It was true that she had been present at the treaty with Louis near Staines but somehow she felt that had been a mere formality. She had had no voice in any of the arrangements which had been agreed by the council, the head of which was Marshal and de Burgh. They had made the decisions; she had merely been there to represent the King.
It would not do. She had no intention of being forced into the background. Her best method she believed was to approach her son, and knowing that he was at Windsor with his tutor, Philip of Albini, she went there to him.
She was faintly disturbed to see a change in Henry’s demeanour; then she laughed inwardly and told herself it was natural for a young boy who had suddenly realised that he was a king, and now of course the French were driven from the land his position was very secure.
She embraced him warmly and dismissed his tutor Philip of Albini who seemed reluctant to leave the boy alone with his mother.
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘they are making a king of you, my son.’
He replied somewhat haughtily: ‘I am a king, my lady.’
‘Praise Heaven that the French have gone. You must be greatly indebted to William Marshal and perhaps most of all to Hubert de Burgh. His strategy was masterly.’
‘He is a good servant,’ said Henry calmly.
Isabella burst into laughter and taking her son into her arms she held him against her. Sensing his resentment as he stood stiffly in her embrace, it occurred to her then that it was not going to be so easy to rule him as she imagined.
He drew himself from her and for a few seconds they regarded each other; Isabella’s gaze was shrewd; his was wary.
‘I trust, Henry,’ said Isabella reproachfully at length, ‘you will not forget that, King though you may be, you are my son.’
‘It would be impossible to forget such a fact. All the world knows that you were my father’s wife and I the eldest son of the marriage.’
Again she laughed, but uneasily. ‘You are the same in many ways. You were always so serious. Tell me, do you miss your brother Richard and little Joan … and the babies.’
‘No, my lady. I have matters of great import with which to occupy myself.’
‘I’ll swear they are missing you.’
‘I think not, my lady.’
‘Why Joan was speaking of you but a few days since.’
‘Joan … Joan is little more than a child.’
‘Not too young to be betrothed. We shall be finding a wife for you ere long, I doubt not.’
‘The matter will be for me to decide.’
‘Nay, my son. That will be a matter of such importance that you will have to listen to the advice of others.’
‘My marriage will be of more importance to me than to any, and therefore I am determined to see that it suits me.’
‘Why, Henry, what has come over you?’
‘I have become a king, Madam.’
It had occurred to her then that there was a hint of hostility in his manner towards her. They had never doted on each other; she had never experienced that obsession with her children which some mothers felt, but she had perhaps taken it for granted that they must admire her for her beauty and that inherent gift to attract.
‘Dear Henry,’ she said, ‘let us not lose sight of the fact that you are ten years old.’
‘It is something of which Philip constantly reminds me. For that reason I must learn quickly. I must be wary of those who would seek to influence me. I must learn to form judgements and they must be wise ones. William Marshal is often here. It is likely that he will be here this day. He insists that I sit in council with him and other ministers that I may learn quickly; and indeed, Madam, I am determined to do so.’
‘Let us hope that you will be able to spare a little of your attention for your mother,’ she retorted with some asperity.
‘As you see I am doing that now.’
‘With not very happy results. And I see also, Henry, that you have grown away from me.’
‘Was I ever near you, Madam?’
‘My dear son, you know we were in captivity.’
‘I know for what reason.’
‘Your father’s cruelty.’
‘You had betrayed him.’
‘My dear Henry – though you be the King – pray remember that I am your mother. You do not know what manner of man your father was.’
‘I am learning and what I know best is that I must be as different from him as it is possible for one man to be from another.’
‘Well, that is a good lesson to have learned. One day you will understand what havoc was wrought in this kingdom.’
‘I have already learned. My tutors insist that I learn what has happened in this kingdom from the days of the Conqueror that I may profit from the errors of my predecessors. I know this: I must reign well, so that it will not be held against me that I am the son of John and …’
‘And Isabella of Angoulême,’ she supplied.
‘I said of John, my lady.’
‘And stopped in time. You do not appear to have a very fine opinion of your mother.’
He was silent.
‘What do you think it was like, married to such a man?’ she burst out. ‘You know how he lost the crown possessions in France and came near to losing this kingdom. But that is not all. There are matters of which your clever tutors know nothing. I could tell you …’
‘Pray spare me,’ said Henry coolly; and she thought: Is this my son – my ten-year-old who talks like an old man? How did we get such a boy, John and I? There is no laughter in him, no joy in living. He is a king – power stretches out before him when he is old enough to enjoy it, and he is like an old man already. She could see that there was no hope of his listening to her.
She shrugged her shoulders and left him.
Later she spoke with Philip of Albini – a man with a very serious mind who assured her that he, acting under the instructions of William Marshal and Hubert de Burgh, was determined to instruct the King in all matters pertaining to his role in life, while not neglecting his general education. He was happy to report that the young King learned quickly; indeed he had a taste for learning and was particularly interested in literature and the other arts. He was a pupil whom it was a joy to instruct. Philip of Albini could assure the Queen that the Earl of Pembroke was delighted and had even said that it might be an advantage that the King had come into their care while there was time yet to form his mind.
