by Rachel Bard
“I don’t know, Hugh. I’m not sure I’d be able to arrange it again. I couldn’t have come this time if John had been paying more attention, but he was so busy preparing for his Welsh campaign that he hardly noticed when I told him I was coming to see my mother.”
“But Isabella! Now that we’ve found each other after all these years, we mustn’t lose each other again. Please tell me you’ll try soon to find an excuse to come. Ah, if only I could go to England! But your King would have my head off the minute I stepped ashore.”
“Well, of course I’ll try. But no matter what happens, we’ll have the memory of this time together. I’ll never forget it.”
He moved away and stared at me, stricken and unbelieving.
“You talk as though this were the end, not the beginning.”
“Surely, Hugh, you didn’t think we could keep on meeting when conditions are so difficult. Let’s just say goodbye and be grateful for what we’ve had.”
The groom brought his horse. I didn’t want us to part in anger. I moved close and pressed my body against his. I put my arms about his waist, but his thick leather surcoat was unyielding. So was he. I looked up at him, willing him to bend and kiss me. When he didn’t, I whispered, “My dear Hugh, this is so hard, so hard. I do love you.”
He turned from me and mounted his horse. I reached up to press his hand, but he quickly withdrew it. His face was closed now. As he wheeled his horse, I called after him, “Truly I’ll try to come back.”
I don’t know if he heard me. Suddenly the heavens let down their torrents. I couldn’t see him anymore through sheets of rain. I ran inside. When I reached the shelter of the hall I flung off my dripping cloak and stamped my foot. Why had he ruined everything by leaving in such a huff?
Back at Winchester I found that John was still away, which as far as I was concerned was just as well. I was cross at men in general and glad to give my attention to the children.
Joanna, not yet one, had begun to be colicky and given to wailing through the night. The nurse thought it would soothe her if her mother spent time with her. So I would take the unhappy baby up in my arms, rock her back and forth and sing softly to her, as I barely remembered someone doing for me when I was very young. I doubt it was my mother.
Often Joanna would stop crying and stare up at me during the night hours we spent together. I’d stare back into those wide-open dark-blue eyes. I’d lightly caress her silky, gold-tinted hair, half-fearful that even that would be too much for the little head that felt as fragile as an eggshell. Though I was fond of my sons, Joanna was my pet. Partly, I was worried about her health. Besides that, I’d heard of the special bond between mother and daughter. When I was a child, the bonding had been all on one side: mine. I wanted Joanna to know from the start that her mother loved her.
John, though, had never paid much attention to her unless her crying disturbed him. He was far more interested in the little princes.
On a chilly evening in December when winds were tearing around the towers and steeples of Winchester and everyone was predicting a serious snowstorm, I was in my snug quarters in the Queen’s House, sitting by the hearth with Lady Anne. Anne was occupied with her needlework. I held Joanna, who was almost asleep.
“Soon I’ll call for the nurse to take her away,” said Anne.
We weren’t talking much, comfortable with each other, both looking forward to bedtime.
I’d asked that only one of the candelabra be lit, so the room was almost dark except for the pool of light the candles shed on Anne and her work. Her fingers moved smoothly over the brilliant, iridescent red silk on which she was embroidering, in silver thread, the letter “J.” It was to be a coverlet for Joanna’s cradle.
I looked at her, thinking for the hundredth time how lucky I was to have had her by my side all these years. Her hair, once a warm brown, was now nearly gray. She wore it pulled back and coiled in a neat knot at the nape of her neck. She’d always been strong and slender, but lately she’d grown a little plump and was beginning to have a double chin. There were lines on her forehead. It was still a serene, good-humored face.
A pitch pocket in a log caught with an explosive crackle. The sudden blaze pushed the shadows back. Joanna murmured and frowned, then returned to her slumber.
I gave myself up to remembering my time with Hugh, dreaming of lying with my head on his breast and his arms about me. Had I been wrong to bring our affair to such an abrupt end? To continue it would have taken so much conniving, so much risk of discovery and a scandal, that it would wipe out all my pleasure. And wasn’t the pleasure men brought their main attraction?
