The Battle of the Queens

Chapter XVII THE SPY FROM ROCHELLE

Isabella of Angoulême, Queen Mother of England and Countess de la Marche, had changed little over the years, although she was now the mother of many children. There had been one for almost every year of her marriage to Hugh. It was said that she must have some special power – and many believed it had been bestowed by the devil – for in spite of the encroaching years and the exigencies of childbearing she had remained beautiful and maturity had not brought a lessening of her allure.

She was arrogant, demanding and could be vindictive. Her husband and her children were in considerable awe of her; yet they were devoted to her. In spite of her overbearing manner and her extreme selfishness, they were aware of that enchantment which had been with her since she was a girl; and if it was in their power to give her what she wanted, they gave it.

Hugh, her eldest son, who greatly resembled his father, was her devoted slave; he would one day be the Count of Lusignan; Guy her second son was the Lord of Cognac; William was to have Valence and Geoffrey Châteauneuf, while Aymer was to go into the Church. Then there were the girls, Isabella, Margaret and Alicia.

Ever since she had married Hugh she had been obsessed by her hatred of one woman; and that hatred was perhaps the greatest emotion of her life.

Not a day passed when she did not think of Blanche, the Queen Mother of France, and when she would ask herself what she could do to make life uncomfortable for that woman. For many reasons she hated Blanche, and she knew that Blanche hated her. It amused her to contemplate that Blanche was as much aware of her as she was of Blanche and that the good and virtuous woman would be as ready to slip a dose of poison in her wine as she would in Blanche’s.

There was a natural antipathy which they could feel, so strong was it, whenever they were near.

Isabella rejoiced in the troubles of the Queen Mother of France – and they were great. For a forceful woman such as she was it was not easy to step back and take second place after ruling. She had been Regent of France while Louis was in his minority and now the little saint had become of an age to rule himself; and was showing himself capable of the task. He had married Marguerite of Provence – a pretty creature of whom he was enamoured – a little to the chagrin of his mother who had doubtless imagined she would keep her influence with him. A situation which amused Isabella, particularly when she heard that the poor little Queen went in fear and trembling of her mother-in-law.

Isabella had spread a great deal of scandal about her enemy in connection with Thibaud of Champagne, and there were many who believed that Blanche and Thibaud had in fact been lovers – and just a few who carried the scandal further and suggested that Thibaud had murdered Louis in order to enjoy more of the Queen’s company.

It was nonsense. Even wild romantic unwise Thibaud would not be such a fool. Isabella had to admit that. Blanche was a cold woman, very much aware of her regality; and she would never take a lover – let alone Thibaud of Champagne, the fat troubadour, who in spite of his poetry – which those who knew declared had great merit – was a bit of a buffoon.

She had laughed heartily when she heard the story of how when Thibaud was presenting himself at court in the most elaborate garments, on mounting the stairs to enter the Queen’s presence he had been covered in curdled milk which had been thrown on him from an upper balcony by Robert of Artois, Louis’s younger brother who, resenting the scandal surrounding this man and his mother, had decided to make Thibaud look ridiculous.

The Queen was furious to see her admirer in such a state and there would have been trouble had not her mischievous fourteen-year-old son confessed that he had arranged the incident.

He had been reprimanded and forgiven; but it did show that the scandal was well spread and that even the children of the royal household were aware of it.

Isabella had done her work well.

She longed for the day when the promises made in treaty between Hugh and Blanche which had been signed soon after the death of Louis VIII would be carried out. Then her daughter Isabella would be married to Blanche’s son Alphonse, and Hugh, the son and heir of the Lusignans, to Isabella, daughter of Blanche.

Then their families would be linked. Blanche would be mother-in-law to her son and daughter and she to Blanche’s.

That thought had sustained her through the years and now the time was approaching.

It was for this reason that she had insisted that Hugh ally himself to the King of France, which seemed unnatural since her own son was the King of England. But, she reasoned, Henry should never have allowed her to turn to his enemy. He should have been a better son to his mother and not denied her the dowry she had asked for.

The King and Queen of France with their son and daughter had offered the Lusignans more than Henry across the water ever had. Therefore he had lost his mother – and deserved to, as she was fond of telling Hugh.

Meanwhile she was waiting for these royal marriages which were going to bring so much power and pleasure to the family.

‘Surely,’ she had said to Hugh, ‘it is time our son was married. He is of an age. And the Princess is no longer a child.’

‘I have heard rumours of the Lady Isabella,’ Hugh told her. ‘She is growing up most pious and has expressed a wish to go into a convent.’

‘Nonsense,’ cried Isabella. ‘How can she go into a convent when she is betrothed to our Hugh?’

‘It would be possible,’ replied Hugh. ‘There has been no formal betrothal. I have heard that Queen Blanche is anxious for her daughter to have her will, since she could be happy in no other way.’

‘We should see that she is kept to her promise,’ retorted Isabella.

‘She herself made no promise, my dear,’ Hugh reminded her mildly.

‘You annoy me,’ she told him. ‘You have no spirit. That girl was promised to our son. It was the price we asked for peace. Promises were made to be kept …’

Hugh smiled gently. Did Isabella keep her promises? He would have reminded her how often she had broken her word when it was expedient to do so, but he would not, of course, for if he did she would fly into a fury and sulk for days – which he dreaded, for on those occasions she would lock the bedchamber door against him; and even after all these years that was a state of affairs which he found unendurable.

‘Blanche will decide,’ he said gently.

But the idea of that woman deciding their destinies made her angrier than ever.

