The Battle of the Queens

by Виктория Холт

  The latter came with all haste for he believed that the King’s summons was for him to do homage to him as his liege lord which he would only ask for if he believed him to be the true Count.

  Blanche was delighted to have Louis with her again. She suspected that she was pregnant and when she told Louis he was delighted.

  He confessed to her that he had always felt a sympathy with the stamping out of heresy and that he had long considered the Albigensian movement to be a dangerous one.

  ‘Moreover,’ he added, ‘I have heard that the King of England is planning to send over a large army, which is what I expected he would do. He is going to make an attempt to regain what he has lost. I fear a long and wretched war, Blanche.’

  ‘Yet you would go to war against the Albigensians.’

  ‘That is a holy war. The Albigensians are not a well-equipped army. Depend upon it, this war will not be nearly so deadly nor so costly as war against England.’

  ‘The Albigensians are a people fighting for their beliefs, Louis. Such people are apt to be fierce fighters.’

  ‘I know it, but if I take up the Cross and go against the Albigensians, the Pope will forbid the English to make war on me.’

  ‘You mean that war against the Albigensians is more to your taste than war against the English.’

  ‘I want no war,’ said Louis, ‘but if war there must be I had rather it was a holy war.’

  Blanche made no attempt to dissuade him, but she was deeply concerned for she thought he had aged considerably during the last campaign and indeed looked exhausted.

  She could almost welcome this controversy over the Count of Flanders to give him some respite and with Sybil de Beaujeu they discussed how best to tackle the matter.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Sybil, ‘I will ask him a few questions which only my brother would know.’

  When the man calling himself the Count arrived at Péronne, Sybil admitted that he bore a strong resemblance to her brother, although Baldwin had never been so arrogant. His over royal manner, she declared to Blanche, betrayed him; and she was almost certain that he was an impostor.

  It did not take her long to discover the truth. For when the man heard that he was to be brought face to face with Sybil he was clearly disturbed. He found the questions she fired at him quite disconcerting and he declared that he was in no mood to be treated so discourteously by his sister and he would answer no questions that night, but in the morning he would answer all the questions to her satisfaction and he would ask that first of all he might be granted the courtesy of a bed and his supper.

  The end was in sight for the bogus Count. The next morning it was discovered that he had fled during the night. The game was up. Although he could pose as the adult Baldwin – having probably been on a crusade to the Holy Land and possibly in Baldwin’s company for he had scars on his body to show the people and these could certainly have been inflicted by a Saracen sword – he had no knowledge of Baldwin’s childhood.

  Joanna was delighted. The impostor was eager to get as far away as possible from Flanders. He was later discovered and brought to the Countess Joanna who had no compunction in having him publicly hanged.

  So the affair was satisfactorily settled from the Countess’s point of view and at least it had given Louis a short respite from the wars.

  Blanche who had been expecting a child gave birth to a girl. After five boys it was pleasant to have a girl but when Louis suggested the child should be called Isabella she felt an immediate revulsion because she was reminded of Isabella de Lusignan, the woman whom she hated more than any other.

  Isabella was a royal name. Louis had wanted it, and when she had said that she did not care for it he had immediately remarked that it was because it reminded her of the Queen Mother of England.

  He smiled at her almost teasingly. ‘You hate her, don’t you? Why? She’s a very attractive woman.’

  How could she explain that it was not because of her attractiveness that she hated Isabella? Yes, hated her, for hate was not too strong a word to describe her feelings. How could she explain that some premonition warned her and she disliked being reminded of her?

  A sensible woman such as Blanche of Castile, Queen of France, must not have odd fancies.

  ‘What nonsense,’ she said lightly. ‘I do not dislike the name so much. Isabella. Yes, it’s a pretty name … a worthy name. Let us call her Isabella if it is what you wish.’

  ‘It is the name of my mother,’ said Louis quietly.

  ‘Then you wish it and it shall be.’

