by Rachel Bard
Chapter 23
John
September 1200
After arriving safely in Le Mans I could finally relax. I was ready to settle in and enjoy a week of domestic dalliance with my bride before we journeyed to England. In two days my complacency was shattered.
I was in the audience chamber of the counts of Maine, where I’d been talking to the bishop about the city’s revenues. As the current count I was entitled to half the taxes, but the bishop had the task of collecting and disbursing them. I had an idea he’d been holding something back from my share. He was an angular man with thin straight lips and deepset yellowish eyes below pale eyebrows He had a nose as sharp as a falcon’s beak. His bargaining was sharp, too. We’d just come to an understanding when Robert de Thorneham rushed in.
“I beg your pardon, my lord bishop, but we have important news for the King,” he wheezed. As usual, my steward was in such a hurry that his substantial body was hard pressed to keep up with his sense of urgency.
The bishop rose, folded his wide-sleeved black robe about his spare figure and glided out. Secular squabbles weren’t his concern.
Robert wiped a beefy hand across his forehead and puffed a few more puffs.
“We’ve been talking to some travelers who’ve recently been in England. They say that King William is getting testy up there in Scotland. He’s saying publicly now that you promised him those border counties and since you haven’t kept your promise he’ll take them by force.”
“What! He’s claiming Northumberland and Cumberland? What an underhanded ingrate that William is. I merely told him last year that I’d take his request under consideration.”
I fumed. Just when my problems seemed solved here came this annoyance.
“Can we believe these travelers, Robert? Maybe it’s a false rumor.”
“I doubt it.” Robert sank with a thud into the chair the bishop had just vacated. “They’ve just come from York, and they seem reliable. It’s unlikely that King William will do anything rash before your return to England, though. He’s not a total fool. Still, you’ll want to keep one jump ahead of him. It might be well to depart soon. Better safe than sorry, eh my liege?” Robert was given to producing timeworn aphorisms as proudly as though he’d just made them up.
He was right, of course. I valued Robert’s counsel. It generally coincided with what I was about to decide myself. In that it was unlike what I often heard from William de Cantilupe, who’d preach at me and urge some course of action that involved unpleasantness and disruptions.
On my way to tell Isabella we’d have to leave the snug haven of the counts’ palace I ran into Sir William.
“Ah my liege, there you are. I have important news. It seems the King of Scotland…”
“I know, I know, Sir William. We’ve already had that news.” William was half a head taller than I was and I hated having to look up at him.
Undeterred, he went on. “I believe that you should prepare to leave immediately for England.”
“Of course we should. I’ve already given orders to Sir Robert to that effect. I suggest that next time you think twice before coming to me with stale news and unnecessary advice.”
I pushed past him without waiting to see his reaction.
I found Isabella in the great hall, a spacious chamber with high arched windows looking out over the city walls to the meadows and forests below. Isabella was seated at the far end of the room near the fireplace, her back to me. At a nearby table Lady Anne was busy with thread and needle and a jumble of garments. She barely glanced at me when I came in. She and I hadn’t been on good terms ever since she’d berated me for deceiving Isabella about Hugh’s death.
Isabella hadn’t seen me. She held her hands out toward the flames, then clasped them and breathed deeply. She stood, raising her arms high over her head and stretched, luxuriating in the warmth. I loved watching her when she didn’t know I was there. She had such an unselfconscious grace. I stood at the door a moment, gloating over my good fortune. This enchanting being was mine, all mine.
She was wearing a full-skirted, tight-waisted green gown. Her flax-gold hair fell softly to her shoulders.
“You look like a spring daffodil greeting the sun,” I said as I crossed the room.
“What a pretty speech!” She smiled and put her arm around my waist. That lightest of pressures excited me. It took only the merest touch from Isabella, just a brush of her hand against mine, for me to want more of her, all of her.
“I may look like a flower in the field, but I feel like a near-drowned rat that’s come in out of the rain. This is the first time I’ve been truly dry in a week. It’s heavenly here! My compliments to the thoughtful counts of Maine for putting so many fireplaces in their palace.”
“On their behalf I accept your thanks. It’s indeed comfortable here. Now you see why I feel so at ease in Le Mans. I’m glad you do too, and how I wish we could stay! But my love, we must be off again. I’ve had word that King William is making trouble in Scotland, and who knows what else might be brewing. I’ve been gone six months. It’s high time for me to see to my English affairs.”
The brightness left her face. Isabella, I was learning, loved her comforts. Even with her rosy little mouth in a pout, though, she was adorable.
“Just when Anne and I have almost brought order to my wardrobe we must pack everything again and take to the road? Will we have to rush the way we did to get here? What about that leisurely honeymoon you promised me?”
“It’s beginning now. We’ll leave tomorrow but this will be no flight from pursuers. We’ll make our way to Cherbourg as slowly as a pair of tortoises.”
She giggled and I smiled too, at the thought of two lumbering creatures plodding across the fields and orchards of Normandy.
“Tortoises in the daytime, but at night we’ll be turtledoves. Just so we reach London in good time for your crowning as Queen of England.”
At mention of her coronation she jumped up and clapped her hands.
