by Rachel Bard
What was unsaid was as terrible as the words I’d heard. If Arthur had died a natural death, John would have said so. If one of John’s lieutenants or servants had killed him, John would have said so, denied any responsibility and fixed the blame. I could only conclude that my son had murdered my grandson.
I went into my chapel, knelt before the altar, and prayed for both of them.
Rumors began to float about. Guibert, my seneschal, felt it his duty to keep me informed. He was a small-minded man, the kind who loves to share bad news. I kept him because his suspicious nature would unearth any cheating or wrongdoing in the palace.
The first tale he told me was that Arthur had been transferred from Falaise to Rouen and on the way tried to escape. In his haste he’d fallen over a cliff and died.
“Which may well be, my lady, since we know he was always an impulsive lad, who acted before he thought.” Guibert’s face, endowed with too much nose and not enough chin, shone with excitement and importance as he told me this.
Or, in another version, his guardians on the journey had taken aim at him as he ran from them trying to escape. An arrow had pierced him in the back. The wound had festered and killed him.
The worst story implicated John directly. It was said that after Arthur was imprisoned at Rouen John took him out in a boat on the Seine, ran him through with his sword, and pushed the body over the side.
“But nobody saw it, or at least nobody has come forward who’s willing to bear witness. So far it’s just talk. To my way of thinking, your son the King couldn’t have done such a deed,” said Guibert sanctimoniously. He may or may not have believed what he said. I sent him away. This was something I’d have to face up to alone.
Presently snippets of news of John’s movements came, carried by traveling merchants, mendicant friars or roaming musicians. The latter often dropped in at the palace to see if any entertainment were needed. None of these sources was very reliable, but Guibert conscientiously repeated their reports to me.
It appeared that John was making sporadic forays in Brittany, in Normandy and along the Seine. But he was accomplishing nothing, while Philip roamed freely through Maine and Anjou taking castle after castle. Le Mans had fallen to him, also Saumur, the great fortress on the Loire.
At last when my spirits were lowest, William Marshal arrived with no forewarning. Though I doubted if he came with good news, he at least would be a friend I could talk to frankly. I received him at once in my private chamber. We sat facing each other in front of the fire. I craved its warmth.
William had aged. New lines spread downward from the corners of his mouth and across his forehead. It’s not easy being a faithful vassal to King John these days, I thought.
Still he managed a cheerful smile over his shoulder as he leaned to warm his hands by the fire.
“I find you in good health, my lady Queen?”
“As well as can be expected,” I replied, more tartly than I meant. I wasn’t going to waste time by enumerating my aches and pains, troublesome as they were. “And you? You must be weary from your ride. I’ve sent for refreshments. In the meantime, tell me your news. First of all, William, tell me about Arthur’s death. I’ve heard all manner of wild tales. I don’t know what to believe. Is John guilty?”
“I don’t know what I can tell you. John is close-mouthed. When he does permit the subject to come up he merely says the boy died of natural causes at Rouen. William de Braose may know more, but he won’t say. I do know that John recently gave William some rich grants to English estates. It’s not hard to put two and two together, though I grieve to say it.”
I leaned my elbow on the arm of my chair and supported my forehead with my hand, my eyes closed. I had to accept the fact that John was guilty. It was a grievous realization for a mother, even one who had never truly loved her son.
I opened my eyes and looked at Sir William, who was watching in concern.
“You’ve seen us through many a hard time, my friend, but I can think of none worse than this. Let's move on. Tell me the rest of your news."
“It’s not good, as you doubtless suspect. Your son seems to have lost his purpose. One day he is all for going out to fight Philip and the next he retires with his Queen and we don’t see him for days.”
“Where is he now?”
“In Rouen. I hope he stays there and holds to his intention to relieve Château Gaillard. Philip has been besieging it, and our men inside are trying desperately to hold out.”
