Isabella, Queen Without a Conscience

by Rachel Bard

  Just as the hilltop cathedral of St. Julien came in sight, I tired of my brooding. John was unpredictable, and that was that. I took a bit of comfort from the thought that he’d certainly set off as boldly as a bulldog to Mirebeau, even if he’d had an easy time of it when he got there. So what if he’d bragged about a battle that never happened? It wasn’t his fault that the enemy was lax and in no condition to fight. And what was most important, he’d succeeded brilliantly in his objective of rescuing Queen Eleanor.

  Deep down, though, a nagging annoyance lurked. John had been ready to risk all to rescue his mother. To save me, he’d sent others. I sighed. When I saw him again, maybe none of this would matter. I gave my horse a little kick to encourage it to trot up the hill to the city.

  John must have heard us coming. He was waiting at the palace door when we rode into the courtyard. He hurried out, his face alight with relief and eagerness. He helped me out of the saddle and held me close. We kissed.

  “Thank God you’re safe,” he whispered. When I felt his strong arms about me, I forgot my doubts. All that mattered was that we were together again.

  Chapter 35

  Isabella

  1202-1203

  When we were reunited in Le Mans in the fall of 1203, John and I were both so relieved to be safe again, to be together again, that we paid no attention to the world beyond our little court. We were as blissfully happy as ever. Whether he was a brave leader or a coward didn’t seem to matter.

  One morning when he’d gone to meet with the bishop about something or other, I was standing by the window of our rooms on the second floor of the palace. I was trying to decide between two pieces of silk to cover some worn chair cushions. John and I had our favorite chairs, capacious, with high carved backs and almost like thrones. They were usually drawn up in front of the hearth. On fine afternoons we’d have them placed near the west windows so we could watch the sun setting behind the city walls. The day before, a merchant had come to show me the wares he’d just received from Venice. He was to come back this afternoon to hear my decision. I was holding up the lengths of silk, one over each arm, to catch the morning light when Anne came in.

  “Shall I choose the leaf-green with threads of gold, or this brilliant ruby-red?” I asked. “I think perhaps the green. So few of my gowns would look well with that red, such a strong color.”

  She studied them. “I agree, my lady. But why not have both, one for each chair? King John so often wears black. Just think how well the red would set that off.”

  “What a wise decision! Thank you, Anne. Now tell me, what are all the ladies gossiping about today?”

  “No gossip, or none I’ve heard. But I’ve learned something troubling. William de Cantilupe told me how King John disposed of the prisoners he took at Mirebeau.”

  I wondered fleetingly why William was confiding in Anne. But my curiosity was aroused. I knew by then that Hugh had been one of John’s prisoners, but I’d hoped and believed that he’d be treated like the nobleman he was. I’d expected he’d be speedily released, maybe for a ransom, maybe in exchange for a prisoner on the other side. That was how it usually worked in wars.

  “And what does Sir William say?”

  “He says that Prince Arthur is in Falaise Castle. Nobody has seen or heard of him since he was sent there. And Sir Hugh was sent in chains to the castle at Caen. John ordered that he was to be locked in the dungeon, forbidden to send or receive messages.”

  I stared at her in shock.

  “Forgive me for daring to tell you this, my lady. But I truly thought you should know, in view of the regard you once held for Sir Hugh.”

  “Of course you were right to tell me. This is dreadful. I’m sure there’s some mistake. I’ll ask John about it.”

  “I think you should. Maybe some underling has taken it on himself to shut Sir Hugh up like that. But please, if you can, don’t tell the King how you learned of it.”

  “Of course not, Anne.” I knew there was no love lost between my husband and my friend. I had no intention of stirring up trouble.

  I was resolved to be the soul of tact. That evening we were sitting in the dining hall after dinner, watching a juggler toss balls in the air. Often he failed to catch them and they thudded to the floor. John had dined well and drunk just enough to make him relaxed and content. He was laughing at the man’s ineptitude.

