The Battle of the Queens

Chapter X THE AMOROUS TROUBADOUR

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

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

But Louis had a wife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I have heard it,’ said Blanche.

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

‘How so?’

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

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

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

‘But he cannot prove this.’

Joanna raised her hands in a gesture of despair. He tells many tales of the Holy City and his adventures there. He swears he is the Count of Flanders.’

‘But you, his daughter, must know.’

‘I do know. He is not my father.’

‘Well?’

‘My lady, there are many who believe this, and some accept it because they do not love me and resent being ruled by a woman. Many people are rallying round him. They are accepting him and rejecting me.’

Blanche thought: Yes, I can understand you would be a stern ruler. Just perhaps, but perhaps somewhat harsh. And the people of Flanders are not fond of you so they would replace you by this man even if he is an impostor.

‘Well?’ said Blanche.

‘I want your help, my lady, and that of the King.’

‘How far has the matter gone?’ asked Blanche.

‘Very far, I fear. You see, my lady, there are unscrupulous men in Flanders.’

‘Not only in Flanders,’ replied Blanche grimly.

‘These men see a chance of enriching themselves,’ went on Joanna, ‘for to gain their support this man is giving them land and titles and promising them easy living.’

‘Has he, do you think, really deceived them?’

‘I am not sure. He has a certain look of my father but he is shorter by two inches and again and again he shows clearly that he is a trickster.’

‘What can I or the King do for you?’

‘You might ask him to court. You might question him. I believe that he would be less arrogant in your presence. If he were asked certain questions he would most assuredly give the wrong answers.’

‘Have you asked him these questions?’

‘I have and he has not satisfied me, but it is believed that I so enjoy ruling Flanders that I will do anything to stop his taking authority from me.’

Blanche considered. Ferdinand was in fact Louis’s uncle for he was a brother of Isabella of Hainault and she knew that Louis had a strong feeling for his mother’s family. He often talked of Isabella – whom young Louis was said to resemble – although he had never known her. He had heard that she was both beautiful and gentle and he was very regretful that she had died two years after he was born and he could not remember her. He would want to help if he could; and she was certain that now the plight of Ferdinand would be brought to his notice he would want to release him.

Blanche said that she would send a messenger to Louis and let him know what was happening in Flanders and in the meantime she and Joanna would put their heads together and try to work out some plan for putting the impostor to the test.

It was Blanche who suggested that they send for Sybil of Beaujeu, who was the sister of the true Count of Flanders; surely she who had been brought up with her brother would know whether this man was really Count Baldwin or an impostor.

It seemed an excellent idea.

‘I should like the disclosure to be made in the presence of you and the King,’ said Joanna.

‘We shall see if that is possible,’ replied Blanche.

Louis was not sorry to receive the message. He had little feeling for war. It had been different when the towns had fallen easily to him, but now that Henry had sent his young brother and the Earl of Salisbury against him he was glad of a respite.

He sent back a message to the effect that he would be at Péronne and that Blanche and Joanna might meet him there. He had then sent a message to Sybil asking her to come to him there and a similar message to the man who called himself the Count of Flanders.

The latter came with all haste for he believed that the King’s summons was for him to do homage to him as his liege lord which he would only ask for if he believed him to be the true Count.

Blanche was delighted to have Louis with her again. She suspected that she was pregnant and when she told Louis he was delighted.

He confessed to her that he had always felt a sympathy with the stamping out of heresy and that he had long considered the Albigensian movement to be a dangerous one.

‘Moreover,’ he added, ‘I have heard that the King of England is planning to send over a large army, which is what I expected he would do. He is going to make an attempt to regain what he has lost. I fear a long and wretched war, Blanche.’

‘Yet you would go to war against the Albigensians.’

‘That is a holy war. The Albigensians are not a well-equipped army. Depend upon it, this war will not be nearly so deadly nor so costly as war against England.’

‘The Albigensians are a people fighting for their beliefs, Louis. Such people are apt to be fierce fighters.’

‘I know it, but if I take up the Cross and go against the Albigensians, the Pope will forbid the English to make war on me.’

‘You mean that war against the Albigensians is more to your taste than war against the English.’

‘I want no war,’ said Louis, ‘but if war there must be I had rather it was a holy war.’

Blanche made no attempt to dissuade him, but she was deeply concerned for she thought he had aged considerably during the last campaign and indeed looked exhausted.

She could almost welcome this controversy over the Count of Flanders to give him some respite and with Sybil de Beaujeu they discussed how best to tackle the matter.

‘Leave it to me,’ said Sybil, ‘I will ask him a few questions which only my brother would know.’

When the man calling himself the Count arrived at Péronne, Sybil admitted that he bore a strong resemblance to her brother, although Baldwin had never been so arrogant. His over royal manner, she declared to Blanche, betrayed him; and she was almost certain that he was an impostor.

It did not take her long to discover the truth. For when the man heard that he was to be brought face to face with Sybil he was clearly disturbed. He found the questions she fired at him quite disconcerting and he declared that he was in no mood to be treated so discourteously by his sister and he would answer no questions that night, but in the morning he would answer all the questions to her satisfaction and he would ask that first of all he might be granted the courtesy of a bed and his supper.

The end was in sight for the bogus Count. The next morning it was discovered that he had fled during the night. The game was up. Although he could pose as the adult Baldwin – having probably been on a crusade to the Holy Land and possibly in Baldwin’s company for he had scars on his body to show the people and these could certainly have been inflicted by a Saracen sword – he had no knowledge of Baldwin’s childhood.

Joanna was delighted. The impostor was eager to get as far away as possible from Flanders. He was later discovered and brought to the Countess Joanna who had no compunction in having him publicly hanged.

So the affair was satisfactorily settled from the Countess’s point of view and at least it had given Louis a short respite from the wars.

Blanche who had been expecting a child gave birth to a girl. After five boys it was pleasant to have a girl but when Louis suggested the child should be called Isabella she felt an immediate revulsion because she was reminded of Isabella de Lusignan, the woman whom she hated more than any other.

Isabella was a royal name. Louis had wanted it, and when she had said that she did not care for it he had immediately remarked that it was because it reminded her of the Queen Mother of England.

He smiled at her almost teasingly. ‘You hate her, don’t you? Why? She’s a very attractive woman.’

How could she explain that it was not because of her attractiveness that she hated Isabella? Yes, hated her, for hate was not too strong a word to describe her feelings. How could she explain that some premonition warned her and she disliked being reminded of her?

A sensible woman such as Blanche of Castile, Queen of France, must not have odd fancies.

