by Rachel Bard
There were so many things about Hugh that I loved: his good cheer, his optimism, his energy without the vacillations I’d observed in John. I liked the way our aspirations for our joint future meshed so smoothly. Most of all I liked how he listened to what I said, took my suggestions seriously and usually agreed.
We needed all our optimism and energy during the next few years.
In July of 1223 King Philip died. He’d been King of France since before I was born, a force to be feared, respected, reckoned with. In his place we now had Louis VIII, less canny and less inclined to sit back and watch events take their course than his father. He’d been chafing under Philip’s restraint for years. Now at thirty-six he could wear the crown and brandish the sword. His first objective was the County of Poitou.
Both Hugh’s La Marche and my Angoulême were in Poitou. In exchange for England’s recognition of our rights to them we’d given our allegiance to King Henry. Since we’d sent Joanna back and my dower lands had been restored to me we’d had no serious quarrels with the English. In fact, we’d heard very little from Henry and his council even when we’d asked for help in keeping the Poitevin barons in check. Still, our affairs were going well. We saw no reason to make any changes. We hoped that Louis’s threats were merely bluster.
But within a few months Louis sang a new tune. He stopped blustering and made us a direct offer—a very tempting offer. In exchange for our fealty he’d give us some of the richest lands in Poitou to add to those we already held. Once all Poitou was in French hands, he’d make Hugh his general for an attack on Gascony to the south. He’d assign to him two hundred mounted knights and six hundred foot soldiers.
If Hugh succeeded in capturing the prosperous seaport of Bordeaux during this campaign Louis would grant him its revenues.
We talked it over at length.
“We’d be taking a big chance,” said Hugh. “What do you suppose your son would do if Louis marched into his Poitou? Wouldn’t he send an army over?”
“He might, I suppose. But he’d hardly have time if Louis acts quickly enough.”
“We’d be very rich.”
“And very powerful. Especially if we became masters of Bordeaux. This puts things in a new light, Hugh. For two years the English haven’t answered our requests for help. I think we’d now be justified in renouncing our allegiance to them, though of course it troubles me. But facts are facts. They’ve ignored us.”
“Right! We’ve had no thanks and no compensation for keeping the peace in Poitou. And they named a new seneschal of Aquitaine without bothering to tell me.”
So we agreed to switch masters. To ease my conscience I wrote to Henry, explaining how necessary it was in view of the lack of English support during the past few years.
On Midsummer Day in 1224 Hugh went to war, leaving me with three small children—Guy had been born in 1222 and Isabella arrived in June 1224, just before Hugh’s departure. The name was Hugh’s idea.
“I’m so happy with the Isabella I have,” he said, “that I’d like to add another.”
I didn’t see him again for four months. I received a few messages, not very detailed. Other reports and rumors came our way from a hodgepodge of travelers--merchants, pilgrims, wounded soldiers returning to recuperate. All in all, Louis and his army seemed to be doing quite well in Poitou, but I was thirsty for real news.
In October we were reunited.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed him until Pierre knocked on the door of my chamber at Lusignan and poked his head in, his creased brown face split by a grin.
“He’s home again!”
Hugh was right behind him.
“My own Queen Isabella!” he cried. “There you are, bewitching as ever.” He gave me a hug and a kiss, then stood back to look at me.
“Actually, I believe you are even more bewitching. How can you bear to acknowledge this old man as your husband? Here I am, baked black by the sun, wrinkled by worry, bowlegged after weeks on horseback, and starved to a skeleton by soldiers’ rations.”
“A good wash and some fresh clothes are what you need, old man. Then we’ll have some supper and you’ll tell me everything. Oh Hugh, I’m so glad you’re back!”
“What’s the hurry about supper? Let me get cleaned up and I’ll meet you in your chamber. Then you can show me just how glad you are.”
Eventually over our supper table he told me his story of the past four months. It was mostly a string of successes.
