by Rachel Bard
Also at the table were the legate Pandulfo, Archbishop Stephen of Canterbury, William de Cantilupe and Brian de Lisle. My old tutor and friend Peter des Roches, bishop of Winchester, was no longer asked to attend council meetings. He’d had a serious falling-out with Sir Hubert two years before.
“Welcome,” I said, looking along the table and nodding at each man. “Earl William, let us hear the message my brother sends.”
My uncle unrolled the parchment.
“To our brother the King and all his loyal subjects, greeting: We rejoice that all Gascony is now safely restored to England. We have taken the last two towns to resist us, Bergerac and La Réole, to the east of Bordeaux. At La Réole we came very near to capturing the enemy leader, Hugh de Lusignan, while he was making a stealthy retreat during the night. He escaped us this time, but we will be vigilant. We await your instructions. With Gascony ours, we may now with good hopes make incursions into Poitou and drive King Louis from his strongholds there. Richard, Count of Poitou.”
Until recently Sir Hubert would have taken charge at this point. Now he deferred to me. I’d thought the day would never come. I addressed the council.
“We must build on my brother Richard’s successes. Sir Hubert, speak first. What is your advice?”
The big man seemed to swell even larger in his chair, almost overflowing it with the bulk of his body and his opinions, bursting to be expressed.
“Thank you, my liege,” he said in his rumbling growl. “Our course seems clear to me. We must keep the initiative and move as quickly as possible into Poitou.”
“And the sooner the better,” said Earl William. “Before I left, we heard what King Louis has been up to in Poitou since he regained it. He’s been settling differences with the cities, donating to churches and religious orders, acting the part of the generous overlord. The Count of La Marche and the Countess of Angoulême are right behind him. If we don’t act now we’ll find it devilishly difficult to regain any of our old vassals.”
“On the other hand,” said canny old William de Cantilupe, “we mustn’t neglect Périgord and the Limousin. They haven’t gone over to King Louis yet, but without our attention they might. We know King Louis will soon go on his Crusade. I’d suggest we do what we can in the South now, then when Louis is out of the way, go up into Poitou.”
I asked Pandulfo, “What’s your opinion?” As papal legate, his first loyalty was to the Pope. But since the Pope was still technically the ruler of England, Pandulfo had to be equally devoted to the well-being of his master’s kingdom. He looked around the table. With his sharp nose, long chin and hooded eyes he’d always reminded me of a lizard. Sometimes I expected an angry tongue to flick out from those tightly closed lips.
“We mustn’t leap into an assault on Poitou while King Louis is absent on his Crusade. My information is that he will be leaving very shortly. As you know, this Crusade is dear to the heart of Pope Honorius, who wishes once and for all to stamp out the heresy of the Albigensians.”
“And King Louis wishes to stamp out the rebellion of the Count of Toulouse, who’s taken up the cause of the heretics more out of politics than religious zeal,” said Sir Hubert. “How convenient that the Pope’s and the King’s aims coincide.” Sir Hubert was always suspicious of everybody’s motives. Yet I think we all agreed with him.
“That may well be,” Pandulfo went on. “But you may not be aware that the Pope has threatened to excommunicate anyone who attacks the domains of King Louis while he is on his holy mission.”
This gave everybody pause.
Archbishop Stephen spoke up. “I must concur in my good friend’s cautions. England has already suffered the pains of excommunication. I’d be most distressed if, out of an eagerness for quick conquests, we subjected our people to that disgrace again.”
Nobody wanted to be the first to advocate bringing disgrace on the nation. After a moment Archbishop Stephen went on.
“Furthermore, as good Christians it’s our duty to support King Louis, or at least not hinder him. The Albigensian heresy threatens the very foundations of the church. The misguided believers claim they are the only true Christians; unfortunately they have refused to listen when good Catholics have tried to explain to them the error of their ways. Much as we deplore it, this may be a time when war is the only answer.”
“Still, it’s not our war,” Sir Hubert muttered. “Our war is in Poitou. Why do we have to suit our actions to the whims of King Louis?”
