Виктория Холт - The Battle of the Queens

She was again with child, though – her one consolation, although during this pregnancy she had become easily exhausted and often felt ill.

She was fortunate to be surrounded by good servants. Those close to her knew of the sadness her husband’s neglect had brought her. It was touching to see how they tried to make up for his lack of care by lavishing their attentions on her, with something more than could be expected from the best of servants.

In due course her time came and to her delight she gave birth to a son.

Richard arrived at Berkhamsted a few days after the birth.

He looked young and vital as he sat by her bed; she felt old and tired and she knew that she looked it.

‘It was good of you to come to see our son,’ she said to him.

‘Naturally I should come to see the boy … and you.’

‘Even more good of you to come to see me … when it is against your inclination.’

He shifted uneasily on his stool.

‘You are not looking well, Isabella,’ he said. ‘Are they caring for you? I must speak to them.’

They give me loving care, Richard. You can imagine how I appreciate that.’

‘I am glad of it,’ he said.

He sat in silence and she wondered whether he was thinking that she looked so ill that she might never rise from this bed.

It would save him a lot of trouble, she thought, and me a great deal of heartbreak.

It was, said her servants, almost as though she were willing herself to die.

He spoke to the most devoted of those who were with her night and day.

‘Your mistress seems lifeless,’ he said. ‘Is she very ill?’

The old woman bridled a little and faced him coldly. Such women he knew cared for no one, however high in rank, and would fight an army of kings for the sake of their beloved charges.

‘It has been an unhappy time for her, my lord,’ was the brusque answer.

‘A difficult pregnancy, I know.’

‘Did you know, my lord? You have seen little of it.’

‘But I know such things are.’

‘This was aggravated by my lady’s melancholy state.’ The old woman bobbed a curtsey and turned away muttering: ‘I must see to my lady.’

He went to see the child which lay quiet in its cradle. White and still, eyes closed, it reminded him of Isabella.

He called to the wet nurse.

‘How fares the child?’ he asked.

‘Oh, my lord, a good child. Never cries …’

He went to his chamber thinking of poor melancholy Isabella and the child that never cried.

The doctor said the child should be baptised at once, and he was christened Nicholas just before he died.

He did not tell Isabella but she knew. She lay in her bed, listless.

Richard sat beside her.

Then she said: ‘Richard, I should like to be buried at Tewkesbury beside my first husband.’

Richard said: ‘Nay, you are not going to die yet, Isabella.’

She turned her head away and he knelt by her bed, taking her hand in his. He knew that he had been a bad husband. He knew that he had caused her great suffering.

Theirs had been an impulsive marriage – on his side. She had loved him though. He wished he had been better to her. If he had known her end was near he would have visited her more often during the last year. But how could he have known? And the truth was that she was ageing; she was not gay as he liked women to be; she was too virtuous, too serious to please him.

Their marriage had been a failure as she had said it would be. He could hear her voice coming to him over the years: ‘I am too old, Richard.’

And how right she had been.

But now he must comfort her. He would not allow her to be buried at Tewkesbury beside her first husband. That would be construed as a slight to him. He knew what he would do, for it was a mistake to ignore completely the wishes of the dead. Her heart should be put into a silver casket and buried beside her first husband, her body in a place of his choosing.

The pressure of her clammy fingers in his reminding him that he was disposing of her before she was dead and in a sudden access of shame he said: ‘Isabella, you must get well.’

And he promised himself that if she did he would be a better husband to her.

‘Richard,’ she said, ‘do not reproach yourself. I was to blame. I knew all along …’

He said: ‘I loved you …’

‘You love easily, Richard. I know that now. Take care of little Henry.’

He kissed her hand. ‘I promise you I shall love that boy as I love none other.’

‘I believe you,’ she said. ‘I think it is time to send for the priest.’

So the priest came and he sat with her as she died. He wept a little and he tried to stop himself exulting because there need be no more negotiations with a Pope who raised objections. He thought of the beautiful daughters of the Count of Provence.

Free. He was free.

