by Jean Plaidy
So at length I agreed.
Hugh le Brun took, as he said, a reluctant farewell of me when the transaction was made; and thinking regretfully of what the incident had cost me, I continued my journey.
Everything seemed worthwhile when I arrived in Castile. I was enchanted with my daughter Eleanor. She was beautiful still, even though she had borne eleven children. Hers had been a successful marriage. She was one of those women almost certain to enjoy a happy marriage providing her husband is not a monster. Her nature was gentle, kindly, while she herself was highly intelligent and accomplished. She was the perfect wife and mother.
When I had spent a few moments with her, I thought what a tragedy it was that we had lived so much of our lives apart.
The Court of Castile reminded me of that long-ago one over which my grandfather and father had reigned. Everything was comfortable and elegant. It was wonderful to hear the troubadours again; to be with my daughter was such a pleasure that I felt happy as I had not thought to be ever again after Richard’s death.
We talked of the old days when she with the others had been in the nursery. She told me how the children had looked forward to my visits. They had all sought to win my favor, she told me, for they had loved me dearly even though they were a little afraid of me. They had not loved their father and as soon as they sensed—as children do—that there was trouble between us they were all prepared to defend me, and hated him the more . . . all except Geoffrey the Bastard, who thought his father was the most wonderful being on Earth.
It brought it all back . . . incidents which I had forgotten. I was back there in the nurseries when they were all about me . . . my dear children . . . and towering above them all, my golden boy, my Richard, whom I should never see again.
Then there were my granddaughters—the purpose of my visit. The eldest, Berengaria, was already spoken for. She was affianced to the King of Leon. The next was Urraca and then came Blanca.
I studied them intently—two beautiful and enchanting girls.
I said to my daughter: “This is a great opportunity. There could scarcely be a better match than the future King of France.”
My daughter replied: “I have spoken to Urraca and told her what a wonderful match this is and that she is the luckiest girl in the world for one day she will be Queen of France.”
“You have a family to be proud of,” I told my daughter. “What great good children can bring us . . . and what sorrow.”
“Dearest Mother, life has been cruel to you.”
“When Richard went, I thought I had nothing to live for.”
“I know he was always your favorite. In the nursery we thought it was natural that this should be so. There was something magnificent about Richard.”
I could scarcely bear to speak his name, and she knew it and reproached herself for reminding me, but I told her she was not the one who had reminded me, for he was always in my thoughts.
“I am so happy to be with you, my dear,” I said. “I think of all my children you have been the most fortunate.”
“I have a good husband. We live happily here in Castile. And then there are the children, of course.”
“I want to get to know them well while I am here. It might be that I shall never see them again.”
“Dear Mother, you must visit us and next time stay . . . stay a long time.”
“The years are creeping up on me. Sometimes it is hard to remember how old I am.”
“Then forget it, for, dear Mother, you can never be old.”
“Ah, if only that were true.”
So the days passed and I spent hours with my granddaughters.
Urraca was a charming girl, but it was Blanca in whom I was more interested.
Blanca was beautiful—not more so than her sister, but she glowed with an inner light. Was it intelligence or character? I was not sure. All I knew was that Blanca had some special quality. There was a determination in her nature, an alertness; she loved music, and she was quick to reply in discussion and very often right on the point. Perhaps I am a vain old woman but I thought I saw something of myself in Blanca; and as the days passed I began to realize that she was the one I must take with me as the future Queen of France.
It was difficult explaining to her parents. They had planned that it should be Urraca. They had prepared her for the part she must play. They had impressed on her what a great honor it was to be chosen. There could be few such grand titles as Queen of France in the whole world.
But in my heart I knew it had to be Blanca.
I broached the matter with my daughter.
“It will have to be Blanca, you know,” I said. Eleanor looked at me in astonishment.
“She has all the qualities,” I went on.
“For what, dear Mother?”
“For marriage with Louis of France.” My daughter was silent with shock.
“I know,” I went on, “that we have thought of Urraca, but I am convinced it will have to be Blanca.”
“But we cannot change now.”
“Why not? I am to take back one of my granddaughters, and I say that one must be Blanca.”
“What of Urraca? She is the elder.”
“You will find a good husband for her, particularly if her sister is to be the future Queen of France.”
“Dear Mother, for what reason?”
It was difficult to explain. I supposed she loved both her daughters dearly and perhaps could not see the bright jewel she had in Blanca.
I sought to explain. It was not that there was anything wrong with Urraca. It was just that Blanca was endowed with very special qualities . . . a strength which I recognized clearly, as I had it myself, courage, resourcefulness. I said: “The French would never like a woman called Urraca.” My daughter looked at me disbelievingly.
I elaborated the theme. “No. They would never get used to it. She would be a foreigner to them all her life.”
“You mean because of her name . . .”
“Whereas Blanca,” I said, “. . . that will become Blanche. That is a very beautiful name. The French will love it. My dear, don’t look so taken aback. One of your daughters will be Queen of France. What does it matter which one?”
