The Battle of the Queens

Chapter I DEATH OF A TYRANT

The long summer was over. From the turret window the Queen looked disconsolately beyond the moat to the forest where the bronzed leaves of the towering oaks and the copper of the beeches splashed their autumnal colours across the landscape. Mist hung over the marsh where the sedge grew thickly; listlessly she watched a pair of magpies, vivid black and white against the October sky.

And she thought of Angoulême where, looking back, the days had seemed always full of sunshine and the halls of her father’s castle inhabited by handsome troubadours whose delight it was to sing of the incomparable charm and beauty of the Lady Isabella. And understandably so, for there could not have been a woman at the courts of the Kings of England or France whose beauty could compare with hers. There are many handsome women but now and then there appears one who is possessed not only of obvious physical charms but some indefinable quality, which would seem to be indestructible. Helen of Troy was one, Isabella of Angoulême such another.

She smiled reflecting on this. It was a comforting thought for a prisoner – and prisoner she was. The King, her husband, hated her and yet at the same time could not resist her, for having once come under her spell he could never escape from it. Nor did she intend him to.

Where was he now? In trouble, deep deep trouble. That was inevitable. There could never have been such a foolish monarch as King John. Many of his subjects were in revolt against him and so deeply was he hated that Englishmen had invited the son of the French King to come over and take the crown. Consequently the French were now on English soil and John was losing England as he had lost all the crown’s possessions in France. His ancestors – mighty William the Conqueror, and the first Henry, that Lion of Justice, would curse him; and his father, great Henry II and his mother Eleanor of Aquitaine would have been in agreement for once and have declared that it would have been better if they had died before they brought such a creature into the world.

John was lustful, cruel, vain and unwise. He possessed not a single quality which could be called good, and from the moment he had taken the crown he had progressed steadily towards disaster.

Perhaps, she thought, I should have married Hugh. No! Whatever else he was, John was a king and Hugh could never have made her a queen.

She had always wanted power and great honours and it had seemed only natural that her beauty should provide them for her.

How pensive she was today! It was as though something portentous was in the air. She sensed it. But was that unusual? Each day when she looked from this turret window she would gaze fixedly at the horizon, watching for a rider. It might be John, remembering her existence and perhaps the early days of their marriage when he was so enamoured of her that he would not leave their bed – not only throughout the night but during the day as well – much to the disgust of his barons, for, although they knew him for a lusty man, and of his scheming, after he had come by accident upon Isabella in the forest, to get her to his bed, they believed that, as the King, he should have remembered he had other duties than to get his wife with child and to indulge his voracious sexual appetites.

She knew that such memories would come upon him suddenly and he would ride to Gloucester, storm to her chamber and remind her that although she was his prisoner she was his wife. He might have cursed her for her infidelities – although he expected her acceptance of his – and he might have hung her lover on the tester of her bed so that when she awaked she found the corpse swinging there, yet he would lust for her and she was not entirely displeased, for her appetites were as keen as his in this respect, and this passion of hatred and desire amused and intrigued her.

Her youngest child, Eleanor, had been conceived in this prison and born a year ago. She was thankful that she had the children with her, but she must never let him know of this, for he might then seek to deprive her of their company. She had never been a doting mother, and perhaps that was why it had not occurred to him to rob her of them. He believed her to be as indifferent to them as he was.

Young Henry, now nine years old, would be the next king, provided the French did not conquer the country which, according to news which was brought in to her, they were on the point of doing. What next? she asked herself. Who could say? It seemed likely that there would be one among the invaders – perhaps Louis himself – who would not be insensible to the charms of the Queen. She would have to wait and see what happened; and considering the pass to which John had brought them, perhaps it would have been better after all if she had married Hugh de Lusignan. She had been only twelve years old but already mature when on their betrothal she had become enamoured of Hugh. Her ardent nature had set her dreaming of love-making with that handsome man, but he – though desiring her – had held aloof, fearing that she was too young and having romantic notions of waiting for marriage. Dear Hugh, during those wild orgies with John she had often remembered him and during the softer moments in her thoughts she had substituted handsome gentle Hugh for her violent husband and found delight in doing so, if only to contemplate how furious John would have been had he read her thoughts.

Always she had consoled herself; but he is a king and has made me a queen which was a long step from being merely the daughter of the Count of Angoulême, even though she had been the only child and a considerable heiress. One thing she could say was that John had taken no count of her inheritance. His desire to marry her had been pure lust. And it had remained even through his dalliance with other women – on whom he had got several children – even through her own adventures which he had made her pay for by that terrible act. And paid she had for even now she could awake from a nightmare in which she was back in that fearful dawn opening her eyes to that grisly spectacle. But through all that, his desire for her lived on.

She had seen him throw away his inheritance, reduced to utter humiliation by the barons who had forced him to sign Magna Carta at Runnymede. Those same barons were now weary of his foolishness, his rashness, his ineptitude and his cruelty to so many. He had enemies everywhere.

And now the French. They had trumped up a claim to the English throne for Louis, son of Philip of France, because Louis had married Blanche who was the daughter of John’s sister Eleanor and Alphonso of Castile. Eleanor was a daughter of Henry II – and with such a monarch as John on the throne his enemies were ready to clutch at anything.

William Marshal, the great Earl of Pembroke, one of the few loyal men in the country, had shown himself to be sick at heart by all that had happened and being the wise man he was he would know well at whose door the fault lay. But he had always stood for the King and the application of law and preservation of order. He had served Henry II well and had stood by him when all his sons came against him; he had fought face to face with Richard; but when Richard came to the throne he had had the good sense to make William Marshal the first of his advisers. Even John realised the need to listen to him. If only he had always taken the Marshal’s advice he would not have been in this position now.

So the French were invading the country and John was in retreat and even the Marshal’s eldest son had gone over to the French.

What next? Isabella asked herself, as she sat at the turret window waiting for the sight of a rider who might bring her news.

It was none other than William Marshal himself who brought it.

She saw him riding towards the castle at the head of a small party.

He was very old – he must be nearly eighty – yet from a distance he might have been a young man. For a while she watched his approach and then she came down to the courtyard to greet him.

With what dignity he sat his horse. He was very tall and his features were clear cut; his were the kind of good looks which age cannot destroy. His dignity was great and it had been said of him that he carried himself like a Roman emperor. In his youth he had been one of the finest horsemen of his day and had won great honours in the joust. His curling hair was still brown in colour and he held himself like a soldier.

He dismounted and kissed the Queen’s hand.

‘Ill news, my lord?’ she said.

And when he answered bluntly, ‘The King is dead,’ her heart leaped with mixed emotions. She was surprised by a sense of desolation; but it quickly passed and excitement gripped her.

‘What now?’ she whispered.

‘Prompt action,’ he said.

‘Then come into the castle.’

‘There is much that must be done without delay,’ answered the Marshal.

It was a tale of horror. He did not tell her immediately but she learned of it later. The tyrant, the foolish reckless King who had brought misery to thousands, who had placed his country in jeopardy, was no more.

She sensed the relief in the Marshal; it was as though he were saying, Now we may begin to plan.

‘Where is the King?’ he asked. She was startled. Then the truth came to her like a river that flowed over her, taking her breath away.

She answered firmly: ‘He is with his brother and sisters in the schoolroom.’

The Marshal hesitated. He was a man for protocol. Instinct was urging him to go to the boy, dramatically to kneel before him and swear allegiance.

The Queen laid a hand on his arm. ‘Later, good Marshal,’ she said.

The Earl hesitated; then bowed his head in agreement.

‘He knows little of what is happening,’ said the Queen. ‘I did not wish him as yet to despise his father. I must talk with you. Ale shall be brought. You have ridden far and need it.’

‘As I have said, Madam, prompt action is necessary.’

‘I know it well.’

‘The King should be crowned as quickly as possible.’

‘We will talk of these things … but in secret – for who should know what tales are carried? Your own son …’

The Marshal agreed. ‘He had no love for the King. He believed that it was better to stand against him. I did not wish it, but I saw the reason in it.’

She clapped her hands and almost immediately ale was brought. She ordered meat but the Marshal was in no mood for food though he admitted a need to quench his thirst.

‘Pray leave us,’ said the Queen to her attendant who hovered awaiting further commands, and when they were alone, she said: ‘How did he die? Ignobly I doubt not, as he lived.’

William Marshal did not meet her eye. ‘It is uncertain,’ he said, ‘but there is talk of poison.’

‘Ah! So someone was bold enough. You must tell me my lord, for depend upon it, I shall discover and would rather hear the truth from your lips than the garbled tales of others.’

‘I can only say, Madam, that he paused with his troops at a convent on the way to Swinstead Abbey and there demanded refreshment. Rumour has it that he saw there a nun whose beauty was apparent in spite of her habit.’

‘Oh dear God, no. So! Right to the end …’

‘I hear Madam, that she had a look of yourself which amused the King.’

‘And I doubt not that he declared it was in looks only that there could be a likeness.’

‘I heard not that, my lady. But he sought to molest her and she fled. He did not pursue her. He did not seem to have the spirit for it.’

‘And she escaped him. I am glad.’

‘News of what happened may have gone ahead of him to the Abbey if this rumour be true, for his men declare that it was the peaches which were given him there which set him in violent pain. He was in agony all the way to Newark and when he reached the Bishop’s castle there he lay on his bed and died.’

They were silent for a while. Then the Marshal rose and said: ‘Now, Madam, I must see the King.’

‘He is but a child, my lord Earl.’

‘He is the King of England, my lady.’

‘Grant me this,’ she said. ‘Let me go to them. Let me break the news. I must prepare him. He is a serious boy and will quickly learn.’

William Marshal saw the point of this. He had never greatly admired the Queen. That she was an exceptionally attractive woman he was aware and old as he was and strict in his morals, he could not help but be stirred by her unquestionable appeal.

He had thought often in the early days of her marriage to John that she suited the King. Her sensuality was immediately apparent. She wore it like a gleaming ornament and every man must be aware of it. John had been completely ensnared on that first meeting in the woods when she had been only a child. Hugh de Lusignan had remained a bachelor because, it was said, after having been betrothed to her, he could take no other woman. That she was a schemer, he knew. He had once remarked to his wife – another Isabella – that the Queen deserved the King and the King the Queen, but he sometimes thought that perhaps he had been a little harsh on her. There could hardly be a woman in the world who deserved John.

He was uneasy now. The new King a minor and a forceful mother in the background. He could see trouble ahead.

So he hesitated.

Then he said: ‘The situation is fraught with danger.’

‘I know it well. The French are here. There are many traitors in this country who would set Louis on the throne. He has brought foreign soldiers on to our soil.’

‘Your husband the late King has done that too, my lady. His army consisted mainly of mercenaries from the Continent.’

She was silent for a while and then said: ‘I pray you, my lord Earl, give me a little time with my son, that I may tell him of this burden which has descended on him.’

‘Go to him, Madam,’ said William Marshal. ‘And then I will pay my homage to the King.’

Isabella went at once to the schoolroom where she knew she would find the three eldest children. Isabella aged two and Eleanor one, would be in the nursery.

The two boys and the young girl were seated at a long table drawing together, their heads bent over their work.

At the sight of their mother the children all rose, the little girl curtseying prettily and the boys bowing. The Queen always insisted on this homage; she often wondered whether they knew they were in captivity on their father’s orders. They were aware that he came of course. Henry the eldest dreaded his coming even more than the others, for Henry was a boy who wanted to live in peace; his brother Richard was quite the reverse. Sometimes Isabella had thought that it would have been more fitting if Richard had been the elder of the two.

She took Henry by the hand and led him to the window seat, the others following.

Richard said: ‘There are visitors at the castle, my lady.’

She frowned slightly. It was always Richard who spoke. Why did Henry hang back? The boy looked different in her eyes now. He was a king even though his subjects might decide not to accept him. She thought again: It ought to have been Richard. Fleetingly she remembered the day her second son had been born. It was at Winchester and young Henry was only fifteen months old at the time. There had been a long period before she had conceived her firstborn, and she had indeed wondered whether she was barren – for John had already proclaimed his fertility by scattering bastards throughout the country. And then the birth of Henry had been quickly followed by that of Richard; and Joan was not far behind.

She need not have concerned herself about being barren. Children were a blessing, particularly when they could wear crowns.

She drew Henry to her and he said: ‘It was not my father who came, my lady.’

There was a note of relief in his voice. She knew the children cowered in their bedchambers when their father came. Henry feared he ill-treated her. Nay little son, she wanted to explain. I can give him as good as he gives me.

And now he was dead, and the world had become an exciting place.

‘Grave news, my children,’ she said. ‘You saw the arrival of the Earl of Pembroke then?’

‘From the window,’ replied Richard. ‘And we saw you go down to greet him.’

‘He is an old, old, old man,’ said Joan.

‘Pray that you will be as hale and hearty when you reach his age, child,’ said the Queen sharply.

Joan appeared to be fascinated by the idea of growing as old as William Marshal.

Her mother said: ‘He has brought me news of your father.’

‘He is coming here?’ That was Henry. Concern showing in his sensitive face.

‘No. He will never come here again. He is dead.’

There was an awestruck silence. Isabella took Henry’s hand and kissed it. ‘And you, my son, are now King of England.’

Henry’s face puckered in horror. Richard cried out: ‘He’s Henry the Third, is he not, my lady, because our grandfather was Henry the Second.’

Henry was plucking at his mother’s sleeve. ‘Tell me, my mother, what must I do?’

‘Only what you are told,’ she answered quietly. ‘Now,’ she went on, ‘there is no need for concern. I shall be here to help you and the Earl of Pembroke is waiting now to kiss your hand and swear allegiance to you.’

Joan went to her brother and touched his arm with an expression of awe on her pretty face.

‘We must never make Henry angry any more, must we,’ she said. ‘If we did he could cut off our heads.’

Richard cried out: ‘I’d cut off his head first.’

‘That is no way to talk of your king,’ said Isabella severely. ‘And you should never have made Henry angry, Joan. That was wrong of you. Certainly now it will be well for you to remember that he is your king.’

She looked at her daughter with certain dislike. Her feelings had changed towards Joan ever since John, with typical devious cunning, had decided that it would be an excellent idea to betroth her to Hugh de Lusignan. Isabella’s eyes narrowed; she could hear that mocking voice. ‘He didn’t get the mother so perhaps the daughter will provide some consolation.’ ‘You must be crazy,’ she had answered. ‘Hugh is a grown man and Joan but a baby.’ ‘Let him wait,’ was the reply. ‘He’s a waiting man.’

Hugh – the man she was to have married and about whom she had often been regretful because she had not, to be the husband of her young daughter! John had known that she preserved some feelings for him, and that was why he had done his best to humiliate Hugh at every turn. But it was not easy to humiliate Hugh for he had that innate dignity which a man like John – royal though he might be by birth – could never aspire to. He had known that she would hate her daughter to go to Lusignan there to be brought up in the household of the man she had once loved. For she had loved Hugh, though in a self-seeking way, which was all she knew herself to be capable of. Hugh was however the one person for whom she might have made a little sacrifice. And John had betrothed her daughter to him! She could not help it, but the child irritated her, and to see her growing prettier every day gave her no comfort.

She turned from Joan to Henry.

‘Now, my son, I am going to take you to the Earl of Pembroke. Put aside those frightened looks. Are you a baby that you must be afraid of your crown? You should rejoice. Some have to wait years for what is yours in your youth. Come, look like a king. Act like one.’

She gripped his shoulder firmly and led him from the room. Richard watched him enviously, Joan with wonder; and Henry was wishing that he had been fifteen months younger than Richard instead of being his senior.

It was a strange sight to see the noble Earl kneel before the pale-faced boy. Yet in those moments Henry seemed to acquire a new dignity; and as William Marshal looked at the slender boy a new hope came to him that perhaps his accession could put an end to the torment of civil war in the land and might even result in driving the foreign invader from the country.

The young King had retired to his chamber, for his mother said he was still her son and must do what she considered best for him.

Henry, rarely other than docile, obeyed her. He was glad to be by himself that he might contemplate the enormity of what had happened to him.

Meanwhile Isabella and William Marshal talked earnestly together.

‘The King must be crowned without delay,’ declared William. ‘We must let the people see that a new era is about to begin.’

‘With a king who is a minor!’

‘With a king, Madam, who will have good advisers.’

‘Yourself,’ she said with a hint of wryness.

‘I think that many would consider me fitted to the task. I have sent a message to Hubert de Burgh and I doubt not that ere long he will be with us.’

Isabella’s spirits rose. With two such men to support her son, his chances were good.

‘I do not think that the people of England want to hand over their country to the French,’ went on William Marshal.

‘It would seem that many of them were attempting to do just that,’ she retorted.

‘In desperation, my lady, seeing anything preferable to rule by John.’

She had no answer to that, for she knew that he spoke the truth.

