by Rachel Bard
And long after the end of that eventful day I could still feel John’s lips on mine.
Chapter 12
Hugh le Brun
1200
“What a wild and horrid country that Wales is!” Ralph said.
We were heading toward Angoulême from Boulogne where we’d met after our separate missions for John. We were bringing each other up to date as we rode along.
It was a fine summer day, half an hour after sunrise. Before long, the August heat would beat down on us, but so far we felt invigorated by the cool freshness. Dew still spangled the grass along the road. Our horses stepped along smartly.
I had calculated that we had plenty of time to get to Angoulême. We’d arrive well before my wedding day. I was as full of joy and anticipation as any country swain about to wed his milkmaid. I could hardly wait to see Isabella again.
We could hear our two squires chattering behind us. They were lads of our Lusignan clan, both called Robert. They were already looking forward to dinner.
“We’ll have proper French wine with our meat today,” said Cousin Robert.
“Nothing like that piss-and-vinegar they call wine in England,” said Nephew Robert.
I grinned.
Ralph, though, was not so light-hearted. His narrow face, never particularly cheery, was furrowed with misery and his whole body sagged. He went on with his tale.
“When I finally found Sir William, he was snuggled down in his barony at Radnor. I gave him John’s message about meeting in Winchester in September, and he glared at me as though I were a stupid potboy. He roared like a wounded boar, something about, ‘By God’s teeth, why does that foolish king waste my time by telling me what I already know? John sent exactly the same message a month since. You can tell your little king that I’ll come if I feel like it.’ And he practically pushed me out the door.”
I hadn’t liked Wales any better than he had. I’d found it a land of trackless wilderness, steep mountains and rude castles where the chieftains perched, eyeing each other suspiciously, ready to gather their men at any imagined threat and go out to stick swords into each other.
“My story isn’t much different, brother. When I finally found Lord Llewellyn’s castle, up in the north, he wasn’t there. I was supposed to tell him to chase after a neighboring lord who’s done John some sort of injury, and teach him a lesson. His steward told me Llewellyn had left a week before to launch a surprise attack on Ranulf, the enemy in question. He’d done just what John wanted, and my whole trip was useless.”
“I wonder what tale Geoffrey will have to tell, “ said Ralph. John had sent our uncle to Normandy. “He must be home by now.”
All at once it came to me how similar our experiences were. This was more than coincidence. Had John deliberately sent all three of us off on wild goose chases? Why? My head almost ached as I tried to sort it all out. I felt we must get home as soon as possible.
I told the others we’d have to step up the pace, and so we did, as much as the roads would allow. They were quite dreadful for a while, with deep furrows of hardened mud and washed-out stretches where we had to descend steep rocky slopes, then scramble up the other side. But presently we found ourselves traveling a smooth, dry track beside the Charente River. Now we could urge our horses to gallop, without fear of breaking their legs in potholes. Some kind landowner, years before, had planted poplars along the road. In the shade of the tall close-set trees we found a welcome respite from the sun that was hot enough to broil our brains.
Ralph, my elder by some fifteen years, was plainly weary. Yet he knew how important speed was to me and didn’t complain. I kept hearing Isabella’s words—“Don’t worry, Hugh. We can’t hold the wedding without you,” but I still felt panicky.
On August 24 we were close enough that I felt we could stop and rest. The river flowed quietly along, tempting to thirsty horses and dusty riders alike. A meadow sloped gently down to the river’s edge. We dismounted, led the horses to the shore and let them drink their fill.
“My feet feel like fried sausages trying to burst out of their skins,” said cousin Robert.
I took off my boots. So did Ralph, and we sat on a low bank, dangling our feet in the cool stream. The two lads threw off their tunics and hose and jumped into the river to splash about like a pair of otters.
What fools we were! While we sat there a gang of rough fellows rushed down to our riverbank. Ralph and I sprang to our feet, but too late. Before we could get to our swords and daggers that we’d flung down with our clothes, the ruffians were upon us, grabbing our weapons, brandishing them and jeering.