  “One more missed ball, and it’s off to the jailhouse for you.” He shook his fist at the juggler in mock threat.

  “Oh no, John, he’s only a lad, still learning. Be merciful.” I kissed him lightly. “Just as I’m sure you were merciful with all those men you took prisoner at Mirebeau.” As soon as I spoke I realized I’d changed the subject too abruptly. John was sure to be suspicious. But he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Oh, I was merciful all right. Didn’t behead a one of them. They’re all safe in their skins, hidden away where nobody can get at them and chained down so they can’t get at anybody. That goes for Arthur and those rascally Lusignans too, in case you’re wondering. Including your old friend Hugh le Brun.” He was lounging in his chair but alert now. His searching black eyes were watching me carefully to see my reaction.

  “In chains, John? Your own nephew? And noblemen who once were your vassals, and might be again if you show them clemency?”

  He sat up straight and banged his fist on the table.

  “Why this sudden concern for a foolish lad you don’t even know, and for those renegade Lusignans? Maybe you still care for Hugh? Maybe you wish you’d married him after all?” His face was contorted with rage, like a snarling bear that turns on its baiters. I was frightened. I’d seen him direct his terrible anger at others, but seldom at myself and never like this. I’d gone too far. I had to think fast.

  “It isn’t just Hugh, it’s all of them. It’s beneath your dignity to lock them up and treat them like beasts in cages. People will think you’re afraid of them. John, you’re the King. You can do anything you want. You can be vindictive, or you can be just and lenient. Don’t you want your subjects to look up to you as a wise, merciful ruler?”

  I laid my hand gently on his arm. He shook it off. His face was still fiery.

  “Now you sound just like my mother. By God’s feet, I’m tired of other people telling me what to do! You’re right, Isabella. I’m the King, and I can do what I want. If I want I can demand such a high ransom from your old lover that he’ll never be able to raise it. Let him stay locked up until he starves.”

  There was no point in continuing. I rose, looked at him as calmly as I could, and said, “Well, perhaps you’re right. But I’m ready to retire. Please come soon.” I leaned down to kiss him, but he turned his head quickly and shouted for more wine.

  At the door I turned. John’s back was to me. William de Cantilupe had looked up and seen me. I had a sudden impulse. I nodded and pointed to the door. Five minutes later he was admitted to my chamber.

  “I feel I can trust you, Sir William. Will you do me a great favor?”

  He bowed slightly and looked at me, waiting to know more.

  “Can you help me send a message to Hugh de Lusignan? Anne told me he’s in prison at Caen.”

  Over the two years I’d known Sir William I’d come to like and respect him. On the few occasions when I’d asked him for information, he’d always been frank with me. He looked at me, considering my request. I found myself thinking that he was really quite a handsome man, though old enough to be my father. His brown hair was lightly streaked with gray. His face was unlined except for a few fine wrinkles around his steely blue eyes. In his burgundy cloak over sober black tunic and leggings, he stood tall and erect, like the soldier he’d been.

  “Will this favor in any way be to the detriment of my liege lord, King John?”

  “That’s a fair question, Sir William, since as everybody knows I was once affianced to Hugh. No, this is no plot to do harm to my husband. I simply want to tell Hugh that I’m sorry at his misfortune because I still c
onsider myself his friend. After I write my message you may read it if you wish. But I wouldn’t want my husband to know of it, so perhaps I’m asking you to do something you consider going behind his back.”

  “I can understand your reluctance to have the King know. Your request seems reasonable. I’ll help you if I can. Let me think.” He paced across the room and back.

  “Some of the King’s counselors are hoping to persuade him to offer ransom terms to his more prominent prisoners. He badly needs the money. If he can be convinced he’s not losing face by offering terms we may get him to agree. If so, I can include your message in the one we send to Sir Hugh. But we’ll have to give the messenger some reward, since he’d be taking a chance of discovery and punishment.”

