by Rachel Bard
“We’re always glad when we’re favored by a visit from any of your family,” he said when we met. We were in his palace across from the Cathedral of St. André. His tall arched window looked out on the huge pile of stone, so decked out in carved angels, cherubim and seraphim, devils and sinners that it looked like some mad priest’s fancy. But I was more interested in archbishops than architecture. I looked at my companion, a pudgy soft man who had surrounded himself with comforts: ample chairs softly cushioned in purple velvet, thick Turkish carpets, priceless tapestries and silver bowls of sugared fruits. The scent of some heady incense came from a brazier in a corner, more powerful than I cared for.
“I wish we could come more often,” I said. “Queen Eleanor told me that Bordeaux is a city she holds dear. She asked me to tell you she regrets not visiting you for some years.”
“I thank you,” he said. He sounded like a plum pudding talking. “Your mother has always been a good friend to Aquitaine. We thought when she conferred the dukedom on her son Richard that he’d be equally attentive. But it seemed Richard came to these parts only to do battle, or when he had some grudge to settle with one of his vassals.”
His plump lips turned down at the corners as though he’d tasted something bad. He must have guessed that I bore no good will to my departed brother or he wouldn’t have spoken so plainly.
Then I invited him to come to Angoulême to officiate at my marriage to Isabella.
“She is the daughter of Count Aymer and Countess Alix of Angoulême. The marriage will forge an alliance between them and England. It will mean much greater security for Aquitaine. You would do us a great honor by lending us your presence.”
. I waited nervously for his reaction. I said nothing about Isabella’s engagement to Hugh le Brun. If the archbishop was unaware of it I saw no reason to be the one to tell him. I was more concerned about his objection on the basis of my separation from Isabel of Gloucester. But he surely knew that the Pope had given his official approval to the dissolution of that marriage. When it is sufficiently pushed the church can find justification for divorce. In this case it was consanguinity, though the subject was conveniently forgotten during our twelve-year marriage and wasn’t raised until it became plain Isabel would bear me no children.
Archbishop Hélie beamed at me like a child who has just been given a sweetmeat.
“Your Highness, any prelate would give his mitre to marry the King of England to such an illustrious heiress.”
So off we set the very next day. Besides my fifty knights our party included five churchmen who would assist the archbishop in the ceremony. We rode hard to reach Angoulême by August 26, the date set for the wedding. I was nervous. I wasn’t afraid the count had changed his mind. But I wondered how—or if—he’d persuaded his headstrong daughter to give up Hugh and marry me.
I had another worry. What if, in spite of the many tasks I’d charged him with, Hugh sped so fast to Wales and back that he’d return to Angoulême before the wedding? I’d counted on his arriving after the fact. Could I possibly forestall him? If so, how?
I turned in my saddle and beckoned to Jacques Motan, a clever, crafty knight who’d often undertaken delicate missions for me before. He wasn’t at all surprised when he heard what I wanted.
“But no murders or maiming, Sir Jacques. And don’t tell me anything about your plans. All I’m interested in is the result. Of course there’ll be a generous gift if you succeed.”
“Leave it to me, my liege.”
There. I’d done what I could. Now I could give myself up to anticipation of my wedding. Over and over my mind’s eye took me back to the vision of Isabella as I’d seen her at Lusignan, my last night there. I’d gone to wait at the foot of the tower stair for her to appear so I could escort her to the dining hall. I was standing in the shadows under the stair when she came down. Unaware of my presence, she stopped to arrange her clothing. Her dress was a lovely color, like ripe peaches, but hung on her like a loose bag. She was carrying a long golden sash. When she tied it around her slender waist, accentuating her swelling breasts, she was suddenly no longer a child but a bewitching, nubile young woman. I watched in silent, hungry fascination. She looked down at herself with approval, then drew her hands slowly up from her waist to linger on her breasts, then move up to her throat. I stepped quietly from my concealment to stand behind her and put my arms around her. She turned her head to look up at me like a startled bird. But she didn’t cry out or move away. We stood there a moment, perfectly still, alone in the gathering dusk.
