by Rachel Bard
Isabella and Joanna were seated at the front on the left, with her ladies standing nearby. Neither then nor throughout the afternoon did I see a single glance exchanged between my queen and Hugh le Brun.
While our party of knights, nobles and ladies found places, the bishop led me to the dais above the nave where I sat in one of the two thrones that had been set up there. I gave the signal to the trumpeters who were waiting at the outer entrance. They let out a fanfare that, though more like a contest than a duet, did get attention. Chatter and scuffling of feet stopped.
The bishop uttered a blessedly brief prayer, than gave a little bow in my direction. I spoke from my throne.
“My lord bishop, lords and ladies, loyal subjects both English and French, greetings. We are here, first, to welcome back as vassals of the English King the noble leaders of the Lusignan clan. We are gratified that they have seen the wisdom of taking this step. We assure them that so long as they remain faithful and true, combating their king’s enemies as though they were their own, so will we support them in the defense of their lands against all assaults. Sir Geoffrey, Seigneur of Moncontour and Vouvant; Ralph, Count of Eu; and Hugh, Count of La Marche, come forward.”
The three men stepped up to stand before me. Normally a vassal kneels, but I didn’t ask this. My purpose wasn’t to make them grovel, which would only have added to their resentment. I was simply interested in their public pledge of loyalty.
I turned to Geoffrey first. I was glad I wasn’t standing up because he would have towered over me like an oak over a sapling. I held out my hands. Geoffrey placed his two hands within mine, as is the custom when a vassal swears fealty to his lord.
“Do you swear to serve King John as your liege lord, providing him with aid and counsel, so long as he stands by you, protects you and deals fairly with you?”
“I do so swear.” His voice was gruff. He looked into my face almost defiantly. I knew how much it cost him to give up the enmity that had fueled his resistance all these years. Still, he swore.
So did Ralph, with less bravado.
So did Hugh. If I’d thought Geoffrey a simmering cauldron of rage, Hugh was nearly boiling over. His swarthy face was mottled red. He hesitated a moment before placing his hands in mine, as though he had to force them. How the man hated me! Yet like his uncle and his brother he was a realist.
I nodded to the bishop, who came forward. The three Lusignans knelt and bowed their heads while the bishop blessed each in turn, in the name of the Holy Trinity. They stepped down and resumed their places.
I signaled the trumpeters to send out their triumphant tune. The pause must have done them good because this time they nearly succeeded in playing the same notes at the same time.
Now it was time for the betrothal. This was the bishop’s business. He asked Isabella to bring Joanna up to the dais and told young Hugh to stand beside her, both facing him. Isabella sat on the throne by my side. The bishop droned on about fidelity and marriage vows and chastity. The onlookers smiled and whispered, enchanted with the exquisite little girl and her tall fiancé.
Isabella kept her eyes fixed on her daughter as though willing her to be brave and not cry. Joanna, standing stiffly, stared back at her wide-eyed, doing her best to be the good girl that Isabella had doubtless told her she must be. Every now and then Isabella would glance up at Hugh, as though assessing him to see if he would make a good husband for her child. He looked satisfactory enough to me: more handsome than his father, tall and well-built, with the same brown hair but less unruly. He too looked as though he were trying to be the good boy his father had told him he must be. His expression was good-natured, though it hadn’t been his idea for a thirty-year-old man to become engaged to a four-year-old girl.
And still, though he was almost in front of her and not ten feet away, Isabella sent not even a fleeting look at Hugh le Brun.
The bishop was nearly finished.
“Now, Hugh de Lusignan and Joanna of England, do you promise to be true to each other until the day of your marriage?”
Hugh’s “I do” rang out loud and clear, but Joanna’s was almost a whisper. By now she looked close to tears, confused and frightened. Isabella rose and took her hand, preparing for our procession out of the church.
A pair of vergers in red robes with white stoles swung censers, sending the sweet spicy odor of incense wafting through the church. A small choir had materialized from somewhere. The bishop prayed to God to bless this union. While the choir sang a closing anthem we all marched out. The trumpeters, thank heaven, were no longer in evidence. Perhaps on hearing the choir they realized they’d met their betters.
Out in the courtyard while I waited for the rest of the company I looked up at the elaborately carved figures on the church façade. I was intrigued by a stone horseman holding his spear high. He might have been going into battle full of brave hopes, or returning victorious. A fitting symbol, I thought. I’d just won my battle with the powerful Lusignans—luring them away from King Philip and to my side. And now I was about to engage Philip in a battle to regain my lost French kingdoms. I had no doubt I’d emerge victorious.
Then just two months later came the Battle of Bouvines.
I wasn’t there. I was in La Rochelle, a seaport far to the south, trying to rally my forces after a humiliating desertion by my Poitivin barons. They’d turned tail when they heard that Prince Louis was advancing with a great army. I’d sent for reinforcements from England so I could take up the fight again but none had arrived.
