by Rachel Bard
I asked for their pledges of support. As soon as I received them I planned to go to Paris. Surely now King Philip would come to our aid. I waited impatiently in Lusignan, almost alone. Neither Ralph nor Geoffrey was there. The former had gone to Normandy to see for himself what condition his castle was in and how great a force was holding it. Geoffrey was at Moncontour, strengthening its defenses. My son Hugh wasn’t at home, just when I needed him to act his age and accept his responsibilities as a member of the Lusignan clan. He’d gone off to Paris to hear a rabble-rousing priest who was urging a new Crusade. Still, I couldn’t blame him too much. At his age I too had been caught up in the Crusading fever.
While I waited, my wife Mathilde was almost the only company I had. As she’d become increasingly unwell, she spent most of her time in her tower chamber. I’d made it as pleasant as I could for her, carving out a larger window so she could look out from her bed at the green valley of the Vonne below the castle.
On this warm, windless day I’d spent the morning with my overseer, checking on the supports of the north wall. There’d been a Lusignan castle on this high ground for three hundred years. I suppose every lord of Lusignan in all that time had worried about the north wall, which topped a very steep slope that fell to the river. With every severe rainstorm some of the soil slid downhill. Repairs were made: we piled sod around the base of the wall and its towers. We set huge rocks in place to hold the structure together. We planted trees on the slope. So far we’d managed to stand steadfast on our promontory. I meant to see that we stayed that way. When I’d made a thorough inspection and felt reassured, I went in from the heat of the day to the cool of the empty, echoing great hall. It was time to spend an hour with Mathilde. I walked briskly up the winding staircase. Though I was thirty-six, I could still climb those steps as nimbly as when I was a boy.
Ordinarily Mathilde and I sat in companionable silence. It was painful for her to use her voice, and I was glad of the peace and light in her chamber, where I could sit quietly and almost forget my troubles. Today she must have been feeling stronger. She was propped up against her pillows and seemed to want to talk. She was a good woman, and I know it grieved her that she hadn’t been able to be a real wife to me.
I watched in concern as she forced out the words. Her lips were as pale as her colorless face. She strained with the effort not to cough. Her voice gathered strength as she spoke.
“Have you heard anything from Young Hugh?” she asked. She hardly knew my son but she was aware of how much I worried about him.
“Not since he arrived in Paris. I can hardly believe that hothead priest Fulk de Neuilly can be serious about preaching for a Crusade. But Hugh isn’t the only one who’s been taken in. His cousin Simon de Lezay has gone to Paris too, and dozens more lads from our Poitou, they say. Mathilde, do you remember the last Crusade?”
“Of course I do, it was only ten years ago. I know what you’re thinking. That time, there were three great kings to lead the Crusaders, and today there are none. We need another like your King Richard.”
“God rest his soul.”
We were both silent for a moment.
“But who is there to step up and take the lead?” I said. “Not King Philip—he’s already done it once. Not King John—too busy squabbling with his barons at home and King Philip in France.”
“And maybe too wrapped up in his little...” She stopped. Mathilde had always been careful to avoid talking about the girl who’d jilted me. I respected her for that.
“That’s all right, Mathilde. You may mention Isabella. It seems a long time ago when we were engaged. I hardly think about her nowadays. I spend more time thinking about John.”
“Too much, maybe.” Sometimes when Mathilde spoke as gently as she did now what she said was worth hearing. She sat up straighter and leaned toward me. Her thin face was full of pity. “Hugh, you mustn’t let this hatred tear you apart. It’s all very well to seek your revenge, but don’t let it sour you. You’re too good a man for that.”
I looked at her in surprise. Was I getting sour? Maybe I was.
There was a knock at the door. Pierre Chastillon, my steward, came in.
“Yes Pierre, what is it?”
“Sir Hugh, Father Etienne is here. He has some news you should hear. He’s waiting in the hall.”
I turned to Mathilde. “I’ll come up before nightfall and tell you what I’ve heard. Now rest.”
