by Jean Plaidy
‘Come, my lord,’ she went on. ‘This is a happy day. Our good Hubert de Burgh has scored a marvellous victory. We are sending Louis about his business. England will be at peace and my son will learn to be a king when he has to guide him two of the greatest men this country – or any country – has produced. That is no reason for mourning.’
‘You are right, my lady,’ said William Marshal.
‘Then shall we proceed?’
They went out to the barge which would take them to that spot near Staines where the ceremony would take place.
There, Isabella took her place on one side of the river with William Marshal on one side of her and the Papal Legate on the other. Across the river were Louis and his advisers. Isabella noticed with satisfaction that Louis was crestfallen, as well he might be. She imagined his returning to his father, sly Philip the King, who had wanted the conquest of England but would have no part in it because he feared defeat; and he would return to his wife Blanche too. Isabella had heard of their conjugal bliss. So might it have been if she had married Hugh.
Louis was slender and had a look of frailty about him which she felt to be deceptive. His features were fine drawn and his thick blond hair gave him a youthful look which was not unattractive in its way but he lacked the virility of Hugh de Lusignan which even now she remembered.
But what would Hugh be like after all these years? Ever since he had passed out of her life she realised she had been comparing every man with Hugh. The lovers she had taken had borne some resemblance to him and John had known this. Perhaps it was one of the reasons why he had so savagely murdered one of them and hung him on the tester of her bed.
How she would love to see Hugh again! Perhaps when he was her son-in-law she would. The thought made her hysterical with amusement or rage … Which? A mingling of the two of course.
But she should be concentrating on this ceremony which was going to make England safe for her son.
The solemn pledges were announced and spoken across a narrow stretch of water; and in the fields tents were being set up and in one of these a chapel was erected in which it would be necessary to make vows before the altar and Louis would swear that he would return to France and keep the peace for which William Marshal would promise that he should receive compensation.
The next day the French crossed the river and in the chapel set up in the tent, peace was agreed upon and Louis would return to France with a compensation, to be paid by the English, of six thousand marks which would help reimburse him for the costliness of the venture.
The Papal Legate and the leading men of London then went with the King of France and members of his entourage to Dover where Louis set sail.
As the ship disappeared below the horizon there were cries of ‘England is safe. This is the King’s Peace. Long live Henry the Third – England’s King for the English.’
The Queen was feeling disgruntled. Neither William Marshal nor Hubert de Burgh had behaved in the manner she had hoped they would. It was true that Marshal was an old man and had always been one who would never adventure far in the realms of erotic passion. He had married his Isabella late in life and been faithful to her all the years they were together; they had had five sons and five daughters and he had been the model husband, she the model wife – everything that would be expected of William Marshal. So it was hardly likely that now he was rich in years he would be so overcome by the charms of Queen Isabella – not physically of course but enough to make him ready to indulge her.
Hubert de Burgh – now he was of another type. His married life had been very varied. Isabella had become interested in him at the time of Prince Arthur’s imprisonment; she remembered how John had summoned him and given him secret instructions to put out the boy’s eyes and castrate him – a fate which had filled her with dismay for Arthur was a good looking boy and it was horrifying to one so aware of masculine perfection to contemplate his mutilation. She had been amused when she had heard that Hubert had disobeyed John – a noble thing to have done – and despising her husband she had admired Hubert, and had looked at him with favourable eyes for he was of comely appearance; but she quickly realised that although he was ready to risk his life, or worse still hideous mutilation, for the sake of a young boy for whom he had felt affection, he would not have been ready to indulge any sexual appetite he might have felt for the Queen. She had dismissed him from her thoughts then. Now she considered him. He had had three wives … so far, for he was not old and could well marry again should his third wife die. First there had been Joan, daughter of the Earl of Devon; she had died and he had taken Beatrice, who was the widow of Lord Bardulf; he was now married to Hadwisa, which was an extraordinary coincidence because Hadwisa had been John’s first wife. This was rather amusing. Hadwisa had been far from beautiful but the greatest heiress in the country; that was why John had married her and that had been before it seemed he had a hope of wearing the crown. He had tormented Hadwisa and rid himself of her to make Isabella his wife. And now Hadwisa was married to Hubert de Burgh! Hadwisa had had another husband after John – Geoffrey Mandeville, the fifth Earl of Essex. He had died but it had not been long before she found another husband in Hubert de Burgh – both embarking on their third marriages.
Well there was Hubert – a much married gentleman, wise and shrewd and in no mood to become the slave of a widowed queen. It was exasperating, but if she wished she could find lovers in plenty. That potent sexual power in her had not diminished since John had seen her in the forest and been driven to desperate means to possess her, already affianced to Hugh de Lusignan though she was.
That brought her back to Hugh. Her first love. For her there would never be another like him. How she would enjoy seeing him again to test whether his charm had lost its potency.