  So the little girl was Isabella after all.

  Before Louis left Blanche was once more pregnant.

  * * *

  Thibaud of Champagne was sighing over the poem he was writing. He was prepared to spend his life in sighing, for the lady he loved was unattainable and his poet’s heart told him that her desirability was in a measure enhanced by the fact that she was out of his reach.

  There he was – not unhandsome in spite of too much weight, about which he had been teased all his life. Perhaps that was why he had turned to the pen. He could write glowing verse of his longings, his aspiration in the field of love, and find great satisfaction therein, for he was beginning to be recognised as one of the finest poets of his day.

  Surely this must impress the Queen who had been brought up in a cultivated court. Her parents had loved the troubadours and had always encouraged them. And he was a royal troubadour, Thibaud le Chansonnier. He was eager for that not to be forgotten. His great grandfather Louis VII was the King’s grandfather. Just a little twist of fate and he might have been King. If his great grandmother Eleanor of Aquitaine had borne a son … instead of a daughter … well, it would not have been Louis who was on the throne but Thibaud, and Blanche of Castile might have been his bride instead of Louis’s.

  What bliss that would have been. And because Fate had been unkind Louis was her husband; it was Louis’s children she bore, the children of France – and he was merely Thibaud, the troubadour Count of Champagne.

  So he must sing his songs and he had made of Blanche an ideal and she being the woman she was had shown him so clearly that there was never a hope of her becoming his mistress. She liked his songs though. What woman would not enjoy hearing herself so honoured?

  Adoring Blanche he had come to despise Louis as being entirely unworthy of her. Louis had always been a weakling, physically. His father had feared for his health. Of course he was just and lacked the cruelty of so many men; there was no doubt that he had certain good points but even if he could be an acceptable king, he was not worthy to be Blanche’s husband.

  And while he sat at his table, murmuring to himself the words he was turning over in his mind, a messenger arrived with a command from the King.

  Louis reminded him that he was his vassal and that as such he could be called to serve the King in battle for forty days and forty nights. He was therefore ordered to join the King’s army without delay, bringing with him his men at arms, for the King was laying siege to the town of Avignon in the fight against the Albigensians.

  Thibaud felt a burning resentment. He had no desire to go to war. He was not out of sympathy with the Albigensians. They had been foolish perhaps in trying to pit themselves against Rome, but he was all in favour of the easy comfortable life they had so enjoyed. Raymond of Toulouse was a man of culture and a friend of his. Raymond was more interested in music, literature and discussion than in war.

  And he, Thibaud the Troubadour, was being asked – nay, commanded – to leave the comfort of his castle and go to war.

  And he must … because he was a vassal of the King and the King commanded him.

  * * *

  With something less than a good grace Thibaud set out for Avignon, but as he rode along he sang one of his latest compositions, the subject of which was the beauty of a lady whom he could not get out of his mind – and all knew that that lady was Blanche the Queen.

  He would have liked to sing of a rare passion
between them which both admitted to in secret, but it was not true and might even be considered treason. He could imagine those cold blue eyes on him if he hinted at such a relationship between them. She would banish him from court and he would never see her again. So he had to be careful.

  So to Avignon – that rich and beautiful town which owed its prosperity to its clever trading and the peace it enjoyed with the neighbouring Counts of Toulouse. The people of Avignon shared a desire with those of Toulouse to live in peace and comfort, they loved music and welcomed the troubadours of Toulouse and with them shared the new ideas and found great pleasure in discussing them. Avignon was not going to give in easily.

  Thibaud arrived in a mood of discontent which was certainly not dispersed by the sight of the grey walls of the town which looked impregnable and the soldiers encamped outside them weary and disillusioned for they had come expecting a quick victory.

  When Thibaud went to the King to inform him of his coming and to pay his respects, he was shocked by the sight of Louis whose skin was yellowish and his eyes bloodshot; he was a sick man, concluded Thibaud.

