The Battle of the Queens

by Jean Plaidy

  Henry was furious, but as Hubert pointed out, he could not go against Rome, for this could result in the dreaded Interdict, and everyone knew what disaster that could bring.

  Henry must therefore bide his time. There would be opportunities in the future.

  Meanwhile nothing had been heard of the Earl of Salisbury except that some time before he had sailed from France.

  When Hubert considered the rich estates of Salisbury and that William Longsword had had a countess who could not be more than thirty-eight years old and who would now be a widow, he decided that it would be a good idea to bring the Salisbury fortune into his family.

  He had a nephew, Reimund, who was looking for a suitable wife. What better, thought Hubert, than for Reimund to marry Ela, the Countess of Salisbury. She had brought rich estates to William Longsword. Why should she not bring them to Hubert’s nephew? The family would know how to take care of them.

  He approached the King cautiously.

  ‘It is a sad matter about Longsword for he must now be reckoned as dead. Poor fellow, he was cruel and his sins must be great, but he was a great soldier and a valiant man.’

  ‘It is true,’ said Henry, ‘but like all bastards he was cursed with the need continually to proclaim his royalty.’

  ‘Well now he has died. He has left a widow.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Henry, ‘and one who brought him great wealth.’

  ‘And not an old woman by any means. She cannot be more than thirty-eight and still capable of bearing children. She should have a husband.’

  Henry nodded.

  ‘Er … my nephew, Reimund, is looking for a wife. He is a good steady fellow, ever loyal to his King. He would care for the Countess and look after her estates. How would you feel – if he should succeed in winning her – about giving your consent to the match?’

  ‘If she consented I would be willing enough,’ said Henry.

  It was all Hubert needed. He lost no time in summoning his nephew and sending him off to begin his wooing.

  If the Virgin Mary had saved the Earl of Salisbury from the sea that marked the end of her help for, although he and some of the survivors from the broken vessel were washed ashore, their refuge happened to be the Island of Ré which belonged to Louis.

  They were, however, able to find shelter in the Abbey of the island and as they were in such a sorry state were not immediately recognised. They had come near to death and were in urgent need of rest and nourishment and this was afforded them.

  But the Earl could not hope to remain unrecognised for any great length of time and in due course one of the monks realised who he was.

  Being a man of religion the monk did not betray him because he knew that the Earl was as yet unfit to make another voyage. So the secret was kept while Salisbury made plans for escape.

  More than three months had elapsed since he left the coast of France so it was logical to believe him to be dead; and when in time Salisbury had managed to procure a boat and returned to England a great shock awaited Hubert.

  The Earl at once discovered what was happening. His wife being wooed, believing herself to be his widow. And her wooer was no other than a nephew of Hubert de Burgh!

  Incensed, the Earl went straight to the King.

  Henry declared himself delighted to see his uncle returned from the dead. ‘For,’ he said, ‘that is what we feared. It is so long since you set sail.’

  ‘It is a shock, my lord, to return and find my wife all but married to another man.’

  ‘My dear Longsword,’ replied Henry, ‘she is not an old woman and because of my nearness to you I wished to see her in good hands.’

  ‘And my estates?’ cried the Earl. ‘I doubt not that those good hands were held out greedily to receive them.’

  ‘My dear uncle, we had every cause to believe you dead. That you are not is a matter for rejoicing. I will send for Hubert and his nephew and they shall welcome you back and make their apologies to you, if you think they should. But, I do assure you, we acted in the good interest of your Countess.’

  ‘Then, my lord, I thank God – and the Blessed Virgin – that I was brought home in good time.’

  The King kept his promise to send for Hubert and his nephew and in a few weeks there was a meeting between them and Longsword over which the King presided.

  Longsword glared at Hubert and declared: ‘I understand well your motives, my lord.’

  ‘They grew from our concern for your Countess, my lord Earl,’ Hubert tried to assure him.

