She stood in the centre of the hall, waiting.
And there he was – Joan beside him.
He strode towards her and said: ‘Isabella.’
She laughed at him and held out her hand. ‘You remember me then?’
‘Remember you …!’ The break in his voice excited her.
‘It is so long. You have changed little, Hugh … since …’
He said: ‘You have become even more beautiful.’
She was exultant, triumphant. He had not changed at all. He was hers, she was sure of it. Her journey had not been in vain.
‘And here is my little daughter. What think you of her, Hugh?’
‘She bears some resemblance to you and therefore she delights me.’
Isabella held out a hand to her daughter and pulled her to her side.
‘It pleases me. We have waited long, Hugh, for your coming.’
‘I should have been here long since had I known,’ he answered.
Isabella was aware of the watching eyes of those gathered in the hall, many of them old enough to remember. Hugh seemed suddenly aware of them too.
‘I smell good venison,’ he said. ‘You will stay here with us … for a while.’
She bowed her head.
Then he left her and went to his chamber to wash off the mud of the chase and to change his garments.
Joan went to her chamber, slightly bewildered.
Her attendant said: ‘The Count is happy that Queen Isabella is here.’
‘I always knew they liked each other,’ said Joan.
At the table her mother sat on one side of him, Joan in her usual place on the other. All the time they talked. There was an excitement between them.
They are so pleased to see each other, thought Joan, that they have almost forgotten I am here. It is good, she thought, when two families which are to be united are the best of friends.
* * *
There was a scratching at Hugh’s door. He had guessed Isabella might come. She had implied it.
‘There is so much we have to say to each other, Hugh. It is not easy to talk with so many onlookers.’ She had said that while they ate. And there was a suggestion in her words. It was the reason why he had dismissed all those who would normally be in attendance in his bedchamber.
He opened the door and stepped back as she entered. Her beautiful hair was about her shoulders and she wore a loose robe of the shade of blue he remembered from the old days was a favourite colour of hers. It had been a favourite of his for the same reason.
He took her hands and said: ‘Oh God, Isabella … you are indeed here.’
‘I am no phantom. You may assure yourself of that, Hugh.’
He drew back a little. He was a man of honour and he remembered the appealing youth of his affianced bride.
‘So now he is dead …’ he said, in a vain effort to throw a cold douche of hatred on the fires which were rising within him.
‘John. The brute. The lecher. You could not know how I suffered with him.’
‘Yet … you went to him.’
‘You know I had no choice. I was but a child. My parents forced me to it and so I did it.’
‘You were there when …’
‘When he put you in chains and you rode in the tumbril drawn by oxen. Did you feel my hatred for him, Hugh, when you rode past … and my love for you?’
‘I know that you were sad to see me thus. Because of your compassion I was almost glad of the humiliation.’
‘You must have loved me a great deal in those days, Hugh.’
‘Did you ever doubt that?’
‘I never did. And now you love my daughter as you once loved me.’
She waited for him to deny it but he said: ‘She is an enchanting child.’
‘They say she is a little like me.’
‘No one could be like you, Isabella.’
‘Hugh, do you mean that?’
She had seized him by the arms and held her face up to him.
‘No,’ he said, deliberately avoiding her gaze. ‘You must go now, Isabella. You will leave soon and when Joan is a little older we shall marry.’
‘There was one thing I wished to know, Hugh. Promise you’ll tell me … truthfully.’
‘I promise. What is it?’
‘Hold me tightly, Hugh. Kiss me. And then tell me truthfully whether it is now as it was once.’
‘Isabella, you must go. You should never have come here. If you were seen.’
‘Oh, are you afraid of your servants?’
‘I am afraid of your good name.’
‘My good name! Married to that monster all those years … all the calumnies that he circulated about me to cover up his own vile doings! Do you think I have a good name to protect?’
‘I will protect it with my sword,’ he said. ‘If any were to whisper ill against you …’
‘Ah, Hugh, my beloved, you have not changed. I feared you might. Let me tell you this, I have never forgotten you. When I was with him … I could only endure his embraces because I made myself pretend it was you, not him … the man I loved not the loathsome lecher who had taken me from you and made it so I was a prisoner and could do nothing but submit.’
Is this true, indeed?’ he asked.
‘I swear it. When I came here it was to see you, Hugh …’
‘It was to bring your daughter to be my bride,’ he answered.
‘I had to see you. I had to know for myself that you no longer loved me. And if you tell me you do not I will go to Fontevrault where my mother-in-law spent her last days and I will take the veil and never look on another man … though doubtless I shall go on dreaming of you in my convent walls.’
‘You … a nun. Isabella!’
He laughed and she laughed with him. The tension was released. He said: ‘I remember how you always made me laugh.’
‘It is as it ever was. We were never lovers in fact. That seemed the tragedy of my life. I wanted you even as a child … and you wanted me. But you held off. You were afraid. If you had taken me to the forest and seduced me … as I always wanted you to … I don’t believe I should ever have allowed them to marry me to John. I used to dream how wonderful that would have been.’
