by Rachel Bard
“I think you should rest now. I’ll leave you. We can talk more later.”
“No, Hugh, don’t go.” She sat up straight and gathered herself together. I could see the energy flow back. “We have matters to discuss that are far more important than malicious gossip. I don’t want to put this off.”
So I stayed, and she told me what she thought was so important: nothing less than her belief that from now on we should live apart, and that we should agree on a division of our lands and properties among our children.
Somehow I’d been expecting this. I think she was relieved that I didn’t resist.
“As you wish, Isabella. Perhaps at least for now we should maintain our separate residences. God knows, we have plenty to occupy us. In spite of what Louis did we both have sizeable lands to govern and vassals to keep in line. As to a legacy for our children, I’d like to have young Hugh with us when we work out the terms. He’s at Poitiers now but he’ll be here tomorrow. And I’d want my cousin, Simon de Lezay, to join us. Whatever we decide affects the whole Lusignan clan. If you agree, I’ll send for him.”
She agreed.
It took the better part of two days for the four of us, with the help of my secretary, to agree on the will. As was only right, Hugh XI as future head of the clan was to have suzerainty over the county of La Marche, my heritage. That meant he would eventually be master of the castle at Lusignan. He would also inherit Isabella’s County of Angoulême. Even without the fiefs that King Louis had taken from us, Hugh’s legacy would be considerably larger than what I’d been left by my father.
To our second son, Guy, we left several fiefs in Angoulême and Cognac. To this Isabella added a proviso.
“ I’d like to add that, with the consent of his brother Hugh, he is to have the rights to the city of Angoulême, as long as he lives. He has always taken such an interest in building the new palace. It’s still many years from being finished, and I think we can count on him to see it through.”
Nobody objected to that. To our other three sons we left various fiefs in Saintonge and Poitou. They included those that we’d surrendered to King Louis on the understanding that they’d eventually be restored to us, dependent on our obedient service to the King. We trusted that by the time our sons were of an age to receive their inheritances this would have happened.
“That’s assuming the King remembers what he promised you,” said Simon. Simon took a jaundiced view of the trustworthiness of kings.
“True,” I said. “But what choice do we have? And if need be they can fight for their rights, as I did and my father before me.”
When the documents had been properly drawn up we signed them with great solemnity. Isabella, as always, signed herself “Countess of Angoulême and Queen of England.”
That night when Simon had left, young Hugh had gone back to Poitiers and we were alone, Isabella asked me to come with her to her rooms. We walked along the gallery with a servant ahead of us lighting the way.
“I’m so glad we settled all that. Have you thought, Hugh, that we’ve achieved what we said we’d do when the Count of La Marche married the Countess of Angoulême? We’ve combined the two parts into a whole that’s almost powerful enough to stand up to the King of France. Just because we didn’t quite succeed doesn’t mean that our son Hugh can’t win back what we lost when he’s in sole charge. Especially when his brothers are so well endowed, in such strategic locations. Not to mention his sisters, who’ll be married to men of consequence and power.”
I didn’t reply. I wanted no more of her grand schemes, even if these were for our children and not for us.
We reached her chambers where I thought I’d say goodnight. The servant lit a few candles and threw a log on the fire, then left. Isabella unpinned her wimple and tossed it on a chair. Her golden hair, now turned silvery, was loosed to cascade to her shoulders. In the dimness with the flickering firelight playing on her face she looked as young and desirable as the Isabella I’d married. She took my hand.
“Hugh, will you come to bed with me?”
We hadn’t slept together for months. I’d resigned myself to a life of celibacy.
“I would be honored, Queen Isabella.”
That night we made love without passion but gently, considerately, soberly. It was like an envoi to our life together.
In the morning I opened my eyes to see her already awake and watching me. She smiled.
“Thank you, Hugh, for a lovely last time.”
“Last time? What do you mean? We’ll still visit each other. Now that I know you haven’t crossed me off your list of bedmates, I hope we’ll visit often.”
