Isabella, Queen Without a Conscience

by Rachel Bard

  Sitting there alone in front of the fire, gnawing on a greasy, overdone rib of lamb and washing it down with sour wine, I gloated as I imagined the encounter.

  First, I attack:

  “I accused you once before of having an assignation with Count Hugh of Lusignan in your palace at Angoulême, but you persuaded me that I was mistaken. Now I have proof that on your recent trip to France, instead of visiting your mother you met Hugh and the two of you spent five days together at Angoulême, despite your marriage vows. You are an adulteress, Isabella! Can you deny it?”

  She tosses her golden curls and smiles sweetly. But what’s this? She gives the conversation a turn I hadn’t expected.

  “Before I answer that impertinent question, my lord, let me ask one of my own. Can you deny that you have seduced the Baroness of Vesci, the Countess of Granville, Lady Margaret of Haworth, two of my ladies-in-waiting, and the milkmaid at Gloucester Castle?”

  She has a point there, no question. Even before Isabella had become less fond of my company I’d often sought pleasure elsewhere. I’d made no effort to hide my affairs. Most of my partners were willing. If some demurred I’d generally find a means of persuasion, such as threats of retribution to their husbands or fathers. What’s the point of being a king if you don’t take advantage of your power?

  Nevertheless I continue the discussion.

  “Might I remind you, my Queen, that if you had not seemed so unwilling of late to share your bed with me, I might have been more faithful to you?”

  No smiles this time. Each word is bitten off as though she were attacking a dry crust of bread with her sharp little teeth.

  “Conversely, my King, if you had been more faithful to me I might have been more willing to share my bed with you.”

  I sighed and adjusted my throbbing leg on its stool. She’d won, for now. I decided it might be best to keep quiet and try to forget. A time would come when the knowledge of her affair with Hugh could prove a useful tool.

  Yet in spite of everything, I thought that if I could only go back to the days when Isabella and I were so in love, so trusting of each other, I’d give half my kingdom. And even now, I looked forward almost feverishly to seeing her again, to finding solace in her embrace.

  During the long, tedious return journey from Ireland I had plenty of time to worry and plenty to worry about besides an unfaithful wife. Reluctantly, I had to admit to myself that even with the support of a good number of my barons we wouldn’t be able to withstand Philip’s invasion army. I’d have to find some other way to put off the evil day. Maybe it was time at last to yield something to the Pope.

  When I reached London I was glad that Isabella was still in Winchester. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stick to my resolve to avoid a violent confrontation. Besides, I had to do a great deal in a short time.

  First I sent an urgent message to Pope Innocent that I was ready to negotiate. He wasted no time in dispatching his papal legate, Pandulfo. I was waiting with a party of my knights to greet him when he disembarked at Dover.

  I saw a man of slight build, about my height but somewhat stooped—perhaps from years of nodding and bowing to the Pope his master. He was black-haired like me, but beardless. His face had a chronically sour expression as though he had bitten into a lemon. When he smiled, which wasn’t often, it was more sardonic than amused. I took to him at once. Here was a man I could deal with, unlike the oily, pompous high lords of the church the Pope had sent as emissaries before. Pandulfo was only a subdeacon. When I knew him better I realized he was more interested in quietly furthering the Pope’s projects by any means necessary than in making a show of power.

  I had horses ready. Together we rode up from the pier to Dover Castle. That very night, in the cold great hall of the massive stone keep that my father had built, we came up with our plan. I’d already decided I’d have to give in. All I needed were the best terms possible.

  I agreed to accept Stephen of Langton as Archbishop of Canterbury. I agreed to reinstate the clergy I’d exiled. Most painful, I agreed to repay the church the moneys I’d confiscated.

  The next and final provision was my suggestion.

  “My lord Pandulfo,” I said, “what if I were to cede my kingdom to God and to Pope Innocent III? And what if Innocent were then to make me responsible for governing the kingdom as his vassal? This should please His Holiness. And when they’ve had time to take it in, it should please my people. They’d be saved from the French invasion. No Christian ruler would dare invade a land under apostolic protection.”

