by Rachel Bard
Henry looked up at me and whispered, “Why does my father have to pay the bishops? Don’t they work for the Pope and doesn’t the Pope pay them?”
Cardinal Nicholas overheard. He patted Henry on the head. “A good question, Prince Henry. Let me explain. The bishops are indeed responsible to the archbishops, who are responsible to the Pope. But the Pope doesn’t actually pay them. Like any other barons in England, the bishops depend on their woodlands and their farms for money to live on and to do their good works. Many of them lost a great deal of land during the last few years, as well as the castles they lived in. So King John has promised to make it up to them.”
Henry, very serious, had kept his eyes on the cardinal’s face during this explanation.
“Thank you, sir. I think I understand.”
I sent a grateful look to Nicholas. He’d said not a word about how John had confiscated the bishops’ castles and farms and cut down their woodlands. Henry was a little young to learn the unpleasant side of John’s way of ruling. I was glad to let him believe that his father was making recompense out of the goodness of his heart.
“Yes, well, as to the amount,” said John. “I’ve decided that we’ll offer them one hundred thousand marks. And I think you agree, Sir Geoffrey?”
Geoffrey Fitz-Peter nodded his grizzled old head but said nothing. He looked tired, hoping the meeting would soon end. I’d never liked him, not since the days when he’d done his best to ignore me when I presided at the council meetings. Now though, looking at his stooped back and his gray, drawn face I had to admit he had served John—and before John, Richard—with complete loyalty, for decades. John had precious few loyal men about him now.
Nicholas considered. He turned to his small companion and asked him, with all the gravity of a potentate consulting his most trusted adviser, “What do you think, Prince Henry? Is that a good offer?”
Henry screwed up his face, thinking. Then, in his piping little voice, “It does seem like a great deal of money. But if the bishops can prove that they really need it, I think they should have it.”
Nicholas smiled and thanked him.
“I agree with Prince Henry, my lord. The amount seems ample to me. But the bishops and the Pope will have the final say. I’ll inform them of our agreement and tell you their response.”
So the matter was settled. I strongly doubted if John meant to pay the entire hundred thousand. As it turned out, he didn’t. When the interdict was at last lifted the next year, he’d shilly-shallied and procrastinated so successfully that he was out only thirty thousand marks. He never got around to paying the rest.
With his papal relations taking such a satisfactory turn, John could now devote himself to resuming the war with Philip. The very thought of more battling wearied me. After fourteen years as Queen of England, it seemed to me that the one constant was preparing for war, going to war or planning the next war.
John had already told me I must accompany him to France. He was still unwilling to have me far from him. When things went well, he needed someone to hear his bragging. When they didn’t, he needed an audience for his angry complaints.
It was the former he was full of on a late fall day in 1213.
We were at Winchester, John’s favorite of all his royal residences. I liked it too, chiefly because of my elegant private lodgings in the Queen’s House. I often wished Queen Eleanor were still alive so I could show her that I too had elevated taste.
John had just returned from Oxford where he’d held a council of war to make final plans for the Continental expedition. He found me walking in the gardens with the children and a group of my ladies. It was the first halfway fine day after a dreary week of steady, depressing rain. I’d felt the need for fresh air and knew it would do the children good. The paths were still damp underfoot, the trees were dripping, and a few bedraggled chrysanthemums drooped in discouragement. Only the herb garden with its vigorous stand of rosemary showed any spirit. Even when the sun escaped from scudding clouds it didn’t send down much warmth. I held three-year-old Joanna’s hand while she skipped along at my side. Lady Anne was trying to keep the little princes in check without much success. Richard had decided he was a horse and trotted about, whinnying. Henry entered into the game, but only so he could push Richard down and leap onto his back.
“If you’re a horse why can’t I ride you?”
“Because I’m a warhorse and you’re not a warrior,” Richard squealed. “Besides I can run very fast so you can’t catch me!” He galloped off to hide behind the dovecote. Henry screamed after him, “Yes I can! Just you wait!”
John walked out from the palace into this bedlam. He frowned.