  “Thank you, thank you! As for a reward for the messenger, I still have jewels that were mine before I married John. I can give him some of them, if you think that would be acceptable.”

  “I’m sure it would. Perhaps you could write your message now. I’ll take it away and hold it safe until the messenger goes, which may be within a few days.”

  I knew why he suggested that. It would be most unfortunate if John came across a letter from me to Hugh. I ran to my writing desk, found a scrap of parchment and scratched out a short letter.

  My dear Hugh: We bribed the messenger to include this with the parchment William de Cantilupe will send. I have only a few minutes to write. When I heard of your capture and imprisonment, I was greatly distressed. John told me he’d had you shut up in a dungeon. He said he didn’t know when he’d let you out if ever. I told him you were a nobleman and deserved to be treated as such. Then he got very cross and accused me of wishing I’d married you instead of him. That is not true of course, though I have never had a chance to tell you how sorry I was about the way he and my parents deceived you. I’d hoped I could persuade him to let you go but I couldn’t. If I could help you I would. Please think of me as your friend. Isabella.

  I blotted it, rolled it up and gave it to Sir William. “There, that will have to do. I’ll have a pouch of jewels for the messenger delivered to you tomorrow. Thank you, Sir William! You are a true friend.”

  “You needn’t thank me, my lady. I’m happy to have this opportunity to be of service to you.”

  After he left I sat down to gather my thoughts. Everything had happened so fast. I wondered if I’d been unwise. No; I couldn’t bear the thought of Hugh shut up in his prison, blaming me as much as John for his misery.

  But I couldn’t sit wool-gathering. I had to be ready for John. Would he still be in a temper when he came? Well, I’d been able to wheedle him out of black moods before.

  I jumped up and called my lady of the bedchamber, Hortense.

  When John came through the door a half-hour later, I was reclining against the bedpillows, my hair freshly brushed and wearing my most seductive nightdress, of satiny rose-petal silk with wisps of lace around the top of the bodice. At first he looked at me sourly, as though determined to keep his displeasure with me alive. Then he walked toward the bed, discarding garments as he came. Within minutes we were in each other’s arms. As he kissed my ears, my cheeks and then sought my mouth, I knew his fury had yielded to another passion. I held his face between my hands and looked into his black eyes. Our lips were almost touching.

  “John, I’m sorry if I angered you at table tonight. You know that I’m totally yours and I’ve never loved any one as I love you.” I meant every word.

  “I know, my love, I know,” he murmured, and kissed me. “I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

  After that Hugh’s name never came up between us. All was as it had been. My message was sent, thanks to Sir William. I’d done what I could to keep Hugh from thinking ill of me. My conscience was eased.

  We resumed our life of pleasure. Every day we rose late, breakfasted late, dawdled through the afternoon, dined in company or not and retired early. Sometimes we had minstrels and players to amuse us at dinner; sometimes there was dancing. John gave me a ruby on a gold chain and an ermine-trimmed red satin robe.

  He seemed to have forgotten that he was at war with the King of France. When counselors came to bring some urgent matter to his attention he brushed them aside and said he’d think about it later.

  I was present one day when William Marshal, the counselor whom he trusted above all others, told him bluntly, “My lord King, if you do not act soon to check King Philip, you will find he has taken all your lands and England will no longer rule in France.”

  “Never mind,” said John. “When I’m ready I’ll take back everything I’ve lost. Come, good Sir William. Join us in a glass of this excellent Bordeaux wine.”

  Finally, though, he couldn’t ignore the fact that Philip was seriously on the warpath in Normandy. He left for Rouen to drum up support for a counter-offensive. I heard scanty reports and would have known even less if William de Cantilupe hadn’t kept me informed.

  The news went from bad to worse. John’s English-born vassals were abandoning their Normandy holdings and going back to their English estates. A rumor was spreading through Brittany that John had murdered Arthur. Breton barons were defecting, enraged at this violence done to their duke. Philip was now reaping the rewards of John’s inertia the past few months and taking castles all over Maine and Anjou.

