by Lisa Hilton
As the year turned, we received news from Angouleme that my father had died. John asked me, quite gently, if I should like to go south to join my mother, but I refused. I never wanted to see her, or my brother Pierre, again. It was a wise choice, for William des Roches, to whom the king had promised the care of Duke Arthur after Mirebeau, was infuriated when the prince was locked up at Falaise without his consent, and turned his coat once more to the king of France. And with him went Aimery de Thouars, a great magnate, and together they began attacking the borders of Anjou. We heard of a plan to kidnap me at Chinon, when it was given out that I would be travelling to my grieving mother, and John laughed it off, saying he had mercenaries enough to defend his wife without troubling his treacherous vassals, and was the queen herself not a match for any knight? Just a few months before I should have thrilled at such a compliment, and I tried to smile prettily as he chucked me under the chin and praised my bravery at Mirebeau, but I could see, as he could not in his arrogance, that his men were turning against him, and that while I had no child and Arthur lived, I should never be safe from the Lusignans.
And did I grieve for my papa despite now knowing the truth? I could not think of him that way, could not think of him as anything other than my rough-bearded father who had seemed the grandest man in the world to me when I knew nothing beyond the walls of our home at Angouleme. His presence had filled that little world, his dogs and his horses and his weapons, his hunting boots and hauberks, his huge gentle hands that swung me up on his shoulders as my mother laughed and looked on. Yet that father had given me to Lord Hugh and then plotted to make me queen twice over. I could not blame him for his ambition, for at least it was clear and honest, after his fashion. He had never known of the Lusignan plan to make an empire, or of how my mother had made him a cuckold with a creature who wore horns of a different kind. I sorrowed, and ordered Masses for his soul, but I could not grieve, not truly. I was glad that he had been spared what was to come. Still, in some way, I wished that he had lived, for perhaps he could have advised my husband, have made him listen as I, a woman, could not. John had never lived in the south, he was English born and bred. As I had heard in his voice the first time I heard him speak, and he did not understand as my father had done the ways of the men there; men whose strength came from a darker source than the crosses blazoned on their surcoats.
With des Roches and de Thouars gone to France, my husband judged it politic to release the Lusignans, thinking that their gratitude would bind them to obedience. But as soon as Lord Hugh and his son were free, they ignored the noble promises they had made him in Normandy and took their knights to Poitou to make war yet again. The English strongholds in the Anjou were falling, one by one, and now the Lusignans were raising Aquitaine. Daily, there were reports of pillage and burning, and as my husband sought to strengthen his fortresses by filling them with mercenaries, those same hired troops took to plundering the towns and the abbeys. It was said that the peasants shut themselves in their homes, too fearful to work the fields, and if the crops were not planted then in a year my husband’s people would begin to starve. And still, he did nothing. He drank and boasted and spent more and more of the taxes raised from the grudging English barons on masterless foreign soldiers, while the knights he had imprisoned after Mirebeau escaped from Corfe and starved themselves to death in the English hills rather than kneel to their king.
Perhaps it was his inability to do more than shove impotently at me in our bedchamber that prompted John’s first and stupidest cruelty to Duke Arthur. If I could not be got with child, then Arthur must not be able to get one. In defying his promise to des Roches, my husband had entrusted Arthur’s custody at Falaise to Hubert de Burgh, who was now ordered to blind and castrate his prisoner. De Burgh could not bring himself to such wickedness, but mindful of my husband’s rage when he was disobeyed, the foolish man gave out that the Duke was dead. For a few days, I gratefully believed it, but then came news that the men of Brittany had risen against John in defence of their lost Duke, and de Burgh was obliged to confess that Arthur lived, and was whole. And while I submitted to John’s hopeless lust, trying not to let my disgust show as his flabby belly spilled against my body, the Count of Alençon declared for Philip, and Anjou and Maine and Touraine were lost as the French battered at the borders of Normandy like the sergeants with the poplar trunk at the gate of Mirebeau. Queen Eleanor was too fragile and confused to do more than totter to Mass; she could no longer rouse the men of her duchy against the Lusignans. My brother had been right: the crazed glare of Lord Hugh’s black eyes at Mirebeau kept their promise. But I thought I knew how I could save myself, at least.
