The Battle of the Queens

by Виктория Холт

  But there was one thing Isabella could never forget and that was that she was a queen. It was all very well to be the centre of Hugh’s life and domain, to be admired wherever she went, to have every whim respected, but in Lusignan she was merely the Countesse of La Marche. With John she had been Queen of England and even when she was his prisoner, that fact had remained. In England she would still be Queen – though Queen Mother. She grimaced at the expression, but still with a son who was young and had not yet found a queen of his own she would have had considerable standing.

  So there was always the need to remind everyone that she was a queen, to bestir Hugh to actions which would let everyone know how important he was.

  Of course he was a lord of a great deal of territory. There were many who owed allegiance to him; but one fact remained and it irked her more than anything she had ever known – and that was that Hugh must swear allegiance to the King of France.

  How she hated that cold-eyed queen who had regarded her with such distaste. She would like to see her brought low, her and her stupid Louis who doted on her. He was completely faithful to her. People were constantly commenting on it. Well, he was scarcely a man – and what of her? Did she have lovers? Although no scandal had touched her, all knew that the fat troubadour made songs about her. Isabella despised them all – Louis, Blanche and Thibaud of Champagne.

  Messengers arrived at the castle with letters for the Count. She had gone down to the hall with Hugh to receive them, and when she saw that they came from the Queen she could not conceal her impatience.

  She dismissed the messenger to the kitchens where he would be refreshed and said: ‘Let us go to the bedchamber where we can be quite alone to read what this means. It is important. Rest assured.’

  She took the packet from Hugh, who meekly allowed her to do so, and when they were in the bedchamber it was she who broke the seals.

  He came and looked over her shoulder.

  ‘My God!’ he cried. ‘Louis … dead.’

  ‘Always a weakling,’ she said. ‘You know what this means. She will be the sovereign now.’

  ‘It is young Louis …’

  ‘Young Louis! A boy of twelve. This is what Madame Blanche has been waiting for.’

  Hugh was well aware that Blanche would be desolate at the death of her husband and no woman as wise as she clearly was would want to see her son of twelve years on the throne, but he had learned not to contradict Isabella.

  ‘She is the mistress now.’ She turned to Hugh. ‘It is to this woman that you will have to bow the knee.’

  It was a familiar theme and Hugh would like to ignore it.

  ‘Why look,’ he said, ‘We are summoned to the coronation.’

  Isabella’s eyes were narrow. She was thinking back to ten years before when the news had been brought to her of John’s death and she had then been in a similiar position to that in which Blanche found herself now. What had she done? She had instinctively known that her young son must be crowned without delay. Blanche was realising the same thing now.

  ‘We must make ready at once,’ said Hugh. ‘There is little time.’

  ‘Hold!’ said Isabella. ‘I am not sure that we are going to this coronation.’

  ‘Isabella, my dearest, this is a command.’

  ‘Hugh, my dearest, you married a queen. She does not take orders from that woman … even though she also is a queen. We are equal in rank and she does not command me.’

  ‘She commands us as Count and Countess of La Marche and as such we are vassals of France.’

  ‘Oh Hugh, you madden me sometimes. It is well that I love you. If I did not I should quarrel most surely with you and leave this place and go back to England.’

  Hugh turned pale at the thought of such a disaster.

  ‘Now, my love. What are we going to do?’ she asked.

  ‘Prepare to leave. If we are going to be in Rheims …’

  ‘We are not going to be in Rheims.’

  ‘Isabella, what do you mean?’

  ‘We are setting out at once to call on our neighbour of Thouars.’

  ‘He too will be summoned to Rheims.’

  ‘Then we must reach him before he commits the folly of going there.’

  Hugh stared at her aghast. She put her arms about his neck and laid his cheek against hers. ‘My dearest husband,’ she said, ‘where would you be without me? I am going to make you the most powerful man in France.’

  ‘Isabella, the King …’

  ‘That soft-cheeked infant. Do not talk to me of him. My Henry is a man in comparison. You see, my love, you are in a very good position. You are the husband of the mother of the King of England. I have been thinking for some time that we might be happier supporting him than this woman who now sets herself up as our ruler.’

  ‘But I have sworn allegiance …’

  ‘Oaths! What are oaths? Oaths are for vassals … We should not allow ourselves to be fettered by such.’

  ‘Isabella, much as you mean to me, I have my honour, my duty …’

  She laughed softly. ‘And I would not have you other than you are. But before we go to Rheims I want you to come with me to visit our neighbours. I will send a messenger immediately to Thouars and Parthenay to tell them we are on our way.’

  ‘This is the coronation of our King …’

  ‘Oh, come, Hugh. There is no time to waste. That child is not ready to be crowned. He will merely be the mouthpiece for his mother.’

  He made a mild effort to detain her; but laughingly she thrust him aside, and the next day they set off for northern Poitou.

  Guy de Thouars, Hugh and the Lord of Parthenay were the most powerful lords of this part of the country and they had begun to realise that linked together they were a formidable force.

  Guy received them eagerly when they arrived. Hugh by this time had allowed Isabella to override his doubts and had convinced himself that what she had suggested was indeed the truth.

