The Battle of the Queens (8 page)

She applied herself whole-heartedly to these tasks. It helped to make her forget her home in England and her brothers and sisters and also the fact that one day her betrothed would return to Valence. She hoped he would not come for a very long time; and each night when she went to bed she would pray: Please God don’t let it be today.

She was surrounded by attendants. They grew fond of her. She was such a pretty little thing. Some of them remembered her mother when she was a girl. ‘You’re almost the living image,’ one of them said. It was always ‘almost’ and she knew they meant that although she was attractive she could never be the beauty her mother was.

Once she overheard one attendant say to another: ‘I could almost believe it was the Lady Isabella. But of course there’ll never be another like her.’

And another said: ‘No. They used to say she had something no other had. Still has too. No, you’re right. There’ll never be another quite like her. Well it made a queen of her, didn’t it?’

‘I’ll never forget the day. I thought my lord would go quite mad with rage and grief.’

‘Well, now he’s going to have a young bride … and so like …’

‘I don’t believe he ever forgot
her
.’

‘Oh, you romantic old woman.’

‘But he never married, did he?’

‘Well, he’s going to now … when he comes back … when she grows up.’

‘When will that be?’

‘When she’s fourteen … perhaps before. He lost the Lady Isabella by waiting too long. He won’t do that again, depend upon it.’

And they laughed together and whispered what Joan could not hear. Fourteen, she was thinking. She was now eight. It was years and years away.

She liked to get them to talk of him and they were nothing loath.

‘Count Hugh, my lady. Oh, he is the most handsome man you ever saw. There’s not a man hereabouts that does not suffer in comparison. Brave, noble, kind to all those below him in rank and respected by his equals. In the joust who is always the victor? Count Hugh. And if anyone needs help who is the first to give it? Count Hugh, of course. If there is injustice, he is the one who will go to right matters. We of Lusignan are happy in our Duke.’

‘But his father is the Duke.’

‘Count Hugh is his heir and now that the old Count is so old it is Hugh who will rule when he returns from the crusade.’

‘Perhaps he will come home soon.’

‘If he knew his little bride were here he would be back, I promise you.’

‘Even if he has not beaten the Saracen?’

It was so pleasant to talk of him. She found now that she loved above all things to hear stories of his exploits. He was always the hero of some noble adventure. They were constantly saying: ‘When Count Hugh comes back from the Holy War …’ as though everything would be transformed by his coming.

And she began to say it too, and look for him and instead of praying that he would not come she would say when she awoke: ‘I wonder if he will come today?’

The weeks began to pass into months. Her mother came frequently to Valence to see her daughter, but Joan suspected there was someone else she sought. She would always ask eagerly if there was news from the Holy Land and show a bitter disappointment because there was not.

She wants to go back to England, thought Joan. Perhaps in a little while she will do so … even though he does not come.

Now she was growing up and still he did not come. Two years had passed since her father’s death and she was nine years old. Not such a child now. She was beginning to understand something of the meaning of marriage for some of her women believed that it was unfair to send a young girl to her husband with no inkling of what would be expected of her.

She was at first repelled, then awestruck and finally came to the belief that perhaps it was not so bad after all. She had heard rumours of her father’s habits and they had always filled her with a vague fear, but it had been impressed on her that the man she would marry would be a kind of god, not only handsome but benevolent.

Sometimes she sat with the old man in the sun by an ancient sundial – a spot he loved. He would be wrapped up in spite of the heat for he was growing very frail and he would tell her stories of past adventures, of battles in which he had fought and always his son Hugh would be the hero of the stories.

‘Ah,’ the old man would say in his quavering voice, ‘you will come to reckon yourself fortunate to be the chosen bride of Hugh le Brun, Count of Lusignan.’

And so it went on.

Then one day while she talked to the old man he fell forward in his chair and she ran into the castle to summon his attendants. He was carried to his bed and a message was sent to the castle of Angoulême to acquaint Isabella of what was happening.

She was soon with them and was in eager agreement with the family that news must somehow be sent to Count Hugh that his father was very ill and that his presence was needed with as little delay as possible in Valence.

There followed a time of waiting while the old Count lingered on. Isabella’s visits had become more frequent and the first question she asked when she arrived was: ‘Is there any news?’

There was tension throughout the castle and all wondered whether the messengers had found Count Hugh; they were certain that when he knew that his father was dying he would return to take over his inheritance.

Then the old man died and Hugh had still not come.

There was great fear then that he might have been slain in battle for so many who set out for the Holy War never returned.

