The Battle of the Queens

by Виктория Холт

  She looked at her daughter with certain dislike. Her feelings had changed towards Joan ever since John, with typical devious cunning, had decided that it would be an excellent idea to betroth her to Hugh de Lusignan. Isabella’s eyes narrowed; she could hear that mocking voice. ‘He didn’t get the mother so perhaps the daughter will provide some consolation.’ ‘You must be crazy,’ she had answered. ‘Hugh is a grown man and Joan but a baby.’ ‘Let him wait,’ was the reply. ‘He’s a waiting man.’

  Hugh – the man she was to have married and about whom she had often been regretful because she had not, to be the husband of her young daughter! John had known that she preserved some feelings for him, and that was why he had done his best to humiliate Hugh at every turn. But it was not easy to humiliate Hugh for he had that innate dignity which a man like John – royal though he might be by birth – could never aspire to. He had known that she would hate her daughter to go to Lusignan there to be brought up in the household of the man she had once loved. For she had loved Hugh, though in a self-seeking way, which was all she knew herself to be capable of. Hugh was however the one person for whom she might have made a little sacrifice. And John had betrothed her daughter to him! She could not help it, but the child irritated her, and to see her growing prettier every day gave her no comfort.

  She turned from Joan to Henry.

  ‘Now, my son, I am going to take you to the Earl of Pembroke. Put aside those frightened looks. Are you a baby that you must be afraid of your crown? You should rejoice. Some have to wait years for what is yours in your youth. Come, look like a king. Act like one.’

  She gripped his shoulder firmly and led him from the room. Richard watched him enviously, Joan with wonder; and Henry was wishing that he had been fifteen months younger than Richard instead of being his senior.

  It was a strange sight to see the noble Earl kneel before the pale-faced boy. Yet in those moments Henry seemed to acquire a new dignity; and as William Marshal looked at the slender boy a new hope came to him that perhaps his accession could put an end to the torment of civil war in the land and might even result in driving the foreign invader from the country.

  * * *

  The young King had retired to his chamber, for his mother said he was still her son and must do what she considered best for him.

  Henry, rarely other than docile, obeyed her. He was glad to be by himself that he might contemplate the enormity of what had happened to him.

  Meanwhile Isabella and William Marshal talked earnestly together.

  ‘The King must be crowned without delay,’ declared William. ‘We must let the people see that a new era is about to begin.’

  ‘With a king who is a minor!’

  ‘With a king, Madam, who will have good advisers.’

  ‘Yourself,’ she said with a hint of wryness.

  ‘I think that many would consider me fitted to the task. I have sent a message to Hubert de Burgh and I doubt not that ere long he will be with us.’

  Isabella’s spirits rose. With two such men to support her son, his chances were good.

  ‘I do not think that the people of England want to hand over their country to the French,’ went on William Marshal.

  ‘It would seem that many of them were attempting to do just that,’ she retorted.

  ‘In desperation, my lady, seeing anything preferable to rule by John.’

  She had no answer to that, for she knew that he spoke the truth.

  ‘But now that we have a new king – a boy who can be guided – it could mean a turning point in this dire state of affairs.’

  ‘I hope and pray so, my lord.’

  ‘A king becomes a king when he is crowned. We must therefore have no delay in bringing about the coronation.’

  ‘With what could he be crowned? John has lost the crown jewels in the Wash.’

  ‘It is not the crown itself which is so important as the ceremony of crowning and the people’s acceptance of their king.’

  ‘But a king needs a royal crown. And that of Edward the Confessor is in London. Is it true that London is overrun by the French?’

  ‘To the shame of the Englishmen – yes. But it shall not be for long. Let the people of England know that the tyrant is dead, that we have a new young and innocent king on the throne – with strong men to support him – and you will find that they rally to him. I doubt not that this time next year – if we act wisely – there will not be a Frenchman in the land.’

  She could not but be convinced, for William Marshal was known throughout the country, not only for his bravery and loyalty but for his sound good sense.

  ‘My lord,’ said Isabella, ‘the Archbishop of Canterbury should perform the ceremony.’