“Blanca,” she murmured. “I hadn’t thought of Blanca. She is younger than Urraca.”
“That is no obstacle. She is twelve, is she not? Old enough to go to her future husband. I shall take Blanca.”
My daughter was silent. She remembered from the old days that people did not argue with me. When I said something should be so, it was.
The girls were amazed, of course. Urraca, who had been very apprehensive about going to France, was now dismayed because she was not going. Blanca was surprised, but she took the announcement as I knew she would. She hated to displace her sister but could not fail to be excited by the brilliant prospect which was opening before her.
We spent a good deal of time together. I talked a great deal about the Court of France as it had been when I had been its Queen.
“You will mold it to your ways,” I told her. “I am going to call you Blanche from now on. That is the name by which you will be known in France. It is merely a version of your own name and this one is prettier, don’t you think, Blanche? It suits you.”
So we were often together and played the lute and sang. I was delighted by her elegant manners, her quiet wit and her budding beauty. I was glad I had made the journey. Otherwise they would have sent Urraca instead; and my instinct told me that Blanca—Blanche as she now was—was the one destined to be Queen of France.
After the initial surprise at the substitution, there was no resistance to my suggestion, and the time came to say goodbye to the pleasant Court of Castile. I traveled in a litter for quite long stages of the journey, for I grew very tired if I stayed too long in the saddle.
My granddaughter rode beside the litter. I always liked to have her in sight. She was a great joy to me. I gloried in her beauty and her intelligence and love grew quickly between us. W
e stayed at castles and inns on our journey and I would always have her sleeping in my room or even in my bed. I talked to her a great deal. I wanted her to be prepared. The fact that I, too, had traveled from my home to become a Queen of France had made a great bond between us. I drew myself back into those long-ago days and as I talked of them memories came flooding back.
I told her of my grandfather’s Court and the manner in which he had abducted Dangerosa and carried her off to his castle. I remembered the legends sung in ballads by the jongleurs. I would often sing them to her. It was amazing how the memories of them came flooding back and I could remember the words of romanticized adventure as well as the music.
“How strange,” I said, “that my husband was Louis VII of France and yours will be Louis VIII. My Louis was a good, religious man, but good men at times can be tiresome . . . and so can the other kind. I had a taste of both, so I am well qualified to judge.” And I would tell her about Henry, the great Plantagenet, her own grandfather who had been so different from Louis. “We should have been good together,” I said wistfully. “But he could never be faithful. Women were his weakness.” I did not add that I thought it odd that his son Richard should have been so different.
I realized how much my granddaughter had done for me. There had been hours when I had forgotten to grieve for Richard.
We came to Bordeaux. It was comforting to be in my own castle. Here our ways divided: there was one road to Paris, the other to Fontevrault. I was feeling exhausted. Even the exhilaration I drew from my granddaughter could not disguise it. Fontevrault offered complete peace; there I could rest my weary limbs for a short time and shut myself away from all the burdens which I knew were waiting to fall upon my shoulders.
I sent for the Archbishop of Bordeaux. I told him that I had brought my granddaughter from the kingdom of Castile, and I wished him to take her to Paris and present her to the King, who was expecting her. I had just undertaken a long journey and I thought I could not go much farther. I would entrust him with the task of taking the future Queen of France to her prospective husband.
I was touched to see Blanche’s dismay when she knew I was not going with her to Paris.
“All will be well,” I assured her. “They will welcome you in Paris. The Archbishop will take good care of you.”
“Oh dearest Grandmother, I shall miss you so much.”
“We have been so happy together, have we not?” She nodded, her eyes brimmed with tears.
“Dear child, one of the saddest things in my life has been that I have not been able to stay long with those I loved.”
“I don’t know how I could have done all this without you,” she said. “I should have been terrified of going to the Court of France . . . but I am not now. You have explained so much. You have done so much for me.”
“And you will never know what you have done for me, my child. You have helped me over the first stile, and I have put a little of my grief behind me.”
I took a sad farewell of Blanche and she left Bordeaux in the retinue of the Archbishop. Soon she would be in Paris and my mission accomplished.
I intended to rest a few days in Bordeaux to strengthen myself for the last lap of my journey.
Mercadier had joined me. I was rather moved. He had in fact had his own mercenary army, but when the news of my abduction by Hugh de Lusignan had come to him, he asked to be attached to my entourage because he wanted to make sure I was protected from any more such villainous attempts. I was delighted to receive him into my service.
It was Easter time. There were processions in the streets. I would sit at a window looking down. It was so comforting to wake in the morning and to know that I had not to hurry down and start another day’s long journey.
But soon I was ready to go on.
This time I should have the doughty Mercadier to look after me, which was as well, for we had to pass through the valley of the Charente where I might meet with dissatisfied vassals like the Lusignans.
A shock awaited me.
There had been a brawl in the streets. Two men had drawn their swords and fought and one of them had been killed. To my sorrow and dismay, I learned that one of them was Mercadier.