“But William, we can’t lose Château Gaillard! What is John thinking of, how did he let things come to this pass?” I was outraged. The invincible castle on the Seine, built by my son Richard, had become the shining symbol of Plantagenet power in France.
“I agree, my lady. We mustn’t lose it. If John acts quickly it may not be too late. But we must be realistic. When he gets discouraged, he talks of going back to England to raise troops and money for the war. From Rouen he’d have a short journey to Barfleur on the Channel, going through lands in Normandy still loyal to him. And from Barfleur it’s a day’s sail to Portsmouth. I greatly fear that flight is on his mind.”
I’d been sitting up straight, listening intently. Now I sank back in my chair. What could I do, what could I do? I was weary.
After William left I sat on, pondering John’s indecisiveness. I thought back to when he was a little boy. He’d shown the same behavior then: alternating between furious activity and silent sulking. Sometimes he’d run wildly through the palace corridors, shouting and laughing. The next time I’d see him, he’d be sitting withdrawn, apart from the rest of the family while we talked, quarreled, went about our business. Henry and I sometimes discussed his erratic behavior.
“Well, he’s the youngest and smallest,” Henry said. “With three older brothers, he probably feels nobody thinks he’s important. He does anything to get some attention. When that doesn’t work, he goes off in his corner to mope.”
“That may be. I wish I could get Richard and the others to take him along when they go riding or hunting. But they say he’s too much of a crybaby. I suppose I should find more time for him.”
“Yes, that would be a good idea. He’s completely devoted to you.”
Then we’d tell each other he’d doubtless grow out of it, and we’d forget the whole subject. After all, with three sturdy big brothers in line ahead of him, it was hardly likely he’d ever be King.
And now he was King. God help us.
If God wouldn’t, could I? Sometimes I thought I’d summon my knights and ride to Rouen or wherever John was and exhort him to some action. Then I’d give in to discouragement. Philip, the aggressor, had outmaneuvered us on all fronts. It was too late. Sitting in my tower room I looked out on my poplars, now leafless with bare branches sketched against a gray November sky.
I decided to go back to Fontevraud Abbey where I could quietly retreat from my cares. Where, in the tall severe church, the effigy of my husband Henry reposed, scepter in hand, and where I would presently join him.
Chapter 37
Hugh le Brun
1206
Isabella sent me a message when I was imprisoned at Caen Castle. It came shortly after William des Roches had arranged for me to move up from my dreadful subterranean cell. I took the letter from the messenger, recognized Isabella’s handwriting and read it hastily. She said she was sorry at my imprisonment and she hoped I wouldn’t think she had anything to do with it. I was overcome. What a risk she’d taken, to write to me! What if John had found out? But Isabella had never lacked for bravery.
In all the time since I’d lost her, I’d done my best not to think about her. I’d concentrated instead on my hatred of John and my determination to have vengeance. But with her letter all the memories came flooding back: the happy days we’d known together, the pleasure we took in each other’s company, the look on her face when we met after an absence. I had to admit to myself that I’d never stopped loving her. Did she too still hold those memories? Her letter
gave no clue.
In the days to come, after my release, she’d often been on my mind. I longed to see her again.
I heard that she was to be at Angoulême in the autumn of 1206 to receive the homage of the vassals of her late father. I decided to go see her.
I hadn’t been to Angoulême for six years, not since that strange meeting with Count Aymer when he and Countess Alix persuaded me to marry Mathilde. Good Mathilde! She was still bedridden, still uncomplaining, still willing to listen when I had something on my mind. Often she surprised me with her grasp of affairs and her advice.
Though I don’t doubt she’d have wished me well if I’d told her where I was going, I didn’t do so. Why risk giving pain to one who already bore so many burdens? I simply said I’d be away a few days.
Nor did I send word to Isabella that I was coming.