‘But now that we have a new king – a boy who can be guided – it could mean a turning point in this dire state of affairs.’

‘I hope and pray so, my lord.’

‘A king becomes a king when he is crowned. We must therefore have no delay in bringing about the coronation.’

‘With what could he be crowned? John has lost the crown jewels in the Wash.’

‘It is not the crown itself which is so important as the ceremony of crowning and the people’s acceptance of their king.’

‘But a king needs a royal crown. And that of Edward the Confessor is in London. Is it true that London is overrun by the French?’

‘To the shame of the Englishmen – yes. But it shall not be for long. Let the people of England know that the tyrant is dead, that we have a new young and innocent king on the throne – with strong men to support him – and you will find that they rally to him. I doubt not that this time next year – if we act wisely – there will not be a Frenchman in the land.’

She could not but be convinced, for William Marshal was known throughout the country, not only for his bravery and loyalty but for his sound good sense.

‘My lord,’ said Isabella, ‘the Archbishop of Canterbury should perform the ceremony.’

‘Impossible. Stephen Langton is in Rome – whither he went to escape the persecution of your late husband.’

‘And the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of London …’

‘My lady, a coronation does not depend on a bishop nor yet an archbishop. We will find someone to perform the ceremony. I have already sent a messenger to the Bishop of Winchester. He, being the only one available, must crown the King.’

‘And the people …’

‘Ah, there is a greater problem. So heartily sickened were they by John’s tyrannies that they might stand out against his son. We have to woo the people, Madam, and that is our greatest task.’

Isabella shrugged her shoulders. ‘A hostile people, absent Archbishops of Canterbury and York, also a Bishop of London, no royal crown … and you would have a coronation.’

‘Yes, Madam, I would, for I believe it to be the only way to save England for the rightful King.’

His eyes were on a gold throat-collar which she was wearing. Noticing this she touched it wonderingly.’

‘Could I see the ornament, my lady.’

She unfastened it, gave it to him. He examined it and smiled.

‘This could be the crown of Henry the Third of England,’ he said. ‘Methinks it would fit well on that young head.’

Before the day was out Hubert de Burgh had arrived at the castle.

He was exhilarated by the turn of events. He was a loyal man; he had done his best to hold off the French; he had held Dover Castle against them until it had been no longer possible to do so. He had deplored the fact that foreigners were on English soil, but he rejoiced in the death of John.

Perhaps he, as well as any, was aware of the villainy of that twisted nature. He had seen England lose the greatness which rulers like the Conquerer, Henry I and Henry II had brought, but no country could prosper when its king was so enamoured of military glory that he was scarcely ever in the land he was supposed to govern as king. Richard – whom they called the Lion-hearted – had been thus; and when such rule was followed by that of a depraved, cruel, unscrupulous man – whose folly was even greater than all his faults – England was doomed.

And now, the tyrant was dead and the Marshal had sent for him. The King was a minor. Could it be that they could take England out of the wretched humiliation into which she had fallen? If William Marshal believed this was possible, Hubert de Burgh was ready to agree with him.

There had been encounters with John which Hubert would never forget. All men now were aware of his villainies but what had happened between him and Hubert thirteen years ago would be a hideous memory for ever. Hubert often thought of the boy who had loved and trusted him and whose life he had tried to save. Poor Arthur, so young, so innocent, whose only sin had been that he had a claim to the throne of England which might have been considered by some to be greater than that of John.

Hubert would always be haunted by those scenes which had been played out in the Castle of Falaise where he had been custodian of the King’s nephew, son of John’s brother Geoffrey, poor tragic Prince Arthur. A beautiful boy – arrogant perhaps because of the homage men had paid him, but how pitifully that arrogance had broken up and shown him to be but a frightened child whom Hubert had grown to love as Arthur had loved Hubert. Sometimes in his dreams Hubert heard those dreadful cries for help; he could feel a hand tugging at his robes. ‘Hubert, Hubert, save me Hubert. Not my eyes … Leave me my eyes, Hubert.’

And in his dreams he would smell the heat of the braziers and see the men, their faces hardened by brutalities, the irons ready in their hands.

And for Arthur he had risked his life – for Hubert knew his master’s rewards for those who disobeyed him; he had risked his own eyes for those of Arthur, dismissed the men, hidden the boy and pretended that he had died under the gruesome operation which was to have robbed him of his eyes and his manhood.

It had been as though fate were on his side for he could not have kept the boy hidden for ever. It was ironical that foolish John should have become afraid of the uprising of the men of Brittany and the constant whispers set in circulation by his enemies – the chief of them the King of France – that the King of England had murdered his nephew. So Hubert had confessed and been rewarded with the King’s approval, for John, whose evil genius had ever made him act first and consider the consequences afterwards, realised that Hubert had done him a favour by saving Arthur’s eyes. But it was not long before Arthur was taken from Hubert’s care and murdered in the Castle of Rouen. At least, thought Hubert, I saved his eyes and death is preferable to one who has known what the green fields are like and then is cruelly deprived of the blessing of seeing them.

But often he had found John’s eyes upon him and he had wondered whether the King was remembering that Hubert de Burgh was the man who had disobeyed his orders and refused to mutilate Arthur.

Hubert had been useful. Perhaps that was why he had outlived the King.

And now jubilation. John was dead and William Marshal was with the new King.

Could it be that a new era was coming for men such as himself?

He was in sight of the castle when he saw a solitary figure riding towards him. As the rider came nearer he realised with great pleasure that it was none other than William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, himself.

Their horses drew up face to face, and the two men raised their hands in greeting.

‘This is good news, William,’ said Hubert, and William acceded the point. ‘He died as he lived,’ went on Hubert, ‘violently. It was inevitable that death would overtake him. Do you think it was poison?’

‘Whenever a man or woman dies suddenly it is said to be due to poison.’

‘No man could have been more hated.’

‘He is gone,’ said William. ‘We need consider him no more. Long live King Henry III.’

‘And you think, my lord Earl, that the King will be Henry and not Louis?’

‘If we act wisely.’

‘Louis is in command of much of the country.’

‘Give them a king – a crowned king – and the people will rise against the foreigner. Within a few months we’ll have the French out of the country. None could know better than you, Hubert, how difficult it is to invade a country which is protected by water.’

‘Louis is safely landed here …’

‘But uneasily. Let the news spread through the land that John is dead, and that we have a new king.’

‘A boy of nine.’

‘With excellent counsellors, my dear Hubert.’

‘Yourself?’

‘And the Justiciar.’

‘I am to keep hold of that office?’

‘Assuredly. Hubert, we are going to make England great, and a land for the English.’

‘Pray God it will come to pass.’

‘Let us go into the castle. We must make plans. Henry is going to be crowned, even if it is only with his mother’s throat-collar.’

Before the month was out the young King was crowned. The ceremony was performed by Peter des Roches, the Bishop of Winchester, and the crown used for the purpose was that gold throat-collar which had belonged to his mother.

After the King had been crowned the Bishops and Barons must pay homage to Henry.

Eager for action William Marshal, supported by Hubert de Burgh, summoned all loyal barons to Bristol where they would be presented to the new King.

It was comforting to the Earl to discover that more had assembled than he had dared hope. It seemed that now King John was dead they had no quarrel with the crown. A young monarch was always appealing though a matter for apprehension, for surrounding the immature, there were usually too many ambitious men. But in this case there was a difference. Providence had rid them of the most hated most foolish king that had ever been known – and was ever likely to be – and if his son was a minor he was backed by one of the finest and most noble men England had ever known – a loyal servant to Henry II and Richard, and who had even tried to guide John to reason. That man was William Marshal.

So they came to Bristol and when they saw the pale boy, who could not have looked more unlike his father, so gentle was he, so eager for their approval, they were ready to swear allegiance to the crown. There was not a man among them who did not deplore the fact that there were French invaders in England; and they wanted to turn them out.

So they swore allegiance to the new King.

Henry, with his mother and brothers and sisters, spent Christmas in Bristol. William Marshal was with them and Henry found himself the centre of controversy. All the important men who came to the castle must be received by him and he was never allowed to forget for a moment the terrible responsibilities which had fallen on him.

Richard envied him while Joan watched him with a kind of awe. She took to calling him King, which in a way he liked, because now that the first shock had subsided and all he had to do at first was listen to the Earl and do what he told him, it was not difficult.

Their mother was with them more often than she had been and that pleased them. They were all conscious of her beauty and found pleasure in merely looking at her, as so many people did. Moreover she was a little more respectful to Henry than she had been and he enjoyed this. He had been inclined to feel that Richard was much better liked than he was which made him hang back behind his younger brother, but now that he was King and Richard so clearly envious, all that was changed.

Isabella always liked to break news to them before it was formally announced by the council which assembled in the Bristol castle and which Henry had to attend whenever it assembled. At first this had frightened him, then bored him and afterwards he began to take an interest because they were discussing the affairs of the kingdom … his kingdom.

Isabella summoned the three eldest children to her because she had news for them.

‘You know your new responsibilities, Henry,’ she said. ‘You have been crowned a king.’

‘With your necklace,’ giggled Joan.

Isabella gave her a light slap on her arm. Joan’s frivolity was irritating and she was so pretty with her violet eyes and dark hair – growing like her mother, although of course she could never be quite so beautiful.

‘Attend to me,’ said Isabella sternly. ‘The lords are going to choose William Marshal as Regent and they are going to put you in his charge.’

Richard grimaced and Joan looked at him, hunching her shoulders.

‘Now, Henry,’ said Isabella, ‘we will take no heed of these foolish children. This is a matter of the King. You will have a tutor who will be Philip of Albini. He is a good man I know and a great scholar. You will enjoy learning with him.’

Henry was not alarmed. He was good with his books. Sometimes he wished that was all there was to kingship.

‘You will have to study and be worthy of your crown. As for you Richard, you are leaving at once for Corfe Castle.’

Joan’s face puckered. ‘I don’t want them to go.’

‘Be silent, you stupid child. Richard has to learn even though he is not a king. He will be under the charge of Peter de Mauley at Corfe and his tutor is to be Sir Roger d’Acastre. The Earl of Pembroke has chosen the men he considers best for these important tasks.’

The boys were a little dismayed but Joan’s lips were beginning to quiver.

‘I like it as it was when our father was the King … instead of Henry.’

Isabella looked at her coldly. ‘Do not imagine that you will be here for ever.’

‘What will happen to me, my lady?’

The Queen smiled slowly. ‘You are betrothed, you know.’

Joan nodded. ‘To an old man.’

‘Oh come, he is not as old as that. I knew him once … well, very well.’

‘So he is as old as you, my lady.’

‘Older,’ she said sharply. ‘But he was then a very handsome man. I never saw a handsomer in all my life.’

‘People don’t stay handsome,’ said Richard.

‘Some of them do,’ retorted Isabella.

‘Is he still the most handsome man?’ asked Joan anxiously.

‘That you will discover … soon I think.’

‘Oh, am I going away, too?’ Joan looked round the room as though she were seeking something to cling to.

‘Yes, you will go away.’ Isabella smiled secretly. ‘You will have a governess to conduct you to your bridegroom. You will not be entirely alone, you know. Who knows … I myself might decide to take you to him.’

The Queen began to laugh and her children joined with her, without quite knowing why.

Throughout the country there was rejoicing because the tyrant was dead, but all must realise that being rid of John did not solve their difficulties. Many of them had welcomed Louis to England, certain that any ruler was preferable to John; but now that there was a new king supported by men such as William Marshal and Hubert de Burgh, they were eager to turn out the aliens. This was easier said than done. Louis was young; he was anxious to prove his valour and skills to his father, and he was as determined to succeed as many of the English were to turn him out. Moreover he had a foothold in England and his men were already in London.

It was disturbing to Louis to find that since young Henry had been crowned, the English who had supported him were now slipping away to the other side. Louis understood. The whole world had been aware of the misfortune which had overtaken England in such a king as John and, distracted by his injustices, the English were determined to be rid of him; now a higher power had intervened and mercifully for England, the tyrant was dead. It was naturally the time when Englishmen were asking themselves: What are we doing with foreigners on our soil? Why are we welcoming England’s enemy? The need to do so is miraculously removed. We have a young king supported by great men. Let us drive out the invader … No, they could not call him that. He was the guest, invited by many of them. Come rid us of this John and in return you shall have the crown of England. How they hated John! But he was dead, and that changed everything.

Yes, Louis was very uneasy.

He returned to France to spend Christmas with his wife, Blanche. Because of the deep love and trust between them – rare in royal marriages – she was a wife with whom he could discuss state matters. That she was anxious about the English expedition, he was in no doubt; and he had agreed with her that now a new King had been crowned, it was time to make the final settlement. They must raise a new army – a force which the English would not be able to resist. Louis must capture the young King and hold him as prisoner – hostage, while he himself was acknowledged as King of England.

It was April before Louis had perfected his plans and returned to England, full of confidence that this would be the final phase and that England was ready to fall into his hands. He and Blanche had even made plans for their coronation in England but Louis did not know that during his absence in France loyalty to the crown of England was growing fast. Men were now talking disdainfully of the foreigner on English soil, forgetting that many of them had invited him there. There were some who were asking themselves how England could ever have come to such a pass and were determined to drive the French from the country.

Louis’s first setback was at Lincoln, where the castle was in the hands of Nicole de la Haie, a Norman woman of forceful character, said to be as good and better than any man in her determination to save England for the English. Already she had sent out a proclamation that any of those barons who had rebelled against John were invited to her castle if they now were eager to be loyal to John’s son, that they might discuss plans for restoring England to its rightful king. The boy was not responsible for his father’s sins, she declared; and the spirit of the great Conqueror and the two Henrys would haunt them for the rest of their lives if they allowed the country to pass into the hands of the French. Nicole was eloquent. Under John the country had been humiliated beyond endurance, but those days were over and they must start to rebuild an England which would be as great as it had once been.

What an undignified defeat that had been. It had begun well enough with the French on the point of forcing an entrance when they had been nearly decimated by William Marshal’s cross-bowmen, led by the Marshal himself, who in spite of his years, was in the thick of the fighting. There was about William Marshal that aura which comes to some men. The Conquerer had had it; so had Richard Coeur de Lion; men who were ranged against him lost their will for the battle because he was there. So many victories had been theirs that the notion had grown among the opposing armies that they were fighting against an irresistible force. When Marshal engaged the Count de la Perche – who was leading one section of the French – and the Count’s followers saw the fleur-de-lis fall from the hands of the standard bearer and the Count dislodged from his horse, mortally wounded, they were certain that there was some magical quality in this man Marshal which was invincible.

And from that time it seemed the battle was lost and that God had determined to discountenance the French for at the vital stage of the battle a cow had become wedged in a narrow lane with a small opening leading into one of the courtyards and could not be moved, so that the soldiers could not pass; thus the men were trapped and four hundred prisoners were taken, which was near the number of those who had assembled to defend the castle.

So the French were utterly defeated at Lincoln and there was great rejoicing among the English, for those who had wavered and asked themselves what could be hoped from a boy king, saw now that with men such as William Marshal behind him he might learn to govern well.

When he heard of the defeat at Lincoln, Louis was very melancholy. He could see the campaign ending in disaster for him if he did not act promptly. He knew he could trust Blanche. She had the blood of the Conquerer in her veins and she would not fail him.

Nor did she. Within a short time he had word from her. She had toured the country raising men and money for him and her enthusiasm, her energy and her determination to serve her husband brought about excellent results. In England great consternation spread through the army assembled to meet them and even the heart of Hubert de Burgh quailed when he realised the number of men and the amount of ammunition the French were bringing in their fleet.

He immediately sought out William Marshal to discuss with him what was to be done. William was with the Bishop of Winchester when Hubert arrived and he listened with dismay.

‘I need your help,’ said Hubert. ‘We must attack the fleet. If they make a landing we are lost.’

William Marshal pointed out that he was a soldier and the Bishop was a cleric, and he felt it would be unwise for them to take part in a venture of which they were entirely ignorant; but they implored Hubert to set out at once and do everything in his power to divert the French fleet. They were very worried men at that time; it would have been comforting had they known that Louis in London with inadequate forces was equally worried.

Everything depended on the successful landing of the fleet. Hubert knew this and that he had to match cunning strategy against the might of the French immediately. With all speed he rode to Dover and there assembled the ships of the Cinque Ports, not a large fleet by any means. He made sure of the defences of the castle and he chose the most stalwart guards to defend it. They must hold it with their lives, he told them. As for himself if he fell into the enemy’s hands and they tried to ransom him for the castle they must let him hang and hold the castle till not a man was left of them. ‘Depend upon it,’ he cried, ‘Dover Castle is the key to England. They may have London but while we hold Dover we command the sea.’

