The Battle of the Queens
Виктория Холт
Jean Plaidy
The Battle of the Queens
ENGLAND
1216–1223
Chapter I
DEATH OF A TYRANT
The long summer was over. From the turret window the Queen looked disconsolately beyond the moat to the forest where the bronzed leaves of the towering oaks and the copper of the beeches splashed their autumnal colours across the landscape. Mist hung over the marsh where the sedge grew thickly; listlessly she watched a pair of magpies, vivid black and white against the October sky.
And she thought of Angoulême where, looking back, the days had seemed always full of sunshine and the halls of her father’s castle inhabited by handsome troubadours whose delight it was to sing of the incomparable charm and beauty of the Lady Isabella. And understandably so, for there could not have been a woman at the courts of the Kings of England or France whose beauty could compare with hers. There are many handsome women but now and then there appears one who is possessed not only of obvious physical charms but some indefinable quality, which would seem to be indestructible. Helen of Troy was one, Isabella of Angoulême such another.
She smiled reflecting on this. It was a comforting thought for a prisoner – and prisoner she was. The King, her husband, hated her and yet at the same time could not resist her, for having once come under her spell he could never escape from it. Nor did she intend him to.
Where was he now? In trouble, deep deep trouble. That was inevitable. There could never have been such a foolish monarch as King John. Many of his subjects were in revolt against him and so deeply was he hated that Englishmen had invited the son of the French King to come over and take the crown. Consequently the French were now on English soil and John was losing England as he had lost all the crown’s possessions in France. His ancestors – mighty William the Conqueror, and the first Henry, that Lion of Justice, would curse him; and his father, great Henry II and his mother Eleanor of Aquitaine would have been in agreement for once and have declared that it would have been better if they had died before they brought such a creature into the world.
John was lustful, cruel, vain and unwise. He possessed not a single quality which could be called good, and from the moment he had taken the crown he had progressed steadily towards disaster.
Perhaps, she thought, I should have married Hugh. No! Whatever else he was, John was a king and Hugh could never have made her a queen.
She had always wanted power and great honours and it had seemed only natural that her beauty should provide them for her.
How pensive she was today! It was as though something portentous was in the air. She sensed it. But was that unusual? Each day when she looked from this turret window she would gaze fixedly at the horizon, watching for a rider. It might be John, remembering her existence and perhaps the early days of their marriage when he was so enamoured of her that he would not leave their bed – not only throughout the night but during the day as well – much to the disgust of his barons, for, although they knew him for a lusty man, and of his scheming, after he had come by accident upon Isabella in the forest, to get her to his bed, they believed that, as the King, he should have remembered he had other duties than to get his wife with child and to indulge his voracious sexual appetites.
She knew that such memories would come upon him suddenly and he would ride to Gloucester, storm to her chamber and remind her that although she was his prisoner she was his wife. He might have cursed her for her infidelities – although he expected her acceptance of his – and he might have hung her lover on the tester of her bed so that when she awaked she found the corpse swinging there, yet he would lust for her and she was not entirely displeased, for her appetites were as keen as his in this respect, and this passion of hatred and desire amused and intrigued her.
Her youngest child, Eleanor, had been conceived in this prison and born a year ago. She was thankful that she had the children with her, but she must never let him know of this, for he might then seek to deprive her of their company. She had never been a doting mother, and perhaps that was why it had not occurred to him to rob her of them. He believed her to be as indifferent to them as he was.
Young Henry, now nine years old, would be the next king, provided the French did not conquer the country which, according to news which was brought in to her, they were on the point of doing. What next? she asked herself. Who could say? It seemed likely that there would be one among the invaders – perhaps Louis himself – who would not be insensible to the charms of the Queen. She would have to wait and see what happened; and considering the pass to which John had brought them, perhaps it would have been better after all if she had married Hugh de Lusignan. She had been only twelve years old but already mature when on their betrothal she had become enamoured of Hugh. Her ardent nature had set her dreaming of love-making with that handsome man, but he – though desiring her – had held aloof, fearing that she was too young and having romantic notions of waiting for marriage. Dear Hugh, during those wild orgies with John she had often remembered him and during the softer moments in her thoughts she had substituted handsome gentle Hugh for her violent husband and found delight in doing so, if only to contemplate how furious John would have been had he read her thoughts.
Always she had consoled herself; but he is a king and has made me a queen which was a long step from being merely the daughter of the Count of Angoulême, even though she had been the only child and a considerable heiress. One thing she could say was that John had taken no count of her inheritance. His desire to marry her had been pure lust. And it had remained even through his dalliance with other women – on whom he had got several children – even through her own adventures which he had made her pay for by that terrible act. And paid she had for even now she could awake from a nightmare in which she was back in that fearful dawn opening her eyes to that grisly spectacle. But through all that, his desire for her lived on.