‘What nonsense,’ she said lightly. ‘I do not dislike the name so much. Isabella. Yes, it’s a pretty name … a worthy name. Let us call her Isabella if it is what you wish.’

‘It is the name of my mother,’ said Louis quietly.

‘Then you wish it and it shall be.’

So the little girl was Isabella after all.

Before Louis left Blanche was once more pregnant.

Thibaud of Champagne was sighing over the poem he was writing. He was prepared to spend his life in sighing, for the lady he loved was unattainable and his poet’s heart told him that her desirability was in a measure enhanced by the fact that she was out of his reach.

There he was – not unhandsome in spite of too much weight, about which he had been teased all his life. Perhaps that was why he had turned to the pen. He could write glowing verse of his longings, his aspiration in the field of love, and find great satisfaction therein, for he was beginning to be recognised as one of the finest poets of his day.

Surely this must impress the Queen who had been brought up in a cultivated court. Her parents had loved the troubadours and had always encouraged them. And he was a royal troubadour, Thibaud le Chansonnier. He was eager for that not to be forgotten. His great grandfather Louis VII was the King’s grandfather. Just a little twist of fate and he might have been King. If his great grandmother Eleanor of Aquitaine had borne a son … instead of a daughter … well, it would not have been Louis who was on the throne but Thibaud, and Blanche of Castile might have been his bride instead of Louis’s.

What bliss that would have been. And because Fate had been unkind Louis was her husband; it was Louis’s children she bore, the children of France – and he was merely Thibaud, the troubadour Count of Champagne.

So he must sing his songs and he had made of Blanche an ideal and she being the woman she was had shown him so clearly that there was never a hope of her becoming his mistress. She liked his songs though. What woman would not enjoy hearing herself so honoured?

Adoring Blanche he had come to despise Louis as being entirely unworthy of her. Louis had always been a weakling, physically. His father had feared for his health. Of course he was just and lacked the cruelty of so many men; there was no doubt that he had certain good points but even if he could be an acceptable king, he was not worthy to be Blanche’s husband.

And while he sat at his table, murmuring to himself the words he was turning over in his mind, a messenger arrived with a command from the King.

Louis reminded him that he was his vassal and that as such he could be called to serve the King in battle for forty days and forty nights. He was therefore ordered to join the King’s army without delay, bringing with him his men at arms, for the King was laying siege to the town of Avignon in the fight against the Albigensians.

Thibaud felt a burning resentment. He had no desire to go to war. He was not out of sympathy with the Albigensians. They had been foolish perhaps in trying to pit themselves against Rome, but he was all in favour of the easy comfortable life they had so enjoyed. Raymond of Toulouse was a man of culture and a friend of his. Raymond was more interested in music, literature and discussion than in war.

And he, Thibaud the Troubadour, was being asked – nay, commanded – to leave the comfort of his castle and go to war.

And he must … because he was a vassal of the King and the King commanded him.

With something less than a good grace Thibaud set out for Avignon, but as he rode along he sang one of his latest compositions, the subject of which was the beauty of a lady whom he could not get out of his mind – and all knew that that lady was Blanche the Queen.

He would have liked to sing of a rare passion between them which both admitted to in secret, but it was not true and might even be considered treason. He could imagine those cold blue eyes on him if he hinted at such a relationship between them. She would banish him from court and he would never see her again. So he had to be careful.

So to Avignon – that rich and beautiful town which owed its prosperity to its clever trading and the peace it enjoyed with the neighbouring Counts of Toulouse. The people of Avignon shared a desire with those of Toulouse to live in peace and comfort, they loved music and welcomed the troubadours of Toulouse and with them shared the new ideas and found great pleasure in discussing them. Avignon was not going to give in easily.

Thibaud arrived in a mood of discontent which was certainly not dispersed by the sight of the grey walls of the town which looked impregnable and the soldiers encamped outside them weary and disillusioned for they had come expecting a quick victory.

When Thibaud went to the King to inform him of his coming and to pay his respects, he was shocked by the sight of Louis whose skin was yellowish and his eyes bloodshot; he was a sick man, concluded Thibaud.

He asked after the King’s health and received a short reply that there was nothing wrong with it.

An opinion I do not share, Sire, was Thibaud’s inward comment, but he bowed his head and said he was glad to hear that was so.

‘The town has some strong defences,’ Thibaud ventured.

‘That’s so,’ replied Louis. ‘But I shall take it … no matter how long I stay here.’

Thibaud thought: A vassal owes his lord but forty days and forty nights. I am not prepared to stay here longer.

They studied each other – the Queen’s husband and the poet who declared his love for her in his verses. My verses will outlast you, my lord, thought Thibaud.

‘I am glad you came,’ said Louis. ‘It reached my ears that you were reluctant to do so and had you disobeyed me I should have been obliged to take measures against you.’

‘My lord, I came to your command. I have sworn allegiance, and when you call me to battle I owe you forty days and nights of my service.’

‘I should have been forced to make an example of you, Thibaud,’ the King warned him, ‘by laying waste the lands of Champagne.’

Thibaud thought: You would have found stout resistance, my lord, and you are in no position to wage war against those who would do you no harm if you left them in peace. You have mighty enemies. The English will soon be at your throat. You need friends, Louis, not enemies. You poor creature. Her husband. I know I am over fat, too fond of good food and wine; but for all that I am more of a man than you are.

He said: ‘It is not good, my lord, for there to be dissension in your own ranks. So I am here to fight with you in a cause which has no great concern for me.’

The King dismissed him and Thibaud left his camp to mingle with others of his kind who had been called to honour their vows. He was not surprised that many of them expressed a similar discontent. They were ready enough to fight for their lands; they would have gone into battle against the English; but even though this war had the backing of Rome and they were said to win Heaven’s forgiveness by taking part in it, their hearts were not in it.

‘Forty days and forty nights – well I dare swear it can be endured,’ said Thibaud.

‘Do you think the siege will be over by then?’ was the reply. ‘They have food and ammunition within those walls to hold out for a year.’

Thibaud shrugged his shoulders. ‘But I, my friend, have given a vow to serve only forty days and nights.’

The weary siege went on. The people of Avignon were truculent, believing that in time their friends of Toulouse would arrive to save them.

The heat was intense; men were dying of disease and Louis ordered that their bodies be disposed of by throwing them into the river. It was not the best of burying grounds but at least it was better than having rotten corpses lying around.

His own deteriorating health was noticed.

‘My God,’ said Philip Hurepel, ‘the King looks sick unto death.’

