by Rachel Bard
We rode through the narrow gate and into a pleasant tree-bordered square. Isabella and I looked at a row of imposing tall houses, trying to guess which one was the palace of the counts of Maine, while John went to confer with his guard.
Shortly we heard a mighty three-note blast from the herald’s horn: ta-DA-da. Knights poured into the square from surrounding streets until our small party was the center of scores of cheering men. John pulled off his hat and waved it in the air, shouting greetings in return, reaching down to clasp his lieutenants’ hands.
We were safe at last.
After a few days in the palace of the Counts of Maine life seemed more bearable. Since it was always kept ready for a visit by the English monarch and was staffed by a complement of attentive and able servants, we could quickly settle in, dry out and recover our equanimity.
Isabella and John were in the royal apartments on the second floor. I was on the third floor in a big room with a fine view. Below the old Roman walls John was so proud of stretched the fertile plains of the Sarthe where fields of grain were punctuated here and there by woodlands and villages.
One of the things I liked about this palace was the broad marble staircase instead of the dark winding tower stairs of Chinon. Another was dressing every day in a fresh dry gown. During our wet ride from Fontevraud Isabella and I were dismayed to see how bedraggled and mud-spattered our garments were getting. We decided to wear the same clothes day after day, saving the rest for better times. Now better times had come.
One afternoon we went into the great hall and spread on a table all the exquisite gowns and mantles she’d assembled for her wedding journey—the journey that had turned into a mad flight. The palace staff included dressmakers, so we were assessing what needed to be done. It was the first time we’d really been able to talk. She spent most of her time with John. But he’d gone hunting today.
She held up the blue and silver gown she’d worn for her wedding.
“I thought this would do for my coronation gown, but I wonder now. It was a little tight before and I felt awkward in it. What do you think, Anne?”
“Well…I suppose we could let out the side seams. Let me take a look.”
There was a knock on the door. At Isabella’s “Come in,” William de Cantilupe entered.
“I beg your pardon for disturbing you, my lady, but a messenger has come from Angoulême with an inquiry from your parents as to your welfare and your whereabouts. They are very concerned, and have sent messengers to Fontevraud also. Perhaps you would like the man to return with a reply.” As usual, he spoke with formality but complete self-assurance. I was used to seeing him in his bulky armor. I was struck by his tall lean figure as he stood there like a soldier at attention.
“Oh yes! Of course they’re worried. Please have him take them my respects, and tell them that we finally arrived here in safety, and John and I are well. And tell them I will send another message before we leave for England. And thank you, Sir William.” When she smiled at him I thought some of his reserve melted a bit. He bowed his head slightly, nodded to me, and after a “Thank you, my lady,” he was gone.
Isabella was quiet a moment, looking at the door he’d closed after himself.
“I think that’s a man my husband is fortunate to have as an adviser,” she said. “Remember how sensible he was when we thought we’d be ambushed in the forest?”
“Yes, but I also remember how sharply he spoke. Perhaps the King is used to his ways.”
“Oh no, he isn’t. In fact last evening he was complaining to me about Sir William’s manner. ‘I may have to give him a reprimand,’ he said, ‘and remind him of his duty to show me more respect.’”
“And what did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything. John was in rather a temper. But I think I’ll speak to Sir William. A word from me might have more effect on him than a scolding from John.”
I laughed and gave her a hug. “Isabella my pet, you are becoming quite the cunning queen!”
We were still standing by the table where the blue gown was spread out. I picked it up.
“And speaking of queens, we must decide what to do about this or you may find yourself walking into Westminster Abbey in your shift.”
Chapter 22
Hugh le Brun
September 1200
For hours I’d been lying awake on my rock-hard narrow cot in the silent dormitory of the Vendôme Abbey. I knew my uncle Geoffrey and my brother Ralph were awake too. I’d heard their sighs and restless turnings. When the abbey bell tolled midnight the slow, heavy clangs were like the final knell for my hopes. I raised myself on an elbow to whisper through the blackness.
