by Jean Plaidy
Her spirits were rising and she felt more excited than she had since she had heard of John’s death.
She took leave of the Earl and went to her bedchamber. She had to be alone.
‘Hugh,’ she murmured to herself. ‘What will you think of me? What shall I think of you?’
And the thought of going back to the scenes of her childhood, of being reunited with her old lover – now to be her daughter’s husband – filled her with a wild elation.
Chapter II
THE CHOSEN BRIDE
What joy it gave her to ride southwards through the fair land of France, and the nearer she came to the Angoumois – the land of her inheritance – the happier she grew. It was seventeen years since she had ridden in those lanes and forests – an only child and the heiress of the Angoumois, the petted darling of her parents’ household. Hugh, eldest son of the reigning Count de la Marche, had seemed a worthy bridegroom for her; and when she had been taken into his father’s household she had thought so too.
The smell of the woods – different from those of England, she assured herself, the golden light in the air, the warmth of the sun … all these conjured up memories of those days of physical awakening when she had longed for marriage with Hugh and then had met John in the forest and been aware of a curious mixture of desire and repulsion while mingling with them was an ambition to wear a crown.
Her daughter rode beside her. Young Joan was apprehensive and that was understandable. A child seven years of age going to meet her bridegroom.
‘Is not the country beautiful, daughter?’ demanded Isabella. ‘Think! When I was your age I used to ride through these woods. You will spend your youth where I spent mine.’
‘But you did not stay here, my lady.’
‘No, but it is a joy to be back.’
Joan looked wistful. It was clear that the poor child was wishing she were in Gloucester. Too much had happened too quickly to enable her childish mind to adjust.
Isabella softened a little. ‘You are anxious, child. You need not be. You will be happy here, as I was. Have no fear of Hugh. I knew him well when I was your age and I can tell you this, there is not a more kind or gentle man in the whole world.’
‘My lady, how long will you stay with me?’
She sighed and smiled. ‘That, daughter, I cannot say. But I can promise you this: You have nothing to fear.’
And so they travelled down to Angoulême, in the dukedom of Aquitaine, once so proudly ruled over by the father of Eleanor, mother of John, a rich and fertile land watered by the sparkling Charente, extending from Poitou in the north to Périgord in the south, eastwards to Le Limousin and westwards to Saintonge.
Isabella talked to her daughter as they rode. ‘How different life was than in your father’s court. Here we assembled at night when the fires were lighted and the candles guttered and the troubadours took their lutes and sang about the beauty of ladies and the valour of their lords. It was gracious. Men were chivalrous. Ladies were treated with respect. Oh, my daughter, you are going to bless the day I brought you here.’
Joan was becoming influenced by her mother’s enthusiasm. The country was beautiful; the sun warmer than it was in England; and as they travelled through France they were welcomed in the villages through which they passed and spent their nights in inns or castles, and as they came south Joan found that her mother’s description of the singing of the troubadours was indeed true. She would sit, heavy-eyed with sleep, listening to the strumming of the lutes and the singing of the songs which so delighted Isabella.
Especially she remembered their stay at Fontevrault which was particularly important to her family, she was told. The Breton preacher Robert d’Arbrissel had founded it nearly two hundred years before and there were four convents – two for men, two for women but an abbess was in control and she must always come from one of the most noble families. Royalty had always taken a very special interest in the place.
With great solemnity Joan was conducted through the abbey church to walk under the cupola, which was held up by tall pillars, to the tombs of her family. Here were the burial places and effigies of her grandfather and grandmother – Henry Plantagenet and his wife Eleanor of Aquitaine of whom she had heard much, which made her think of them with awe and some relief that they were not alive today to demand great things of her. Her uncle was there with them – the one after whom her brother had been named. Richard Coeur de Lion they called him, because he was such a brave fighter. It seemed only fitting that his life should have been cut short by the arrow of an enemy.
‘These are your ancestors,’ Isabella reminded her. ‘Never forget that you are the daughter of a king.’
‘Perhaps my father would have liked to lie here with his father.’
The Queen laughed. ‘Where did you get such a notion, child? Your father was fighting against your grandfather at the end. He at least would not want your father there.’
‘Where lies my father?’ asked Joan.
‘In Worcester Cathedral. Before he died he asked that he should be buried there close to the grave of St Wulstan.’
‘Who was he?’ asked Joan.
Isabella regarded her daughter intently. Poor child, she would have to grow up quickly. Isabella tried to imagine herself at seven. How much of the sad facts of life had she been able to absorb at that time? Joan would learn in due course that she was the daughter of one of the most evil men who ever lived.
She said: ‘St Wulstan was a Saxon bishop who was most saintly. Your father thought that the bones of the saint might preserve him from the devil … when he came to claim him.’