The French fleet was in the charge of Eustache the Monk, which in itself struck alarm in the hearts of loyal Englishmen; for Eustache was one of those seamen about whom a legend had grown. He had, in fact, taken orders in the monastery of Saint-Wulmar near Boulogne, but he had soon discovered that the monastic life was not for him and had left his monastery to take to the sea, which was much more suited to his nature; and the fact that he had been blessed with success allied with his earlier piety had meant that a legend had been built about him that he was a magician possessed of supernatural powers. Men flocked to serve under him because they believed that heaven had granted him some special dispensation from evil which would reflect on those about him. Here again John had shown his folly, for there had been a time when Eustache had worked for the King of England, but being unjustly treated by him he had retaliated by leaving him and offering his services to the King of France.

Some troubadour had made him the hero of a song which told of his brilliant and always victorious exploits and throughout England, Normandy and Aquitaine, and at the Court of France men sang the Roman d’Eustache le Moine.

And this man, who many believed could not fail, was chosen by Louis to bring the French fleet to England.

It was small wonder that Hubert was uneasy.

He talked to his men of the great Conquerer who would be looking down on them this day. They were descended from him and his Normans who had rightly come to England and succeeded. If they were brave and bold, if they were determined to succeed as he had always been, he would be with them this day. If they thought of him, took his example and prayed to God, they must succeed. They must remember that God would not be pleased with one who had deserted his monastery to become a pirate.

God was certainly with Hubert that day. Or it may have been that the Conqueror was really at hand to guide them to victory against the French. In any case it seemed that Hubert was endowed with a wisdom which outclassed the supernatural powers of Eustache. His fleet was small and that which Blanche of France had gathered together, great and powerful.

How Eustache must have exulted as he contemplated the task before him. So few English; so many French; the French ships were big and powerful; the English less so. Hubert had sixteen ships; the French had eighty; he had known he would be outnumbered but he had not thought it would be by so many.

Wily strategy was his only hope. The French fleet was, as expected, taking a straight course to Dover. Hubert commanded his captains to steer a slanting course, holding their luff, so giving an impression that Calais was their destination. It did not occur to Eustache that such a small force would attack, and he did not realise that this strategy enabled the English – well to windward while the French were running leeward – to attack the few ships at the rear and thus engage a smaller force than their own. By doing this Hubert was able to overcome the French in small sections, and Eustache, in the leading vessel, did not realise what was happening until it was too late.

Eustache was drowned, but his body was recovered from the sea, and his head was cut off that it might be shown to the people that the magician monk was a lesser man than Hubert de Burgh who had defeated him and destroyed the legend of his supernatural power for ever.

What rejoicing there was when Hubert landed at Dover, for news of his victory had already reached Dover and a great welcome awaited him.

Five bishops headed the procession which wound its way up to the castle – that very castle which not so long before Hubert was warning his trusted men should be held at all cost.

There was no longer need for anxiety. Louis was defeated. He had lost his ships and all they contained, and many of the spoils were now in English hands. Hubert was proud to hear that only fifteen had escaped and returned to France and as ten had been sunk that meant that over fifty had fallen to the English with all the treasure Blanche had gathered together for her husband’s army.

Victory indeed!

This would be the end of Louis’s hopes. How the Conqueror would be smiling on this day. He would say that Hubert de Burgh, who by a simple strategy had saved the throne for Henry, was a man he was proud to claim as a Norman, a man after his own heart.

John was dead. A new king was on the throne. There would be peace with France. It was a new beginning.

Isabella’s women were dressing her in scarlet; this was a triumphant moment, for after Hubert de Burgh’s masterly defeat of the French fleet the throne was safe for Henry; and a great deal of that disaster which had come about through King John’s ineptitude could now be repaired and men of good will, nobility and intelligence could begin the task of rebuilding a kingdom.

William Marshal came to her. He was ready to conduct her to the ceremony.

As he bowed and took her hand he could not but be aware of her beauty; she seemed to be possessed of a new vitality which must be due to the fact that she had escaped from John. She looked, though, more like a woman setting out on adventure, than one who has just been bereaved of a husband.

Her eyes mocked him slightly. ‘You think I am gaudily dressed for one so recently widowed? Nay, my lord, the last thing the people want to be reminded of is John. I have my son to consider. I do not wish that people should think of him as the son of John. ’Tis better if they forget that he is.’

There was something in that, Marshal acceded. But at the same time he thought it might have been more becoming for a widow to show some discretion.

‘Come, my lord,’ she went on. ‘This is a happy day. Our good Hubert de Burgh has scored a marvellous victory. We are sending Louis about his business. England will be at peace and my son will learn to be a king when he has to guide him two of the greatest men this country – or any country – has produced. That is no reason for mourning.’

‘You are right, my lady,’ said William Marshal.

‘Then shall we proceed?’

They went out to the barge which would take them to that spot near Staines where the ceremony would take place.

There, Isabella took her place on one side of the river with William Marshal on one side of her and the Papal Legate on the other. Across the river were Louis and his advisers. Isabella noticed with satisfaction that Louis was crestfallen, as well he might be. She imagined his returning to his father, sly Philip the King, who had wanted the conquest of England but would have no part in it because he feared defeat; and he would return to his wife Blanche too. Isabella had heard of their conjugal bliss. So might it have been if she had married Hugh.

Louis was slender and had a look of frailty about him which she felt to be deceptive. His features were fine drawn and his thick blond hair gave him a youthful look which was not unattractive in its way but he lacked the virility of Hugh de Lusignan which even now she remembered.

But what would Hugh be like after all these years? Ever since he had passed out of her life she realised she had been comparing every man with Hugh. The lovers she had taken had borne some resemblance to him and John had known this. Perhaps it was one of the reasons why he had so savagely murdered one of them and hung him on the tester of her bed.

How she would love to see Hugh again! Perhaps when he was her son-in-law she would. The thought made her hysterical with amusement or rage … Which? A mingling of the two of course.

But she should be concentrating on this ceremony which was going to make England safe for her son.

The solemn pledges were announced and spoken across a narrow stretch of water; and in the fields tents were being set up and in one of these a chapel was erected in which it would be necessary to make vows before the altar and Louis would swear that he would return to France and keep the peace for which William Marshal would promise that he should receive compensation.

The next day the French crossed the river and in the chapel set up in the tent, peace was agreed upon and Louis would return to France with a compensation, to be paid by the English, of six thousand marks which would help reimburse him for the costliness of the venture.

The Papal Legate and the leading men of London then went with the King of France and members of his entourage to Dover where Louis set sail.

As the ship disappeared below the horizon there were cries of ‘England is safe. This is the King’s Peace. Long live Henry the Third – England’s King for the English.’

The Queen was feeling disgruntled. Neither William Marshal nor Hubert de Burgh had behaved in the manner she had hoped they would. It was true that Marshal was an old man and had always been one who would never adventure far in the realms of erotic passion. He had married his Isabella late in life and been faithful to her all the years they were together; they had had five sons and five daughters and he had been the model husband, she the model wife – everything that would be expected of William Marshal. So it was hardly likely that now he was rich in years he would be so overcome by the charms of Queen Isabella – not physically of course but enough to make him ready to indulge her.

Hubert de Burgh – now he was of another type. His married life had been very varied. Isabella had become interested in him at the time of Prince Arthur’s imprisonment; she remembered how John had summoned him and given him secret instructions to put out the boy’s eyes and castrate him – a fate which had filled her with dismay for Arthur was a good looking boy and it was horrifying to one so aware of masculine perfection to contemplate his mutilation. She had been amused when she had heard that Hubert had disobeyed John – a noble thing to have done – and despising her husband she had admired Hubert, and had looked at him with favourable eyes for he was of comely appearance; but she quickly realised that although he was ready to risk his life, or worse still hideous mutilation, for the sake of a young boy for whom he had felt affection, he would not have been ready to indulge any sexual appetite he might have felt for the Queen. She had dismissed him from her thoughts then. Now she considered him. He had had three wives … so far, for he was not old and could well marry again should his third wife die. First there had been Joan, daughter of the Earl of Devon; she had died and he had taken Beatrice, who was the widow of Lord Bardulf; he was now married to Hadwisa, which was an extraordinary coincidence because Hadwisa had been John’s first wife. This was rather amusing. Hadwisa had been far from beautiful but the greatest heiress in the country; that was why John had married her and that had been before it seemed he had a hope of wearing the crown. He had tormented Hadwisa and rid himself of her to make Isabella his wife. And now Hadwisa was married to Hubert de Burgh! Hadwisa had had another husband after John – Geoffrey Mandeville, the fifth Earl of Essex. He had died but it had not been long before she found another husband in Hubert de Burgh – both embarking on their third marriages.

Well there was Hubert – a much married gentleman, wise and shrewd and in no mood to become the slave of a widowed queen. It was exasperating, but if she wished she could find lovers in plenty. That potent sexual power in her had not diminished since John had seen her in the forest and been driven to desperate means to possess her, already affianced to Hugh de Lusignan though she was.

That brought her back to Hugh. Her first love. For her there would never be another like him. How she would enjoy seeing him again to test whether his charm had lost its potency.

But here she was – some would say in an enviable position – the mother of a king who was a minor, ten years old. Surely her place should be to guide him, to rule through him. That would be invigorating. People would come to her to ask favours. They would say: ‘Oh it is necessary to approach the King through his mother the Queen.’

It was true that she had been present at the treaty with Louis near Staines but somehow she felt that had been a mere formality. She had had no voice in any of the arrangements which had been agreed by the council, the head of which was Marshal and de Burgh. They had made the decisions; she had merely been there to represent the King.

It would not do. She had no intention of being forced into the background. Her best method she believed was to approach her son, and knowing that he was at Windsor with his tutor, Philip of Albini, she went there to him.

She was faintly disturbed to see a change in Henry’s demeanour; then she laughed inwardly and told herself it was natural for a young boy who had suddenly realised that he was a king, and now of course the French were driven from the land his position was very secure.

She embraced him warmly and dismissed his tutor Philip of Albini who seemed reluctant to leave the boy alone with his mother.

‘Ah,’ she said, ‘they are making a king of you, my son.’

He replied somewhat haughtily: ‘I am a king, my lady.’

‘Praise Heaven that the French have gone. You must be greatly indebted to William Marshal and perhaps most of all to Hubert de Burgh. His strategy was masterly.’

‘He is a good servant,’ said Henry calmly.

Isabella burst into laughter and taking her son into her arms she held him against her. Sensing his resentment as he stood stiffly in her embrace, it occurred to her then that it was not going to be so easy to rule him as she imagined.

He drew himself from her and for a few seconds they regarded each other; Isabella’s gaze was shrewd; his was wary.

‘I trust, Henry,’ said Isabella reproachfully at length, ‘you will not forget that, King though you may be, you are my son.’

‘It would be impossible to forget such a fact. All the world knows that you were my father’s wife and I the eldest son of the marriage.’

Again she laughed, but uneasily. ‘You are the same in many ways. You were always so serious. Tell me, do you miss your brother Richard and little Joan … and the babies.’

‘No, my lady. I have matters of great import with which to occupy myself.’

‘I’ll swear they are missing you.’

‘I think not, my lady.’

‘Why Joan was speaking of you but a few days since.’

‘Joan … Joan is little more than a child.’

‘Not too young to be betrothed. We shall be finding a wife for you ere long, I doubt not.’

‘The matter will be for me to decide.’

‘Nay, my son. That will be a matter of such importance that you will have to listen to the advice of others.’

‘My marriage will be of more importance to me than to any, and therefore I am determined to see that it suits me.’

‘Why, Henry, what has come over you?’

‘I have become a king, Madam.’

It had occurred to her then that there was a hint of hostility in his manner towards her. They had never doted on each other; she had never experienced that obsession with her children which some mothers felt, but she had perhaps taken it for granted that they must admire her for her beauty and that inherent gift to attract.

‘Dear Henry,’ she said, ‘let us not lose sight of the fact that you are ten years old.’

‘It is something of which Philip constantly reminds me. For that reason I must learn quickly. I must be wary of those who would seek to influence me. I must learn to form judgements and they must be wise ones. William Marshal is often here. It is likely that he will be here this day. He insists that I sit in council with him and other ministers that I may learn quickly; and indeed, Madam, I am determined to do so.’

‘Let us hope that you will be able to spare a little of your attention for your mother,’ she retorted with some asperity.

‘As you see I am doing that now.’

‘With not very happy results. And I see also, Henry, that you have grown away from me.’

‘Was I ever near you, Madam?’

‘My dear son, you know we were in captivity.’

‘I know for what reason.’

‘Your father’s cruelty.’

‘You had betrayed him.’

‘My dear Henry – though you be the King – pray remember that I am your mother. You do not know what manner of man your father was.’

‘I am learning and what I know best is that I must be as different from him as it is possible for one man to be from another.’

‘Well, that is a good lesson to have learned. One day you will understand what havoc was wrought in this kingdom.’

‘I have already learned. My tutors insist that I learn what has happened in this kingdom from the days of the Conqueror that I may profit from the errors of my predecessors. I know this: I must reign well, so that it will not be held against me that I am the son of John and …’

‘And Isabella of Angoulême,’ she supplied.

‘I said of John, my lady.’

‘And stopped in time. You do not appear to have a very fine opinion of your mother.’

He was silent.

‘What do you think it was like, married to such a man?’ she burst out. ‘You know how he lost the crown possessions in France and came near to losing this kingdom. But that is not all. There are matters of which your clever tutors know nothing. I could tell you …’

‘Pray spare me,’ said Henry coolly; and she thought: Is this my son – my ten-year-old who talks like an old man? How did we get such a boy, John and I? There is no laughter in him, no joy in living. He is a king – power stretches out before him when he is old enough to enjoy it, and he is like an old man already. She could see that there was no hope of his listening to her.

She shrugged her shoulders and left him.

Later she spoke with Philip of Albini – a man with a very serious mind who assured her that he, acting under the instructions of William Marshal and Hubert de Burgh, was determined to instruct the King in all matters pertaining to his role in life, while not neglecting his general education. He was happy to report that the young King learned quickly; indeed he had a taste for learning and was particularly interested in literature and the other arts. He was a pupil whom it was a joy to instruct. Philip of Albini could assure the Queen that the Earl of Pembroke was delighted and had even said that it might be an advantage that the King had come into their care while there was time yet to form his mind.

The fool! thought Isabella. He thought he was pleasing her by this praise of her son, when what he was saying was tantamount to pointing out that it was fortunate he had escaped from her care.

Hearing that the Earl of Pembroke would be visiting the castle the following day, she decided to remain to see him; she spent a sleepless night trying to face this turn about in events. It was not going to be as she had planned. She was not going to be there – the power behind the throne, whom all realised they must placate if they were going to find favour with her son. She was going to be the figure in the background, of no importance, the old Queen Mother to whose rank these powerful men would pay a certain homage and that would be the end of it. There was no one among them who would have given up everything to become her lover. They were a dull lot, concerned only with moulding the young King in the way they wanted him to go. It looked as though the future might be bleak for Isabella.

This was confirmed with the arrival of the Earl in the company of Hubert de Burgh. They were delighted with the application and progress of the King; his mother had reason to be proud of him; but both these gentlemen made it very clear to her that her guiding hand was to play no part in the young King’s progress.

Fuming in her bedchamber later she asked herself if she was to accept this retiring role. She was thirty-one years of age, and with a woman who had cared for her appearance as she had, that was no great age. Her beauty was perennial; although she might have become a little mature that did not detract from her charms she was sure.

Hugh would never have treated her like this.

Hugh! How she longed to see him again. Would she be disappointed in him? What a bold man he had been! What looks! They and his great height had made a god of him. How different from John whose depravity had made him grow more and more hideous. John had hated Hugh – chiefly because he knew that she had loved him, but partly because Hugh was handsome and possessed of a nobility of character which made men respect him. The last time Isabella had seen Hugh was when he was chained hand and foot in a cart that was like a tumbril and drawn by oxen. He had been John’s prisoner then – for Hugh had been fighting on the side of Prince Arthur – and John’s one idea had been to humiliate the noble Hugh, and that Isabella should witness that humiliation. Foolish John, he did not realise that it was not Hugh she despised at that time but himself. John had known nothing of other people because he had been so deeply concerned with himself as the only person who could be of any importance. How delighted she had been when Hugh was released – because John thought it was to his advantage to do so. What a fool that man was. It did not seem to occur to him that Hugh might hate him as much as he hated Hugh. She often wondered how much Hugh had contributed to John’s utter defeat and loss of the French possessions.

And how she longed to see Hugh again.

Suddenly her mood of depression had passed and she was wildly elated.

Why not? It was feasible. It was the right thing to do.

She was thankful that William Marshal was in the castle. She would approach the matter tentatively the very next day. She spent a restless night and could scarcely wait to talk to the Earl.

‘It is with great relief and pleasure,’ she told him, ‘that I watch the King’s progress. I thank God that he is in such good hands. I think he is as different from John as anyone could be.’