She insisted that he send emissaries to the Court of France to ask when the marriage between their son and the daughter of France should take place. Hugh was reluctant. He could never forget that he was a vassal of the King of France. She had to remind him constantly that he might be, but she was a queen and a Queen of England and therefore on equal footing with the Queen of France.

Eventually, however, he gave way and his deputy was sent.

The answer came back promptly. The Princess Isabella had no desire for marriage. She was earnestly considering a life of seclusion.

Hugh shrugged his shoulders helplessly. What could he do? He was sure that if the Pope were called in His Holiness would most certainly approve of the Princess Isabella’s pious resolve.

‘It is a plot,’ shrieked Hugh’s Isabella. ‘A plot to flout us! I’ll swear that ere long we shall hear that she has married elsewhere.’

‘Nay,’ said Hugh soothingly. ‘She has always been a girl to spend long hours in prayer and meditation. It has been remarked for a long time that she had an inclination for the religious life.’

‘You talk as though she had not been promised to our son.’

‘Nay, my love, indeed she was promised, but if she has no feeling for the married state and has the Pope’s permission to be released from marriage there is nothing we can do.’

‘Nothing you can do, perhaps!’ cried his wife. ‘Has it not always been so? Have you not ever given way to those who would force their will on you? Have I not always had to force you to take action? It is small wonder to me that Spanish Blanche believes she can do what she will with you. You are spineless, Hugh de Lusignan!’

He showed a rare spirit. ‘Then I wonder that you allowed yourself to marry me.’

‘Because I thought that I might put a little spirit into you … which I have done. Where should we be if it had not been for me?’

Hugh sighed. He might have said: Living in peace with fewer enemies around us! But he restrained himself. She looked so magnificent in her anger, and he knew that without her his life would be bleak indeed.

‘I shall never forgive Blanche and her saintly Louis for this,’ she muttered.

Hugh was not unduly perturbed because over the years she had often expressed her hatred of the Queen, and he knew that it had always been so intense that nothing could in fact make it more so than it was already.

There was worse to come.

Alphonse, third son of Blanche, who had been promised to Isabella, daughter of Hugh and Isabella, was married to Joan of Toulouse.

This was flouting Lusignan indeed. The treaty was forgotten. All these years when Isabella and Hugh had been faithful to the Court of France – even though Isabella’s own son was the King of England – had brought them nothing. This was insulting.

Isabella raged and ranted so violently that her family feared she would do herself an injury. She raved against Spanish Blanche and cried out that she would be even with her. Hugh was afraid that her invective might be reported and reach the Queen’s ears.

Isabella did not care. She had never been so angry in her life. The Queen of France and her son the King behaved as though the Lusignans were the humblest vassals, of no account.

‘She shall see,’ cried Isabella. ‘She shall see.’

She wanted Hugh to call together the nobles of the neighbourhood to march against the King, and when he pointed out the impossibility of this, she called him a coward.

He tried to reason with her but she would not listen. She was a queen, she cried. It was difficult for those of less nobility than herself to understand. It may be that her husband was prepared to stand by and see her insulted; but she thanked God that she had enough courage left to fight for her rights.

For days she refused to speak to Hugh. Her son implored her to forget her anger. She raved against them all. They had no thoughts for the insults heaped upon her by that Spanish woman. Did they not see that her sole reason was to discountenance the woman she hated?

‘I shall get even with her!’ she cried. ‘One of these days it will not be Blanche who sits and laughs at Isabella, Queen of England, Countess of Lusignan. I can promise you that.’

Her family did not want her to promise them anything but that she would forget her rancour.

When she heard that Alphonse had been created Count of Poitiers and had taken possession of Poitou her fury broke out into even greater violence.

She was now sure that Blanche’s motive was to humiliate her, for Poitou had been the territory of her family for years. Richard Coeur de Lion had been the Count and at this time Richard of Cornwall, her second son, deemed himself to own it.

‘A deliberate insult to my family,’ cried Isabella.

And she shut herself into her bedchamber plotting revenge.

Blanche had every reason to be proud of her son.

After the death of her husband she had worked solely to protect young Louis from his enemies and to keep him on the throne, but when Louis came of age she had been able to pass over power to him with every confidence.

She had reason to thank God for Louis. He was extremely handsome and distinguished looking with his mass of blond hair and fine fresh skin, but what was most gratifying was that inherent goodness. There was about Louis a growing saintliness, something wise and gentle. Not that he was by any means aloof from the worldly pleasure. He was elegant, took a pride in wearing magnificent garments when state occasions demanded that he should; and he excelled in games and was fond of amusements such as hunting. No, there was nothing of the recluse about Louis. He was greatly interested in the way people lived and could be very distressed at the conditions of the poor. He determined to do something about bettering their conditions, he told his mother; and he liked to go out into the forest very often after Mass and would take with him some of his friends, but he made it clear that anyone, even a passing traveller, might join the company. Then he would bid them talk – of any matter which interested them. He wanted to know their opinions and not only of those who frequented the court.

Blanche at first remonstrated with him. Was this a kingly act? she wondered. Was he not in some way besmirching his royalty by making himself so accessible?

He shook his head at this and replied: ‘It is the King’s duty to rule his people, and how can he do this wisely if he does not understand his people’s problems?’

Blanche withdrew her disapproval. She had long before known that this son of hers was a king who would have a great effect on his country.

He had a few of the weaknesses of young men – including a fondness for the opposite sex – and she decided that it would be a good idea to get him married early, and when she suggested this to him, he raised no objection.

