The Battle of the Queens

by Jean Plaidy

The pleasures of kingship were a delight at times such as this when there was nothing to think of but entertainment and everyone looked to him to begin the dance, to give dismissal to the dancers, to choose the king or queen who does not lie.

  He thought how much more powerful he would have been if his father had not plunged the country into civil war and all that rich land in France belonged to him. But it should not prove an insuperable task to get it back. A young king on the throne, guided by his mother it was said; and there had been trouble with the barons there as there had in England. Spies over there reported that Hugh de Lusignan, Guy de Thouars and the Count of Champagne had joined forces against the young King and his mother. Naturally Hugh would. Why, Hugh was his stepfather and his mother would be unnatural indeed if she sided with the French against her own son.

  Why this delay then? He had thought the French possessions would be in his hands by now.

  He turned to Hubert and said: ‘Next year I intend to take an army into France.’

  Hubert looked dismayed. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘that would be a big undertaking.’

  ‘A big undertaking. What do you mean? Have not my ancestors taken armies into France ever since it came into our hands?’

  ‘It would need preparation …’

  ‘Well, we will prepare.’

  Richard was listening intently. Having been in France he considered himself far more knowledgeable than the King or Hubert de Burgh.

  ‘The time is ripe,’ he said. ‘Louis is young … completely tied to his mother’s apron-strings. She is not popular with the French. She is a foreigner and the French do not fancy being ruled by a foreigner. And rule she does. Louis does everything she tells him to.’

  ‘There, you see,’ said Henry.

  ‘There could be dissension in the country,’ said Hubert, ‘but you will see that if the English came against them, they would join ranks and stand against us.’

  ‘Hubert is determined to kill the enterprise before it begins,’ said Richard.

  ‘Nay, my lord,’ protested Hubert, ‘I am as eager as you to bring back what is ours by right. I merely say that the time is not yet.’

  Henry looked sullenly at his Justiciar and many noted it.

  ‘The time will be when I say,’ said Henry.

  Hubert was silent. He did not want an argument at the table.

  Later he contrived to be alone with the King and raised the matter of taking the war into France during the year which was about to begin.

  ‘I would beg of you to consider, my lord, the low state of the treasury, which is the main reason why an expedition to France would not be wise.’

  ‘I will raise the money,’ declared Henry.

  ‘More taxes! That would not please the people.’

  ‘I shall not wait on people’s pleasure.’

  ‘It would be wise to.’

  ‘Listen to me, Hubert. When I say I shall go to war I mean I shall do so.’

  Hubert bowed his head.

  No good purpose could be served by a quarrel. He would have to try to find other means of preventing the King from attempting to go to war until he was well equipped to do so.

  This proved to be impossible. Henry had made up his mind.

  He was going to take an expedition into France at Michaelmas and no matter how Hubert tried to dissuade him he would not listen.

  Hubert was in despair. He asked himself again and again how they could equip an army without money; how could they even procure the ships to transport that army overseas. Henry was childish, completely unable to grasp practical details. When Hubert tried to explain and Henry showed signs of losing his temper, Hubert was uneasily reminded of the King’s father.

  There was nothing he could do but stop pointing out the inadvisability of continuing with the preparations, yet they went on apace.

  Henry would have to learn by his own bitter experience, Hubert realised, and it was going to be a costly matter.

  In due course they were ready to sail for France and Henry at the head of a large army rode down to Portsmouth, Hubert beside him, and that hardened warrior, the Earl of Chester, was at the other side of the King.

  Henry glowed with pride. This was how a king should be, at the head of his troops going into battle. He felt noble and brave. He wanted to impress his brother who had already been engaged in battle and who thought he had inherited some special quality from his uncle Coeur de Lion as well as his name.

  But when they reached Portsmouth it was realised that there were not enough ships to take the soldiers across the sea, and Henry fell into a violent rage.

  ‘Why so? Why so?’ he kept shouting. ‘Where are the ships? Why is it that there are but half of what we need?’

  ‘My lord,’ began Hubert, ‘I warned you that we would need a great many ships. The cost of supplying them was so great that your treasury could not meet it.’

  Henry turned white with rage. ‘So it is you who have done this. You would teach me a lesson, is that it? You would let me bring my troops here to find that there is not enough transport for them. You traitor … you old, sly traitor. I believe you are in the pay of the Queen of France. Is that it?’

  There was a shocked silence among the beholders. Hubert was suddenly afraid. The Earl of Chester was thinking that the end of the Justiciar’s rule must be in sight.

  ‘You jest, my lord,’ began Hubert. ‘You never had a more loyal subject than I. And you will remember I persuaded you to wait until you were properly equipped …’

  This was adding fuel to the fires of rage.

  With a gesture worthy of his father, Henry drew his sword and would have run it through his Justiciar if the Earl of Chester had not seized Hubert and dragged him away.

  ‘My lord,’ said Chester, placing himself between Hubert and Henry, ‘you do not mean to kill the Justiciar.’

  Henry glowered at them all and Chester thought: Is he going to be such another as his father?