So I had lost my protector.
This further disaster made me realize afresh how I longed to be shut away from conflict.
I just wanted to be alone, to meditate, to rest my weary limbs, to write of the past, to relive it all again and to ask myself whether what had happened to me had been due largely to myself.
I wanted to go back to Fontevrault.
Fontevrault
I NOW LOOK FORWARD TO passing the days which are left to me in the peace I find at Fontevrault.
My granddaughter was married to Louis Capet; John was crowned King of England, and he must now be realizing his responsibilities. Philip Augustus continued to alarm me, and as long as I lived I would do my utmost to see that his dream of destroying the Plantagenet Empire was never realized.
The days were slipping away . . . reading, writing, living over the past, reflecting on what might have been if one had acted differently. It was an amusing game.
John divorced Hadwisa of Gloucester. The marriage had never been a success. Henry had arranged it because of the immense wealth Hadwisa brought into the family, but that, of course, was before it was thought that John would be King. Hadwisa was childless, so the divorce was not a matter for regret.
However, John seemed incapable of doing anything without causing a great deal of trouble. In the first place he became infatuated with Isabella, the daughter of the Count of Angoulme. She was very young and very beautiful and she aroused such passions in John that he determined to have her. He would probably have abducted her if she had not been the daughter of a powerful man, but being so she was worthy of marriage.
Although he was bent on a union with her, he allowed negotiations to go ahead for the daughter of the King of Portugal. He thought that amusing. Another matter which gave him cause for mirth—and I must say I joined him in this—was that Isabella was betrothed to Hugh le Brun de Lusignan, the man who had had the temerity to seize me and demand La Marche for my release.
Of course the King of England was a far better proposition than Hugh le Brun, and the Count of Angoulme had little compunction in breaking Isabella’s engagement to Hugh le Brun and accepting John’s proposal for his daughter.
But what enemies John had made over this matter of his marriage! The King of Portugal and Hugh le Brun would never forgive him and would seize every opportunity for revenge; although I could not help feeling pleased about Hugh le Brun’s discomfiture, I did think that to alienate the King of Portugal was an act of sheer folly.
From my retreat I felt I could look out on events and that it would not be necessary for me to be caught up in them. But could I turn away? Sometimes I wondered to what end John’s folly would bring him. The care of such a wide empire had strained Henry’s resources to the full and he had been a great king. Richard had spent most of his reign out of England, and I had to admit that that had not been good; and now came John, with his reckless folly. Where would it end?
Constance had died. I hoped that meant that we should hear no more of Arthur’s claim. He was too young to do very much alone; and although he had his adherents, he was very much a figurehead only.
I felt we need not worry quite so much about Arthur . . . for a year or so at any rate; and then most probably I should not be here. I could not expect to live many more years.
I had always had my eyes on the French King. I would never forget those years I had spent as Louis’s Queen; France had been my home for so long that I felt I was part of it.
I had always been aware of the fact that Philip Augustus was a man to watch. I recognized a clever ruler when I saw one and, for all his faults, Philip Augustus was that. In spite of the fact that he had been in love with Richard, he had never dreamed of neglecting his country on that account. He had married Isabella of Hainault, and his son Louis was n
ow the husband of my own sweet Blanche.
Isabella had died and a marriage had been arranged for Philip Augustus with Ingeborg, a Danish princess, but after the marriage service he took an instant dislike to her and wanted her sent home. She appealed to Pope Celestine who ignored her pleas. I wondered what had brought about such a violent revulsion, for Philip Augustus had a great sense of duty to his country, and the object of this marriage was to provide heirs. In such cases when the encumbrance came from a not very influential family it was generally easy to find some reason for annulment; but Ingeborg had a powerful friend in Pope Celestine.
Philip Augustus had for some time been in love with Agnes de Meran and was now determined, in spite of papal disapproval, to marry her. Eventually he did this, but Celestine had now been replaced by Innocent who was ready to exert his authority. He threatened Philip Augustus with excommunication if he did not go back to Ingeborg; and faced with this Philip Augustus was obliged to take her back; but he kept Agnes with him. What would have been the outcome I cannot imagine if Agnes had not conveniently died. Philip wanted the children he had had by her legitimized and was now in consultation with Rome on this matter.
I was rather pleased about this, for it kept Philip Augustus occupied with his own affairs; I trembled to think what might become of Plantagenet possessions in France if he was able to give his full attention to the task of wresting them from us.
I was becoming more and more enamored of the life at Fontevrault. I was feeling better. The place refreshed me and I realized that I could be content to spend what was left of my life here. I liked the ways of the convent. It seemed a good idea to give myself up to good works. It was said to be a way of expiating past sins, and I daresay most would agree that during my long life I had committed many.
I seemed to have become a different woman; the fire of my youth had gone and had taken with it my love of adventure. I would never have believed that the day would come when I could be content with the quiet life and enjoy the peace of it.
