The Battle of the Queens

by Виктория Холт

  She was arrogant, demanding and could be vindictive. Her husband and her children were in considerable awe of her; yet they were devoted to her. In spite of her overbearing manner and her extreme selfishness, they were aware of that enchantment which had been with her since she was a girl; and if it was in their power to give her what she wanted, they gave it.

  Hugh, her eldest son, who greatly resembled his father, was her devoted slave; he would one day be the Count of Lusignan; Guy her second son was the Lord of Cognac; William was to have Valence and Geoffrey Châteauneuf, while Aymer was to go into the Church. Then there were the girls, Isabella, Margaret and Alicia.

  Ever since she had married Hugh she had been obsessed by her hatred of one woman; and that hatred was perhaps the greatest emotion of her life.

  Not a day passed when she did not think of Blanche, the Queen Mother of France, and when she would ask herself what she could do to make life uncomfortable for that woman. For many reasons she hated Blanche, and she knew that Blanche hated her. It amused her to contemplate that Blanche was as much aware of her as she was of Blanche and that the good and virtuous woman would be as ready to slip a dose of poison in her wine as she would in Blanche’s.

  There was a natural antipathy which they could feel, so strong was it, whenever they were near.

  Isabella rejoiced in the troubles of the Queen Mother of France – and they were great. For a forceful woman such as she was it was not easy to step back and take second place after ruling. She had been Regent of France while Louis was in his minority and now the little saint had become of an age to rule himself; and was showing himself capable of the task. He had married Marguerite of Provence – a pretty creature of whom he was enamoured – a little to the chagrin of his mother who had doubtless imagined she would keep her influence with him. A situation which amused Isabella, particularly when she heard that the poor little Queen went in fear and trembling of her mother-in-law.

  Isabella had spread a great deal of scandal about her enemy in connection with Thibaud of Champagne, and there were many who believed that Blanche and Thibaud had in fact been lovers – and just a few who carried the scandal further and suggested that Thibaud had murdered Louis in order to enjoy more of the Queen’s company.

  It was nonsense. Even wild romantic unwise Thibaud would not be such a fool. Isabella had to admit that. Blanche was a cold woman, very much aware of her regality; and she would never take a lover – let alone Thibaud of Champagne, the fat troubadour, who in spite of his poetry – which those who knew declared had great merit – was a bit of a buffoon.

  She had laughed heartily when she heard the story of how when Thibaud was presenting himself at court in the most elaborate garments, on mounting the stairs to enter the Queen’s presence he had been covered in curdled milk which had been thrown on him from an upper balcony by Robert of Artois, Louis’s younger brother who, resenting the scandal surrounding this man and his mother, had decided to make Thibaud look ridiculous.

  The Queen was furious to see her admirer in such a state and there would have been trouble had not her mischievous fourteen-year-old son confessed that he had arranged the incident.

  He had been reprimanded and forgiven; but it did show that the scandal was well spread and that even the children of the royal household were aware of it.

  Isabella had done her work well.

  She longed for the day when the promises made in treaty between Hugh and Blanche which had been signed soon after the death of Louis VIII would be carried out. Then her daughter Isabella would be married to Blanche’s son Alphonse, and Hugh, the son and heir of the Lusignans, to Isabella, daughter of Blanche.

  Then their families would be linked. Blanche would be mother-in-law to her son and daughter and she to Blanche’s.

  That thought had sustained her through the years and now the time was approaching.

  It was for this reason that she had insisted that Hugh ally himself to the King of France, which seemed unnatural since her own son was the King of England. But, she reasoned, Henry should never have allowed her to turn to his enemy. He should have been a better son to his mother and not denied her the dowry she had asked for.

  The King and Queen of France with their son and daughter had offered the Lusignans more than Henry across the water ever had. Therefore he had lost his mother – and deserved to, as she was fond of telling Hugh.

  Meanwhile she was waiting for these royal marriages which were going to bring so much power and pleasure to the family.

  ‘Surely,’ she had said to Hugh, ‘it is time our son was married. He is of an age. And the Princess is no longer a child.’

  ‘I have heard rumours of the Lady Isabella,’ Hugh told her. ‘She is growing up most pious and has expressed a wish to go into a convent.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ cried Isabella. ‘How can she go into a convent when she is betrothed to our Hugh?’

  ‘It would be possible,’ replied Hugh. ‘There has been no formal betrothal. I have heard that Queen Blanche is anxious for her daughter to have her will, since she could be happy in no other way.’

  ‘We should see that she is kept to her promise,’ retorted Isabella.

  ‘She herself made no promise, my dear,’ Hugh reminded her mildly.

  ‘You annoy me,’ she told him. ‘You have no spirit. That girl was promised to our son. It was the price we asked for peace. Promises were made to be kept …’

  Hugh smiled gently. Did Isabella keep her promises? He would have reminded her how often she had broken her word when it was expedient to do so, but he would not, of course, for if he did she would fly into a fury and sulk for days – which he dreaded, for on those occasions she would lock the bedchamber door against him; and even after all these years that was a state of affairs which he found unendurable.