  ‘Impossible. Stephen Langton is in Rome – whither he went to escape the persecution of your late husband.’

  ‘And the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of London …’

  ‘My lady, a coronation does not depend on a bishop nor yet an archbishop. We will find someone to perform the ceremony. I have already sent a messenger to the Bishop of Winchester. He, being the only one available, must crown the King.’

  ‘And the people …’

  ‘Ah, there is a greater problem. So heartily sickened were they by John’s tyrannies that they might stand out against his son. We have to woo the people, Madam, and that is our greatest task.’

  Isabella shrugged her shoulders. ‘A hostile people, absent Archbishops of Canterbury and York, also a Bishop of London, no royal crown … and you would have a coronation.’

  ‘Yes, Madam, I would, for I believe it to be the only way to save England for the rightful King.’

  His eyes were on a gold throat-collar which she was wearing. Noticing this she touched it wonderingly.’

  ‘Could I see the ornament, my lady.’

  She unfastened it, gave it to him. He examined it and smiled.

  ‘This could be the crown of Henry the Third of England,’ he said. ‘Methinks it would fit well on that young head.’

  * * *

  Before the day was out Hubert de Burgh had arrived at the castle.

  He was exhilarated by the turn of events. He was a loyal man; he had done his best to hold off the French; he had held Dover Castle against them until it had been no longer possible to do so. He had deplored the fact that foreigners were on English soil, but he rejoiced in the death of John.

  Perhaps he, as well as any, was aware of the villainy of that twisted nature. He had seen England lose the greatness which rulers like the Conquerer, Henry I and Henry II had brought, but no country could prosper when its king was so enamoured of military glory that he was scarcely ever in the land he was supposed to govern as king. Richard – whom they called the Lion-hearted – had been thus; and when such rule was followed by that of a depraved, cruel, unscrupulous man – whose folly was even greater than all his faults – England was doomed.

  And now, the tyrant was dead and the Marshal had sent for him. The King was a minor. Could it be that they could take England out of the wretched humiliation into which she had fallen? If William Marshal believed this was possible, Hubert de Burgh was ready to agree with him.

  There had been encounters with John which Hubert would never forget. All men now were aware of his villainies but what had happened between him and Hubert thirteen years ago would be a hideous memory for ever. Hubert often thought of the boy who had loved and trusted him and whose life he had tried to save. Poor Arthur, so young, so innocent, whose only sin had been that he had a claim to the throne of England which might have been considered by some to be greater than that of John.

  Hubert would always be haunted by those scenes which had been played out in the Castle of Falaise where he had been custodian of the King’s nephew, son of John’s brother Geoffrey, poor tragic Prince Arthur. A beautiful boy – arrogant perhaps because of the homage men had paid him, but how pitifully that arrogance had broken up and shown him to be but a frightened child whom Hubert had grown to love as Arthur
had loved Hubert. Sometimes in his dreams Hubert heard those dreadful cries for help; he could feel a hand tugging at his robes. ‘Hubert, Hubert, save me Hubert. Not my eyes … Leave me my eyes, Hubert.’

  And in his dreams he would smell the heat of the braziers and see the men, their faces hardened by brutalities, the irons ready in their hands.

  And for Arthur he had risked his life – for Hubert knew his master’s rewards for those who disobeyed him; he had risked his own eyes for those of Arthur, dismissed the men, hidden the boy and pretended that he had died under the gruesome operation which was to have robbed him of his eyes and his manhood.

  It had been as though fate were on his side for he could not have kept the boy hidden for ever. It was ironical that foolish John should have become afraid of the uprising of the men of Brittany and the constant whispers set in circulation by his enemies – the chief of them the King of France – that the King of England had murdered his nephew. So Hubert had confessed and been rewarded with the King’s approval, for John, whose evil genius had ever made him act first and consider the consequences afterwards, realised that Hubert had done him a favour by saving Arthur’s eyes. But it was not long before Arthur was taken from Hubert’s care and murdered in the Castle of Rouen. At least, thought Hubert, I saved his eyes and death is preferable to one who has known what the green fields are like and then is cruelly deprived of the blessing of seeing them.

