by Rachel Bard
“I wish I had. I’d never have forgotten it.”
Where did he learn to be so gallant? Looking at him I saw him in her eyes: tall as I was but more slender and with finer features. He had a head of smooth brown hair, unlike my bushy mop. His smile was infectious and even now, angry as I was, I felt a wave of warm love for this open-hearted, trusting son of mine.
“Well, we needn’t stand about here. Do come into the palace.”
“I’d better hear first what’s so vital that he came here to find me. It may be we’ll have to leave at once.”
“Very well, I’ll go order some refreshment for you. Come in soon.”
We both watched as she went up the steps. I turned to young Hugh, waiting for his explanation.
“I think we’ll indeed have to leave at once,” he said. “A message came to you from King Philip. He’s calling all his vassals in Poitou to meet him at Tours. John is bringing an army up from La Rochelle. Philip wants to gather enough men to move south and engage him.”
So. The war was resuming.
“You were right to come. Now let’s say our farewells to the Queen, and be on our way.”
What a strange end to my sentimental visit to the past. The last time I’d said goodbye to Isabella, I was sent off to serve King John, soon to be her husband. This time, I was going of my own free will to do battle against King John, her husband.
Chapter 38
Isabella
1207
On October 1, 1207, church bells all over Winchester pealed as though the bellringers were in some mad contest to see who could sound most discordant and demented. Loudest of all was the tolling from the minster near the palace. Every clang was like another hammer blow to my head.
In my close, warm room I felt smothered under heavy down comforters and overpowered by the smells of camphor, vinegar and something cloyingly sweet, like the white lilacs that grew in our garden at Angoulême. I lay exhausted while women pressed cool cloths on my forehead and made soothing sounds.
“There there, my lady. It’s all over now. You must rest.”
“Here, my poor dear. Try to swallow this, it will help you to sleep.”
I drowsed a bit, then woke to ask in a panic, “The child? Where is the child?” I was fully awake now. The memory of the hours of pain and struggle was receding. I had to see the reason for it all. Was it well formed and healthy? Was it a boy? Was it even alive?
“They’re just swaddling him now, my lady. And look, here comes the nurse!” The midwife’s rosy face beamed and she pointed toward the door where a tall, brown-clad woman with a white wimple came in, stepping carefully and carrying something very small in her arms. Lady Anne and Adèle followed her.
The nurse walked to my bed and held the tightly swaddled baby toward me. She waited until I realized I should hold out my arms. That’s what mothers did, of course. Only when I held him could I see that this was indeed a living if infinitesimal human being. I looked down at the red, wrinkled face. His eyes were tightly shut, showing only a fringe of long black lashes. I was surprised. So babies were born with eyelashes? Hair too, I supposed, though his head was so snugly wrapped that there was no way to know. I’d never seen a newborn baby before, much less held one. He weighed so little in my arms that I could hardly believe he was real.
He opened his eyes. They were blue as my own. He stared at me as though taking in this strange new creature, wondering what to make of her. Then his little rosebud lips curved in a smile. I smiled back in utter delight, overcome by a surge of love for this helpless little being. My son! I held him to my breast and looked up to see the midwives, the nurse, Anne and Adèle smiling as broadly as I. It was a room full of exultant women, rejoicing in the miracle of birth.
The object of this rejoicing, however, took that moment to let out a squall that would have done a midnight-prowling cat proud. I looked up in alarm at the faces bent over me.
“What can be the matter, was I holding him too tightly? Is he all right?”
“He’s just hungry, my lady,” said the nurse. She lifted him out of my arms. “We’ll take him to the wet-nurse and fill his little stomach.”
I lay back on the piled-up pillows. Anne and Adèle were still there, one on each side of my bed. I put a hand to my forehead and smoothed back a few strands of hair. My head still ached, though not quite so agonizingly.
“So this is what it’s like, being a mother,” I said. “I’m glad it’s a boy and John has his heir, because I don’t ever want to go through that again.”