  ‘Blanche will decide,’ he said gently.

  But the idea of that woman deciding their destinies made her angrier than ever.

  She insisted that he send emissaries to the Court of France to ask when the marriage between their son and the daughter of France should take place. Hugh was reluctant. He could never forget that he was a vassal of the King of France. She had to remind him constantly that he might be, but she was a queen and a Queen of England and therefore on equal footing with the Queen of France.

  Eventually, however, he gave way and his deputy was sent.

  The answer came back promptly. The Princess Isabella had no desire for marriage. She was earnestly considering a life of seclusion.

  * * *

  Hugh shrugged his shoulders helplessly. What could he do? He was sure that if the Pope were called in His Holiness would most certainly approve of the Princess Isabella’s pious resolve.

  ‘It is a plot,’ shrieked Hugh’s Isabella. ‘A plot to flout us! I’ll swear that ere long we shall hear that she has married elsewhere.’

  ‘Nay,’ said Hugh soothingly. ‘She has always been a girl to spend long hours in prayer and meditation. It has been remarked for a long time that she had an inclination for the religious life.’

  ‘You talk as though she had not been promised to our son.’

  ‘Nay, my love, indeed she was promised, but if she has no feeling for the married state and has the Pope’s permission to be released from marriage there is nothing we can do.’

  ‘Nothing you can do, perhaps!’ cried his wife. ‘Has it not always been so? Have you not ever given way to those who would force their will on you? Have I not always had to force you to take action? It is small wonder to me that Spanish Blanche believes she can do what she will with you. You are spineless, Hugh de Lusignan!’

  He showed a rare spirit. ‘Then I wonder that you allowed yourself to marry me.’

  ‘Because I thought that I might put a little spirit into you … which I have done. Where should we be if it had not been for me?’

  Hugh sighed. He might have said: Living in peace with fewer enemies around us! But he restrained himself. She looked so magnificent in her anger, an
d he knew that without her his life would be bleak indeed.

  ‘I shall never forgive Blanche and her saintly Louis for this,’ she muttered.

  Hugh was not unduly perturbed because over the years she had often expressed her hatred of the Queen, and he knew that it had always been so intense that nothing could in fact make it more so than it was already.

  There was worse to come.

  Alphonse, third son of Blanche, who had been promised to Isabella, daughter of Hugh and Isabella, was married to Joan of Toulouse.

  This was flouting Lusignan indeed. The treaty was forgotten. All these years when Isabella and Hugh had been faithful to the Court of France – even though Isabella’s own son was the King of England – had brought them nothing. This was insulting.

  Isabella raged and ranted so violently that her family feared she would do herself an injury. She raved against Spanish Blanche and cried out that she would be even with her. Hugh was afraid that her invective might be reported and reach the Queen’s ears.

  Isabella did not care. She had never been so angry in her life. The Queen of France and her son the King behaved as though the Lusignans were the humblest vassals, of no account.

  ‘She shall see,’ cried Isabella. ‘She shall see.’

  She wanted Hugh to call together the nobles of the neighbourhood to march against the King, and when he pointed out the impossibility of this, she called him a coward.

  He tried to reason with her but she would not listen. She was a queen, she cried. It was difficult for those of less nobility than herself to understand. It may be that her husband was prepared to stand by and see her insulted; but she thanked God that she had enough courage left to fight for her rights.

  For days she refused to speak to Hugh. Her son implored her to forget her anger. She raved against them all. They had no thoughts for the insults heaped upon her by that Spanish woman. Did they not see that her sole reason was to discountenance the woman she hated?

  ‘I shall get even with her!’ she cried. ‘One of these days it will not be Blanche who sits and laughs at Isabella, Queen of England, Countess of Lusignan. I can promise you that.’

  Her family did not want her to promise them anything but that she would forget her rancour.

  When she heard that Alphonse had been created Count of Poitiers and had taken possession of Poitou her fury broke out into even greater violence.

  She was now sure that Blanche’s motive was to humiliate her, for Poitou had been the territory of her family for years. Richard Coeur de Lion had been the Count and at this time Richard of Cornwall, her second son, deemed himself to own it.

  ‘A deliberate insult to my family,’ cried Isabella.

  And she shut herself into her bedchamber plotting revenge.

  * * *

  Blanche had every reason to be proud of her son.

  After the death of her husband she had worked solely to protect young Louis from his enemies and to keep him on the throne, but when Louis came of age she had been able to pass over power to him with every confidence.

  She had reason to thank God for Louis. He was extremely handsome and distinguished looking with his mass of blond hair and fine fresh skin, but what was most gratifying was that inherent goodness. There was about Louis a growing saintliness, something wise and gentle. Not that he was by any means aloof from the worldly pleasure. He was elegant, took a pride in wearing magnificent garments when state occasions demanded that he should; and he excelled in games and was fond of amusements such as hunting. No, there was nothing of the recluse about Louis. He was greatly interested in the way people lived and could be very distressed at the conditions of the poor. He determined to do something about bettering their conditions, he told his mother; and he liked to go out into the forest very often after Mass and would take with him some of his friends, but he made it clear that anyone, even a passing traveller, might join the company. Then he would bid them talk – of any matter which interested them. He wanted to know their opinions and not only of those who frequented the court.

