The Battle of the Queens (7 page)

This was confirmed with the arrival of the Earl in the company of Hubert de Burgh. They were delighted with the application and progress of the King; his mother had reason to be proud of him; but both these gentlemen made it very clear to her that her guiding hand was to play no part in the young King’s progress.

Fuming in her bedchamber later she asked herself if she was to accept this retiring role. She was thirty-one years of age, and with a woman who had cared for her appearance as she had, that was no great age. Her beauty was perennial; although she might have become a little mature that did not detract from her charms she was sure.

Hugh would never have treated her like this.

Hugh! How she longed to see him again. Would she be disappointed in him? What a bold man he had been! What looks! They and his great height had made a god of him. How different from John whose depravity had made him grow more and more hideous. John had hated Hugh – chiefly because he knew that she had loved him, but partly because Hugh was handsome and possessed of a nobility of character which made men respect him. The last time Isabella had seen Hugh was when he was chained hand and foot in a cart that was like a tumbril and drawn by oxen. He had been John’s prisoner then – for Hugh had been fighting on the side of Prince Arthur – and John’s one idea had been to humiliate the noble Hugh, and that Isabella should witness that humiliation. Foolish John, he did not realise that it was not Hugh she despised at that time but himself. John had known nothing of other people because he had been so deeply concerned with himself as the only person who could be of any importance. How delighted she had been when Hugh was released – because John thought it was to his advantage to do so. What a fool that man was. It did not seem to occur to him that Hugh might hate him as much as he hated Hugh. She often wondered how much Hugh had contributed to John’s utter defeat and loss of the French possessions.

And how she longed to see Hugh again.

Suddenly her mood of depression had passed and she was wildly elated.

Why not? It was feasible. It was the right thing to do.

She was thankful that William Marshal was in the castle. She would approach the matter tentatively the very next day. She spent a restless night and could scarcely wait to talk to the Earl.

‘It is with great relief and pleasure,’ she told him, ‘that I watch the King’s progress. I thank God that he is in such good hands. I think he is as different from John as anyone could be.’

The Earl looked well pleased.

‘Hubert de Burgh and I have the utmost confidence in Philip of Albini.’

‘And so have I. It occurs to me that I can serve no useful purpose in this country.

‘I trust the King will never forget that you are his mother.’

‘He will never do that. But I can safely leave his upbringing in capable hands and turn my attention to other members of my family who need me more. Richard is well looked after by Peter de Mauley at Corfe and I understand that Roger d’Acastre is most excellent. My youngest daughters are as yet little more than babies, but my daughter Joan is betrothed and I believe it to be time that she went to the home of her betrothed where she will be brought up in his household as is the custom.’

The Earl nodded slowly. It was the custom of course for girls to be brought up in the country into which they would marry.

‘I believe,’ went on Isabella, ‘that she should leave without delay. She is seven years old – an age when a child’s mind begins to take shape. Do you agree with me, my lord?’

‘I do indeed.’

‘It will be necessary for her to make this journey in the care of someone who can be trusted.’

There was a short silence. The Earl was trying not to betray the hope which had come to him. He had consulted with Hubert de Burgh and they had agreed that the Queen would have to be watched. Mothers of kings who were minors could be tiresome; and there was no indication that Isabella was a meek woman who would listen to advice.

The Earl cleared his throat as though about to speak but Isabella spoke first. ‘My two sons are in good hands; my two young children are well cared for. It would seem, my lord, that since I am scarcely needed here, I should be the one to accompany my daughter.’

William Marshal tried not to sound too elated.

‘My lady,’ he said slowly, ‘the Princess Joan is indeed fortunate to have a mother who so cares for her welfare …’

‘Then you agree that I should be the one to accompany her.’

‘I think we should first ask the King if he would be prepared to let you go.’

She nodded gravely. ‘I think my son will want to do what is best for his sister,’ she said.

Her spirits were rising and she felt more excited than she had since she had heard of John’s death.

She took leave of the Earl and went to her bedchamber. She had to be alone.

‘Hugh,’ she murmured to herself. ‘What will you think of me? What shall I think of you?’

And the thought of going back to the scenes of her childhood, of being reunited with her old lover – now to be her daughter’s husband – filled her with a wild elation.

Chapter II

THE CHOSEN BRIDE

W
hat joy it gave her to ride southwards through the fair land of France, and the nearer she came to the Angoumois – the land of her inheritance – the happier she grew. It was seventeen years since she had ridden in those lanes and forests – an only child and the heiress of the Angoumois, the petted darling of her parents’ household. Hugh, eldest son of the reigning Count de la Marche, had seemed a worthy bridegroom for her; and when she had been taken into his father’s household she had thought so too.