The fool! thought Isabella. He thought he was pleasing her by this praise of her son, when what he was saying was tantamount to pointing out that it was fortunate he had escaped from her care.
Hearing that the Earl of Pembroke would be visiting the castle the following day, she decided to remain to see him; she spent a sleepless night trying to face this turn about in events. It was not going to be as she had planned. She was not going to be there – the power behind the throne, whom all realised they must placate if they were going to find favour with her son. She was going to be the figure in the background, of no importance, the old Queen Mother to whose rank these powerful men would pay a certain homage and that would be the end of it. There was no one among them who would have given up everything to become her lover. They were a dull lot, concerned only with moulding the young King in the way they wanted him to go. It looked as though the future might be bleak for Isabella.
This was confirmed with the arrival of the Earl in the company of Hubert de Burgh. They were delighted with the application and progress of the King; his mother had reason to be proud of him; but both these gentlemen made it very clear to her that her guiding hand was to play no part in the young King’s progress.
Fuming in her bedchamber later she asked herself if she was to accept this retiring role. She was thirty-one years of age, and with a woman who had cared for her appearance as she had, that was no great age. Her beauty was perennial; although she might have become a little mature that did not detract from her charms she was sure.
Hugh would never have tr
eated her like this.
Hugh! How she longed to see him again. Would she be disappointed in him? What a bold man he had been! What looks! They and his great height had made a god of him. How different from John whose depravity had made him grow more and more hideous. John had hated Hugh – chiefly because he knew that she had loved him, but partly because Hugh was handsome and possessed of a nobility of character which made men respect him. The last time Isabella had seen Hugh was when he was chained hand and foot in a cart that was like a tumbril and drawn by oxen. He had been John’s prisoner then – for Hugh had been fighting on the side of Prince Arthur – and John’s one idea had been to humiliate the noble Hugh, and that Isabella should witness that humiliation. Foolish John, he did not realise that it was not Hugh she despised at that time but himself. John had known nothing of other people because he had been so deeply concerned with himself as the only person who could be of any importance. How delighted she had been when Hugh was released – because John thought it was to his advantage to do so. What a fool that man was. It did not seem to occur to him that Hugh might hate him as much as he hated Hugh. She often wondered how much Hugh had contributed to John’s utter defeat and loss of the French possessions.
And how she longed to see Hugh again.
Suddenly her mood of depression had passed and she was wildly elated.
Why not? It was feasible. It was the right thing to do.
She was thankful that William Marshal was in the castle. She would approach the matter tentatively the very next day. She spent a restless night and could scarcely wait to talk to the Earl.
‘It is with great relief and pleasure,’ she told him, ‘that I watch the King’s progress. I thank God that he is in such good hands. I think he is as different from John as anyone could be.’
The Earl looked well pleased.
‘Hubert de Burgh and I have the utmost confidence in Philip of Albini.’
‘And so have I. It occurs to me that I can serve no useful purpose in this country.
‘I trust the King will never forget that you are his mother.’
‘He will never do that. But I can safely leave his upbringing in capable hands and turn my attention to other members of my family who need me more. Richard is well looked after by Peter de Mauley at Corfe and I understand that Roger d’Acastre is most excellent. My youngest daughters are as yet little more than babies, but my daughter Joan is betrothed and I believe it to be time that she went to the home of her betrothed where she will be brought up in his household as is the custom.’
The Earl nodded slowly. It was the custom of course for girls to be brought up in the country into which they would marry.
‘I believe,’ went on Isabella, ‘that she should leave without delay. She is seven years old – an age when a child’s mind begins to take shape. Do you agree with me, my lord?’
‘I do indeed.’
‘It will be necessary for her to make this journey in the care of someone who can be trusted.’
There was a short silence. The Earl was trying not to betray the hope which had come to him. He had consulted with Hubert de Burgh and they had agreed that the Queen would have to be watched. Mothers of kings who were minors could be tiresome; and there was no indication that Isabella was a meek woman who would listen to advice.
The Earl cleared his throat as though about to speak but Isabella spoke first. ‘My two sons are in good hands; my two young children are well cared for. It would seem, my lord, that since I am scarcely needed here, I should be the one to accompany my daughter.’
William Marshal tried not to sound too elated.
‘My lady,’ he said slowly, ‘the Princess Joan is indeed fortunate to have a mother who so cares for her welfare …’
‘Then you agree that I should be the one to accompany her.’
‘I think we should first ask the King if he would be prepared to let you go.’
She nodded gravely. ‘I think my son will want to do what is best for his sister,’ she said.
Her spirits were rising and she felt more excited than she had since she had heard of John’s death.
She took leave of the Earl and went to her bedchamber. She had to be alone.
‘Hugh,’ she murmured to herself. ‘What will you think of me? What shall I think of you?’