  Louis had been no friend to them; there was now a king who was only a minor; and Isabella was convinced that Blanche worked deviously against them.

  It was Hugh who began the explanations. Isabella had primed him in what he had to say and she knew that Guy and Parthenay must be convinced that Hugh was not merely upholding her views.

  Hugh pointed out that the late King had not served them well. He had suddenly decided to fight in the Albigensian war instead of continuing to wage war against the English. As soon as the Earls of Salisbury and Cornwall had shown they were not without military skill he changed wars.

  ‘Now,’ said Hugh, ‘we have a child as our King and we know full well that our true ruler will be the Queen.’

  ‘It seems likely,’ agreed Guy.

  ‘She will have able counsellors,’ put in Parthenay.

  Isabella interrupted them: ‘We know the Queen, my lords; she is not of a temper to consider advice. She will have her say and expect all to follow her wishes.’

  ‘It would seem,’ said Hugh, glancing at Isabella, ‘that we should offer our allegiance elsewhere.’

  The two men looked aghast, and Isabella said quickly: ‘I am not without influence in other quarters. I happen to be the mother of the King of England.’

  ‘My lady … my lord …’ began Guy.

  ‘Yes,’ said Isabella. ‘I can promise you lands and riches. When my son comes here and regains that which has been lost to England, he will not be ungrateful to those who helped him. I can promise you that.’

  ‘We have sworn an oath of allegiance …’

  ‘To King Louis VIII,’ cried Isabella. ‘He is dead.’

  ‘His son is now our King.’

  ‘His mother hastens to crown him, to have you all kneel before him and swear allegiance, but you have not done that yet, my lords. Will you be foolish enough to go to Rheims and mildly bend the knee to the Spanish woman?’

  ‘The coronation of our King is to take place on the twenty-ninth of this month.’

  ‘But three short weeks a
fter the old King’s death! Well, we will say this for the lady. She knows how to move fast.’

  ‘I would say,’ put in the Lord of Parthenay, ‘that the Queen will be an able regent with good men to help her. We shall not find her ill-prepared for the task.’

  Isabella was stung into sudden fury. Little enraged her more than to hear praise of Blanche.

  ‘Prepared! Indeed she is prepared. I’ll vow she was waiting most impatiently for this day. She … and her plump paramour.’

  ‘Isabella!’ cried Hugh. The others regarded her with amazement.

  ‘Oh, come,’ cried Isabella. ‘We know of these matters, do we not? She is a woman … for all that she shows a frozen face to the world. Have you read those verses written to her by her fat count? They are the words of a lover, my friends, a satisfied lover. Should we blame her? Louis was scarce a man. She has her needs like the rest of us. If she took him openly I could like her better. It is this mock purity which galls me.’

  ‘My lady,’ said Guy, ‘you speak of the Queen.’

  ‘I speak as one queen of another.’

  ‘This must not go beyond these four walls,’ said Hugh uneasily.

  Isabella laughed shrilly. ‘My dear husband, my dear friends, it has already gone to the four corners of France. Are you so innocent that you do not know that tongues are wagging about our lily white Queen? He is not so silent. He might as well stand at the turret of his castle and proclaim his mistress to the world. He does more than that. He writes it in songs which are sung throughout France. Who does not know of the guilty passion of these lovers?’

  ‘Champagne writes of her as the unattainable,’ said Guy.

  ‘You are a soldier, my lord. You do not read into those poems what is there to be seen. He is mad with love of her. Louis dies suddenly. Did you expect him to die? Come, confess it. Was it not a shock to hear that the King was dead? But I tell you this: the Count of Champagne quarrelled with him. He left before the walls of Avignon … and soon after we hear the King is dead. Of a fever, we are told. Of drinking bad wine. Who gave Louis bad wine to drink? The Queen’s lover was there, was he not … and Louis died!’

  ‘But it was weeks after he had left that Louis died,’ Parthenay pointed out.

  ‘Those who are clever with poisons may choose the time they work. I tell you this, my lords, I call it strange that Thibaud of Champagne should write so of his love, and that he should be with the King before he dies. And the Queen … what of her? What does she say: “I must get my son crowned without delay.” In fact there has been such little delay that one might be forgiven in thinking that it was planned beforehand.’

  There was a deep silence. With her glittering eyes and flushed cheeks Isabella presented a sight of such beauty that none of them could take their eyes from her. If there was something evil in her undeniable loveliness, that did not make it the less fascinating.

  Hugh was undoubtedly uneasy. ‘There is no proof of this …’ he began, ‘but …’

  ‘’Tis better not spoken of,’ put in Guy quickly.

  ‘But we must think of the future,’ said Hugh.

  The two men nodded.

  ‘Nothing rash should be done,’ went on Hugh.

  ‘Do you mean,’ asked Parthenay, ‘that we should not take our oath to the King?’

  ‘If we are not at Rheims we cannot do so,’ said Hugh. ‘In the meantime let us consider the friendship which must exist between my house and that of the English King. He is showing himself to be a king now … I do not think he would want to work against his mother and her friends.’

  There was a deep silence in the hall. A young king; a woman to rule. It was not a good prospect. And was it not just the time when the King of England would attempt to regain the lands his father had lost?