The Earl looked well pleased.

‘Hubert de Burgh and I have the utmost confidence in Philip of Albini.’

‘And so have I. It occurs to me that I can serve no useful purpose in this country.

‘I trust the King will never forget that you are his mother.’

‘He will never do that. But I can safely leave his upbringing in capable hands and turn my attention to other members of my family who need me more. Richard is well looked after by Peter de Mauley at Corfe and I understand that Roger d’Acastre is most excellent. My youngest daughters are as yet little more than babies, but my daughter Joan is betrothed and I believe it to be time that she went to the home of her betrothed where she will be brought up in his household as is the custom.’

The Earl nodded slowly. It was the custom of course for girls to be brought up in the country into which they would marry.

‘I believe,’ went on Isabella, ‘that she should leave without delay. She is seven years old – an age when a child’s mind begins to take shape. Do you agree with me, my lord?’

‘I do indeed.’

‘It will be necessary for her to make this journey in the care of someone who can be trusted.’

There was a short silence. The Earl was trying not to betray the hope which had come to him. He had consulted with Hubert de Burgh and they had agreed that the Queen would have to be watched. Mothers of kings who were minors could be tiresome; and there was no indication that Isabella was a meek woman who would listen to advice.

The Earl cleared his throat as though about to speak but Isabella spoke first. ‘My two sons are in good hands; my two young children are well cared for. It would seem, my lord, that since I am scarcely needed here, I should be the one to accompany my daughter.’

William Marshal tried not to sound too elated.

‘My lady,’ he said slowly, ‘the Princess Joan is indeed fortunate to have a mother who so cares for her welfare …’

‘Then you agree that I should be the one to accompany her.’

‘I think we should first ask the King if he would be prepared to let you go.’

She nodded gravely. ‘I think my son will want to do what is best for his sister,’ she said.

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.

Then the old man said: ‘I see that you did not know. My son is not here in Valence, nor in this land. It is a year since he left us. He is with the crusaders in the Holy Land.’

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.

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 guessed 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.’

‘There is no doubt that we should have married years ago.’

‘What is done is done. We are together now.’

She took his hand and they went into the thicket.

‘You must never let me go again, Hugh,’ she said. ‘If you did, you would never have another moment’s peace. I promise you that.’

‘I know it.’

She slipped her arm through his and he kept a tight grip on her hand.

‘We will walk through the trees and talk, Hugh. There is much we have to say.’

‘There is only this, Isabella,’ he said. ‘I am betrothed to Joan.’

‘A child … little more than a baby. And my daughter at that. It was a sad sick joke of John’s to betroth you. It was the sort of thing he enjoyed. He wanted to distress me … for he knew that I loved you. He always knew I loved you. It was the greatest emotion of my life and I could not hide it. You must not think that I shall ever let you go, Hugh. You do not know me if you think that.’

‘My dearest Isabella, it is not for us to follow our inclinations.’

‘You are wrong. How else should people live? Love should not be denied. Why should it? If you had a wife and I a husband, still I should stay with you. I would defy the world to do so. But you have no wife. I have no husband. You are betrothed to a child who knows nothing of the world … nothing of marriage … nothing of love …’

‘She has learned a great deal. She has lived ten winters and is old for her years. She cannot be sent back.’

‘Then she shall stay here. She is my daughter. Oh Hugh, I have thought of last night. To be with you thus … it was a wonderful dream come true and so shall it be throughout our lives, for I shall never give you up. There is only one thing for us to do.’

‘Nay …’

‘Yea, my lord. You shall have your bride. It is no child for whom you have to wait; it is your eager mistress who refuses to wait any longer for you. All these weary years have I yearned for you. I have caught you now, Hugh, and you are mine.’ She stopped and drawing his face down to hers kissed him wildly. ‘You shall never escape me. Never. Never.’

She watched him. He wanted her. He had never known such love-making. She laughed to herself. Cruel, wicked, ruthless, insatiable John had been a good tutor. Not that she had needed tutoring. Women such as she was were born with such knowledge. She could reduce him to such desire that he would be willing to promise anything. There was an innocence about him which had been completely lacking in John; she loved him for it. For if she was capable of love, she loved Hugh le Brun. There was no self-sacrifice in her kind of loving; a little tenderness now and then, a desire to give pleasure – but perhaps that was because she wanted to be thought supreme; there was a need to satisfy her own desires, a need to be loved and admired as no woman had ever been loved and admired before. In the first months of marriage with John she had believed she had brought him to a state of slavery, for he had given her all she asked in those days when he had shocked his ministers because he stayed in bed with her throughout the day. How wrong she had been! John could love no one but himself and she had quickly learned that it was an overwhelming sensuality in her which matched something similar in him which had made her imagine he was hers to command. It had waned as such feelings must – although he had never entirely escaped from it. Hugh was different. There was innocence and idealism in Hugh. Hugh would be her slave now and for ever.

Assuredly she was not going to allow him to escape her.

‘It is not possible,’ he said desperately.

‘My dear Hugh, it is possible if we wish it to be. If you refuse me, I shall know that I was mistaken. All these years when I have thought of you have been a mockery. You did not love me after all. Perhaps it was as well I went to John.’

‘You know that to be untrue.’

‘I had hoped it, but now you spurn me …’

‘Spurn you!’ He had taken her in his arms. And she thought: Yes, here in the forest … where some riders might come upon us at any moment. It will show him how great is his need of me, how his need and his desire takes from him the inherent inclination to conventional conduct.

‘Nay, you do not spurn me,’ she whispered. ‘You need me, Hugh … just as I need you. You could never let me go …’

He gave a cry of despair and thought of the innocent eyes of his young betrothed before he forgot everything but Isabella.

He had asked that he should first break the news to her.

‘My dearest,’ Isabella had cried, ‘but why? She will hear of it in time.’

‘Nay,’ he had said, ‘I wish this.’

She was a little put out but it seemed advisable at that time to give way.

He said he would ride out into the forest with his little betrothed because he thought it would be easier that way.

She was grave on that morning; it was almost as though she sensed some disaster. He found it difficult to tell her; he wanted to choose the right words, to explain that it was no deficiency in her.

She herself began it by saying: ‘My lord, are you displeased with me?’

‘My dear little Joan, how could I be?’

‘If I had done something that you thought was wrong.’

‘You have done nothing wrong.’

‘Is it something to do with my mother?’

‘Your … mother?’ he repeated miserably.

‘Yes, it seems that since she came …’

He plunged in. ‘You know that she and I were betrothed long ago?’

‘Yes, I knew it.’

‘Then your father came and took her away.’

‘She has told me often.’

‘Well, now she is here again and your father is dead … the truth is, we are to marry.’

‘You … marry my mother. But how can that be? I am your affianced bride.’

‘My dear child, you are very young and a much more suitable husband than I could ever be will be found for you.’

‘I think you are suitable. You are kind and I thought you liked me and were happy about our betrothal.’

‘I was, and I love you of course … but as a daughter. You understand?’

‘No,’ she cried. ‘No!’

‘Listen to me, little Joan. You have to grow up. There is much you have to learn. Your brother is the King of England.’

‘Young Henry,’ she said scornfully. ‘He is only a boy.’

‘He is the King of England and you as his sister are worthy of a great match.’

‘I have a great match.’

He took her hand and kissed it. She said eagerly: ‘You did not mean it. My mother will go back to England now you are home and it will all be as we planned.’

He shook his head sadly: ‘Nay, my child,’ he said. ‘Your mother and I will marry. It was what was intended years ago. Fate has brought us together again but it is what was meant to be. Come, we will ride back to the castle. I wanted to tell you this myself … to explain.’

‘I see,’ she said, ‘that you love my mother.’

He nodded.

‘Far more,’ she said sagely, ‘than you could ever love me.’

Then she spurred her horse and rode forward. He kept a distance between them. He did not want to see her sad little face.

So they were married and Joan saw her mother take that place which she had thought would be hers.

She watched them but they were unaware of her; they saw nothing but each other.

There were festivities in the castle to celebrate the marriage. There was dancing and the singing of lays. Minstrels rendered their music soulfully, romantically, and it was all about lovers.

Isabella was as beautiful as she ever was, Hugh was handsome. The life of the castle seemed to revolve round them; and the attendants whispered together and their talk was about the romance of two lovers, long parted, come together again.

Joan wondered what would happen to her. She supposed that when they emerged from this blissful wonder of being married they would perhaps remember her. Something would have to be done about her because she had no place in the castle now. Even the attendants looked at her as though she was something which a guest had left behind and must be set aside until she could be collected.

Even the bridegroom, kind Hugh, when they met, which she fancied he tried to avoid, seemed as though he were trying not to remember who she was.

She wept during the night when no one could see; and by day she wandered through the castle, lost and bewildered, but waiting with the certainty that something would have to happen before long.

Chapter III THE SCOTTISH BRIDEGROOM

William Marshal had gone to his castle at Caversham near Reading with the conviction that he would never leave it. He was old – few men passed their eightieth birthdays – and he should be grateful for a long life, during which he had been able – and he would not have been the honest man he was if he had denied this – to serve his country in a manner which had preserved her from disaster.

He could look back over the last four years since the young King had come to the throne and congratulate himself that England was well on the road to recovery from that dreadful malaise which had all but killed her and handed over her useless corpse to the French.

There was order in the land. How the people responded to a strong hand! It had ever been so. Laws and order under pain of death and mutilation had always been the answer; and if it was administered with justice the people were grateful. That was what John had failed to see, for he had offered the punishments without consideration of whether they were deserved. Praise God, England was settled down to peace; there had been a four years’ truce with the French and he and the Justiciar, Hubert de Burgh, would see that it was renewed. England was rising to greatness and he would say Nunc dimittis.

Isabella, his wife, was concerned about him. They had grown old together; theirs had been a good union and a fruitful one. They had five sons and five daughters and their marriages had often brought good to the family by extending its influence; and although his first concern was with his honour and the right, and he put the country’s interests before his own, he could not help but be content that his was one of the richest and most influential families in the land.

But he had known for some time that his time would soon come; and he preferred to go before he lost his powers. Who – if he had been a man of action and sharp shrewd thinking – would want to become a poor invalid sitting in his chair waiting for the end?

His wife Isabella looked in at him as he sat thoughtfully at his table and he called to her.

‘You are well, husband?’ she asked.

‘Come and sit with me awhile, Isabella,’ he said.

She came, watching him anxiously.

‘We must not deceive ourselves,’ he said. ‘I believe that I shall soon be gone.’

‘You have the pain?’

‘It comes and goes. But there is after it a kind of lassitude and times when I find my mind wandering back over the past and my King is another Henry, blustering, wenching, soldiering in the way of a wise general, using strategy rather than bloodshed. He always used to say that to me: “A battle that can be won by words at a conference meeting is worth thrice as much as that in which the blood of good soldiers is shed.” I forget, Isabella, that it is the pallid boy who is now our King and not his grandfather who rules over us.’

‘There have been two kings since then, William.’

‘Richard … who forgot his country that he might win glory and honour with the Saracens … and John …’

‘My dear William, it upsets you to think of that. It is past. John is dead.’

‘For which me must thank God,’ said William. ‘He has left us this boy king.’

‘And you, William, have made England safe for him.’

William Marshal nodded slowly. ‘We are at peace as we have not been for many years, but we must keep it so.’

‘Hubert de Burgh is of your opinion and with two such as you to guide our affairs …’

‘Ah, my dear wife, how long think you that I shall be here. That is what sets me wondering.’

‘We are going to see that you remain with us for a long time.’

‘Who is this all powerful “We” which sets itself against the wishes of the Almighty? Nay, wife, when my time has come, come it will. And I want to be sure that England stays firm and that we continue in those steps towards peace and prosperity which we have taken these last four years. I am going to send a message to our son, William. I want him to come here with all speed as I have much to say to him.’

Isabella Marshal was alarmed. With that almost uncanny foresight of his William seemed to sense that his end was not far off. But she knew him well enough not to try to persuade him against such action. William had always known where he was going.

When she had left him he went to a court cupboard and unlocking it, took from it a Templar’s robe. Divesting himself of his surcoat, gown and soft white shirt, he put on the coarse garment.

He smiled wryly. It is what we all come to at the end of our days, he thought. When the end is near we turn to repentance.

He knelt down and prayed for forgiveness of his sins, and that when he passed on there might be strong men to keep the country peaceful and guide young Henry along the road to great kingship.

Then he rose and wrote a letter to his wife in which he asked that when he died he should be buried in the Temple Church in London, for if his duty had not led him elsewhere he would have chosen to be a knight of that religious but military order.

When William Marshal the younger arrived at Caversham he was shocked to see the deterioration in his father’s condition. He had never known the old man other than healthy and it had never occurred to him that he could ever be otherwise. His father had always been the greatest influence in his life – although in recent years they had not always been in agreement with each other – and he was shocked to realise the reason why he had been sent for. As the eldest son he had been brought up to realise his responsibilities.

His father embraced him and young William looked searchingly into his face.

‘Yes, my son,’ said the elder Marshal, ‘my time has come. I know it as surely as I stand here. My spirit is as good as it ever was but my flesh betrays me. Do not look sad; I’d as lief go a little sooner before my senses desert me. I am an old, old man, but I am mortal and mortals cannot live for ever. I have had a good life … a long life … and I feel it is crowned in success because I now see that the King is firm on the throne and with good government he will remain safely there. The country is free of the French and Hubert de Burgh is a strong man. I have asked him to come here, for I wish to see him before I go.’

Young William shook his head: ‘You speak as though you are taking a journey to Ireland … or to France …’

‘It is not unlike that, William.’

‘So you have sent for me to say good-bye.’

‘Take care of your mother. Like mine, her youth is long since past. It has been a good marriage and I am happy in my family. Though …’ he smiled wryly, ‘there have been times when you and I were on different sides.’

‘Father, there was a time when many Englishmen believed that there could be no good for England while John was on the throne.’

‘Aye, and who could deny them? My son, all differences are over now. Serve the King. Honour your country.’

‘I will do so, Father, when I can with honour.’

The younger William was referring to that period when Louis had landed in England and he had been one of those who had done him homage. It was understandable. He had been among those barons who had been present at Runnymede and he was well aware that disaster must come to England if John continued to rule. His father knew too, but he could not bring himself to abandon his loyalty to the crown. It was young William Marshal who had seized Worcester for Louis. But a year later he had turned from the French Prince for he could not bear to see French nobles strutting through England and when John died it seemed natural that he should change his allegiance, so he had joined his father and became a sturdy supporter of young Henry.

He had been married at a tender age to a child named Alice who was the daughter of Baldwin de Béthune; but the marriage had never been consummated as they had been but children and Alice had died before they were grown up.

There was no doubt that young William Marshal was considered a man of great influence, not only through his father but because of his own abilities. Young as he was he had already caused some consternation by going over to Louis’s side. Then he had fought beside his father and had taken possession of several castles which had been in French hands; but perhaps because of his one-time support of Louis he was watched rather closely by some of the older knights and in particular Hubert de Burgh.

He had recently been promised the hand of the Princess Eleanor – the youngest daughter of King John and at this time about three years old – because he was proposing to marry a daughter of Robert de Bruce, a prominent family of Southern Scotland who had some claim to the throne. The idea of a man’s marrying into the North, which was a perpetual threat to England, was alarming – particularly when he had shown that he could shift his loyalty to the French. And it was for this reason that the greater alliance with baby Eleanor had been offered him.

Young William could be proud, for it was clear that he was regarded as a man who must be placated.

When his father died he would inherit great possessions; but the thought of a world without his father filled him with foreboding.

The old man saw this and grasped his son’s hands. ‘You will follow me, my son. You will be the second Earl of Pembroke when I am gone. I want you always to keep our name as honourable as it is at this day.’

William promised but assured his father that he had some years left to him yet.

His father shrugged this aside and said that he wished his son to send for Hubert de Burgh as there was much he had to say to him.

In due course Hubert arrived at the castle and spent some hours with the Marshal when they talked of the difficulties through which the country had passed and those which remained.

‘There is not a man living,’ Hubert told him, with some emotion, ‘who has made England’s cause his own in the same self-effacing manner as you have, my lord.’

‘And you will carry this on, I know,’ replied William.

Hubert bowed his head and declared that he would do his best, though in his heart he doubted that he could match William Marshal. Hubert was a man whose emotions would always play some part in his actions; he often thought of his conduct with regard to Arthur for whose sake he had, at great risk, defied the King; and he wondered what William Marshal’s actions would have been in similar circumstances. Honour was a fetish with William Marshal. He was the man who had defied Richard, when it was clear that his father was on the edge of defeat and Richard would soon be King. Fearless in honour – that was William Marshal and there were few like him.

