by Rachel Bard
At one such gathering in the fall of 1210 at Windsor Castle, some ten or twelve officials, courtiers and scribes met in the great hall to hear the latest about the King’s Welsh campaign. I sat in my customary place at the left of John’s empty throne. The others stood below me. I sat up straight on my throne, wearing my coronation crown and robe. The fires on the hearths, one on each side of the room, blazed away but the chamber was large and drafty. I was glad to be enfolded in the thick red wool with the warm ermine ruff around my neck.
“Welcome, gentlemen. Sir Geoffrey, what of the King?” I asked, when we were all assembled. He stood just below me on the dais and slightly to my left so he could face both the audience and me.
He bowed to me, then read from a parchment.
“The King sends greetings from Hereford to his Queen and his loyal counselors. We have confronted our rebellious vassal, William de Braose, who refuses to pay the King the just debts he owes. We have seized the castles in Wales of Sir William’s wife, Matilda. Matilda and her children have escaped, but we shall pursue them and hold them hostage until the debts are paid. Meantime, we request that the Royal Treasurer send us forthwith the sum of four thousand marks, for the pursuance of our campaigns in Wales and Ireland. May God be with you all, as He is with us.”
A good deal of noisy discussion broke out at this news, as well as anguished questions by the treasurer as to where he was to find four thousand marks. While he and Sir Geoffrey conferred I stepped down and approached William de Cantilupe.
“There must be more to this story than those few words. William de Braose has always been one of John’s strongest and most loyal supporters. What do you know, Sir William?”
He looked grave and drew me aside. His bearing was soldierly as always, his expression as reserved. Yet I knew by now that, though loyal to John, he was also my friend, an honest, principled man whom I could trust.
“A good deal more. I heard rumors of it while I was in Wales last month. Apparently King John has turned against the de Braose family because Lady Matilda has said in public that she can never give allegiance to a king who murdered his nephew. I can guess at the rest. William de Braose is probably the only person besides the King who knows what really happened to Arthur.”
“Yes, I remember that he was Arthur’s jailer in the castle at Rouen. I thought John trusted him completely.”
“Well, now that his wife has spoken out so indiscreetly he’s become John’s enemy. I fear John may have brought up the matter of the unpaid debts to justify his attack on Sir William. He may be hoping to silence him by threatening his wife and children.”
Nobody had ever spoken to me so frankly about Prince Arthur’s tragic end. I’d refused to let my vague suspicions about John’s involvement come to the surface. Now it appeared there was reason to believe in his guilt. Otherwise, why should he lash out so fiercely at William de Braose and his wife? Could I have married a man who could do such a barbarous deed?
It was as though an icy wind had swept over me and I shivered.
“Thank you, my friend.” I tried to speak calmly. I was learning lessons in composure from William de Cantilupe. I thought I saw a glimmer of sympathy in his steady gaze as I turned, anguished, to leave the room.
I stayed in Windsor for another three weeks before John returned. For the most part I continued to bury my misgivings until I’d be able to talk to him and hear his side of the story.
Meantime I busied myself with our children. At three, Henry was old enough to appear in public as heir to the throne. It was amusing to dress him like a miniature king in rich velvet suits and teach him to walk by my side as sedately as he could manage. When we went into the state dining room or out into the city, he was much admired. It didn’t take him long to find out what fun this was. I believe he inherited some of his father’s fascination with fine clothes as well as his tendency to strut proudly before his subjects.
“You are becoming quite the little peacock, my pet,” I told him.
He grinned at me in delight. “Let’s go see the peapocks! I want to see who’s prettiest, me or the peapocks!” he clamored. So we went out into the gardens where the peacocks were kept. Before long Henry was chasing them about and squawking at them like any three-year-old, prince or not.
When John finally came he looked so tired and worn that I hadn’t the heart to confront him with my doubts. All I wanted to do was comfort him. All he wanted was to forget, for a little while, his grievous troubles. Our first night and for several thereafter, I comforted him to the best of my considerable ability. I persuaded myself that we could go on with the same trusting affection for each other we’d always had.