Philip Hurepel was disturbed. He was fond of the King as well as being a loyal servant. They shared the same father for Philip Hurepel was the son of Philip Augustus by Agnes, the wife he had taken after he had declared himself divorced from Ingeburga. The Pope had declared Philip Hurepel legitimate as a concession to his mother, but it was not everyone who accepted him as such. However, Philip Hurepel had never shown any desire to assert his right. He was a Prince of France and loved by Louis; in return he gave his affection and loyalty.

He discussed the King’s condition with a group of friends, among them Thibaud.

‘The King has fits of shivering which I like not,’ he said. ‘I fear they are a symptom of something worse. He finds it hard to keep himself warm. I have told them to put furs on the bed. But no matter if he be weighed down with furs he is still cold.’

‘What he wants,’ said Thibaud, ‘is a woman in his bed to keep him warm.’

Philip Hurepel looked with distaste at the troubadour.

‘As a poet,’ he retorted, ‘your thoughts leap to such matters. The King has ever turned his back on such amusements.’

‘’Tis an old custom,’ said Thibaud. ‘I merely mention it. When an old man cannot keep warm at nights there is only one remedy. I have seen it work again and again.’

‘Such talk is disloyalty to the King,’ said Philip sternly.

‘Thibaud is right,’ put in the Count of Blois. ‘A naked girl of sixteen years … that is what he needs.’

Philip ran his hand through his shock of hair which his father had remarked on and from which he had acquired his nickname. ‘Louis would be furious,’ he said.

‘He would have to admit that the remedy proved to be a cure.’

‘I have been close to the King for many years,’ said Philip, ‘and never have I known him to take a strange woman to his bed.’

Thibaud folded his hands together and raised his eyes. ‘Our King is a saint,’ he said with a hint of mockery in his voice. There was a great deal of mischief in Thibaud. The King was ill – sick of a fever. It might well be that he was a little delirious. What would he do if he awoke in the night and found a naked girl in his bed? Would he think it was the incomparable Blanche?

He had ever been faithful to his queen. He loved her; but so did Thibaud. Perhaps they had different ways of loving. Thibaud was romantic; he had to admit he enjoyed this saga of unrequited love. Louis would never indulge in such fantasy. Why should he? He had the reality.

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

But why not? It was a well tried custom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were at his bedside.

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

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

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

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

‘Who is this woman?’

The poor girl looked crestfallen.

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

A dislike of the man rose within Louis.

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

‘Sire,’ began Thibaud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yet I will not suffer traitors about me.’

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

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

Then he passed on.

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

Philip Hurepel remonstrated with him.

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

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

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

‘What rejoicing there would be in Avignon.’

‘Be sensible, Thibaud.’

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

‘If you go you will regret it’

‘You think only of your brother, Philip.’

‘Is he not your kinsman too?’

‘’Tis a fact he rarely remembers.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You fool,’ said Philip.

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

Then Thibaud and his company rode back to Champagne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was victory – but a dearly bought one.

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

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

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

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

He needed it.

So he began the journey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Is our father always right?’ asked Robert.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘But my father….’

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

Louis turned and rode back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They agreed that this was so.

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

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

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

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

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

‘My lady,’ said one, ‘is there something we can do for you?’

She shook her head. ‘There is one thing I would you would do for me and that is bring a sword and run it through my heart.’

‘My lady!’

‘Oh, that is foolish is it not? But if I could make a wish it would be to be lying in a tomb beside him. He has been my life. We have been together in love and understanding. Do you realise what that means?’

‘To have seen the King and you together, my lady, was to understand.’

‘I have no wish to live without him.’

‘There is the young King, my lady.’

‘Yes, the young King. Could it be that others could guide him better than I?’

‘None can guide him as you can, my lady.’

‘I know that to be true and it is for this reason only that I wish to live.’

‘You must live, my lady. You must not harm yourself with grief. You must remember, the young King needs you.’

‘It is true,’ she said. ‘Send the King to me.’

Louis came and throwing himself at her feet gave way to weeping.

‘My beloved son,’ said Blanche, caressing those shining blond locks, ‘you have lost the best of fathers, I the dearest of husbands. But we have work to do. We must not forget that.’

‘No, my lady, I do not forget it.’

‘His death which has made me a sorrowing widow has made you a King. He would want you to be worthy of him, my son.’

‘I will be. I promise you, my lady. I will never do anything that would make him ashamed of me.’

‘May God bless you always.’

They were silent, weeping together.

Just this night, thought Blanche. Just this little time to mourn him. Then there will be work to do. My dear young King – so beautiful, so vulnerable – it will not be easy for you.

But he would have her beside him – and she knew she would be strong.

Chapter XI ISABELLA SCHEMES

Six years of marriage had not had the effect of lessening Hugh de Lusignan’s passion for his wife – rather had it increased it. Uxorious, adoring, he had allowed her gradually to take over his life; he rarely made the most insignificant decision without consulting her and if she disapproved of it, that was an end to it.

His reward was a life of such eroticism as would have been beyond his belief had he not known her and the knowledge that – as far as it was possible for her to love anyone – she loved him.

In many ways she was not discontented with her life. She was close to her native Angoulême, and indeed spent much of her time there; she had children without much difficulty, although she did deplore the mild discomfort that must be endured before their arrival. She was very fruitful, which seemed natural in view of her insatiable sexuality, and she accepted her children with a certain amount of pleasure. Children could be very useful. In six years of marriage she had had five; and she guessed there would be more. Hugh, the eldest, was a fine boy who was very like his father in appearance and manners – a child as yet but one of great promise. Then there was Guy, only a year younger, and Isabella, William and Geoffrey. Four boys – all strong, all healthy. And a girl was useful. Young Isabella was a charming creature but Hugh declared she would never have the beauty of her mother. But then whoever had and whoever would?

But there was one thing Isabella could never forget and that was that she was a queen. It was all very well to be the centre of Hugh’s life and domain, to be admired wherever she went, to have every whim respected, but in Lusignan she was merely the Countesse of La Marche. With John she had been Queen of England and even when she was his prisoner, that fact had remained. In England she would still be Queen – though Queen Mother. She grimaced at the expression, but still with a son who was young and had not yet found a queen of his own she would have had considerable standing.

So there was always the need to remind everyone that she was a queen, to bestir Hugh to actions which would let everyone know how important he was.

Of course he was a lord of a great deal of territory. There were many who owed allegiance to him; but one fact remained and it irked her more than anything she had ever known – and that was that Hugh must swear allegiance to the King of France.

How she hated that cold-eyed queen who had regarded her with such distaste. She would like to see her brought low, her and her stupid Louis who doted on her. He was completely faithful to her. People were constantly commenting on it. Well, he was scarcely a man – and what of her? Did she have lovers? Although no scandal had touched her, all knew that the fat troubadour made songs about her. Isabella despised them all – Louis, Blanche and Thibaud of Champagne.