It was not difficult to find a bride for the King of France; and when Blanche selected a princess who was said to have received the best of educations and was also noted for her beauty, Louis agreed to be married without delay.

So Marguerite of Provence became Queen of France, and the two young people took to each other, and when Louis had a wife he settled down at once to a sober domesticity. No more amatory adventures. No more extravagant clothes; he began to dress with the utmost simplicity; he became more reflective. He confessed to his mother that he had two great missions in life: to rule France well and at some time, when it was safe to leave the country, to go on a crusade to the Holy Land.

Blanche replied that ruling the country was his first duty and she believed that most kings found it a lifetime’s work.

He agreed but she could see the dreams in his eyes and she wondered whether he was not a little too serious. She wondered too whether he was growing away from her.

He was completely content in his marriage and Blanche, who had believed her son’s welfare was her ultimate desire, surprised herself at her growing resentment. She loved this son of hers too much, perhaps. Of course she wanted his happiness, but she could not bear to lose him. Yet, as his wife passed out of her girlhood he took her more and more into his confidence; and it seemed to Blanche that, even apart from this, they had little domestic secrets in which she had no share.

For the first time in her life Blanche felt alone. Her husband had loved her dearly and greatly respected her. She had helped him make decisions; she had ruled with him; and on his death she had ruled for Louis and then with him; and now this little girl from Provence was slowly but surely ousting her from her position. It was becoming Louis and his wife Marguerite – not Louis and Blanche his mother.

Because she was fundamentally wise, Blanche reasoned with herself. It was not an unusual situation. Mothers who had greatly loved their sons frequently resented their sons’ wives. The fact that, in their case, this meant a shifting of power made the situation even harder to bear.

Marguerite became pregnant and there was great rejoicing throughout the court. Blanche took charge and would not allow her to accompany the King on some of his journeys.

‘I shall be with him, my child,’ she told Marguerite. ‘It is for you to rest. You must take great care of yourself.’

Louis knew what was happening. He and Blanche had been so close that he understood her thoughts completely. He loved her dearly; he was appreciative of all she had done for him; but she would have to understand that his wife must come first with him. It was something to which he would have to bring her in time, but he would do it gently, for he had no wish to hurt Blanche, for whom he had such love and respect.

Moreover Marguerite was made very unhappy by Blanche’s treatment of her. Like most people she was decidedly in awe of Blanche and had tried hard in the beginning to win her approval. She saw that this was useless for the Queen Mother had no intention of allowing intrusion and could not bear to share her son with anyone.

So alarmed was Marguerite by her formidable mother-in-law that she warned her servants to let her know when Blanche was approaching so that she might have time to escape. Even Louis resorted to this subterfuge; and matters grew worse, for when Blanche was under the same roof, she made it difficult for the royal pair to be together at all.

Blanche was aware of her selfishness and hated herself for it, but she could not bear to relinquish her hold on her son. She realised that beyond anyone she loved this son; and never had she cared for any as she cared for him. To such an extent had her obsession grown that she could not endure it when his attention strayed from her; she wanted him all to herself; and gradually she had begun to look on his love for his wife as the biggest threat to her happiness.

Often she asked herself if she would have wanted him to have had an unhappy marriage. Of course she would not. What she wanted was for him to have married a nonentity, a silly pretty little wife who was good for nothing but bearing children. It had been a mistake to choose one of the most educated princesses in Europe.

In due course, Marguerite gave birth to a sickly child who died soon after and the Queen herself came near to death. Louis remained at her bedside, so much to his mother’s chagrin that she came to the sick room and told him how much it grieved her to see him stay there. ‘You can do no good, my son, by remaining here,’ she insisted.

Louis stood up and as he did so, Marguerite opened her eyes and looking full at Blanche said with unusual spirit: ‘Alas, neither dead nor alive will you let me see my lord.’

She had half raised herself in her bed and as she spoke these words she fell back, her face ashen pale, her eyes closed, and she appeared to have stopped breathing.

There was intense horror in that room. Louis fell on to his knees at the bedside and said quietly: ‘Marguerite, come back to me … I swear that we shall be together … if only you will come back.’

In those moments, when it seemed that the Queen of France was dead, Blanche suffered an overwhelming remorse.

She could not bear the sight of her weeping son kneeling by his wife’s bedside; she could not bear to think of what the future would be if Marguerite died.

She came to the bed. ‘Glory to God,’ she whispered, for Marguerite was still breathing.

‘She has fainted merely,’ she cried. ‘Go to the doctors, Louis. Bring them quickly. We will save her yet.’

And they did. During her convalescence it was Blanche who insisted that Louis should be with her. ‘Give me grandchildren,’ she told Marguerite, ‘and I shall be content.’

This was as near as she could get to an expression of contrition.

It was a bitter lesson she had learned for she knew that had Marguerite died Louis would never have been close to her again.

She accepted her own selfishness. She faced the truth; she had made him the centre of her life; but she saw now that her love had been selfish. His happiness, his victories were hers, and she must learn to rejoice in his marriage to a wife whom he loved.

Released from her determination to keep her son to herself, she was happier than she had been since his marriage. Marguerite quickly became pregnant again and accepted the new relationship between them with a sweetness which was characteristic of her.

There was so much evidence that Marguerite loved Louis truly, and as a good mother Blanche began to rejoice in their happiness together.

Rumours were coming to court constantly. There were always enemies, and she had never trusted the Lusignans. She talked of them with Louis and Marguerite.

‘Hugh would be a good and loyal vassal,’ she said, ‘but I would never trust Isabella of Angoulême. There is an evil woman.’

