The Battle of the Queens

by Jean Plaidy

  She ran into the castle and there he was standing in the hall – tall, bronzed by the sun, in shining armour with a red cross on his breast. She knew him at once for none she was sure could look so noble.

  For a few moments they stood looking at each other; then she saw the blood rush into his face and he took several strides towards her, seizing both her hands in his, and she noticed that his eyes had a bewildered look in them.

  She heard someone say: ‘The Lady Joan, my lord.’

  And he continued to gaze at her. Then he said: ‘For a moment I thought I was dreaming. You are so like …’

  She herself answered: ‘All say I bear a resemblance to my mother.’

  She noticed that his eyes were misty. He kissed her hand and said: ‘It delights me to see you here.’ Then he asked to be taken to his father.

  He was very sad when he heard that his father had died; and divested of his armour, he went to that spot in the chapel grounds where the old man was buried and knelt by his grave for a long time.

  Without his armour he looked less godlike, but not less handsome; and Joan was quick to notice the kindliness of his face.

  She sat beside him at the table and he fed her the best of the meat. He talked to her in a gentle and kindly fashion and she knew that all she had heard of him was true.

  He said: ‘I am many years older than you, my lady Joan, and you will have to grow up quickly. How old are you now?’

  ‘I am ten years old, my lord.’

  ‘It is a little young to be a bride. We must wait a few years.’

  ‘They say three or four,’ she answered.

  ‘Well, that is not so long. Shall you be ready by then, think you?’

  She looked at the dark curling hair which grew back from the high and noble forehead, at the pleasant curve of his lips and answered: ‘Oh yes, my lord. Perhaps before.’

  ‘We shall see,’ he answered, smiling. And he asked how she had arrived and she told him her mother had brought her.

  Then he was thoughtful and asked how her mother fared.

  ‘Well, my lord,’ she answered.

  He nodded slowly.

  ‘I heard of her widowhood,’ he said, and fell silent. It did not occur to her then to tell him that her mother was close by at Angoulême.

  He was thoughtful after that and when the meal was over he went away with his stewards and occupied himself in learning what had happened in the castle during his absence.

  Joan went to her bedchamber, but not to sleep.

  This was the most important day of her life. She had met her future husband.

  A warm happiness suffused her. She was not afraid any more. Indeed she was looking forward to the day when she would become the Countess of Lusignan. Sometimes she thought of her terrifying father and it had occurred to her long ago, before she came to France, that it might one day be her lot to have such a husband. There could not be a man less like King John than Hugh le Brun, Count of Lusignan, and that was a matter for rejoicing.

  They rode out together; she wanted to show him how well she knew his forests, how she could manage a horse. She wanted to please him in every way.

  They spoke in French together for she had become fluent in the language; he went to the schoolroom and examined her work. She told him that now he was home she would work harder because she was so anxious to grow up quickly.

  He smiled greatly and stroked her hair when she told him that, and she felt tears in her eyes but she was not sure why.

  They played chess together and although she could not checkmate him she could come quite near to it.

  ‘I can see I am lucky in my bride,’ he told her.

  And she answered: ‘And I in my bridegroom.’

  The ladies and gentlemen of the castle looked on indulgently.

  ‘This will be a love match,’ they said.

  Isabella came riding into the castle.

  ‘Is it true then?’ she cried. ‘The Count has returned?’

  She was assured that it was true.

  ‘Tell him I am come,’ she said.

  But the Count was hunting with a party in the forest and with him was the Lady Joan.

  Impatiently she strode up and down the great hall.

  Her cheeks were flushed; she had loosened her dark hair. Was it true that she looked like a young girl? She had borne five children; she had had many lovers; she had lived through twenty years of debauchery with the insatiable John. Could it really be that she looked like that young girl who had so enchanted Hugh that when he had lost her he had been prepared to go to war and had never taken another bride.

  She believed she was as attractive as ever – more so for her experience. And he was no longer the young idealist he had been. He knew more of the world. He would want an experienced woman not an innocent young girl.

  And what was she thinking? He was betrothed to her daughter. She laughed aloud at that. It was a trick of John’s to upset her. Was it not characteristic of him that he should think of betrothing her daughter to the man he knew she still thought of?

  Why did he not come? What was he waiting for?

  One of the women came to her.

  ‘You will be pleased, my lady,’ she said. ‘The Count is much taken with your daughter. They are often together and it gives us all great happiness to see them.’

  Fool! thought Isabella and found it hard to stop herself slapping the woman’s face.

  ‘Is that so?’ she answered slowly. ‘The Count must be as gallant and courteous to ladies as he ever was.’

  ‘Oh, he is, my lady; and the little Lady Joan has a look of you when you were her age.’

  What is the woman suggesting? she asked herself. That I am old and decrepit!

  ‘Leave me,’ said Isabella coldly.

  There was a fierce determination in her heart. He was going to be as enamoured of her now as he had been when she was his child-betrothed, before she had been snatched away by the rapacious John who had given her a crown.

  It seemed a long time before the party arrived.

  She stood in the centre of the hall, waiting.

  And there he was – Joan beside him.

  He strode towards her and said: ‘Isabella.’