For some time the opposing views were noisily aired around the table. To add to the confusion, Brian de Lisle remembered that a respected astrologer had predicted that King Louis would die during the Crusade. If that were true, we might do better to wait until he was dead before we took action. Yet if it weren’t true, we’d lose valuable time by holding off.
Finally I spoke up above the clamor.
“Good friends, listen to your King. I believe, in view of the Pope’s threat, we should postpone action. Let us instruct Count Richard to assemble his forces and march north to the Poitou border. That will keep our enemies unsettled and alarmed. In their indecision some may decide to come over to our side. When we see how King Louis fares we can decide on the next steps.”
At this, Hubert de Burgh grew quite red and sat scowling at his clenched hands. Pandulfo gave me a quick glance of what looked like approval. William de Cantilupe looked noncommittal. Archbishop Stephen smiled blandly. Brian de Lisle, a crony of Hubert de Burgh, looked glum. Only Earl William spoke.
“A wise judgment, my lord King. I believe Count Richard will agree. He is eager to pursue his advantages, but he is also aware that his army needs time to recover from the campaign. This gives him that time.” My uncle was a diplomat as well as a soldier.
So hostilities ceased at the end of 1226 while King Louis was battling in the south. In November of that year we had the news that the astrologer’s prediction had come true. Louis VIII of France died while returning to Paris from his Crusade.
The council had to scramble to adjust to these new circumstances. The late King’s son, Louis IX, was only twelve. For some time his mother the Queen Regent, Blanche of Castile, would rule France. From everything we’d heard about her, she’d be hard to ignore. We thought we should capitalize on the uncertainty and probable unrest in France and seize the moment for attack. We sent envoys to feel out the lords of Poitou, Anjou and Normandy.
Then we had some unexpected good news: the commander of the important port of La Rochelle had opened the gates of the city to Richard. This put us in a considerably stronger position. Yet I was still reluctant to begin any major action that could mean all-out war against my mother and her husband.
Queen Blanche made my decision for me. She offered a truce to last until Midsummer of 1227. In spite of the reservations of some of my more battle-hungry advisers, I sent instructions to Richard to sign the truce. It was signed on the other side by Queen Blanche, Louis IX, Hugh de Lusignan and some of his adherents.
In the first year of my majority I’d made war, made peace and, I believed, begun to act as a king—a prudent king.
Chapter 54
Isabella
1227-1240
When Blanche of Castile became Queen Regent of France I intended to be friendly, even magnanimous. I felt Hugh and I were in a strong position to receive special favors from the French monarchy.
My English sons were clawing ferociously at the lands their father had lost to the French. Richard had already retaken Gascony, the longtime seat of English power in southwestern France with its prize, the port of Bordeaux. Blanche must have known that my son Henry was maneuvering to take back Poitou, where Hugh and I held sway. It would certainly be in her interest to cultivate the goodwill of the invaders’ mother.
Besides, we had so much in common: We were widows of kings and had sons who were kings. We were almost the same age. We even had a family tie. Her mother, Eleanor of Castile, had been the sister of King John, so through my marriage to him I’d bec
ome her aunt.
I was gratified but not surprised, therefore, when we received an invitation to visit her at Vendôme in June of 1227.
“This could be a very interesting meeting,” I said to Hugh. “We must make a good impression. I think we should take at least six of our courtiers.”
By now we’d attracted a small group of lords and ladies who were with us at Angoulême and Lusignan and accompanied us on our travels about our lands. To my sorrow Lady Anne was no longer one of them. William de Cantilupe’s mysterious hidden wife had finally died and he’d sent for Anne to come marry him at last. I was happy for her but bereft at the loss of this last tie with my past. I felt that with her going I was finally saying goodbye to my youth.
“Who will tell me I’m still beautiful in spite of having passed forty? Who will keep me from being foolish and headstrong?” I asked her. We were at Lusignan, where she’d brought me as an uncertain fourteen-year-old, so many years ago. Though she was nearly sixty, the years had been kind to her. I looked at the wise, affectionate face of this woman who knew me so well. I clung to her hand, unwilling to let her go.