‘Hugh is too powerful to be lightly put aside,’ said Louis. ‘He could, if he had a mind to it, stir up great trouble.’

‘He has no mind of his own. That should be our concern. We have to deal with Isabella, and believe me, I know from the past, she is capable of any evil.’

Blanche had always had friends who travelled about the country and reported to her what was happening. Louis knew this and was interested to hear that in Lusignan Isabella made no secret of her determination to take revenge on the King of France and his mother. She greatly resented the desire of Princess Isabella to go into a convent and Alphonse’s marriage had even more infuriated her.

‘I hear that she is stirring up trouble,’ said Blanche.

‘Is that not a perpetual state of affairs?’ asked Louis.

‘Never more than now. I believe the situation is becoming more dangerous there. It is for that reason that I intend to send a man there … He is from Rochelle. He has no reason to love them and I believe him to be loyal to you. His duty will be to listen and to report what he hears.’

‘Another spy,’ said Louis.

‘Yes,’ replied Blanche, ‘another spy.’

The French Court had travelled down to Saumur in Anjou. There the King intended to hold a great display. It would be costly and luxurious although such extravagance was alien to his nature, for his mother had impressed upon him the need for this. It was, she had explained, to show not only the wealth of the King of France, but his power.

She admitted that she had been greatly disturbed by the accounts which had been sent to her by the man from Rochelle. There could be no doubt that Isabella of Angoulême was stirring up trouble. She was impressing on Hugh the need to show the Court of France that they could not be flouted. She was in touch with the powerful lords of Saintonge and the Angoumois and impressing on them the need to hold themselves in readiness to take up arms against the King, for it would soon be necessary to do so.

Louis realised this and agreed with his mother.

‘During the ceremonies,’ she said, ‘it would be well for Alphonse to receive the homage of those counts whose suzerain he is.’

‘Which,’ said Louis, ‘will include those who will be none too pleased to do so.’

‘All the more reason why they should.’

‘Do you think Isabella will allow Hugh to pay that homage?’

‘If we are watchful, yes,’ said Blanche.

Louis looked quizzically at his mother and she said, ‘Our man from Rochelle is a good servant to us.’

Chapter XVIII ISABELLA’S REVENGE

It was while Isabella had gone to her castle of Angoulême that the summons appeared for Hugh to attend the court at Saumur in order to pay the homage required of him by his suzerain Alphonse.

Hugh could not but be relieved that Isabella was away. He knew that she would have been furious at the summons, but as a law-abiding man and one who had been brought up to study his honour and to do without question what was demanded of him in that respect, he realised that he should in duty bound obey the summons.

When Isabella was not there he could reason with himself. She was wrong, but he understood her anger. She was the Queen Mother of England and as such the equal of the Queen Mother of France, and it was humiliating for her to have to play a humble part in France. He could not imagine his life without Isabella. It had been empty of excitement before he had married her. He never regretted for one moment that marriage. Violent scenes there were, but there always would be where Isabella was. He was a man of peace, but he was only half alive without her; and the truth was he could not live without her. Virago she might be, but she was, to him, the most attractive woman in the world.

And now this summons. He knew he should obey it. It was his duty to. Isabella would be enraged. He would have to try to explain to her that it was his duty to pay homage to his liege-lord and even if he did think the title should not have been bestowed on Alphonse, it would be tantamount to an act of war to refuse to pay homage.

Through years of living with Isabella he had learned that if something should be done it was better to do it first and suffer for it afterwards, for not to do it would mean that he would be persuaded against his judgment; and in this case such an act could plunge him into a war for which he was not ready.

After a good deal of consideration he rode to Saumur and there paid homage to Alphonse.

There was no doubt that Louis and his mother were pleased to see him. They had been afraid that he would not come, but thanks to the man from Rochelle, the summons had been sent when Isabella was absent, which had meant that the sober Hugh had made his own decision, which, of course, was the right one.

Hugh took part in the jousts and tourneys and even though he was no longer young, carried himself through with skill and dignity.

If he had never married Isabella, thought Blanche, how much happier we should all have been. Isabella would have remained in England to plague her son – which would have been good for us too. Alas! But at least we have outwitted her this time.

When the royal party left, Hugh was with them and as they passed through Lusignan, it was natural that they should stay at the castle there.

With what trepidation Hugh had led them through the gates.

Blanche had caught sight of the man from Rochelle among those who came out to pay their respects to the King.

The Lady Isabella was not in the castle, for she had not yet returned from Angoulême.

Blanche was amused. She was indeed scoring over her enemy. And she was showing Hugh how much easier life would be for him without his wife.

There was merriment in the castle. The minstrels sang and there was feasting; and the next day when the royal party left, Hugh rode some way with them to speed them on their way.

When he returned to the castle he was dismayed, for Isabella had returned and discovered that not only had Hugh been to Saumur to pay homage to Alphonse, but also that the royal party had stayed in the castle.

Her fury possessed her, and Hugh feared she would do herself an injury.

She – a queen – had been slighted. Her husband had done homage to a mere count and that meant that she must take second place to his wife … a countess when she was a queen. It was unendurable. It was better that she was dead.

She stormed into the castle calling to her servants to do her bidding. The furnishings of those rooms which had been put at the service of the royal party must be torn down and thrown out. Everything they had used must follow. She stood in the midst of the turmoil, her hair unbound – for it had escaped from her head-dress – and fell about her shoulders in glorious confusion. The colour flamed into her cheeks seeming to add to the depth and beauty of her violet eyes. Even the humblest servant was impressed, though conscious that her fascination flowed from something evil.