Hubert said suddenly: ‘My lord Earl, you must not expect the same degree of selfless service from other men as you yourself have given to the crown. The spirit is often willing, but self-interest creeps in – also the need to preserve one’s own life. The service of kings is a dangerous one.’

‘I know it well. I know you defied John when you saved Arthur from mutilation. You were not serving your King then, whatever your motive. But this gives you a quality which men perceive. I do not think they like you the less for it. Have you noticed how our young King turns first to you and with affection. He listens to me, but he cares for you, Hubert.’

Hubert knew this was true. The young King was fond of him … as Arthur had been.

‘Serve him well, Hubert, and good will come to England.’

Hubert said he would do his best.

There is strong foreign interest in the land. Guard against it. The Legate Pandulf has too much power. It was necessary for us to have his support when the country was overrun by the French, but now England should be governed by the English. I regret I have to leave you to this task. But you are a strong man, Hubert, and you have the confidence of the King.’

They talked awhile of the country’s affairs. The King was realising his responsibilities and learning quickly. Richard was in good hands in Corfe and his future could be left for a while. The Princess Joan was safely in Lusignan, betrothed to Hugh le Brun which was a good match, for it would keep Hugh an ally of the Crown of England since his wife would be a member of the English royal family. Her mother Queen Isabella was safely in Angoulême and long might she remain there. It was well to have her out of the way, William declared, for she was a troublemaker and he did not want her too close to the King. As soon as Hugh de Lusignan returned from his crusade the marriage could take place; and the Queen should of course stay with her daughter until after the ceremony. The remaining children were young yet and could play their part later. It was always well to have a princess or two ready to contract a marriage which could be valuable or expedient. So it had been with the baby Eleanor, now betrothed to the younger Marshal. His loyalty would be assured if he married the King’s sister. As for her slightly older sister Isabella, now five years old, she would have her uses in due course.

It seemed to the old man that the country’s condition had settled down beyond his wildest hopes; and, having made his preparations for departure, and his peace with God – and most of all safeguarding his country’s future as well as was within his power, he quietly slipped away.

No sooner was William Marshal dead than the peaceful progress of the country’s affairs seemed to come to an end. Hubert de Burgh, in his role as Justiciar, took over control of the country; but he missed the firm hand of William Marshal. The foreign party – which had been subdued during William’s lifetime – became more vociferous. This was headed by Peter des Roches, the Poitevin Bishop of Winchester, whose aim was to oust Englishmen from the major positions of power and put foreigners in their places.

Stephen Langton, the Archbishop of Canterbury, fortunately for Hubert was on his side; and when Peter des Roches, supported by the Legate Pandulf, wanted to appoint a Poitevin as Seneschal for Poitou, Hubert and the Archbishop stood firmly against them in favour of an Englishman’s taking the post.

The controversy over this matter was significant, for Hubert, with the country behind him and the people beginning to take a pride in their nationalism – and perhaps feeling ashamed of having invited foreigners to rule them – were fierce in their denunciation of Pandulf so that his resignation was brought about.

While this was happening, news came to Hubert of the marriage of Isabella with Hugh de Lusignan and he hurried into consultation with the Archbishop.

‘But this is monstrous!’ cried Stephen Langton. ‘And we are only told after the marriage has taken place.’

‘It seems incredible,’ replied Hubert. ‘The Queen was betrothed to him years ago – and it seems they only have to meet to become lovers again. I have reports of their manners with each other and that it has been so since Hugh de Lusignan returned from the Holy Land. If that is not ill conceived enough, Lusignan is asking for her dowry.’

‘He shall be told that there will be no dowry. The Princess Joan was sent over and he was pledged to marry her. This is a very different matter.’

‘So thought I. I shall send messengers to the effect that the Princess Joan must return to England immediately and that there will be no dowry for the Queen.’

Messengers were sent off immediately to Lusignan.

It was shortly after that that Hubert began to wonder whether the marriage of Hugh and Isabella was perhaps fortunate after all.

Alexander the Second of Scotland – a young, warlike king of some twenty years – had soon after the death of John taken the opportunity to invade England; but when Louis had been defeated, a peace had been brought about with Scotland. The terms of the treaty were now being considered; the King of Scotland was eager to marry one of the English princesses. To wait for young Isabella who was only six was not so convenient, whereas Joan who was ten was much more suitable. In two years – perhaps one – she would be marriageable.

Hubert with Langton decided that he would ask for the return of the Princess Joan without delay while intimating to the newly married pair that there would be no dowry.

Joan longed to get away from the castle. There was no one to whom she could explain her melancholy. She had been so frightened when she had first heard that she was to marry but Hugh had disarmed her and then charmed her, reconciling her to her fate to such an extent that she had come to long for it.

And it was not to happen. She was left to wander about the castle alone. It was true she had to take her lessons and her governesses would accompany her when she rode out. But she always tried to elude them. She wanted to get away, to be alone, to think of what had happened to her.

She supposed she had come to love Hugh.

He was kind whenever they met; he would look at her in a half apologetic manner if her mother was not with him; once he had tried to explain that the way in which he had behaved was in no way due to her. When her mother was with him he took little notice of her – nor did her mother.

She felt she had become a person who had to be looked after but who somehow had no right to be there, and that they were all waiting for a suitable moment to push her out of sight.

Hugh was obsessed by her mother. His eyes never left her when they were together; the timbre of his voice changed when he addressed her; his hands would caress her when he spoke to her.

‘The Queen has bewitched my lord,’ she overheard one of the serving women say.

It was true that he was like a man bewitched.

I came here to marry him, she thought, and now my mother has done that, so what of me?

She tried to ask her mother. ‘Oh don’t bother me, child,’ was the answer. ‘When the time comes something will be arranged.’

‘Shall I go back to England?’

‘I know not. Be thankful that you have me here to look after you.’

‘But you do not look after me. And everything has changed now that you are Hugh’s bride.’

‘It was all so natural,’ she said. ‘Remember I knew him so well in the past. Now, why are you not at your lessons?’

‘It is not time for them, my lady.’

‘Then you should ride with your women – or perhaps you should have your dancing lesson.’

She had turned away. It was clear that her mother did not want to be bothered by her.

She knew that Hugh’s conscience worried him. Perhaps he knew that his gentleness and eagerness to make life smooth for her had won her love. A look of sadness would come into his face when he saw her, trying to overshadow the blissful expression which was there in her mother’s presence. It never quite succeeded in doing that for Joan knew he only thought of her when he saw her and then did his best to forget that she had been his betrothed.

Once he said to her: ‘You will go away from here one day, Joan. Your brother and advisers will arrange that. They will find a young husband for you. It is best for you.’

‘No,’ she had cried angrily, ‘it will not be best for me. Please do not let us pretend.’

‘Oh but it will,’ he insisted. ‘You will see … in a few years’ time.’

That was what he wanted, she knew. He must salve his conscience and he could best do so by promising her a handsome young husband – which would make it all for the best.

But it would not be for the best. She knew that. All her life she would remember Hugh.

Isabella was pacing up and down the bedchamber, her eyes flashing with rage. She looked magnificent of course but Hugh tried to calm her.

So I am not to have a dowry! And this treatment from my own son! Of course he is not responsible, I know. He is in the hands of Hubert de Burgh and suchlike. He would never treat his mother so. No dowry! You married without my consent, he says. His consent! A boy of fourteen and I am to ask his consent.’

‘He is the King,’ said Hugh gently.

‘Of course he’s the King and might well not have been if I had not had the foresight to go ahead with his coronation. He was even crowned with my neck-collar. And he tells me that he disapproves of my marriage and therefore there will be no dowry.’

‘We shall have to go carefully, Isabella.’

‘Oh, Hugh, you are too mild. You always allow people to snatch what you want from you … when it pleases them. No dowry! Of course there is going to be a dowry. And what does he go on to say: The Princess Joan must return at once to England. You see, they order me! I, the Queen, am being told what I must do by Hubert de Burgh, because my silly little son is incapable of giving orders.’

‘If they will not send the dowry what can we do?’

She looked at him with exasperation. ‘What shall we do?’ she mimicked. ‘I will tell you what we shall do for a start. “Send the Princess Joan,” they say. Very well I shall reply, “Send my dowry. And if one is not sent, nor shall the other be.” ’

‘We cannot keep Joan here if they ask for her return.’

‘Joan is my daughter. If I decide she shall stay with me, then she stays.’

There was a glitter in Isabella’s eyes which Hugh had seen now and then. It filled him with apprehension, but being utterly her slave he made every effort to placate her.

So now she was a hostage. Joan heard about it – not through her mother, nor through Hugh – but by listening to the gossip of women and the chatter of servants.

Her brother wanted her to go back to England but her mother and stepfather would not let her go until they sent the dowry her mother was asking for.

‘They’ll never send it,’ was the comment.

Joan pictured herself wandering through the castle of Lusignan all her life, with the ardent lovers never far away; her mother indifferent to her, her stepfather trying to be, because the sight of her made him feel unhappy while she knew that as long as she remained, he would never be perfectly at ease.

She pretended to be listless but she kept her ears open for the whispers. They never told her anything. She was resentful of that. It was her life they were playing with and yet she was supposed to be the one who was kept in the dark.

She heard talk of the King of Scotland. Her brother was making a treaty with him. It was difficult to think of Henry’s making a treaty with anyone. It was four years though since she had left England and Henry had been only ten years old then – the same age as she was now. Not very old for a king; but it was the age when a princess was considered marriageable. Now Henry was a king and making treaties.

It was a shock to discover that she was involved in the treaty.

‘The Princess Joan will go away now,’ she heard one of them say. ‘She must because she is to be the bride of the Scottish King.’

Hugh did not want her, so she was to go to Alexander.

‘I won’t go,’ she sobbed to herself in her bed at night. Yet did she want to stay here?

Her mother raged against Henry and his English advisers. Everyone had to be very careful how they treated her – even Hugh; because they must all remember that she was not merely the Countess of Lusignan but a queen. Once a queen was crowned she was queen until the day she died and Isabella had been crowned Queen of England.

‘I paid a big price for my crown,’ she shouted once in Joan’s hearing. ‘All those years with that madman. And no one is going to forget my rank.’

The days passed and still Joan went on living the strange life in the shadows, knowing that they did not want her there and would have been happy to see her go, except for the fact that she was the hostage for the dowry which her brother’s advisers would not send.

But Stephen Langton and Hubert de Burgh had the power of Rome behind them and one day there was great consternation in the castle, for messengers had arrived from the Pope himself with letters for the Count of Lusignan.

A terrible silence fell over the castle, for one thing which all men dreaded was that sentence from Rome and it was with this that Hugh was threatened. If he did not return the Princess Joan to her brother he would be excommunicated.

Isabella laughed aloud when she heard, but rather wildly for even she was afraid of the fires of hell. Of course she was young and, if all went as could be reasonably expected, would have years of healthful life before her, enabling her to slip into a convent for the last few years of her life to bring about the required repentance. But nothing in life was absolutely sure and if she died while under the interdict of excommunication she could expect to go straight to hell.

She was brazen though. She raged against her son who had called Rome into their dispute. She declared that they would snap their fingers at Henry and his ministers and at Rome too. They would hold on to Joan until the dowry was sent. Hadn’t she a right to her dowry?

Hugh reasoned with her. She was prepared to face excommunication, she declared. It was not as simple as that, he explained patiently, for when a man was banished from the Church it was not only that he could not expect extreme unction and the services of a priest and so would die with all his sins on him, but the fact was that those who served him would lose faith in him. If it were necessary for him to go into battle he would have lost the battle before he took up arms because all believed that no man could prosper when the good will of God was turned against him.

Isabella remembered when John had been under a similar ban and how even he, irreligious and defiant, had in time realised that he must escape from it.

They would lose the dowry then; but at least they would be rid of Joan.

She listened to what Hugh had to say. Then she went to her daughter’s bedchamber where Joan seemed to spend a good deal of her time. She found the girl looking listlessly out of the window.

Joan rose and curtsied as Isabella approached. Isabella said: ‘Sit down.’

Joan obeyed, tense and waiting.

‘You must prepare yourself for a journey with all speed. You are leaving tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow!’ cried Joan.

‘Tomorrow, yes. You are going home. Don’t tell me that does not please for I have seen how you have been moping here and longing to go. Your brother insists that you go and that with all speed.’

‘But I thought that you wished me to stay here.’

‘No longer.’

‘Then you have your dowry.’

‘The rogues still refuse it but you are to go. The Pope has joined in the battle and if your brother were here I would box his ears for his impudence. To call in Rome … against his mother, the ungrateful wretch!’

‘You speak of the King, my lady.’

‘I speak of a child. Well, you are to go. They have a surprise for you. A husband, no less. You smile. It amuses you.’

‘I wondered whether he will be bestowed on someone else before I have time to claim him.’

‘That could be. They are talking of betrothing him to your sister.’

‘Isabella! She is but a baby.’

‘Alexander wants a sister of the King of England. Eleanor has already been promised to the Marshal – so that leaves you and Isabella. It is you they want for there would be too much delay with Isabella.’

Joan began to laugh rather uncertainly.

‘I am glad you are amused,’ said the Queen.

‘It is not amusing, my lady, to be thrown from one to the other like a ball with little concern for its inclination.’

‘Princesses do not have inclinations. They do as they are told.’

‘Not always. You didn’t.’

‘I was betrothed to Hugh and John took me.’

‘You wanted to go, my lady, I trow, or you would not have done so.’

She smiled slowly, as though remembering.

Then she looked at her daughter and said: ‘No. I was forced by your father. My parents would never have dared go against him.’

‘But you would, my lady.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘he held out a crown to me, did he not? I did not know then that he was a madman … the cruellest madman in the world. And in the end he died and I came back to Hugh.’ She softened suddenly. ‘Be clever, child. Yes, be wise and it may well be that one day you will be able to take what you want.’ She was brisk suddenly. ‘Now, be prepared. Tomorrow you leave. It must be so, for if you do not we shall be excommunicated and that is something your stepfather dreads. It could bring us great harm. So you must go.’

‘I will make ready,’ said Joan stonily.

The Queen’s face softened as she laid her hands on her daughter’s shoulders.

‘Don’t be afraid. Make the best of your life. Be clever and you should get something of what you want. I hear that Alexander of Scotland is a fine handsome young man.’

She kissed her daughter swiftly.

‘You should rest,’ she said, ‘and be ready to set out at dawn.’

And the next day the Princess Joan set out for England.

The young King Henry was beginning to enjoy his position. The apprehension which had first been with him when he had heard of his father’s death and realised what, as his eldest son, this would mean to him, had disappeared and the situation was proving to be far more gratifying than he would have believed possible. He could not help but feel some elation at the respect which was shown him by people like the Archbishop of Canterbury and Hubert de Burgh. It was true that they expected him to do what they wanted, but being wise beyond his years he was prepared to follow them until that time when he was able to act with confidence without them. He had immediately realised that what he must do was learn quickly, for the sooner he was competent to make his own decisions, the sooner he would escape from the yoke. For the time being he would remain docile, listen avidly and agree to their advice.

The days were full of interest. When he was alive William Marshal had insisted that the young King attend meetings of his ministers. ‘You may not understand their discourse,’ he had said, ‘but take in what you can, and in time you will learn how these matters should be conducted.’

Now William Marshal was dead and his chief adviser was Hubert de Burgh. He liked Hubert. He was not so serious as the Marshal had been. He was warm-hearted, more emotional, far less stern than William Marshal, who had given the impression that he was a man of such honour that all the little peccadilloes of normal people seemed like mortal sin to him.

Henry was far more in awe of Stephen Langton, the Archbishop of Canterbury – a man whose spiritual qualities set him apart from other men. He was intellectual, a man with a stern sense of duty which had brought him into conflict with both King John and Rome. As he had been suspended from office he had spent much time in writing – sermons, and commentaries on the Bible; he had many detractors, naturally, but Hubert had told Henry that he was a strong man and it was good to have such a man at the head of the Church in England.

A good man, no doubt, thought Henry, but an uncomfortable one.

He had recently come back to England to take up his office at Canterbury and Hubert had explained to him that this had brought at least one boon to England, for Stephen had asked the Pope that the Legate Pandulf be dismissed and that during his lifetime no Legate should take up residence in England.

Much to Hubert’s surprise Pope Honorius had granted this request. ‘Which means, my lord,’ explained Hubert, ‘that while Stephen Langton lives and reigns as Archbishop of Canterbury England is free of any Roman overlord the Pope may think fit to send.’

Now there would follow a coronation.