  Chester wanted to see Hubert’s decline but not in this manner. If he were not careful this Henry would soon be emulating that other of his name who had done penance at Canterbury for the murder of Thomas à Becket. They did not want Hubert to be made into a martyr.

  ‘He has deliberately done this,’ spluttered Henry.

  ‘Nay, my lord,’ said Chester. ‘He but warned you that the enterprise will be costly and so shall it be. We need more ships, but the way to get them is not by thrusting your sword through the heart of your Justiciar.’

  Henry regarded Chester steadily. He was not sure what to do. His anger had cooled. He knew he had acted foolishly for Hubert had truly warned him that it would be too expensive to provide all the ships they needed; and he was really angry with him because he had been proved to be right.

  Chester went on: ‘Should we not use what ships there are and then when we have transported all they can carry they can return for the rest?’

  ‘It would seem there is nothing else to be done,’ said Henry sullenly.

  He did not look for Hubert. He had slipped away; he would tactfully keep out of the King’s sight for a while, and when they met the incident would appear to be forgotten.

  But it would never be. There had been too many to witness it; and in the thoughts of many was the notion that this was the beginning of the end for Hubert de Burgh.

  It was as Hubert had thought it would be. They met again in France and there the King behaved as though that scene had never occurred.

  Hubert thought: The thought of war has gone to his head like too strong wine. He is a boy in truth. But I should act more warily in future.

  Henry knew in his heart that he had behaved foolishly and in an ungrateful manner. If the Earl of Chester had not stopped him in time he would have killed Hubert. It was a most unwise thing to do – and he regretted it; but this made a rift between him and Hubert; he could not feel the same towards his Justiciar again, for he could not forgive him for having made him act so foolishly.

  The many enemies of Hube
rt had exalted in that display of royal anger and ingratitude. This was the beginning of the end for Hubert de Burgh, they thought. Metaphorically they began to sharpen their knives.

  Nor was it in Hubert’s favour that his warning had proved to be right.

  The expedition to France was quickly proved to be a failure, and an extremely costly one.

  The English returned, chastened with the knowledge that conquest was not going to be easy.

  Hubert had been right. It had taken place too soon.

  The King was fully aware that he had turned his back on Hubert’s wisdom, but his knowledge did not make him love Hubert the more.

  Chapter XIII

  THE LOVE MATCH

  Among those who lost their lives in that ill-conceived campaign was Gilbert, the seventh Earl of Clare and husband of William Marshal’s sister Isabella who had made such an impression on the King’s brother, Richard of Cornwall, when he had met her at Marlborough.

  Isabella was in the castle near Gloucester when she heard the news of his death. Gilbert had been a good husband and she had been a worthy wife, bringing him rich estates and during the years of their marriage six children – three sons and three daughters.

  Her father, the great William Marshal, who had been responsible for putting the young King on the throne and until his death in 1219 had, with Hubert de Burgh, Justiciar, governed the realm, had arranged her marriage with Gilbert when he had taken him prisoner at the battle of Lincoln, Gilbert at that time having been fighting on the side of the French. As a prisoner Gilbert could scarcely refuse to accept her father’s terms among which was the condition that he should marry his daughter.

  Isabella had docilely submitted. Like all girls she had been brought up to believe that a marriage would be arranged for her and that she had no alternative but to accept the man whom her father had chosen for her.

  So they were married and the marriage was tolerably happy and certainly fruitful. Amicia, the eldest child, was betrothed to Baldwin de Redvers although she was but ten years old; and good marriages would be arranged for Agnes and Isabel. Her eldest son Richard was eight at this time and he had two brothers, William and Gilbert.

  They were with her when news of their father’s death was brought to her and solemnly she went to the schoolroom to tell them of it.

  They listened quietly, but of course they had seen little of Gilbert and it was clear that his death did not touch them deeply. It was different when his body was brought to Tewkesbury and they attended the ceremony of his burial. There was genuine mourning among those attached to the Abbey for he had been one of its greatest benefactors.

  After the ceremony they returned to the castle and Richard asked her what would happen to them now. She told him that she doubted not that they would go on as before. The arrangements made for them by their father would be carried out and Richard must work harder than he had been doing because now he was the head of the family.

  It was not long before her brother came to see her.

  He took her hand and kissed her warmly for there was affection between them.

  ‘Well, Isabella,’ he said, ‘how are the children and you yourself after this shock?’

  ‘We continue as before,’ she answered calmly.

  ‘My dear Isabella, you were always noted for your good sense. Even our father remarked on it.’

  ‘You can rest assured that I shall know how to manage my household.’

  William saw the children at dinner and talked to them reassuringly, as though he had taken the place of their father, to which they responded politely. Afterwards he talked alone with Isabella and when he pointed out that she was still young and very handsome, she knew what was in his mind.

  Their father had been one of the richest men in the kingdom and they had been well endowed; so what he was saying was that Isabella the widow was in a position to make a very good marriage.

  ‘Ah,’ said Isabella, ‘I knew you were coming to that. I have always thought that a woman who has married once for the sake of her family should the second time marry for the sake of her own.’

  ‘My dear sister, you are a woman of great fortune. You could be deceived by one who sought to share it.’