  He asked after the King’s health and received a short reply that there was nothing wrong with it.

  An opinion I do not share, Sire, was Thibaud’s inward comment, but he bowed his head and said he was glad to hear that was so.

  ‘The town has some strong defences,’ Thibaud ventured.

  ‘That’s so,’ replied Louis. ‘But I shall take it … no matter how long I stay here.’

  Thibaud thought: A vassal owes his lord but forty days and forty nights. I am not prepared to stay here longer.

  They studied each other – the Queen’s husband and the poet who declared his love for her in his verses. My verses will outlast you, my lord, thought Thibaud.

  ‘I am glad you came,’ said Louis. ‘It reached my ears that you were reluctant to do so and had you disobeyed me I should have been obliged to take measures against you.’

  ‘My lord, I came to your command. I have sworn allegiance, and when you call me to battle I owe you forty days and nights of my service.’

  ‘I should have been forced to make an example of you, Thibaud,’ the King warned him, ‘by laying waste the lands of Champagne.’

  Thibaud thought: You would have found stout resistance, my lord, and you are in no position to wage war against those who would do you no harm if you left them in peace. You have mighty enemies. The English will soon be at your throat. You need friends, Louis, not enemies. You poor creature. Her husband. I know I am over fat, too fond of good food and wine; but for all that I am more of a man than you are.

  He said: ‘It is not good, my lord, for there to be dissension in your own ranks. So I am here to fight with you in a cause which has no great concern for me.’

  The King dismissed him and Thibaud left his camp to mingle with others of his kind who had been called to honour their vows. He was not surprised that many of them expressed a similar discontent. They were ready enough to fight for their lands; they would have gone into battle against the English; but even though this war had the backing of Rome and they were said to win Heaven’s forgiveness by taking part in it, their hearts were not in it.

  ‘Forty days and forty nights – well I dare swear it can be endured,’ said Thibaud.

  ‘Do you think the siege will be over by then?’ was the reply. ‘They have food and ammunition within those walls to hold out for a year.’

  Thibaud shrugged his shoulders. ‘But I, my friend, have given a vow to serve only forty days and nights.’

  The weary siege went on. The people of Avignon were truculent, believing that in time their friends of Toulouse would arrive to save them.

  The heat was intense; men were dying of disease and Louis ordered that their bodies be disposed of by throwing them into the river. It was not the best of burying grounds but at least it was better than having rotten corpses lying around.

  His own deteriorating health was noticed.

  ‘My God,’ said Philip Hurepel, ‘the King looks sick unto death.’

  Philip Hurepel was disturbed. He was fond of the King as well as being a loyal servant. They shared the same father for Philip Hurepel was the son of Philip Augustus by Agnes, the wife he had taken after he had declared himself divorced from Ingeburga. The Pope had declared Philip Hurepel legitimate as a concession to his mother, but it was not everyone who accepted him as such. However, Philip Hurepel had never shown any desire to assert his right. He was a Prince of France and loved by Louis; in return he gave his affection and loyalty.

  He discussed the King’s condition with a group of friends, among them Thibaud.

  ‘The King has fits of shivering which I like not,’ he said. ‘I fear they are a symptom of something worse. He finds it hard to keep himself warm. I have told them to put furs on the bed. But no matter if he be weighed down with furs he is still cold.’

  ‘What he wants,’ said Thibaud, ‘is a woman in his bed to keep him warm.’

  Philip Hurepel looked with distaste at the troubadour.

  ‘As a poet,’ he retorted, ‘your thoughts leap to such matters. The King has ever turned his back on such amusements.’

  ‘’Tis an old custom,’ said Thibaud. ‘I merely mention it. When an old man cannot keep warm at nights there is only one remedy. I have seen it work again and again.’

  ‘Such talk is disloyalty to the King,’ said Philip sternly.

  ‘Thibaud is right,’ put in the Count of Blois. ‘A naked girl of sixteen years … that is what he needs.’