Joan shivered and Isabella laughed. She put an arm about her daughter. ‘Your father was not a good man. As you know the barons rose against him. All will be well now, for your brother will be taught to rule well and the kingdom will grow rich and powerful again. As for you, my child, you will know great happiness. You are going to be the wife of the best man in the world.’
Joan was relieved, but glad when they left Fontevrault which for her held the ghosts of her terrifying ancestors.
And so they came to Valence which was the chief town of La Marche; and bordered on the Angoumois, Isabella’s own country.
All that day as they came closer to their destination Isabella had talked to her daughter of the happy days of her youth and, although Joan believed that very soon she would see her aged bridegroom, her mother’s conversation had its effect on her and she was beginning to believe that she was going to some paradise. Moreover there would be no wedding yet. She would live in that castle where for a time her mother had lived because twenty or so years before when her mother was a girl of eleven she too had ridden to this castle and looked with awe and wonder at what was to be her home. That was comforting. Her mother had loved Valence and so would she.
And here was the grey stone-walled castle. Serving men and women came hurrying to their aid, paying great homage to Isabella who had become a queen and whom some remembered as the most beautiful little girl they had ever seen.
In the great hall a man was waiting for them. As her mother took her hand Joan was conscious of Isabella’s tremendous excitement.
The man was old … very old … surely this could not be the one they had chosen for her husband. He looked closer to a funeral than a wedding – and that his own.
He had taken Isabella’s hand; he was bowing low; his eyes glistened brightly and he looked as though he might weep at any moment.
‘Isabella,’ he said. ‘Isabella.’
‘My lord,’ she began and Joan knew that she was looking about the hall for someone she missed.
‘As beautiful as ever,’ he murmured. ‘Oh, it is long ago.’
‘Let me present my daughter to you.’
‘So this is the child.’
The old eyes were studying her. Joan tried not to look alarmed. He was so very old. Her mother had spoken of her future husband as though he were godlike and now was presenting her to this ancient man.
Joan was aware of floods of relief. This old man was not to be her bridegroom then. Of course he was not. But she had been afraid because she was old enough to know that sometimes little girls were married to very old men.
Then she was aware of her mother. Isabella had turned pale. She swayed a little before she steadied herself. Then she said: 'in the Holy Land … and he has gone a year since …’
Young as she was Joan heard the bitter disappointment and despair in her mother’s voice.
How silent Isabella was that night. Joan would never forget it. She seemed to grow up suddenly. He had gone away and none knew where he was. Even his father could not say except that he was somewhere in the Holy Land. She thought of the stories she had heard of her uncle Richard whose exploits there had been sung about in wondrous lays. Richard it seemed was a knight in shining armour with a red cross on his breast which meant that he had pledged himself to fight the Infidel. They had fled before him but for some reason he had not captured Jerusalem for the Christians – though that was something the writers of the songs preferred not to mention. There had been a Saracen called Saladin and he and Richard had fought each other, though who had won Joan had never really heard. Suffice it that Richard emerged from the songs as the greatest hero of the day – a man who had given up everything to carry the cross.
It was therefore only natural that this wonderful man whom she was to marry should follow in Richard’s footsteps. He was a noble knight. Not only the most handsome and best man in the world, but also devout.
If Joan were truthful she would admit that she was not displeased. Whatever he was, he was going to be old. Her mother was old and Hugh was older than she was. So she was relieved and she hoped her mother would not be too unhappy. She supposed it was because since Hugh was not here and she could not leave her daughter she would have to stay until he came before she could return to England.
For a few days Isabella was with the old man who had received them when they arrived and they made plans as to what was to be done. It was at length decided that Isabella should go to her own estate in Angoulême and that her daughter should stay at Valence where she could learn the customs of the land and be educated in a manner which would prepare her to be châtelaine of that castle when the time came.
Angoulême and Valence were so close that Isabella could see her daughter frequently, but it would be as well if she left her so that the child could learn some self-reliance and she would be safe with the family of her future husband.
Joan was less disturbed than she had thought she would be as she watched her mother ride away. Isabella had never been exactly a fond mother; Joan did not understand her and she did not believe even Henry and Richard had either. Perhaps all the children had been a little afraid of their parents – they certainly had on those occasions when their father had visited the castle. So although she was left with strangers she did not feel unduly lonely. She had grown up a good deal since her departure from England.
Life became interesting. She had her lessons each day and there were special tutors for her. She must learn to speak her prospective husband’s language fluently; and she must understand something of history and literature; she must be able to calculate, draw and be proficient with her needle. The last was very important, for all well-educated ladies must master the art of embroidering. She must dance nimbly and gracefully; she must play the lute and sing prettily and play chess with skill for her husband would expect her to be a good companion to him.
She applied herself whole-heartedly to these tasks. It helped to make her forget her home in England and her brothers and sisters and also the fact that one day her betrothed would return to Valence. She hoped he would not come for a very long time; and each night when she went to bed she would pray: Please God don’t let it be today.