Messengers arrived at the castle with letters for the Count. She had gone down to the hall with Hugh to receive them, and when she saw that they came from the Queen she could not conceal her impatience.

She dismissed the messenger to the kitchens where he would be refreshed and said: ‘Let us go to the bedchamber where we can be quite alone to read what this means. It is important. Rest assured.’

She took the packet from Hugh, who meekly allowed her to do so, and when they were in the bedchamber it was she who broke the seals.

He came and looked over her shoulder.

‘My God!’ he cried. ‘Louis … dead.’

‘Always a weakling,’ she said. ‘You know what this means. She will be the sovereign now.’

‘It is young Louis …’

‘Young Louis! A boy of twelve. This is what Madame Blanche has been waiting for.’

Hugh was well aware that Blanche would be desolate at the death of her husband and no woman as wise as she clearly was would want to see her son of twelve years on the throne, but he had learned not to contradict Isabella.

‘She is the mistress now.’ She turned to Hugh. ‘It is to this woman that you will have to bow the knee.’

It was a familiar theme and Hugh would like to ignore it.

‘Why look,’ he said, ‘We are summoned to the coronation.’

Isabella’s eyes were narrow. She was thinking back to ten years before when the news had been brought to her of John’s death and she had then been in a similiar position to that in which Blanche found herself now. What had she done? She had instinctively known that her young son must be crowned without delay. Blanche was realising the same thing now.

‘We must make ready at once,’ said Hugh. ‘There is little time.’

‘Hold!’ said Isabella. ‘I am not sure that we are going to this coronation.’

‘Isabella, my dearest, this is a command.’

‘Hugh, my dearest, you married a queen. She does not take orders from that woman … even though she also is a queen. We are equal in rank and she does not command me.’

‘She commands us as Count and Countess of La Marche and as such we are vassals of France.’

‘Oh Hugh, you madden me sometimes. It is well that I love you. If I did not I should quarrel most surely with you and leave this place and go back to England.’

Hugh turned pale at the thought of such a disaster.

‘Now, my love. What are we going to do?’ she asked.

‘Prepare to leave. If we are going to be in Rheims …’

‘We are not going to be in Rheims.’

‘Isabella, what do you mean?’

‘We are setting out at once to call on our neighbour of Thouars.’

‘He too will be summoned to Rheims.’

‘Then we must reach him before he commits the folly of going there.’

Hugh stared at her aghast. She put her arms about his neck and laid his cheek against hers. ‘My dearest husband,’ she said, ‘where would you be without me? I am going to make you the most powerful man in France.’

‘Isabella, the King …’

‘That soft-cheeked infant. Do not talk to me of him. My Henry is a man in comparison. You see, my love, you are in a very good position. You are the husband of the mother of the King of England. I have been thinking for some time that we might be happier supporting him than this woman who now sets herself up as our ruler.’

‘But I have sworn allegiance …’

‘Oaths! What are oaths? Oaths are for vassals … We should not allow ourselves to be fettered by such.’

‘Isabella, much as you mean to me, I have my honour, my duty …’

She laughed softly. ‘And I would not have you other than you are. But before we go to Rheims I want you to come with me to visit our neighbours. I will send a messenger immediately to Thouars and Parthenay to tell them we are on our way.’

‘This is the coronation of our King …’

‘Oh, come, Hugh. There is no time to waste. That child is not ready to be crowned. He will merely be the mouthpiece for his mother.’

He made a mild effort to detain her; but laughingly she thrust him aside, and the next day they set off for northern Poitou.

Guy de Thouars, Hugh and the Lord of Parthenay were the most powerful lords of this part of the country and they had begun to realise that linked together they were a formidable force.

Guy received them eagerly when they arrived. Hugh by this time had allowed Isabella to override his doubts and had convinced himself that what she had suggested was indeed the truth.

Louis had been no friend to them; there was now a king who was only a minor; and Isabella was convinced that Blanche worked deviously against them.

It was Hugh who began the explanations. Isabella had primed him in what he had to say and she knew that Guy and Parthenay must be convinced that Hugh was not merely upholding her views.

Hugh pointed out that the late King had not served them well. He had suddenly decided to fight in the Albigensian war instead of continuing to wage war against the English. As soon as the Earls of Salisbury and Cornwall had shown they were not without military skill he changed wars.

‘Now,’ said Hugh, ‘we have a child as our King and we know full well that our true ruler will be the Queen.’

‘It seems likely,’ agreed Guy.

‘She will have able counsellors,’ put in Parthenay.

Isabella interrupted them: ‘We know the Queen, my lords; she is not of a temper to consider advice. She will have her say and expect all to follow her wishes.’

‘It would seem,’ said Hugh, glancing at Isabella, ‘that we should offer our allegiance elsewhere.’

The two men looked aghast, and Isabella said quickly: ‘I am not without influence in other quarters. I happen to be the mother of the King of England.’

‘My lady … my lord …’ began Guy.

‘Yes,’ said Isabella. ‘I can promise you lands and riches. When my son comes here and regains that which has been lost to England, he will not be ungrateful to those who helped him. I can promise you that.’

‘We have sworn an oath of allegiance …’

‘To King Louis VIII,’ cried Isabella. ‘He is dead.’

‘His son is now our King.’

‘His mother hastens to crown him, to have you all kneel before him and swear allegiance, but you have not done that yet, my lords. Will you be foolish enough to go to Rheims and mildly bend the knee to the Spanish woman?’

‘The coronation of our King is to take place on the twenty-ninth of this month.’

‘But three short weeks after the old King’s death! Well, we will say this for the lady. She knows how to move fast.’

‘I would say,’ put in the Lord of Parthenay, ‘that the Queen will be an able regent with good men to help her. We shall not find her ill-prepared for the task.’

Isabella was stung into sudden fury. Little enraged her more than to hear praise of Blanche.

‘Prepared! Indeed she is prepared. I’ll vow she was waiting most impatiently for this day. She … and her plump paramour.’

‘Isabella!’ cried Hugh. The others regarded her with amazement.

‘Oh, come,’ cried Isabella. ‘We know of these matters, do we not? She is a woman … for all that she shows a frozen face to the world. Have you read those verses written to her by her fat count? They are the words of a lover, my friends, a satisfied lover. Should we blame her? Louis was scarce a man. She has her needs like the rest of us. If she took him openly I could like her better. It is this mock purity which galls me.’

‘My lady,’ said Guy, ‘you speak of the Queen.’

‘I speak as one queen of another.’