I released her, took her arm and asked, “Shall we proceed to the hall?” We weren’t seated next to each other and had no conversation during the long dinner and the entertainment. Sometimes, though, our eyes would meet. I could tell she was seeing me in a new light.
Since then I’d often relived the moment at the foot of the stairs. I hoped that she did too.
Finally on the afternoon of August 25 Angoulême on its high rocky plateau came in sight. The sky was lowering. Lightning flashed on the horizon as my men and I pounded up the flinty road to the town. The massive city walls that loomed above us were already splashed with raindrops, dulled from their rosy sunlit glow to a damp gray.
“Only a summer storm,” I told myself. “Hardly an ill omen for my wedding day.”
I urged my horse on, tired as it was from a long day’s riding, and galloped through the city gate. We were drenched, but briefly. As we entered the town the sun broke through and clouds of steam rose from stone walls, cobbled streets and my horse’s flanks. Townsfolk came out from shops and shelters, resuming their business of buying and selling, gossiping and hurrying on their little errands. Some, recognizing me, cried, “Vive le roi Jean!” My mood changed in an instant. I sprang from the saddle in front of the count’s palace. Even the indignant complaints of the Bordeaux churchmen as they shook out their sodden finery couldn’t dispel my good cheer.
Count Aymer and Countess Alix greeted me and assured me that Hugh hadn’t returned. After I’d changed my dripping clothes for a warm woolen robe and dry hose we conferred in the count’s chamber.
Aymer told me of his ruse to get Isabella’s consent to our marriage.
“She was inconsolable at first, or course, when we told her Hugh had been killed in an ambush by robbers during his return journey. She went to her room and cried and wouldn’t see anyone except her lady in waiting for three days. We gave her some time, then my wife got us over the next hurdle.”
The countess took up the story. “Yes, and it wasn’t as hard as I’d feared. I comforted her and told her we all felt her sorrow. But I told her life must go on. When I suggested she might marry you she didn’t fly into a rage at such an idea, as I’d been sure she would. She just looked at me, not saying yes and not saying no. I told her you’d already asked if you might have her hand and that you were disappointed to learn she was promised to Hugh. So we waited a few more days while she thought that over.”
“I have a notion,” said the count, looking at me shrewdly, “that she had an idea you might have taken a fancy to her.”
“Also,” said the countess, “she’d been looking forward to the grand wedding. ‘What a pity it would be to stow those gowns and jewels away,’ I told her. ‘And think of the dozens of noble guests we’ve invited. They’re all prepared to admire you and wish you well. Think how much more impressed they’ll be to see you marrying a king instead of a count.’ I’m afraid she is rather vain.”
“So what with one thing and another she finally came around, just like that.” The count slapped his knee and looked at me for approbation.
I thought there was more to her being so agreeable than vanity or even the titillation of marrying a man whose passion she’d aroused. Isabella was an ambitious little maid. Small wonder, considering how power-hungry her parents were.
“Well done, my friends,” I said. “I’ll confess I was worried. Not only about your daughter, but also about the possibility of Hugh arriving before
the ceremony. But I believe you and I have taken all necessary measures. You’ve managed extremely well. I won’t forget it.”
Chapter 11
Isabella
1200
It was August 26, my wedding day.
Brides are supposed to be happy and full of hope on their wedding days. Walking down the aisle of the Cathedral of Saint-Pierre, my hand on my father’s arm, I was too worried to be completely happy. What would it be like to live with a man I hardly knew? John seemed to be attracted to me, though he certainly hadn’t said so. But what did he really think of me, did he truly want to marry me, or was it only for the political reasons my father had explained? And would I be able to live up to what he’d expect of me? I was even fretting about whether I was suitably gowned. Was my lovely blue dress, with all the pearls, elegant enough?