I say we were fools because we should have been more cautious. We knew these were dangerous times for travelers. When there’s no war going on, foot soldiers with nothing much to occupy them go on a rampage, robbing and assaulting anyone they come across. Ever since the end of the Third Crusade, a few years before, they’d multiplied like beetles in a dunghill. Some were unemployed mercenaries and some were luckless fellows who’d lost their lands to the enemy. None had any regard for the law.
But I soon found out that these were no common mercenaries.
While we were fighting them with our fists—all we hadthe thieves jumped on our horses and rode off. One of them turned in the saddle and shouted with a wicked grin, “I almost forgot. King John asked us to wish you a very pleasant journey.”
The words hit me like a blow to my midriff. This confirmed my worst suspicions. John had planned this fiendish scheme to delay my return to Angoulême.
There we were, bereft of horses and weapons and supplies, for we hadn’t even taken the saddlebags off the horses. At least we had kept our money pouches on our persons.
“And the dastards didn’t take our boots,” said Nephew Robert, trying to find a silver lining.
There was nothing for it but to trudge along the road until we came to an inn. It was well after dark when we found one. By morning the innkeeper had procured horses for us. It took us another full day and a half to cover the remaining distance. I was frantic with anxiety. At last, late on the morning of August 28 we rode into the bailey of the Taillefer castle at Angoulême. It was very quiet. Nobody was about except some grooms who were saddling a pair of horses. I dismounted and went inside, to find Count Aymer and Countess Alix dressed as though for a journey.
We stared at each other. Count Aymer had always been very good at concealing emotion. But he was not so successful in trying to display it. I believe he was hoping to express shock and surprise, but it looked more as though he had an acute stomachache. Countess Alix, on the other hand, after only a moment’s hesitation smiled her lovely smile and exclaimed, “Hugh! We heard you were dead, that you’d been killed on the way home. Yet here you are!”
“Where is Isabella?” I shouted.
She placed a hand on my arm. “Hugh, Hugh,” she said, “ calm yourself and listen.”
In short order they told their story.
King John had asked Count Aymer for Isabella’s hand two months ago, said the count, but withdrew when he learned that she was betrothed to me. All was ready for the wedding when word came that I had been killed in an ambush.
“Isabella was very distressed to hear it,” said the countess.
Then John, who was among those invited to the wedding, renewed his suit.
“When we told her about it, she thought only a little while, and agreed,” said the count. After a pause, “We were surprised.”
“We had expected her to mourn you longer,” said the countess, with a pretty mixture of sorrow and wonder.
The wedding had taken place on the date scheduled, just two days ago, and the couple had left yesterday for Chinon.
“And we are about to join them there,” said Count Aymer.
My face burned red with anger. I was clenching and unclenching my fists, hardly able to avoid striking him.
“But you’re welcome to stay and recover from your journey,” said the countess, still pretending that this wa
s a civil conversation. “Our people will provide anything you need.”
They were edging toward the door. I flung past them, ran to my horse and signaled Ralph to follow me. He and the two Roberts stared open-mouthed, then scrambled to get into their saddles and join the flight.
As we galloped on, I told Ralph what had happened. I was almost incoherent in my fury. Loyal brother that he was, he agreed that revenge was imperative.
“We’ll make for Lusignan first,” I said. “I pray Geoffrey is there. Then we’ll ride out through La Marche and rally our vassals. By God, we’ll make John suffer for this!”
Chapter 13
Isabella
August-September 1200
The morning after the wedding and the feast I woke suddenly from a vivid dream.
I’d been standing with John in the great hall. “He’s really quite good-looking,” I thought. “I like his eyes, so smoky-black. And his black hair, with just a little curl. I wonder if his beard is as soft as it looks. I wonder what it would be like if he kissed me.”