“My dear lady, I’ve done all I can for you in that respect. At least I leave you with a kind husband and fewer temptations to stray.”
We hugged, and after one last kiss on my cheek she was gone.
Now, two weeks later, Hugh and I and our party made our way up “La Montagne,” the eminence above the River Loir where the castle of Vendôme perched in lonely majesty. Before we went through the gates we stopped to look across the deep gorge of the river to the town that clung to the hill on the other side. At the crest was a sprawling abbey with the tallest bell tower I’d ever seen.
“Strategically speaking,” said Hugh, “this castle is as fortunate as Lusignan, high on a cliff with unobstructed views of any enemies approaching.”
“I agree as to the location. But we don’t have such a fine prospect. When we look out from our castle we don’t see anything but the insignificant little farms down below and the woods on the other side of a river half the size of the Loir.”
“Well, never mind. If Queen Blanche thought she was going to make us discontented with our humble lot by asking us to her grand castle, she’ll have to think again. I wouldn’t trade our Lusignan for this or any other castle in France.”
I tried to agree, but when we were inside the walls and I saw the exquisite garden that occupied almost all the big courtyard, I felt stabs of jealousy. Pebbled paths bordered by neatly trimmed hedges ran in precise lines, crisscrossing the space and framing flowerbeds. White lilies filled one bed, next to it were roses in bud with a few blushing pink rosettes just unfolding, then a square of regal purple iris, and so on through all the colors of the rainbow. Two gardeners were hard at work plucking out any rash weeds that dared to peep above ground. I saw a white-clothed table set up in the center. A blue canopy decorated with golden fleurs-de-lis shielded it from the sun.
The whole scene made our gardens at both Angoulême and Lusignan look haphazard and untended. I resolved that when I returned I would order some changes.
Queen Blanche was waiting at the foot of the broad flight of stone steps at the castle entrance.
I’d feared I’d find a ravishing beauty, tall and imperial. This unsmiling woman, hardly taller than I was, was far from beautiful. I saw a dark-complexioned face, dominated by black eyes, heavy black eyebrows that almost met, and a nose a trifle too large for harmony. Her Spanish heritage was evident not only in her face but also in her costume, of unadorned black from head to toe except for a gold cross at her throat. I was surprised that when she spoke her French was flawless.
“Welcome, Sir Hugh and Lady Isabella.” (My first clue as to how she saw me: She didn’t call me Queen Isabella.) “I am so happy that you could come. If you please, come in to refresh yourselves before we dine.”
When we came out, we found King Louis, an untalkative lad of thirteen, seated at the head of the table. An indigo-blue silk tunic hung loosely on his thin frame. From time to time he poked at his crown to make it sit more comfortably on his narrow head. His mother asked Hugh and me to sit on either side of him. She took the place next to me. Our courtiers and hers arranged themselves at the remaining places.
I was completely charmed by the ambience. It was pleasantly warm. Our pavilion was an island of civilized elegance in the midst of a disciplined, colorful floral sea. The scent of roses and lilacs hovered in the air. Servants brought course after course of a long meal that began with tiny succulent roasted ortolans and ended with sweet pastries in the shape of fleurs-de-lis. Nothing of moment was discussed during the meal. Blanche and I settled on childhood memories as a safe topic. She’d been brought up under the strict supervision of her father, King Alfonso, and her mother, Queen Eleanor. They taught her to be devout and obedient to her elders, including the nuns and priests who schooled her in Catholicism and the duties of a princess. She professed wonder when she heard of my relatively unsupervised childhood.
When the last pastry had been consumed and the crumbs swept away, Queen Blanche suggested to her majordomo that he give the others of our party a tour of the gardens and the castle. She, King Louis, Hugh and I remained at the table. It was time to get down to business.
Our negotiations were indeed most businesslike. By the time we had been there an hour, we had come to an understanding. His mother spoke for the young King. From time to time she’d look at him inviting comment, and he would murmur a word or simply nod his head. He may have been uninterested, or he may have learned that his mother ran his life and there was no point in having an opinion.