“There wasn’t much blood shed by either side. We took Niort in July. St-Jean-d’Angély gave up without a battle. We were far busier galloping from town to town and searching for a place to sleep than fighting. Apparently the towns had asked King Henry for support but no help came. So they had no choice but to submit to us.”
“Yes, I heard that from Sir Terric. He still has his mysterious ways of knowing what’s going on in England. He learned the Irish had been rising and rebelling and the English had to send a large army to put them down. So they couldn’t do much about the requests of their vassals over here. I’m just as glad. I can’t say I’d have liked going into battle against my son’s forces.”
“Nor I, of course. I’d rather think of Henry as my stepson, not my enemy.”
“I dearly hope the day will come when you can meet him as a son. Now do have another bowl of this lentil soup. It will do wonders for your starved skeleton.”
“Thank you, I believe I will. But let me tell you about La Rochelle. That was the biggest surprise of all. We’d expected a hot defense because as you know the city has been loyal to the Angevins for some seventy-five years. King Louis ordered up the siege engines and we got ready for a long siege. First though, as a formality he sent envoys to negotiate with the city fathers. We’d hardly lobbed a boulder or two over the wall when the garrison marched out and surrendered, and the citizens swore fealty to Louis. I think some of our men were disappointed. They do like a chance to give a well-defended fortress a good battering, and then take the place by storm.”
“So Louis secured Poitou. Which of course he couldn’t have done without you, my love.” I patted his knee. “What happened next?”
“A great deal. The King decided things had gone so well that he could return to Paris. He wants to start planning his Crusade against those heretics in the south, the ones who’ve broken away from the church. It seems the Albigensian heresy has spread from the common people to his own noble vassals. So he left and ordered me to lead the forces down into Gascony. That wasn’t so easy.”
While he finished off his soup, I refilled our wine goblets. I was anxious to hear about Bordeaux, the city whose revenues we’d been promised. But Hugh seemed determined to tell his story in the order of events as they happened.
“Well, at first it wasn’t hard. We took four of the big towns to the east of Bordeaux. We thought we’d have a hard time at La Réole on the Garonne. It’s built on a steep hill with the castle at the very top. But the garrison was pretty careless. I suppose they counted on hearing the clatter of hoofbeats long before any attackers got to the castle. We fooled them--left the horses down at the bottom and crept up on foot. There was only one guard at the gate so we got in with no trouble. They didn’t even have time to post any archers. And where do you suppose I spent that night, Queen Isabella?”
“I hope not with some camp follower or loose-living lady of the town.”
“Certainly not. I was lodged in solitary splendor in the grand Hotel de Ville. That’s the palace King Richard built some thirty years ago as a gift to the city after they supported him in one of his raids down toward Toulouse. The mayor was all settled in for the night, but he quickly gave up his own rooms to me when he saw which way the land lay. I found them quite comfortable. I must say, I felt grateful to your brother-in-law.”
I was beginning to suspect Hugh was rattling on like this to put off telling me the outcome of the campaign hadn’t been a happy one.
He took a handful of raisins and chewed them thoro
ughly. He saw that I was getting impatient. He looked at me mischievously.
“They sweeten the stomach, you know. Good for the digestion. After that fine meal, my stomach deserves a sweet finish.”
Serious again, he sighed.
“Well, now comes the bad news. In spite of meeting so little resistance around Bordeaux, we couldn’t take the city itself. God knows it wasn’t for lack of trying. We tried to force our way in. When that failed, we tried to persuade their officers that they’d be better off under Louis than Henry. They just laughed. They don’t care a farthing which king claims to rule them. All they care about is the cozy relationship they have with the English. It’s a city of merchants and shippers, that’s what it comes down to. As long as the English are so thirsty for French wine, the Bordelais will keep selling it and sending it across the Channel. They doubt King Louis would let them. I doubt it too.”
“That’s bad news indeed. King Louis must have known what a hopeless mission it would be, why did he send you?”
“I’ve decided he dangled the prize of Bordeaux before us so we’d support him in his other campaigns. We’ll have to learn to be more suspicious of our monarch’s motives, my dear.”