  But often he had found John’s eyes upon him and he had wondered whether the King was remembering that Hubert de Burgh was the man who had disobeyed his orders and refused to mutilate Arthur.

  Hubert had been useful. Perhaps that was why he had outlived the King.

  And now jubilation. John was dead and William Marshal was with the new King.

  Could it be that a new era was coming for men such as himself?

  He was in sight of the castle when he saw a solitary figure riding towards him. As the rider came nearer he realised with great pleasure that it was none other than William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, himself.

  Their horses drew up face to face, and the two men raised their hands in greeting.

  ‘This is good news, William,’ said Hubert, and William acceded the point. ‘He died as he lived,’ went on Hubert, ‘violently. It was inevitable that death would overtake him. Do you think it was poison?’

  ‘Whenever a man or woman dies suddenly it is said to be due to poison.’

  ‘No man could have been more hated.’

  ‘He is gone,’ said William. ‘We need consider him no more. Long live King Henry III.’

  ‘And you think, my lord Earl, that the King will be Henry and not Louis?’

  ‘If we act wisely.’

  ‘Louis is in command of much of the country.’

  ‘Give them a king – a crowned king – and the people will rise against the foreigner. Within a few months we’ll have the French out of the country. None could know better than you, Hubert, how difficult it is to invade a country which is protected by water.’

  ‘Louis is safely landed here …’

  ‘But uneasily. Let the news spread through the land that John is dead, and that we have a new king.’

  ‘A boy of nine.’

  ‘With excellent counsellors, my dear Hubert.’

  ‘Yourself?’

  ‘And the Justiciar.’

  ‘I am to keep hold of that office?’

  ‘Assuredly. Hubert, we are going to make England great, and a land for the English.’

  ‘Pray God it will come to pass.’

  ‘Let us go into the castle. We must make plans. Henry is going to be crowned, even if it is only with his mother’s throat-collar.’

  * * *

  Before the month was out the young King was crowned. The ceremony was performed by Peter des Roches, the Bishop of Winchester, and the crown used for the purpose was that gold throat-collar which had belonged to his mother.

  After the King had been crowned the Bishops and Barons must pay homage to Henry.

  Eager for action William Marshal, supported by Hubert de Burgh, summoned all loyal barons to Bristol where they would be presented to the new King.

  It was comforting to the Earl to discover that more had assembled than he had dared hope. It seemed that now King John was dead they had no quarrel with the crown. A young monarch was always appealing though a matter for apprehension, for surrounding the immature, there were usually too many ambitious men. But in this case there was a difference. Providence had rid them of the most hated most foolish king that had ever been known – and was ever likely to be – and if his son was a minor he was backed by one of the finest and most noble men England had ever known – a loyal servant to Henry II and Richard, and who had even tried to guide John to reason. That man was William Marshal.

  So they came to Bristol and when they saw the pale boy, who could not have looked more unlike his father, so gentle was he, so eager for their approval, they were ready to swear allegiance to the crown. There was not a man among them who did not deplore the fact that there were French invaders in England; and they wanted to turn them out.

  So they swore allegiance to the new King.

  * * *

  Henry, with his mother and brothers and sisters, spent Christmas in Bristol. William Marshal was with them and Henry found himself the centre of controversy. All the important men who came to the castle must be received by him and he was never allowed to forget for a moment the terrible responsibilities which had fallen on him.

  Richard envied him while Joan watched him with a kind of awe. She took to calling him King, which in a way he liked, because now that the first shock had subsided and all he had to do at first was listen to the Earl and do what he told him, it was not difficult.

  Their mother was with them more often than she had been and that pleased them. They were all conscious of her beauty and found pleasure in merely looking at her, as so many people did. Moreover she was a little more respectful to Henry than she had been and he enjoyed this. He had been inclined to feel that Richard was much better liked than he was which made him hang back behind his younger brother, but now that he was King and Richard so clearly envious, all that was changed.