The smell of the woods – different from those of England, she assured herself, the golden light in the air, the warmth of the sun … all these conjured up memories of those days of physical awakening when she had longed for marriage with Hugh and then had met John in the forest and been aware of a curious mixture of desire and repulsion while mingling with them was an ambition to wear a crown.

Her daughter rode beside her. Young Joan was apprehensive and that was understandable. A child seven years of age going to meet her bridegroom.

‘Is not the country beautiful, daughter?’ demanded Isabella. ‘Think! When I was your age I used to ride through these woods. You will spend your youth where I spent mine.’

‘But you did not stay here, my lady.’

‘No, but it is a joy to be back.’

Joan looked wistful. It was clear that the poor child was wishing she were in Gloucester. Too much had happened too quickly to enable her childish mind to adjust.

Isabella softened a little. ‘You are anxious, child. You need not be. You will be happy here, as I was. Have no fear of Hugh. I knew him well when I was your age and I can tell you this, there is not a more kind or gentle man in the whole world.’

‘My lady, how long will you stay with me?’

She sighed and smiled. ‘That, daughter, I cannot say. But I can promise you this: You have nothing to fear.’

And so they travelled down to Angoulême, in the dukedom of Aquitaine, once so proudly ruled over by the father of Eleanor, mother of John, a rich and fertile land watered by the sparkling Charente, extending from Poitou in the north to Périgord in the south, eastwards to Le Limousin and westwards to Saintonge.

Isabella talked to her daughter as they rode. ‘How different life was than in your father’s court. Here we assembled at night when the fires were lighted and the candles guttered and the troubadours took their lutes and sang about the beauty of ladies and the valour of their lords. It was gracious. Men were chivalrous. Ladies were treated with respect. Oh, my daughter, you are going to bless the day I brought you here.’

Joan was becoming influenced by her mother’s enthusiasm. The country was beautiful; the sun warmer than it was in England; and as they travelled through France they were welcomed in the villages through which they passed and spent their nights in inns or castles, and as they came south Joan found that her mother’s description of the singing of the troubadours was indeed true. She would sit, heavy-eyed with sleep, listening to the strumming of the lutes and the singing of the songs which so delighted Isabella.

Especially she remembered their stay at Fontevrault which was particularly important to her family, she was told. The Breton preacher Robert d’Arbrissel had founded it nearly two hundred years before and there were four convents – two for men, two for women but an abbess was in control and she must always come from one of the most noble families. Royalty had always taken a very special interest in the place.

With great solemnity Joan was conducted through the abbey church to walk under the cupola, which was held up by tall pillars, to the tombs of her family. Here were the burial places and effigies of her grandfather and grandmother – Henry Plantagenet and his wife Eleanor of Aquitaine of whom she had heard much, which made her think of them with awe and some relief that they were not alive today to demand great things of her. Her uncle was there with them – the one after whom her brother had been named. Richard Coeur de Lion they called him, because he was such a brave fighter. It seemed only fitting that his life should have been cut short by the arrow of an enemy.

‘These are your ancestors,’ Isabella reminded her. ‘Never forget that you are the daughter of a king.’

‘Perhaps my father would have liked to lie here with his father.’

The Queen laughed. ‘Where did you get such a notion, child? Your father was fighting against your grandfather at the end. He at least would not want your father there.’

‘Where lies my father?’ asked Joan.

‘In Worcester Cathedral. Before he died he asked that he should be buried there close to the grave of St Wulstan.’

‘Who was he?’ asked Joan.

Isabella regarded her daughter intently. Poor child, she would have to grow up quickly. Isabella tried to imagine herself at seven. How much of the sad facts of life had she been able to absorb at that time? Joan would learn in due course that she was the daughter of one of the most evil men who ever lived.

She said: ‘St Wulstan was a Saxon bishop who was most saintly. Your father thought that the bones of the saint might preserve him from the devil … when he came to claim him.’

Joan shivered and Isabella laughed. She put an arm about her daughter. ‘Your father was not a good man. As you know the barons rose against him. All will be well now, for your brother will be taught to rule well and the kingdom will grow rich and powerful again. As for you, my child, you will know great happiness. You are going to be the wife of the best man in the world.’

Joan was relieved, but glad when they left Fontevrault which for her held the ghosts of her terrifying ancestors.