Joan was ten years old. Sometimes she wondered when the change would come. If Hugh did not return there would be no reason why they should stay here. A new husband would be found for her. She was filled with apprehension and realised then that she had grown to accept Hugh as her prospective husband and that she was half in love already with the image they had presented to her. She would often sit at the turret window and watch for a rider and when she saw one she would be filled with elation and when it proved not to be Hugh a bitter disappointment would follow.

And so the days passed.

Then, one day he came. She was in the gardens so she did not see his arrival. There was a clatter of horses’ hoofs and a great commotion through the castle; the bells started to ring; Joan heard the shouts of many voices.

She ran into the castle and there he was standing in the hall – tall, bronzed by the sun, in shining armour with a red cross on his breast. She knew him at once for none she was sure could look so noble.

For a few moments they stood looking at each other; then she saw the blood rush into his face and he took several strides towards her, seizing both her hands in his, and she noticed that his eyes had a bewildered look in them.

She heard someone say: ‘The Lady Joan, my lord.’

And he continued to gaze at her. Then he said: ‘For a moment I thought I was dreaming. You are so like …’

She herself answered: ‘All say I bear a resemblance to my mother.’

She noticed that his eyes were misty. He kissed her hand and said: ‘It delights me to see you here.’ Then he asked to be taken to his father.

He was very sad when he heard that his father had died; and divested of his armour, he went to that spot in the chapel grounds where the old man was buried and knelt by his grave for a long time.

Without his armour he looked less godlike, but not less handsome; and Joan was quick to notice the kindliness of his face.

She sat beside him at the table and he fed her the best of the meat. He talked to her in a gentle and kindly fashion and she knew that all she had heard of him was true.

He said: ‘I am many years older than you, my lady Joan, and you will have to grow up quickly. How old are you now?’

‘I am ten years old, my lord.’

‘It is a little young to be a bride. We must wait a few years.’

‘They say three or four,’ she answered.

‘Well, that is not so long. Shall you be ready by then, think you?’

She looked at the dark curling hair which grew back from the high and noble forehead, at the pleasant curve of his lips and answered: ‘Oh yes, my lord. Perhaps before.’

‘We shall see,’ he answered, smiling. And he asked how she had arrived and she told him her mother had brought her.

Then he was thoughtful and asked how her mother fared.

‘Well, my lord,’ she answered.

He nodded slowly.

‘I heard of her widowhood,’ he said, and fell silent. It did not occur to her then to tell him that her mother was close by at Angoulême.

He was thoughtful after that and when the meal was over he went away with his stewards and occupied himself in learning what had happened in the castle during his absence.

Joan went to her bedchamber, but not to sleep.

This was the most important day of her life. She had met her future husband.

A warm happiness suffused her. She was not afraid any more. Indeed she was looking forward to the day when she would become the Countess of Lusignan. Sometimes she thought of her terrifying father and it had occurred to her long ago, before she came to France, that it might one day be her lot to have such a husband. There could not be a man less like King John than Hugh le Brun, Count of Lusignan, and that was a matter for rejoicing.

They rode out together; she wanted to show him how well she knew his forests, how she could manage a horse. She wanted to please him in every way.

They spoke in French together for she had become fluent in the language; he went to the schoolroom and examined her work. She told him that now he was home she would work harder because she was so anxious to grow up quickly.

He smiled greatly and stroked her hair when she told him that, and she felt tears in her eyes but she was not sure why.

They played chess together and although she could not checkmate him she could come quite near to it.

‘I can see I am lucky in my bride,’ he told her.

And she answered: ‘And I in my bridegroom.’

The ladies and gentlemen of the castle looked on indulgently.

‘This will be a love match,’ they said.

Isabella came riding into the castle.

‘Is it true then?’ she cried. ‘The Count has returned?’

She was assured that it was true.

‘Tell him I am come,’ she said.

But the Count was hunting with a party in the forest and with him was the Lady Joan.

Impatiently she strode up and down the great hall.

Her cheeks were flushed; she had loosened her dark hair. Was it true that she looked like a young girl? She had borne five children; she had had many lovers; she had lived through twenty years of debauchery with the insatiable John. Could it really be that she looked like that young girl who had so enchanted Hugh that when he had lost her he had been prepared to go to war and had never taken another bride.

She believed she was as attractive as ever – more so for her experience. And he was no longer the young idealist he had been. He knew more of the world. He would want an experienced woman not an innocent young girl.

And what was she thinking? He was betrothed to her daughter. She laughed aloud at that. It was a trick of John’s to upset her. Was it not characteristic of him that he should think of betrothing her daughter to the man he knew she still thought of?