  ‘And for her estates I doubt not.’

  ‘My lord, I assure you that my nephew had a genuine affection for the lady. Is that not so, Reimund?’

  ‘It is indeed so, my lord.’

  Longsword was purple with rage. ‘You dare stand there and tell me that you have an affection for my wife and would marry her.’

  ‘My lord …’ began Reimund, but Hubert cut him short:

  ‘My lord Salisbury,’ he said soothingly, ‘my nephew had an affection for a lady whom he believed to be a forlorn widow. Now that he knows her to be a wife his feelings have changed.’

  ‘He changes his feelings as men change a suit of mail,’ snarled Longsword.

  The King intervened. ‘Uncle, I would have you make peace with Hubert. I believe his motives to be as he says and I find these quarrels irksome. You have had a miraculous escape. Methinks you should be thanking God that you have emerged from this disaster at sea and arrived home in time to save your wife from a marriage which would have been no marriage.’

  Salisbury bowed his head. ‘What’s done is done,’ he murmured, ‘but I shall not forget …’

  ‘Now, Hubert,’ said Henry, ‘you shall invite him to a banquet and there all will see that you truly repent of your mistake and that my uncle understands full well how it came about.’

  ‘With all my heart,’ said Hubert and somewhat ungraciously the Earl of Salisbury accepted the invitation.

  It was a very grand banquet. The King was present and the Earl of Salisbury sat on the left hand of Hubert de Burgh. They talked amicably together and all said that the unfortunate incident was over and it appeared to have brought these two men – who were not natural friends – together.

  Salisbury was a great soldier. With the young Earl of Cornwall he had achieved victories in France and he had shown the people that the humiliating days of John’s reign were behind them. People had feared him in the past; he had been noted for the cruelties he carried out in the name of John; but a well governed country meant the return of law and order and with such a state of affairs Salisbury would dispense with his cruelty and be the good soldier ready to lead his country to more victories.

  But when he reached Salisbury Castle, he was overcome by violent pains which were followed by a high fever and was forced to take to his bed, where his condition did not improve.

  In a few days he was so weak that he feared his end was near.

  ‘Bring Bishop Poore to me,’ he said, ‘for I must confess my sins and receive the last rites.’

  As he lay in bed awaiting the coming of the Bishop memories came back to him. He wondered how many men he had murdered in the name of King John … and not only in his name. He remembered the thrill of sacking a town and the needless suffering he had inflicted on its inhabitants – not because such conduct furthered the progress of the war but because he considered it good sport and enjoyed it.

  Agonised faces haunted him from every corner of the room. He could hear the cries of mutilated people as they were deprived of feet, hands, noses, ears and their eyes were put out.

  Any amount of candles to the Holy Virgin could not save him. He had to face the fact that he had led a wicked life.

  He deserved to hang – the death of a common felon was not too good for him.

  He should have been warned when he was shipwrecked. The Virgin had given him another chance but he had not taken it. He should have spent the last weeks in preparing for a crusade rather than furthering
his quarrel with Hubert de Burgh over the Countess.

  He rose from his bed and stripping off all garments but a loin cloth, he called for a rope which he put about his neck, so that when Richard le Poore, Bishop of Salisbury, arrived, he found him thus.

  ‘My lord,’ cried the Bishop, ‘what has happened to you?’

  ‘I am the worst of sinners. I fear eternal damnation.’

  ‘Oh, perhaps it is not as bad as that,’ replied the Bishop comfortably. ‘There is time for you to repent.’

  ‘I shall not rise from the floor until I have confessed my sins to you – as many as I can remember. I have been a traitor to God. I must receive the sacrament without delay.’

  Before the Earl died, the Bishop did all that the Earl required of him and eased his conscience considerably.

  Poison, was the verdict. Of course Hubert de Burgh poisoned him. It was at the banquet, for would he not know that his conduct over the Countess and his nephew would always be remembered? The Earl would be Hubert’s enemy for as long as he lived – and Hubert was a man who could not afford powerful enemies.