‘My love,’ cried Hugh, ‘what do you intend to do with these things? If you need them at Angoulême I can buy more …’

‘Out of my way,’ she cried. ‘I want nothing of one who so demeans himself and me.’

‘Tell me,’ wailed Hugh. ‘Tell me what you wish.’

‘I wish this,’ she shouted, ‘that I had never come here to be insulted thus.’

She leaped on to her horse and casting a disgusted look at the goods which had been thrown out, she galloped off.

Hugh was bewildered. Two of his sons, Hugh and Guy, came to join him.

‘She will have gone back to Angoulême,’ said young Hugh.

‘I do not understand …’ began his father.

‘She was in a fine fury when she knew what had happened. She said she would go back to Angoulême.’

Hugh sighed and ordered the servants to carry the furnishings back into the castle and set them up in their old places.

Then he went sorrowfully into the castle.

He tried to explain to his sons. ‘There was nothing else I could do. I was duty bound to pay homage to the Count of Poitiers. Honour demands it of me.’

His sons agreed with him.

But that was small comfort. The quiet of the castle was unendurable to them all.

‘I must bring her back to us,’ said Hugh.

So he set out for the castle of Angoulême.

The castle was barred against him.

‘My lord,’ said the man at arms, ‘my lady has given orders that none shall be let in … and especially you, my lord.’

Some men might have forced their way in and subdued her. Not Hugh. He was overcome with sorrow. He heartily wished that he had refused to pay homage to Alphonse. It would have been an act of war, but anything was better than that Isabella should leave him.

He asked one of her servants to tell Isabella that her husband was at the gates humbly begging to see her.

The answer came back: ‘My lady will not receive you, my lord.’

Miserably he waited outside the castle until night fell and then he had no recourse but to take a lodging in the Knights Templars’ Hostel which was close by.

The next day he was back at the castle. More messages were sent in and more refusals brought out.

It was three days before she consented to see him.

She stood in the hall, her beautiful hair unbound; her gown of soft blue velvet open at the throat to show her magnificent bosom across which her white hands were folded almost symbolically as though she were withholding herself from him.

‘Well, my lord,’ she cried.

‘My dearest wife …’

‘Nay,’ she interrupted. ‘Not your dearest wife. You cannot count me so. I am not dear to you. Have you not allowed me to be humiliated … insulted …’

‘Nay, ’tis not so. I would never allow that.’

‘But you have. You have bowed the knee to my enemies.’

‘I will do everything you ask of me. Only listen, Isabella. Come back to me …’

She looked at him from under the thick dark lashes. ‘Well, she said, ‘you will listen to reason then? And let me tell you this, Hugh: if you do not do as I wish I shall never lie beside you again. I will not suffer you in my sight.’

‘Do not say such things. You are my wife. You know my feelings for you.’

‘At this time I know that you have betrayed me. You will have to show me that you have some concern for me.’

‘You are my concern … you are my life …’

She laid her hand on his arm, her expression softened.

‘So thought I,’ she said. ‘But that woman came … that Spanish woman. I wish she would come back to my castle. I would see that she never left it. I would deliver her such a draught which would send her writhing in agony … and this should be long lasting that she might not die easy.’

‘Isabella, have a care …’

She laughed loudly. ‘Poor frightened Hugh! I tell you this: you will have no need of fear if you listen to me. We are going to regain that which has been taken from us. We are going to have Spanish Blanche on her knees begging before us …’

‘Isabella, let us plan carefully … quietly …’

She looked at him with shining eyes.

‘So you will do as I wish, Hugh?’

‘I will do anything for you,’ he answered. ‘The only thing I cannot bear is that we should be apart.’

Gently she touched his cheek.

‘I knew you would come to me, Hugh. I knew you would help me to revenge.’

Together they rode back to Lusignan. The first plan was to gather together all those barons who were hostile to France.

They would invite them to the castle and lay their plans.

Isabella had an idea which she had decided she would not set before them. In time they would realise that she was more capable of bringing about the defeat of the French than any of them. This was her quarrel. This was obvious when the humiliating subservience of Hugh was considered. As she saw it – two women rode at the head of their forces – one was the Dowager Queen of France and the other of England. Blanche was her enemy. Blanche was the one she wished to see brought low. Blanche who had hated her but not as much as she hated Blanche. Blanche who had contrived to make Hugh bend the knee to her son – and not even her first-born – by bestowing the Poitiers title on him and thus setting him above the Count and Countess of La Marche.

This was going to be a full-scale war. No skirmishing between barons. And she knew how to make it so.

This was her secret.

Why should she not write to her son? He would be eager to come to the help of his mother – particularly when in doing so he could fulfil a lifelong ambition.

The barons of the south would rise against the King and his mother – and meanwhile the English would land and march south.

Louis and his forces would be caught in a pincer movement. Defeat for France. Triumph for England, and the King of England would have his mother to thank. She would not let him forget it.

She would write to Henry in secret. She would tell him how many men she could raise. And when Hugh and his friends of the South realised the English were joining them, she would admit this happy state of affairs had been brought about by her ingenuity.

She sent messengers in secret to England.

The man from Rochelle was assiduous in his duties. Blanche was informed of the meetings of the Barons at Lusignan and the gist of the conversations which took place there.

A messenger arrived at the Castle of Lusignan.

The new Count of Poitiers was holding court at Poitiers and he commanded all his vassals to attend.

Hugh was shaken when he received the order, for he could only guess what Isabella’s reaction would be.