“No, I’m afraid not. You’re about to go fulfill your pledge to serve King Louis in Provence. Long before you’re back I’ll have been admitted to the Abbey of Fontevraud.”
Chapter 60
. Isabella
1243-1246
When I came to Fontevraud Abbey, I looked forward to the calm, orderly atmosphere I’d been impressed with during my first visit with John. Here, if anywhere, I could find peace, or at least rest. I was weary of the efforts to reconcile my various loyalties: to my son Henry; to Hugh’s and my self-interest as lords of Poitou; to the future well being of our children.
I was even weary of Hugh. Though I was still fond of him I couldn’t think of any reason that we should continue to live together.
Perhaps, too, there was some vanity in my wish to retire to the abbey. After a lifetime as a beauty, I was dismayed at the signs of aging. I had to face it: now in my fifty-seventh year, no ointments, potions, poultices or herbal infusions were going to bring back my youth. In this relative isolation, away from those who knew me, maybe it wouldn’t matter so much.
With my small party I rode down the broad avenue, through the gate and into the great sprawling community, centered on the huge abbey church. Though I’d been here only once, all those years ago, I felt I was coming home. I pointed out the sights to my companion, Louise de Beaufort.
“There are the convents for the nuns and monks with their chapter houses and cloisters. There’s the shelter for lepers. There’s even a home for fallen women but it’s tucked away. And down that lane are the lodgings for rich and titled ladies who wish to retire from the world. That’s where Queen Eleanor had her apartments. I expect we’ll be lodged there.”
I remembered so well the opulence of Eleanor’s rooms and the respect accorded her by everybody from abbess to humble lay sister. As a former Queen of England I looked forward to commanding the same respect.
At the chapter house the abbess greeted me civilly but coolly. She told me at once that I couldn’t be lodged in Queen Eleanor’s old house.
“We keep that ready for King Henry’s queen, if she should decide to visit us." That was my son Henry’s wife Eleanor. As far as I knew she’d never visited Fontevraud and wasn’t likely to any day soon. Nevertheless the abbess, like all her predecessors, knew how important it was to show obsequiousness to the reigning Plantagenets. The abbey owed a great deal to the dynasty. John’s father Henry II, as well as Queen Eleanor, had endowed it richly. John and I had also been generous. But since I’d committed the indiscretion of marrying again after my royal husband died, it seemed the new Queen of England had superseded me.
I fumed but there was no point in arguing. I had to be satisfied with a smaller suite of rooms. We were barely able to fit in all the furniture I’d brought from Angoulême. However, it was self-sufficient with its own dining hall as well as lodgings for Louise and the two servants. I was glad I’d thought to bring my cook.
The abbess told me there were only three other ladies in residence currently, all widows of noblemen.
“They generally take their dinners in the refectory of La Madeleine. Since it’s nearly the dinner hour, would you like me to show you the way?”
“Not today, thank you. I’m tired from the journey and more in need of rest than food. Perhaps tomorrow.”
“As you wish.” She flounced out.
So began my new life.
My acquaintance with the three other ladies languished after I heard one of them tell the others that I was “that woman who tried to poison our blessed King Louis.” If they were silly enough to believe that, I wanted nothing to do with them.
After that I depended mostly on my own company and on that of Louise de Beaufort. I’d chosen her to come with me because she seemed to have good sense and discretion. Though nobody could replace my old friend Lady Anne, who’d seen me through so many tempestuous years, Lady Louise proved a good companion. She was about five years older than I was, a widow of a minor noble of Poitou. Her face was square-chinned, her nose was prominent and her white hair generally flew about as though she’d just been through a windstorm. She tended to chatter. But I soon found she didn’t care whether I took part in the conversation, so I let her ramble on; it was rather restful. She was certainly good-hearted. If I chanced to say something that amused her, she’d look at me with a wide smile, her cheeks would turn pink and I knew that Lady Louise was on my side, no matter what. In my hall with its view of the abbey church we’d sit for hours with our needlework, looking out at the comings and goings of our fellow inhabitants of this little self-contained world.
