And so they came to Valence which was the chief town of La Marche; and bordered on the Angoumois, Isabella’s own country.
All that day as they came closer to their destination Isabella had talked to her daughter of the happy days of her youth and, although Joan believed that very soon she would see her aged bridegroom, her mother’s conversation had its effect on her and she was beginning to believe that she was going to some paradise. Moreover there would be no wedding yet. She would live in that castle where for a time her mother had lived because twenty or so years before when her mother was a girl of eleven she too had ridden to this castle and looked with awe and wonder at what was to be her home. That was comforting. Her mother had loved Valence and so would she.
And here was the grey stone-walled castle. Serving men and women came hurrying to their aid, paying great homage to Isabella who had become a queen and whom some remembered as the most beautiful little girl they had ever seen.
In the great hall a man was waiting for them. As her mother took her hand Joan was conscious of Isabella’s tremendous excitement.
The man was old … very old … surely this could not be the one they had chosen for her husband. He looked closer to a funeral than a wedding – and that his own.
He had taken Isabella’s hand; he was bowing low; his eyes glistened brightly and he looked as though he might weep at any moment.
‘Isabella,’ he said. ‘Isabella.’
‘My lord,’ she began and Joan knew that she was looking about the hall for someone she missed.
‘As beautiful as ever,’ he murmured. ‘Oh, it is long ago.’
‘Let me present my daughter to you.’
‘So this is the child.’
The old eyes were studying her. Joan tried not to look alarmed. He was so very old. Her mother had spoken of her future husband as though he were godlike and now was presenting her to this ancient man.
Then the old man said: ‘I see that you did not know. My son is not here in Valence, nor in this land. It is a year since he left us. He is with the crusaders in the Holy Land.’
Joan was aware of floods of relief. This old man was not to be her bridegroom then. Of course he was not. But she had been afraid because she was old enough to know that sometimes little girls were married to very old men.
Then she was aware of her mother. Isabella had turned pale. She swayed a little before she steadied herself. Then she said: 'in the Holy Land … and he has gone a year since …’
Young as she was Joan heard the bitter disappointment and despair in her mother’s voice.
* * *
How silent Isabella was that night. Joan would never forget it. She seemed to grow up suddenly. He had gone away and none knew where he was. Even his father could not say except that he was somewhere in the Holy Land. She thought of the stories she had heard of her uncle Richard whose exploits there had been sung about in wondrous lays. Richard it seemed was a knight in shining armour with a red cross on his breast which meant that he had pledged himself to fight the Infidel. They had fled before him but for some reason he had not captured Jerusalem for the Christians – though that was something the writers of the songs preferred not to mention. There had been a Saracen called Saladin and he and Richard had fought each other, though who had won Joan had never really heard. Suffice it that Richard emerged from the songs as the greatest hero of the day – a man who had given up everything to carry the cross.
It was therefore only natural that this wonderful man whom she was to marry should follow in Richard’s footsteps. He was a noble knight. Not only the most handsome and best man in the world, but also devout.
If Joan were truthful she would admit that she was not displeased. Whatever he was, he was going to be old. Her mother was old and Hugh was older than she was. So she was relieved and she hoped her mother would not be too unhappy. She supposed it was because since Hugh was not here and she could not leave her daughter she would have to stay until he came before she could return to England.
For a few days Isabella was with the old man who had received them when they arrived and they made plans as to what was to be done. It was at length decided that Isabella should go to her own estate in Angoulême and that her daughter should stay at Valence where she could learn the customs of the land and be educated in a manner which would prepare her to be châtelaine of that castle when the time came.
Angoulême and Valence were so close that Isabella could see her daughter frequently, but it would be as well if she left her so that the child could learn some self-reliance and she would be safe with the family of her future husband.
Joan was less disturbed than she had thought she would be as she watched her mother ride away. Isabella had never been exactly a fond mother; Joan did not understand her and she did not believe even Henry and Richard had either. Perhaps all the children had been a little afraid of their parents – they certainly had on those occasions when their father had visited the castle. So although she was left with strangers she did not feel unduly lonely. She had grown up a good deal since her departure from England.
Life became interesting. She had her lessons each day and there were special tutors for her. She must learn to speak her prospective husband’s language fluently; and she must understand something of history and literature; she must be able to calculate, draw and be proficient with her needle. The last was very important, for all well-educated ladies must master the art of embroidering. She must dance nimbly and gracefully; she must play the lute and sing prettily and play chess with skill for her husband would expect her to be a good companion to him.
She applied herself whole-heartedly to these tasks. It helped to make her forget her home in England and her brothers and sisters and also the fact that one day her betrothed would return to Valence. She hoped he would not come for a very long time; and each night when she went to bed she would pray: Please God don’t let it be today.