She laughed when she heard it.

‘What now?’ asked Hugh fearfully.

‘We are going to Poitiers,’ said Isabella.

On the journey there she told him what she planned they should do. It was useless for him to protest that it would be an act of war. She was adamant.

‘One thing I will never allow,’ she said, ‘and that is for you to bend a knee to this man.’

‘But he is my overlord … as I am overlord to so many …’

‘If you pay homage, then that is tantamount to my doing so,’ declared Isabella. ‘I shall never do it, Hugh. If you do, it is the end of everything between us. I shall go to Angoulême and you shall never be admitted to my castle.’

‘My dearest wife, we stand together,’ answered Hugh.

In the town of Poitiers, a lodging of some magnificence, befitting their rank, had been provided for them. Isabella smiled as she studied it

The new Count of Poitiers is afraid of us, Hugh,’ she said. ‘He does not wish to offend us. Well, we shall show him our true feelings …’

‘In view of our plans, is that wise, Isabella?’

‘We are not paying homage to him, Hugh. I have said that if you do so it is the end between us.’

‘I know, I know,’ said Hugh unhappily.

‘Well, you know what we have to do.’

He nodded.

The time came when they must pay their respects to the Count.

Hugh’s war-horse was ready for him. He was attired as for war. On the crupper behind him was Isabella in rich blue velvet edged with ermine, her beautiful hair loose.

Thus, surrounded by their men-at-arms, all of whom carried their cross-bows as though ready for battle, they rode into the presence of the Count of Poitiers.

There was a tense silence throughout. The Count stared in astonishment. Every eye was on the warlike Hugh and his beautiful wife.

Then Hugh said loudly so that all could hear: ‘I might have thought, in a moment of forgetfulness and weakness, to render homage unto you. Now I swear that I shall never be your liegeman. You have unjustly named yourself Count of Poitiers, a title which belongs to my stepson, Earl Richard of Cornwall.’

The Count of Poitiers cried out in protest but by this time, having made his declaration, Hugh and Isabella and their armed men thrust aside any who would bar their progress, and galloped back to the lodgings.

There they commanded their men to set fire to the lodgings as an act of defiance and to show the Count of Poitiers in what contempt they held him.

Isabella was laughing wildly as they rode out of Poitiers.

‘It was magnificent. Did you see that poor fool’s face? He was never so surprised in his life. Did you see how he grew pale when you mentioned my son Richard?’

‘It means war,’ said Hugh soberly.

‘What matters it?’ demanded Isabella. ‘Are we not prepared?’

And she thought of the messages she had sent to England and the reply she had received.

Her son Henry was preparing to attack the French.

So it was war.

The French had long been aware of the preparations which were going on at Lusignan and were by no means as unready as their enemies had believed.

The barons, brought together by Hugh and Isabella, did not know that Isabella had told her son Henry that these men were eager to place themselves under the English Crown. They had no intention of doing this, their one idea being to establish their own independence.

Isabella brushed this aside. She would deal with any such arguments when they arose. All that mattered now was that Henry should come with his armies and they with the barons bring ignominious defeat to the French. Thus should Blanche be humbled. She should do homage to Isabella.

She was at the coast to greet her son when he arrived.

It was an exciting moment for them both. It was years since they had seen each other. The little boy she had left in England after having him crowned with her throat-collar was a man.

He was amazed – she knew at once – by her apparent youthfulness. She shook out her long hair and laughed aloud.

‘Is it possible?’ he asked. ‘You … my mother.’

‘It is so, my fair son, and it pleases me that you have come to help your mother whom Spanish Blanche and her sons would eagerly trample beneath their feet. Now, pray God, it will not be as they wish … It will be quite the reverse.’

Henry declared that he would win back all that had been lost to England. That it should be Plantagenet country from the coast to the Pyrenees.

‘So be it,’ declared Isabella.

But it was not to be.

Louis was a brilliant general and through her spies Blanche had kept him fully informed so that he was well prepared.

He began by taking possession of several castles belonging to those of whose loyalty he was unsure. Their owners quickly decided that it would be wise to support the King of France.

Louis was already winning the approval of his subjects. His mother might be a foreigner but she was a strong woman. She had held the regency while waiting for her son’s majority with wisdom. Many of them remembered King John.

It very soon became clear that the easy victory planned by Isabella was not going to come about.

The French were winning. The English had their backs to the sea and it was not easy to bring stores across the sea.

Henry was disappointed. He had not found what he had expected.

He took Hugh to task about this. He had been deceived, he said. ‘You promised me as many soldiers as I could wish for. You told me that hundreds of knights were awaiting my coming that I might deliver them from Louis’s tyranny.’

‘I told you no such thing,’ cried Hugh.

‘But indeed you did. I have your letters in my travelling bags and can confirm this.’

‘You cannot, for I sent no letters. I would have told you nothing but the truth.’

Henry narrowed his eyes. ‘Such letters were received by me. They gave an entirely false picture. I tell you this: You have brought me here on false promises.’

‘You say you have had such letters in truth …’

‘I say it and I will prove it. I will have them brought and shown to you.’

‘And signed with my name?’

‘With your name and seal.’

‘May God help me,’ cried Hugh. ‘I understand now. It is your mother who wrote these letters. She has used my name and seal.’

Henry turned away in contempt.

‘You should take better care of your wife,’ he snapped.

He was angry and humiliated. He could see defeat staring him in the face. He had been promised men, arms and support throughout the country and a weak ineffective enemy. And what had he found? Little support, few men and a strong French army who had forestalled him.