  When Château Gaillard, the mighty fortress on the Seine built by Richard the Lionheart, was besieged and seemed about to fall, I think it broke John’s spirit.

  In December of 1203 he sent word from Rouen to ask me to meet him at Barfleur, the ancient Angevin port on the Channel. From there we sailed across a choppy, stormridden sea to Southampton. In little more than a year, the English had lost more than half their French lands.

  Chapter 36

  Eleanor

  1203-1204

  After the excitement of the siege and rescue at Mirebeau, I had to admit I needed to rest. Poitiers was closer than Fontevraud so I decided to go there. As I grew older I found I was more and more drawn to people and places I had known in my youth. There were few of the former left, but Poitiers had been a beloved home ever since my childhood. Here in the palace of the counts during my carefree girlhood I’d been the toast of Aquitaine. After I married Henry, I often came to Poitiers for refuge from the cold, unwelcoming English and their fogbound isle.

  I settled gratefully into my customary chamber in the tower with its familiar furnishings. I’d sit in my favorite chair, glad of the soft cushioning for my tired old bones. I’d look out at the two shapely poplars in the garden, bright green columns against a cloudless blue sky. I’d seen them grow from saplings to their now imposing height, almost as tall as my tower.

  Resting soon became tedious. My ladies-in-waiting weren’t stimulating company—I’d chosen them for pretty faces, noble birth and tractable natures, not conversational brilliance. Besides being bored, I was worried. There’d been no news from John for months. Nor had there been news of Arthur. The last I’d had was of his imprisonment at Falaise. I had no love for my turncoat grandson. I was glad he’d been taken. But I didn’t want violence done to him. Knowing my son and his fits of ungovernable temper and his tendency to hold a grudge, I was deeply uneasy.

  I sent messages to John but got no reply or a meaningless assurance that all was well and I was not to concern myself.

  “I hope to heaven he hasn’t resumed his do-nothing life with that child bride of his. Maybe the silly tales the people tell are true after all. Maybe she’s seduced him by witchcraft to keep him captive to her charms.” I snorted, then realized I’d been thinking aloud. Lady Maurienne de Tournon, my companion for the day, smiled and went on with her embroidery.

  Shortly after Easter of 2003 I finally received some news. John of Valernt, a Benedictine friar who’d served my son as trusted messenger on other occasions, brought it. I received him at once in my chamber.

  Brother John bowed to me and pushed back the cowl of his black mantle to reveal his smooth, earnest face and even smoother pate,
ornamented by a barely visible fringe of gray hair.

  “My Lord King has instructed me to bring first to you, then to his vassals in Normandy and Bordeaux, this communication. It is in two parts. The first is written. The second I am to deliver orally. Here is the parchment where you may read the first part.”

  I read it quickly. It had little of news. After greeting the Lady Queen his mother and the other dignitaries, he asked us to listen to Brother John, “who has seen what is going forward with us, and who will be able to apprise you of our situation. Put faith in him respecting those things whereof he can inform you. Nevertheless, the grace of God is with us …”

  The document was witnessed by William de Braose. I knew him to be the man who had been in charge of Arthur at Falaise.

  I returned to that word “nevertheless” and stared at it. Apparently what Brother John would tell me was so horrendous that one might expect God to take His grace away from the King? But God, it seemed, had not done so.

  I looked up at the friar. He now gave me the oral message. He’d memorized his words well. He released them without emphasis, like drops of water dripping from a rainspout.

  “These are King John’s words: ‘To our sorrow, our nephew Arthur left this world on Thursday of Holy Week past. We mourn for him and pray for his soul. We ask you to do the same. Yet in all misfortunes God shows His mercy to His people. With Arthur’s death, the warring between him and his King, which has taken so many lives, will now be ended.’”

  I thanked Brother John. After I wished him a safe journey on the rest of his mission I gave in to growing shock and disbelief.