  This suspicion was stored away in people’s memories to be brought out when required. There was no danger of its being forgotten. Men such as Peter des Roches would never allow that.

  As for Hubert he realised that Reimund could scarcely go wooing the Countess of Salisbury after what had happened. She should be left well alone.

  But his indefatigable efforts on his family’s behalf procured another rich widow for his nephew and shortly after the death of the Earl of Salisbury, Reimund married the widow of William Mandeville, the Earl of Essex, who brought as much to the family as the Countess of Salisbury would have done. Another nephew became Bishop of Norwich; and as his brother Geoffrey was already Bishop of Ely, Hubert could congratulate himself that he had his family well and strategically placed, which was what all ambitious men realised they must do.

  His enemies continued watchful, but Hubert felt strong enough to defy them.

  FRANCE 1223–1227

  Chapter X

  THE AMOROUS TROUBADOUR

  Blanche was uneasy. She felt very much the responsibilities which had been thrust upon her since the death of Philip Augustus. There was one secret anxiety which was something she would not have discussed with anyone and scarcely liked to admit to herself. Louis was not a great soldier; in her heart she doubted whether he was a great king. She herself had been endowed with the qualities of leadership but Louis had not been so fortunate. Louis was a good man and – so rare a quality – a faithful husband and a loving father. His children adored him as he did them. If he had been a minor nobleman, his castle situated in some quiet part of the country where he need not trouble to defend himself, with his family about him and those dependent on him to work for him, he could have been a happy man.

  Such had been his grandfather. The tragedy of their lives was that kingship – which so many men would have risked their lives to possess – was not desired by them, for the simple reason that, being men of deep intelligence, they knew their inadequacies to meet its demands.

  But Louis had a wife.

  ‘O God,’ prayed Blanche, ‘help me to act for both of us.’

  She was supervising the upbringing of her children with the utmost care – particularly that of young Louis. How she loved her eldest son! She was fond of the others – without doubt – but she could sense in young Louis the making of a great king. When his time came – and she trusted that it would not be for many years – she must see that he was ready.

  She was preparing him; but his sovereignty was innate. Moreover he was possessed of striking good looks. His features were clearly chiselled; his skin fine and fair, glowing with good health; he had a mass of blond glossy hair which he had inherited from the beautiful Isabella of Hainault, his paternal grandmother. He was kindly like his father but there the resemblance ended. Louis was good in the schoolroom, for he had a lively interest in all subjects, but he also liked the outdoor life; he enjoyed all sport and in particular hunting and he loved his dogs, horses and falcons. He was all that a healthy boy should be – but there was more than that. He was careful in his dress displaying an elegance even at his age.

  If ever a boy was born to be king, that boy was Louis.

  Yet she was fearful. She would not coddle him as Philip Augustus had tried to coddle his son Louis. She wondered what young Louis’s reaction would be if she attempted to. She doubted he would take it without protest as his father had. Yet he was a good and dutiful son. She could not forget the loss of her boy Philip at nine years when death had suddenly risen to smite him spitefully as though to be revenged on the boy’s parents.

  But Philip had lacked the qualities of his younger brother Louis, so perhaps fate had struck him down because Louis was destined to be King.

  Such thoughts were unprofitable. Philip was dead and Louis was the eldest son. They were indeed fortunate to have such a family. She must be grateful and not fret because she feared for her husband’s health and strength as a ruler. She should thank God for giving her such a wonderful son; and for having endowed her with qualities – which it would have been foolish and falsely modest to deny – which made her competent to guide him and shoulder his responsibilities.

  Louis was fighting with more success than she had dared hope for. With a satisfied Hugh de Lusignan on his side they were bringing victory to France. In various towns the citizens had surrendered to him without a fight, believing that they could not stand out against the French.