“That reminds me, John. We’ve been trying to decide what I should wear for the ceremony. I really must have a new gown. I thought I could wear the blue one I wore at our wedding but it’s far too tight now. Anne says we could let it out and add some gussets, but it would look very strange. Isn’t that right, Anne?”
Anne looked up and smiled but said nothing.
“Please, John! I’ve been seeing myself in violet satin with a white mantle. If you wear your elegant black, just think how grand we’ll look together!”
This was a serious matter. I sat down.
“I’m afraid we can’t afford any new gowns, my love. I’ve spent far more than I should have, what with all the extra men and horses and mules we had to hire these past weeks.”
The pout again. I hated to see her unhappy.
“But perhaps we can manage a new silk cloak to go over your wedding dress and hide the repairs. If it’s violet it would set off your blue prettily. Yes, that’s the thing! I’ll wear a purple cloak over my black tunic. Your blue and violet would go very well with my black and purple.”
She looked doubtful. I took her face between my hands and kissed her. Wrapped up in each other, we hardly noticed when Anne gathered up her work and left.
“Don’t be disappointed about your gown, my pet,” I murmured into her ear. “Don’t you know that Isabella is the most enchanting creature on earth, no matter what she wears?”
She smiled, and her light kiss on my lips told me I’d won her over.
“And between us we’ll present a splendid spectacle to the guests in Westminster Abbey. When they see such a beautiful queen by my side they’ll be positively dazzled. I know the English well enough to be sure that a little dazzlement never hurts. It leads to a proper awe for the monarchy.”
“It sounds like a game! First we dazzle them, then fill them with awe. What comes next?”
“Why, when they’re awed enough and it comes time to tax, the money flows in all the more freely.”
/> The journey across Normandy passed without incident, except for the daily miracle of how our passion kept growing. By the time we reached Cherbourg we still hadn’t had our fill of each other. The Channel crossing put a temporary stop to all that, though.
Poor Isabella was miserably sick our whole time at sea. The galleon was crowded and smelly. The weather had turned stormy so we bounced about on the waves with sickening swoops. I’d made this voyage dozens of times, but even I felt queasy.
The seas at last subsided toward sunset and I saw her come cautiously on deck. She was pale. Her shoulders drooped. I took her arm and led her forward.
“Is the worst over, John? I know I look like a guttersnipe. I couldn’t find the energy to wash or change my gown. My maid was in no condition to help me. Neither was Anne. But oh, how I’ve been longing for fresh air! Are we almost there?”
I pointed toward a wall of chalk-white cliffs directly ahead of us. They were tinged with rose in the setting sun’s rays. Above them rolling green fields receded into the distance like billows of the ocean surging toward an unseen shore.
“The Isle of Wight,” I said. “The beginning of England. In two hours I’ll be back in my kingdom.”
Isabella stood straighter and stared fixedly at the approaching land.
“Our kingdom,” she said.
Chapter 24
Isabella
October 8, 2000
King John, with all his enemies pacified and subdued, returned to England at the time of the feast of St. Michael. He came with his wife Isabella, daughter of the count of Angoulême, whom he had married overseas with the consent of King Philip. He had put aside his first wife in the previous year on the basis of their consanguinity. The next day, John wore the crown at Westminster, and his wife was crowned queen.
Ralph, Abbot of Coggleshell, chronicler of the life of King John
First the sudden blare of the trumpets, piercing the quiet as John and I stepped into Westminster Abbey. Then the long slow walk down the nave of the vast church while the organ played a solemn hymn. John marched ahead of me, preceded by his chancellor, his treasurer and three earls bearing the swords of state. I was accompanied by a bishop on either side. I heard the choir somewhere behind me singing an anthem but I couldn’t make out the Latin—something about “Let mercy and truth go before thy face.” Tall candles in sconces fixed to the lofty pillars along the nave lit their immediate surroundings brilliantly, and I could see faces turned toward me, the gleam of scarlet cloaks and jeweled headgear. Beyond there were shadowy areas where I sensed rather than saw that the immense abbey was crammed with nobles, merchants and churchmen. All were standing and craning their necks, come to see what kind of queen their king had chosen. To see me! I glanced up once but the ceiling was quite invisible, it was so high and dark. I felt I might sink under the weight of my ermine-trimmed ceremonial robe, and I gripped the arm of one of the bishops. I wanted so desperately to appear grown-up and composed that I clenched my teeth to keep my chin from trembling.
When I reached the transept I ascended a few steps to the high altar where John was standing before the archbishop. This, John had told me, would be Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, primate of all England. I knelt before him; I was too petrified to look up and kept my eyes fixed on his red vestment only a few inches from my nose. It smelled musty like a garment recently unpacked from a chest.
The archbishop spoke at some length but I hardly heard, I was so nearly dizzy with excitement. Then he told me to rise, removed the gold circlet from my head, dipped his hand in a silver bowl held by an acolyte and anointed my head with the holy oil. A bishop held out a cushion and the archbishop took from it a ring and put it on my finger.
“Let this ring, worn by Matilda, the wife of your royal husband’s illustrious great-great-grandfather, King William the First, be always a reminder to you of your duties to your king and your people.”