“All first-time mothers say that, my lady,” said Anne. “But you’ll be surprised how quickly you forget the pain. And there’ll come a time when you’ll want to give your little lad a sister or brother.”
I didn’t believe her, but I didn’t dispute her. I was too tired and sore.
Adèle gave me a sidewise look and a half-smile. “Well, no matter about all that, Isabella. You have two things to be grateful for right now. One, that adorable baby. And two, your stomach is flat again.”
At sixteen, Adèle had blossomed. Hr face was a little fuller. So was her figure. She’d put up her long hair. I wasn’t always sure what she was thinking, but I liked having her around because of her calm good humor.
I looked down to where I’d become accustomed to seeing a big mound. I’d hated how my body had swollen. I’d worried at how John had lost interest in me, the larger and more awkward I became.
“You’re right, Adèle. And I am grateful. I just don’t see why the good Lord couldn’t have given us a less painful way to bring children into his world. Why must women be the ones to suffer while men take it easy? It’s not fair!”
“But that’s the way it is, and we must live with it,” said Anne. “Now, my lady, speaking of men, your husband will soon be here. He’d gone hunting but a man was sent to call him back, as soon as you began having your pains.”
I remembered vaguely that John had come into my chamber that morning to say he was going hunting. I’d wanted to get up and kiss him goodbye, but I’d hardly sat up and gotten one foot out of the bed before he was gone.
Anne was still speaking, in the same half-scolding, half-affectionate tone she’d used when I was a little girl refusing to do what I ought. “He’ll have heard all the bells ringing, and he’ll know what that means. The Queen has given birth! You’ll want to look your best when he comes. Perhaps the blue capelet, and your pearl necklace?”
“Oh Anne, I’m so tired! Must I change?”
“Do you want your King to find his Queen all bedraggled and ungroomed? Come now, I’ll help you sit up and get the cape on, and Adèle will brush your hair.”
We were barely ready when John burst in. I’d had time to take a quick look in the mirror Anne held before me, and I wasn’t displeased. I was pale, but my lips and cheeks were rosy, thanks to a few pinches. Adèle had brushed all the tangles out of my golden curls. The blue robe covered my disheveled nightdress, and Anne had smoothed the rumpled bedclothes and thrown a fresh white cover over them.
“My son, where is my son?” John roared, looking around as though an infant might be hidden in some corner. He still wore his muddy boots. His leather tunic was stretched tight over his torso—I’d not noticed till now that John was getting rather stout.
“We’ll ask them to bring him at once, my lord,” said Anne.
“Well, be quick about it.” He pulled off his tunic and threw it on the floor. “Why do you keep it so infernally hot in here? Bring on my son!”
Anne took Adèle by the hand and left to call the nurse. At the door, Adèle paused and turned around to give a little bow to me and then to John. Now I was alone with this bellowing intruder, in whom I hardly recognized my husband.
Then his eyes fell on me. His face softened. He moved swiftly to the bed where I reclined. He took my hands gently as though they might break and bent to kiss them. I knew at once that I was still desirable in his eyes. He was mine again—if indeed he had been missing.
“
My love, my dear Isabella, there you are. You look like an angel just come down from heaven. How are you, are you well?”
“Better now, my lord, since you have come.”
I smiled up at him, deeply thankful that Anne had persuaded me to make myself beautiful for my husband. I know we were thinking the same thing: when, oh when, can these two lovers make love again?
There was a light knock on the door. The nurse came in and held the baby out to John. John took him eagerly and stared at the tiny face just as I had done, in wonder and disbelief. He sat down beside me on the edge of the bed. Together, we looked at our son. Our son looked up at us, then his blue eyes closed.
“He’s sleepy, the little lamb, now that he’s had his meal,” said the nurse. She was about to take him but John insisted that she unwrap him so we could make sure he had the right number of arms, legs, fingers and toes. His round little head proved to be covered by downy dark hair, almost as black as John’s.