She was surrounded by attendants. They grew fond of her. She was such a pretty little thing. Some of them remembered her mother when she was a girl. ‘You’re almost the living image,’ one of them said. It was always ‘almost’ and she knew they meant that although she was attractive she could never be the beauty her mother was.
Once she overheard one attendant say to another: ‘I could almost believe it was the Lady Isabella. But of course there’ll never be another like her.’
And another said: ‘No. They used to say she had something no other had. Still has too. No, you’re right. There’ll never be another quite like her. Well it made a queen of her, didn’t it?’
‘I’ll never forget the day. I thought my lord would go quite mad with rage and grief.’
‘Well, now he’s going to have a young bride … and so like …’
‘I don’t believe he ever forgot her.’
‘Oh, you romantic old woman.’
‘But he never married, did he?’
‘Well, he’s going to now … when he comes back … when she grows up.’
‘When will that be?’
‘When she’s fourteen … perhaps before. He lost the Lady Isabella by waiting too long. He won’t do that again, depend upon it.’
And they laughed together and whispered what Joan could not hear. Fourteen, she was thinking. She was now eight. It was years and years away.
She liked to get them to talk of him and they were nothing loath.
‘Count Hugh, my lady. Oh, he is the most handsome man you ever saw. There’s not a man hereabouts that does not suffer in comparison. Brave, noble, kind to all those below him in rank and respected by his equals. In the joust who is always the victor? Count Hugh. And if anyone needs help who is the first to give it? Count Hugh, of course. If there is injustice, he is the one who will go to right matters. We of Lusignan are happy in our Duke.’
‘But his father is the Duke.’
‘Count Hugh is his heir and now that the old Count is so old it is Hugh who will rule when he returns from the crusade.’
‘If he knew his little bride were here he would be back, I promise you.’
‘Even if he has not beaten the Saracen?’
It was so pleasant to talk of him. She found now that she loved above all things to hear stories of his exploits. He was always the hero of some noble adventure. They were constantly saying: ‘When Count Hugh comes back from the Holy War …’ as though everything would be transformed by his coming.
And she began to say it too, and look for him and instead of praying that he would not come she would say when she awoke: ‘I wonder if he will come today?’
The weeks began to pass into months. Her mother came frequently to Valence to see her daughter, but Joan suspected there was someone else she sought. She would always ask eagerly if there was news from the Holy Land and show a bitter disappointment because there was not.
She wants to go back to England, thought Joan. Perhaps in a little while she will do so … even though he does not come.
* * *
Now she was growing up and still he did not come. Two years had passed since her father’s death and she was nine years old. Not such a child now. She was beginning to understand something of the meaning of marriage for some of her women believed that it was unfair to send a young girl to her husband with no inkling of what would be expected of her.
She was at first repelled, then awestruck and finally came to the belief that perhaps it was not so bad after all. She had heard rumours of her father’s habits and they had always filled her with a vague fear, but it had been impressed on her that the man she would marry would be a kind of god, not only handsome but benevolent.
Sometimes she sat with the old man in the sun by an ancient sundial – a spot he loved. He would be wrapped up in spite of the heat for he was growing very frail and he would tell her stories of past adventures, of battles in which he had fought and always his son Hugh would be the hero of the stories.
‘Ah,’ the old man would say in his quavering voice, ‘you will come to reckon yourself fortunate to be the chosen bride of Hugh le Brun, Count of Lusignan.’
And so it went on.
Then one day while she talked to the old man he fell forward in his chair and she ran into the castle to summon his attendants. He was carried to his bed and a message was sent to the castle of Angoulême to acquaint Isabella of what was happening.
She was soon with them and was in eager agreement with the family that news must somehow be sent to Count Hugh that his father was very ill and that his presence was needed with as little delay as possible in Valence.
There followed a time of waiting while the old Count lingered on. Isabella’s visits had become more frequent and the first question she asked when she arrived was: ‘Is there any news?’
There was tension throughout the castle and all wondered whether the messengers had found Count Hugh; they were certain that when he knew that his father was dying he would return to take over his inheritance.
Then the old man died and Hugh had still not come.
There was great fear then that he might have been slain in battle for so many who set out for the Holy War never returned.
* * *
Joan was ten years old. Sometimes she wondered when the change would come. If Hugh did not return there would be no reason why they should stay here. A new husband would be found for her. She was filled with apprehension and realised then that she had grown to accept Hugh as her prospective husband and that she was half in love already with the image they had presented to her. She would often sit at the turret window and watch for a rider and when she saw one she would be filled with elation and when it proved not to be Hugh a bitter disappointment would follow.
And so the days passed.
Then, one day he came. She was in the gardens so she did not see his arrival. There was a clatter of horses’ hoofs and a great commotion through the castle; the bells started to ring; Joan heard the shouts of many voices.