But here she was – some would say in an enviable position – the mother of a king who was a minor, ten years old. Surely her place should be to guide him, to rule through him. That would be invigorating. People would come to her to ask favours. They would say: ‘Oh it is necessary to approach the King through his mother the Queen.’
It was true that she had been present at the treaty with Louis near Staines but somehow she felt that had been a mere formality. She had had no voice in any of the arrangements which had been agreed by the council, the head of which was Marshal and de Burgh. They had made the decisions; she had merely been there to represent the King.
It would not do. She had no intention of being forced into the background. Her best method she believed was to approach her son, and knowing that he was at Windsor with his tutor, Philip of Albini, she went there to him.
She was faintly disturbed to see a change in Henry’s demeanour; then she laughed inwardly and told herself it was natural for a young boy who had suddenly realised that he was a king, and now of course the French were driven from the land his position was very secure.
She embraced him warmly and dismissed his tutor Philip of Albini who seemed reluctant to leave the boy alone with his mother.
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘they are making a king of you, my son.’
He replied somewhat haughtily: ‘I am a king, my lady.’
‘Praise Heaven that the French have gone. You must be greatly indebted to William Marshal and perhaps most of all to Hubert de Burgh. His strategy was masterly.’
‘He is a good servant,’ said Henry calmly.
Isabella burst into laughter and taking her son into her arms she held him against her. Sensing his resentment as he stood stiffly in her embrace, it occurred to her then that it was not going to be so easy to rule him as she imagined.
He drew himself from her and for a few seconds they regarded each other; Isabella’s gaze was shrewd; his was wary.
‘I trust, Henry,’ said Isabella reproachfully at length, ‘you will not forget that, King though you may be, you are my son.’
‘It would be impossible to forget such a fact. All the world knows that you were my father’s wife and I the eldest son of the marriage
.’
Again she laughed, but uneasily. ‘You are the same in many ways. You were always so serious. Tell me, do you miss your brother Richard and little Joan … and the babies.’
‘No, my lady. I have matters of great import with which to occupy myself.’
‘I’ll swear they are missing you.’
‘I think not, my lady.’
‘Why Joan was speaking of you but a few days since.’
‘Joan … Joan is little more than a child.’
‘Not too young to be betrothed. We shall be finding a wife for you ere long, I doubt not.’
‘The matter will be for me to decide.’
‘Nay, my son. That will be a matter of such importance that you will have to listen to the advice of others.’
‘My marriage will be of more importance to me than to any, and therefore I am determined to see that it suits me.’
‘Why, Henry, what has come over you?’
‘I have become a king, Madam.’
It had occurred to her then that there was a hint of hostility in his manner towards her. They had never doted on each other; she had never experienced that obsession with her children which some mothers felt, but she had perhaps taken it for granted that they must admire her for her beauty and that inherent gift to attract.
‘Dear Henry,’ she said, ‘let us not lose sight of the fact that you are ten years old.’
‘It is something of which Philip constantly reminds me. For that reason I must learn quickly. I must be wary of those who would seek to influence me. I must learn to form judgements and they must be wise ones. William Marshal is often here. It is likely that he will be here this day. He insists that I sit in council with him and other ministers that I may learn quickly; and indeed, Madam, I am determined to do so.’
‘Let us hope that you will be able to spare a little of your attention for your mother,’ she retorted with some asperity.
‘As you see I am doing that now.’
‘With not very happy results. And I see also, Henry, that you have grown away from me.’
‘Was I ever near you, Madam?’
‘My dear son, you know we were in captivity.’
‘I know for what reason.’
‘Your father’s cruelty.’
‘You had betrayed him.’
‘My dear Henry – though you be the King – pray remember that I am your mother. You do not know what manner of man your father was.’
‘I am learning and what I know best is that I must be as different from him as it is possible for one man to be from another.’
‘Well, that is a good lesson to have learned. One day you will understand what havoc was wrought in this kingdom.’
‘I have already learned. My tutors insist that I learn what has happened in this kingdom from the days of the Conqueror that I may profit from the errors of my predecessors. I know this: I must reign well, so that it will not be held against me that I am the son of John and …’
‘And Isabella of Angoulême,’ she supplied.
‘I said of John, my lady.’
‘And stopped in time. You do not appear to have a very fine opinion of your mother.’
He was silent.
‘What do you think it was like, married to such a man?’ she burst out. ‘You know how he lost the crown possessions in France and came near to losing this kingdom. But that is not all. There are matters of which your clever tutors know nothing. I could tell you …’
‘Pray spare me,’ said Henry coolly; and she thought: Is this my son – my ten-year-old who talks like an old man? How did we get such a boy, John and I? There is no laughter in him, no joy in living. He is a king – power stretches out before him when he is old enough to enjoy it, and he is like an old man already. She could see that there was no hope of his listening to her.
She shrugged her shoulders and left him.