All these questions whirled in my head while I walked sedately toward the altar. The familiar cathedral, where I’d gone to mass so many times, seemed strange—bigger, brighter, with hundreds of candles lighting up the nave that was usually so dim and shadowy. I was intensely aware that a crowd of nobles from all over Poitou were watching my every step. I heard murmurs. I wanted to look but knew I shouldn’t. I could imagine what they were whispering about. Until this very moment they’d had no idea I was marrying the King of England instead of Hugh le Brun. No wonder they were confused. I was too.
Everything had happened so fast! After that terrible day when I’d been told of Hugh’s death, matters had been taken out of my hands. My parents had been so persuasive, urging me to see the wisdom of marrying John. I’d agreed. I was still numb, hardly able to realize what had happened. It was easy to be dazzled by the thought of being a queen. At once we plunged into another flurry of wardrobe planning. It was decided I must have a new wedding gown, suitable for a queen rather than a mere countess. It was sky-blue, embroidered all over with silver and bordered by bands of tiny pearls. I adored it.
Then only yesterday John had arrived. I hadn’t seen him since he’d been at Lusignan, a month ago. But I’d had no more than a glimpse of him last night, when he came into the castle and went straight to confer with my father. My mother said it wasn’t proper for me to see my bridegroom the night before the wedding.
And now—now I’d almost reached the altar and there he was. He stood very straight with his back to me, facing the archbishop. He was all in elegant black velvet and wearing his crown. He could have been a stranger. I managed the two steps up without tripping over the hem of my gown. It was very full-skirted and I hadn’t had time to practice walking gracefully.
I let go of my father’s arm and stood beside John. He gave me a quick survey from top to toe.
“You look absolutely beautiful,” he whispered. “The gown suits you perfectly.”
That was reassuring. Perhaps I would get through this ceremony without any undignified lapses. Then I looked at the archbishop and I was unnerved all over again. I’d thought our bishop of Poitiers impressive. This ecclesiastic from Bordeaux far outshone him. He wasn’t very tall, but with the lofty two-peaked mitre on his head he looked like some holy giant. Under his long embroidered cloak I glimpsed the rich purple of his cassock and the jeweled cross at his neck. When he gestured to us to kneel my eyes fastened on his ring. I’d never seen such an enormous ruby.
I had plenty of time to regain my composure. While we knelt before him Archbishop Hélie spoke at considerable length. I supposed it was the church’s special wedding ritual for royalty, but I hardly understood two words of the jumble of Latin. Then he faced the altar and mumbled on for a time, with his hands clasped and his head bowed. His assistants, red-robed churchmen but not nearly as magnificent as the archbishop, waved their censers. I came very near to sneezing at the incense but managed to suppress it. The archbishop turned and delivered a long homily to John and me, about ruling wisely, trusting in God to help us, and maintaining heaven’s holy harmony in our married life. We promised to do so. Then came more rapid Latin, which I took to be his pronouncement that we were now man and wife.
A bishop removed John’s crown and held it on a cushion while the archbishop sprinkled a few drops of holy oil on our heads. John’s crown was replaced. I’d assumed somebody would put a crown on my head too—wasn’t I now King John’s queen? But the archbishop told us to rise, then made the sign of the cross in the air. He led the way down the aisle with his bishops and the chanting choir behind him.
Leaving the cathedral on John’s arm, I could look around freely at the crowd. I could even smile. Like flowers following the sun, all heads turned as we paced down the aisle. The ladies nodded and smiled. The lords doffed their plumed hats in salute. I felt more self-confident with every step. I stole a glance at John. He was very solemn. I decided that was how a king looked when receiving the respectful attention of his subjects. I stopped smiling and looking about, and did my best to assume a queenly expression.