*
‘I think we should go to Rouen, my love.’ John was drunk, but not yet so lost in his wine that he was bitter. I wriggled into his lap and played with his sparse hair in the way he loved. ‘I am unhappy here.’
‘I have moved Arthur to Rouen, damn him.’
‘I was thinking, perhaps this is the time to make overtures to the Duke? He is a boy, barely sixteen, I think? Perhaps he is not clever, like you, my love. He has been confused and pushed every way by the French and the Lusignans. And he is your nephew. Perhaps he will be glad to make peace now you have shown your strength.’
I kissed him along his jawline, a fluttering path to the corner of his mouth, though the stench of his breath made me want to retch. And then I talked of the new gown I wished for Easter, and let the idea flower in him, so that he should believe it was his own.
We went to Rouen, though we had now to travel by night with a mercenary guard as my husband was no longer safe even in his own duchy. Arthur was fetched from his dungeon, bathed, and provided with fresh clothes so that we might dine together the morning of our arrival. He was thin, and his eyes were sunken, the flesh drawn tightly over his cheekbones, but the hair that had been dulled a little with dust at Mirebeau now blazed its red-gold, the blue eyes were still as sharp as the glitter of a halcyon’s wing, and I thought, sadly of how handsome he was, and how it would have been if I had been betrothed to him rightly.
John was sullen but civil. I had Lady Maude order plenty of strong wine and delicate foods, despite it being Lent, that might please an invalid, lest rich meat after a prison diet make Arthur ill. Lady Maude’s husband, William, had replaced de Burgh as Arthur’s keeper and I had them join us at dinner, to show that all was agreeable. I spoke little to Arthur, making sure to defer to my husband as we talked of hawking, the preparations for the Easter crown, the mission of ambassadors my husband planned to send to the African coast, quite as though it were a family dinner. But I made sure to glance often at Arthur, to allow our fingers to touch for a second as he served me, enquired as to whether the fire in his chamber was well made – pleasant courtesies, modest smiles. Lady Maude watched me with approval. I knew she would be glad of her husband’s being relieved of Arthur’s care, so that they would be able to return to their lands on the Welsh March.
Afterwards, I asked Arthur if he should care to hear some music. One of the many indulgences that my husband had granted me was an Occitan trouvère, such as I had known at Angouleme and Lusignan. The man began one of Bernart de Ventadorn’s lyrics in a light style, softly accompanying himself on a harp. I waited until the old people were dozing and then whispered to Arthur, ‘It is a great comfort to me to receive you like this, Duke. My dearest hope is that this strife should finish peacefully.’
‘And mine, Majesty.’
I leaned my head to one side and looked into his eyes. ‘Is that so? I wonder.’
‘What else could I wish for, Majesty?’
‘Oh, many things, Duke. You have suffered a great deal, since we last met.’
‘Majesty is even more beautiful now than she was that day.’
Slowly, I thought, slowly. ‘You flatter me. How could any man,’ I was careful to stress the word, ‘find a woman beautiful in such circumstances? But then,’ I cast a wistful glance towards the slumped form of my husband, ‘it is pl
easant, a little flattery, now and then.’
‘You need no flattery, Majesty. You are peerless, a-a pearl.’
I wanted to giggle. True, the poor boy had been locked in an airless cell for two seasons, but surely he had learned more elegant manners than that. But then they had no real poets in Brittany.
‘But untouched pearls lose their lustre, Duke.’ Had I gone too far? Had I alarmed him? No. He thought me willing, and would have smiled had he not been struggling for a compliment.
‘And they also require a setting, Majesty. They look so well … in crowns,’ he managed at last.
‘Indeed. But you need not give me my title. I think I am your aunt, isn’t that funny! Tante Isabelle, you may call me.’