“Yes, and maybe come up with some schemes of our own. Well, in any case, you’ve helped him regain Poitou and a good part of Gascony. We won’t let him forget that.”
A servant came to remove the remnants of our supper and light the candles. We sat there a while in silence. Poor tired Hugh was slumped in his chair and almost nodding off. A shaft of golden light from the declining sun lit the room and warmed my face. I caught the sweet scent of lavender from a bowl of dried blossoms on a table behind me. Perhaps they’re right when they say lavender stimulates the brain. Ideas about what we should do next were buzzing about in my head like agitated bees.
“Hugh my love, what do you think of this?”
He came to with a jerk.
“What do I think of what?”
“This: King Louis will be very busy in Paris for some time, getting ready for his Crusade. We shouldn’t be idle. Let’s go out into Poitou and call on the barons who’ve just come back into the French camp. We’ll remind them that fealty to Louis means fealty to us too, because the King has charged us to maintain order and peace in his name. And let’s suggest, ever so subtly, that they can count on us more than on the King of France to keep their interests paramount, just in case—God forbid—the English once again become their overlords in Poitou.”
He was wide-awake now.
“Yes, I see what you’re getting at. We should build some bridges before the next flood comes, as it’s very likely to do. I assume, my Queen, that in these subtle hints of our support in case of a change of masters we’ll imply that you, as mother of the King of England, may have some special influence you could bring to bear.”
I smiled at him and poured the last of the wine. As we raised our silver goblets they glittered in the sunset rays.
“To Angoulême and La Marche, against all others!”
We did make our forays out to call on our vassals and those we hoped to enlist as vassals, with considerable success. Over the next few months we divided our time between that and seeing to the improvements to our castles. Besides the new tower at Angoulême we’d begun building an addition at Lusignan to serve as the Logis de la Reine—the Queen’s Chambers. I’d persuaded Hugh that we needed more space for my ladies and me as well as the children. As a matter of principle he demurred at first—he was more frugal than I was. But I pointed out that as King John’s wife I’d had my own Queen’s House at Winchester. He came around.
For a time we felt we reigned in our own golden kingdom where all went well. Then in March 1225 came news that tarnished the gold considerably. My son Richard with a sizable army was on his way to Bordeaux, aiming to retake Gascony for King Henry.
Chapter 53
Henry III
1225-1227
A few months after I officially came of age at eighteen my brother Richard turned sixteen. I knighted him and granted him the earldom of Cornwall and the countship of Poitou. Now he was equipped to lead our forces into battle. He could go overseas and launch a bold new campaign to retake the lands recently lost to King Louis and to our stepfather.
I’d worried about his going off so young to such a difficult task. I’d offered to go myself. Hubert de Burgh dissuaded me.
“No, King Henry, your best service to your kingdom is to stay here and give your people a sense of stability and purpose. You’d do well to travel to the North, to Ireland and Wales, let everyone see that their young King cares about their welfare and safety. Richard will be in good hands, with his uncle Earl William and Philip d’Aubigné to accompany him. They’re the most seasoned warriors we have.”
The assignment suited Richard perfectly. Though I knew war was necessary and had always acquitted myself well, I thought it a chore. Richard saw it as glorious recreation and always had.
Once at Windsor, when I’d been practicing at jousting under William Marshal’s supervision, ten-year-old Richard had begged to take a run at the quintain, though he’d never done it before. I dismounted and gave him my lance. He mounted and set off with the speed of a falcon dropping on its prey. He launched the lance with such force that it went clean through the straw body and buried itself in the post.
William Marshal watched in amazement.
“By the saints, young man, you’re a born warrior. I’ve never seen any but a grown man do that. You must take after your uncle, Richard the Lionheart. He was always one to dash into the thick of the battle as though the enemy were so many straw men, like that poor wounded fellow there. And he’d come out the victor, ten times out of ten.”
Richard went scarlet with pride. After that he had his own horse and lance.
