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.