The Battle of the Queens

by Jean Plaidy

  It was no use trying to arrange something with Hurepel. He would just tug his bristly head and say the King would be horrified.

  But why not? It was a well tried custom.

  He talked to Blois and Count Archibald of Bourbon who was a great friend of the King and was very worried about his state of health.

  It was a chance, Thibaud pointed out. It could do no harm.

  It was amazing how easy it was to persuade them. They were men who took amorous adventuring as part of life; the King’s abstention had always made him seem a little odd and Thibaud knew that the men who indulged in what might be called a little vice, liked others to share in it too. Nothing could be more depressing for a man who enjoyed the occasional peccadillo to be with one who never did, but continued to live in virtue and was a pattern of morality.

  Even the King’s best friends would like to see him commit one little act of indiscretion; and it could always be covered up by the assertion that the girl was put there just to keep him warm.

  Thibaud found the girl. She was barely sixteen, plump, smooth-skinned and experienced.

  All she had to do was slip into a bed and warm up the poor man who lay there, really very sick, and she might use whatever method she considered best. She must understand that all they wished was to warm the man, for he shivered with cold and there was nothing else which could keep him warm.

  Louis lay between sleeping and waking – the dreadful shivering fits taking possession of him periodically.

  ‘I am so cold,’ he had complained, and more rugs had been found; their weight was heavy but it could not get him warm.

  He wished that he was in his castle with Blanche. He thanked God for Blanche and young Louis and the rest of his family. It was only three years since he had been crowned a king – and he feared not a great one. He hated war and he constantly prayed that he could bring peace to France, but it seemed that God had decided differently. Philip had been so confident when John had come to the throne that soon the English would be driven out of France and the reason for this perpetual strife would be over. But it had not been completed. That was the trouble. If John had lived a little longer, he could have become King of England …

  But it was no use. It had not happened that way.

  He was aware of whispering voices in his room and he closed his eyes, having no desire to speak to anyone. He merely wished to lie still.

  They were at his bedside.

  Someone was in his bed. He roused himself. He was looking at a naked girl.

  He must be in a delirium. But why should he dream of a naked girl? He had never desired naked girls. He was not a man to indulge in erotic dreams.

  He cried out: ‘What means this?’ The shock of seeing the young woman had shaken off the lassitude brought on by his state. Standing by his bed, watching him, were several of his men. He recognised the Count of Blois and Thibaud of Champagne.

  ‘My lord,’ said a voice soothingly, and he recognised that of Archibald of Bourbon. ‘We but thought to bring some warmth into your bed.’

  ‘Who is this woman?’

  The poor girl looked crestfallen.

  ‘She is one who will know how to keep you warm, Sire,’ said Thibaud quietly.

  A dislike of the man rose within Louis.

  He raised himself. ‘Who dared bring in this woman?’

  ‘Sire,’ began Thibaud.

  ‘You, my lord,’ said Louis coldly. ‘Take her away. I have never yet defiled my marriage bed nor will I do so now. You mistake much, my lords, if you think I am of your kind. I shall remember this.’

  The girl stared from Louis to the men about the bed in bewilderment.

  Archibald signed to her to go. When she had left he began to explain: ‘My lord, we feared for you. Your body was so cold and we could think of no way to comfort you.’

  ‘Leave me,’ said Louis, ‘and if ever one of you again attempts to dishonour me, remember this: you will incur my deepest displeasure.’

  They slunk out, Thibaud inwardly convulsed with laughter, but the others deeply disturbed.

  The affair seemed to have some effect on Louis, for he recovered from his bout of illness and the next day left his bed.

  He looked very ill however and was deeply depressed by what he found in the camp. The heat was trying; the flies and insects an added affliction; nothing seemed to go right for his army and it was hard to believe that God was on their side. They had made an attempt to scale the walls at their weakest point; they had managed to throw a bridge across the river to the castle walls but this had collapsed and several hundred men had been thrown into the river. Many of them had been drowned, many more injured. It was a tale of disaster.