‘This must not go beyond these four walls,’ said Hugh uneasily.

Isabella laughed shrilly. ‘My dear husband, my dear friends, it has already gone to the four corners of France. Are you so innocent that you do not know that tongues are wagging about our lily white Queen? He is not so silent. He might as well stand at the turret of his castle and proclaim his mistress to the world. He does more than that. He writes it in songs which are sung throughout France. Who does not know of the guilty passion of these lovers?’

‘Champagne writes of her as the unattainable,’ said Guy.

‘You are a soldier, my lord. You do not read into those poems what is there to be seen. He is mad with love of her. Louis dies suddenly. Did you expect him to die? Come, confess it. Was it not a shock to hear that the King was dead? But I tell you this: the Count of Champagne quarrelled with him. He left before the walls of Avignon … and soon after we hear the King is dead. Of a fever, we are told. Of drinking bad wine. Who gave Louis bad wine to drink? The Queen’s lover was there, was he not … and Louis died!’

‘But it was weeks after he had left that Louis died,’ Parthenay pointed out.

‘Those who are clever with poisons may choose the time they work. I tell you this, my lords, I call it strange that Thibaud of Champagne should write so of his love, and that he should be with the King before he dies. And the Queen … what of her? What does she say: “I must get my son crowned without delay.” In fact there has been such little delay that one might be forgiven in thinking that it was planned beforehand.’

There was a deep silence. With her glittering eyes and flushed cheeks Isabella presented a sight of such beauty that none of them could take their eyes from her. If there was something evil in her undeniable loveliness, that did not make it the less fascinating.

Hugh was undoubtedly uneasy. ‘There is no proof of this …’ he began, ‘but …’

‘’Tis better not spoken of,’ put in Guy quickly.

‘But we must think of the future,’ said Hugh.

The two men nodded.

‘Nothing rash should be done,’ went on Hugh.

‘Do you mean,’ asked Parthenay, ‘that we should not take our oath to the King?’

‘If we are not at Rheims we cannot do so,’ said Hugh. ‘In the meantime let us consider the friendship which must exist between my house and that of the English King. He is showing himself to be a king now … I do not think he would want to work against his mother and her friends.’

There was a deep silence in the hall. A young king; a woman to rule. It was not a good prospect. And was it not just the time when the King of England would attempt to regain the lands his father had lost?

He would need help. And who better to help him than the lords of Poitou and Lusignan?

Hugh was smiling quietly. Isabella is right, he thought. They are beginning to realise it. There is more to be gained from England than France. It was unwise of course to talk so of Blanche. Perhaps it is true. Why should it not be?

As usual he was beginning to believe what Isabella intended he should.

Then he thought suddenly: But by God, how she hates Blanche.

Thibaud of Champagne sang blithely as he made his way towards Rheims.

The King was dead and Blanche a widow. He thought of her constantly and now that she was a widow she had seemed to come a little closer to him.

As he rode along he was composing new songs to her. She was the White Queen now, for as was the custom she must go into mourning for her husband and mourning was white.

The Queen with a name as fair as her beautiful hair and the white mourning of a widow. Even her name was appropriate. Blanche, the White Queen.

He sang a little and he was enchanted with the words he made to fit the melody.

And now to the coronation at Rheims.

He had sent his sergeant-at-arms on ahead to make sure that an adequate lodging was found for him. It must be one worthy of his rank and loyalty. A coronation was a time when a new king must be reminded of his blood relations.

Rheims? What a fair city, situated boldly there on the Vesle river. It was becoming one of the important towns of France since Philip Augustus had been crowned there and Louis after him – and now young Louis the new King would share that experience. It seemed that a precedent was being set for the crowning of kings.

Thibaud was wondering whether he might present himself to the Queen immediately after the ceremony or if he should wait awhile.

He would make it clear to her that he would put his heart and everything he possessed at her feet.

‘You have but to command, Queen of my heart …’

He imagined the gratitude in her eyes. She would be glad of a protector now. She would have her enemies, for there were always those self-seekers who would be looking for advantages now that she was a widow. He would make her understand that she could rely on him absolutely.

He could see the towers of the cathedral. Many people were coming into the town. Knights with followers, all the highest in the land.

As he made his way through the streets to the lodging which he believed would be waiting him he was recognised by several people.

They cheered him somewhat mockingly. It was due to his size. He was known and recognised at once as the Fat Troubadour.

He acknowledged their greeting and broke into song. That silenced their mockery. They must be aware of the beauty of his voice and the merit of the songs he sang which were his own.

This put him in good spirits, and he rode along happily rehearsing what he would say to the Queen.

But where was his lodging? Where were the pennants fluttering in the breeze to tell the townsfolk that this was the temporary residence of Thibaud, Count of Champagne – a kinsman of the young King, and of royal blood?

His sergeant-at-arms was waiting for him at the house which was to have been honoured by his occupation, his expression woebegone, as he gesticulated wildly in explaining to his master what had happened.

‘My lord, I arrived here. I took up residence. I had your standards flying and the mayor and some of his men came to the house and demanded that the standards be removed … ay, and that I remove myself and all our servants from this place.’

‘God in Heaven,’ cried Thibaud. ‘I’ll have his blood.’

‘My lord, he pleaded that he acted on orders.’

‘On orders! Who would dare give such an order?’

‘The Queen, my lord.’

‘It can’t be so. Does she not know …? Why, I am the most faithful of her servants.’

‘Her orders were that you were to have no lodging in Rheims and that your servants were to be turned into the streets when they came to prepare one for you.’

‘But I am to go to the coronation.’

‘The Queen’s man said that the presence of one who had deserted the King’s father when he was in dire need, would not be welcome at the coronation.’

Thibaud was silent.

Then he clenched his fists. He realised he had allowed himself to dream too wildly. She was as remote as ever she had been.

A great rage possessed him.

‘We will go then,’ he said at length. ‘Doubtless there will be some who welcome us if the King does not.’

It was a moving sight when the boy King rode to the cathedral on a large white horse. The women among the spectators wept for him. He looked so young, so defenceless with his thick blond hair free of any covering, and so handsome were his beautifully chiselled features and his smooth fair skin.

One of the monks assisted him to alight and led him inside the cathedral. There was great dignity about the boy which was immediately noticed and commented on. Blanche, watching her son, was proud of him. He looked so vulnerable; he would need her guidance.

Had she been wise, she wondered, in refusing Thibaud of Champagne permission to attend? She was unsure now. A rumour had reached her that some were saying he was her lover and the thought had filled her with such anger that she had allowed her personal resentments to take precedence over her common sense.