Our agreement amounted to Blanche’s buying our support for King Louis vis-à-vis King Henry. She offered 10,600 French livres to compensate me for the portion of my dowry that John’s council had never paid me, and to compensate Hugh and me for the loss of revenues from Bordeaux that the late King had promised us. Then we discussed matrimonial alliances between our families. We agreed that our eldest son, Hugh XI, was to be engaged to Isabelle de France, King Louis’s sister. Our daughter Isabella was promised to Alphonse, King Louis’s brother. Not one of the four was older than seven.
In return we promised to come to the aid of the Queen Regent and her son against all enemies. We wouldn’t give asylum or supplies to any enemies of France or lend them troops. That meant, of course, that neither King Henry nor Prince Richard would receive any help from us if they should invade or attack.
“I am satisfied,” said Blanche when the bargaining was over. “To celebrate our accord, shall we have a toast with my favorite wine, which is brought to me from Portugal?” She beckoned to one of the servants who were lined up behind us. He brought a crystal decanter and poured each of us a glass of the wine—sweet and potent, glowing ruby-red in the sunlight. We raised our glasses. Hugh made the toast.
“To Queen Blanche and her son King Louis, may this mark the beginning of a mutually beneficial relationship. Queen Isabella and I will cherish the memory of this day when we enjoyed the hospitality of the gracious Queen.” Hugh could be quite the courtier when he put his mind to it.
We spent that night at Vendôme, lodged in a sumptuous upper room in one of the towers that were spaced along the battlements.
We were both tired, maybe a little dazed by the day’s events. After we’d changed into our night robes and the servants had left we sat down to talk.
“I think we came out rather well, don’t you?” I said.
“Especially if she’s prompt and honest in sending the money.”
“Yes, that remains to be seen. Do you think we should have asked for more than she offered? She might have been willing to go higher.”
“It was considerably more than I’d expected. No, I’m content with 10,600 livres. That’s almost as much as we get in a year from all our fiefs in Poitou.”
“I suppose you’re right. And as for the marriage arrangements, they’re advantageous to both our sides. I’ll confess I was halfway hoping tha
t she’d suggest betrothing King Louis to our Isabella. I suppose she’s holding out for some royal princess for him.”
“Probably.” Hugh yawned and stretched. He looked toward the enormous bed, canopied in blue and gold silk. “It’s time to get our rest.”
I wasn’t quite finished.
“Hugh, did you notice that Blanche never called me Queen Isabella and all the time we were discussing terms she addressed you, not me?”
“Indeed I did. I was gratified that you didn’t point out to her how bad-mannered she was. Your restraint was admirable.”
“Thank you, my lord. I thought so too.”
I went to stand by the window, looking over the castle walls at the town on the other side of the river. It was nearly dark. I could still make out the abbey’s tall tower. One small light shone from a window halfway up. Maybe a monk was reading his scriptures, waiting until time to ring the bells. I wondered if some day we could add a tower like that to the Church of St. André in Angoulême.
The breeze freshened and I shivered. I turned around. Hugh was already in bed, sitting up and not looking so sleepy now.
“I’ve been thinking, Queen Isabella. Since we may lose two of our children to the royal house of France, we’d do well to begin producing a fresh supply. Come, I can’t do it all alone. Will you help me?”
I believe that was the night our fourth son, William, was conceived.
I suppose Henry learned of our agreement with the Queen Regent. At any rate, he began to send counter offers, which we rejected or ignored. Like his father, he was determined to get back England’s lost lands. Gascony wasn’t enough; he wanted Poitou. That would restore Aquitaine to what it was when Queen Eleanor brought it as her dowry upon her marriage to King Henry. For forty years, the French had been nibbling away at Aquitaine and the English had contested every lost morsel. Even before I was exiled from England I’d seen how Hubert de Burgh and the other members of the King’s council had carefully nurtured my son’s obsession with reclaiming it.