He blushed like the boy he still was and I wondered how long it would take him to get word to Lord Hugh in Poitou that I was ready.
To John, I said that there could be no impropriety in my riding out next day with my own nephew. Arthur had been treated too harshly, I wheedled, he was not so clever as my husband and needed only a little kindness to bring him round. I told Lady Maude that she need not accompany us through the chilly Norman fields, that my guard would be enough, and that she must spare her strength for the journey she would soon be making to Wales. And I told Agnes to be ready. So I spent each afternoon of those last Lenten weeks outdoors with Arthur, and learned what had been waiting inside me since Mirebeau – that I had fallen in love.
In all those songs and poems I had heard, love was described as a pain, an exquisite sickness, a freezing fire, the most elegant of impossible contradictions. Yet I wondered if any pair of lovers held quite such hypocrisies in their burning hearts as Arthur and I did. At first, I let him see only by accepting his compliments that I wanted him. I made sure to have my hair beautifully arranged and scented so that its perfume would fall across his face as he held the reins for me to mount. The merest touches, the feather brush of my fingers against the soft inner skin of his wrist when I unfastened a glove for him, the slightest pressure of my hand on his arm as he escorted me to the stables, were enough to bring colour to the poor lad’s cheeks. I listened to him describe the wild coasts of his home in Brittany, the tumbling cliffs and the storms that raised the seas to a nest of thrashing dragons, and made my eyes wide with wonder at his stories. I should like to go there, I told him, to see that mist-silvered country, and of course he promised me that one day we should ride together on the wide Brittany beaches. Arthur rode beautifully, rejoicing as the strength came back to his limbs, and it was easy for us to race our mounts along the lanes, leaving my guard a little further behind each day.
In the evenings, we could have no dancing, since it was Lent, but once John had slurped and belched his way into a stupor, we could play at chess or cards in the warm firelight as my harpist strummed and our fingers touched and clung, twined and touched again over the pieces. John was calmer now, believing that Arthur had finally rescinded his claim, and I noticed with wry admiration how the young Duke flattered him, talking at supper in the hall of the great campaign to be mounted in the south once the Easter ceremonies were concluded. They would pay for their treachery, des Roches, de Thouars, the Lusignans, their castles would be burned and their lands attaindered. John even hinted that once I had a child, if it proved a daughter, she might be betrothed to her cousin of Brittany. I smiled sweetly at that, and made sure, again, that Arthur would see a little spasm of distaste pass my lips, as though I could not help my fear of where that child would come from.
Arthur began to give me little presents. It became a custom with us, when we met to ride each day after dinner, that he would present me with some small delight: a turquoise-handled whip, a pair of pink silk roses for my slippers, an ivory comb for my hair. Was Lord Hugh supplying them, I wondered, as he had once sent for marmalade and a child’s ball? I let him fasten the comb, his fingers straying over the fine skin of my scalp as he fixed it, trembling, in place. And though I knew I must stay cold inside if I were to accomplish my purpose, I could not help a rush of pleasure, deep within me, at the touch of those speaking fingers.
With fresh air and good food, Arthur was growing more handsome by the day, his shoulders so neat and strong under his coat, his waist so supple and tight. As we sat by the firelight in the evening, I could not help but wonder how his naked skin would look in that red glow, smooth and pale as my ivory comb, I thought. How would it be to run my fingers along his collarbone, trace the muscles of his flank, even, even to let my tongue linger in the hollow of his arm, his navel? Something was happening to my body, too. My breasts stretched at the bodice of my gown, my skin felt creamy and sensitive, my lips fuller, my belly softer. It could not be the wretched Lenten fare of fish and herbs that was causing it. Two weeks before Easter I had my first flowers, and though I instructed Agnes to boil the bloodied rags secretly, and soothed the cramps with a posset of hyssop and comfrey, so that John should not learn I was ready for breeding, his ardour for me only increased with the new fullness of my figure, so that one night I almost thought he would succeed in taking me. I could not let it happen, I had to remain a maid a little longer if my plan was to work. So I had to tell him, whispering shyly in his ear, and begging the indulgence of sleeping a few nights alone. He was almost as pleased as if I had told him I was with child, ordering extra braziers for my chamber and a sable quilt.