  Philip ran his hand through his shock of hair which his father had remarked on and from which he had acquired his nickname. ‘Louis would be furious,’ he said.

  ‘He would have to admit that the remedy proved to be a cure.’

  ‘I have been close to the King for many years,’ said Philip, ‘and never have I known him to take a strange woman to his bed.’

  Thibaud folded his hands together and raised his eyes. ‘Our King is a saint,’ he said with a hint of mockery in his voice. There was a great deal of mischief in Thibaud. The King was ill – sick of a fever. It might well be that he was a little delirious. What would he do if he awoke in the night and found a naked girl in his bed? Would he think it was the incomparable Blanche?

  He had ever been faithful to his queen. He loved her; but so did Thibaud. Perhaps they had different ways of loving. Thibaud was romantic; he had to admit he enjoyed this saga of unrequited love. Louis would never indulge in such fantasy. Why should he? He had the reality.

  It was no use trying to arrange something with Hurepel. He would just tug his bristly head and say the King would be horrified.

  But why not? It was a well tried custom.

  He talked to Blois and Count Archibald of Bourbon who was a great friend of the King and was very worried about his state of health.

  It was a chance, Thibaud pointed out. It could do no harm.

  It was amazing how easy it was to persuade them. They were men who took amorous adventuring as part of life; the King’s abstention had always made him seem a little odd and Thibaud knew that the men who indulged in what might be called a little vice, liked others to share in it too. Nothing could be more depressing for a man who enjoyed the occasional peccadillo to be with one who never did, but continued to live in virtue and was a pattern of morality.

  Even the King’s best friends would like to see him commit one little act of indiscretion; and it could always be covered up by the assertion that the girl was put there just to keep him warm.

  Thibaud found the girl. She was barely sixteen, plump, smooth-skinned and experienced.

  All she had to do was slip into a bed and warm up the poor man who lay there, really very sick, and she might use whatever method she considered best. She must understand that all they wished was to warm the man, for he shivered with cold and there was nothing else which could keep him warm.

  Louis lay between sleeping and waking – the dreadful shivering fits taki
ng possession of him periodically.

  ‘I am so cold,’ he had complained, and more rugs had been found; their weight was heavy but it could not get him warm.

  He wished that he was in his castle with Blanche. He thanked God for Blanche and young Louis and the rest of his family. It was only three years since he had been crowned a king – and he feared not a great one. He hated war and he constantly prayed that he could bring peace to France, but it seemed that God had decided differently. Philip had been so confident when John had come to the throne that soon the English would be driven out of France and the reason for this perpetual strife would be over. But it had not been completed. That was the trouble. If John had lived a little longer, he could have become King of England …

  But it was no use. It had not happened that way.

  He was aware of whispering voices in his room and he closed his eyes, having no desire to speak to anyone. He merely wished to lie still.

  They were at his bedside.

  Someone was in his bed. He roused himself. He was looking at a naked girl.

  He must be in a delirium. But why should he dream of a naked girl? He had never desired naked girls. He was not a man to indulge in erotic dreams.

  He cried out: ‘What means this?’ The shock of seeing the young woman had shaken off the lassitude brought on by his state. Standing by his bed, watching him, were several of his men. He recognised the Count of Blois and Thibaud of Champagne.

  ‘My lord,’ said a voice soothingly, and he recognised that of Archibald of Bourbon. ‘We but thought to bring some warmth into your bed.’

  ‘Who is this woman?’

  The poor girl looked crestfallen.

  ‘She is one who will know how to keep you warm, Sire,’ said Thibaud quietly.

  A dislike of the man rose within Louis.

  He raised himself. ‘Who dared bring in this woman?’

  ‘Sire,’ began Thibaud.

  ‘You, my lord,’ said Louis coldly. ‘Take her away. I have never yet defiled my marriage bed nor will I do so now. You mistake much, my lords, if you think I am of your kind. I shall remember this.’