  ‘I am not a young girl, William. I believe I should recognise a fortune hunter.’

  ‘There are some clever rogues about. If one should take your fancy I could not give my approval to your marriage.’

  ‘William, my good brother, my husband is recently dead. Give me time to recover from that before you talk about replacing him.’

  ‘Assuredly,’ said William. ‘But even though we do not talk of the matter, it may rest in our minds.’

  ‘I confess I had given it no thought.’

  ‘Then it shall be laid aside … for a while. We will return to it later.’

  ‘Shall we say that if I should decide to marry again I shall return to it.’

  William smiled affectionately. She had a strong will, this sister of his. Well, it was what one would expect of the daughter of William Marshal.

  He had done his duty and departed, and after he had gone Isabella began to remember a day in Marlborough when Gilbert had been visiting her brother and there had come to the castle a bold young man, of kingly bearing, who had shown a marked interest in her.

  She must be a fool to have cherished memories of that time. He was the King’s brother, and several years younger than she was. But he had admired her. He had shown his pleasure in speaking to her and sought to detain her in conversation and walk with her in the gardens even though at that time he had been deeply concerned with his quarrel with his brother.

  What foolish thoughts! She, the mother of six children – and a young boy! For Richard, Earl of Cornwall, was little more.

  It was most unseemly. But William had been right when he had implied that, however unsuitable, one could not help one’s thoughts.

  The old year was passing. It was three months since the death of Gilbert. Then the New Year came and Isabella concerned herself with the arrangements to set up a memorial stone to her husband in Tewkesbury Cathedral.

  It was in the spring when her brother sent a message to Tewkesbury that he was about to visit her with a friend. She went down to greet them and she was taken aback to see that the man who came with her brother was Richard of Cornwall.

  He held her hand and looked into her face.

  ‘By my faith, lady,’ he said, ‘you are more beautiful than ever.’

  William was quite clearly pleased and as she led them into the castle a wild thought occurred to her, but she dismissed it at once as impossible.

  She would never forget that brief stay of the visitors to the castle. She went about her duties as châtelaine in a state of excitement for which she could only reproach herself. She was behaving like a foolish frivolous girl instead of a serious-minded widow.

  She rode out with the men and Richard often contrived to be alone with her – and in this she was aware that her brother was his willing ally. Did William really think … He was ambitious, she knew, and he was married to Richard’s sister Eleanor.

  Richard was courteous, charming and always admiring.

  He told her of his life at Corfe under the stern Peter de Mauley and the equally severe Roger d’Acastre. He made her laugh by recounting the pranks he had played on his tutors. Then he told her of his adventures abroad as though he were trying to impress on her that although he was twenty-one the life he had lived had made him mature.

  She felt that she should remind him of the difference in their ages and constantly she referred to her six children. His reply was that she must have some secret power because she had the looks of a young girl.

  ‘Perhaps you have not known any young girls,’ she answered.’ It would seem so since you confuse a matron such as I with them.’

  He told her that he was far from inexperienced and it was due to this that he was able to appreciate her.

  ‘It surprises me,’ replied Isabella, ‘that bein
g a man of such wide experience you have not yet married.’

  ‘That is easily answered. Nor has my brother married – because we are of a mind to make our own choice in this matter.’

  This sounded significant, but she continued to refuse to believe it possible.

  When they rode away she felt melancholy. Their brief stay had been one of the happiest times of her life, which was a sad confession for a widow to make. But what was the point of lying to herself? She had never been in love with Gilbert and if the choice had been left to her she would not have married him. How different he was from this royal prince.

  And herself? A matron, yes, the mother of six children, but still handsome. Had she not been known as one of the most beautiful girls in the country before her marriage? She still was beautiful, and her good looks had become accentuated by an inner radiance which she heard came from being in love.

  There! She had confessed it. She was in love with the King’s brother.

  Richard was the most impatient of young men. He knew what he wanted and determined to get it.

  He told Henry: ‘I am going to marry Marshal’s sister.’

  ‘What! Gilbert de Clare’s widow?’ cried Henry.

  ‘None other.’

  ‘You must be joking. She is an old woman.’

  ‘Indeed she is not.’

  ‘What? The mother of how many children is it?’

  ‘She is beautiful. You would never guess that she has borne six children. It is an added virtue. She will give me sons.’

  Henry was thoughtful. He knew that if he raised objections Richard would thrust them aside. He had no desire to quarrel with him again.

  ‘Well?’ said Richard.

  Henry shrugged his shoulders. Marriage was a sore point with him. It was time he had a wife, but he seemed cursed in this, because every time a suggestion was made for him, there was some reason why it was impracticable. Marriage negotiations had a way of petering out. A marriage with the daughter of Leopold of Austria, another with the daughter of the King of Bohemia; then marriage with Yolanda, daughter of Peter of Brittany … nothing came of them. At one time he had been ready to consider the daughter of the King of Scotland, but the Archbishop had pointed out to him that as the Justiciar had already married the elder daughter, the King could scarcely marry the younger. Hubert again! He was beginning to feel more and more resentful of him.