Hubert had explained the reason for this, ‘True,’ he said, ‘you were crowned soon after your father’s death. That was necessary. But you will remember that it was a hurried ceremony and was not performed by the Archbishop of Canterbury. Moreover your crown was your mother’s throat-collar. Now we propose that you be crowned in a fitting manner. A king’s coronation is important. It is only when the people have seen him anointed and the crown placed on his head and the barons and prelates have sworn allegiance to him that he is, in truth, regarded as their sovereign. You are now of a more mature age.’ Hubert grimaced. Fourteen was scarcely that, but of course an advance on ten. ‘And, I may add, wise for your years. So there will be another coronation and this time it will take place when the land is free of foreign invaders.’

So on a May day in the previous year of 1220 he had been solemnly crowned at Westminster by Stephen Langton. It had been on Whitsunday – an impressive ceremony when all the leading barons of the land and all the dignified churchmen had kissed his hand and taken the coronation oath.

He had enjoyed the day and when at last he lay in bed, physically weary but mentally exalted, he had eagerly looked forward to the future; and from that day he had begun to feel that he was in truth a king.

It seemed that those about him believed that the coronation had brought about some magic change and the young boy who had arisen from his bed on the morning of that Whitsunday had undergone a great spiritual and mental metamorphosis during the day. They talked to him more seriously than they had before. Apart from his lessons, which had never given him much difficulty, he had to learn of what was happening in the world.

There was one bogy which continually arose in the conversations with Hubert, the Archbishop and other ministers: the French.

‘Let us not imagine,’ Hubert had said, ‘that because Louis realised that he could not keep a hold on this country once your father was dead and you proclaimed King that this means his ambitions regarding it have in any way diminished. We must be watchful of Louis and in particular his wily father. No country ever suffered more from its king than England did with John. You will have to face the truth, my lord, for your task is too important for it to be obscured by sentiments. John was your father and I praise God nightly that in you I see no sign of his nature. You are going to take after your grandfather – King Henry II, one of the greatest kings this country has ever known. England needs such a ruler – now as never before.’

So Henry learned of his grandfather and his grandmother Eleanor of Aquitaine. ‘One does not often see their like,’ said Hubert.

‘My grandfather spent the greater part of his life at war,’ said Henry. ‘Was that wise?’

‘Your grandfather fought only when he could not settle his affairs with words. He was one of the greatest soldiers we have ever known. He had wide territories to protect and when all was well in England, there was trouble in Normandy. Now your possessions in France are sadly diminished. Your father lost them.’

‘We shall regain them,’ said Henry.

‘Let us hope this will come to pass.’

‘Then I shall be as my grandfather – fighting all the time.’

Hubert shook his head. ‘We will try to make peace in the land. Louis is not the man his father is and Philip … although not so far gone in years is not in good health. If Philip were to die and Louis be King then there might be a chance of regaining our lost possessions. Although the King of France has a very forceful wife, who is a descendant of the Conqueror.’

‘Yes I know. She is Blanche. It was because of her that Louis laid claim to England.’

‘’Tis true. Philip was never the same after the Pope excommunicated him. It is a strange thing, my lord, that a man of great shrewdness, as is this King of France, should, when his emotions are aroused, forget his wisdom. You have heard of course of the Albigensians, that strange sect from the town of Albi in the South of France whose doctrines conflicted with Rome and whom Rome has determined to suppress.’

Henry nodded agreement.

‘In his attitude towards them Philip Augustus has behaved with a wisdom which must be admired, applauded and emulated by every statesman. He never submitted to Rome, was never subservient, yet managed to keep on good terms with the Vatican without losing one iota of his independence. In a statesman’s eyes it was a masterly performance, but then Philip Augustus is a great ruler. That is why what happened is so astonishing. There will come a time, my lord King, when it will be necessary for you to marry. Not yet, you are over young. But when that time does come we shall have to choose your bride with the greatest care. A king must marry in a manner which best suits his country – and it does not always happen that his duty and his inclination run side by side.

‘I know this well, Hubert.’

‘Of a certainty you do. All royal princes know this. But to return to Philip Augustus. He was married to Isabella of Hainault who gave him his son Louis. Isabella died and after three years of widowhood Philip Augustus decided he must marry again. The Princess chosen was Ingeburga of Denmark. He did not see her until the ceremony was about to be performed but his ministers had assured him that the alliance with Denmark was necessary. The ceremony went off as such ceremonies do and the royal pair were left together in the state bed. No one knows what happened during that night or what Philip discovered about his bride, but in the morning he was white and shaken and declared that he would have no more of her, that she must be returned to Denmark, the marriage must be dissolved and he would take a new wife – and this would be one whom he knew and loved before the ceremony took place.

‘And being King he could do this?’ asked Henry.

‘No, my lord, no. In spite of his happy relationship with the Pope he could not defy the laws of the Church so blatantly. There is a lesson to be learned here. The Pope had the power to apply the sentence of the Interdict, and this is to be dreaded by all – king or commoner. If a king is excommunicated all religious ceremonies and forms of Church practice are banned. In the case of a king, he and his country are cut off from all benefits of the Church. You can imagine the people’s feelings over this.’

Henry nodded gravely. ‘And did he rid himself of her?’ he asked.

‘He brought up the time-honoured excuse: consanguinity. His blood and that of his Queen Ingeburga were too close and as it is against the laws of the Church that people with close blood ties should marry, so the marriage was null and void.’

‘And was this proved to be?’

‘Philip Augustus was a king much feared by his people. If he told the council he had called together that the marriage was null and void it would need a brave man among them to declare otherwise.’

‘So it was agreed.’

‘In France, but of course there was Rome and Ingeburga herself had appealed to the Pope. Philip tried to send her back to Denmark, but Denmark would not receive her and the poor Queen was taken from the palace crying aloud: “Oh naughty France. Naughty France. Help me, Rome, against naughty France.” Which showed, of course, that she was not going to give in easily. While the decision was being awaited she was taken from castle to castle until Philip had the idea that she might be happier in convents and to these she was sent with the hope that she might develop a taste for the life, in which case she would be ready to relinquish her rights as wife to the King of France.’

‘And did she?’

Hubert shook his head. ‘Meanwhile Pope Celestine, who reigned at this time, studied the relationship of Philip and Ingeburga, and partly because there could be said to be a closeness but more because he did not wish to antagonise the powerful King with whom Rome had been on such good terms, he decided to annul the marriage but he added the injunction that Philip must not remarry. This did not suit Philip, who immediately ignored it and looked for a bride, finally choosing Agnes of Moravia with whom he became infatuated.’

‘And the Pope said he must not marry again … yet he did!’

‘Ah, that is why I tell you this, my lord. Kings and Popes have been in conflict through the ages. It is always well to live in peace with Rome. Philip realised this but on this matter of his marriage was determined to have his way no matter at what cost.’

‘And this was unwise.’

‘No doubt Philip thought that he could placate Celestine who was eager to be on good terms with France and that he could come to some arrangement with Celestine. But this is a matter on which kings must be wary. Popes change, and what can be done with one cannot be with another. Innocent III had taken the place of Celestine, and Innocent immediately wrote to the Bishop of Paris saying that although Celestine had been unable to put a stop to the scandal, he was determined to obtain the fulfilment of God’s law.’

‘And so the King had to give way.’

‘Philip Augustus was not the man to give way without a struggle. He would not wish his subjects to witness such weakness. Moreover he was becoming more and more enamoured of Agnes and declared he would rather lose half his domains than separate from her. Whereupon the Pope told him that if Philip did not give her up he would pass the dreaded sentence of the Interdict which should be pronounced throughout the kingdom of France.’

‘And then?’ cried Henry, who as one King considering another saw himself in the role of Philip Augustus, and was clearly hoping for royal victory.

‘Philip stood firm, though the Interdict was pronounced in the churches throughout France. Philip remarked that he would rather turn Musselman than agree to the Pope’s commands. He added ominously that Saladin was a happy man and had got along very well without a Pope. He then turned all the prelates out of their sees because they had agreed with the Pope and had proclaimed the Interdict.’

‘So the King won,’ cried Henry well pleased.

‘Nay, my lord. The country was plunged in gloom. When anything went wrong – as it did continuously – it was said that God had turned his face from the King of France because of his insults to the Church. For four years Philip held out and then he realised what was happening in the country and that his subjects believed he was ruining France. If he went to battle his armies were sure of defeat because they believed the hand of God was against them. Agnes, who truly loved the King, said that she would go into a convent and Ingeburga must return.’

‘So the King lost the battle.’

‘As all must against God. Your father realised that when he suffered the Interdict. So do all that is possible to remain on good terms with Rome while preserving your independence, which is what all kings must learn.’

‘Poor Agnes,’ said Henry. ‘So she truly loved the King.’

The Pope was impressed by her virtue and although she must leave the court, His Holiness declared that the two children she had borne Philip should be considered legitimate. So she went away to a convent in Poissy and in a short time she died there.’

‘And lngeburga?’

‘The King continued to hate her and banished her to Étampes. And there she stayed for eleven years. But while he would not have her at court, the Pope continued to show his displeasure and finally Philip decided that peace with Rome was more important than his prejudices, so Ingeburga was brought back to court and given all the state of a Queen.’

‘But Philip does not love her.’

‘He is older now and doubtless feels that peace with Rome is more important to him than revenge on a wife who displeases him. I tell you this, my lord, because you must know of these matters. You must watch above all things your relations with Rome. There have been constant conflicts between the Heads of States and the Head of the Church. You know the story of your grandfather and Thomas à Becket, which ended in the murder of Thomas and his becoming a martyr. You know that your grandfather did penance for that murder, although it had not been committed by his own hands but by knights who misguidedly mistook his words. Never forget. Keep peace with the Church. We are fortunate in Stephen Langton. And another reason why we have talked at length is that you must know and understand always what goes on at the Court of France, for ever since William the Conqueror came to England and took the land he brought those two communities close; and since your grandmother brought Aquitaine to the crown, France has been important to us. We shall talk often of what is happening in France.’

Henry was wishing that all lessons were as entertaining as the marriages and excommunication of the King of France had proved to be.

There had been great consternation when the news arrived of Queen Isabella’s marriage to Hugh de Lusignan. Both the Archbishop and Hubert were angry. That the marriage between Joan and Hugh had been cursorily set aside might not in the circumstances be such a bad thing because now the country was settled, she might prove a good bargaining counter and a better match be found for her than with a French count.

As for Isabella, she was of no great interest to them; and secretly they were glad to be without her. ‘A troublemaker I am sure,’ Hubert confided to the Archbishop. ‘And if she chooses to return to her native land the better. But the demand of her dowry was sheer insolence and something which she would quickly understand was considered so in England.’

Henry was summoned and informed of what had happened.

‘So my mother has a new husband,’ said Henry. ‘I wish her joy of him. I fear she had little with my father.’

‘It is unseemly,’ replied the Archbishop, ‘that the Queen taking her daughter to the husband chosen for her, should marry him herself.’

‘I think my mother and my father often acted in an unseemly manner,’ observed Henry gravely, ‘so we must not be surprised if she continues to do so.’

‘When her unseemly behaviour concerns this country,’ said the Archbishop, ‘we shall express not only surprise but our objections.’

Making him feel like a child was typical of the Archbishop, thought Henry. Hubert would have put it differently.

‘We shall send at once asking for the return of the Princess,’ said Stephen Langton, ‘and perhaps, Sire, you will inform your mother that she will certainly receive no dowry from you.’

Henry was sorry. He would have liked to wish his mother happiness and would willingly have sent her a dowry if he had been allowed to do so. He sighed. He was of course very young and not really a king since he always had to do what he was told. But it would be different one day.

The Archbishop explained to him that the country was settling down and thanks to the Church and the good will of Pope Honorius (another one since Celestine and Innocent who had played their part in the drama of the King of France and his marriages) the high offices in England were now being taken from those foreigners on whom John had bestowed them and were being returned to Englishmen. All the castles which had previously belonged to the King and taken from him by rebellious barons, were now being returned to the crown.

‘It is necessary,’ said the Archbishop, ‘that you should visit these castles throughout the realm and receive them into your hands. It will be a good opportunity for you to meet your subjects and to receive the oath of allegiance from those who were not present at the time of the coronation. Hubert de Burgh will discuss this with you and tell you what is expected of you. You must be firm, resolute and never forget your kingly dignity. You are hampered by your lack of years.’ The Archbishop looked stern, as though this was due to some lack of zeal on Henry’s part. ‘But that is a fault which can be remedied. But remember, you must show no levity. The barons must realise that although you are so young, you intend to rule.’

‘I shall do my best,’ answered Henry.

‘Hubert de Burgh will discuss the journey with you; and it would be well that it is undertaken without too much delay.’

So a day or so after the coronation, Henry set out on his journey northwards.

The ceremonies took place – one very like another. The young King with the strong Hubert de Burgh beside him rode from castle to castle, accepting the keys and the oaths of allegiance.

‘When we reach York,’ Hubert told him, ‘there will take place the most important meeting of them all.’

Henry knew he was referring to the encounter with Alexander of Scotland. Hubert had explained: ‘It is very important that we stop these perpetual wars with Scotland, and I am hoping we shall be able to make some sort of peace.’

Henry was enjoying this trip. He had never felt so much a king and he supposed it was due to the fact that he was growing up. The older he grew the more homage he could expect; and he was waiting for the day when he need not take his orders from the men who surrounded him. It would be interesting, too, to meet another young King, although he discovered that Alexander was old by his standards, being twenty-two years of age and having reigned for several years.

The meeting was to take place in York, a city of which any king could be justly proud. Henry was met at the Micklegate by the Archbishop of York and the leading dignitaries of the city, and passing under the Roman arch which supported the turrets was escorted into the castle which was said to have been built by his famous ancestor, William the Conqueror.

The meeting of the two kings took place within the great hall of the castle where Henry felt somewhat at a loss on account of his youth; Alexander seemed very mature, having been King of Scotland for seven years; he was shrewd, Hubert had said, and like all good rulers, ever alert for the advantage of his country. Of small stature, with reddish hair and light eyes, he had a foxy look which suggested a certain cunning.

Henry knew that when England had been figuratively on her knees through the bad rule of his father and the French had been on English soil, Alexander had taken advantage of the situation by attacking in the north and in the circumstances naturally achieving some success.

‘It was a good opportunity for him,’ Hubert had pointed out, ‘and one which such a shrewd ruler would take advantage of.’

However when the French had been defeated and driven out Alexander had been forced to retreat behind the Border; and it was in the hope of bringing about a permanent peace that this meeting was taking place.

Hubert with other important barons sat with the Scottish King and some of his supporters. Henry was there in a chair of state but had been made to realise that he was, though a figurehead, a mere observer.

‘It is important,’ Hubert had told him, ‘that you should learn how these conferences are conducted. Listen to discussion, watch parry and thrust, and see how both sides juggle for advantage.’

So Henry listened, thinking what a long time must elapse before he was twenty-two years of age and put his views before men like Hubert de Burgh and was listened to with respect.

Hubert pointed out that a truce would be advantageous to both sides, for the English were eager to preserve the order they were beginning to experience after the lawlessness of John’s reign and Alexander admitted that he would be pleased to have peace on the Border in order that he might divert his energies towards settling quarrels among his own chieftains. But he would expect concessions.

Hubert nodded gravely and said that the English would be prepared to consider these whereupon Alexander replied that he was in need of a wife and he would be happy with one of the English Princesses.

‘The Princess Eleanor is betrothed to William Marshal,’ said Hubert. ‘That leaves Joan and Isabella. Isabella is but seven years old.’

‘I knew well that Joan was betrothed to Hugh de Lusignan and that he married her mother,’ said Alexander. ‘Therefore as she is now free I will take Joan.’

‘The King will tell you that he would derive great pleasure from the marriage of his sister Joan with you, my lord.’

Hubert was looking at Henry who said hurriedly: ‘Yes, yes. It would please me to see you and my sister married.’

‘I believe your sister is at this time in Lusignan,’ said Alexander looking full at Henry who replied: ‘That is so, but she is to return.’

‘And that there is some trouble about that return,’ went on the sharp-eyed King of Scotland.

Henry looked at Hubert who replied: ‘My lord, the King has commanded the return of his sister and the Pope has threatened Hugh de Lusignan with the Interdict if she is not sent back at once. I think you may rest assured that ere long she will be your bride.’

The King of Scotland looked faintly sceptical.

‘I am determined to have one of the Princesses,’ he said. ‘I do not wish for a mere child such as Isabella is, but by my faith I will take her if the other is not returned in good time. Marriage I will have – even with Isabella.’

‘Marriage there shall be,’ replied Hubert, ‘either with Joan or Isabella. We will sign on that, my lord.’

‘I have two sisters, Margaret and Isabella, and I want husbands for them,’ went on Alexander.

Henry knew that Hubert was a little disturbed because King John had promised their father, William the Lion, that the two girls should have his sons – Henry, himself, and Richard. Henry knew though that the Barons would not consider marriage with Scotland good enough for him now that he was the King. His wife would have to bring him a little more than peace with Scotland.

Hubert said: ‘We will find rich and powerful barons for your sisters, my lord.’