“Geoffrey? Ralph? Since you’re awake too I think we’d best have a talk. Let’s go outside.”
We carefully made our way along the rows of our sleeping companions and crept down a long passage, guided by a glimmer of light that grew brighter and brighter. We came out to the cloister garden, where the full moon cast its flood of cold light. One could almost count every blade of grass if one had nothing better to do.
I sank down heavily on a stone bench in the gallery. The others joined me. Ralph’s yawn ended in a long descending groan. Geoffrey held his head in his hands.
“We might as well admit it,” I said. “We’re never going to catch them. And even if we did, what could we do with only twenty men?”
“If that no-good son of yours had turned up with the ones he’d been sent for, we wouldn’t be in this barrel of sour pickles,” growled Geoffrey.
I held my tongue.
We’d met at Tours as planned ten days ago. Since then everything had gone wrong. First, I couldn’t get anyone at Fontevraud to tell me or even guess when John had left and by what road. Doubtless those who knew had been bribed to keep mum. Second, and worse, Ralph and Geoffrey had had little luck in gathering men. Our vassals were sympathetic but they politely pointed out that we hadn’t been attacked.
“As your vassals we’re required to go to your aid if you’ve been assaulted by our enemies,” they said. “But you haven’t. King John did you a monstrous injustice, but he didn’t seize any territory. We’d serve you loyally if he had, but not for this.”
The fact that it was the busy harvest season may have had a lot to do with their reluctance. At any rate, twenty men was the sum of our force. Nothing had been heard from Young Hugh, who was supposed to be rallying troops from Lusignan. We waited two more days hoping he’d arrive. Then we heard rumors that John was traveling toward Nantes, taking the western route to the Channel. So off we chased, only to learn our information was false. Back to Tours, still no contingent from Lusignan. A new rumor, also false: John had been seen in Vendôme, far to the east. Another two days wasted. Now here we were, glad to have the hospitality of the brothers at the abbey but utterly discouraged.
I was pretty sure I spoke for all of us.
“No matter why we’re in this pickle barrel, the fact is we’ve wasted three weeks and we’re no closer to our quarry than when we started. Should we go on?”
“That wicked John,” said Ralph. “He’s such a sly one, he must have been sending out men to spread all those lies about where he is and where he’s going.” He yawned again. “I’ve had enough. It’s time to call it quits.”
He began to rise but Geoffrey grabbed his arm and yanked him down onto the bench.
“Quits? You’re ready to call it quits? What if I’m not? What if Hugh’s not? Don’t be in such a rush to get back to bed.” But he couldn’t seem to work up his customary roar.
I’d never felt so weary in body and soul. Ralph was right.
“I’ve had enough too. No point in quarreling about it. We’ve failed for now. That doesn’t mean we can’t try again. John’s sure to come back from England in a few months. He has to if he’s going to hold his French inheritance. And when he does, by God, I’ll get my revenge.”
“Next year, then. Next year we’ll be ready for him.” Geoffrey rose, sounding tired
yet relieved. Ralph was already disappearing into the passage. For some time I stayed alone in the cloister watching the almost imperceptible descent of the moon. When it sank behind a row of cypresses and I could no longer make out the outline of shrubs and columned arcades I too turned back toward what was left of my night’s rest.
The words repeated themselves in my brain: “Next year I’ll be ready.”
On the way back to Lusignan I had plenty of time to think. I was in no particular hurry and let my horse clop along at his own pace. My squire and the five other men with me were glad enough to slow down. We’d all been rushing so aimlessly over the countryside that it was a relief to know we were going home, not to some problematical encounter with a slippery enemy.