She had seen him throw away his inheritance, reduced to utter humiliation by the barons who had forced him to sign Magna Carta at Runnymede. Those same barons were now weary of his foolishness, his rashness, his ineptitude and his cruelty to so many. He had enemies everywhere.
And now the French. They had trumped up a claim to the English throne for Louis, son of Philip of France, because Louis had married Blanche who was the daughter of John’s sister Eleanor and Alphonso of Castile. Eleanor was a daughter of Henry II – and with such a monarch as John on the throne his enemies were ready to clutch at anything.
William Marshal, the great Earl of Pembroke, one of the few loyal men in the country, had shown himself to be sick at heart by all that had happened and being the wise man he was he would know well at whose door the fault lay. But he had always stood for the King and the application of law and preservation of order. He had served Henry II well and had stood by him when all his sons came against him; he had fought face to face with Richard; but when Richard came to the throne he had had the good sense to make William Marshal the first of his advisers. Even John realised the need to listen to him. If only he had always taken the Marshal’s advice he would not have been in this position now.
So the French were invading the country and John was in retreat and even the Marshal’s eldest son had gone over to the French.
What next? Isabella asked herself, as she sat at the turret window waiting for the sight of a rider who might bring her news.
* * *
It was none other than William Marshal himself who brought it.
She saw him riding towards the castle at the head of a small party.
He was very old – he must be nearly eighty – yet from a distance he might have
been a young man. For a while she watched his approach and then she came down to the courtyard to greet him.
With what dignity he sat his horse. He was very tall and his features were clear cut; his were the kind of good looks which age cannot destroy. His dignity was great and it had been said of him that he carried himself like a Roman emperor. In his youth he had been one of the finest horsemen of his day and had won great honours in the joust. His curling hair was still brown in colour and he held himself like a soldier.
He dismounted and kissed the Queen’s hand.
‘Ill news, my lord?’ she said.
And when he answered bluntly, ‘The King is dead,’ her heart leaped with mixed emotions. She was surprised by a sense of desolation; but it quickly passed and excitement gripped her.
‘What now?’ she whispered.
‘Prompt action,’ he said.
‘Then come into the castle.’
‘There is much that must be done without delay,’ answered the Marshal.
It was a tale of horror. He did not tell her immediately but she learned of it later. The tyrant, the foolish reckless King who had brought misery to thousands, who had placed his country in jeopardy, was no more.
She sensed the relief in the Marshal; it was as though he were saying, Now we may begin to plan.
‘Where is the King?’ he asked. She was startled. Then the truth came to her like a river that flowed over her, taking her breath away.
She answered firmly: ‘He is with his brother and sisters in the schoolroom.’
The Marshal hesitated. He was a man for protocol. Instinct was urging him to go to the boy, dramatically to kneel before him and swear allegiance.
The Queen laid a hand on his arm. ‘Later, good Marshal,’ she said.
The Earl hesitated; then bowed his head in agreement.
‘He knows little of what is happening,’ said the Queen. ‘I did not wish him as yet to despise his father. I must talk with you. Ale shall be brought. You have ridden far and need it.’
‘As I have said, Madam, prompt action is necessary.’
‘I know it well.’
‘The King should be crowned as quickly as possible.’
‘We will talk of these things … but in secret – for who should know what tales are carried? Your own son …’
The Marshal agreed. ‘He had no love for the King. He believed that it was better to stand against him. I did not wish it, but I saw the reason in it.’
She clapped her hands and almost immediately ale was brought. She ordered meat but the Marshal was in no mood for food though he admitted a need to quench his thirst.
‘Pray leave us,’ said the Queen to her attendant who hovered awaiting further commands, and when they were alone, she said: ‘How did he die? Ignobly I doubt not, as he lived.’
William Marshal did not meet her eye. ‘It is uncertain,’ he said, ‘but there is talk of poison.’
‘Ah! So someone was bold enough. You must tell me my lord, for depend upon it, I shall discover and would rather hear the truth from your lips than the garbled tales of others.’
‘I can only say, Madam, that he paused with his troops at a convent on the way to Swinstead Abbey and there demanded refreshment. Rumour has it that he saw there a nun whose beauty was apparent in spite of her habit.’
‘Oh dear God, no. So! Right to the end …’
‘I hear Madam, that she had a look of yourself which amused the King.’
‘And I doubt not that he declared it was in looks only that there could be a likeness.’
‘I heard not that, my lady. But he sought to molest her and she fled. He did not pursue her. He did not seem to have the spirit for it.’
‘And she escaped him. I am glad.’
‘News of what happened may have gone ahead of him to the Abbey if this rumour be true, for his men declare that it was the peaches which were given him there which set him in violent pain. He was in agony all the way to Newark and when he reached the Bishop’s castle there he lay on his bed and died.’
They were silent for a while. Then the Marshal rose and said: ‘Now, Madam, I must see the King.’