Then came Matilda de Braose.
I think John hadn’t meant me to be there when she arrived. He’d urged me to leave for London and said he’d join me there as soon as he could. However, I’d given in to some kind of a fever and didn’t feel well enough to travel. On a dour Monday morning when rain was coming down in sheets and I was glad not to be on the London road, I looked out to see a troop of soldiers gallop up to the palace. In their center was a pair of riders, chained together and wearing long black hooded cloaks that hid their faces. As soon as the company came to a halt John appeared, almost running, to confer briefly with the captain of the soldiers. Without a glance at the prisoners, he went back into the palace. I stayed at my window. The captain walked to the two black-clad figures and gestured to them to dismount. A pair of soldiers seized each of them and hurried them toward the rear of the palace. Just before they disappeared from sight one of them shook her hood loose. I caught a glimpse of a strong, square-jawed face with an expression of terrible anger and despair. Her long, gray, unkempt hair streamed below her shoulders.
That was the last time Matilda de Braose saw the light of day. Later I learned that she and her son
had been locked away in the prison of Windsor Castle and left to starve to death. It took less than a month.
Chapter 41
Hugh le Brun
1212
Dear Hugh: I shall be at the castle in Angoulême during the month of
October. Perhaps you could arrange to come see me. Isabella.
Was this an invitation, or an order? I wasn’t sure. When I received it, October was already half gone. I’d have to make up my mind quickly.
At first I was a little annoyed and more than a little suspicious. After our last meeting when we’d said goodbye with such tenderness, I’d been sure I’d never see Isabella again. That was four years ago. What could she be up to now? Was this a plot she’d been put up to by John, to whom she'd said she was so devoted?
Finally I decided to go, just out of curiosity. I can’t deny that the prospect of seeing my old love again had something to do with the decision. Isabella had by no means lost her fascination for me.
I sent a reply as impersonal as her invitation.
To Queen Isabella: I shall wait on you at Angoulême on October 20. Hugh IX de Lusignan.
She received me in a tower room, up a short staircase from the entry hall. The servant admitted me and left, closing the door behind him. The room, in contrast to the cold, sparsely furnished hall below, was warm, inviting and quiet. I had a vague impression of a great deal of gold and silver, dark red cushioning on divans and chairs, thick Turkish carpets and the scent of roses. Through a door to the next room I could see a high bed curtained in purple.
Isabella stood across from me, silhouetted by sunlight that streamed in through a tall arched window. The rays were reflected almost blindingly off a silver bowl and two crystal goblets on a table by her side. In the blaze of light I could hardly make her out. She took a few steps toward me and I saw her clearly. She was smiling, but the smile seemed fixed, almost as though she’d been practicing for this moment. Beneath a silvery-gray, sleeveless cloak she wore a long-sleeved, high-belted, cherry-red gown that clung to her breasts, then fell in soft folds. I’d never seen her wear that color before. Her hair was a gilded cascade of curls
that fell to her shoulders.
This wasn’t the Isabella I’d met here four years ago, who’d seemed a more poised but still guileless version of the girl I’d loved at Lusignan. Now, she reminded me of the angels one sees in cathedral frescoes: carefully created works of art, existing only to be admired and adored from afar. I was dazed with the effort to reconcile this vision with the Isabella I remembered.
She broke the spell and held out her hand.
“Good morning, Hugh. Thank you for coming.” I went to her and clasped her hand in both of mine. I glanced quickly at her face, then looked down at my feet like a shy schoolboy. I heard her rippling laugh.
“Oh, Hugh, this is so like the last time we met, when you stared at me as though I were some ghost.”
I made a lame attempt at gallantry. “Not a ghost, Isabella. Rather a fairy queen.”
“Prettily said, Hugh. Now your queen commands you to sit beside her, and we shall talk.”