We crossed the Loire near Tours. It had been a warm autumn day in the Touraine. The river was lower than I’d ever seen it so we could ford it with no need of a bridge. I looked at the wide expanses of dried mud and sand and the sluggish stream that flowed along the narrow channel. “That’s you, Hugh,” I said to myself. “Feeble and defeated, with desolation on every side.” Then I laughed at how I was wallowing in self-pity. The Loire would become a broad blue river again, and surely I’d get my life back on course too. The prospect of avenging myself against John gave me a purpose.
I’d accepted the fact that Isabella was lost to me, though I’d always cherish the memory of her gaiety and fresh young beauty and how close we’d become. Lost too was the dream of how we’d have a son, two sons, daughters, and insure the future of united Angoulême and La Marche.
That was past, gone. My mind was now consumed with two things: vengeance, and concerns about my son. Why had he failed to do as he’d been told? Why hadn’t he brought his recruits to Tours? By the time I rode into the castle bailey at Lusignan and dismounted I was half furious at him, half worried that he’d had some accident.
“Send my son to me,” I shouted to the guard at the gate even before my feet touched the ground.
“Sir Hugh, he is not here.”
Stable lads scurried to take my horse’s reins and lead him away. Jonas, my manservant, came to help me out of my heavy leather coat and leggings.
I snapped at the guard, “Not here? Well, where is he then?”
Jonas spoke before the discomfited guard could answer.
“Sir, I believe he is hunting.”
“Hunting? When he should be doing his father’s bidding?” I caught myself. These men had nothing to do with the matter. I tried to control my temper.
In the hall I sent for old Pierre Chastillon, my house steward. He’d served our family as long as I could remember and knew more about what went on among the many Lusignan connections than anyone else. He shuffled in, talking from the moment he entered.
“So you’ve come home at last! Welcome, my lord. Have they brought you some wine, and water to bathe your face? Fie, what are they thinking! Oh good, here they come at last.”
Somewhat shrunken and not very steady on his legs in his later years, he was as bright-eyed and eager to help as ever.
“Never mind all that, Pierre. What do you know about Young Hugh?”
His face, wrinkled as a prune, lost its good humor.
“Ah yes. Young Hugh. A bad business.” He stopped to cough and to gather his thoughts. I’ll say this for Pierre, when he had something to report he started at the beginning and went straight to the end with no detours.
“He got your message, my lord, when you asked him to assemble men to help in your pursuit of King John. He made a good start, went over to Couhé and Saint-Heray, and persuaded them to volunteer a half-dozen men. He brought them back here, then went off again. At Lezay, though, his cousin Simon took a hand. You know how Hugh’s always looked up to Simon, almost like a big brother he’s been. From what I heard, Simon was all excited about a stag that had been sighted in their forest, a giant creature with broader antlers than anybody’d ever seen. He told Hugh they absolutely had to bring it down. I understand Simon promised Hugh to help him round up all the men he needed as soon as they got the stag. Well, they went out day after day and the clever beast would just show himself, then go bouncing off. Playing with them, he was. I kept sending men down to remind Hugh what he was supposed to be doing, and he’d just send word back that it would be only one more day and they were sure to get their quarry.”
He paused to cough again. I poured him more wine.
“Should have gone myself. And I would have, if I could get myself on a horse these days.”
“No, no, Pierre, you did what you could. So Hugh and Simon are still blundering about in the woods and the six men he did find are hanging around waiting for orders?”
“Oh no, they gave up after a week. Said they were tired of wasting all this time and had work to do at home. Can’t blame them.”
“And Hugh? When did you hear from him?”
“Yesterday he sent word that if they didn’t get the stag he’d come back.”
“You’d better send a man at once to tell him his father demands his presence.” I glowered into my goblet. Then I got up and put my arm around Pierre’s thin shoulders. “Thanks, my friend. You couldn’t have done more.”
A grin broke across his seamed face.
“Glad you’re back, my lord. It’s high time.”