Then he did. I was wishing he’d never let me go. But a tall, sour-faced man I didn’t know came and pulled me away. “Careful, Isabella!” he said. “Don’t be too happy too soon. How well do you know this man?”
That’s when I woke and sat up, frightened. I wondered what it meant, if anything. But gradually the memory of John telling me he loved me took over and I forgot the dream. I lay down, stretched luxuriously and pulled the coverlet up to my chin. The curtains of my high bed were tightly drawn and I was snug and warm. I closed my eyes and gave myself up to reliving the whole exciting day, the day when I married the King of England.
I was drifting off to sleep again when Anne Beaufort came in, pulled open the bed curtains and told me she had a message from King John.
“He says to tell you he’s sorry, but he’s just learned we must leave for Chinon this morning,” she said. “He said to let you sleep as long as possible, but now we must get ready for the journey. I’ve already packed your chest and your bags.”
I was still tired from all the ceremony and festivities. I would have liked nothing better than to spend the day lying about and being waited on. I considered whining and arguing until I got my way, as I would have done when younger. But now my husband the King requested my company. Hadn’t he told me “John wants Isabella with him always”? I jumped down from the bed and docilely allowed myself to be dressed. Ann had brought a bowl of milk and a rusk, which would have to do for my breakfast.
When I came down to the hall I saw John, already in his traveling cloak and pacing nervously about. My parents were there too, also impatient. My mother was tapping her foot. Nobody had noticed me yet.
“I’ll go see to the horses,” said my father. “The sooner you’re well out of town, the less chance of an untimely encounter.”
I wondered what that meant, but I was still too drowsy to try to figure it out.
“Good, there you are, Isabella,” said John. “Now we can leave.”
I rubbed my eyes and yawned.
“Why are we going to Chinon in such a hurry?”
“I’ve just learned that important visitors I’d arranged to meet there are on their way. We must be at Chinon Castle to greet them.” He’d hardly glanced at me. Where was the tenderness of last evening?
“I’ll explain once we’re on our way.”
My father hurried in.
“The horses are saddled and ready, “ he said. “And your troops have already left.”
My mother kissed me. “Travel in safety. We’ll follow you within a few days.”
We all mounted quickly—John and I, Lady Anne and Adèle, our maids, John’s stewards and four of his knights. We hurried through the town as though in flight. But when we were riding along the river road on the plain and had caught up with the rest of the troops, John signaled to the leading knight that we could all slow our pace. At last he gave his attention to me and gestured that I should ride close by his side. I still felt curious about the hasty departure.
“I’m sorry, Isabella. There was a rumor that a band of brigands was waylaying travelers around Angoulême. I think we’re well away from them now. Are you all right? Did you sleep well, my love? You’re looking particularly beautiful this morning. A good gallop must agree with you.” He took my hand and raised it to his lips. “Will you forgive your husband, whose only care is for your safety?”
This was the John of the night before.
“Ah, you smile at me. So I am forgiven?”
“Yes, of course. But John, can you tell me now who these people are that we must go to Chinon to meet?”
“They’re Queen Berengaria and her party. She’s the widow of my brother Richard. You may not have heard of her.”
“Of course I have. She was once the Queen of England. But why is she coming to see you?”
“She has some foolish notion that England owes her a huge sum of money as her inheritance. She pretends that she’s in dire need. But I must put her off somehow.”
I thought a minute. “Of course you must. My father’s often told me that we mustn’t agree to the requests of everyone who asks.”
“And your father, I believe, has amassed quite a fortune out of being so thrifty.”
The closer we got to Chinon the more convinced I was that I wouldn’t like it. From the plain I looked up to see a long chalk-white rampart crowning the cliff that overhung the river. The walls bristled with towers and buttresses. Far below an untidy earth-colored town huddled between river and cliff.