* * *

In the hall at Westminster Henry had summoned all the magnates to a council meeting. Richard was present and sat beside him on the dais.

Henry addressed the assembly: ‘I have a message from my father-in-law, the Count of La Marche. He has promised that if we take an army across the Channel he will help us against the King of France. My lords, this is the opportunity for which we have been waiting. At last we have a chance to regain all that we have lost. The Poitevins, the Gascons, the King of Navarre and the Count of Toulouse are with him. Their quarrel with Louis has grown and they are ready to march against him.’

There was a murmuring among the assembly. If this were true, it could indeed be the chance they were waiting for, but how far could they trust the Count of La Marche?

Henry answered that question. ‘The Count, through his marriage with my mother, has become my stepfather. I have always known that when the moment was ripe he would come to my aid.’

It seemed reasonable. It could well be the time. Many eyes glistened at the thought of recapturing those lost castles.

‘Then, my lords,’ said Henry, ‘we are of one mind. We will now begin to make ready to make war on the King of France.’

Isabella of Angoulême, Queen Mother of England and Countess de la Marche, had changed little over the years, although she was now the mother of many children. There had been one for almost every year of her marriage to Hugh. It was said that she must have some special power – and many believed it had been bestowed by the devil – for in spite of the encroaching years and the exigencies of childbearing she had remained beautiful and maturity had not brought a lessening of her allure.

She was arrogant, demanding and could be vindictive. Her husband and her children were in considerable awe of her; yet they were devoted to her. In spite of her overbearing manner and her extreme selfishness, they were aware of that enchantment which had been with her since she was a girl; and if it was in their power to give her what she wanted, they gave it.

Hugh, her eldest son, who greatly resembled his father, was her devoted slave; he would one day be the Count of Lusignan; Guy her second son was the Lord of Cognac; William was to have Valence and Geoffrey Châteauneuf, while Aymer was to go into the Church. Then there were the girls, Isabella, Margaret and Alicia.

Ever since she had married Hugh she had been obsessed by her hatred of one woman; and that hatred was perhaps the greatest emotion of her life.

Not a day passed when she did not think of Blanche, the Queen Mother of France, and when she would ask herself what she could do to make life uncomfortable for that woman. For many reasons she hated Blanche, and she knew that Blanche hated her. It amused her to contemplate that Blanche was as much aware of her as she was of Blanche and that the good and virtuous woman would be as ready to slip a dose of poison in her wine as she would in Blanche’s.

There was a natural antipathy which they could feel, so strong was it, whenever they were near.

Isabella rejoiced in the troubles of the Queen Mother of France – and they were great. For a forceful woman such as she was it was not easy to step back and take second place after ruling. She had been Regent of France while Louis was in his minority and now the little saint had become of an age to rule himself; and was showing himself capable of the task. He had married Marguerite of Provence – a pretty creature of whom he was enamoured – a little to the chagrin of his mother who had doubtless imagined she would keep her influence with him. A situation which amused Isabella, particularly when she heard that the poor little Queen went in fear and trembling of her mother-in-law.

Isabella had spread a great deal of scandal about her enemy in connection with Thibaud of Champagne, and there were many who believed that Blanche and Thibaud had in fact been lovers – and just a few who carried the scandal further and suggested that Thibaud had murdered Louis in order to enjoy more of the Queen’s company.

It was nonsense. Even wild romantic unwise Thibaud would not be such a fool. Isabella had to admit that. Blanche was a cold woman, very much aware of her regality; and she would never take a lover – let alone Thibaud of Champagne, the fat troubadour, who in spite of his poetry – which those who knew declared had great merit – was a bit of a buffoon.

She had laughed heartily when she heard the story of how when Thibaud was presenting himself at court in the most elaborate garments, on mounting the stairs to enter the Queen’s presence he had been covered in curdled milk which had been thrown on him from an upper balcony by Robert of Artois, Louis’s younger brother who, resenting the scandal surrounding this man and his mother, had decided to make Thibaud look ridiculous.