  Isabella always liked to break news to them before it was formally announced by the council which assembled in the Bristol castle and which Henry had to attend whenever it assembled. At first this had frightened him, then bored him and afterwards he began to take an interest because they were discussing the affairs of the kingdom … his kingdom.

  Isabella summoned the three eldest children to her because she had news for them.

  ‘You know your new responsibilities, Henry,’ she said. ‘You have been crowned a king.’

  ‘With your necklace,’ giggled Joan.

  Isabella gave her a light slap on her arm. Joan’s frivolity was irritating and she was so pretty with her violet eyes and dark hair – growing like her mother, although of course she could never be quite so beautiful.

  ‘Attend to me,’ said Isabella sternly. ‘The lords are going to choose William Marshal as Regent and they are going to put you in his charge.’

  Richard grimaced and Joan looked at him, hunching her shoulders.

  ‘Now, Henry,’ said Isabella, ‘we will take no heed of these foolish children. This is a matter of the King. You will have a tutor who will be Philip of Albini. He is a good man I know and a great scholar. You will enjoy learning with him.’

  Henry was not alarmed. He was good with his books. Sometimes he wished that was all there was to kingship.

  ‘You will have to study and be worthy of your crown. As for you Richard, you are leaving at once for Corfe Castle.’

  Joan’s face puckered. ‘I don’t want them to go.’

  ‘Be silent, you stupid child. Richard has to learn even though he is not a king. He will be under the charge of Peter de Mauley at Corfe and his tutor is to be Sir Roger d’Acastre. The Earl of Pembroke has chosen the men he considers best for these important
tasks.’

  The boys were a little dismayed but Joan’s lips were beginning to quiver.

  ‘I like it as it was when our father was the King … instead of Henry.’

  Isabella looked at her coldly. ‘Do not imagine that you will be here for ever.’

  ‘What will happen to me, my lady?’

  The Queen smiled slowly. ‘You are betrothed, you know.’

  Joan nodded. ‘To an old man.’

  ‘Oh come, he is not as old as that. I knew him once … well, very well.’

  ‘So he is as old as you, my lady.’

  ‘Older,’ she said sharply. ‘But he was then a very handsome man. I never saw a handsomer in all my life.’

  ‘People don’t stay handsome,’ said Richard.

  ‘Some of them do,’ retorted Isabella.

  ‘Is he still the most handsome man?’ asked Joan anxiously.

  ‘That you will discover … soon I think.’

  ‘Oh, am I going away, too?’ Joan looked round the room as though she were seeking something to cling to.

  ‘Yes, you will go away.’ Isabella smiled secretly. ‘You will have a governess to conduct you to your bridegroom. You will not be entirely alone, you know. Who knows … I myself might decide to take you to him.’

  The Queen began to laugh and her children joined with her, without quite knowing why.

  * * *

  Throughout the country there was rejoicing because the tyrant was dead, but all must realise that being rid of John did not solve their difficulties. Many of them had welcomed Louis to England, certain that any ruler was preferable to John; but now that there was a new king supported by men such as William Marshal and Hubert de Burgh, they were eager to turn out the aliens. This was easier said than done. Louis was young; he was anxious to prove his valour and skills to his father, and he was as determined to succeed as many of the English were to turn him out. Moreover he had a foothold in England and his men were already in London.

  It was disturbing to Louis to find that since young Henry had been crowned, the English who had supported him were now slipping away to the other side. Louis understood. The whole world had been aware of the misfortune which had overtaken England in such a king as John and, distracted by his injustices, the English were determined to be rid of him; now a higher power had intervened and mercifully for England, the tyrant was dead. It was naturally the time when Englishmen were asking themselves: What are we doing with foreigners on our soil? Why are we welcoming England’s enemy? The need to do so is miraculously removed. We have a young king supported by great men. Let us drive out the invader … No, they could not call him that. He was the guest, invited by many of them. Come rid us of this John and in return you shall have the crown of England. How they hated John! But he was dead, and that changed everything.