I looked in awe at the gold circlet with its huge ruby that seemed to glow with an inner fire. What a fat finger Matilda must have had! The ring hung loosely but I held my hand carefully so it wouldn’t slip off.
I liked the anthem that came next. The choir exhorted the English people to “rejoice in their Queen’s virtuous prudence.” As the strong voices, all in unison, delivered this message to the assembled cream of the English people, I composed my face in what I hoped was an expression of virtue and prudence. It was too bad I had my back to my audience.
Now the archbishop had been handed my crown and I saw it for the first time. It was of gleaming gold, its wide solid band topped by two fleurs-de-lis made of pearls embedded in delicate gold petals. It looked heavy. The archbishop held it high for the spectators to see, then placed it gently on my head. I was so transfixed that I hardly felt the weight. It was no more burden than one of my lace caps.
I looked up at John, standing beside me, but he was staring straight ahead. Then the archbishop’s stern baritone doled out more momentous words:
“Now Isabella of Angoulême, we proclaim you, by the grace of God, henceforth to be Queen of England, Queen of Ireland, Duchess of Normandy, Countess of Maine, Countess of Anjou, Countess of Touraine, Countess of Poitou, Countess of Aquitaine and Countess of Gascogne.”
So many titles! Was I really ready to be a queen, a duchess, a countess? The anxiety came back. My robe was too big, my ring was too big, and I was reminded of how Adèle and I used to borrow our mothers’ gowns and play at being grown-up.
I came to myself to realize the archbishop had stopped speaking. The last words of his benediction hung in the silence.
“Now may our Lord bless His handmaid the Queen, who by His will is the partner of her royal husband. Rise, Queen Isabella.”
John took my arm and helped me to my feet. We turned to face the lords and ladies who had come to pay us honor. I heard a murmur that I hoped was approval. Here at the high altar we were bathed in light from three tall gilded candelabra. All eyes were on me. I should acknowledge this attention, but how? These were not people I knew. What did they expect from me?
Hesitantly, I raised my right hand and smiled. I heard a shout from the rear, “God save our King and God save our new Queen!” John put his arm around me and squeezed me to him, a familiar gesture. Then he turned my face up to his and kissed me. This must have been what the crowd was waiting for, and a cheer rose that filled the great church with glad sound. When quiet returned, John spoke. His voice was no match for that of the archbishop, but where his words did not reach his gestures made his meaning plain.
“We thank you, loyal Englishmen. We rejoice with you in this welcome to our Queen. Now let us all celebrate together in Westminster Palace where the coronation banquet awaits.”
So often a long-anticipated event isn’t the turning point one had expected, but when I left Westminster Abbey with the crown of a queen of England on my head I became a different person, just as I had known I would. With every step, as John and I led the procession down the nave, I felt taller, older, more self-confident, more queenly. I could relax and bathe in the admiration. I could cast more than a fleeting glance at John and we could exchange a few words.
“You’ve enchanted them, Queen Isabella.”
“And I’ve never seen you look more regal and resplendent, my lord King.”
It was true. He’d flung his purple cloak back over his shoulders and now I could get a good look at his rich attire. He paced along like a walking black velvet jewel case, with sapphires, rubies and emeralds at wrist and belt, on his fingers and set into the heavy gold chain around his neck. For the first time I saw him wearing the crown of state, which he didn’t take on his Continental travels but kept safely locked in the royal treasury in London. It was like mine but more massive and had three fleurs-de-lis where mine had two.
We marched out from the dim church into the blinding sunlight of the courtyard, followed by the archbishop, his bishops, the other church dignitaries, John’s noble companions and the still-singing choir. Th
e organist was playing now with noisy abandon. The triumphant chords poured out from the church, almost drowning the babble of the crowds who hadn’t been invited in. Cheering and throwing caps in the air, they were massed before us where we stood on the church steps. It was a warm, crisp London afternoon. The River Thames below the palace caught the rays of the sun and its waters were transformed into a sheet of rippled gold.
While John and I stood there above it all, a magnificently clad footman came and removed our cloaks. My hand rested lightly on John’s arm, not for support now, but to show that we were partners, as the archbishop had said. I looked up at him and we smiled at each other. I believed we envisioned the scene the same way:
Behold, Londoners, your King and Queen. Are they not a splendid sight? Admire the dark elegance of the King so richly jeweled and the delicate beauty of his golden-haired Queen. How fortunate you are in your monarchs!
John and I led the procession along a red-carpeted path to Westminster Palace. The crowds pressed close, tossing flowers and calling out with huzzahs and cries of “Long live the King and Queen.” I basked in the sun and the adulation.
“Now, my little bride, do you still think it’s better to be the Queen of England than the Countess of La Marche?”
I knew what he was really asking: Had I forsaken all thoughts and regrets about Hugh? To be sure, I’d not thought about Hugh for weeks, not since we’d outrun the Lusignans and come to safety at Le Mans. But would I ever completely forget him? That chapter in my life was over, but one can’t erase memories.
I knew what John wanted to hear. My answer came from my heart.
“I do, John. You are my husband and I love you and I love being the Queen. I can’t imagine any other life.”