And the thought of going back to the scenes of her childhood, of being reunited with her old lover – now to be her daughter’s husband – filled her with a wild elation.
Chapter II
THE CHOSEN BRIDE
What joy it gave her to ride southwards through the fair land of France, and the nearer she came to the Angoumois – the land of her inheritance – the happier she grew. It was seventeen years since she had ridden in those lanes and forests – an only child and the heiress of the Angoumois, the petted darling of her parents’ household. Hugh, eldest son of the reigning Count de la Marche, had seemed a worthy bridegroom for her; and when she had been taken into his father’s household she had thought so too.
The smell of the woods – different from those of England, she assured herself, the golden light in the air, the warmth of the sun … all these conjured up memories of those days of physical awakening when she had longed for marriage with Hugh and then had met John in the forest and been aware of a curious mixture of desire and repulsion while mingling with them was an ambition to wear a crown.
Her daughter rode beside her. Young Joan was apprehensive and that was understandable. A child seven years of age going to meet her bridegroom.
‘Is not the country beautiful, daughter?’ demanded Isabella. ‘Think! When I was your age I used to ride through these woods. You will spend your youth where I spent mine.’
‘But you did not stay here, my lady.’
‘No, but it is a joy to be back.’
Joan looked wistful. It was clear that the poor child was wishing she were in Gloucester. Too much had happened too quickly to enable her childish mind to adjust.
Isabella softened a little. ‘You are anxious, child. You need not be. You will be happy here, as I was. Have no fear of Hugh. I knew him well when I was your age and I can tell you this, there is not a more kind or gentle man in the whole world.’
‘My lady, how long will you stay with me?’
She sighed and smiled. ‘That, daughter, I cannot say. But I can promise you this: You have nothing to fear.’
And so they travelled down to Angoulême, in the dukedom of Aquitaine, once so proudly ruled over by the father of Eleanor, mother of John, a rich and fertile land watered by the sparkling Charente, extending from Poitou in the north to Périgord in the south, eastwards to Le Limousin and westwards to Saintonge.
Isabella talked to her daughter as they rode. ‘How different life was than in your father’s court. Here we assembled at night when the fires were lighted and the candles guttered and the troubadours took their lutes and sang about the beauty of ladies and the valour of their lords. It was gracious. Men were chivalrous. Ladies were treated with respect. Oh, my daughter, you are going to bless the day I brought you here.’
Joan was becoming influenced by her mother’s enthusiasm. The country was beautiful; the sun warmer than it was in England; and as they travelled through France they were welcomed in the villages through which they passed and spent their nights in inns or castles, and as they came south Joan found that her mother’s description of the singing of the troubadours was indeed true. She would sit, heavy-eyed with sleep, listening to the strumming of the lutes and the singing of the songs which so delighted Isabella.
Especially she remembered their stay at Fontevrault which was particularly important to her family, she was told. The Breton preacher Robert d’Arbrissel had founded it nearly two hundred years before and there were four convents – two for men, two for women but an abbess was in control and she must always come from one of the most noble families. Royalty had always taken a very special interest in the place.
With great solemnity Joan was conducte
d through the abbey church to walk under the cupola, which was held up by tall pillars, to the tombs of her family. Here were the burial places and effigies of her grandfather and grandmother – Henry Plantagenet and his wife Eleanor of Aquitaine of whom she had heard much, which made her think of them with awe and some relief that they were not alive today to demand great things of her. Her uncle was there with them – the one after whom her brother had been named. Richard Coeur de Lion they called him, because he was such a brave fighter. It seemed only fitting that his life should have been cut short by the arrow of an enemy.
‘These are your ancestors,’ Isabella reminded her. ‘Never forget that you are the daughter of a king.’
‘Perhaps my father would have liked to lie here with his father.’
The Queen laughed. ‘Where did you get such a notion, child? Your father was fighting against your grandfather at the end. He at least would not want your father there.’
‘Where lies my father?’ asked Joan.
‘In Worcester Cathedral. Before he died he asked that he should be buried there close to the grave of St Wulstan.’
‘Who was he?’ asked Joan.
Isabella regarded her daughter intently. Poor child, she would have to grow up quickly. Isabella tried to imagine herself at seven. How much of the sad facts of life had she been able to absorb at that time? Joan would learn in due course that she was the daughter of one of the most evil men who ever lived.
She said: ‘St Wulstan was a Saxon bishop who was most saintly. Your father thought that the bones of the saint might preserve him from the devil … when he came to claim him.’
Joan shivered and Isabella laughed. She put an arm about her daughter. ‘Your father was not a good man. As you know the barons rose against him. All will be well now, for your brother will be taught to rule well and the kingdom will grow rich and powerful again. As for you, my child, you will know great happiness. You are going to be the wife of the best man in the world.’
Joan was relieved, but glad when they left Fontevrault which for her held the ghosts of her terrifying ancestors.
The Battle of the Queens Page 4