  Blanche at first remonstrated with him. Was this a kingly act? she wondered. Was he not in some way besmirching his royalty by making himself so accessible?

  He shook his head at this and replied: ‘It is the King’s duty to rule his people, and how can he do this wisely if he does not understand his people’s problems?’

  Blanche withdrew her disapproval. She had long before known that this son of hers was a king who would have a great effect on his country.

  He had a few of the weaknesses of young men – including a fondness for the opposite sex – and she decided that it would be a good idea to get him married early, and when she suggested this to him, he raised no objection.

  It was not difficult to find a bride for the King of France; and when Blanche selected a princess who was said to have received the best of educations and was also noted for her beauty, Louis agreed to be married without delay.

  So Marguerite of Provence became Queen of France, and the two young people took to each other, and when Louis had a wife he settled down at once to a sober domesticity. No more amatory adventures. No more extravagant clothes; he began to dress with the utmost simplicity; he became more reflective. He confessed to his mother that he had two great missions in life: to rule France well and at some time, when it was safe to leave the country, to go on a crusade to the Holy Land.

  Blanche replied that ruling the country was his first duty and she believed that most kings found it a lifetime’s work.

  He agreed but she could see the dreams in his eyes and she wondered whether he was not a little too serious. She wondered too whether he was growing away from her.

  He was completely content in his marriage and Blanche, who had believed her son’s welfare was her ultimate desire, surprised herself at her growing resentment. She loved this son of hers too much, perhaps. Of course she wanted his happiness, but she could not bear to lose him. Yet, as his wife passed out of her girlhood he took her more and more into his confidence; and it seemed to Blanche that, even apart from this, they had little domestic secrets in which she had no share.

  For the first time in her life Blanche felt alone. Her husband had loved her dearly and greatly respected her. She had helped him make decisions; she had ruled with him; and on his death she had ruled for Louis and then with him; and now this little girl from Provence was slowly but surely ousting her from her position. It was becoming Louis and his wife Marguerite – not Louis and Blanche his mother.

  Because she was fundamentally wise, Blanche reasoned with herself. It was not an unusual situation. Mothers who had greatly loved their sons frequently resented their sons’ wives. The fact that, in their case, this meant a shifting of power made the situation even harder to bear.

  Marguerite became pregnant and there was great rejoicing throughout the court. Blanche took charge and would not allow her to accompany the King on some of his journeys.

  ‘I shall be with him, my child,’ she told Marguerite. ‘It is for you to rest. You must take great care of yourself.’

  Louis knew what was happening. He and Blanche had been so close that he understood her thoughts completely. He loved her dearly; he was appreciative of all she had done for him; but she would have to understand that his wife must come first with him. It was something to which he would have to bring her in time, but he would do it gently, for he had no wish to hurt Blanche, for whom he had such love and respect.

  Moreover Marguerite was made very unhappy by Blanche’s treatment of her. Like most people she was decidedly in awe of Blanche and had tried hard in the beginning to win her approval. She saw that this was useless for the Queen Mother had no intention of allowing intrusion and could not bear to share her son with anyone.

  So alarmed was Marguerite by her formidable mother-in-law that she warned her servants to let her know when Blanche was approaching so that she might have time to escape. Even Louis resorted to this subterfuge; and matters grew worse, for when Blanche was unde
r the same roof, she made it difficult for the royal pair to be together at all.

  Blanche was aware of her selfishness and hated herself for it, but she could not bear to relinquish her hold on her son. She realised that beyond anyone she loved this son; and never had she cared for any as she cared for him. To such an extent had her obsession grown that she could not endure it when his attention strayed from her; she wanted him all to herself; and gradually she had begun to look on his love for his wife as the biggest threat to her happiness.

  Often she asked herself if she would have wanted him to have had an unhappy marriage. Of course she would not. What she wanted was for him to have married a nonentity, a silly pretty little wife who was good for nothing but bearing children. It had been a mistake to choose one of the most educated princesses in Europe.

  In due course, Marguerite gave birth to a sickly child who died soon after and the Queen herself came near to death. Louis remained at her bedside, so much to his mother’s chagrin that she came to the sick room and told him how much it grieved her to see him stay there. ‘You can do no good, my son, by remaining here,’ she insisted.

  Louis stood up and as he did so, Marguerite opened her eyes and looking full at Blanche said with unusual spirit: ‘Alas, neither dead nor alive will you let me see my lord.’

  She had half raised herself in her bed and as she spoke these words she fell back, her face ashen pale, her eyes closed, and she appeared to have stopped breathing.

  There was intense horror in that room. Louis fell on to his knees at the bedside and said quietly: ‘Marguerite, come back to me … I swear that we shall be together … if only you will come back.’

  In those moments, when it seemed that the Queen of France was dead, Blanche suffered an overwhelming remorse.

  She could not bear the sight of her weeping son kneeling by his wife’s bedside; she could not bear to think of what the future would be if Marguerite died.