I sat on, finishing my wine. I’d always felt my son was easily led astray by his own enthusiasms and those of others. But I’d hoped he’d grow out of it. Now this, the worst example yet. At eighteen he was still unable to set a straight course and stick to it. Where was his sense of duty to the family? How could he let himself be carried away by Simon’s frivolous urgings? It didn’t bode well for the time when he’d take over as the leader of the Lusignans. As my only heir, he should be showing more responsibility. My irritation was flaming into anger. If he’d walked in then I don’t know if I could have kept from striking him.
Fortunately for him I wasn’t there when he finally appeared the next day. Early in the morning a messenger came from Angoulême, respectfully begging me to come for a meeting with Count Aymer on a matter of great importance.
At first I laughed. It was preposterous that Count Aymer, who’d done me such grievous harm, should be so blithely resuming our relationship as though nothing had happened. Then I became curious. I decided to go, and at once. I badly needed some distraction from my woes. Pierre could deal with Young Hugh.
“It was good of you to come,” said my host, suave and finely dressed as ever.
“And on such short notice!” said Countess Alix, all in violet and with every golden hair in place.
If they hadn’t changed, their great hall had. It was hard to believe it was only four months since I’d been in this very room. That was the last time I’d seen Isabella, when John sent me off to Wales. Then it was bare and cold, like my state of mind. Now there was a blazing fire on the hearth. Attentive young men kept it well fed. An expensive colorful tapestry showing a hunting scene hung on one wall. The decanters on the table were silver instead of pewter. I smiled, realizing the explanation: John’s generosity was evident, his gratitude for certain assistance in arranging his marriage.
The count, seeing me smile, tried to reciprocate but smiling never came easily for Count Aymer.
“Shall we sit down?” He took his place at the head of the table and gestured to me to seat myself at his left. The countess was on his right. A servant filled our goblets with cool, foaming ale. The countess offered me honeyed walnuts from a crystal bowl.
What next, I wondered. I waited.
“Yes, Sir Hugh, we’re glad you came. Now to our business: you remember that less than a year ago when we met in Rouen we discussed the desirability of uniting our lands of Angoulême with yours of La Marche through a marriage.”
Seeing my face darken, the countess broke in quickly. “And nobody is more sorry than we are that what we planned did not take place.”
The count hurried on.
“The reasons for such a union are strong as ev
er. So we would like to put it to you again.” He looked at me, the picture of honesty and rectitude. “You may be aware that my niece, Mathilde, is still unmarried. She is the daughter of my older brother Wulgrin, who died ten years ago. Though she has never pressed them, her claims to Angoulême are probably as strong as Isabella’s. She has been frail for some time, but seems to be recovering. I am her guardian. I think I could convince her that it would be desirable to marry you.”
The countess gave me her sweetest smile, as though discussing the outlook for fair weather. "She has been considered quite pretty. She’s still young, only thirty-five I believe. She should be able to bear several children. So you will have other heirs if anything should happen, God forbid, to your son Hugh.”
“What do you think? Would you like time to think it over?” The count watched me with cocked head, like a robin listening for a worm.
I sat back, considering this strange proposal. My first thought was to wonder what King John would make of an alliance arranged without his knowledge. But that was the count’s affair, not mine. My second was a pang of guilt that I could even think of marrying someone else, having been so attached to Isabella. My third was that the idea made a great deal of sense, in view of my worry about what a weak reed Young Hugh might prove as the lord of Lusignan. Fathering another son or so would be a reassurance. The sooner I set about it the better. In only a minute, I had made up my mind.
“I see the wisdom of your suggestion. Please, on my behalf, ask the Lady Mathilde for her hand. And let me know when we may hold the ceremony.”
So it was that I married Mathilde d’Angoulême on November 5, 1200, just having passed my thirty-sixth birthday. My bride was neither pretty nor young, being quite plain and I suspected somewhat older than thirty-five. But she was brave and sweet-natured in spite of her fragile health. She proved a good companion. During all the years of our marriage she never gave me the slightest cause for complaint. Nor did she give me any children.