Which took me inevitably back to the subject of John. God knows he’d given me more than my share of pleasure. But now I saw him differently. It was like picking up a stone to find black beetles running about underneath it. Not only was I disillusioned. Deeper down was the barely acknowledged fear that my day might come too, to suffer from his unbridled cruelty.
I knew our marriage would have to go on with at least a superficial appearance of normality. I was determined to continue to be Queen of England. I’d never feel the same about John, but I couldn’t let him know. I’d have to learn to play the part of the compliant wife.
Joanna was getting heavy in my arms. I laid her carefully in her cradle and sat on, staring into the fire, trying to imagine the future, almost drowsing.
All at once the face of James Tourville appeared in my mind’s eye. James was a golden-haired, brawny young courtier who’d been an acquaintance for several years. I’d begun to notice how he always managed to be around when I went walking, when I went to chapel, when an outing on the river was organized. I was flattered but not surprised; many of the courtiers sought my favor. James, though, had seemed more assiduous than most in his pursuit, which was persistent if inconspicuous. Thinking of James, I began to see intriguing possibilities.
“Now what does that little smile mean, my lady?” Anne asked. Before I could answer we heard the thud of the outer door slamming shut, then hurried steps along the corridor that led to my chambers.
John came in like a rooster into the henhouse, ready to crow. When he saw I wasn’t alone, he frowned, flung off his snow-flecked cloak and stood, arms akimbo, glaring.
“What kind of welcome is this to your husband you haven’t seen for six weeks?” He’d ceased to be the strutting rooster and was a snarling bear. “Didn’t you get my message that I’d arrive tonight? Why are you sitting in the dark?”
I stood, cast a quick glance at the cradle, and put my finger to my lips.
“John, I beg you, keep your voice down. We’ve just gotten Joanna to sleep. No, I received no message. I supposed you were still in Wales. But of course, now that you’re here, we’ll send for whatever you wish and welcome you home.”
Anne rose and took up the child, who was beginning to whimper.
“Don’t you want to say goodnight to your daughter?” I asked John.
“Not if she’s going to start her caterwauling.” He barely glanced at her.
Anne was moving toward the door.
“Lady Anne, send Peter to me, and for God’s sake have someone come in to see to the fire and light the candles. It’s like a tomb in here.”
Anne stiffened and almost stopped. I knew what she was thinking: I’m your lady’s companion, not your servant to be ordered about like that. But she merely said, “Yes, my lord,” and left the room.
Now I was all alone with the cross bear.
Alone and, for the first time in our marriage, not eager to be in the same room with him, much less go to bed with him. The time had come to try my hand at play-acting.
After Peter had helped him out of his damp, muddy travel garments and brought him a dry robe and soft slippers, John sent for food and drink. He plumped himself down by the fire and set to demolishing a slab of beef and an apple tart.
As usual, his temper improved with a full stomach and a pint of wine. I wanted to give it time to improve even mor
e. I didn’t want any scenes.
I rose and said as sweetly as I could, “You’re feeling better now, aren’t you, my lord? I’ll just go to the next room and prepare for bed.”
In my bedchamber, I went to the door and sent for Hortense. When she’d helped me into my favorite nightrobe—deep blue wool, soft as a kitten’s fur—I nestled in its enveloping folds while she brushed my hair.
John called out, “Do be quick, Isabella, what are you doing all this time? Come have a glass of wine with me by the fire.”
He still sounded irritable. I dismissed Hortense and rejoined him. I could see how strained his face was, with deep lines from nose to jaw and a tenseness in his effort to smile. He poured me a cup of wine. It was almost as though he sensed some new reluctance on my part to be in his company.
“Come sit on my knee as you used to do, and let’s tell each other how things have gone for us since we parted, a month ago and more. I’ve missed you so, my Isabella.” I knew he meant it. I was probably the only person who had supported him unquestioningly, through thick and thin.