  As he inspected his camp he came upon Thibaud of Champagne and he felt extremely uneasy, remembering that scene in the bedroom when he had awakened to what he had thought must be delirium to rind the naked girl in his bed and the Count of Champagne watching him in a manner he could only describe as sardonic.

  This was the poet who dared write verses about Blanche. He told the world in his songs how he longed to make her his mistress. It was too much even for the most lenient and peace-loving King to accept. Blanche – thank God – was a virtuous woman. She had been as faithful to him as he had been to her. She had shrugged aside the impertinence of Thibaud but what would her reaction be if he told her the fellow had tried to put a naked girl into his bed?

  Dislike for the man overcame him and it showed in his manner.

  Thibaud was inclined to be truculent. He had had enough of Avignon. The siege was nowhere near over. He would like to remind Louis that he also was royal, a descendant from Louis his grandfather and the renowned Eleanor of Acquitaine. Why should such as he have to take orders from a cousin? – for their relationship was something like that.

  ‘They continue to hold out, Sire,’ said Thibaud, who should have waited for the King to address him. ‘If you ask my opinion, they’re good for many more weeks yet.’

  ‘I did not ask your opinion,’ replied Louis coldly.

  ‘Ah, then I withdraw it, my lord.’ The ironic bow. The gleam in the eyes, the mischief. He was thinking of that naked girl.

  Whatever could have possessed Blois and Bourbon to do such a thing? They might have known what his feelings would be. They had been urged on by this man who had too great an opinion of himself and who had dared to cast eyes on Blanche.

  ‘We shall stay here,’ went on Louis, ‘no matter how long the people of Avignon hold out.’

  ‘Your vassals, my lord, owe you but forty days and forty nights.’

  ‘My vassals, sir, owe me their complete loyalty.’

  ‘They vowed but forty days and forty nights. That was in their oath. I have been here thirty-six and my time of service is coming to an end.’

  ‘Yet you will stay here until we have the town.’

  ‘I promised forty days and the nights that follow them, Sire.’

  ‘You will not leave us nevertheless. If you did, I would raze Champagne.’

  ‘You will find strong resistance, my lord, if you attempted to do that.’

  ‘Yet I will not suffer traitors about me.’

  Thibauld smiled that insolent smile which angered the King even more than his words.

  ‘I am sure you will consider such an act well before you undertake it,’ said Louis. ‘It could bring great misfortune to you.’

  Then he passed on.

  The news spread through the camp. Thibaud is preparing to leave.

  Philip Hurepel remonstrated with him.

  ‘You must not go now,’ he protested. ‘They cannot hold out much longer. The King will be your enemy for as long as he lives if you desert him now.’

  ‘I have served my forty days. Why should I stay longer?’

  ‘Because if all deserted him now it would mean defeat for him.’

  ‘What rejoicing there would be in Avignon.’

  ‘Be sensible, Thibaud.’

  ‘I am weary of this siege. I
promised the King forty days and nights and I have given them to him.’

  ‘If you go you will regret it’

  ‘You think only of your brother, Philip.’

  ‘Is he not your kinsman too?’

  ‘’Tis a fact he rarely remembers.’

  Others came to him and pointed out the folly of leaving. There were some who scorned him for suggesting such a course of action. Thibaud was surprised how many supported the King when they were all weary of the siege and were certain that the besiegers were in a more sorry state than the besieged.

  Thibaud realised that opinion was against him. He knew that the King must in time subdue the town; he knew that if he left now it would be remembered against him and could bring him harm. And yet he could not resist the impulse.

  Louis was unworthy of Blanche and Thibaud longed to be her lover and he would never feel completely happy with any other woman because he had set himself this unattainable ideal. And Louis had been married to her without effort – simply because he had been heir to the throne.