I rode through thick fog all morning. When I reached Angoulême about noon, it was like a mysterious shrouded city where I’d never been. In the palace courtyard everything looked ghostly. I could vaguely see, off to one side, blurred figures of men and horses near the stables. A man came from the garden bearing big pots of carnations that he carefully arranged on the steps by the massive door. I caught a whiff of their spicy aroma as soon as I dismounted. The low-lying fog didn’t conceal the top of the tower where the pennant of the Taillefers waved languidly and damply. That meant that either Countess Alix or her daughter was in residence. Or maybe both.
I was announced and told to wait in the entry hall, a long narrow room with benches along both walls and rushes on the floor. Count Aymer had never been one to waste his money on unnecessary amenities. A stairway at the end led up to the family’s living quarters, presumably more warm and welcoming. Lady Alix would have seen to that. Sitting in this joyless hall, I couldn’t push the bitter memories the place aroused out of my mind. This was where I’d left Isabella, the last time I’d seen her, when John sent me off to Wales on that trumped-up mission. This was where, when I came back, Count Aymer and Lady Alix told me that during my absence Isabella had married John.
I sat on a hard bench, leaned my head against the hard wall and closed my eyes, remembering. A servant brought me a goblet of wine. I sat there for what seemed a long time.
“Hugh?”
She stood at the foot of the stairs, then walked toward me. She wore an exquisite gown of pale rose, with embroidery of silver flowers around the high neck. Her golden hair, coiled on top of her head, was covered by a lacy silver scarf. She seemed taller, more lissome. Her movements were as poised and graceful as a swan gliding over still water.
The carefree, disheveled girl I’d known had grown into a ravishing, self-possessed woman.
I rose. She held out her hand. I clasped it, staring at her, unable to say a word.
“Well, Hugh, aren’t you going to greet me, and tell me why you surprise me like this?”
“I’m sorry, Isabella. It’s you who surprise me. Somehow I thought you’d look the way you did half a dozen yeas ago.”
“And you don’t care for the new Isabella?” She posed in front of me with her arms raised and a toe pointed as though preparing to dance. She was enchanting. I believe she knew it and reveled in it..
“Of course I do. But I’m dumbfounded. You were always pretty. Now you’re utterly beautiful.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry I kept you waiting but I wanted to look my best for you. I’m glad if I succeeded. Now, shall we go out to the garden, and you’ll tell me why you’ve come? Did you want to take something up with my mother? I’m sorry, she is hardly here anymore, and spends most of her time at her estate in Champagne. But she always instructs her seneschal to keep the palace ready, just in case.”
As we walked she kept talking, as though she were afraid of silence.
“And of course, I’ve been getting ready for the arrival of the nobility tomorrow and the ceremonies. Aren’t you glad you came today, Hugh? Otherwise you might have had to bend a knee to me.”
We rounded the tower to sit on a bench in the rose garden where a few late blossoms still spread their pale pink petals. The fog was lifting rapidly. Behind us, puffs of steam floated off the gray stone walls of the palace as the sun reached them. Before us, a fountain tirelessly sent up spurts of water as though trying to reach the sunlight. I stared at it, watching as at last the sun broke through and each jet of water caught its light and glistened like sculptured crystal, only to fall back into the deep dark pool. I was acutely conscious of the extravagantly beautiful creature beside me. I felt as though I’d had a whole flagon of wine, not just a few sips.
“Why have you come, Hugh?”
“It’s simple. Once we were very close to each other. Then we weren’t. I’d gotten used to that until you sent me that message when I was in prison at Caen.” I was looking at her, but she was looking at the fountain.
“Oh yes, so I did.”
“Do you remember what you wrote?”
“I’m afraid not. That must be four years ago. I wrote it in a great hurry. I remember I was feeling very sorry for you and the other prisoners, locked up in those horrid dungeons. I didn’t want you to blame me for what had happened.”
“You wrote that you wished you could help me, and you asked me to think of you as my friend. I’ve never forgotten that. When I learned you’d be here I decided to come. I knew we couldn’t change anything that’s happened, but I just wanted to see you again. That’s all.” My words seemed lame and ineffectual, nothing like what was in my heart.