Everywhere the French were victorious and Henry, accepting defeat, left for England.

Blanche was exultant.

‘The Count de La Marche is at your mercy,’ she told her son.

‘We owe much to your spy who brought us such clear reports of their plots,’ answered Louis.

‘And now our braggart Count is asking for peace?’

‘And for his lands?’ asked Blanche.

‘They shall belong to the Count of Poitiers under the suzerainty of the crown.’

‘Madame Isabella will like that!’ said Blanche ironically. ‘I would give much to see her when she hears the news.’

Her wish was granted.

Deprived of their lands there was nothing to be done but to go to the King and ask for mercy. Too much was at stake for pride to intervene. Louis had confiscated most of their land but there was some on which Hugh could hope for a grant, but this could only be obtained through special intercession with the King.

It was therefore necessary to present himself in person with his wife and family.

Louis was already noted for his magnaminous nature. There was a chance, Hugh knew, that if he was sufficiently humbled and showed himself contrite, Louis would be lenient.

Isabella realised this and much as it went against her nature she knew that she must join Hugh.

It was a moment she would never forget.

Louis was seated on his chair of state and as she had feared, beside him was his mother. She could be trusted to make herself a spectator of her enemy’s humiliation.

They knelt before the King; Hugh, Isabella and every member of their family. They wept and remained on their knees while Hugh declared that he had been ill advised.

If Isabella felt a twinge of conscience she did not show it. In fact she was not thinking of the part she had played in this miserable drama so much as the hatred she felt for that pale-haired complacent woman.

Like Isabella, Blanche had kept her looks and was still beautiful – calmly so, with that purity of feature and those ice blue eyes.

She is everything that I am not, thought Isabella. The only thing we have in common is hatred.

The King was playing his saint’s role, she perceived. He liked not to see great soldiers so humbled, he said, and bade them rise. He bore no malice against Hugh, he said; he forgave him. If he would go back to Lusignan and remain the faithful vassal of the King, this revolt would not be held against him. The King would ask that he give up three castles as a guarantee for his fidelity; the King’s garrison would be in those castles and that garrison must be maintained at Hugh’s expense. Later they would review the situation and if the King had no cause for complaint the position could once more be reviewed.

Hugh kissed the King’s hand and with real tears in his eyes thanked him for his mercy.

The two women regarded each other. Blanche could not veil the triumph in her heart. Angry as she was, Isabella knew that Blanche must have no notion that murder was in hers.

Silently they rode back to Lusignan.

There was the castle, its towers reaching to the sky, its grey walls as solid as ever.

‘It might so easily have been taken from us,’ said Hugh sadly. ‘The King is generous.’

‘They were prepared,’ cried Isabella. ‘All our plans were known to them. Someone must have told them.’

‘They had their spies everywhere …’

‘So but for spies …’

All her dreams, all her hopes were gone. She would not give up, though. She cared nothing for Louis and his godly ways. Her enemy was the woman who stood there watching her humiliate herself … watching her with those icy blue eyes.

She had taken from Isabella what she had most coveted: power.

Now we are reduced to this, she thought. My husband has betrayed me. First John and now Hugh. Weaklings both of them.

But no matter. There is no weakness in me. I will have my way. She has reduced me to this. How can I hurt her as she has hurt me? What does she love more than anything on earth? The answer flashed into her mind: Louis.

Spies had ruined their plans. Spies should work for her.

It was not difficult to come by what she needed. Everything could be obtained by money.

She sent for two men – villains both of them, but she needed villains for this task.

‘What I wish of you is a delicate task,’ she told them. ‘Once it is completed you will slip away and come back to me. When I have the news I need you will be so rewarded that you will build a castle apiece and rise high above your humble station.’

‘It is a dangerous task,’ said one of the men.

‘Only if you are caught. If you are clever it will be easy. First you will find appointments in the royal kitchens. That should not be difficult. You will then know which dishes are prepared for whom and when you see one that is especially prepared for a certain person … that is all you need to know.’

‘It would depend on the person.’

‘Do you imagine that I should offer you this reward if it were for some humble knight? If you speak of this to any … and I say any … I will have your tongues cut out. Do you understand?’

The men turned pale. Isabella had an evil reputation. It was believed by some that she was a witch, for only a woman of her years could retain her beauty if she were a witch; and the power she had over Hugh de Lusignan made all marvel.

‘We understand, my lady,’ they answered.

‘Then take this powder. It is tasteless and will dissolve quickly. When you know that one special dish is going to the King, put this in.’

‘The King!’

‘I said the King. Speak of it to no one, before the deed is done and after.’

‘My lady, you ask a good deal.’

‘I know it and I will give a good deal when the news is brought to me that the King is dead.’

She dismissed them and settled down to wait.

She was pleased with her revenge.

At first she had thought of poisoning Blanche, but what good was that? At most a few hours of torment before death. No, she wanted a greater revenge for her enemy. She wanted to deprive her of what she loved more than anything on earth: her beloved and saintly Louis.

When Louis was dead, the whole meaning of life would be lost to Blanche. Her punishment would be that she would have to go on living without him.

How long the waiting was! How quiet she was! Hugh thought: Events have changed her. And he looked forward to a peaceful life. Could it be that she had indeed learned a lesson, that at least she realised that to bow the knee to a man such as Louis was no humiliation?

Each time a messenger came to the castle she was waiting for him.

What news? What news of the court?

But there was nothing of importance.

Often she wondered about those two villains. Had they become afraid? Had they put as long a distance between her and themselves as they could?