  However Bordeaux stood firm for the English and since the newly created Earl of Cornwall had arrived with the veteran Earl of Salisbury, there was little news, which Blanche sensed meant there were no more easy victories; and perhaps this was at the root of her anxieties.

  While she was awaiting an account of Louis’s activities Joanna the Countess Flanders arrived at court. She had come, she said, to ask the Queen’s help.

  Blanche was wary. Louis was not on good terms with Flanders and at this time Joanna’s husband, Ferdinand, was imprisoned in the Louvre where he had been sent more than ten years before by Philip Augustus. The trouble between them had flared up in the year 1213. This was at the time of King John’s excommunication when Philip Augustus had thought it was opportune to make an attempt to seize the Crown of England to which he asserted Blanche had a claim. Philip had summoned his vassals to meet him at Soissons that they might prepare themselves to aid him in his venture, but Ferdinand failed to arrive.

  Philip Augustus proceeded with his project which was doomed to failure because before he could set sail John – shrewdly – had called in the help of the Pope. Instead of being a country under the Interdict which would have been easy to attack, England was under the wing of the Pope and Philip realised that it would be folly to take up arms against Rome.

  Fuming, Philip declared that the attack could not now take place as Rome instead of himself had subdued England.

  In his angry mood he learned that Ferdinand of Flanders was seeking to make an alliance with John and if he could not declare war on John he could on Ferdinand. Ferdinand had grown reckless because of a prophecy a soothsayer had made in the presence of his mother-in-law, the Queen of Portugal, and she had lost no time in writing to tell him of it. The seer had said that the King of France would be defeated by Ferdinand in battle and in a dream she had seen him entering Paris where the people welcomed him with great delight.

  Poor Ferdinand must have been extremely gullible to believe such a prophecy for even if the King of France had been killed, he had a son whom it seemed likely the people of France would welcome more eagerly than they would the Count of Flanders.

  Alas for Ferdinand, the prophecy proved far from true. It was the King of France who was victorious and he, Ferdinand, who became the prisoner. Philip knew that a man with such grandiose ideas represented a threat and it was not long before Ferdinand found he was indeed in Paris but his lodging was a small chamber in the tower of the Louvre,
where he had remained ever since.

  Now his wife Joanna had come to court and was begging an audience with the Queen. Blanche guessed that the Countess of Flanders was once again going to plead for the release of her husband and was wondering whether it might not be expedient to consider releasing Ferdinand. Perhaps he would be grateful to the King – after all it was not Louis who had imprisoned him. And he would know that if he was a traitor to the crown once more it would be the end of him.

  She was surprised that it was not of her husband that Joanna wished to speak.

  Joanna was a strong domineering woman. It was through her that Ferdinand had inherited Flanders, and she was not one to forget it. During her husband’s stay in the Louvre she had governed Flanders and had proved herself an able ruler.

  Now Blanche immediately recognised her as another such as herself and felt a great respect for her.

  Joanna said: ‘You think I have come to plead for my husband. That I might well do, for it is many years since the last King made him his prisoner and he has paid for his follies.’

  ‘I will speak to the King of the matter,’ said Blanche. ‘I am sure he will be ready to consider your request.’

  ‘I thank you, my lady. What concerns me now is Flanders. A cheat and an impostor is trying to wrest it from me and I have come to ask your advice and help.’

  ‘Pray tell me what this means,’ said Blanche.

  ‘You may remember that my father Count Baldwin went on a crusade to the Holy Land some twenty years ago. From this he never returned.’

  ‘I have heard it,’ said Blanche.

  ‘He led the Fourth Crusade and was made Emperor of Constantinople. Then … he disappeared.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He was captured by the Saracens and it was said that he was put into one of their prisons.’

  ‘So many Christians never again saw the light of day after they were taken by that enemy.’

  ‘I believe my father died in his prison, but now this impostor of whom I spoke has appeared. He has a look of my father and claims that he is he.’