She smiled and waved me out of the room.
Father Etienne was far more than a priest to me; he was my friend. Ordinarily his lean, intelligent face was merry and our conversations were far-ranging, not always of church matters or the welfare of my soul. He was as interested in the foibles and conduct of the great and mighty as he was zealous about guiding the worthy folk in our village toward salvation.
Today he was more serious than usual. He ran a hand through his thinning gray hair and folded his lanky frame into a chair. I told Pierre to stay.
Etienne said that a friar from Paris had passed through Lusignan the day before and had taken his supper at the church refectory. He proved quite a chatterbox and seemed to have acquaintances in high places who knew all the gossip. Etienne and his clerical brethren, always eager for news, had picked up a good deal.
“He told us what he’d learned of King John’s whereabouts. It seems he went first to Andelys.”
“To Andelys, on the Seine? That’s where King Richard built his fortress, Château Gaillard. I’ve always wanted to see it. But why should John go there? Unless to make sure it could be defended against Philip if war breaks out again.”
“That may be. Friar Junot didn’t know. But he told us something even stranger. John and his Queen went on to Paris. They’re lodged in King Philip’s palace. He’s entertaining them with lavish feasts and spectacles. Friar Junot says that Paris hasn’t seen anything like it since Queen Eleanor reigned as the wife of Louis. He himself witnessed an evening party when twenty boats ferried the guests from the royal palace on the Ile de la Cité across the river to Philip’s new fortress, the Louvre, and back again. He said there were so many torches lighting the way that it was like daylight. And so many musicians were twanging and tootling and warbling on both banks, it sounded like a barnyard when the fox gets in.”
Pierre sniffed and growled, “Fine way to waste money, when the peasants out here are starving.”
“True enough,” I said, “but what I want to know is why Philip and John are so friendly all of a sudden. Have you any idea, Etienne?”
He rose and stretched, then sat down. It was hard for Etienne, with all his energy, to sit still very long.
“I do have a theory. I talked to the friar for another hour, trying to find out what he’d heard about Philip’s affairs. We all know that Pope Innocent imposed an interdict on France because Philip repudiated his wife and married Agnès of Méran.”
“And some of us, myself included,” said Pierre, “ think it’s shameful that a king’s subjects should be punished for his misdeeds.”
“Yes, well, there it is,” Etienne went on. “And of course Philip is suffering too. It can’t be pleasant to know all your fellow monarchs are laughing behind their hands at how you’ve brought the wrath of the church down on your whole kingdom.” He grinned. “Oh who would be a king! Anyway, what Philip cares about most is peace with the Holy See. He’s obsessed with getting the interdict lifted. If he were to dishonorably break the truce with John, the Pope would regard it as another sin. Philip can’t afford that.”
“So he’s just biding his time?” I asked.
“I think so. Friar Junot thinks so. He’s playing the generous host just to lull John into careless complacency. It’s part of his game. Then you’ll see, he’ll go after him when he’s on better terms with the Papacy.”
I sat digesting this. It made sense.
“In that case, there’s no point in going to him now to ask his help against John. We’d get the same answer we did last time: ‘Not yet.’”
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br /> Then I remembered some idle words Philip had spoken when he dismissed us last year. At least I’d supposed they were idle. I’d hardly paid attention.
“Perhaps Sir Hugh could challenge John to a duel,” he’d said.
Perhaps I could! Why not? What a glorious vindication it would be. To settle my grievances for once and all, in hand-to-hand combat with the villain who had wronged me. I’d no doubt I was a better swordsman than John.
“Your face betrays you, Hugh,” said Etienne. “What brave notion makes you look so foolishly happy?”
I told them what I proposed to do.
Etienne, as a good churchman, couldn’t condone dueling.
“You can’t go challenging a king to a duel just because you don’t like him.”
“But it’s not simply that I don’t like him. My suzerain did an injustice to me, his vassal. Remember, I was his loyal man at the time. If he refuses to even admit he was wrong, I have every right to challenge him.”