  Pandulfo’s thin lips twisted in his version of a smile.

  “Excellent! This was the outcome the Holy Father hoped for. I was empowered to suggest it to you if you didn’t propose it yourself. I believe we are now in complete accord.”

  All that remained was to inform a few of my most powerful nobles and obtain their guarantee of my pledge. The Pope had particularly asked for that assurance, though I told Pandulfo I thought it unnecessary.

  “Why wouldn’t I keep my word, with so much at stake?”

  “His Holiness requires it of all his vassals on whom he confers lands in fief. Especially those who have in the past not kept their promises to him and whom he has had to chastise.” Pandulfo’s eyes bored into mine. I took his meaning and said nothing more on the subject.

  My four guarantors agreed at once: anything to end the misery we’d been living in for the past half-dozen years under the interdict and my excommunication. Beyond those four, not a soul knew of my plans until I called an assembly in the Church of the Temple in London.

  I deliberately chose this modest church rather than Westminster Abbey because I didn’t want this to be seen as a grand ceremonial occasion. It was more of a business transaction. No incense, no chanting, no ritual. I selected one of the kingdom’s lesser archbishops to preside: Henry of Dublin. Besides my four guarantors, I’d invited a small company of peers and clergy to witness the proceedings.

  On May 15, 1213 Archbishop Henry stood in the church’s bleak, circular nave. I knelt before him on the bare, cold stone floor. I wore my customary black and my crown but no jewels, rings, or cross. The archbishop, in contrast, was splendidly garbed in a scarlet cassock with a white stole. His white mitre soared above his head like the sail of a ship.

  Kneeling there, my knees already sore from the rough stone, I looked around at the thick rough-hewn walls of this church the Templars had built, so like a fortress that it could have withstood a Saracen siege. I saw how the walls bristled with carved heads of demons, snarling beasts and fantastic creatures. Not an angel to be seen. Perhaps that’s just as well, I thought. Our business here has more to do with skullduggery than with holiness.

  The archbishop read from a document I’d given him. His voice rather resembled the bray of a donkey, but it was a donkey with good lungs. His words carried to every listener.

  “These are the words of King John:

  We have deeply offended our Holy Mother the Church and it will be hard to draw on the mercy of Heaven. Therefore, we would humble ourselves, and without constraint, of our own free will, by the consent of our barons and high justiciars, we give and confer on God, on the Holy Apostles St. Peter and St. Paul, on our Mother the Church and on Pope Innocent III and his Catholic successors, the whole kingdom of England and Ireland, with all their rights and dependencies for the remission of our sins; henceforth we hold them as a fief, and in token thereof we swear allegiance in presence of Pandulfo, Legate of the Holy See.”

  Behind me I could almost hear the stunned silence of the assembly. I imagined their open-jawed amazement at what they’d just heard. Pandulfo was sitting near me on the throne I’d ordinarily occupy. I looked up to catch his eye while the archbishop spoke. I winked. Since he was facing the audience he couldn’t reply in kind, but I knew from his narrowed eyes and the merest twitch of his lip that we were of like mind: “Haven’t we given them a fine surprise!”

  Playing my role as penitent son of the church
to the hilt, I took off my crown and handed it to Pandulfo. He held it up for all to see: the gleaming gold coronet with its rubies and emeralds and its five upstanding fleur-de-lis inlaid with pearls. He placed it on a cushion on the table at his side. He stood to address the spectators, who had begun to murmur in their confusion. He raised his hand for silence. His black cassock and stole couldn’t rival the archbishop’s brilliance. His words, however, were even more startling.

  “In the name of His Holiness, Innocent III, God’s vicar on earth, we accept the kingdom of King John. Taking account of his penitence and his sincere desire for forgiveness, we name him vassal of The Holy See, with responsibility to govern the kingdom in the Pope’s name. We abjure him to govern wisely, in accordance with the tenets of the church and in such manner that all his acts will redound to the glory of God. In token of the Pope’s faith that King John will obediently carry out these admonitions, we restore to him his crown, which he may wear so long as he remains a faithful and obedient son of the church.”