“Henry, don’t shout so! Isabella, what are you thinking of, bringing them out in such foul weather? Come in. I want to talk to you.”
“Yes, and there’s something I want to tell you too. I’ll come soon, after they’ve had a little more time to play. The more they’re allowed to run about, the better they’ll behave once they’re inside.”
He harrumphed and stomped back into the palace.
When I joined him in his chamber in the tower, his clerk was just leaving, carrying a box of parchments, pens and inkwells. John liked the view from this room. I found him standing by the window looking out at the huge golden weathercock atop the cathedral belfry, glowing in a rare beam of late-afternoon sun. He glanced at me, then continued to watch while a robed brother climbed into the belfry and began pulling at the heavy bell-ropes. Four mighty peals rang out, signaling to the whole city that at least at this moment, all was well in God’s heaven and in our world here below. John smiled, then settled himself in his big chair before a table that was littered with long strips of parchment dense with writing.
“Now Isabella, you must sit here and look at what we’ve put together in the way of support. These are the names of men who have pledged themselves to join us against Philip, and the amounts of money they’re prepared to provide.”
I sat beside him. It was an impressive array. How had John inveigled so many to join his cause? On closer examination I saw few familiar names—only a half-dozen of the English barons who should have rallied around. Instead there was entry after entry like “From Wessex, twenty freemen” and “From Kent, fifteen freemen and forty-two hired soldiers.” It looked as though John’s army would be mostly mercenaries and lowborn soldiers. Then my eyes fell on another list. It was led by the name of Otto the Emperor of Germany, John’s nephew, followed by others almost as distinguished: counts from Flanders and Holland, dukes from Lorraine and Brabant, nobles from Poitou and Boulogne.
“Mercy on us, John, are all these really pledged to you? How have you managed this?” I was truly amazed.
He smirked. “Bribes and flattery, mostly. Keep reading, Isabella.”
I did. At the bottom of the list, scrawled in John’s hand, was the name of Hugh le Brun de Lusignan.
Frozen-faced, I stared at it. I felt as though my heart had stopped beating for a moment. John watched my reaction.
“Surprised, eh? How did I lure your dear friend Hugh to join my ranks? Shall I tell you?”
I couldn’t speak for shock and confusion.
“Actually, he hasn’t yet done so, but I am confident he will. I sent Walter Mauclerk over to track him down. Walter is familiar with Hugh’s habits and whereabouts by now. This is exactly what I told Walter to say to Hugh: ‘If you will support King John in his wars with King Philip, and encourage the rest of the Lusignans to do the same, King John will offer to your son and heir, Hugh, the hand of his daughter, Joanna. As advance on her dowry he will present you with Saint-Onge and the Island of Oléron. With the Lusignans’ present holdings, this will give you a domain far larger than Philip’s Ile de France, as well as ports on the Atlantic Ocean.’ I told Walter to tell Hugh to discuss this with the rest of the clan and that I’d expect their answer before our forces arrive in France.”
He folded his arms and waited, self-satisfied and patient as a cat that’s
maneuvered a mouse into a corner.
I didn’t know where to begin. Anyway, what was the point of objecting? Hugh would probably agree. He’d think I’d plotted this with John, glad for a chance to humiliate him further after I’d broken off our affair.
But I couldn’t let John think I approved.
“My lord, why wasn’t I consulted? I am the Queen and the child’s mother. I believe that I have a say in her future.”
“You weren’t consulted because I knew you’d object. You’d have nattered on that she’s only three, that it’s far too soon to think of her marriage. You might even have said it was unseemly to betroth your daughter to the son of your former fiancé. I myself think it’s a brilliant solution to several of my problems.” His lips curled in a grim smile while he waited to see if I’d go on arguing. I believe he was disappointed when without a word I rose and left the room.
Back in my own chambers it was blessedly quiet. I’d made myself a comfortable, semi-private little retreat, a screened corner before a tall arched window. I settled here and looked out across the gardens where we’d just been walking. On the far side, against the high castle walls, a row of poplars flaunted their golden leaves—all too soon they’d fall.