Our party straggled through the town and up the twisting narrow road to be faced with a high, forbidding stone wall, unbroken except by a small arched opening with an iron gate. A soldier unlocked the gate and a pair of armed horsemen cantered out. On their crimson shields the three golden Plantagenet lions cavorted. The men greeted John respectfully, eyed me with curiosity and led us through the gate.
The news of John’s sudden marriage must have barely reached Chinon. Of course they wondered about me. I sat up in the saddle, held my head high and took a firmer grip on the reins.
As we came into the vast, hot, dusty bailey, completely surrounded by stone walls, I looked around in dismay. This was like no castle I’d ever seen. It was enormous and desolate. I could make out unkempt garden plots, huts and stables. Far down at the end stood a squat structure that might be a chapel. But where did people live? Half a dozen towers were fitted into the walls. Their small square doorways led, I supposed, to dark interior chambers as unwelcoming as what I saw now. I shivered in spite of the heat. Angoulême and Lusignan seemed cozy in comparison. Clearly this monstrosity had been built to repulse enemies, not for courtly gracious living.
John, however, seemed enamored of the dismal fortress.
“By my faith, this is the way to build a castle! I haven’t been here since long before Richard died. I see he added two towers. Look, Isabella, how well the defenses are placed. Four towers along that south wall, and another down at the end. There’s no way an enemy could get close without being seen.”
I’d already dismounted with the help of one of the knights. I felt as droopy as the scrawny, discouraged bushes that lined the walkway to the nearest tower. All I wanted was to get out of the sun and lie down. Three days of jolting travel in the heat of August had nearly exhausted me. I staggered, then righted myself. John leaped down from his saddle and ran to me. I leaned against him gratefully.
“Isabella my love, forgive me. How could I run on so? Of course you’re tired. We’ll go in at once and see if they’ve done what they should to make things comfortable for us.”
They had indeed. I was agreeably surprised when John led me through one of those forbidding doors into a well-furnished chamber, nothing like what I’d feared. My eyes flew to a high bed with a dark red canopy, a beautiful carved chest festooned with golden wreaths that shone in the dim room, and a throne-like chair all red and gold. Wherever I looked I saw richness and elegance. Tall gold candlesticks
stood in each corner, the candles not yet lit but ready to chase the shadows when night fell. Instead of the grimy rushes I’d feared, a soft rose-colored carpet covered most of the stone floor. A fireplace was laid neatly with logs. Sprays of lavender sprang from a silver vase on a table.
“John, how beautiful! Is the rest of the castle like this?”
“I’m afraid not. This is my mother’s room. She must always have things just so, wherever she goes.”
So this was Queen Eleanor’s room. I knew nothing of my mother-in-law beyond what all Europe knew. She was a high-spirited beautiful woman who had brought the Duchy of Aquitaine with her when she married Henry II of England; a woman who was often at odds with her husband and who didn’t hesitate to persuade their sons to go into battle against him; and, they said, a woman with a softer side, who invited knights and damsels and troubadours to gather around her when she held her Courts of Love.
“Then I’m grateful to her. And to you too, for having a mother with such elegant tastes. When will I meet her, John? Is she glad you’ve married me?”
“She is, to her credit. I stopped to tell her of our plans the last time I went through Poitiers. She agreed this was a much better match for England than the Portuguese princess she’d been trying to push at me. And the one thing my mother cares about most is what’s good for England.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of any Portuguese princess! Was she beautiful?”
“I have no idea, but I doubt it. I never saw her and I never wanted to marry her.” He smiled and kissed me on the cheek “But from the moment I saw my beautiful Isabella, I knew I wanted to marry her.”
He gently smoothed my hair and I nestled in his arms. With my cheek against his tunic I inhaled the scent of leather and wool, a whiff of lavender—familiar smells yet now linked to John and to this moment. He pressed me closer and looked down at my face. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I’d never felt this pull toward another being, this urge to prolong the closeness, to feel his strong arms about me. Was this what they called love?