‘He is but a child, my lord Earl.’
‘He is the King of England, my lady.’
‘Grant me this,’ she said. ‘Let me go to them. Let me break the news. I must prepare him. He is a serious boy and will quickly learn.’
William Marshal saw the point of this. He had never greatly admired the Queen. That she was an exceptionally attractive woman he was aware and old as he was and strict in his morals, he could not help but be stirred by her unquestionable appeal.
He had thought often in the early days of her marriage to John that she suited the King. Her sensuality was immediately apparent. She wore it like a gleaming ornament and every man must be aware of it. John had been completely ensnared on that first meeting in the woods when she had been only a child. Hugh de Lusignan had remained a bachelor because, it was said, after having been betrothed to her, he could take no other woman. That she was a schemer, he knew. He had once remarked to his wife – another Isabella – that the Queen deserved the King and the King the Queen, but he sometimes thought that perhaps he had been a little harsh on her. There could hardly be a woman in the world who deserved John.
He was uneasy now. The new King a minor and a forceful mother in the background. He could see trouble ahead.
So he hesitated.
Then he said: ‘The situation is fraught with danger.’
‘I know it well. The French are here. There are many traitors in this country who would set Louis on the throne. He has brought foreign soldiers on to our soil.’
‘Your husband the late King has done that too, my lady. His army consisted mainly of mercenaries from the Continent.’
She was silent for a while and then said: ‘I pray you, my lord Earl, give me a little time with my son, that I may tell him of this burden which has descended on him.’
‘Go to him, Madam,’ said William Marshal. ‘And then I will pay my homage to the King.’
* * *
Isabella went at once to the schoolroom where she knew she would find the three eldest children. Isabella aged two and Eleanor one, would be in the nursery.
The two boys and the young girl were seated at a long table drawing together, their heads bent over their work.
At the sight of their mother the children all rose, the little girl curtseying prettily and the boys bowing. The Queen always insisted on this homage; she often wondered whether they knew they were in captivity on their father’s orders. They were aware that he came of course. Henry the eldest dreaded his coming even more than the others, for Henry was a boy who wanted to live in peace; his brother Richard was quite the reverse. Sometimes Isabella had thought that it would have been more fitting if Richard had been the elder of the two.
She took Henry by the hand and led him to the window seat, the others following.
Richard said: ‘There are visitors at the castle, my lady.’
She frowned slightly. It was always Richard who spoke. Why did Henry hang back? The boy looked different in her eyes now. He was a king even though his subjects might decide not to accept him. She thought again: It ought to have been Richard. Fleetingly she remembered the day her second son had been born. It was at Winchester and young Henry was only fifteen months old at the time. There had been a long period before she had conceived her firstborn, and she had indeed wondered whether she was barren – for John had already proclaimed his fertility by scattering bastards throughout the country. And then the birth of Henry had been quickly followed by that of Richard; and Joan was not far behind.
She need not have concerned herself about being barren. Children were a blessing, particularly when they could wear crowns.
She drew Henry to her and he said: ‘It was not my father who came, my lady.’
There was a note of relief in his voice. She knew the children cowered in their bedchambers when their father came. Henry fe
ared he ill-treated her. Nay little son, she wanted to explain. I can give him as good as he gives me.
And now he was dead, and the world had become an exciting place.
‘Grave news, my children,’ she said. ‘You saw the arrival of the Earl of Pembroke then?’
‘From the window,’ replied Richard. ‘And we saw you go down to greet him.’
‘He is an old, old, old man,’ said Joan.
‘Pray that you will be as hale and hearty when you reach his age, child,’ said the Queen sharply.
Joan appeared to be fascinated by the idea of growing as old as William Marshal.
Her mother said: ‘He has brought me news of your father.’
‘He is coming here?’ That was Henry. Concern showing in his sensitive face.
‘No. He will never come here again. He is dead.’
There was an awestruck silence. Isabella took Henry’s hand and kissed it. ‘And you, my son, are now King of England.’
Henry’s face puckered in horror. Richard cried out: ‘He’s Henry the Third, is he not, my lady, because our grandfather was Henry the Second.’
Henry was plucking at his mother’s sleeve. ‘Tell me, my mother, what must I do?’
‘Only what you are told,’ she answered quietly. ‘Now,’ she went on, ‘there is no need for concern. I shall be here to help you and the Earl of Pembroke is waiting now to kiss your hand and swear allegiance to you.’
Joan went to her brother and touched his arm with an expression of awe on her pretty face.
‘We must never make Henry angry any more, must we,’ she said. ‘If we did he could cut off our heads.’
Richard cried out: ‘I’d cut off his head first.’
‘That is no way to talk of your king,’ said Isabella severely. ‘And you should never have made Henry angry, Joan. That was wrong of you. Certainly now it will be well for you to remember that he is your king.’
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