For a moment Alexander hesitated and then, evidently so delighted was he to have a sister of the King for his own bride that he decided to settle for two noblemen for his sisters.

So the conference ended happily and it was clear to Henry that both sides were gratified.

Later there was feasting in the hall. Henry was seated beside the King and they talked pleasantly and in friendly manner together. He noticed that Hubert paid great attention to both the Scottish princesses and Margaret in particular.

It had been a long journey and a perilous one across France, and then the sea had been so rough that Joan had not much cared whether she reached the other side of the Channel or not. But at last she was home, and she kept thinking of how apprehensive she had been when she had set out with her mother and remembered the tales Isabella had told her of her childhood in Angoulême. She should have known that her mother loved Hugh; she should also have known that he would only have to take one look at her and he would be as much in love with her as he had been when they were young.

But that was all over now. Nothing was to be gained by brooding on the past. She had a new life to face and since she had failed to become Hugh’s wife, they had another bridegroom for her.

A resentment flickered within her. They did not consult her wishes in any of these matters affecting her future. Princesses had to realise that their lives were governed for them and that they married men not because they would make good husbands or because the princesses loved them … no, it was only because it was good for the country to make an alliance with another country. Women like her mother, though, managed to get their own way; and sometimes Joan wondered whether if her mother had really loved Hugh in the first place she would have allowed herself to have been carried off by John.

She was not of her mother’s nature; therefore she must accept what was prepared for her.

She arrived at Westminster Palace and was pleased to be greeted by her brother. He had grown in size and in dignity since she had last seen him. He was almost a man, being fourteen years old; and he was undoubtedly aware of being King.

He greeted her warmly and told her how sorry he was for what she had suffered. He did not mention their mother until they were alone and then he wanted to hear how she fared.

Joan told him that Isabella was well and happy in her marriage. Hugh de Lusignan doted on her and people said he was her slave. She did not add that she had heard the whisper that his devotion to his wife would be his undoing because he seemed to have no will but hers.

Henry told her that he had seen Richard at his coronation, that their brother was well content with life at Corfe, and that as soon as he was of an age to leave his tutors he would bring him to court.

‘The trouble with us,’ said Joan, ‘is that we are all too young.’

Henry admitted that it was a pity that they had not been born a few years earlier.

‘Or that our father had lived longer.’

Henry shook his head. In his newly found wisdom he knew that if that had happened there would have been no inheritance for him.

Joan was able to see her sisters and was amazed how they had grown. As for them, they did not know her; four years was a long time in their brief lives.

Four years, thought Joan. When she had left she had been a child, and indeed knowing Hugh and learning to love him had given her a maturity beyond her years.

She must grow up; she must learn to shut out the past and face the future, for she was going to be married as soon as it could be arranged and instead of living, as she had believed she would, in the warm lush south of France, she was going to the bleak north of England to marry a man she had never seen.

Henry had said: ‘He will be better for you than Hugh de Lusignan. He is not an old man. He is twenty-two, so he will be more suitable.’

She turned away. How could she explain to Henry that she had come to accept Hugh as the most suitable man in the world.

The cavalcade was on its way to York and beside the young King rode his sister. Outwardly she looked serene and she was surprised that she could appear so indifferent to her fate. Since she had lost Hugh it did not seem to matter what became of her, so perhaps that was just as well.

Henry was pleased with her. ‘I had feared you would weep, sister,’ he said, ‘for you are young to marry. But you will be nearer home than you would have been had you married into France. We shall be able to meet now and then. I promise you shall join us when we travel in the North. It will be easy for you to come across the Border. And your husband will be pleased with you for you are very fair to look upon. I tell you this: you have a certain look of our mother and I have heard it said that there was not a woman in the Courts of France or England to compare with her.’

‘I have heard that said too,’ replied Joan.

‘And you will have the satisfaction of knowing that your marriage has brought peace to England and Scotland. There is nothing that brings peace to countries like marriage between the ruling families.’

‘I could believe that to be so.’

‘It is so, Joan; and how happy we should be that it is in our power to bring peace to so many.’

‘I hope you will feel contented when your time comes, brother,’ she retorted. ‘But it will be different with you. You are the King and I doubt not you will have more say in whom you marry than a mere princess does.’

‘I intend to,’ said Henry, smiling complacently.

She looked at the pines on the horizon and thought of riding in the forest of Lusignan with Hugh before she had known he was in love with her mother.

In due course they arrived in York, where people ran from their houses to get a glimpse of the bride. They thought her beautiful and called God’s blessing on her. She thanked them quietly and graciously; and she heard one old beldame murmur: ‘Poor wee child. She’s over young for marriage.’

This time there would be no cancellation. This marriage would take place, she feared.

She stood in the cathedral, which was said to be the most beautiful in England, only vaguely aware of the grandeur of its massive buttresses decorated with ornamental tracery, its elegant niches and clustered pillars, and beside her was the stranger – this red fox, as she had heard him called – young, eager to please her, not unkindly; her husband, and she must be glad of this marriage since because of it peace would be brought to the borderlands of England and Scotland.

The ceremony was over. She was a queen – a Queen of Scotland. Alexander took her hand and led her from the Abbey to the castle and the bells rang out long and loud in the city of York for this was a day of rejoicing.

They sat side by side at the banquet and he took the most choice pieces of meat and fed them to her. His hand closed over hers and he said: ‘You must not be afraid of me, little wife.’

She looked at him intently and tried to read in his face what manner of man he was, and because he smiled reassuringly at her, her fear passed away.

While the celebrations for the union between England and Scotland and the peace it would bring were in progress another marriage took place at York. Hubert de Burgh married Alexander’s sister Margaret.

Alexander was clearly delighted for his sister to marry the most important man in England; as for Henry, he was so fond of his Justiciar whom he also regarded as his greatest friend, that he was absolutely delighted to give his consent.

Hubert was not exactly a young man but his warm open manner had always won him adherents among young people. He was shrewd and ambitious but there was just that touch of emotionalism in his nature which brought him friendship, as it had in the case of the young Prince Arthur and now Henry.

Alexander had further reason for satisfaction, for his younger sister Isabella would shortly marry Roger the son of Hugh Bigod, Earl of Norfolk; and this meant that his sisters would have for their husbands two of the most influential noblemen of England. It was true that John had promised the two girls to Henry the King and his brother Richard, but marriages with them would not have been celebrated for years and delayed marriages very often meant none at all.

So, Alexander was delighted. He had the Princess Joan for himself and his two sisters would represent his cause in England and bring up their children to have very special feelings for Scotland.

He could now retire behind the Border and deal with the quarrelsome chieftains who were always ready to rise and plague him whenever he found himself in difficulties.

Joan and Alexander rode north while Hubert with his bride and his King went south.

Hubert could be forgiven for a certain complacency. There had been those who had prophesied disaster when William Marshal had died, but this had not proved to be the case. He could say that England had been governed with the utmost skill in the last two years; and as the King grew out of his childhood, providing he was ready to listen to advice, the country would grow stronger and as the country grew stronger, its Justiciar would be more and more appreciated and more powerful.

Now riding along beside the King, his young wife on the other side of him, he could give way to a certain amount of exuberance, although he was too experienced not to know that a man in his position must be ever watchful.

He was perhaps the richest man in the kingdom. Margaret had brought a good dowry and of course he would now have especial influence with Scotland. He remembered that once William Marshal had said that when a man was at the height of his power was the time when he must be most watchful.

Henry was smiling happily.

‘I think Alexander will be good to my sister,’ he said, ‘and she to him.’

‘I am sure of it, my lord,’ replied Hubert. ‘He would not dare to be otherwise than good to the sister of the King of England.’

‘My brother is not a man to be influenced by fear,’ said Margaret gravely. ‘He will be good to his wife because it is his duty and inclination to love and cherish her.’

‘Well spoken, my love,’ cried Hubert. ‘Is that not so, my lord?’

‘It is indeed,’ replied Henry. ‘And it pleases me that we have brought harmony to the two kingdoms. It will show people how I intend to rule.’

He is growing up indeed, thought Hubert. He takes credit for these marriages as though they were brought about by him. Well, that is the way of kings, and it will be well when he can be seen as the ruler – as long as he remembers to follow the advice of those who serve him well.

So it was a happy party that rode into Westminster; even the wily and experienced Hubert had forgotten that success – which fate had so bountifully bestowed on him – invariably provokes the envy of the less well endowed.

Chapter IV THE REBELS

Almost immediately there was murmuring throughout the court about the Justiciar. His enemies were asking each other: Who is this man? Is he the King? He is the man who decides who shall marry whom and he makes sure that his pockets do not remain empty while he pulls the King’s leading strings. Is it not time the Justiciar was made to realise he is not quite the King of England?

John had sown a great many seeds of discordancy when – to further his needs of the moment – he had given land and castles to foreigners in exchange for money or certain concessions, and this meant that in spite of the efforts of William Marshal and Hubert to eliminate the foreign influence, a certain element remained.

This group was led by the Earl of Chester, that Randulph de Blundervill, who had married Constance the widow of Geoffrey (brother of King John) and therefore became stepfather to Prince Arthur who had been murdered by his uncle John. Chester had hoped at one time to put Arthur on the throne when he, Chester, would have proceeded to rule through the boy. Constance however had hated him and fled from him taking Arthur with her and, declaring that their marriage had never been consummated and therefore was no marriage at all, had taken as her husband Guy de Thouars. Constance had not lived long after that and when John had murdered Arthur that put an end to Chester’s hopes of ruling through the boy, so he had turned his attention to other ambitious schemes. Now that the power of Hubert de Burgh was ever increasing Chester was determined to bring the object of his enmity from his high place; so he gathered about him those as discontented as himself.

Chief of these was perhaps Falkes de Breauté, a wild adventurer, a man who was capable of any violent deed to gain his ends. He was a Norman of obscure birth and illegitimate, who had come to the notice of King John, and being of a similiar nature – irreligious, unscrupulous, ready to commit any cruel deed and in fact relishing the undertaking – the King had found him amusing, a good servant, and as he enjoyed his company was ready to reward him. Thus the Norman, who was little more than a peasant, had sprung into prominence.

When the barons had revolted against the King, Falkes had been at John’s side and as a general in the King’s army he had enjoyed some success. As a reward John promised to find a rich wife for him and had decreed that he should marry Margaret, the widow of Baldwin, Earl of Albemarle. Margaret was horrified to be given this cruel man, merely in order that her fortune might pass into his hands, but the King had said the marriage must take place and Margaret, knowing the kind of man with whom she had to deal, submitted, though with the utmost reluctance. As, in addition to being the widow of a rich man, Margaret was an heiress in her own right, being the only child of rich parents, Falkes was doing well, for John had bestowed on him not only Margaret but the custody of the castles of Windsor, Cambridge, Oxford, Northampton and Bedford.

With Chester he captured the town of Worcester for the King, but his treatment of the prisoners did little to help the King’s cause for Falkes took a special delight in torture and he considered it a great sport to capture the rich and torture them with all kinds of methods which it was one of his delights to devise until they had given up all they possessed to save themselves from further torment.

He had a special hatred for religious orders – or it might have been that he greatly coveted their treasures; but it seemed that if he came upon an abbey or a convent he must desecrate it. Sharing similar urges the King made no effort to deter him and in fact enjoyed being given accounts of Falkes’s adventures among the priests.

But even he could be alarmed by what he had done and the story was often told of his fears after he had sacked St Alban’s Abbey. He had pillaged the town, mutilated and tortured the inhabitants but the Abbey was his real objective. Marching into the sacred building, overturning treasures as he went, he demanded that the Abbot be brought to him.

The Abbot came, loudly demanding to know whether Falkes de Breauté knew that he was in a house of God. Falkes’s reply had been to laugh aloud and tell the Abbot that he wanted one hundred pounds of silver and if it was not given to him without delay he would help himself to the treasures of the Abbey and burn it down.

Knowing well the man with whom he had to deal and that he was capable of such an act of sacrilege the Abbot gave him the silver.

Falkes had then left, taking sly looks about the place, noting the treasures for his future attention. That night he awoke from a terrible nightmare. He sat up in bed shouting that he was dying.

Margaret, who must have been relieved at the thought of having the monster removed from her life, said: ‘You have had a dream … a nightmare. But nightmares can have meaning. What was the dream?’

It was not often that de Breauté allowed himself civil conversation but shivering in his bed, with the terrible fear upon him, he was not the same man as the braggart who swaggered through towns terrifying all those who came near him.

‘I dreamed,’ he said, ‘that I was standing beneath the top tower of the Abbey at St Alban’s church when it fell upon me and where I had been there was nothing but powder … nothing of me remained.’

‘A dream full of portent,’ replied Margaret. ‘You desecrated the holy Abbey. It means God is displeased with you.’

De Breauté would have laughed her to scorn at any other time, but he was truly shaken at this time.

‘You must go back to the Abbey,’ she advised him, ‘and ask pardon of the Abbot and the monks.’

‘You mean a penance …’

‘The King’s father did penance for the murder of Thomas à Becket.’

‘And you would ask me to do likewise?’

‘I ask nothing of you,’ she replied. ‘Experience has taught me that would be useless. I merely advise. You have desecrated a holy place … many holy places … but St Albans will have special favour in Heaven. You have been warned by Heaven. The meaning of your dream is clear. Unless you make restitution some fearful fate will overtake you.’

She was obviously amused to see her husband so frightened that he shivered with fear at the prospect of a fate which he had administered with such delight to others. However, so did she terrify him, while pretending to be fearful for him, telling him stories she had heard of the terrible ends which befell those who ignored warnings from Heaven, that he decided he would go to St Albans with all speed, insisting that the knights who had taken part in the raid on the Abbey should accompany him. There he called for the Abbot who, wondering what fresh outrage was about to occur, came in fear, but when he saw the dreaded Falkes de Breauté baring his back and declaring that he had come to do penance – as King Henry II had done for Becket – he summoned his monks, and it is not difficult to imagine with what relish they belaboured the backs of those men who such a short while ago had threatened them.

When the chastisement was over, Falkes de Breauté put on his doublet and shouted that he had only done this because his wife had begged him to, and if the monks thought that what he had taken from them would be restored they were greatly mistaken.

However he left the Abbey and did not practise further sacrilege. He turned his attention to the French who at this time held firm positions in England. The death of John, the accession of young Henry and the defeat of the French had not entirely pleased de Breauté for it had meant the rise to power of Hubert de Burgh, who had demanded the return to the crown of many of the castles which John had bestowed on men such as de Breauté. He was disturbed as were the Earl of Chester and the Bishop of Winchester by the growing power of Hubert. A king who was a minor was a heaven-sent opportunity for ambitious men, and all these men were ambitious, so to see Hubert taking the most powerful position in the kingdom irked them and they decided that something must be done to curb it.

The three men met in Winchester: Peter des Roches, the Bishop of Winchester, Randulph de Blundervill, Earl of Chester, and Falkes de Breauté; and the subject of their discourse was Hubert de Burgh and how to curb his growing power.

‘He thinks there will be nothing to stop him now,’ observed Peter de Roches. ‘Each day he grows more in the King’s favour.’

‘The King is a child,’ growled Chester. ‘It is a matter of whose hands he falls into. It is you, my lord Bishop, who should be his governor and controller.’

‘De Burgh has ever worked against me,’ murmured the Bishop.

‘This cannot be allowed to go on,’ replied Chester.

‘Perhaps we could make the King our prisoner,’ suggested Falkes. ‘We could catch him when he was riding … surround him by our men … and then … he would be ours to command.’

The Bishop shook his head. ‘If that could be, I doubt not it would be an excellent way of dealing with the situation, but to take the King by force would be called treason … rebellion … or some such name. The people would not endure it. They would want our heads on spikes over the bridge. We must work more secretly.’

Falkes de Breauté looked disappointed. He was fascinated by violence and he saw himself running his sword through the bodies of the guard while he told the young King that all would go well with him if he came quietly.

‘It would seem,’ went on the Bishop, ‘that de Burgh is the richest man in the kingdom. He has done well through his marriages.’

‘One thing I’ll say for him,’ added de Breauté with a smirk, ‘the women like him.’

‘He has an ingratiating manner,’ murmured the Bishop, ‘and this has won him the heart of the King.’

‘And those of his wives!’ added Chester. ‘The Scottish Princess is the fourth … his only virgin. The rest were widows.’

‘He has a fancy for widows,’ said de Breauté.

‘A wise fancy,’ put in Chester, ‘for a widow will often have her husband’s fortune as well as that which may come to her through her own family.’

‘So it was,’ said the Bishop. ‘The daughter of the Earl of Devon, and widow of William Brewer, brought him wealth; then there was Beatrice, Lord Bardulf’s widow, and then he had the temerity to marry John’s cast-off wife Hadwisa of Gloucester, who by that time was the widow of the Earl of Essex.’