  She laughed at him and held out her hand. ‘You remember me then?’

  ‘Remember you …!’ The break in his voice excited her.

  ‘It is so long. You have changed little, Hugh … since …’

  He said: ‘You have become even more beautiful.’

  She was exultant, triumphant. He had not changed at all. He was hers, she was sure of it. Her journey had not been in vain.

  ‘And here is my little daughter. What think you of her, Hugh?’

  ‘She bears some resemblance to you and therefore she delights me.’

  Isabella held out a hand to her daughter and pulled her to her side.

  ‘It pleases me. We have waited long, Hugh, for your coming.’

  ‘I should have been here long since had I known,’ he answered.

  Isabella was aware of the watching eyes of those gathered in the hall, many of them old enough to remember. Hugh seemed suddenly aware of them too.

  ‘I smell good venison,’ he said. ‘You will stay here with us … for a while.’

  She bowed her head.

  Then he left her and went to his chamber to wash off the mud of the chase and to change his garments.

  Joan went to her chamber, slightly bewildered.

  Her attendant said: ‘The Count is happy that Queen Isabella is here.’

  ‘I always knew they liked each other,’ said Joan.

  At the table her mother sat on one side of him, Joan in her usual place on the other. All the time they talked. There was an excitement between them.

  They are so pleased to see each other, thought Joan, that they have almost forgotten I am here. It is good, she thought, when two families which are to be united are the best of friends.

  There was a scratching at Hugh’s door. He had gues
sed Isabella might come. She had implied it.

  ‘There is so much we have to say to each other, Hugh. It is not easy to talk with so many onlookers.’ She had said that while they ate. And there was a suggestion in her words. It was the reason why he had dismissed all those who would normally be in attendance in his bedchamber.

  He opened the door and stepped back as she entered. Her beautiful hair was about her shoulders and she wore a loose robe of the shade of blue he remembered from the old days was a favourite colour of hers. It had been a favourite of his for the same reason.

  He took her hands and said: ‘Oh God, Isabella … you are indeed here.’

  ‘I am no phantom. You may assure yourself of that, Hugh.’

  He drew back a little. He was a man of honour and he remembered the appealing youth of his affianced bride.

  ‘So now he is dead …’ he said, in a vain effort to throw a cold douche of hatred on the fires which were rising within him.

  ‘John. The brute. The lecher. You could not know how I suffered with him.’

  ‘Yet … you went to him.’

  ‘You know I had no choice. I was but a child. My parents forced me to it and so I did it.’

  ‘You were there when …’

  ‘When he put you in chains and you rode in the tumbril drawn by oxen. Did you feel my hatred for him, Hugh, when you rode past … and my love for you?’

  ‘I know that you were sad to see me thus. Because of your compassion I was almost glad of the humiliation.’

  ‘You must have loved me a great deal in those days, Hugh.’

  ‘Did you ever doubt that?’

  ‘I never did. And now you love my daughter as you once loved me.’

  She waited for him to deny it but he said: ‘She is an enchanting child.’

  ‘They say she is a little like me.’

  ‘No one could be like you, Isabella.’

  ‘Hugh, do you mean that?’

  She had seized him by the arms and held her face up to him.

  ‘No,’ he said, deliberately avoiding her gaze. ‘You must go now, Isabella. You will leave soon and when Joan is a little older we shall marry.’

  ‘There was one thing I wished to know, Hugh. Promise you’ll tell me … truthfully.’

  ‘I promise. What is it?’

  ‘Hold me tightly, Hugh. Kiss me. And then tell me truthfully whether it is now as it was once.’

  ‘Isabella, you must go. You should never have come here. If you were seen.’

  ‘Oh, are you afraid of your servants?’

  ‘I am afraid of your good name.’

  ‘My good name! Married to that monster all those years … all the calumnies that he circulated about me to cover up his own vile doings! Do you think I have a good name to protect?’

  ‘I will protect it with my sword,’ he said. ‘If any were to whisper ill against you …’

  ‘Ah, Hugh, my beloved, you have not changed. I feared you might. Let me tell you this, I have never forgotten you. When I was with him … I could only endure his embraces because I made myself pretend it was you, not him … the man I loved not the loathsome lecher who had taken me from you and made it so I was a prisoner and could do nothing but submit.’

  Is this true, indeed?’ he asked.

  ‘I swear it. When I came here it was to see you, Hugh …’

  ‘It was to bring your daughter to be my bride,’ he answered.

  ‘I had to see you. I had to know for myself that you no longer loved me. And if you tell me you do not I will go to Fontevrault where my mother-in-law spent her last days and I will take the veil and never look on another man … though doubtless I shall go on dreaming of you in my convent walls.’

  ‘You … a nun. Isabella!’

  He laughed and she laughed with him. The tension was released. He said: ‘I remember how you always made me laugh.’

  ‘It is as it ever was. We were never lovers in fact. That seemed the tragedy of my life. I wanted you even as a child … and you wanted me. But you held off. You were afraid. If you had taken me to the forest and seduced me … as I always wanted you to … I don’t believe I should ever have allowed them to marry me to John. I used to dream how wonderful that would have been.’

