The Battle of the Queens

by Виктория Холт

  ‘Know this, brother,’ cried Henry, ‘I shall do as I please.’

  ‘That’s what our father said.’

  This was the kind of remark which had been flung at Henry ever since he came to the throne. It never failed to enrage him because it frightened him.

  ‘Have a care, Richard,’ warned Henry.

  ‘It is you who must have a care. There are rumblings of discontent throughout the kingdom.’

  ‘There always have been and always will. There are too many men who seek riches for themselves and will make trouble hoping to get them.’

  ‘It is no help to your cause to act like this. Our sister is a royal ward. You know what that means.’

  Henry burst out: ‘I had my reasons.’

  ‘What reasons could there be for giving our sister to an … adventurer?’

  ‘I will tell you this. He had seduced our sister. I thought it better to set this matter to rights by giving her to him in marriage.’ Henry had turned pale. It was a lie. But if it were true – and who knew it might be? – none could blame him for getting them married.

  ‘The scoundrel!’ cried Richard, who had seduced many women in his not very long but somewhat full amatory life.

  ‘She wished for the marriage,’ continued Henry. ‘Let us hope he will make her a good husband.’

  ‘I shall seek out Simon de Montfort,’ cried Richard.

  ‘Pray do. Eleanor will not bless you. She is extremely happy with the fellow.’

  ‘An adventurer … and a royal ward! Our own sister.’

  ‘Oh, come, Richard. They are fond of each other. You married of your own free will and I forgave you. Eleanor took Marshal at a time when it was necessary to prevent his going to the enemy. Let her live in peace with the man she chooses.’

  ‘Who seduced her before marriage!’

  ‘So thought I,’ said Henry cautiously.

  Richard stormed out of his presence, leaving Henry angry and at the same time ashamed.

  It would seem that he is the King, not I, he thought; and then he laughed inwardly to think of Richard with his ageing wife, of whom he would clearly like to be rid, and his own sweet queen who continued to delight him.

  * * *

  Edmund Archbishop of Canterbury came to the King to tell him that he was very concerned to hear of the marriage of the King’s sister. He had a very special reason for being so …

  ‘It was a true marriage,’ said the King. ‘I was present myself.’

  ‘I have something very grave to say to you, my lord,’ the Archbishop explained. ‘Your sister, widow of William Marshal, made a vow of chastity to me. It would seem that she has broken that vow. This is a grave sin in the eyes of heaven.’

  Henry was weary of the matter. Why should they not let Eleanor and Simon de Montfort live in peace? Did all these people so hate to see a happy married pair? Were they so envious that they must seek to destroy that happiness?

  Of course Edmund was a saint. Hair shirts tormented his skin; he beat himself with knotted ropes; scarcely took enough food to keep himself alive, never went to bed and spent half the night on his knees. One could not expect such a holy man to be overjoyed by the carnal happiness of Eleanor and Simon.

  But if it really was true that Eleanor had made a vow, what could she have been thinking of to break it?

  ‘I know of no such vow, Archbishop,’ he said.

  ‘Nevertheless it was made in my presence. She has placed her immortal soul in peril.’

  ‘I do not think God and his saints will be so hard on her. She was married to old Marshal you know when she was only a child, and she truly loves her husband.’

  ‘My lord, I understand you not. Can it be that you have forgotten your duty to the Church? It is small wonder that our kingdom is in turmoil.’

  A plague on these pious churchmen, thought Henry. Then he was afraid of such irreligious thoughts and fervently hoped that the recording angel had not garnered that one.

  ‘I will speak to my sister,’ said Henry.

  ‘My lord, that will not be enough. She will need a special dispensation from the Pope.’

  Henry sighed and sent for his sister.

  * * *

  Eleanor came in some trepidation. She had been in a state of great uneasiness ever since she had known that the news was out.

  Simon had said they must hold themselves in readiness to fly from the country. He himself had gone to Richard and humbly asked his pardon. He had taken gifts and had tried to explain to his brother-in-law how he had been carried away by love for his sister.

  Richard listened, accepted the gifts and said that he was in trouble with the Archbishop over some matter of a vow Eleanor had made – and that could provide even more difficulties for them.

  There was a certain understanding between the two men and during the interview Richard had relented a little. He began to think that if the barons rallied round him and it became necessary to rise against Henry, Simon would be a good ally.

  He said that he understood Simon’s feelings and that he knew Eleanor had grown into a strong-minded young woman. If she had made up her mind to marry Simon, then Simon had little help for it but to obey her. They laughed together and Richard was mollified.

  It was not going to be so easy with the saintly Archbishop. Eleanor’s knees trembled as she stood before the old man. His fiery eyes seemed to penetrate her mind and she remembered vividly kneeling with him before the crucifix.

  Henry said: ‘The Archbishop brings me grave news.’

  Eleanor faced the old man unflinchingly – hoping he could not see how her hands trembled.

  ‘It would appear,’ said Edmund, ‘that you have forgotten the vow that you made to God.’

  ‘I did not regard it as a vow, my lord.’

  ‘So you made a vow which was no vow,’ said Edmund. ‘I beg of you do not add flippancy to your sins.’