‘John took a considerable bite out of her fortune but she still had much left to help fill the coffers of shrewd Hubert,’ commented Chester.

‘I wonder how she liked Hubert after John,’ asked Breauté with a sly smile.

‘By all accounts she found the change agreeable,’ said the Bishop. ‘But she died as all his widows did, and my point is that there was not one marriage which did not bring him benefit. Now he has made the best of them all – he is brother to the King of Scotland, being his sister’s husband.’

‘You may judge a man by his marriages,’ said Chester. ‘De Burgh’s have shown him to be a wise man with a taste for wealth.’

‘It would be well if the people realised this,’ said the Bishop. ‘At this time they are pleased with their young King and the Justiciar’s rule. He has subdued the robbers and if his punishments are severe, he would say – and many would be with him – that this is the only way to keep the law effective. It will not be difficult, though, to rouse the people against him. He has served the country they might say, but it must be made known to them that in doing so, he has made himself very rich. You all know that the best way to arouse the mob against any one man is to tell them that he has so much more than they have. They will accept a man’s lechery, cruelty … his acts of expediency … but arouse their envy and they will be ready to bring him down. The people want justice in the land; they want law and order; they want to rid the country of those they call the foreigners, and methinks, gentlemen, that we should all of us fit into that category. They hate all this but their envy will be greater than their love of their country. So we will rouse the people against de Burgh. We will tell them that he is the richest man in England. He has just brought himself more advantage by marrying the Princess of Scotland. Arouse the people’s envy and in due course they will bring him down.

The three men looked at each other and nodded.

They knew there was truth in the Bishop’s words.

In the taverns the people of London whispered together; they walked along by the river and talked of the influence the Justiciar had over the young King. The Justiciar was the richest man in England. He governed the King and lined his own pockets. The servants of Falkes de Breauté and the Earl of Chester mingled with merchants and apprentices and asked them and each other why the people endured this state of affairs.

It was always the same when there was a young King on the throne, they pointed out. Ambitious men sought to rule through them; and their rule was to fill their own coffers and the devil take the man or woman in the streets.

So the resentment grew against Hubert de Burgh and when he rode out with the King there was hostility in the silence which greeted them; there was an occasion when someone threw a stone at the Justiciar. One of Hubert’s servants caught the man and his punishment was severe – the loss of the right hand which had thrown the stone.

A bitter reward, said many, for that which others would have the inclination to do had they been on the spot.

One of the principal citizens, Constantine FitzAthulf, called meetings in his house and there he with others plotted the overthrow of the King and planned to send a message to Prince Louis at the French Court asking him to come back to England where he would find the people of London ready to welcome him.

As a result there was rioting in the streets of London and Constantine marched at the head of a band of men shouting ‘Montjoie. God and our Lord Louis to the rescue.’

But the majority of the people, while they wished to remove the Justiciar, had no desire to bring the French back to England. This had not been the intention of Falkes de Breauté and his friends. All they wanted was to keep the King where he was but change his advisers so that they could step into the shoes of Hubert de Burgh and in doing so rob him of his power and riches. For this reason there was little support for the rioters of London and in a short time they were routed and Constantine FitzAthulf and other leaders captured and thrown into prison.

Hubert was deeply disturbed. He must rid himself of Constantine and Hubert believed that he deserved to be condemned to the traitor’s death for if ever a man was a traitor to his King that man was Constantine. Hubert paused though, for he knew how unwise it would be to anger the people of London even more so than they were at this time.

He kept the men in prison while he wrestled with the problem; and in the end it was Falkes – the very man who had provoked the rebellion – who came to Hubert and offered to hang Constantine, assuring all who would listen to him that the last thing he wanted was to depose the King. He took Constantine and his friends across the river and in a quiet spot hanged them.

This did not mean that Falkes and his friends had ended their attacks on the Justiciar. They had no intention of doing this until they had rid the country of him.

They met again and Falkes put forward a plan for seizing the Tower of London. The Bishop of Winchester stressed the difficulties of bringing this about; and suggested that it would be better if they formed a deputation and called on the King, when the Justiciar was absent and pointed out the true nature of Hubert de Burgh and the need for him to rid himself of him.

The Bishop thought this was an excellent plan. They would come to Westminster and there Henry would receive them. He would be unprepared for what they would say to him and they had no doubt that, since he was little more than a child, they could win him to their point of view and get a promise from him to turn Hubert de Burgh from his office.

They chose their moment and the Bishop’s presence secured them an immediate audience with the King.

It was the first time Henry had received a deputation without having had either William Marshal, Stephen Langton or Hubert de Burgh beside him to tell him what he must do.

It was the Bishop of Winchester who addressed him and presented Falkes de Breauté and the Earl of Chester to him.

‘Your humble servants, most gracious lord,’ murmured the Bishop.

Henry inclined his head and bade them rise for they were kneeling before him which while it gratified him made him feel a little awkward. He told them they might be seated. They were so much taller than he was while they stood, which he found disconcerting.

‘You have missed the Justiciar,’ said Henry. ‘He is not in London this day.’

‘It was our purpose to miss him, my lord,’ answered the Bishop. ‘It was our King with whom we wished to speak.’

‘Say on,’ said Henry, beginning to feel more important with every passing second, which was exactly their intention.

‘It has long been apparent to us,’ said the Bishop, ‘that you, our King, have been endowed with wisdom beyond your years, and we feel the time has come for you to take a more active part in affairs. You have no need to be constantly attended by your wet nurse.’

‘My … wet nurse … you mean Hubert …’

‘We are of the opinion that the Justiciar believes you still to be in swaddling clothes. He guides your tottering baby steps, does he not, my lord?’

Henry flushed. ‘You are mistaken,’ he said angrily.

‘Do not imagine that we think you to be in need of such support, my lord. It is for that reason that we have come here.’

‘I think you should state your business,’ said Henry with dignity.

‘You know, my lord, that we have trouble in London.’

‘I know,’ said Henry, ‘that traitors were hanged for declaring themselves supporters of the French.’

‘It is the Justiciar whom the people dislike,’ said the Earl Chester. ‘It is their hatred of him which makes them revolt.’

‘I think not,’ retorted Henry. ‘They were shouting for the French.’

‘There has been much murmuring against Hubert de Burgh,’ the Bishop tried to explain. ‘If he were removed, you would find the country in a very different mood.’

‘Remove Hubert? He is my very good friend.’

‘He is his own very good friend, my lord. Did you know how rich he has become?’

‘I know full well that he has been rewarded and rightly so. I myself have given him castles.’

‘And he has done very well with his wives,’ added de Breauté slyly.

Henry conveyed by a certain regal manner that the man’s coarseness offended him; and the Bishop signed to de Breauté to allow him to do the talking.

‘My lord,’ said des Roches ingratiatingly, ‘out of respect for you and the crown we have come to you in this way. We have seen with admiration how you have grown in stature since the crown was put on your head. You do not need such counsel. You are well able to manage your own affairs.’

‘I am not forced to obey the Justiciar, you should know,’ retorted Henry. ‘I use my own judgment … frequently.’

‘Which is the very reason why you can dispense with this man.’

‘Dispense with him! You mean send him away, or would you like me to rob him of his estates? To send him to the Tower perhaps? To punish him in some way – to put out his eyes … to cut off a limb or two.’ Henry was looking straight at de Breauté. ‘I believe that you, Falkes de Breauté, oft times employ such methods. I will tell you this, my lords, you may go from here. I like not your words. I like not your manners and I like not you.’

They were taken aback. They had come expecting to face a boy of fourteen and they had found a king, moreover one who was loyal to his friends and would have none of their treachery.

The reaction of the King forced the conspirators to abandon hope of a quick victory. Peter des Roches was beginning to feel that it was time they shelved their plans for a while, but he had reckoned without Falkes de Breauté who had already summoned the malcontents to Northampton, with plans for marching on London.

Henry had quickly summoned Hubert who laid the matter before Stephen Langton and as a result the Archbishops and Bishops – with the exception of Peter des Roches – stood firmly with the King, and threatened excommunication for the rebels.

Even Falkes had to see that his small troop of malcontents would have no chance against the King’s army and if those who rebelled were excommunicated they could never gather together the necessary men to work with them.

It was defeat. Nor were they to be let off lightly. The leaders were summoned to Westminster where the Archbishops and Bishops invited them to lay their grievances before the King.

They met in the great hall of the Palace, the King since his encounter with the three rebels grown considerably in dignity. Hubert had told him that he had conducted himself like a king, and he would have said the same even if he had not been so completely loyal to himself.

Henry was seated on the chair of state, Hubert was on his right hand; and Stephen Langton, on the other side of the King, invited the Bishop of Winchester to state his grievance.

Peter des Roches, addressing the assembly, declared that he was no traitor and nor were those who stood with him. They had deplored the rising of the citizens of London who had been ready to invite the French into the land. One of their members, Falkes de Breauté had actually carried out the hanging of Constantine FitzAthulf. Their grievance was this: the King was never allowed to act unless one man was always at his elbow. It was not Henry III who reigned, it was Hubert de Burgh. All he and his followers wanted was to see that man removed, and the King to engage a new minister in the place of de Burgh.

Henry said: ‘I have spoken to you on this matter before, Bishop. I like not your tone. I am at this time very well served and have been so since I took the crown.’

‘My lord King, Hubert de Burgh has enriched himself. His policy is to pour gold into his own coffers and if by so doing the crown should suffer he cares not.’

Hubert rose and asked the King’s permission to speak.

‘Pray do,’ said Henry. ‘Add your voice to mine and we will let these traitors know that we are of like mind.’

‘I thank you, my lord,’ said Hubert. ‘You, Bishop, are at the root of this trouble. It is you who have incited these men. You want my position for yourself. I understand that well, but our king is no puppet to be jerked this way and that. He will choose his ministers where he likes – and I doubt very much that if I were removed from his services – which God forbid – that you would be chosen to take my place.’

Peter des Roches was white with rage. He shouted: ‘I tell you this, Hubert de Burgh, I will spend every penny I possess to prove that you are unworthy of office and to get you turned out.’

Then he turned and stormed out of the hall.

There was silence. Then Henry said: ‘We see what a malicious man we have in the Bishop of Winchester. I would have you know that I will no longer tolerate these rebellious subjects.’

Hubert said: ‘My lord, if you give me your wishes with regard to them I will act upon them.’

‘That I shall quickly decide,’ said the King.

‘In the meantime, my lord, we shall see that they do not have the opportunity of escape,’ said Hubert.

Stephen Langton said that such dissensions were bad for the country and he believed that troublemakers should be put where they could make no more trouble.

The assembly seemed to be in agreement and all except the rebels were delighted with the King’s show of strength.

The result was that shortly afterwards an assize was held at Dunstable and the castles of the men accused of treason were confiscated. De Breauté would not give in easily and he fortified himself at Bedford Castle and when the justices were on their way to deal with him they learned that he was waiting for them with men to capture them, and remembering his reputation for torturing his victims they decided to escape. There was one who did not succeed in this, Henry de Brayboc who was undersheriff of Rutlandshire, Buckinghamshire and Northamptonshire, and had at first supported John against the Barons but later had seen the Barons’ point of view and had changed sides. When Louis was defeated he had professed loyalty to Henry – as so many had – and consequently his lands were restored.

Brayboc was seized by de Breauté’s men and dragged into the castle where he was roughly treated. He was terrified, knowing the reputation of de Breauté, but fortunately for him one of his servants was able to carry the news of his capture to his wife and she lost no time in sending a message to the King, who was then with the parliament in Northampton. She pointed out that her husband, in his role of justice, had been arrested by a rebel when he was on the King’s business.

Henry was now realising that he must take a strong hand and how wise it was to let none say that he was afraid of his subjects.

He suggested that he would march to Bedford and there himself take de Breauté.

Falkes de Breauté was not the man to despair in such circumstances. In fact they appealed to him. His colleagues had dispersed and he was left to do lonely battle. All right, he declared, the castle could withstand the King’s army. If this was battle let it be; and so the siege began.

It continued all through June and July and into August. Falkes was excommunicated; and his wife declared that she had been forced into marriage with him and implored the King to give her a divorce and free her from the monster she loathed, the divorce was granted; but Falkes continued to hold out against the King’s army. Randulph de Blundervill, Earl of Chester, had begun to deplore Falkes’s methods. He was too crude; he should have known that he was beaten temporarily and withdrawn as Chester had, to fight another day. These bold defiant gestures would bring him no good and he should not have been such a fool as to imagine they would.

Chester joined the King and Falkes realised that he alone was to bear the responsibility of the rebels, for Peter des Roches had become very silent and was also content to wait for a later opportunity to oust Hubert de Burgh from his position.

The castle could not hold out indefinitely and on a hot August day Falkes was forced to surrender. Eighty of the garrison were hanged, but Falkes was held for trial.

He asked for an audience with the King which Henry granted. Then Falkes threw himself at Henry’s feet.

‘I have done wrong,’ he told him. ‘But you are a just king, my lord, and you will remember that there was a time when I fought side by side with your father. I served him well, and because you are a wise king you will remember that a man’s good deeds should be taken into consideration when he is being tried for his bad ones.’

That appealed to Henry and he sent Falkes to the Bishop of London where he was to remain until it was decided what should be done with him.

He was imprisoned for some time before it was agreed that he should be exiled. Then he was sent to France.

‘Let us hope,’ said Hubert, ‘that that is the end of this troublemaker.’

Then he told the King that he had shown himself fit to govern without a regent; and with his permission he would send to the Pope and ask for his blessing, support and permission that the King from henceforth be the ruler of his people.

The King was savouring his triumph – for all agreed that he had shown himself to have the making of a strong ruler by the manner in which he had dealt with the rebellious Falkes de Breauté and his friends – when Hubert de Burgh came to him with news which he believed to be of the utmost importance to England and to the King.

‘Messengers have arrived from France, my lord,’ he announced. ‘The King of France is dead.’

‘So Louis is now King,’ Henry’s face hardened. He would never forget that for a short time Louis had been in England and was on the point of being proclaimed ruler of his country. If John had not died so opportunely, who could say what might have happened. Henry went on: ‘Perhaps now he will have enough to occupy him in France and will no longer look to England – for I believe that he has never failed to do that since we turned him out.’

‘There has always been conflict between France and England, my lord. It seems hardly likely that the death of Philip will change that.’

‘I am aware that my ancestors knew little peace. They had few opportunities of governing here because there was always trouble in Normandy. It almost proved the undoing of my father.’

‘Your father proved his own undoing,’ said Hubert soberly. ‘You, my lord, will I doubt not regain much that he lost, and not only your possessions overseas but the dignity of the crown through honour and justice.’

‘I pray God this may be so.’

‘That is good, my lord. Now let us look at this matter overseas and consider what it can mean to England.’

‘I can see only good in it. I do not have a great opinion of Louis.’

‘Louis is an honourable man – a good husband and father. Such men do not always make the best kings.’

‘He quickly relinquished his hold on England and went slinking back home.’

‘He knew the country was against him and he took the wise though not the bold action.’

‘Methinks, Hubert, he will want to stay within his own realms.’

Hubert was thoughtful. ‘I was not thinking so much of the King as the Queen. I believe that Blanche, now Queen of France, is the one we have to reckon with.’

‘A woman!’

‘You are too wise, my lord, not to know that they should never be lightly dismissed. There are some – and many of them, thanks be to God – who are content to administer to a husband’s needs, to work beautiful embroideries and decorate his house with their presence. But there have been some who have not been content so to remain. One of these I believe to be the Queen of France.’

‘She is a kinswoman of mine. It was because of her that Louis laid claim to the throne.’

‘She is your first cousin, being the daughter of your Aunt Eleanor who married Alphonso of Castile; her grandparents were therefore yours. It is difficult to imagine a granddaughter of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine as being without spirit.’

‘So you think we must be watchful of Blanche, though she is married to a weak husband.’

‘I am sure you know, my lord, that it is a mistake to confuse a quiet demeanour with a lack of strength. Louis is not warlike. He does not wish to fight where it is not necessary and that could be called wisdom.’

Henry smiled to himself. He noticed how Hubert always prefaced his homilies nowadays with ‘I am sure you know’. Before his defence of him when he had been confronted by the rebellious barons and the Bishop of Winchester, he had delivered them in the form of lessons.

Henry said: ‘So you think we must be watchful of Blanche?’

‘You will agree that the English must always be watchful of the French, and what is happening in France will always be of the utmost importance to us here. We can never forget that. So, now Philip Augustus is dead and Louis and Blanche are on the throne. Let us consider what this will mean to us.’

‘What will it mean, Hubert?’

‘We must wait and see how events develop.’

‘And in the meantime,’ added Henry, ‘remember they are enemies, for that is what they must be. Louis and Blanche … and in particular Blanche.’