On the whole I was content at Fontevraud. I took pleasure in walking in the gardens with Lady Louise. She knew a great deal more than I did about herbs and flowers. When we first arrived there were no flowers to be seen, though in the kitchen garden the sturdy plants that didn’t mind the cold flourished: sage, rosemary, thyme. Throughout the winter we’d see the silent nuns with their little spades and their baskets, digging up carrots and beets. Later Louise would point out to me the bright green leaves of mint popping up through the brown earth, a sign of spring. Soon after that we’d see violets and daisies dotting the meadow grass. Still later there was such a profusion of flowers that I simply enjoyed them without needing to know what they were.
Sometimes I wondered about Hugh. I hoped that no harm would come to him in King Louis’s service. On the whole, though, I felt pleasantly removed from my past life, as though a door had closed behind me to shut off all the turmoil, all the entanglements with family, friends and enemies. Now I was in a new and quieter room.
Just when I was congratulating myself that I didn’t need the outside world it intruded. In September of 1243 a messenger came from my son Henry. I’d supposed he’d gone back to England after the terrible defeat at Saintes. But no, he and his wife were still in Gascony.
His message was brief: He had learned of my retirement to Fontevraud. Could he come to see me, as a dutiful son calling on his mother, and for no reason other than his love for me? (By which he meant, I supposed, that this wasn’t a political mission and I wasn’t to persuade him to embark on any hopeless new schemes.)
I sent the messenger back to tell Henry I’d be overjoyed to see him, and urged him to come soon. He replied that he’d get to Fontevraud before noon on September 27.
When he arrived I was waiting at my door, looking out at the bright autumn day. Gusty winds were blowing the leaves off the trees that lined the road, swirling them about so we seemed in the midst of a golden rainstorm. The high prioress, Lady Blanche, conducted Henry. I could tell by her preening, self-satisfied look that the arrival of the King of England was a great honor for the abbey, much more so than that of his mother with her questionable reputation.
I’d last seen Henry only two years ago, when we met at Reading to plan our uprising against King Louis. So much had happened since then! After a hug and a kiss I stood looking at him, noticing how he’d changed in just that short time. Losing that war had certainly aged him. Yet this wasn’t the face of defeat. It was the face of a man who’d learned to accept setbacks and recoveries, a man comfortable with his kingship, a man who’d become used to commanding respect.
I invited him into my hall, which he surveyed carefully.
“You haven’t lost your good taste, mother. Such a handsome chamber! I suppose those tapestries are French, but surely I remember these two fine chests from your Queen’s House at Winchester?”
“Yes, when I left England I was permitted to bring some of my favorite things. They’ve been with me at Angoulême all these years, and I couldn’t bear to leave them. But tell me, my dear, how you are, why you are still in France, how your wife Eleanor is—I have so many questions! But you must remember to speak plainly and directly to me. Your poor old mother doesn’t hear as well as she used to.”
He laughed and hugged me again. “Very well, poor old mother. And the first thing I’ll say plainly and directly is that you look neither poor nor old to me, but as beautiful as ever and hardly poor—I believe I see a gold ring on your finger with an emerald the size of my thumb.”
I led him to a windowseat. He bounced a few times on the thick cushion, well filled with goosedown.
“And I see you still insist on your comfort.” He grinned at me.
“Well, why not? At my age one’s bones get very close to the surface, and the softer the seat the better. But do answer my questions. Oh Henry, I am so very glad to see you!”
“And I you.” He looked at me with such kindness, such open love, that I saw once more the little boy who had thought his mother was the most wonderful person in the world.