How far could she trust them? What if they talked of what she had ordered them to do?

What would happen then? It would be the end of everything for her.

She should have had their tongues cut out before she let them go. But then they would never have worked for her. They might have had their revenge.

This was a bold plan she had embarked on. But then she was bold. Was that not why she was so impatient with Hugh and all those who surrounded her?

Some day there must be news.

It came. A messenger from the court. Not the villains she had sent. But one who wished her well.

She saw the messenger coming. She went down to the hall of the castle. Hugh had seen and was there too.

‘It is someone from the court,’ he said.

‘My lord, my lady.’ The man stood there with wide staring eyes. He was looking at Isabella and there was horror and fear in his eyes.

‘Yes,’ said Hugh impatiently. ‘What news of the court?’

‘Two men have been taken in the kitchens.’

Isabella caught at the table for support.

‘They were discovered putting poison into the King’s dish.’

‘What then?’ she cried.

‘They were hanged.’

Isabella felt floods of relief sweeping over her. It had failed then but none knew.

But there was to be no comfort. ‘First they were put to the torture … they were questioned …’ The man was looking straight at Isabella. ‘They named you, my lady.’

The silence in the hall seemed to go on for a long time. It was over then. This was the end. The Spanish enemy had won.

Nothing could protect her now.

She snatched at Hugh’s sword and tried to kill herself, but Hugh was there and the sword went clattering on to the flagstones.

‘Isabella!’ he cried.

‘Let me go,’ she cried. ‘This does not concern you.’

Then she ran out of the hall to the stables and she seized a horse and rode away.

Chapter XIX FONTEVRAULT

The end, she thought. This is the end. Those fools – to have been caught! If they had not … all would be well.

But what to do? Where to go?

Sanctuary. Fontevrault. No one could take her there. Even Spanish Blanche could not break the rules of Holy Church.

It was her only hope, to reach sanctuary before they took her.

She rode on, thinking of Hugh. He would come for her, fight for her, defend her. Would he? Would even he shrink from one who had planned the diabolical murder of the King who had so recently shown them so much kindness?

It was over. She realised that at last.

Her only hope now was Fontevrault.

She reached the Abbey. The nuns took her in.

They would succour her. There was refuge here for all.

They put her into a secret chamber where none could reach her.

‘I am in flight,’ she said. ‘I have sinned greatly, and I wish to pass my days in repentance.’

They believed her. They knew she was the beautiful Isabella who had been responsible for much strife throughout the land. They had not yet heard of her attempt to poison the King of France.

They left her to rest and to pray.

And she thought: So it has come to this. When a woman must spend her last years in repentance, that is indeed the end.

Alone in her secret chamber she sat brooding on the past. What was there left to her but prayer and repentance? She thought back over her life and was afraid for her sins. It was as though her carefully guarded youth dropped from her now and the years which she had held at bay were at last overtaking her.

There were no lotions to preserve her smooth skin; no oils for her hair; no scents for her body.

If she were truly seeking repentance, she should have no need of such things.

Strange it was that she, proud Isabella, should have come to this.

There was no safety outside for her. If she emerged they would accuse her of attempting to murder the King. Her Spanish enemy would have no mercy on her.

She scarcely spoke to any, and so deep was her melancholy that the nuns believed she would die of it.

They brought her news of the world outside the convent. She heard that her husband and her eldest son had been arrested on charges of being involved in an attempt to poison the King.

‘Oh no, no,’ she cried aloud. ‘They knew nothing of it.’

Hugh defended her as she knew he would. ‘They lied,’ he cried. There had been no poison attempt in which his wife or any member of his family had been involved. The villains had mentioned his wife’s name because of recent happenings and they thought their wicked story would be believed. He challenged Alphonse to single combat that he might defend his wife’s honour.

Dear simple Hugh!

Alphonse would not fight. He declared that Hugh de Lusignan was so treason-spotted that he would not demean himself by meeting him. Young Hugh then offered to fight but his offer was refused because, it was said, with such parents, he was unworthy.

Thus they were all brought low, and since it was believed by Louis and Blanche that Isabella alone was guilty, Hugh was freed and went back to Lusignan to mourn his sad fate.

Isabella would see no one. Nothing would make her emerge from her chosen solitude.

She would take the veil and live out her life seeking forgiveness for her sins.

With the passing of the days her will to live escaped her. She sought nothing now but death.

She told the nuns that when she believed her sins were forgiven she would take to her pallet and rise no more.

There was nothing for her in the outside world. All she sought now was death.

So earnestly did she seek it that within two years of her flight from Lusignan it came to her.

They buried her, as she had wished, not in the church but in the common graveyard, for she had said, ‘Proud was I in life but humble in death.’

Thus passed the turbulent Isabella of Angoulême, and on her death Louis saw no reason why Hugh and he should be enemies. He had known – and Blanche had known – that only Hugh’s excessive love for his wife had made him a traitor of him. Such good friends did they become that Hugh accompanied Louis when he realised one of his main ambitions: to join a crusade to the Holy Land. It was on this crusade that Hugh was mortally wounded.

Six years later after Isabella’s death Henry, King of England, on a visit to Fontevrault, was shocked to discover that his mother lay in a common grave.

He ordered that her body be taken from it and buried beside his grandfather and grandmother, Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine. Then he caused a tomb to be built over it and a statue of her in a flowing gown caught in by a girdle and a wimple veil framing her face.

‘I remember her beauty in my childhood,’ he said, ‘and when I met her later she was as fair as ever. I never saw a woman as beautiful as my mother, Isabella of Angoulême.’