  He had to fight Louis. It was against his impulsive, reckless, not always logical nature not to do so.

  It was dark when he gathered his knights together and prepared to slip away.

  ‘You will regret this,’ Philip Hurepel told him angrily.

  ‘I have met my dues. I will give nothing to Louis.’

  ‘You fool,’ said Philip.

  ‘You loyal brother,’ mocked Thibaud. ‘Who can tell how much my desertion will cost me and what the rewards of your loyalty will be? Adieu, Hurepel. I doubt not we shall meet again ere long.’

  Then Thibaud and his company rode back to Champagne.

  ‘Traitor!’ cried Louis. ‘I ever found it hard to tolerate that fat man. Though I must admit he is a good poet and I have enjoyed some of his work. What think you, Blois, Bourbon, Hurepel … will others follow?’

  Philip Hurepel said stoutly that the King had enough good friends beside him to enable him to take Avignon.

  ‘I doubt it not,’ replied Louis. ‘But I like it not when traitors desert.’

  ‘Thibaud is too fat to be a good soldier,’ said Bourbon. ‘He is more adept with the pen.’

  ‘The pen can be a mighty weapon,’ said Louis, and he wondered whether those poems about Blanche had engendered his hatred of the man.

  As he feared, Thibaud’s departure had increased the dissatisfaction of the men. The people of Avignon had been well prepared. Never it seemed to those outside the walls had there been a city so well equipped to withstand an army. Louis’s health was failing again and his friends watching him with anxiety wondered if it would not be wise after all to raise the siege and abandon Avignon.

  August had come – sweltering hot. Never, declared the soldiers, had the sun shone so fiercely; dysentery increased. Men were dying all around them.

  ‘It would seem that Louis will be one of them if we don’t get out of this place,’ said Philip Hurepel.

  Bourbon was of the opinion that the King would never give in.

  ‘Perhaps, after all, Thibaud was the wise one,’ suggested the Count of Blois. ‘At least he escaped this.’

  ‘He will repent his folly,’ said the loyal Philip.

  It was only a few days later when the governor of the town sent a messenger to the King. The town was ready to make peace, for it could hold out no longer.

  This was victory – but a dearly bought one.

  Louis had no wish to send his soldiers to rape, murder and pillage. He shrank from such procedure. He could not but respect such valiant men. He therefore decreed that the people should be spared but it would be construed as weakness if some punishment were not meted out to a town which had cost him so much in men, arms and money.

  He ordered that the walls of the city should be demolished but the townspeople unharmed.

  His work was done at Avignon. It could be carried out by others whom he appointed. He could go back to Paris.

  Blanche would be waiting for him and there he would enjoy a time of recuperation in her soothing company.

  He needed it.

  So he began the journey.

  The siege had ended at the close of August but there had been a great deal to arrange and it was the end of October before he could begin the journey back.

  He felt very tired and a day spent in the saddle often exhausted him so much that it was necessary for him to rest the following day.

  It was when he reached the Castle of Montpensier that he took to his bed and found, when he attempted to rise the next day, that he was unable to do so.

  ‘Alas, my friends,’ he said, ‘I fear I shall be obliged to rest here for a few days.’

  Blanche called the children to her … her adored Louis, who grew more handsome every day, Robert, John, Alphonse and Philip Dagobert. Isabella was too young of course; she must remain in the nursery where another little one would soon join her.

  ‘Your father is coming home,’ she told them, ‘and we shall all go to meet him and give him welcome. That will give him as much pleasure as his victory.’

  Young Louis said: ‘What will happen to the people of Avignon, my lady?’

  She looked at him sharply. There was compassion in his voice and she wondered why it should have occurred to him first to ask after the defeated.

  ‘Your father will know best how to treat them.’

  ‘He’ll cut off their hands perhaps,’ said Robert, ‘or their feet. Perhaps put out their eyes.’

  ‘Our father will do no such thing,’ declared Louis.