  More murmurs and gasps, while Pandulfo replaced the crown on my head.

  The archbishop concluded with a “God bless us all” or some such parting message. The ceremony was over. The lords and bishops hurried out to spread the strange story. The good people of London would have a lot to conjecture about.

  The next day Isabella rejoined me at Westminster. I was still so puffed up with what I’d accomplished, and she was so amazed at the news, that any coolness in our relationship was thawed by our shared rejoicing that we were still King and Queen of England. Late in the afternoon we left the palace to walk by the river along with several of our courtiers. Isabella’s hand was tucked in my arm and her face turned to me while I described the events in the Church of the Temple in every detail. She hung on my words, an adoring wife. It was easy to forget that I’d been recently so enraged at her.

  “How I wish I’d been there, John! To see you humbling yourself, then getting your crown back! Couldn’t you have sent for me to come?”

  “No, my love, that would have made it seem a state occasion, with my Queen at my side. But I have a mind to invite the world—or at least the world that resides on this isle—to rejoice with us at our improved fortunes. You’ll certainly be at my side for that.”

  On Ascension Day I held a grand celebration on the Kentish Downs. The crown that the mad hermit had predicted I’d lose this day sat comfortably on my head. I lounged on my throne in front of my royal pavilion. It was a bright breezy day, the kind that England can produce to reward us for surviving the dreary winter. Daisies had popped into bloom on the greensward. I could hear the snapping and fluttering of the Plantagenet pennant that flew from the tent’s peak, as though the three golden lions were trying to claw their way off of their red field and join the festivities. I surveyed the scene before me. Tables were laden with every kind of meat and fowl and pudding, vats of wine and barrels of ale. Wandering minstrels were tootling and plucking and sawing away. Lords and ladies, bishops and even an archbishop or two sat at the tables partaking with gusto.

  Looking beyond the merrymakers, I saw an endless expanse of green, where the downs rolled on to Dover. I could almost imagine I saw the Channel. But it was only a low-lying cloud shining in the sun. No matter. I knew the Channel was there. And I knew that on the French side, King Philip’s armies and navies, primed to invade England, had been halted by a formidable if invisible barrier. If they invaded now they’d be attacking a papal fief. To do so would incur the Pope’s wrath, perhaps his excommunication. For Philip it wouldn’t be worth the risk. Pandulfo had promised when he left that he’d make a point of seeking King Philip out and assuring him that his cause was lost.

  I looked around for Isabella, who’d been sitting beside me but had risen a few minutes ago to speak to friends in the crowd. I caught sight of her at once, chatting with a cluster of lords and ladies. She was wearing a gown new to me, the same color as the cherries that were ripening in the Kent orchards. Her hair hung in ringlets like coils of spun gold. She was laughing. She looked up and caught my eye and blew me a kiss. I thought in my euphoria that I could forgive her much if she continued to be the lovely, loving wife she was at this moment.

  But who was this—this tall man who took her arm and led her away? He looked familiar but I couldn’t place him. They stopped. He spoke earnestly while she stood listening, smiling. She looked up at him with the same coquettish come-hither invitation I’d seen so often when we were first married. He leaned down and she raised her face to his, but at the last minute turned her head so his kiss landed in the air instead of on her lips. It was so quick that I almost missed it. She laughed and gave him a little push. He went one way, she returned to the throng.

  “Peter!” I roared. My man was busy in the pavilion behind me, preparing a table with my repast. He jumped at my shout and came running.

  “Peter! Who is that tall yellow-haired man, just sitting down at the farthest table to the left?”

  Peter squinted into the sun, found the man I referred to, and said, “Why that’s one of your Norman knights, my lord. Surely you’ve seen him around your court this past year. That’s James Tourville.”

  Chapter 44

  Isabella

  1213

  When we came back to Westminster Palace after John’s extravagant celebration in Kent, I felt uneasy and adrift. It was as though, having fallen out of love with John, I no longer had a center to my life.