The prospect of seeing that fat man at this time, when she was feeling the loss of Louis so acutely, was more than she could endure. But she did understand that the last thing she must do was antagonise any of the powerful lords who could make her position – but mainly that of her son – untenable.

A young king, a regent queen … that situation was filled with dangers. She would have to act carefully and quell her personal feelings in the future. Merely because the foolish troubadour had mentioned her in his songs in such a manner that she was immediately recognisable, people had started to circulate this slander. If she could discover the source she would let someone feel the weight of her anger.

In the meantime she must curb her feelings. It was disconcerting to contemplate that already she had acted recklessly.

She turned her attention to the ceremony. The Abbot of Saint-Rémi was approaching the platform on which young Louis sat and he carried the sacred oil with which the King would be anointed before he was crowned.

‘O God, keep him,’ prayed the Queen. ‘Long may he reign and well.’

He sat there on the platform before the chancel where all could see him, and gathered about him were the most important noblemen of France who had come from far places to assist at the coronation and afterwards to give the oath of allegiance.

They were dressing him now in the long purple hose which were decorated with the fleur-de-lis and then the tunic and cloak which also bore the golden lilies of France.

How beautiful he looked. All must agree to that. It was not merely that she saw him through a mother’s eyes. He was going to be a great king – a greater king than his father, a greater king than Louis or Philip. People would mention his name with that of Charlemagne.

Was that a premonition, a hope, a plea to God? She could not be sure. She could only say with fervour: ‘God save the King.’

The Bishop had placed the crown on his head and he was mounting the steps to the throne now; he sat on the silk encovering which was embroidered with the fleur-de-lis.

There could have been few in the cathedral who were not moved by the sight of their young King.

The Bishop came first to kiss him and then followed the noblemen in order of precedence … there to kiss the King and give him the oath of allegiance.

Thibaud of Champagne was missing. Others were missing too.

Where were Hugh and Isabella de Lusignan and their neighbours?

Suddenly the thought struck Blanche that the source of the rumours concerning her and Thibaud of Champagne could have come from Lusignan.

She could clearly picture the mocking evil eyes of Isabella.

And as she listened to the cheering as the little King rode through the streets of Rheims, she knew that, although there were many loyal men to support him, he would have powerful enemies.

As soon as the coronation was over the Queen must give her thoughts to the imminent birth of another child. This proved to be Charles.

She had believed that it would be a difficult birth, for she had received such a shock during the pregnancy, but the child arrived promptly and in good health and she herself, knowing that a quick recovery was essential, made one.

At the coronation many had been moved by the appearance of the beautiful young King, but how many of them, she wondered, would remain faithful to him if they thought they could best serve their own interests by being otherwise.

That was something she would soon find out.

She was still a little weak from her confinement when Brother Guérin came to see her. His gravity alarmed her, for she knew Guérin to be a man of unswerving loyalty. He had given a long and trusted service not only to her husband but to Philip Augustus before him and both had recognised his worth. This man, a hospitaller, who lived humbly, though because of his position at court could have amassed great wealth, had had one desire: to serve France well. Philip Augustus had singled him out for his confidences and had appreciated his skills. Louis VIII had made him his chancellor, and Blanche’s one anxiety about him was that his health might fail, for he was old.

So when he came to her and his concern was obvious, Blanche knew that he did not bring good news.

She received him in a private chamber and there he came straight to the point of his visit.

‘There are certain to be ambitious men who seek to profit from a situation such as that in which we now find ourselves – a young king who is not of an age to govern, and there will be those who wish to take the reins of government into their own hands.’

‘Such as myself?’ she asked.

‘My lady, you are the Queen and the King’s mother. It is fitting that you should place yourself at the head of affairs. There are many loyal men and women who appreciate your worth.’

‘And you are one of them, Brother Guérin?’

‘I am indeed, Madam.’

Then I feel great comfort,’ said the Queen.

‘But, my lady, you are surrounded by enemies. Some of them are strong and very powerful …’

‘I know that Hugh de Lusignan is my enemy.’

‘I regret it,’ said Brother Guérin. ‘It would not have been so but for his wife.’

‘Ah, Isabella. She has been responsible for much mischief. I would to God she had never decided to bring her daughter out to Hugh. If she had stayed in England methinks we should have been spared much trouble.’

‘You must know, my lady, that much discontent has been fermented.’

‘And she is at the bottom of it. You do not have to tell me that.’

‘Lusignan and Thouars have been joined by Peter Mauclerc,’ said Brother Guérin quietly.

Blanche put her hand to her head and groaned. Peter Mauclerc was a troublemaker. It was a great misfortune that he was related to the royal house and had descended from the Count of Dreux, one of the sons of Louis VI. As a younger son he had not been so well endowed as his brothers. How much trouble came from impoverished sons whose parents had had more of them than goods to share out! This always seemed to have a bad effect on the person concerned. John Lackland, King of England, was an example – and even when such people gained possessions their characters seemed to remain warped and for ever rapacious.

Peter Mauclerc had acquired his nickname because at one time he had been in holy orders. He had long left that behind him, but it was remembered and since he was noted for his ill deeds he became known as Peter Mauclerc.

Since a marriage had been arranged for him with the heiress of Brittany there had been a rise in his fortunes. His countess had died leaving him three children – John, Arthur and a girl, Yolanda.

As soon as he had Brittany he began making the reputation which had earned him his name; and all knew that he was a man who must be watched for he was capable of deception, self-advancement and any villainy that he could think up to further his own ends.

So when Peter Mauclerc’s name was mentioned Blanche was prepared for trouble.

Well she might have been.

‘His first claim is to the throne,’ said Brother Guérin.

‘To the throne. He must be mad.’

‘Perhaps merely puffed up with pride,’ admitted Guérin. ‘He declares that the first Count of Dreux was not the second son of Louis VI but his first son.’

‘What nonsense. Had he been he would have been King!’

‘His theory is that that Robert of Dreux was passed over because his father considered him to be less clever and capable of governing than his brother Louis who, though younger, was made out to be the elder and as Louis VII inherited the crown. In which case he, as one of the descendants, claims the throne.’

‘But this is absurd. Even if it were true he has elder brothers who would come before him.’

‘He reckons that if he fights for the crown it will be his. He is preaching that no good can come to a country which is governed by a boy and … your pardon, my lady … but I tell you what he says … a boy and a woman.’

Blanche laughed derisively.

‘When a minor comes to the throne there will always be such nonsense. We could send troops to capture this man. What he talks is treason. He should be in prison.’

‘I am of like mind,’ said Guérin. ‘But he has acted promptly.’

‘In what way?’