  ‘I was very young and inexperienced of the world. I said I might consider going into a nunnery.’

  ‘Take care. Your words will be recorded in heaven.’

  ‘I have a husband whom I love. I do not think God would consider that a sin.’

  ‘You have broken your vow to Him. Every time you lie with this man you commit a sin against Holy Church.’

  ‘I do not think so.’

  ‘You … a foolish girl!’

  ‘Nay,’ said Eleanor with spirit, ‘a proud and happy wife.’

  Henry could not help admiring her. Of course he must respect such a saint, but Eleanor did not seem to care whether or not she offended God. He almost expected the Almighty to show His displeasure by striking her dumb or blind … or barren perhaps. He could not tell about the last but she certainly escaped the first two.

  ‘You give God … and us … great cause for sorrow.’

  ‘There are so many nuns,’ said Eleanor, ‘and not so many happy wives.

  ‘You are without shame,’ cried the Archbishop.

  ‘Am I?’ said Eleanor.

  ‘You must have a care, sister,’ Henry warned her mildly. He wanted an end of the scene so he went on before the Archbishop could speak again. ‘What must my sister do, my lord? She is married. We cannot unmarry her. Pray give your advice.’

  ‘A plea for dispensation must be sent to the Pope with all speed.’

  ‘That shall be done,’ said Henry.

  The Archbishop regarded Eleanor coldly.

  ‘There is only one who should be sent to His Holiness to make the plea. That is, you will agree, Simon de Montfort.’

  How she hated the saintly old man. He could not unmarry them, but he could separate them … for a while.

  * * *

  It was not a bad solution, Henry decided, for with the bridegroom away, the barons could forget their discontent with the marriage.

  Eleanor was angry. That could not be helped. She must expect to pay some price for her unconventional behaviour. She had the husband of her choice and in due course he would come back.

  Eleano
r’s sorrow in the temporary loss of her husband was somewhat alleviated by the knowledge that she was pregnant. Moreover the Pope, seeing that the marriage had already been celebrated, was of the opinion that there was no other alternative but to grant the dispensation.

  In due course Simon returned and Eleanor’s son was born in Kenilworth Castle. Eleanor decided to call him Henry after her brother, which delighted the King.

  In fact Henry himself was in a state of excitement over his wife’s pregnancy, and when his son – whom he called Edward – was born, he was overjoyed.

  To show that Eleanor was completely forgiven he invested Simon with the Earldom of Leicester.

  Alas, there was some trouble of a debt Simon had incurred during his stay abroad and as Simon could not meet the payment the account was sent to the King.

  Then Henry was enraged. It seemed to him that his sister was using him. She flattered him when she wanted something – Richard had suggested as much. Her husband so took advantage of his elevation into the royal family that he ran up bills he could not meet. He was going to show them that he was aware of their chicanery.

  He made an attack on Simon in the company of several of the dignitaries who had gathered together for the churching of the Queen, accusing him of seducing Eleanor before their marriage, and bribing the Pope for the dispensation and then failing to meet his debts.

  ‘If you do not remove yourself from my sight this moment you will be in the Tower before the night is out,’ he declared.

  Simon was bewildered. It seemed to him that Henry was behaving in a manner such as his father often did.

  But he and Eleanor left the court without delay.

  ‘He will have recovered from his ill temper in the morning,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘What if he does not?’ asked Simon. ‘I did not care for the look in his eyes.’

  ‘What then?’ asked Eleanor.

  ‘Get the child. We will leave the country for a while. It is safer so. I see that he will always remember this accusation against me and use it when it best suits him.’

  Eleanor sighed; but she knew that he was right and as long as they were not separated she was reconciled to anything that had to be. A week later they arrived in France.

  * * *

  Isabella, Countess of Cornwall, was an unhappy woman. She knew that Richard was seeking an excuse to be rid of her. He should have listened to her when she had told him that she was too old to please him. She missed Eleanor and often envied her her happiness with Simon de Montfort. Dear Eleanor, she deserved to be happy at last; and she would be because there was a certain strength about her which Isabella admired the more because she knew she herself did not possess it.

  Richard rarely came to see her now. He made an effort to be affectionate but it did not deceive her, for she knew that he was seeking means to be rid of her, and although the Pope had decided against that dispensation five years ago, Richard had not given up hope.

  Sometimes she felt very much alone in the world. Her great father long since dead; her brother on whom she had relied now gone. All she had was her son Henry – and he was a delight to any mother’s heart – but how long before he would be taken away from her? Nobly born boys were never allowed to grow up in their own homes. He would be sent away to be educated that he might become what they would call a man – the tender care of a mother being considered a handicap in such a training.

  She was again with child, though – her one consolation, although during this pregnancy she had become easily exhausted and often felt ill.

  She was fortunate to be surrounded by good servants. Those close to her knew of the sadness her husband’s neglect had brought her. It was touching to see how they tried to make up for his lack of care by lavishing their attentions on her, with something more than could be expected from the best of servants.

  In due course her time came and to her delight she gave birth to a son.

  Richard arrived at Berkhamsted a few days after the birth.