Meantime, my allies were preparing to meet King Philip in pitched battle, north of Paris. They were a formidable coalition: Emperor Otto of Germany, Fernand of Flanders, Renaud of Boulogne and other lords from Holland, Lorraine and Brabant. With their thousands of knights and foot soldiers, the force seemed invincible. Yet,
“When the borders of Flanders had been surrounded and the troops organized, a battle took place on the bridge of Bouvines between Mortain and Tournai on 27 July, a Sunday, and having killed many in the conflict the French king held the palm of victory.”
Anonymous Barnwell chronicler
I didn’t have to wait for the chronicler to describe the defeat. Terric Teutonicus, a Germanic knight who’d long served me faithfully, escaped capture and rode night and day to bring me the news. He told me that Otto of Germany had lost interest and left the field, and the coalition army had fallen apart. Philip had dealt my allies an overwhelming defeat. He was free to march into and claim for his own my lands in Normandy, Maine, Anjou, the Touraine and Poitou.
Bereft of my lands, without an army, I could do nothing in France now. I prepared to retire to England.
I was accompanied on the voyage only by Terric, my steward Brian de Lisle and a half-dozen of my household knights. Isabella and Joanna had returned shortly after the ceremonies at Parthenay. The journey seemed interminable, up the coast of Aquitaine, around Brittany and across the channel. I brooded and raged. Terric, Brian and my retainers kept out of my way as well as they could on such a confined vessel. If Isabella had been with me I could have made her listen to my tirades. Well for her that she wasn’t, though. I might have struck out at her, half-believing the old tales of how she’d used fiendish powers to bewitch me and bring me ill fortune.
William Marshal met me when I stepped onto the pier at Dartmouth. I could tell from his gray, frowning face that he wasn’t bearing good news. We rode up to the castle through the cold October twilight. The wind whipped at our cloaks and made our horses shake their heads and snort. There were few people about. Those whom we met, muffled up against the chill and with their heads low as they fought the gusts of wind, paid no attention to us. How different, I thought, sunk in my bitterness, from another royal visit to this port. As a much younger man, I’d watched when my brother Richard had embarked from Dartmouth on his Crusade in 1190. It was a time full of hope, with thousands of brave knights setting off on the greatest adventure of the age. Now Richard’s successor was arriving here after def
eat and betrayal, deserted by his allies, not even recognized by his indifferent subjects.
At the castle I ordered supper and mulled wine to be brought to the upper room that looked out at the estuary. Over our roast beef and apple tarts William told me that a good number of the barons, perhaps two-score, were almost in open rebellion. Archbishop Stephen Langton was encouraging them to demand that I restore the rights I’d taken away from them.
“What are they talking about? They have the same rights they had under my brother and my father.”
“Apparently they’ve found an old document that they call a charter of liberties. They claim, and Archbishop Stephen backs them, that it goes back to King Henry I and promises the king’s noble subjects freedom from all manner of obligations. I haven’t seen it. I doubt if it’s as broad a charter as they think. But it gives them something to rally around.”
I got up and stamped about the room. I could feel the anger rising until I felt I might explode.
“By God’s body, I’ll give them something to rally around! I’ll impose a tax on every one of them who refused to go to France with me. Rights, they say. Ha! A king has his rights too!”
William said nothing. He was used to my temper. Finally I calmed down enough to resume my seat. I downed my goblet of wine in two gulps.
“My lord king, I suggest that you call a meeting of your council as soon as you arrive in London and also call in the barons who are still loyal to you. You’ll need their advice and counsel.”
I agreed.
Then William gave me a final bit of news. He probably thought it would cheer me after all his dismal tidings.
The week before, my Queen had been delivered of a daughter, whom she’d named Isabella. Mother and daughter were well.
My first reaction was disappointment that it wasn’t a son. My second was a fleeting bit of resentment that she hadn’t been named for my mother, as I’d intended for the next girl-child.
But now that I’d lost nearly all my French possessions and had to face this infuriating rebellion at home, what was another daughter to me?
Chapter 46
Isabella
1215
“You will welcome me to your bed or I will see that the body of your lover James is hung lifeless before your eyes!”
I was rigid with terror.
John gripped my arm so tightly that I felt it might break. I struggled though I knew it was useless. The more I tried to escape the stronger his grasp. He pulled me to him and kissed me so savagely that my face was bruised. He dragged me to the bed, threw me down and fell upon me. I beat at him and tried to hold him off, but he only became more violent. At last he shuddered so it racked his whole body, then rose and stared down at me.
Between gasps he snarled, “Not like what you’ve been enjoying with your namby-pamby Monsieur Tourville, was it? Let this be a lesson to you, Isabella. Nobody denies the King, not even the Queen. Especially a Queen who has cuckolded her husband!”
I turned my head aside and closed my eyes, almost fainting with outrage and pain. I heard the door slam behind him. I don’t know how long I lay there in agony before I heard a light knock. Anne came in. She must have heard my sobbing.
Bless her. She didn’t speak, but gently and efficiently helped me out of my torn gown, washed my tear-ravaged face, wrapped me in a warm robe and led me to my nook by the window. We were at Winchester, in my private apartments. Always up to now John had been here only at my invitation or with my agreement. Now I felt that my Queen’s House had been violated, just as I had been.