‘We must not talk in this way, Isabella. I am trying to look after little Joan. I am trying not to frighten her and let her grow accustomed to the idea of marriage.’
‘As you did with me. And all you succeeded in doing was arousing my desire for you … my need for you … and then not satisfying it. Then he came … Oh my God, how I hate him; the terrible things he did to me. He would not leave me alone …’
‘I know. I heard. It was reported all over Europe.’
‘How you must have hated me.’
‘I could never do anything but love you, but my hatred for him knew no bounds.’
‘So you fought for poor little Arthur and were captured and brought to him in chains. How he gloated! But he freed you. Do you know why, Hugh, because I persuaded him that it was best for him to do so. I said you would fight for him if he released you. What a fool he was! He believed me. But he is dead, Hugh … and I am here and you are here …’
‘Isabella, I am betrothed.’
There is one thing I must know. All my life I have wanted to be with you. I would be your mistress … anything … I, a queen, my lord Count, love you still. I had to see you. I had to know whether I still loved you … wanted you for my lover. Hugh, you owe me this. Tonight … this night … and if you find you do not love me, if the years have changed you, then I will go away.
He said hoarsely: ‘I am betrothed to your daughter.’
She laughed softly and slipped her robe from her shoulders. She held out a hand to him. ‘Come, Hugh,’ she said. ‘I command you. Tomorrow you may tell me to go away … but tonight we shall be lovers as we should have been all those years ago.’
He turned from her and seating himself on a stool covered his eyes with his hands. But she was beside him, employing all those
skills which life with the greatest sensualist of his age had taught her.
Hugh – who had dreamed of her for years – enamoured of her as he had ever been, was powerless to resist her.
* * *
After she had left him – and it was dawn before she did – he lay in his bed thinking of what had happened. He had never thought there could be such ecstasy even with Isabella; he had dreamed of her for twenty years; she had been an ideal in his life; he had never felt the inclination to marry any other woman. That had disturbed his family, since it was his duty to marry, to give the Lusignans their heir. He had brothers, he had excused himself. It was almost as though something had told him that one day she would come back.
And then when it had been suggested that he marry her daughter he had agreed to the betrothal. The marriage had seemed years away and like so many, such arrangements might never come to fruition. Moreover it was her daughter; and that had attracted him in some way. When he had seen the child – with a look of Isabella – and she had stirred his pity for she was a little afraid, he had determined to be kind and gentle with her and in due course do his best to make her happy.
Now Isabella had returned and everything had changed for him.
He must explain to her that he must marry her daughter. As the child had been brought here for that purpose, it was a matter of honour, and Isabella must return to England. He was determined that that which had happened last night must not happen again.
She was with the party which went out to the hunt. Little Joan was there too, so pretty in her riding cloak of red Irish cloth, tendrils of her hair straying out from under the matching hood. She rode beside him as she was accustomed to do, so proud because she sat her horse well and rode, as he had once told her, as though she was born to the saddle. Isabella had come up. Beautiful in her favourite blue. Poor little Joan, how insignificant beside her incomparable mother!
‘I thought you would elude me,’ she said reproachfully. ‘And you know how I enjoy the hunt.’
‘Nay, my lady,’ he said. ‘I give you good welcome.’
‘Most gracious Hugh,’ she answered softly. ‘I thought I might not have pleased you.’
‘You know how well you please me.’
Joan listened to their conversation. There was a note in her mother’s voice which told the little girl she was pleased. In fact, Joan had never known her quite so pleased before. Perhaps it was because he was home and very soon now she would be able to go to England.
How beautiful it was in the pine forest – the lovely pungent smell, the glistening green and the excitement of the chase. Joan rode forward eager to show Hugh that she could keep up with the best of them. She was a little way ahead of him; on she went and the sound of pounding horses’ hoofs went with her.
She caught a glimpse of the deer; she always felt a little sorry for them and did not greatly care to be in at the kill, though she told no one of this for fear she should be thought foolish. Once she thought that Hugh guessed, for he stayed with her and they rode back to the castle while the bearers brought in the deer. He had smiled at her very tenderly and she had loved him more than ever, because it suddenly occurred to her that he understood her thoughts without her having to express them and that he would keep her secrets, for he was going to protect her from the whole world.
She looked around for him, but he was not there. She could not see her mother either.
* * *
Isabella had whispered: Hugh, I must speak to you.’
She turned her horse and rode off while he followed. In the distance they could hear the baying of the dogs, and she rode on fast; he was close behind.
She pulled up and flashed her brilliant smile at him, holding out her hand. He took it and kissed it eagerly.
‘We will dismount and tether the horses; ’tis easier to talk that way.’
‘Isabella, I think we should return to the party … or to the castle.’
She laughed – it was the way in which she had laughed in the darkness of his bedchamber. She had already dismounted.
‘Come, Hugh,’ she said, ‘or are your afraid of me?’