“But John, I’m not the girl I used to be. You’d be quite uncomfortable if I sat on your knee now.”
“Let me be the judge of that.” He pulled me to him. Hardly had I arrived in his lap than he groaned. I jumped up.
“It’s that cursed gouty leg of mine, there it goes again. It’s been bothering me for a week. Bring me that stool and I’ll prop it up. Oh, what a sorry thing it is to grow old.”
“Nonsense, John. You’re only…” I had to stop and think. “Forty?”
“Forty-four, I fear.” He brooded in silence for a few minutes. I settled in a chair by his side. I was sleepy, tired, and not eager for conversation. The fire was reduced to glowing embers, hardly more lively than I was.
John reached to take my hand. “It’s been such a miserable few months, Isabella. I’m glad to be back with you, but I’ll have to be off again. Nothing’s gone well since that wicked de Braose family turned against me.”
He’d never referred to Matilda de Braose and her tragic fate. Maybe he thought I didn’t know of it. Maybe he didn’t care if I did. He went on. He wasn’t expecting any response from me; he only wanted to tell someone about his troubles.
“Before I even started to Wales to put down the rebellion there, I learned that a clutch of William de Braose’s cronies were conspiring to see that I failed. I heard they intended to get rid of me and put another king in my place.”
That got my attention. If John weren’t King, I wouldn’t be Queen.
“John! How dreadful! They couldn’t do that, surely?”
“Of course not. I still have plenty of men who’ll stand by me. But it was shocking to find out who these traitors were. Robert Fitz-Walter was one of them. So was Eustace of Vesci. Those names might not mean much to you, Isabella, but they’ve been men I could count on up to now.”
He wasn’t looking at me so he didn’t see how startled I was at the name of Robert Fitz-Walter. Not mean anything to me? I’d never been able to get the story of John’s murder of Fitz-Walter’s daughter out of my mind. He must have heard my smothered gasp.
“I know, it’s alarming to find out men you thought you could trust are turning against you. I suppose part of it is because of the interdict and the excommunication. I don’t know, maybe I’ll have to give in to the Pope and accept Stephen as Archbishop of Canterbury one of these days.” Usually when the subject of the Pope came up John raged like a baited bear. Now he only sighed. He shifted his leg on the stool and slumped in his chair.
He was pathetic. I steeled myself not to feel sorry for him. Two of the men whom he’d cruelly wronged had turned against him. What else did he expect?
“And then there’s Philip. My spies say he’s getting ready to invade England. The effrontery! To invade England! But he’d find plenty of traitorous lords here, eager to collaborate. To say nothing of the commoners and the rabble. They’d probably come out with their pikes and their pitchforks, ready to march along and depose their king.”
He drank from his goblet and sat glowering at the hearth. I could almost feel the sullenness and self-pity radiating from his body.
“It’s all because of that foolish fellow up in Yorkshire who’s making those ridiculous prophecies,” he growled.
“What fellow in Yorkshire? What prophecies?”
“Oh, he’s called Peter of Wakefield, a crazy hermit. Somehow he’s persuaded the common folk that he’s a messenger from on high. He insists that God appeared to him in a vision and told him that my reign will end after fourteen years. He doesn’t say how.”
“Well, I hope you don’t take that seriously.”
“I don’t, but the ignorant country people he preaches to take it as gospel. The word’s spreading: ‘God will punish King John and take away his crown. He will remove him from his throne on Ascension Day in 1213.’”
He sat there brooding. I really did feel sorry for him now, so weighed down with so many troubles. They weren’t all of his own making. Drowsy as I was, my brain must not have been shut down because an idea came to me.
“John, you need to get your people’s minds off your problems with the church and your wicked barons. Why not steal a march on King Philip? Launch an attack on him before he knows what’s happening! Regain the lands he took from you! A victory in France would silence all these enemies at home.”
He sat up and looked at me in such surprise that I almost laughed. I didn’t often venture an opinion as to matters of state.