She led me by the hand to one of the cushioned divans. I sat erect, too nervous to yield to the seductive softness. She began speaking at once, with her eyes fixed on my face. I’d forgotten how they seemed to turn a darker blue when she was very serious.
“I’ve asked you to come because you’re my oldest, truest friend. There’s nobody else I can bring myself to talk to about what’s been distressing me. I’ve just come from seeing my mother in Champagne, but she wasn’t at all interested in hearing my tale of woe.”
The speech, like the smile with which she’d greeted me, seemed rehearsed. I wondered where all this was leading.
“Poor lady, she’s reached the age where she cares more about her aches and her pains, and her physicians and her poultices, than about what’s troubling her daughter. You’d hardly know her, Hugh. I never thought I’d see my beautiful mother look old and gray and wrinkled.”
The flawless façade of her face was softening, giving way to what might have been genuine emotion. She bent her head and covered her eyes with her hands. I knew how much Isabella had always loved and looked up to her mother. I tried to think of something comforting to say.
“That must have been hard for you. But what about John? Can’t you talk to your husband about this tale of woe, whatever it is?”
She looked up at me doubtfully, as though wondering how much to tell me. Then her words came tumbling out.
“That’s just it, Hugh. I can’t talk to John because it’s John who’s made me miserable.” Her voice was unsteady. “How could I have been so blind to what he’s really like?” She hurried on, which was just as well. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, much less respond.
“Now I’ll try to tell you plainly what’s brought me to this state. You’ll find it shocking. First of all, I’ve learned that John almost certainly murdered his nephew Arthur while he held him prisoner at Rouen.”
I’d heard that tale. I’d brushed it aside. Why would John do it? He had no more sense of right and wrong than a wild pig, but he wasn’t stupid. Surely he would have foreseen the political consequences of such a crime, the scandal that would attach to his name.
“That’s a grave charge indeed, if it’s true.”
“It will probably never be proved. But I’ve put together everything I’ve learned, including John’s absolute refusal to talk to me about it. I’m convinced he did it. But Hugh, that’s only the beginning! Just this year John kept the wife and son of William de Braose shut up in the dungeon at Windsor without food or water until they died.”
I was open-mouthed with disbelief. Even in an age when brutal punishments were commonplace this was abominable.
“Are you sure, Isabella? You know how rumors fly.”
“Yes, I’m sure. John’s steward, William de Cantilupe, who never lies to me, told me.”
“But why would John do such a deed?”
“John said he’d imprisoned them because the de Braose family had refused to pay some tribute. But William says that what made John mad with anger was that Matilda de Braose had publicly accused him of killing Arthur. He had to silence her, permanently.”
I didn’t know what to say or do. Even though she’d been so frank with me, I didn’t feel right in heaping invective on her husband. She shivered and put her handkerchief to her eyes. I saw what an effort it was for her to tell me all this. Without thinking, I put my arm around her shoulders. She turned her face to me, and I saw tears running down her cheeks.
“How can I go on living with him, Hugh? Especially when he…” she stopped and wiped her eyes. “Forgive me for making you hear these awful stories. But I’ve begun, so I might as well go on. In some ways this part is the worst.”
She looked straight ahead and spoke in a weary monotone.
“I’ve known for some time that John hasn’t been faithful to me. Nowadays he hardly bothers to hide it. He says he still loves me, and I believe he does, though not like before. It would be impossible for me not to know about his affairs. Everybody in the court talks about them, and sometimes I think they do it when they know I can hear. Maybe because they think I should have a comeuppance. That’s what Lady Anne says. She says I mustn’t mind, that some people are just jealous because I’m the Queen.”
She paused and took a deep breath, as though to gather strength to go on. I waited. The room was quiet except for a subdued murmur, the sounds of the busy city that surrounded us muffled by thick stone walls. I caught the scent of roses again and looked down to see that the silver bowl on the table was filled with delicate pink petals.