  I asked Lady Anne: “Have you heard whether the English have a term for what we call joie de vivre? I find myself strangely lacking in it these days.”

  “I doubt if they have a word for it, since they so seldom display it. Too bad we aren’t back at Lusignan with Countess Alice. Remember how she’d brew up a spring tonic when we felt out of sorts? It tasted so horrid that we forgot all our other troubles.”

  I smiled at the memory of good Aunt Alice, so solicitous. Then I fell to brooding again. Should I pursue my flirtation with James Tourville? It enlivened my spirits somewhat, though it hadn’t gone very far. He was heartbreakingly handsome, but so callow and predictable that there wasn’t much sport in the relationship.

  John was busy arranging his settlement with the church and planning a new expedition to France. We were civil with each other and got along well enough, though we seldom shared a bed. When we did I managed to make a good pretense at enjoying the experience. I didn’t always have to pretend. Much as I fought against it, his touch could still excite me.

  Sometimes at dinner in the great hall or during a service in the chapel, I’d catch him staring at me as a hangman stares at his hapless victim. I’d shiver when I saw those black eyes fixed on me. I supposed he’d learned something of my meeting with Hugh. I didn’t care. If he brought that up, I had a long list of misdeeds I could accuse him of.

  At the end of September the new papal legate, Cardinal Nicholas of Tusculum, came to London to prepare to withdraw the interdict. England was to be restored to the Communion of the Church. This required endless meetings at Westminster Palace. First out of boredom, then out of curiosity, I attended many of them.

  I’d met the first legate only briefly and was expecting another like him. Cardinal Nicholas turned out to be the exact opposite of Subdeacon Pandulfo. He was plump, outgoing, and so affable that John, even at his sourest, soon became cheerful in his company.

  Their first task was to see that new clerics were elected to fill all the vacant sees and abbeys. This could have been a delicate project because John wanted only men he approved of. I’m sure he expected arguments from Nicholas. But it seemed the Pope had instructed his legate to be conciliatory (and why not, since he had so easily won suzerainty over the kingdoms of England and Ireland!). All of John’s choices were accepted.

  Negotiating the financial terms of John’s capitulation to the Pope was a little thornier. How John hated to part with money! After a good deal of hammering away at each other, the two came to a sort of agreement. It was at the end of a long
, heavy meal in the grand dining hall of Westminster Palace. Most of the diners had wiped the last crumbs of plum tart off their chins and departed for naps. The nurse had taken off the two youngest children, Richard and Joanna, long ago. Of John’s council, only Geoffrey Fitz-Peter the justiciar, William de Cantilupe and Brian de Lisle remained. Sir Brian had taken over from Robert de Thorneham the year before as chief household steward.

  I was still there, as was little Henry. John had decided it would be educational for him to be present at some of these meetings.

  “It’s none too soon for him to see what it’s like to be a king. He spends too much time with you women. Time to put some backbone in him.”

  So here was six-year-old Prince Henry, dressed in a fine red velvet tunic, his curly black hair well brushed, doing his best to pay attention and stay awake. He sat between Cardinal Nicholas and me. Over the clatter of the servants taking away empty dishes and mopping up pools of spilled soup and wine, I heard the cardinal’s genial voice.

  “An excellent meal, my lord king. I’ve never had such succulent goose in Rome. I thought I detected a whiff of tarragon. I must talk to your cooks and ask them what herbs and basting seasoning they use.”

  “Yes, I suppose it was passable,” said John. He was far more interested in quantity than quality of his provender, and was doubtless surprised at Nicholas’s enthusiasm for anything as ordinary as roast goose.

  The cardinal put a hand over his mouth to smother a barely audible belch and spoke. I loved his voice. It was like warm treacle flowing over smooth pebbles.

  “Well, we have more weighty matters than that to discuss, don’t we? I believe we’re close enough to an agreement to see the interdict lifted within the next few months. Have you made your final decision on the amount you are willing to pay the bishops?”