And now he had his sword. Everybody was full of hope and confidence.
“He’ll be a brave leader,” said William de Cantilupe, who had continued as my steward after my father’s death.
“I predict that in two months we’ll hear that Gascony is ours again,” said Sir Hubert.
I still didn’t like Sir Hubert, but I’d come to respect him. He was stern, unbending, even pig-headed sometimes. I’d never forgiven him for the way he sent my mother away. But he was loyal to me and had England’s best interests at heart, as he understood them. As far as I knew, he wasn’t more likely than the next man to try to enrich himself through his office of justiciar.
I asked Richard to come to my audience chamber at Westminster Palace just before he was to leave. He was so excited he couldn’t settle down. His short blond curls were tousled. He didn’t wear his hair long as I did—“With short hair your head won’t get so hot and sweaty in your helmet,” he’d said when he was nine and insisted on having his hair cut. That was years before he’d worn a helmet. Now my tall young brother wore a coat of supple chain mail and carried his helmet under his arm.
“So, brother, you’re about to go to war at last. I wish I were going too, but they tell me I mustn’t. So be it. Now, there are a few things I want to say before you leave.”
He settled himself in a chair before me. He stretched out his long legs and looked attentive. Maybe he expected a lecture on bravery, fighting for the honor of England and setting an example to the troops.
“Your enemies will include our mother’s husband, Hugh de Lusignan. We don’t know much about him except that he seems ready to serve any master who makes it worth his while. You may never even come across him. But if you can, try to find out what kind of man he really is, what people think of him, whether there’s any way we could persuade him to become an ally and to stay faithful to England. I wish you might have a chance to go to Angoulême or at least to send a message to our mother, but I suppose that will be impossible.”
“It’s not so far from Bordeaux, where we’ll land,” Richard said. “I’ve been studying the maps. But I doubt if it would look well if the leader of the English forces left the battle to call
on the wife of our chief enemy. Henry…” He paused, then took a deep breath. “Henry, you really should face the facts. Our mother left England and married Hugh, she’s raising another family with him and she’s never bothered to keep in touch. It’s plain to me and should be to you that she doesn’t care about us anymore.”
I didn’t say anything. I had nothing to go on besides my memories of my mother. But I knew he was wrong.
A man knocked and came in to tell us that Sir Hubert, Pandulfo and the rest of the council were waiting in the courtyard. The knights were mounted and Richard’s horse was saddled and ready.
“Let’s go out, then,” I said. “It’s time for us stay-at-homes to wish you and your men Godspeed and send you bravely on your way.”
Hubert de Burgh’s prediction about how soon Richard would succeed was almost on the mark. Our forces were warmly welcomed at Bordeaux. Within a few months he sent word that most of Gascony was again solidly pledged to King Henry. Only a few towns held out.
In October Richard sent another report. The council met at Westminster to hear it and to discuss our strategy.
The others were already seated at the council table on the dais of the great hall when I came in. I looked around at the enormous room where I’d attended so many banquets and gatherings. It hadn’t changed much over the years. Red and gold Plantagenet pennants still hung along the walls between the tall arched windows. They looked as though they’d benefit from a good shaking out. Fires blazed in the two fireplaces, but whatever heat they released floated at once to the cavernous upper reaches of the hall, shadowy with the network of stout wooden buttresses holding up the distant ceiling. It was chilly and drafty and smelled musty. I pulled my fur-lined cloak closer about me and seated myself at the center of the table, surrounded by familiar faces.
Sir Hubert sat on my right. My uncle, Earl William of Salisbury, was on my left. He’d been fighting alongside Richard and had brought this latest message. Strictly speaking he wasn’t a full uncle, being the natural son of King Henry, my grandfather. He’d always served his half-brother, my father, with bravery and devotion. Looking at the tall, commanding figure, I remembered when I’d first heard him referred to as “William Longsword,” and realized it was a deliberate and unkind comparison with the name they gave my father behind his back, “John Softsword.” But Earl William was far too honorable to bring that up.