‘Next month, my darling,’ he told me, ‘next month, I will get a son on you.’
*
On Palm Sunday, the king whispered to me at dinner that he would come to my bed that evening. I giggled and lowered my eyes and reminded him that it was still Lent, and that it would be sinful for him to do so. ‘Wait another week, my love,’ I wheedled him, ‘and then you shall pay my bride-price.’
On Easter Sunday, when men were once more allowed to come to their wives, it was royal custom that the king should surprise the queen in her chamber with her ladies, and hand them a purse of money as a fee to be left alone. John smirked and patted the soft little pad of fat on my belly. ‘You are growing so plump, Isabelle. My beautiful little wife. It is so hard to wait.’
‘I am glad that I please you,’ I answered modestly. His hand dipped beneath the sheet and squeezed my thigh.
‘You are growing fat as a partridge. I want to be here,’ he pinched again, more roughly, truly dribbling with desire; it was all I could do not to kick the hand away, I hated him so.
‘I want you there too, my dear lord,’ I whispered, feeling my flesh tighten with disgust. I said that I should ride out, so as not to tempt him, and he turned gladly back to his wine.
I had excused Agnes from the Palm Sunday procession, as she had other business to be about for me. Once John was settled comfortably by the fire, I sent to Arthur to request that he would ride with me as usual. He appeared, his face glowing with hot water and his lovely hair freshly combed, but his manner was sullen, and when he helped me to mount he turned his face away. He had brought no gift for me. I was perturbed, in part because this was not what I wished to happen, and truly because I hated to see him unhappy. Once we were beyond the city gates, I asked him if he should like a gallop, but instead of flashing a white grin at me and kicking his horse into flight, he trotted forward a little, beyond the guards, then slowed to a walk. ‘Are you unwell?’ I asked gently.
‘Forgive me. Perhaps a little. I may turn back, Majesty, if you will permit me.’
‘Of course I shall permit you. But what troubles you?’
He sank his chin on his chest and plodded grimly along. I waited. After another mile in silence, he burst out, ‘I thought that you cared for me! But you don’t! You care for the king. I saw him, at the Easter game, touching you. You liked it.’
‘I am his wife. His queen.’
‘Majesty will forgive my impertinence.’
‘Please, do not be sour. Listen, I have something to tell you.’
The hope in his face was unbearable. I could not think of it. Just for today, for tonight, I would not th
ink of it.
‘I wish, that is … I would ask, to be alone with you, a little. Tonight.’
‘But the king—’
‘Will be sleeping. Come.’
I moved to a canter, and this time he did follow me. I turned from the road and took us up a ridge, with a view into a narrow valley, wooded at the rim and falling to a bowl where a broad stream ran beside a tiny chapel and a fat round tower, older than the trees that sheltered it. I glanced quickly behind us; the guards were labouring up the hill. ‘There. It will be safe. Come after supper, bring no light. I will wait for you.’
Always plans, always excuses, always contrivances. I recalled my delight when I had learned I should be queen, how I had imagined that I should order everything to my liking and never be scolded any more, but indeed I was no more free now than I had been as a child. Any milkmaid going to meet her beau had more liberty than I. The hours stalled, then raced as Agnes drew my bath and combed out my hair, stalled again, agonizingly, as I waited through supper, assiduously serving the king’s wine with my own hands, reaching to caress his cheek and run my fingers delicately up his arm, until between the sweet liquid and my attention he was well sotted, and I called discreetly for his valet to help him to his chamber. I was so accustomed to my husband’s drunkenness that I barely felt shame any more at having to issue this regular command; this night, I felt I could not breathe until he was safely abed.