My fury at John had given way to melancholy. I’d intended to give him my own news. But he’d driven it out of my mind with his insane proposal to marry Joanna to young Hugh. Now, to spite him, I decided to keep it to myself for a time.
I’d just discovered that I was pregnant.
John would have been pleased. Another child to marry off. I was far from pleased. I didn’t look forward to months of discomfort, discontent and unloveliness.
My brooding was interrupted when Anne knocked and came in.
“I didn’t know you’d returned, my lady. I’ll have them come stir up the fire.”
“Thank you, Anne. And a brazier for my feet? I think I’ll sit here a little longer.”
“Of course. You do look a bit tired. Would you like a bowl of broth?”
“No, thank you. You’re very good.”
“I’ll be off then. Oh, I almost forgot. I was asked to give you this.” She handed me a small pouch of purple silk tied with a rose-colored velvet ribbon. I could tell from her tone that she disapproved of whatever it was.
When she’d left I opened it. Inside were a heart-shaped silver brooch and a note.
“My lady Queen, you have been avoiding me! Therefore I send you my heart, in hopes that you will take pity and I may be restored to your friendship. May I meet you somewhere, anywhere, soon? Yours, James Tourville.”
What a foolish lad! was my first thought. It was followed at once by Well, why not? I need something to take my mind off John and his maddening ways. I’ve earned a little diversion. And James has earned a reward for his devotion.
Before I had time to think I walked to my writing table, found a pen and an inkwell, and scrawled at the bottom of the note:
“Yes. Here. Now.” I put it back in its silken pouch.
When the man came to see to the fire, I handed him the pouch and asked him to find James Tourville and deliver it to him.
Within fifteen minutes James knocked on my door. He looked disappointed to find me fully dressed. Perhaps he’d envisioned me lying languidly on my bed, waiting for my lover, needing no coaxing to yield to him. I suppose being so extraordinarily handsome, he’d never had to learn that a lady likes to be wooed. His previous conquests had doubtless been women who couldn’t wait for him to bed them.
So our lovemaking found him more of a pupil than a conqueror. But I will say he was a willing and eager pupil. I decided it would be instructive for him, and amusing for me, to continue his education.
I felt, though, that I should caution him. As he was leaving, after kissing my hand most properly, I asked him, “Have you thought, James, of the danger you’re risking if John should find out about you? He’s insanely jealous and can be incredibly cruel.”
“No matter. One hour with you, my lady fair, is more precious than life itself.”
I recognized this as a line from one of the troubadours’ ballads. If he insisted on being so foolishly romantic, I couldn’t help it. I’d warned him.
Chapter 45
John
1214
Know you that we and the loyal followers who came with us to Poitou are safe and well, and that, by God’s grace, we have already taken steps to confuse our enemies and bring joy and satisfaction to our friends. On the Sunday before Mid-Lent we besieged the castle of Milécu, which had been armed against us, and on the following Tuesday we captured it.
John
I sent that message home to my justiciar and other officers in England on March 8, 1214, less than a month after landing on the shores of France. To my surprise, King Philip hadn’t ventured out to do battle with me though we had a few skirmishes with his son, Prince Louis.
Walter Mauclerk had had no trouble in convincing Hugh le Brun that a betrothal of his son and Joanna was an excellent idea, in view of what I was offering in exchange. It’s amazing what the promise of a near-doubling of your vassals’ holdings can accomplish. At the end of May I could still send cheerful dispatches:
On Trinity Sunday we were at Parthenay when the Counts of La Marche and Eu, together with Geoffrey of Lusignan, did homage and fealty to us. Having already discussed the marriage of our daughter Joanna and the son of the Count of La Marche, we now granted this to him…Now, thank God, we are ready to attack our chief enemy, the King of France, beyond Poitou. We inform you that you may rejoice at our success.
John
I’d arranged to meet the Lusignans at Parthenay, not far from their ancestral domain. For some years I’d been sending subsidies to the local lord, who’d remained a faithful vassal in spite of the blandishments of King Philip. He’d used them well in building and strengthening the fortifications and in providing lodgings for the pilgrims who stopped here on their way to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. Entering the town I looked around with satisfaction at his work. It was gratifying to see how my patronage had put the fear of King John into the hearts of my enemies, and gratitude to King John into those of the faithful.