All of usbride, groom, archbishop, bishops, parents and noble gueststhen walked the short distance from the cathedral to the Taillefer palace. My father’s great hall was cool and made even more welcoming by boughs of greenery that had been hung about the walls, with posies poked into their branches. The room quickly became crowded with church dignitaries, lords and their ladies, knights and their pages. I stood beside John and my parents, still dazed, still trying to realize what was happening to me. Servants were already coming in bearing platters of meat, pitchers of wine, bowls of fruit, all the bounty for the banquet to come. It was noisy, but it was a joyful kind of noise. Children were romping and rolling on the floor like carefree puppies. A burst of chords erupted from the musicians tuning up in a corner. When they were satisfied, they began a fast-paced dance tune, with the tabor beating out the rhythm for the lute and the vielle. I looked hopefully at John.
“Isabella, I have an idea you’re fond of dancing,” he said.
“I am! Aren’t you?”
“Not particularly. But perhaps dancing with you would change my mind.”
My mother intervened. “Please forgive us, my liege, if we take your bride away for a short time. Her wedding gown would prove a little cumbersome for ease in dancing.”
In my chamber, I changed to the same peach-gold gown that I’d worn that night in Lusignan, when John had come upon me so suddenly at the foot of the stairs. I wondered if he’d notice. While Lady Anne brushed my hair back and arranged it in a ladylike chignon I relaxed at last.
“How did I look, Anne? Could you tell how nervous I was?”
“My dear, you looked as calm and lovely as a swan swimming in a pond. I was proud of you.”
When I returned to the hall John came to me at once. His eyes flickered and I knew he’d noticed what I was wearing.
The musicians had subsided into a more decorous air since nobody was dancing. Perhaps the guests had hesitated to begin before the King did.
He took my hand and led me a little apart from the crowd. Everyone was discreetly leaving us alone, but they were watching and whispering. John put his hands on my waist and turned me about so he could survey me from all sides.
“My dear Isabella, you’ve transformed yourself!”
“What do you mean? How transformed?”
“Why, you’ve grown up at least by two years since we were in the cathedral. Lovely as you were, you were like a pretty doll or a child playing at dressing up. Now you look more sixteen than fourteen.” He drew me to him and tilted my head so he could look directly into my eyes. “You are enchanting,” he murmured.
I felt the velvety softness of his tunic against my bare arms.
Nobody had ever wooed me like this.
“Are you glad, Isabella?” he asked softly. “I know this hasn’t been an easy time for you. But are you happy it’s turned out as it has, that we’re now man and wife?”
“Oh, I am! Of course before Hugh died I was looking forward to being the Countess of Lusignan. But since that couldn’t happen, I’m glad to the Queen of England instea
d.”
He laughed. It was the first time I’d seen John laugh, though it was not much more than a few barks.
“But you’re not yet the Queen of England, my love. Of course, for me and all my French subjects you are. But you won’t truly be recognized as England’s queen until we can go to England and arrange the coronation.”
“And when will that be?” It dismayed me to realize how little I knew about my future, how little anyone had told me.
“Not for some months. I’m afraid I still have a great deal to do here in France first.”
I drew away and looked up at him, startled and disappointed.
“You mean you’re going to go off again? And I suppose I’ll have to stay here at home with my parents while you’re gone? If that’s the case, why did we have to get married in such a hurry?”
“Now don’t pout, my love.” He took my hands and looked into my face, all seriousness. “You’ll be with me wherever I go, I promise. Don’t you realize that John loves Isabella, and wants her by his side always?”
“You’ve never told me so, you know.”
He leaned toward me. “Now I’ll tell you so.” His lips on mine were cool and soft. He didn’t prolong the kiss—just enough for me to begin to wish it would go on and on. I felt a little giddy. My first kiss. Hugh had never kissed me.
Suddenly I felt guilty. Had I betrayed Hugh’s memory? Then I imagined him saying in his kind, sensible way, “You mustn’t grieve for me forever, Isabella. You have all your life ahead of you. Whatever fortune offers you, accept it and be happy!”
I decided that I would always do whatever I could to be happy. I had no doubt now that as John’s queen, I was well on the way to a blissful future.