“Not a bad suggestion, Isabella.” He actually seemed to be considering it. Then he let out another of those sighs that were almost groans. “But it wouldn’t work. I’d have the devil’s own time getting an army together, what with all the disaffection. And the Royal Treasury is in poor shape so it would be impossible to hire enough mercenaries.” He sank down in his chair again. His head was bowed so his chin nearly rested on his chest. I could hardly hear his next words.
“Maybe King Philip isn’t really planning an invasion. Maybe someone will silence Peter of Wakefield …” his voice trailed off. Neither of us said anything for a good five minutes. I could hardly keep my eyes open.
John gingerly removed his leg from the stool and stood up. He took my hand and pulled me to my feet.
“Come, Isabella, let’s go to bed. At least we still have our love to console us, no matter what.”
We were both very tired, very sleepy. Yet we consoled each other quite creditably. I had no need to pretend. As soon as we lay together and I felt John’s touch, body took over from mind. I forgot everything else and gave myself to our lovemaking. I’d hoped that at the moment of climax I’d be able to imagine myself in Hugh’s arms. But no. The face that appeared before me was that of James Tourville.
Chapter 43
John
1212-1213
When Isabella told me that she’d like to go visit her mother in France I’d been surprised. Except for the very earliest days of our marriage, she’d hardly mentioned her mother. I supposed, though we never talked about it, that she’d turned against her parents when she learned of their part in the scheme to get her to marry me instead of Hugh. I still fumed when I thought of that busybody Queen Berengaria, and her part in the disclosure.
“Why this sudden concern for Countess Alix?” I’d asked.
“Well, she is getting on in years. And it seems, now that I have a daughter, I wish I’d been closer to my own mother. Maybe it isn’t too late.”
“Oh, very well. But don’t be gone too long. This trip to Wales shouldn’t take more than a month. I’ll want to find you here when I return.”
And I’d gone back to my preparations. But I harbored a faint suspicion about Isabella’s sudden interest in her mother. She’d seemed withdrawn lately. I wondered if she could be pregnant again—but surely she would have told me. Just before I left I sent for my agent, Walter Mauclerk, and instructed him to cross to France and watch Isabella’s movements.
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p; I’d heard nothing from Walter by the time I returned to Winchester. I was so tired and so glad to be with Isabella again that I put my doubts aside. All I wanted was to rest in her arms and try to forget my worrisome kingdom.
All too soon I had to be off again, this time to Ireland. I was on a crucial mission. King Philip was now seriously threatening to invade England. I had to confer with my barons about how we’d repel him.
Thanks to William Marshal, good faithful William Marshal, my journey was fruitful. William had laid the groundwork for a rapprochement with several Irish vassals who’d been at odds with me. We met at Offaly Castle in Leinster and came to an agreement quickly. After they left I stayed on in the hall—a rather mean, drafty chamber but the best the half-ruined old castle had to offer. At least the castellan had swept the floor and put down fresh rushes. And the fireplace drew properly. I dismissed my household knights and ordered supper to be brought to me there. I wished Isabella were with me so I could tell her about this happy resolution of at least one of my problems. She was still the only person I could bare my heart to.
Missing her and seeking consolation in wine, I was interrupted by a discreet knock on the door. Walter Mauclerk sidled in. Walter was my most skillful spy. He was so adept at looking nondescript that sometimes I hardly recognized him. He was neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, with an ordinary sort of face and brown hair that he wore medium long. I counted on him for my most secret, confidential missions.
“I apologize for interrupting you, my lord. But I thought you would want to hear what I’ve found out.” In a voice without much expression and certainly without judgment he told me what he’d learned. The servants at the palace in Angoulême had been only too glad to report, for the right price, that Hugh de Lusignan had called on their mistress and had stayed for five days.
Walter left as unobtrusively as he’d come, before my anger could erupt.
I was mad with jealousy. So! My suspicions had been justified. Now I knew exactly what she’d been up to. It was a good thing for her that she wasn’t nearby. I might have strangled her. All I could think of was confronting her with her infidelity.