‘He has allied himself to powerful men. Thouars, Lusignan, and I hear that Thibaud of Champagne has joined the malcontents.’

Blanche put her hands over her eyes. What a mistake to turn Thibaud from his lodgings! She had expected that he would be faithful to her. What a fool she had been! He was a poet. What he wrote in his verses meant nothing to him. He chose words for their beauty more than their meaning.

She noticed that Brother Guérin was watching closely. O God, she thought, does even he believe these rumours?

‘Hugh de Lusignan is the most to be feared,’ she said.

‘He was once a tolerant man.’

‘Oh, but he married,’ she cried, ‘and since then has no mind of his own. He is one who does what he is told. It is not Hugh whom he must consider but she who guides him in all things. That woman! She will lead him to disaster in time. I know it.’

‘At this time,’ said Guérin gently, ‘they are to be feared. I have not told you all. Mauclerc has betrothed his daughter Yolanda to the King of England.’

‘Brother Guérin,’ she cried, ‘pray tell me all quickly. The situation becomes more and more gloomy as you proceed to give me disaster piecemeal.’

‘That is all I have to tell you, my lady. I think you will agree that it is a situation fraught with foreboding.’

‘I do. Powerful barons rising against the King. And one of them allying himself through marriage with England.’

‘Forget not that Isabella is the mother of the King of England. Her sympathies will be with him.’

‘And where hers are so are her husband’s.’

‘’Tis true. If the English King were to choose this moment to attack us, he would find strong support here.’

‘And these are the traitors we know. How many are there who keep their secrets, Brother?’

‘One day we shall find out unless we can put an end to this.’

The last thing I wish is for my son to be plunged into war so early in his reign.’

‘The position is dangerous, my lady, as it always is when a young king mounts the throne. He has not yet proved himself. He is but a child. Ambitious men are waiting to seize power.’

‘I do not wish to go to war,’ said Blanche.

‘There is only one other alternative.’

She nodded. ‘Negotiations. That is the alternative I intend to use.’

‘Mauclerc’s claim … ?’

Blanche gave an impatient exclamation. That is the least important. Who will take that seriously? It is the Lusignans who are making the trouble. From the day Isabella of Angoulême married Hugh de Lusignan I expected it. She saps his spirit. She makes him go the way she wants him to.’

‘It is perhaps natural that she should support her son.’

‘There is nothing natural about that woman. She is obsessed by herself.’

‘How will you overcome her obsession?’

‘Perhaps by offering her something better than she could get from her son.’

‘You will buy her loyalty?’

‘She has no loyalty to give to any but herself. I can perhaps buy her withdrawal. For if what one must have for the safety of the realm cannot be given there is only one alternative and that is to buy it.’

‘What will you use for currency?’

‘I will consider, Brother, and inform you of my decision. There is one bright hope in this sorry business and that is that those with whom we have to deal will give their allegiance to the highest bidder – for as long as it can do them good, of course.’

She would speak to him again later, she told Brother Guérin. Then she prepared to have done with her convalescence.

There was work to be done.

She must lose no time. The rebels were gathering against Louis. They were asking why France should be governed by a woman – a foreigner at that. Even those who wished to remain loyal to Louis did not want a foreigner ruling them – and a woman.

Forces were gathering at Thouars; they would attack in the spring. But she must stop the fighting. There must not be civil war in France.

‘Have we not enough to do to defend ourselves from the English?’ she asked. ‘How long will it be before they attack us?’

Brother Guérin said that he believed that Hubert de Burgh was urging the King not to think of regaining French possessions just yet. They had not enough men and ammunition to make it a success. It was true that the King’s brother, the Earl of Cornwall, was still in England and they must pray that he would not join up with rebels.

She set out and travelled south towards Thouars and set up her camp between that town and Loudun, She then sent messengers to Thouars and asked that one of their company should meet her that they might discuss their differences.

Then she waited in trepidation. So much depended on this meeting. Would they take her seriously? They must have known that her husband had taken her into his confidence, that she was as much a statesman as he had been, and how often he had benefited from her judgment. They must know that – foreigner though they called her – her one desire was for the welfare of France, that country of which her son was now the King.

Who would come? she wondered. Would it be Hugh de Lusignan? His wife would surely not be with him. How could she be in the camp! But he would know her wishes and be afraid to act against them.

It was not Hugh who came as the enemy’s ambassador.

She felt a flutter of excitement tinged with apprehension and a certain annoyance when he was brought to her, for the man who was bowing before her was Thibaud of Champagne.

So they were face to face – the heroine of his fantasies and the man who had told the world that above all things he longed to be her lover.

He was prepared, for he must have begged to undertake the mission, while she was taken completely by surprise; but it was she who was in complete control.

‘So you come here as my enemy, Count,’ she said briskly.

He lowered his eyes and murmured: ‘My lady, that is something I could never be.’

‘Let us keep to the truth,’ she retorted. ‘It will avail us nothing to reject that. You have joined those who stand against the King and they have sent you here to parley with me.’

‘My lady, I begged for the chance of doing so.’

‘That you might receive my scorn for you all in person.’

‘Nay,’ he said, ‘that I may have the joy of seeing you.’

She shook herself impatiently. ‘My lord, have done. Let us be sensible. You have come here to parley, have you not? To make terms with me that you and your fellow rebels may not harm the King and his lands.’

‘I promise you, my lady, that I will serve you with my life.’

That made her laugh.

‘So it seems, my lord! Pray keep your flowery phrases for your verses.’

‘You have read my verses, my lady?’

‘A few of them. When they have been brought to my notice,’

‘I will tell you the truth,’ said Thibaud, ‘for in your presence I could do nothing else. When I was banished from Rheims I turned to your enemies.’

‘Before that,’ she said. ‘I remembered how you had deserted the King and for that reason would not have you at the coronation of his son.’

‘I warned him. I had served my time. I was a loyal servant of the King but I had no love for him. That was impossible.’

She ignored the implication.

‘And now what have you to say? What threats have you come to offer against the King?’

‘Now that I have seen you, my lady, I could do nothing but serve you with my life.’

‘Even though that meant serving your King to whom you owe allegiance?’ she asked cynically.

‘If that were your command.’

‘It is.’

‘Then it shall be.’

‘You change sides quickly.’

‘I was never on any side but yours, my lady. I suffered momentary pique. I had planned to offer myself to you completely. To be your humblest slave if you so wished. And then I was turned away …’

‘I see that I acted unwisely in that. I ask your pardon for it.’

His face was illumined with a joy which almost made him handsome.

‘My lady, I swear I shall serve you with my life.’

‘At this time all I ask is that we make some agreement with the King’s enemies.’