“He has your eyes and nose, Isabella, but my hair. Maybe one of these days a black beard too.” He tickled the baby’s chin, but the infant slept on.
“We’ll call him Henry, of course,” John said.
“Of course,” I said. It was right that he should be named for his grandfather. Maybe later, when we had other children, some could be called by names from my side of the family. Was it only an hour ago that I'd sworn never to have another child? Motherhood must grow on one.
The nurse succeeded in extricating her charge from his parents and left, wrapping him up again as she went.
John and I sat on, talking. He was mellow, full of the joys of fatherhood. We hadn’t talked much for several months.
“My first son, Isabella! This is a great day for England.”
“Truly, your first son, John? Are you sure?” I teased.
“Oh of course, there were a few bastards, years ago. That was long before I met you. Nobody pays attention to that anymore. And now they can’t go on about how we’ve been married all this time, and still no issue.”
I’d heard the nonsense. People said I’d bewitched John with potions and enchantments to keep him in my bed, while casting spells to protect myself from childbearing. It’s true that for the first few years I had no wish for children, but presently I’d begun to worry that they’d never come. And then would John put me aside, as he had his first wife?
I reached up to run my fingers through his silky black beard and tweak him on the chin. “Yes, that’s all past now. They’ll have to find something new to gossip about.”
He took my hand and kissed the palm, then held it. His face darkened.
“They won’t have far to look. This argument with Pope Innocent about the new Archbishop of Canterbury is getting worse by the day.”
“Why, what’s the Pope done now?” I knew something of this dispute, thanks to Anne. She got information from William de Cantilupe and passed it on to me. He chose this means of keeping me informed rather than calling on me too often himself. He knew his suspicious master.
“He’s consecrated that Frenchified Stephen of Langton as archbishop, when he knows I’ve already chosen John Gray, a stout Norfolk bishop, as learned as the best of them. What does Innocent know of England? Why can’t I appoint my own archbishop in my own realm?”
“Dear me. We can’t have two archbishops, I suppose.”
He hardly heard me. He’d risen and was stamping about the room, each heavy footfall another blow to my aching head. He was getting quite red in the face.
“And now there’s talk that he’s threatening an interdict on England, just because I want to stand up for what’s right.”
“But surely the people are on your side, and the clergy too?”
“Yes, true enough. Most of the clergy anyway. But if the Pope actually puts an interdict on us I don’t know how long they’ll stay loyal. It’s hard for a priest to stand up for his king when his parishioners are complaining about no church service, no sanctified weddings or burials.”
I held out my hand and beckoned him.
“Come here John, and forget all that for now. No matter what the Pope does or who the archbishop is, we have so much to be happy about today. We have our beautiful son, our Prince Henry, sleeping safely in the next room.”
He sighed and came back to my bedside. He looked down at me. His face relaxed. I realized that sometimes I forgot how much the running of this complicated, seldom peaceable kingdom weighed on John. I should try to be more of a helpmeet, if he would let me. I should encourage him to look beyond the day’s problems.
“My dear John, we are blessed today with a healthy son. Let’s resolve to bring him up so he’ll be a strong and able English king and a credit to his father.”
John bent to kiss me gently.
“You’re tired, my love, I can tell by your voice. I’ll bid you good night, and sleep well.”
I was indeed tired. My women helped me undress, washed me and gave me a draught to relieve my pounding head. I sank back gratefully on the cool pillows.
I was nearly asleep when a picture flashed before my eyes, something I’d noticed fleetingly but pushed aside to think about later.
As Anne and Adèle had left after John’s arrival, a look had flashed between Adèle and John. Reliving that moment, I realized it was like a secret message passed between two people who have a special understanding, unknown to any one else.
Chapter 39
John
1208-1209
“Beware of kingship, my son.”
Five-month-old Henry looked up at me as though considering my words while Isabella rocked his cradle. Perhaps he found my admonition amusing, because he gave us such an enchanting smile that Isabella and I had to smile at each other too.