  He looked young and vital as he sat by her bed; she felt old and tired and she knew that she looked it.

  ‘It was good of you to come to see our son,’ she said to him.

  ‘Naturally I should come to see the boy … and you.’

  ‘Even more good of you to come to see me … when it is against your inclination.’

  He shifted uneasily on his stool.

  ‘You are not looking well, Isabella,’ he said. ‘Are they caring for you? I must speak to them.’

  They give me loving care, Richard. You can imagine how I appreciate that.’

  ‘I am glad of it,’ he said.

  He sat in silence and she wondered whether he was thinking that she looked so ill that she might never rise from this bed.

  It would save him a lot of trouble, she thought, and me a great deal of heartbreak.

  It was, said her servants, almost as though she were willing herself to die.

  He spoke to the most devoted of those who were with her night and day.

  ‘Your mistress seems lifeless,’ he said. ‘Is she very ill?’

  The old woman bridled a little and faced him coldly. Such women he knew cared for no one, however high in rank, and would fight an army of kings for the sake of their beloved charges.

  ‘It has been an unhappy time for her, my lord,’ was the brusque answer.

  ‘A difficult pregnancy, I know.’

  ‘Did you know, my lord? You have seen little of it.’

  ‘But I know such things are.’

  ‘This was aggravated by my lady’s melancholy state.’ The old woman bobbed a curtsey and turned away muttering: ‘I must see to my lady.’

  He went to see the child which lay quiet in its cradle. White and still, eyes closed, it reminded him of Isabella.

  He called to the wet nurse.

  ‘How fares the child?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, my lord, a good child. Never cries …’

  He went to his chamber thinking of poor melancholy Isabella and the child that never cried.

  The doctor said the child should be baptised at once, and he was christened Nicholas just before he died.

  He did not tell Isabella but she knew. She lay in her bed, listless.

  Richard sat beside her.

  Then she said: ‘Richard, I should like to be buried at Tewkesbury beside my first husband.’

  Richard said: ‘Nay, you are not going to die yet, Isabella.’

  She turned her head away and he knelt by her bed, taking her hand in his. He knew that he had been a bad husband. He knew that he had caused her great suffering.

  Theirs had been an impulsive marriage – on his side. She had loved him though. He wished he had been better to her. If he had known her end was near he would have visited her more often during the last year. But how could he have known? And the truth was that she was ageing; she was not gay as he liked women to be; she was too virtuous, too serious to please him.

  Their marriage had been a failure as she had said it would be. He could hear her voice coming to him over the years: ‘I am too old, Richard.’

  And how right she had been.

  But now he must comfort her. He would not allow her to be buried at Tewkesbury beside her first husband. That would be construed as a slight to him. He knew what he would do, for it was a mistake to ignore completely the wishes of the dead. Her heart should be put into a silver casket and buried beside her first husband, her body in a place of his choosing.

  The pressure of her clammy fingers in his reminding him that he was disposing of her before she was dead and in a sudden access of shame he said: ‘Isabella, you must get well.’

  And he promised himself that if she did he would be a better husband to her.

  ‘Richard,’ she said, ‘do not reproach yourself. I was to blame. I knew all along …’

  He said: ‘I loved you …’

  ‘You love easily, Richard. I know that now. Take care of little Henry.’

  He kissed her hand. ‘I promi
se you I shall love that boy as I love none other.’

  ‘I believe you,’ she said. ‘I think it is time to send for the priest.’

  So the priest came and he sat with her as she died. He wept a little and he tried to stop himself exulting because there need be no more negotiations with a Pope who raised objections. He thought of the beautiful daughters of the Count of Provence.

  Free. He was free.

  * * *

  In the hall at Westminster Henry had summoned all the magnates to a council meeting. Richard was present and sat beside him on the dais.

  Henry addressed the assembly: ‘I have a message from my father-in-law, the Count of La Marche. He has promised that if we take an army across the Channel he will help us against the King of France. My lords, this is the opportunity for which we have been waiting. At last we have a chance to regain all that we have lost. The Poitevins, the Gascons, the King of Navarre and the Count of Toulouse are with him. Their quarrel with Louis has grown and they are ready to march against him.’

  There was a murmuring among the assembly. If this were true, it could indeed be the chance they were waiting for, but how far could they trust the Count of La Marche?

  Henry answered that question. ‘The Count, through his marriage with my mother, has become my stepfather. I have always known that when the moment was ripe he would come to my aid.’

  It seemed reasonable. It could well be the time. Many eyes glistened at the thought of recapturing those lost castles.

  ‘Then, my lords,’ said Henry, ‘we are of one mind. We will now begin to make ready to make war on the King of France.’

  FRANCE 1238–1246

  Chapter XVII

  THE SPY FROM ROCHELLE

  Isabella of Angoulême, Queen Mother of England and Countess de la Marche, had changed little over the years, although she was now the mother of many children. There had been one for almost every year of her marriage to Hugh. It was said that she must have some special power – and many believed it had been bestowed by the devil – for in spite of the encroaching years and the exigencies of childbearing she had remained beautiful and maturity had not brought a lessening of her allure.