  He would need help. And who better to help him than the lords of Poitou and Lusignan?

  Hugh was smiling quietly. Isabella is right, he thought. They are beginning to realise it. There is more to be gained from England than France. It was unwise of course to talk so of Blanche. Perhaps it is true. Why should it not be?

  As usual he was beginning to believe what Isabella intended he should.

  Then he thought suddenly: But by God, how she hates Blanche.

  * * *

  Thibaud of Champagne sang blithely as he made his way towards Rheims.

  The King was dead and Blanche a widow. He thought of her constantly and now that she was a widow she had seemed to come a little closer to him.

  As he rode along he was composing new songs to her. She was the White Queen now, for as was the custom she must go into mourning for her husband and mourning was white.

  The Queen with a name as fair as her beautiful hair and the white mourning of a widow. Even her name was appropriate. Blanche, the White Queen.

  He sang a little and he was enchanted with the words he made to fit the melody.

  And now to the coronation at Rheims.

  He had sent his sergeant-at-arms on ahead to make sure that an adequate lodging was found for him. It must be one worthy of his rank and loyalty. A coronation was a time when a new king must be reminded of his blood relations.

  Rheims? What a fair city, situated boldly there on the Vesle river. It was becoming one of the important towns of France since Philip Augustus had been crowned there and Louis after him – and now young Louis the new King would share that experience. It seemed that a precedent was being set for the crowning of kings.

  Thibaud was wondering whether he might present himself to the Queen immediately after the ceremony or if he should wait awhile.

  He would make it clear to her that he would put his heart and everything he possessed at her feet.

  ‘You have but to command, Queen of my heart …’

  He imagined the gratitude in her eyes. She would be glad of a protector now. She would have her enemies, for there were always those self-seekers who would be looking for advantages now that she was a widow. He would make her understand that she could rely on him absolutely.

  He could see the towers of the cathedral. Many people were coming into the town. Knights with followers, all the highest in the land.

  As he made his way through the streets to the lodging which he believed would be waiting him he was recognised by several people.

  They cheered him somewhat mockingly. It was due to his size. He was known and recognised at once as the Fat Troubadour.

  He acknowledged their greeting and broke into song. That silenced their mockery. They must be aware of the beauty of his voice and the merit of the songs he sang which were his own.

  This put him in good spirits, and he rode along happily rehearsing what he would say to the Queen.

  But where was his lodging? Where were the pennants fluttering in the breeze to tell the townsfolk that this was the temporary residence of Thibaud, Count of Champagne – a kinsman of the young King, and of royal blood?

  His sergeant-at-arms was waiting for him at the house which was to have been honoured by his occupation, his expression woebegone, as he gesticulated wildly in explaining to his master what had happened.

  ‘My lord, I arrived here. I took up residence. I had your standards flying and the mayor and some of his men came to the house and demanded that the standards be removed … ay, and that I remove myself and all our servants from this place.’

  ‘God in Heaven,’ cried Thibaud. ‘I’ll have his blood.’

  ‘My lord, he pleaded that he acted on orders.’

  ‘On orders! Who would dare give such an order?’

  ‘The Queen, my lord.’

  ‘It can’t be so. Does she not know …? Why, I am the most faithful of her servants.’

  ‘Her orders were that you were to have no lodging in Rheims and that your servants were to be turned into the streets when they came to prepare one for you.’

  ‘But I am to go to the coronation.’

  ‘The Queen’s man said that the presence of one who had deserted the King’s father when he was
in dire need, would not be welcome at the coronation.’

  Thibaud was silent.

  Then he clenched his fists. He realised he had allowed himself to dream too wildly. She was as remote as ever she had been.

  A great rage possessed him.

  ‘We will go then,’ he said at length. ‘Doubtless there will be some who welcome us if the King does not.’

  * * *

  It was a moving sight when the boy King rode to the cathedral on a large white horse. The women among the spectators wept for him. He looked so young, so defenceless with his thick blond hair free of any covering, and so handsome were his beautifully chiselled features and his smooth fair skin.

  One of the monks assisted him to alight and led him inside the cathedral. There was great dignity about the boy which was immediately noticed and commented on. Blanche, watching her son, was proud of him. He looked so vulnerable; he would need her guidance.

  Had she been wise, she wondered, in refusing Thibaud of Champagne permission to attend? She was unsure now. A rumour had reached her that some were saying he was her lover and the thought had filled her with such anger that she had allowed her personal resentments to take precedence over her common sense.

  The prospect of seeing that fat man at this time, when she was feeling the loss of Louis so acutely, was more than she could endure. But she did understand that the last thing she must do was antagonise any of the powerful lords who could make her position – but mainly that of her son – untenable.

  A young king, a regent queen … that situation was filled with dangers. She would have to act carefully and quell her personal feelings in the future. Merely because the foolish troubadour had mentioned her in his songs in such a manner that she was immediately recognisable, people had started to circulate this slander. If she could discover the source she would let someone feel the weight of her anger.

  In the meantime she must curb her feelings. It was disconcerting to contemplate that already she had acted recklessly.