  ‘He will punish them for having a siege, won’t he?’ demanded Robert.

  ‘It is their leaders who were to blame,’ pointed out Louis. ‘The people should not be punished for that, should they, my lady?’

  ‘When your father returns,’ said Blanche, ‘you may ask him what happened to the people of Avignon. Then you will hear that justice was done.’

  ‘Is our father always right?’ asked Robert.

  ‘Your father always does what God tells him is right,’ answered Blanche.

  ‘God does not always answer,’ Louis pointed out.

  ‘But He guides, my son,’ replied Blanche.’ You will understand one day, when you are King. That will not be for many many years. First you will have learned from your father how best to reign.’

  How proud of them she was as they rode out together. It was fitting that they should be there to greet him after the victory at Avignon. How glad she was that it was over, for there had been a time when she feared that the siege might have to be abandoned and that would have been bad for France and for Louis.

  As they came near to the Castle of Montpensier she suggested that Louis with his party should ride on ahead so that he should be the first to greet his father.

  This the young boy was eager to do. At twelve years old he already had the bearing of a hero. His blond good looks and his regal bearing attracted men to him for his bearing was enhanced by a certain gentleness. Blanche did not think it was disloyal to Louis to notice that his son was the more kingly of the two. Louis himself had remarked on it.

  The young boy rode a little ahead of his attendants in his eagerness to see his father and he had not gone very far when he saw a party of horsemen coming from the château.

  He pulled up and cried, ‘Where is my father? I have come to greet him.’

  ‘My lord,’ said the leader of the group, ‘where is the Queen?’

  ‘She is a little way behind. I rode on ahead. She wished it.’

  ‘Will you return to your mother and tell her to come with all haste to the château?’

  ‘But my father….’

  ‘It would be well, my lord, if you would come with your mother.’

  Louis turned and rode back.

  When she saw her son a terrible fear came to Blanche. She spurred up her horse and galloped to the castle.

  Philip Hurepel was waiting for her there. There were tears in his eyes and she knew before he said: ‘My lady, the K
ing is dead. Long live Louis IX.’

  Blanche was in command now. The new King was a boy of twelve and, though possessed of great gifts, but a boy.

  She must set aside her personal grief. There was no time for it. Later she would think of Louis, the understanding between them, the affection, the respect they had always had for each other, the happy married life – almost as felicitous as that of her own parents; but now she must think of the future.

  When a King died and left an heir not of an age to govern, there was always danger.

  ‘The King is dead. Long live the King.’ It was an old cry; but that King was not truly recognised as King until he was crowned.

  So before she sat down to grieve, she must get Louis crowned. And then she knew that there would be little time for grief. Louis was too young; he would need guidance. She had good friends and Louis would have loyal subjects, but on her would rest the main burden.

  From Philip Hurepel, the Counts of Bourbon and Blois she heard the story of Louis’s last days. He had exhausted himself before Avignon; they had known he was ill but not how ill – and could be said to have died fighting for a holy cause, so they need have no fear for his soul.

  ‘I never had fear for his soul,’ cried Blanche. ‘He was a good man. There are few as good in this world or in the next, I assure you.’

  The men bowed their heads and said: ‘Amen.’

  ‘Indeed we need have no fear for him,’ said Blanche. ‘He is at peace. Now we must think what he would wish us to do. We have a new King, Louis IX. He is a promising boy … but a boy. My lords, the late King would wish us to make sure that he is crowned without delay.’

  They agreed that this was so.

  ‘Then, my lords, let us see that this is done.’

  She should rest a day at the château, Philip Hurepel told her. ‘You need your strength to support him. You must not be ill.’

  She agreed to rest there and in her room her grief and desolation swept over her.

  Dear, good, kind Louis … dead! She could not believe it. Never to speak to him again. She needed him now … so much she needed him.

  Her women came to her and found her seated on her bed staring ahead of her, the tears slowly falling down her cheeks.