‘They are powerful, my lady. Peter Mauclerc is bent on mischief. Hugh de Lusignan is in leading strings to his wife. Her son, Richard of Cornwall, is now in France; these rebels are planning to join with him.’

‘I know it well. And you are one of them?’

He said quickly: ‘No longer so, my lady.’

‘Are they bent on war?’

‘They could be. Mauclerc’s daughter is betrothed to the King of England. He must need support here badly to have agreed to that. But ’tis my belief that before that marriage becomes a fact the King of England will find reasons why the marriage shall not take place.’

‘But at this time Mauclerc believes it will.’

‘Mauclerc is not with our camp in Thouars at this time. It would be well to make a treaty before he joins it.’

‘Would that be possible?’

‘My lady, we could make it possible.’

‘How so?’

‘You have good bargaining counters, my lady. Ah, forgive me. It is not meet to speak thus of the children of France. There is nothing like a betrothal, an alliance, between families to bring them together.’

‘You believe this would be acceptable?’

‘If my lady would try, she would see. And no harm done if it failed. If it succeeded time would be won … time to let the young King become not so young … time to prepare for any conflict that might follow later …’

‘You give good advice, Count.’

‘I would give everything I possessed to you, my lady, and ask nothing more than that you allow me to your presence.’

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘I will return to my camp now,’ he said. ‘And you will see that I shall serve you with all my heart.’

When he had gone she sat brooding for some time. Her thoughts were in a turmoil. He disturbed her. He really was enamoured of her – this strange plump poet who did not look in the least romantic yet wrote such beautiful verses.

In some ways she hated to make use of him. Her impulse was to dismiss him, to tell him that she wished to hear nothing of him.

But that would be folly. She had seen how her actions at Rheims had been disastrous.

She must use the devotion of the Count of Champagne as well as she could. It was most important to make a truce with the rebel barons in order to strengthen her son’s hold on the crown.

Isabella came to Thouars where Hugh had asked her to join him. She knew that something important had happened and that he was afraid to make a decision without her.

The rebels were conferring with the Queen of France and her advisers. Blanche must be alarmed to condescend to do so. She must be learning that she could not flout the mighty knights and barons of France, Queen though she might be.

‘What news?’ she demanded imperiously when she was alone with Hugh.

He looked at her longingly and wonderingly. ‘You are even more beautiful than I have been remembering,’ he said.

She laughed, pleased but impatient.

‘That is good hearing,’ she replied, ‘but it would please me even more to hear that we had got the better of our enemy.’

‘We have been negotiating.’

‘Ah, and I trust have good terms. You must have realised the strength of your position since mighty Blanche herself has come to see you.’

‘I think the terms are excellent … for us. Blanche has offered her son Alphonse for our Isabella and our Hugh for hers.’

‘Our daughter is a child yet!’

‘But she will grow up. The King’s brother for our little Isabella and Hugh for the King’s sister. What think you of that?’

Isabella nodded slowly. ‘Fair enough,’ she said.

‘Mauclerc’s daughter Yolanda is for the King’s brother John.’

‘She was betrothed to my son Henry of England.’

‘Blanche fears us. That much is clear. Since she is ready to take Yolanda for her son to save her from an English alliance.’

‘And these are the terms of the treaty?’

‘They are, my dearest, and I think we have come well out of them.’

‘It is a good match for our Hugh,’ she admitted.

‘And for Isabella.’

‘These matches have a way of never being made.’

‘We shall see that they are.’

‘Will you, my strong warrior?’

‘I swear it.’

‘You see what she has done, do you not? She is making it impossible for us to side with my son. She is winning us to her side with these alliances.’

‘My dear, this is our home. Henry is far away. Do you not think we have more to gain from France than from England?’

‘That we shall discover. For the moment, it amuses me to see the Queen of France begging our favours. How was she when you spoke with her?’

‘I did not. It was not I who was the mediator.’

She turned on him fiercely. ‘It should have been you.’

‘We thought it better that it should be the Count of Champagne.’

Isabella stared at him; then she broke into loud laughter.

‘The fat troubadour! The Queen’s lover!’

‘You must realise that he is not that, Isabella. Blanche is a virtuous woman. She has always been.’

‘You believe that … like the rest. And you sent him to her.’

‘It was well. He made good terms.’

‘How I should love to have seen them together. How she must have laughed when he arrived. Mayhap it was a ruse on their parts … to be together. It may be that they sweetened their parley with other matters.’

‘You are quite wrong about the Queen.’

She turned a cold malicious glance on him. ‘So you think I am a fool.’

‘Never that … but … the Queen you know is …’

‘Let me tell you this, Hugh. I know the Queen’s sort. They are no different from the rest of us. Thibaud of Champagne has told us of their love affair, has he not? What if he murdered Louis to rid her of him?’

Hugh was clearly aghast.

‘Oh, she could not be involved in that, could she?’ went on Isabella. ‘She is too good … this pure white Queen.’

Hugh could not answer, nor could he completely hide his horror; but there must be no disagreement with Isabella. He did not want the time they could be together spent in quarrelling.

Blanche considered what she had done. The trouble had been thrust aside and there was peace temporarily.

That was what she had sought. Just a short respite while Louis grew up a little and understood what it meant to be a king.

Marriage-alliance with the family she hated since Isabella of Angoulême had become the head of it. Such betrothals, she consoled herself, so often came to nothing.

My children marry hers! She felt sickened by the thought of that. What if they had inherited their mother’s ways!

But there could be no question of any of these marriages taking place for years. She was safe. Before then she would find reasons why they never should.

She needed all her wits to keep the peace; to keep the kingdom intact until that time when Louis should be old enough to take over, and whatever was needed she would do, even if it meant feigning friendship with her enemies.

She heard that when Peter Mauclerc was told of the terms of the treaty he had cursed. He wanted war, that man, because he was going to make an attempt on the crown.

They did not tell her exactly what he had said but when she knew that he had declared vengeance on Thibaud of Champagne for betraying them, she knew too that he had coupled her name with that of the troubadour.

It was such as Peter Mauclerc who would sow the seeds of scandal all over France. Men such as he was; women such as Isabella. Such were her real enemies. Not men like Hugh who was led this way and that by a wife who had bewitched him.

But for a while there was peace. She must not be lulled into a feeling of security. She had to be ready. She knew that sooner or later the threat would come … if not from her enemies here, from those across the Channel. Henry would be furious. His mother was ready to support the French! His promised bride Yolanda was to go to a Prince of France!

It could not be long before the enemy from across the Channel decided to make war. When he did, could she rely on those men with whom she had just made her treaty?

Who could say? All she could do was be prepared.