Etienne wasn’t sure. He stroked his chin and pursed his mouth. “Maybe. I believe I’ve heard of such cases. They call them judicial duels—to decide a matter of law. Though I’ve never heard of a challenge to a king.”
“Well, a king can’t pretend to be above the law. I’m going to go ahead with this, Etienne.”
Pierre had been listening to us impatiently. At my last words he set off as fast as his old legs would carry him to look for our swiftest, most trusted messenger to take my challenge to John as soon as I’d composed it.
So much for vindication. Five days later (days when I paced my lonely halls and could hardly sleep, I was so eager to face my enemy), a messenger came from John.
He delivered his memorized words in a toneless voice, looking not at my face but at his own dusty boots.
“King John accepts your challenge to a judicial duel. However, it would besmirch his honor as King of England if he engaged in combat with any of his enemies, the lowly, perfidious Lusignans. Therefore he presents you with a counter-challenge. He has appointed Quentin Proudfoot to meet you in his stead. You may choose the time and place and send your reply by the King’s messenger.”
The man looked up and asked with more insolence than courtesy, “What reply shall I take?”
I was nearly speechless with anger but I managed to growl, “No reply,” turned my back and stamped out of the room.
I’d heard of Quentin Proudfoot. He was nothing but a hired assassin, often engaged as a duelist by men too cowardly to fight their own fights. His record of victories was impressive and so was his reputation for spectacular violence, from slicing off an arm to decapitation.
It wasn’t fear of this lethal champion that made me scorn John’s challenge, though. I felt contempt for a king so pusillanimous that he had to hide behind his “honor” rather than risk his neck.
Quentin Proudfoot wasn’t my enemy. John was. So my fury and resentment continued to smolder, like a banked-down fire ready to burst into flame at a breath.
Chapter 29
Eleanor
1202
“Your beauty only grows with the passing years,” said Sir William Marshal, after bending to kiss my hand.
“Nonsense, William. We both know that’s not true. And I’m long past the time when flattery meant anything to me.”
He wasn’t abashed. William Marshal was seldom abashed. He smiled as cheerfully as though I’d accepted the compliment. He sat down beside me.
We were on the dais of the great hall of my palace in Poitiers. I sat on my gold-inlaid throne. William’s chair was almost as regal. Below us were courtiers, rich merchants, lords and their ladies strolling about. Some, no doubt, looked for a chance to make some request of me. But most had come to see and be seen in the Queen’s presence. One such, probably, was the young man in blue velvet who perched on a tall stool far down at the end of the hall. I could see the bow moving across the strings of his vielle. I could see his mouth move so I supposed he was singing, but the chatter was so loud I couldn’t make out tune or words.
It was a familiar scene. How many times had I sat just here, presiding over a convocation of bishops and lords of the church; or a gathering of the nobility of Aquitaine, come to repledge their fealty to me; or a gay and festive Court of Love, when troubadours sang and maidens blushed and the garlands on the walls filled the air with the fragrance of lavender and roses.
Abruptly I pulled myself back to the present. This was not the time to reminisce about gallants and garlands. We had urgent matters to talk about.
“I’m sure you know why I sent for you, William. You must tell me what you know of these reports that King Philip is raising an army on the borders of Normandy. Doesn’t his truce with John still hold?”
He sighed and turned his earnest, troubled face to me. I could almost see the words arranging themselves in his head. Still handsome at sixty, William had never been a deep thinker or a brilliant strategist. But he could be counted on to accomplish whatever task was given him, on the battlefield or at the courts of kings. He’d served our family for as long as I could remember. He was the bravest, most loyal and trustworthy man I’d ever known.
“Apparently Philip feels he can now break the truce. He’d been keeping John off his guard, professing friendship and peaceable intentions. He even invited him to Paris.”
“Yes, I heard of that. What could John have been thinking of? I suppose he felt flattered to be entertained so royally by a fellow monarch.”