  ‘We must not talk in this way, Isabella. I am trying to look after little Joan. I am trying not to frighten her and let her grow accustomed to the idea of marriage.’

  ‘As you did with me. And all you succeeded in doing was arousing my desire for you … my need for you … and then not satisfying it. Then he came … Oh my God, how I hate him; the terrible things he did to me. He would not leave me alone …’

  ‘I know. I heard. It was reported all over Europe.’

  ‘How you must have hated me.’

  ‘I could never do anything but love you, but my hatred for him knew no bounds.’

  ‘So you fought for poor little Arthur and were captured and brought to him in chains. How he gloated! But he freed you. Do you know why, Hugh, because I persuaded him that it was best for him to do so. I said you would fight for him if he released you. What a fool he was! He believed me. But he is dead, Hugh … and I am here and you are here …’

  ‘Isabella, I am betrothed.’

  There is one thing I must know. All my life I have wanted to be with you. I would be your mistress … anything … I, a queen, my lord Count, love you still. I had to see you. I had to know whether I still loved you … wanted you for my lover. Hugh, you owe me this. Tonight … this night … and if you find you do not love me, if the years have changed you, then I will go away.

  He said hoarsely: ‘I am betrothed to your daughter.’

  She laughed softly and slipped her robe from her shoulders. She held out a hand to him. ‘Come, Hugh,’ she said. ‘I command you. Tomorrow you may tell me to go away … but tonight we shall be lovers as we should have been all those years ago.’

  He turned from her and seating himself on a stool covered his eyes with his hands. But she was beside him, employing all those skills which life with the greatest sensualist of his age had taught her.

  Hugh – who had dreamed of her for years – enamoured of her as he had ever been, was powerless to resist her.

  After she had left him – and it was dawn before she did – he lay in his bed thinking of what had happened. He had never thought there could be such ecstasy even with Isabella; he had dreamed of her for twenty years; she had been an ideal in his life; he had never felt the inclination to marry any other woman. That had disturbed his family, since it was his duty to marry, to give the Lusignans their heir. He had brothers, he had excused himself. It was almost as though something had told him that one day she would come back.

  And then when it had been suggested that he marry her daughter he had agreed to the betrothal. The marriage had seemed years away and like so many, such arrangements might never come to fruition. Moreover it was her daughter; and that had attracted him in some way. When he had seen the child – with a look of Isabella – and she had stirred his pity for she was a little afraid, he had determined to be kind and gentle with her and in due course do his best to make her happy.

  Now Isabella had returned and everything had changed for him.

  He must explain to her that he must marry her daughter. As the child had been brought here for that purpose, it was a matter of honour, and Isabella must return to England. He was determined that that which had happened last night must not happen again.

  She was with the party which went out to the hunt. Little Joan was there too, so pretty in her riding cloak of red Irish cloth, tendrils of her hair straying out from under the matching hood. She rode beside him as she was accustomed to do, so proud because she sat her horse well and rode, as he had once told her, as though she was born to the saddle. Isabella had come up. Beautiful in her favourite blue. Poor little Joan, how insignificant beside her incomparable mother!

  ‘I thought you would elude me,’ she said reproachfully. ‘And you know how I enjoy the hunt.
’

  ‘Nay, my lady,’ he said. ‘I give you good welcome.’

  ‘Most gracious Hugh,’ she answered softly. ‘I thought I might not have pleased you.’

  ‘You know how well you please me.’

  Joan listened to their conversation. There was a note in her mother’s voice which told the little girl she was pleased. In fact, Joan had never known her quite so pleased before. Perhaps it was because he was home and very soon now she would be able to go to England.

  How beautiful it was in the pine forest – the lovely pungent smell, the glistening green and the excitement of the chase. Joan rode forward eager to show Hugh that she could keep up with the best of them. She was a little way ahead of him; on she went and the sound of pounding horses’ hoofs went with her.

  She caught a glimpse of the deer; she always felt a little sorry for them and did not greatly care to be in at the kill, though she told no one of this for fear she should be thought foolish. Once she thought that Hugh guessed, for he stayed with her and they rode back to the castle while the bearers brought in the deer. He had smiled at her very tenderly and she had loved him more than ever, because it suddenly occurred to her that he understood her thoughts without her having to express them and that he would keep her secrets, for he was going to protect her from the whole world.

  She looked around for him, but he was not there. She could not see her mother either.

  Isabella had whispered: Hugh, I must speak to you.’

  She turned her horse and rode off while he followed. In the distance they could hear the baying of the dogs, and she rode on fast; he was close behind.

  She pulled up and flashed her brilliant smile at him, holding out her hand. He took it and kissed it eagerly.

  ‘We will dismount and tether the horses; ’tis easier to talk that way.’

  ‘Isabella, I think we should return to the party … or to the castle.’

  She laughed – it was the way in which she had laughed in the darkness of his bedchamber. She had already dismounted.

  ‘Come, Hugh,’ she said, ‘or are your afraid of me?’

  He leaped down and tethering his horse beside hers, turned to her eagerly. He held her fast.

  ‘There is no doubt, is there,’ she asked, ‘no doubt at all. You and I belong together.’