. He was eager for that not to be forgotten. His great grandfather Louis VII was the King’s grandfather. Just a little twist of fate and he might have been King. If his great grandmother Eleanor of Aquitaine had borne a son … instead of a daughter … well, it would not have been Louis who was on the throne but Thibaud, and Blanche of Castile might have been his bride instead of Louis’s.

What bliss that would have been. And because Fate had been unkind Louis was her husband; it was Louis’s children she bore, the children of France – and he was merely Thibaud, the troubadour Count of Champagne.

So he must sing his songs and he had made of Blanche an ideal and she being the woman she was had shown him so clearly that there was never a hope of her becoming his mistress. She liked his songs though. What woman would not enjoy hearing herself so honoured?

Adoring Blanche he had come to despise Louis as being entirely unworthy of her. Louis had always been a weakling, physically. His father had feared for his health. Of course he was just and lacked the cruelty of so many men; there was no doubt that he had certain good points but even if he could be an acceptable king, he was not worthy to be Blanche’s husband.

And while he sat at his table, murmuring to himself the words he was turning over in his mind, a messenger arrived with a command from the King.

Louis reminded him that he was his vassal and that as such he could be called to serve the King in battle for forty days and forty nights. He was therefore ordered to join the King’s army without delay, bringing with him his men at arms, for the King was laying siege to the town of Avignon in the fight against the Albigensians.

Thibaud felt a burning resentment. He had no desire to go to war. He was not out of sympathy with the Albigensians. They had been foolish perhaps in trying to pit themselves against Rome, but he was all in favour of the easy comfortable life they had so enjoyed. Raymond of Toulouse was a man of culture and a friend of his. Raymond was more interested in music, literature and discussion than in war.

And he, Thibaud the Troubadour, was being asked – nay, commanded – to leave the comfort of his castle and go to war.

And he must … because he was a vassal of the King and the King commanded him.

With something less than a good grace Thibaud set out for Avignon, but as he rode along he sang one of his latest compositions, the subject of which was the beauty of a lady whom he could not get out of his mind – and all knew that that lady was Blanche the Queen.

He would have liked to sing of a rare passion between them which both admitted to in secret, but it was not true and might even be considered treason. He could imagine those cold blue eyes on him if he hinted at such a relationship between them. She would banish him from court and he would never see her again. So he had to be careful.

So to Avignon – that rich and beautiful town which owed its prosperity to its clever trading and the peace it enjoyed with the neighbouring Counts of Toulouse. The people of Avignon shared a desire with those of Toulouse to live in peace and comfort, they loved music and welcomed the troubadours of Toulouse and with them shared the new ideas and found great pleasure in discussing them. Avignon was not going to give in easily.

Thibaud arrived in a mood of discontent which was certainly not dispersed by the sight of the grey walls of the town which looked impregnable and the soldiers encamped outside them weary and disillusioned for they had come expecting a quick victory.

When Thibaud went to the King to inform him of his coming and to pay his respects, he was shocked by the sight of Louis whose skin was yellowish and his eyes bloodshot; he was a sick man, concluded Thibaud.

He asked after the King’s health and received a short reply that there was nothing wrong with it.

An opinion I do not share, Sire, was Thibaud’s inward comment, but he bowed his head and said he was glad to hear that was so.

‘The town has some strong defences,’ Thibaud ventured.

‘That’s so,’ replied Louis. ‘But I shall take it … no matter how long I stay here.’

Thibaud thought: A vassal owes his lord but forty days and forty nights. I am not prepared to stay here longer.

They studied each other – the Queen’s husband and the poet who declared his love for her in his verses. My verses will outlast you, my lord, thought Thibaud.

‘I am glad you came,’ said Louis. ‘It reached my ears that you were reluctant to do so and had you disobeyed me I should have been obliged to take measures against you.’

‘My lord, I came to your command. I have sworn allegiance, and when you call me to battle I owe you forty days and nights of my service.’

‘I should have been forced to make an example of you, Thibaud,’ the King warned him, ‘by laying waste the lands of Champagne.’

Thibaud thought: You would have found stout resistance, my lord, and you are in no position to wage war against those who would do you no harm if you left them in peace. You have mighty enemies. The English will soon be at your throat. You need friends, Louis, not enemies. You poor creature.
Her
husband. I know I am over fat, too fond of good food and wine; but for all that I am more of a man than you are.

He said: ‘It is not good, my lord, for there to be dissension in your own ranks. So I am here to fight with you in a cause which has no great concern for me.’

The King dismissed him and Thibaud left his camp to mingle with others of his kind who had been called to honour their vows. He was not surprised that many of them expressed a similar discontent. They were ready enough to fight for their lands; they would have gone into battle against the English; but even though this war had the backing of Rome and they were said to win Heaven’s forgiveness by taking part in it, their hearts were not in it.

‘Forty days and forty nights – well I dare swear it can be endured,’ said Thibaud.

‘Do you think the siege will be over by then?’ was the reply. ‘They have food and ammunition within those walls to hold out for a year.’

Thibaud shrugged his shoulders. ‘But I, my friend, have given a vow to serve only forty days and nights.’

The weary siege went on. The people of Avignon were truculent, believing that in time their friends of Toulouse would arrive to save them.

The heat was intense; men were dying of disease and Louis ordered that their bodies be disposed of by throwing them into the river. It was not the best of burying grounds but at least it was better than having rotten corpses lying around.

His own deteriorating health was noticed.

‘My God,’ said Philip Hurepel, ‘the King looks sick unto death.’

Philip Hurepel was disturbed. He was fond of the King as well as being a loyal servant. They shared the same father for Philip Hurepel was the son of Philip Augustus by Agnes, the wife he had taken after he had declared himself divorced from Ingeburga. The Pope had declared Philip Hurepel legitimate as a concession to his mother, but it was not everyone who accepted him as such. However, Philip Hurepel had never shown any desire to assert his right. He was a Prince of France and loved by Louis; in return he gave his affection and loyalty.

He discussed the King’s condition with a group of friends, among them Thibaud.