“That may be. At any rate, after Philip’s wife Agnès died last fall he wasn’t living in sin anymore. The Pope had no more reason to chastise him so he’s lifted the interdict. I fear we can expect to see Philip begin to attack very soon. The Lusignans have persuaded him that John must be forced to make reparations for the injuries he’s done them.”
I groaned. “Those troublemakers! I sometimes wish John had never married that girl.”
“But just as serious, Philip has brought your grandson Arthur into the picture.”
“Oh, Arthur! William, what are we going to do about Arthur?”
My feelings toward Arthur were far from grandmotherly, though he was the son of my son Geoffrey. After Geoffrey’s death his widow, Constance of Brittany, had encouraged the boy to think of himself as heir to the English throne. “The hope of Brittany,” the Bretons called him. My husband Henry and I, however, had always held that our sons came first in the succession. If we should ever run out of sons (God forbid!) it would be time to consider grandsons.
William bent his head with its smooth cap of silver-gray hair, studied his clasped hands and looked up. “The same question has been much in my mind. He’s become even more troublesome now that he’s fifteen and his mother has finally died.”
I shook my head in impatience at the annoyance Arthur was proving. And another annoyance: we were almost running out of sons to inherit the crown.
“What if John were to die childless?” I said. “Then we’d have to accept Arthur, and what a mess he’d make of things. That wretched mother of his would keep on running his life from beyond the grave.” Constance’s pushy aggressive nature had always reminded me of a vixen holed up in her den, defending her cub. “When I heard she’d died it was the first good news I’d had in months.”
William looked a little shocked.
I reached over and patted his hand where it rested on the arm of his chair.
“Am I unchristian to rejoice in her death? Well, so be it. You know me well enough not to be surprised at my honesty, old friend.”
He looked down at my thin white fingers resting on his brown, weather-beaten hand.
“Like a lily that’s fallen on the mud,” he said.
For William, gallantry was as automatic as breathing.
“Getting back to Arthur,” he resumed, “I’m afraid he’s become more of a threat than an annoyance. We’ve just learned that Philip has knighted him and received his homage for Poitou, Maine, Anjou and Touraine.”
“That is monstrous! W
hat right does Philip have to give all our Angevin lands in France to Arthur? I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to snatch away my Aquitaine too. William, I think you must go see John at once and impress on him that he must take action. Any day now Philip could start attacking us. John must tear himself away from his little poppet and get his armies ready for the field.”
He nodded. “I agree. I’ll start tomorrow morning. At the same time, perhaps you should go to Fontevraud Abbey and keep out of harm’s way. Surely Philip wouldn’t make trouble for you in such a peaceable, holy place. You could send for Arthur to come visit you. Maybe it isn’t too late to remind him that you are still head of the family, and to appeal to his better nature.”
“Ha! If he has any left. But yes, that might at least buy us some time.”
I rose and took his arm as we walked down to mingle with the crowd. We moved slowly through the room, accepting a greeting here, a bow there, until we reached the corner where the young musician had been playing. He was still sitting on his stool. When he saw me he brightened, tucked the vielle under his chin and played a soft introductory chord. His voice was a pleasing tenor. The tune was lovely, in a minor key, almost mournful. I stood and listened, still leaning on William’s arm.
Lady, I am yours and shall be
Vowed to your service constantly.
This is the oath of fealty
I pledged to you this long time past.
As my first joy was all in you,
So shall my last be found there too,
So long as in me life shall last.
I was transfixed. I knew that tune, those words, but from where?
“How do you come to know this song, young man?”
“My lady, I learned it from the first teacher I ever had, Bernard de Ventadour. He told me he’d written it in your honor. I thought I too would play it now in your honor—I hope I’ve not offended you?” He was so fearful that his voice quavered.
I stood there remembering. Yes, Bernard, the famed troubadour, had played that song for me here at Poitiers, thirty years ago at one of my Courts of Love. Now Bernard was gone, there were no more Courts of Love, and I was old.