“If only my mother had lived to see him. It would have eased her mind so much to know we’d finally produced an heir to the throne of England.”
Queen Eleanor had died peacefully four years ago at her retreat at Fontevraud Abbey. I was always heartened to remember our last meeting at Mirebeau when she’d shown me the gratitude and respect I’d never had from her before.
“Yes. I’m sorry too. Maybe she’d have come to see her grandson. Maybe she and I could have gotten to know each other better. I’d have liked that.”
She reached down to brush her fingers gently over the baby’s cheek. He clasped a finger and tried to suck on it. She laughed. At twenty, she was lovelier than ever. The pretty adolescent girl I’d been captivated by seven years ago had become this poised young woman, secure in her beauty, her womanhood and her motherhood.
I’ll admit, during the last few months of her pregnancy I’d been put off by the change in her looks. She’d become almost haggard with a disposition to match. I wondered if she suspected how often I’d gone elsewhere to find bed-companions.
Now all was as it had been if not better, at least domestically. We were taking our ease in the Queen’s private chamber at Winchester, warm and surrounded by the new elegance Isabella had created. There were silver candelabra on beautifully carved tables with silver inlay. In a corner a gilded cage held a yellow bird that sulked and sometimes sang. My eye fell on a colorful wall hanging opposite me, with golden fronds and graceful snow-white swans on a crimson background. I pointed to it.
“I don’t remember seeing that before. Surely it’s not one of my mother’s.”
“No, it’s new. I sent for some of our hangings and tapestries from Angoulême, and took down Queen Eleanor’s. They seemed rather somber to me. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not, my love.” I was glad she’d made the Queen’s apartments into such a pleasant haven. Here I could almost forget the state of the kingdom.
Almost. My rocky relations with the Pope were never far from my mind. I sighed.
“Another ultimatum from Innocent came this morning. He refuses to lift the cursed interdict until I accept his choice for Archbishop of Canterbury. Just when things are quiet on the Continent and Philip and I have signed a
truce, the Pope decides to punish all England with this decree. He forbids sacraments in the churches. So good Englishmen can’t get properly married, or buried in the churchyard. It’s monstrous!”
“Well, at least we had Henry christened before it started.” Isabella had heard all this before, but that didn’t stop me.
“And a good thing. But I won’t give in. I’ll go to my grave before I’ll see Stephen Langton as an archbishop.”
I’d been expecting something like this, to be sure. The Pope and I had been disputing for years over one thing and another. Mostly, we disagreed about the will of my brother Richard. Richard must have been having one of his fits of fever when he made that will. Why did he leave so much to relatives who had no need of it, like our nephew Emperor Otto of Germany? And then there were the Pope’s constant reminders of the rights of Richard’s widow, Berengaria. I saw no reason why I, as Richard’s heir and successor, shouldn’t have the say over where his inheritance went. So I pocketed the whole thing and put off the various claimants.
Now things had come to a head with this matter of the archbishopric. I was holding out for my choice, the Bishop of Norwich, an ambitious and not over-scrupulous man. I was sure I could bend him to my will when necessary. But the Pope still insisted on Stephen of Langton.
“Calls himself an Englishman, does he, this Stephen?” My temper rose and I got up and paced about the room, rehearsing the arguments I’d use in my next message to Rome. Isabella was soothing Henry, who had begun to whimper.
“He hasn’t been in England since he was a mere child. He’s a Frenchman, that’s what he is, after all those years at the University of Paris. And now he’s snug in the Pope’s pocket in Rome, a cardinal no less. And Innocent persuaded those spineless monks down at Canterbury to elect him in spite of me. May God curse me if I let any Pope tell me how to run my own kingdom!”
I’d come to a halt near the cradle. I was so worked up that I didn’t realize how my voice had risen. I suppose my roaring frightened my son. At any rate he let out a wail that surprised me. How could such a small creature make so much noise?