And so they came to Valence which was the chief town of La Marche; and bordered on the Angoumois, Isabella’s own country.

All that day as they came closer to their destination Isabella had talked to her daughter of the happy days of her youth and, although Joan believed that very soon she would see her aged bridegroom, her mother’s conversation had its effect on her and she was beginning to believe that she was going to some paradise. Moreover there would be no wedding yet. She would live in that castle where for a time her mother had lived because twenty or so years before when her mother was a girl of eleven she too had ridden to this castle and looked with awe and wonder at what was to be her home. That was comforting. Her mother had loved Valence and so would she.

And here was the grey stone-walled castle. Serving men and women came hurrying to their aid, paying great homage to Isabella who had become a queen and whom some remembered as the most beautiful little girl they had ever seen.

In the great hall a man was waiting for them. As her mother took her hand Joan was conscious of Isabella’s tremendous excitement.

The man was old … very old … surely this could not be the one they had chosen for her husband. He looked closer to a funeral than a wedding – and that his own.

He had taken Isabella’s hand; he was bowing low; his eyes glistened brightly and he looked as though he might weep at any moment.

‘Isabella,’ he said. ‘Isabella.’

‘My lord,’ she began and Joan knew that she was looking about the hall for someone she missed.

‘As beautiful as ever,’ he murmured. ‘Oh, it is long ago.’

‘Let me present my daughter to you.’

‘So this is the child.’

The old eyes were studying her. Joan tried not to look alarmed. He was so very old. Her mother had spoken of her future husband as though he were godlike and now was presenting her to this ancient man.

Then the old man said: ‘I see that you did not know. My son is not here in Valence, nor in this land. It is a year since he left us. He is with the crusaders in the Holy Land.’

Joan was aware of floods of relief. This old man was not to be her bridegroom then. Of course he was not. But she had been afraid because she was old enough to know that sometimes little girls were married to very old men.

Then she was aware of her mother. Isabella had turned pale. She swayed a little before she steadied herself. Then she said: 'in the Holy Land … and he has gone a year since …’

Young as she was Joan heard the bitter disappointment and despair in her mother’s voice.

How silent Isabella was that night. Joan would never forget it. She seemed to grow up suddenly. He had gone away and none knew where he was. Even his father could not say except that he was somewhere in the Holy Land. She thought of the stories she had heard of her uncle Richard whose exploits there had been sung about in wondrous lays. Richard it seemed was a knight in shining armour with a red cross on his breast which meant that he had pledged himself to fight the Infidel. They had fled before him but for some reason he had not captured Jerusalem for the Christians – though that was something the writers of the songs preferred not to mention. There had been a Saracen called Saladin and he and Richard had fought each other, though who had won Joan had never really heard. Suffice it that Richard emerged from the songs as the greatest hero of the day – a man who had given up everything to carry the cross.

It was therefore only natural that this wonderful man whom she was to marry should follow in Richard’s footsteps. He was a noble knight. Not only the most handsome and best man in the world, but also devout.

If Joan were truthful she would admit that she was not displeased. Whatever he was, he was going to be old. Her mother was old and Hugh was older than she was. So she was relieved and she hoped her mother would not be too unhappy. She supposed it was because since Hugh was not here and she could not leave her daughter she would have to stay until he came before she could return to England.

For a few days Isabella was with the old man who had received them when they arrived and they made plans as to what was to be done. It was at length decided that Isabella should go to her own estate in Angoulême and that her daughter should stay at Valence where she could learn the customs of the land and be educated in a manner which would prepare her to be châtelaine of that castle when the time came.

Angoulême and Valence were so close that Isabella could see her daughter frequently, but it would be as well if she left her so that the child could learn some self-reliance and she would be safe with the family of her future husband.

Joan was less disturbed than she had thought she would be as she watched her mother ride away. Isabella had never been exactly a fond mother; Joan did not understand her and she did not believe even Henry and Richard had either. Perhaps all the children had been a little afraid of their parents – they certainly had on those occasions when their father had visited the castle. So although she was left with strangers she did not feel unduly lonely. She had grown up a good deal since her departure from England.

Life became interesting. She had her lessons each day and there were special tutors for her. She must learn to speak her prospective husband’s language fluently; and she must understand something of history and literature; she must be able to calculate, draw and be proficient with her needle. The last was very important, for all well-educated ladies must master the art of embroidering. She must dance nimbly and gracefully; she must play the lute and sing prettily and play chess with skill for her husband would expect her to be a good companion to him.