He leaped down and tethering his horse beside hers, turned to her eagerly. He held her fast.
‘There is no doubt, is there,’ she asked, ‘no doubt at all. You and I belong together.’
‘There is no doubt that we should have married years ago.’
‘What is done is done. We are together now.’
She took his hand and they went into the thicket.
‘You must never let me go again, Hugh,’ she said. ‘If you did, you would never have another moment’s peace. I promise you that.’
‘I know it.’
She slipped her arm through his and he kept a tight grip on her hand.
‘We will walk through the trees and talk, Hugh. There is much we have to say.’
‘There is only this, Isabella,’ he said. ‘I am betrothed to Joan.’
‘A child … little more than a baby. And my daughter at that. It was a sad sick joke of John’s to betroth you. It was the sort of thing he enjoyed. He wanted to distress me … for he knew that I loved you. He always knew I loved you. It was the greatest emotion of my life and I could not hide it. You must not think that I shall ever let you go, Hugh. You do not know me if you think that.’
‘My dearest Isabella, it is not for us to follow our inclinations.’
‘You are wrong. How else should people live? Love should not be denied. Why should it? If you had a wife and I a husband, still I should stay with you. I would defy the world to do so. But you have no wife. I have no husband. You are betrothed to a child who knows nothing of the world … nothing of marriage … nothing of love …’
‘She has learned a great deal. She has lived ten winters and is old for her years. She cannot be sent back.’
‘Then she shall stay here. She is my daughter. Oh Hugh, I have thought of last night. To be with you thus … it was a wonderful dream come true and so shall it be throughout our lives, for I shall never give you up. There is only one thing for us to do.’
‘Nay …’
‘Yea, my lord. You shall have your bride. It is no child for whom you have to wait; it is your eager mistress who refuses to wait any longer for you. All these weary years have I yearned for you. I have caught you now, Hugh, and you are mine.’ She stopped and drawing his face down to hers kissed him wildly. ‘You shall never escape me. Never. Never.’
She watched him. He wanted her. He had never known such love-making. She laughed to herself. Cruel, wicked, ruthless, insatiable John had been a good tutor. Not that she had needed tutoring. Women such as she was were born with such knowledge. She could reduce him to such desire that he would be willing to promise anything. There was an innocence about him which had been completely lacking in John; she loved him for it. For if she was capable of love, she loved Hugh le Brun. There was no self-sacrifice in her kind of loving; a little tenderness now and then, a desire to give pleasure – but perhaps that was because she wanted to be thought supreme; there was a need to satisfy her own desires, a need to be loved and admired as no woman had ever been loved and admired before. In the first months of marriage with John she had believed she had brought him to a state of slavery, for he had given her all she asked in those days when he had shocked his ministers because he stayed in bed with her throughout the day. How wrong she had been! John could love no one but himself and she had quickly learned that it was an overwhelming sensuality in her which matched something similar in him which had made her imagine he was hers to command. It had waned as such feelings must – although he had never entirely escaped from it. Hugh was different. There was innocence and idealism in Hugh. Hugh would be her slave now and for ever.
Assuredly she was not going to allow him to escape her.
‘It is not possible,’ he said desperately.
‘My dear Hugh, it is possible if we wish it to be. If you refuse me, I shall know that I was mistaken. All these years wh
en I have thought of you have been a mockery. You did not love me after all. Perhaps it was as well I went to John.’
‘You know that to be untrue.’
‘I had hoped it, but now you spurn me …’
‘Spurn you!’ He had taken her in his arms. And she thought: Yes, here in the forest … where some riders might come upon us at any moment. It will show him how great is his need of me, how his need and his desire takes from him the inherent inclination to conventional conduct.
‘Nay, you do not spurn me,’ she whispered. ‘You need me, Hugh … just as I need you. You could never let me go …’
He gave a cry of despair and thought of the innocent eyes of his young betrothed before he forgot everything but Isabella.
* * *
He had asked that he should first break the news to her.
‘My dearest,’ Isabella had cried, ‘but why? She will hear of it in time.’
‘Nay,’ he had said, ‘I wish this.’
She was a little put out but it seemed advisable at that time to give way.
He said he would ride out into the forest with his little betrothed because he thought it would be easier that way.
She was grave on that morning; it was almost as though she sensed some disaster. He found it difficult to tell her; he wanted to choose the right words, to explain that it was no deficiency in her.
She herself began it by saying: ‘My lord, are you displeased with me?’
‘My dear little Joan, how could I be?’
‘If I had done something that you thought was wrong.’
‘You have done nothing wrong.’
‘Is it something to do with my mother?’
‘Your … mother?’ he repeated miserably.
‘Yes, it seems that since she came …’
He plunged in. ‘You know that she and I were betrothed long ago?’
‘Yes, I knew it.’
‘Then your father came and took her away.’
‘She has told me often.’
‘Well, now she is here again and your father is dead … the truth is, we are to marry.’
The Battle of the Queens Page 6