She was surrounded by attendants. They grew fond of her. She was such a pretty little thing. Some of them remembered her mother when she was a girl. ‘You’re almost the living image,’ one of them said. It was always ‘almost’ and she knew they meant that although she was attractive she could never be the beauty her mother was.
Once she overheard one attendant say to another: ‘I could almost believe it was the Lady Isabella. But of course there’ll never be another like her.’
And another said: ‘No. They used to say she had something no other had. Still has too. No, you’re right. There’ll never be another quite like her. Well it made a queen of her, didn’t it?’
‘I’ll never forget the day. I thought my lord would go quite mad with rage and grief.’
‘Well, now he’s going to have a young bride … and so like …’
‘I don’t believe he ever forgot her.’
‘Oh, you romantic old woman.’
‘But he never married, did he?’
‘Well, he’s going to now … when he comes back … when she grows up.’
‘When will that be?’
‘When she’s fourteen … perhaps before. He lost the Lady Isabella by waiting too long. He won’t do that again, depend upon it.’
And they laughed together and whispered what Joan could not hear. Fourteen, she was thinking. She was now eight. It was years and years away.
She liked to get them to talk of him and they were nothing loath.
‘Count Hugh, my lady. Oh, he is the most handsome man you ever saw. There’s not a man hereabouts that does not suffer in comparison. Brave, noble, kind to all those below him in rank and respected by his equals. In the joust who is always the victor? Count Hugh. And if anyone needs help who is the first to give it? Count Hugh, of course. If there is injustice, he is the one who will go to right matters. We of Lusignan are happy in our Duke.’
‘But his father is the Duke.’
‘Count Hugh is his heir and now that the old Count is so old it is Hugh who will rule when he returns from the crusade.’
‘Perhaps he will come home soon.’
‘If he knew his little bride were here he would be back, I promise you.’
‘Even if he has not beaten the Saracen?’
It was so pleasant to talk of him. She found now that she loved above all things to hear stories of his exploits. He was always the hero of some noble adventure. They were constantly saying: ‘When Count Hugh comes back from the Holy War …’ as though everything would be transformed by his coming.
And she began to say it too, and look for him and instead of praying that he would not come she would say when she awoke: ‘I wonder if he will come today?’
The weeks began to pass into months. Her mother came frequently to Valence to see her daughter, but Joan suspected there was someone else she sought. She would always ask eagerly if there was news from the Holy Land and show a bitter disappointment because there was not.
She wants to go back to England, thought Joan. Perhaps in a little while she will do so … even though he does not come.
Now she was growing up and still he did not come. Two years had passed since her father’s death and she was nine years old. Not such a child now. She was beginning to understand something of the meaning of marriage for some of her women believed that it was unfair to send a young girl to her husband with no inkling of what would be expected of her.
She was at first repelled, then awestruck and finally came to the belief that perhaps it was not so bad after all. She had heard rumours of her father’s habits and they had always filled her with a vague fear, but it had been impressed on her that the man she would marry would be a kind of god, not only handsome but benevolent.
Sometimes she sat with the old man in the sun by an ancient sundial – a spot he loved. He would be wrapped up in spite of the heat for he was growing very frail and he would tell her stories of past adventures, of battles in which he had fought and always his son Hugh would be the hero of the
stories.
‘Ah,’ the old man would say in his quavering voice, ‘you will come to reckon yourself fortunate to be the chosen bride of Hugh le Brun, Count of Lusignan.’
And so it went on.
Then one day while she talked to the old man he fell forward in his chair and she ran into the castle to summon his attendants. He was carried to his bed and a message was sent to the castle of Angoulême to acquaint Isabella of what was happening.
She was soon with them and was in eager agreement with the family that news must somehow be sent to Count Hugh that his father was very ill and that his presence was needed with as little delay as possible in Valence.
There followed a time of waiting while the old Count lingered on. Isabella’s visits had become more frequent and the first question she asked when she arrived was: ‘Is there any news?’
There was tension throughout the castle and all wondered whether the messengers had found Count Hugh; they were certain that when he knew that his father was dying he would return to take over his inheritance.
Then the old man died and Hugh had still not come.
There was great fear then that he might have been slain in battle for so many who set out for the Holy War never returned.
Joan was ten years old. Sometimes she wondered when the change would come. If Hugh did not return there would be no reason why they should stay here. A new husband would be found for her. She was filled with apprehension and realised then that she had grown to accept Hugh as her prospective husband and that she was half in love already with the image they had presented to her. She would often sit at the turret window and watch for a rider and when she saw one she would be filled with elation and when it proved not to be Hugh a bitter disappointment would follow.
And so the days passed.
Then, one day he came. She was in the gardens so she did not see his arrival. There was a clatter of horses’ hoofs and a great commotion through the castle; the bells started to ring; Joan heard the shouts of many voices.