She ran into the castle and there he was standing in the hall – tall, bronzed by the sun, in shining armour with a red cross on his breast. She knew him at once for none she was sure could look so noble.
For a few moments they stood looking at each other; then she saw the blood rush into his face and he took several strides towards her, seizing both her hands in his, and she noticed that his eyes had a bewildered look in them.
She heard someone say: ‘The Lady Joan, my lord.’
And he continued to gaze at her. Then he said: ‘For a moment I thought I was dreaming. You are so like …’
She herself answered: ‘All say I bear a resemblance to my mother.’
She noticed that his eyes were misty. He kissed her hand and said: ‘It delights me to see you here.’ Then he asked to be taken to his father.
He was very sad when he heard that his father had died; and divested of his armour, he went to that spot in the chapel grounds where the old man was buried and knelt by his grave for a long time.
Without his armour he looked less godlike, but not less handsome; and Joan was quick to notice the kindliness of his face.
She sat beside him at the table and he fed her the best of the meat. He talked to her in a gentle and kindly fashion and she knew that all she had heard of him was true.
He said: ‘I am many years older than you, my lady Joan, and you will have to grow up quickly. How old are you now?’
‘I am ten years old, my lord.’
‘It is a little young to be a bride. We must wait a few years.’
‘They say three or four,’ she answered.
‘Well, that is not so long. Shall you be ready by then, think you?’
She looked at the dark curling hair which grew back from the high and noble forehead, at the pleasant curve of his lips and answered: ‘Oh yes, my lord. Perhaps before.’
‘We shall see,’ he answered, smiling. And he asked how she had arrived and she told him her mother had brought her.
Then he was thoughtful and asked how her mother fared.
‘Well, my lord,’ she answered.
He nodded slowly.
‘I heard of her widowhood,’ he said, and fell silent. It did not occur to her then to tell him that her mother was close by at Angoulême.
He was thoughtful after that and when the meal was over he went away with his stewards and occupied himself in learning what had happened in the castle during his absence.
Joan went to her bedchamber, but not to sleep.
This was the most important day of her life. She had met her future husband.
A warm happiness suffused her. She was not afraid any more. Indeed she was looking forward to the day when she would become the Countess of Lusignan. Sometimes she thought of her terrifying father and it had occurred to her long ago, before she came to France, that it might one day be her lot to have such a husband. There could not be a man less like King John than Hugh le Brun, Count of Lusignan, and that was a matter for rejoicing.
They rode out together; she wanted to show him how well she knew his forests, how she could manage a horse. She wanted to please him in every way.
They spoke in French together for she had become fluent in the language; he went to the schoolroom and examined her work. She told him that now he was home she would work harder because she was so anxious to grow up quickly.
He smiled greatly and stroked her hair when she told him that, and she felt tears in her eyes but she was not sure why.
They played chess together and although she could not checkmate him she could come quite near to it.
‘I can see I am lucky in my bride,’ he told her.
And she answered: ‘And I in my bridegroom.’
The ladies and gentlemen of the castle looked on indulgently.
‘This will be a love match,’ they said.
* * *
Isabella came riding into the castle.
‘Is it true then?’ she cried. ‘The Count has returned?’
&nb
sp; She was assured that it was true.
‘Tell him I am come,’ she said.
But the Count was hunting with a party in the forest and with him was the Lady Joan.
Impatiently she strode up and down the great hall.
Her cheeks were flushed; she had loosened her dark hair. Was it true that she looked like a young girl? She had borne five children; she had had many lovers; she had lived through twenty years of debauchery with the insatiable John. Could it really be that she looked like that young girl who had so enchanted Hugh that when he had lost her he had been prepared to go to war and had never taken another bride.
She believed she was as attractive as ever – more so for her experience. And he was no longer the young idealist he had been. He knew more of the world. He would want an experienced woman not an innocent young girl.
And what was she thinking? He was betrothed to her daughter. She laughed aloud at that. It was a trick of John’s to upset her. Was it not characteristic of him that he should think of betrothing her daughter to the man he knew she still thought of?
Why did he not come? What was he waiting for?
One of the women came to her.
‘You will be pleased, my lady,’ she said. ‘The Count is much taken with your daughter. They are often together and it gives us all great happiness to see them.’
Fool! thought Isabella and found it hard to stop herself slapping the woman’s face.
‘Is that so?’ she answered slowly. ‘The Count must be as gallant and courteous to ladies as he ever was.’
‘Oh, he is, my lady; and the little Lady Joan has a look of you when you were her age.’
What is the woman suggesting? she asked herself. That I am old and decrepit!
‘Leave me,’ said Isabella coldly.
There was a fierce determination in her heart. He was going to be as enamoured of her now as he had been when she was his child-betrothed, before she had been snatched away by the rapacious John who had given her a crown.
It seemed a long time before the party arrived.
The Battle of the Queens Page 5