She glanced at me and smiled. It wasn’t the guileless smile I remembered from when she was a fourteen-year-old whose moods changed so swiftly. It was the smile of a woman who knew she was charming, and who knew how to charm.
“And now that you see me, Hugh, what do you think?”
“I think you have become even more lovely, and that you’ve grown up. Are you happy, Isabella?”
“Of course I am, why shouldn’t I be? How could the Queen of England not be happy? John dotes on me, you know.”
“And you on him?”
“Of course.”
We were both silent for several minutes, staring at the fountain. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud. The leaping spurts of water had lost their brilliance. I thought I might as well go. I was just rising when Isabella put a hand on my arm.
“Don’t go yet, Hugh.” Her eyes were fixed on me, eyes as blue as forget-me-nots. Now she was speaking with the openness of my young Isabella, speaking what was in her heart.
“I know what you’re thinking. You’re remembering how it was in Lusignan when we thought we would marry. And I’m sure you were dreadfully hurt when I married John so quickly, before I learned that you hadn’t been killed after all. I blame my parents for that—and my own youth. It’s grieved me that I never had a chance to try to explain it to you. Can you believe that?”
“I can, because it’s what I’ve wanted to believe all these years.”
“Then you must also believe this: After John and I were married I came to love him very much. It hasn’t all been easy. He’s not perfect, God knows. Neither am I. We’ve had our differences. But we always come back together, just like before. I simply can’t imagine life without John. There, Hugh. I’ve been as honest as I can be. Maybe too honest. But I want you to understand me. Please don’t go away still resentful, still maybe hating me for what I did. Your opinion means a great deal to me.”
“I don’t hate you and never did. I thank you for this time and your forthrightness. I’ll always regret that things weren’t different. I’ll never stop caring for you. But I’m happy for you in your happiness. And I’ll go away with a heart freed of resentment.” I took her hand and held it tight. As I did so, it occurred to me that I’d never kissed her.
“May I kiss you goodbye?”
She didn’t answer, simply turned her face toward me. Our lips met. Hers were sweet and yielding, so sweet that I had to force myself to pull away and get to my feet. As I did so I saw one of Isabe
lla’s servants standing at the corner of the tower looking agitated, wondering whether to interrupt or not.
Isabella rose too, composed and unruffled. “What is it, Alois?”
“My lady, I beg your pardon, but there’s someone here who says he must see Sir Hugh at once.”
I was nonplussed. Nobody knew where I was but my steward Pierre. I’d told him I’d be back within three days. He wasn’t to tell anyone where I’d gone.
When I walked into the courtyard there was my son Hugh, just dismounting. Two of our knights were still on their horses. He grinned as he walked toward me.
“By all the saints, what is this about, Hugh? Why are you here?”
Another foolish escapade, no doubt. Ever since he’d come back from the ill-fated Fourth Crusade, Young Hugh had been aimlessly casting about for amusement and occupation. He spent more time with his cousin Simon de Lezay than he did at Lusignan. I’d often asked him to come with me when I went to see our important vassals. We had the same conversation many times:
“You go, father. You’re much better at it than I am.”
“But Hugh, one day you’ll be the leader of our clan. You must establish ties with these men. You may count on them for your very life some day.”
“All right, next time, depend on it, I’ll go with you. But Simon and I are pledged to take part in a big tournament at Niort on Saturday. Next time though, for sure.” And he’d be off before I could begin to argue.
Such were the unsettling thoughts that filled my mind this September afternoon at Angoulême. What was he up to now, this happy-go-lucky son of mine? At twenty-three, he should be showing some signs of maturity.
“I’m sorry father, I know you told Pierre nobody was to know where you were. But this is very important.” Then he saw Isabella. She’d held back but was now walking toward us where we stood confronting each other in the middle of the courtyard. He transferred his attention and his smile from me to her.
“So you are Young Hugh. We’ve never met, though I believe I saw you once at Lusignan. But you didn’t see me.”