“All right, to your questions. I’m still in France because Eleanor was so near to giving birth when the war ended that we stayed in Bordeaux rather than risk the voyage back to England. And I’m happy to tell you that she’s been delivered of our second daughter, Beatrice, and both are doing well. Then I had to make peace with King Louis and sign a truce. And since Gascony is still largely ours, Richard and I had a great deal of business there. He’ll stay on, but Eleanor and I must return in October. While I was so close I couldn’t deny myself the pleasure of coming to see my mother before we left.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
“But what of you, mother? Where is your husband, why are you here?”
“Hugh has gone on King Louis’s service to the south, trying to bring Toulouse into the King’s domain. It was a condition of the peace we signed. And I’m here because Hugh and I finally had to admit we’d both be happier apart. No need to go beyond that. I’m far more interested in you. I have so little news from England. How are your sisters? I know about poor Joanna, of course. I still mourn her.” My eldest daughter, who’d married the King of Scotland and gone to live in that harsh cold country, had died four years ago.
“I grieve to tell you that Isabella died only last year, but Eleanor is very well, and is now the wife of Simon de Montfort. I was happy to give her my permission.”
Then we fell to reminiscing about his childhood. We spoke of happy times he and his brother and sisters had had at Winchester and at Corfe Castle. “I fell in love with that castle when I was only ten,” he said, “and I still go back whenever I can.”
Two subjects we avoided: his father King John and his unhappy last years; and the recent debacle when Hugh and I had persuaded Henry to join us and try to reclaim England’s lands in France.
Before he left I asked him if he would go with me to the abbey church to pay our respects to the tombs of his grandparents, Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine, and his uncle, Richard the Lionheart. We walked along the short path to the church courtyard, meeting a few nuns on the way who looked deferentially at my son and bobbed their heads. Maybe I’ll get a little more respect, I thought, now that they’ve seen me with the King.
The sun was hiding behind a cloud. The wind had died down after depositing a thick carpet of yellow leaves that rustled as we walked through them. The autumn day that had earlier seemed the last bright fling of summer was now a sober harbinger of winter.
In the vast church we walked along the nave, flanked on both sides by marble columns. Henry, who’d seen many churches in his time, looked up to where the columns arched gracefully to support lofty domes. “Very fine,” he said. “As fine as anything we have in England.”
> At the transept we found the tombs with their stone effigies recumbent. All looked calm and regal, Henry and Richard with scepters and Eleanor holding an open book. I’d always wondered about that; she wasn’t known as a scholar. But it was probably meant to show her piously saying her prayers.
“I wonder why my father isn’t here too. Did he especially request that he be buried at Worcester?”
“He did. Your father was always a complete Englishman. No doubt he thought he’d rest more easily in an English cathedral. Whereas the three we see here were as attuned to France as they were to England. What do you think, Henry, would you like to lie in this church some day?”
“I’ve not given that much thought. Wherever it is, I’ll want my wife at my side.”
“Well, I’ve given my final resting place a great deal of thought. I want it to be right here. But I suppose when the time comes someone else will make that decision.”
“If I have anything to say about it, and I trust I will, you’ll get your wish.”
After we said goodbye and I watched him ride away, I felt such a sharp sense of loss that tears came to my eyes. I was sure I’d never see him again.
It was about this time that I realized that along with advancing years came ailments. I’d always been fairly healthy with enough stamina to keep me going through a variety of ordeals. Now my body was failing me. I walked more slowly. Sometimes I woke in the night with severe pains in my back and my legs. I took little pleasure in eating; Lady Louise had to urge me or I’d have sent everything back to the kitchen.
“You re getting altogether too thin, my lady,” she’d say. “It’s all very well to be as slim as you were at sixteen, but you don’t want to waste away so you’re practically invisible. Now, try some of this nice borage tea. It’s very good for inspiring the appetite.”
Sometimes she persuaded me to go for a meal in the refectory with the other ladies. “Even if you don’t like them it will do you good to get out and show them you haven’t given up and taken to your bed.” I believe she thought I’d eat more in company, and she may have been right.