Anne sat beside me with her needlework. I’d never had to confide in her about my relations with my husband. She knew how things were without words from me. It was always an enormous comfort to sense her unspoken support. I’m sure she disapproved of my affair with James Tourville, but she’d never said anything.
Now, though, it was more than I could bear alone. All the fears and forebodings I’d been suppressing came out.
“He’s become a monster, Anne. What happened to the man I married, who loved me as I loved him? Everything is changed, and I don’t know what to do. I’d go away but where? Wherever I went he’d find me and compel me to come back. And there are the children. I couldn’t leave them. They’re mine as much as his.”
“As to the man you married, my lady, there’s no doubt he’s changed a great deal. But…” She paused. I could tell she was wondering whether to go on. She took a deep breath. “You may have brought this on yourself to some extent. You may have provoked him more than you realized, without thinking through the consequences.”
This was beginning to sound like criticism. I didn’t like criticism.
“Now my dear, just listen a moment. Do you remember when you were a girl and we left Angoulême to stay at the Lusignans’ castle? When your mother entrusted me with your care she was very frank.
“ ‘There’s no doubt Isabella is going to become a beautiful woman,’ Lady Alix told me. ‘Men will be attracted to her. My dearest hope is that when she and Sir Hugh are married they’ll grow to love each other and be true to each other, as her father and I have been for twenty years. But Isabella is headstrong. If things don’t go well in her marriage it will be up to you to use what influence you can to keep her from doing something foolish.’ ’’
Now I was angry.
“Why couldn’t she have said some of that to me? I thought she was pushing me out of the nest, glad to get rid of me. She never said a word about what might lie ahead for me as a wife. Not then, or later when I married John.”
“Would you have listened, Isabella? You were headstrong. And you were very young. ”
I sighed. “I suppose you’re right. But Anne, why are you telling me this now? Is it because you want to warn me against doing something foolish? I fear it’s a little late for that.”
“I almost spoke, several times. I thought of warning you about how John would take it when he found out about you and James Tourville. But I don’t think you would have listened to me either. Now of course that’s over. John will undoubtedly banish him from court, or worse. Let’s hope that when all this trouble with the rebellious barons dies down your husband will be easier to live with.”
We sat quietly for some minutes. She was probably right. I was partly to blame for my misfortune. But why couldn’t I have some little amusement, when John was free to be as unfaithful as he chose? Why was I held to a higher standard than he was? I didn’t know the answer. Anne’s last words came back to me.
“But will the trouble with the barons die down, Anne? It seems to me it just keeps getting worse. Whenever there’s more bad news John’s more out of control. I suppose it was their taking London that set him off this time.”
“William says there might be better news soon. He says he and the others on the council are urging John to be more conciliatory and to listen to the rebels’ demands. Apparently John has agreed to meet them near Windsor in June. If he does listen, and can bring himself to make some concessions, we may see better days. At least that’s what William says.”
“And we all know Sir William isn’t one to be hopeful unless he has good solid reasons. Well, I’ll try to be hopeful too. But if I know John, he may pretend to give in without any intention of keeping his promises.”
Anne said nothing. What was there to say?
“I think I must try to sleep now, Anne.” I stood up and suddenly felt so weary that I wondered if I could even make my way to bed. “Will you send Hortense to help me? And will you please stop at the nursery and tell the children I won't be able to come say goodnight because I’m unwell?” I took her hand. “Thank you, dear friend, for sitting with me and being here when I need you.”
For some months after John’s rapacious attack on me we managed with moderate success to avoid each other. Nothing can heal such a wound, but time can dull the outrage somewhat. In time I was able to look at him without utter loathing and to be civil in what speech we had to exchange. I told myself that he was t
o be pitied rather than condemned. I tried to pray for his redemption, but I have never been very good at praying for others than myself.
As for poor James Tourville, he simply disappeared. I never saw him again or knew what his fate was.
Sure enough, as William had predicted, John arranged to meet the barons and discuss their written demands. It was to be a ceremonial gathering on June 15, 1215, near Windsor. He asked me if I would come. I suppose he wanted his Queen by his side to augment the royal presence and impress the rebels with a display of majesty united.
I declined. He didn’t press me and left without me.
I’d just discovered that I was to be a mother, again. How could a child have been conceived out of that loveless, vengeful act? When the child was born could I look at it with anything but resentment? I was desperate to get rid of it. I knew better than to ask Anne for help. But I’d heard my lady of the bedchamber, Hortense, speak of an ancient aunt who was a wizard at potions to cure every ailment. I asked her, promising a generous reward, if she could procure a draught to cause a miscarriage. She was glad to oblige.
When she brought me the vial of a clear, harmless-looking liquid, she said her aunt had cautioned her to tell me that sometimes it was a day or two before it took effect, and that it might cause me a great deal of pain. It looked like nothing but water to me. I wondered if I was being cheated. Nevertheless I drank it down. It tasted horrid, like vinegar mixed with nettle broth.