Later she spoke with Philip of Albini – a man with a very serious mind who assured her that he, acting under the instructions of William Marshal and Hubert de Burgh, was determined to instruct the King in all matters pertaining to his role in life, while not neglecting his general education. He was happy to report that the young King learned quickly; indeed he had a taste for learning and was particularly interested in literature and the other arts. He was a pupil whom it was a joy to instruct. Philip of Albini could assure the Queen that the Earl of Pembroke was delighted and had even said that it might be an advantage that the King had come into their care while there was time yet to form his mind.
The fool! thought Isabella. He thought he was pleasing her by this praise of her son, when what he was saying was tantamount to pointing out that it was fortunate he had escaped from her care.
Hearing that the Earl of Pembroke would be visiting the castle the following day, she decided to remain to see him; she spent a sleepless night trying to face this turn about in events. It was not going to be as she had planned. She was not going to be there – the power behind the throne, whom all realised they must placate if they were going to find favour with her son. She was going to be the figure in the background, of no importance, the old Queen Mother to whose rank these powerful men would pay a certain homage and that would be the end of it. There was no one among them who would have given up everything to become her lover. They were a dull lot, concerned only with moulding the young King in the way they wanted him to go. It looked as though the future might be bleak for Isabella.
This was confirmed with the arrival of the Earl in the company of Hubert de Burgh. They were delighted with the application and progress of the King; his mother had reason to be proud of him; but both these gentlemen made it very clear to her that her guiding hand was to play no part in the young King’s progress.
Fuming in her bedchamber later she asked herself if she was to accept this retiring role. She was thirty-one years of age, and with a woman who had cared for her appearance as she had, that was no great age. Her beauty was perennial; although she might have become a little mature that did not detract from her charms she was sure.
Hugh would never have treated her like this.
Hugh! How she longed to see him again. Would she be disappointed in him? What a bold man he had been! What looks! They and his great height had made a god of him. How different from John whose depravity had made him grow more and more hideous. John had hated Hugh – chiefly because he knew that she had loved him, but partly because Hugh was handsome and possessed of a nobility of character which made men respect him. The last time Isabella had seen Hugh was when he was chained hand and foot in a cart that was like a tumbril and drawn by oxen. He had been John’s prisoner then – for Hugh had been fighting on the side of Prince Arthur – and John’s one idea had been to humiliate the noble Hugh, and that Isabella should witness that humiliation. Foolish John, he did not realise that it was not Hugh she despised at that time but himself. John had known nothing of other people because he had been so deeply concerned with himself as the only person who could be of any importance. How delighted she had been when Hugh was released – because John thought it was to his advantage to do so. What a fool that man was. It did not seem to occur to him that Hugh might hate him as much as he hated Hugh. She often wondered how much Hugh had contributed to John’s utter defeat and loss of the French possessions.
And how she longed to see Hugh again.
Suddenly her mood of depression had passed and she was wildly elated.
Why not? It was feasible. It was the right thing to do.
She was thankful that William Marshal was in the castle. She would approach the matter tentatively the very next day. She spent a restless night and could scarcely wait to talk to the Earl.
‘It is with great relief and pleasure,’ she told him, ‘that I watch the King’s progress. I thank God that he is in such good hands. I think he is as different from John as anyone could be.’
The Earl looked well pleased.
‘Hubert de Burgh and I have the utmost confidence in Philip of
Albini.’
‘And so have I. It occurs to me that I can serve no useful purpose in this country.
‘I trust the King will never forget that you are his mother.’
‘He will never do that. But I can safely leave his upbringing in capable hands and turn my attention to other members of my family who need me more. Richard is well looked after by Peter de Mauley at Corfe and I understand that Roger d’Acastre is most excellent. My youngest daughters are as yet little more than babies, but my daughter Joan is betrothed and I believe it to be time that she went to the home of her betrothed where she will be brought up in his household as is the custom.’
The Earl nodded slowly. It was the custom of course for girls to be brought up in the country into which they would marry.
‘I believe,’ went on Isabella, ‘that she should leave without delay. She is seven years old – an age when a child’s mind begins to take shape. Do you agree with me, my lord?’
‘I do indeed.’
‘It will be necessary for her to make this journey in the care of someone who can be trusted.’
There was a short silence. The Earl was trying not to betray the hope which had come to him. He had consulted with Hubert de Burgh and they had agreed that the Queen would have to be watched. Mothers of kings who were minors could be tiresome; and there was no indication that Isabella was a meek woman who would listen to advice.
The Earl cleared his throat as though about to speak but Isabella spoke first. ‘My two sons are in good hands; my two young children are well cared for. It would seem, my lord, that since I am scarcely needed here, I should be the one to accompany my daughter.’
William Marshal tried not to sound too elated.
‘My lady,’ he said slowly, ‘the Princess Joan is indeed fortunate to have a mother who so cares for her welfare …’
‘Then you agree that I should be the one to accompany her.’
‘I think we should first ask the King if he would be prepared to let you go.’
She nodded gravely. ‘I think my son will want to do what is best for his sister,’ she said.