“I’m so lonely, Hugh. I have very few friends at court. Just Lady Anne and one or two others. Anne’s daughter Adèle—you remember her, Hugh? She used to be my friend. But she’s become quite distant. She’s talking of going back to France. So I’m surrounded by people who don’t wish me well. They spread evil gossip about me. It’s not true, but of course it reaches John’s ears. Then he gets in one of his tempers and calls me a wanton and a strumpet.”
She was getting quite worked up and her voice rose in her outrage. “He even accused me of having an affair with William de Cantilupe. Apparently somebody saw William leaving the Queen’s chambers late at night. Well, almost everybody at court knows William and Anne are lovers. He often visits her in her room next to mine. But there’s no way to make John listen when he’s in a rage.”
“Does he use force on you?” I couldn’t bear the thought of that brute striking my Isabella.
“Not yet. And truly, there are good times still, when he woos me the way he used to and gives me rich gifts. I’ve learned to live with the bad times.”
Even in distress, she was so beautiful and brave! I wanted to comfort her, to tell her I would make everything right again. But what could I do?
“I’m so dreadfully sorry, Isabella.” My arm was still around her shoulders, and I tightened my hold. She put her hand on mine and stroked it.
“I knew this would be hard for you to hear, Hugh. I’m afraid there’s more. I’ve just heard another dreadful story of John’s wickedness. He was taken with a young girl, the daughter of Robert FitzWalter, one of his barons. She was a virgin, of course; John is quite partial to virgins. He thought he’d seduce her. She wouldn’t have him, so he tricked her parents into letting her go off with him. He kept her shut up in some out-of-the-way castle. She still wouldn’t have him. He was so enraged that he had her poisoned, and sent her body back to her parents. He told them she’d eaten some spoiled eggs.”
She began to cry again. “Hugh, she was only fourteen. The age I was when John and I met. If things had been different, that could have been my fate.”
The first thing I knew she was in my arms, her whole body racked by sobs. I held her close and smoothed her hair. Gradually she became calmer. She turned her head and our eyes met. I’d never seen her look more vulnerable or more lovely. I couldn’t help myself. I drew her closer and kissed her. Our lips met hesitantly at first, then I pressed her to me with all my pent-up passion. It was unbearably sweet, that kiss. I wanted it to g
o on forever.
She drew gently away and rested her head on my chest. I could hardly hear her whispered words.
“I’m so tired, so tired.” A deep sigh shuddered through her body. She felt like a little wounded bird in my arms.
“My poor dear love, try to rest.”
“Yes, yes. I must rest.” She stood and staggered a little. “I will go lie down. Will you help me, Hugh?”
I took her arm and supported her as she walked into the bedroom. I lifted her—she was so light, so fragile!—and laid her on the bed. She lay there looking up at me, then stretched up her arms and pulled me to her. I couldn’t resist that invitation. I forgot all the reasons against what was about to happen. I forgot my doubts. I felt only exultation that at last, Isabella was to be mine.
Chapter 42
Isabella
1212
After five days with Hugh at Angoulême I was purring like a cat full of cream. Everything had been heavenly. I wondered why I’d waited so long to find diversion with someone other than John. Hugh had been tender, considerate and grateful. After ten years of John’s impetuous, demanding lovemaking—to be sure, I’d been a willing partner—it was like discovering a new, gentler land where I could live for a while, a land I hadn’t known existed.
But I had to cut the idyll short or John would return from Wales and be upset if I wasn’t there.
On my last morning we came down from the warmth and comfort of my tower room to wait in the courtyard while Hugh’s horse was brought around. It was a still, bitterly raw day. We stood under a sky like the inside of a pewter bowl, where low clouds hung gloomily over us deciding whether to pour down rain. I held the fur collar of my robe tightly closed and shivered. Hugh’s arm was around me.
“When will I see you again, my love?” he asked. “Surely you’ll have more business in Angoulême before long?”
We’d talked only vaguely about the future. Every time Hugh tried to bring it up I changed the subject.