Our large party rode in great ceremony through the massive city gate and along the Pilgrims’ Road that went straight through the city to the Citadel. Three heralds rode before me, one bearing the Plantagenet pennant and two blowing lustily on their horns to clear the townsfolk and the countryfolk out of our way. My palfrey was caparisoned in red and gold. I wore my crown and my jeweled signet ring. My long black cape, richly embroidered with golden lions, fell in regal folds almost to the ground. Isabella rode beside me, nearly as splendid. Her sky-blue cape glittered with silver fleur-de-lis, always a sure reminder to any doubters that the kings of England were also monarchs of a good part of France.
As we neared the entrance to the Citadel, I laughed when a bumpkin had to leap aside to avoid my horse’s hooves. He was agile as a court dancer. How comical he looked, watching while his basket of turnips and onions spilled over the muddy cobblestones and were pounded into mush by the riders who came after. I looked at Isabella to share my amusement, but she was staring straight ahead, her face set in the same stiff, uncommunicative expression I’d seen so often since we’d left England.
She hadn’t wanted to come. She’d told me she should stay quietly at home to await the birth of our child, who was due in the fall. I’d reminded her that she’d traveled about during her previous pregnancies with no ill effects. She’d countered that those travels had been in England, a relatively peaceful land, not embroiled in strife and open warfare as France now was. Running out of arguments, I’d simply ordered her to come with me.
“You’ll be safe enough with our hundreds of armed knights protecting us at all times, and with your own ladies to see to your needs. It will do you good to get away from the court and all the distractions.” I think she knew what I meant. I hadn’t any proof yet that she was having an affair with James Tourville, but
I was watching carefully.
We reached the Citadel walls and stopped at the Church of Saint-Pierre, just outside. I’d decided it was appropriate to hold both of the ceremonies I’d planned here, rather than in the castle. Coupling the oaths of fealty of the Lusignans with the betrothal, and in a holy place, would suggest that both were blessed by God. The small courtyard in front of the church filled quickly with horsemen; lords and ladies dismounting, conversing and exclaiming; knights noisily unbuckling their armor and tossing it to their squires; and the odors of sweaty beasts and horse dung. I helped Isabella to dismount, then took Joanna down from the arms of her nurse and set her on the ground. She looked up at me wondering what she should do. She was wearing a long-skirted ruby-red gown that covered her from neck to wrist to toe. She looked very small and very young, more like a doll than a little girl. I hadn’t bothered to explain to her what lay ahead of her. I assumed Isabella had.
Isabella’s gown was the same color as Joanna’s. She wore a gold circlet that sparkled with pearls. She bent down to place a similar circlet on Joanna’s head. The child put her hand up to touch the circlet carefully, and looked up at her mother with a shy, proud smile. For a moment I was transfixed by the beauty of the picture: mother and daughter, both in glowing red, both golden-haired and blue-eyed, smiling at each other. My heart gave a little lurch. It was a long time since Isabella had looked at me with such love.
She took Joanna’s hand and we went into the church. The bishop greeted us. He looked quite young to be a bishop and extremely nervous, twisting his hands together and searching the crowded nave for any signs of impropriety or candelabra that hadn’t been lit. He’d probably never had a visit from royalty. While I conferred with him, explaining the order I wished for the ceremonies, I looked around. The church was filling rapidly. The Lusignans had arrived before us, some twelve or fifteen men, standing at the front on the right. There was Hugh le Brun, Count of la Marche, looking a little older and stouter than when I’d last seen him when I took him prisoner at Mirebeau. On the whole he was the same bushy-haired, earnest-faced man I remembered though his brown hair was graying. The tall young man next to him must be his son, the future Hugh X. I had no trouble recognizing Geoffrey and Ralph. I’d had the satisfaction of receiving their fealty long ago, just after I inherited the throne. Then they had treacherously gone over to King Philip. And now they were returning to the Angevin fold.