Joanna (7 page)

“I hope he lives so long,” Geoffrey remarked drily.

Joanna looked seriously at him. “Tell me what this quarrel is about, Geoffrey. Mother and Ian never speak of it. They never speak of the king at all, unless it is very necessary, and I do not like to ask becausebecause I can see the fear in mama’s eyes when Ian talks of these matters. She fears for him.”   “I, too. It is well he went to Pembroke in Ireland. The quarrel between the king and the pope is simple enough. There was a disputed election for archbishop of Canterbury. The monks desired the elevation of their subprior, Reginald; the king desired his friend John Grey, bishop of Norwich as archbishop.”

“That toad? Peter of Winchester is loyal to the king, but Norwich is”

“Your mother would say ‘an ass licker,’ ” Geoffrey remarked innocently.

Joanna’s eyes laughed at him while her face took on a look of great gravity. “A married dame’s ways and language are not fitting for an innocent maiden,” she cooed.

The expression was so enchanting that Geoffrey’s hand tightened on his lute and the strings twanged. “There was also some meddling by the bishops suffragan to Canterbury,” he went on hastily, “and the outcome was that the pope appointed as archbishop an Englishman, then in Rome, a man called Stephen Langton. He is, I understand, a wise, learned, and good man. The monks of Canterbury were pleased; the suffragan bishops were also pleased; the king, however, was furious.”

“I do not much love the king,” Joanna put in, “and certainly I would not wish to see John Grey as archbishop, butbut the king is not all wrong in this. It is his right to be consulted on so high an appointment, and his authority”

Geoffrey shrugged. “That is true enough, but in a choice among evils I suppose I had rather have the pope’s power a little strengthened and Langton as archbishop than have John’s authority perfect and give control of the Church, through Grey, into the king’s hands. I do not know. Ian says that Langton is a great man and will not be merely a creature of the papacy. In any case it is done. Langton has been consecrated. I will say that the pope tried to smooth matters over. He sent rich gifts at first and many sweet words. Even when John answered with contumacy, the pope wrote conciliatory letters admonishing the king most gently.”

“Someone should have told him that was not the way to   go about things with King John,” Joanna commented caustically.

“I suppose someone did, or perhaps Pope Innocent’s temper is not quite so peaceable as a Holy Father’s should be. When he saw John was stubborn in spite of his kindness, he threatened, but by then the king was in a fine Angevin rage. He sent de Cantelu and Cornhill to Canterbury and they drove out the monks and seized the Church property.”

“I see. Then came the interdict.”

“Naturally. By then John’s rage was past and, I think, he would have come to an agreement readily. In fact, he tried. Langton’s brother had a safe-conduct to come to England and discuss matters. I am not sure whether it was Langton or the pope who was at fault in that no agreement was reached. John professed himself willing to accept Langton but made a just condition that the king’s authority be preserved. That was refused.”

“It is always thus,” Joanna agreed, shaking her head. “If you offer the Church a finger, you are like to find your whole hand has been eaten.”

“Is that the way for a modest maiden to speak?” Geoffrey teased.

Large eyes filled with an entirely spurious innocence were raised to his. “Did I use some word that was not proper, my lord?”

Geoffrey reddened again very slightly. It was the first time Joanna had ever called him “my lord,” and though it was said in jest it sounded very sweet to him.

“Each word by itself,” he responded, “was innocent enough. Added together” He shook his head at her and laughed. Then he grew more serious. “But I do not see an end to it. At first, while the king hoped for a reconciliation, he held his hand. When he saw the pope adamant, he began to rob the churchesnot only the revenues of the sees from which the bishops had fled, although that was bad enoughhe confiscated the plate and chalices and sometimes even the crucifixes and melted them down for their gold and silver.”   ‘‘There are advantages to that,” Joanna remarked callously. “At least it has saved us from paying the cost of the Scots and Irish wars. Even this Welsh campaignyou know, Geoffrey, that the king has not called a full levy. He is hiring mercenaries. In fact, his demands have been so light in the past two years that many of the vassals and castellans who were in debt to us are clearing their accounts.”

“Do not be so pleased. Do you think we will come out of this scot-free? You know the Church. Sooner or later, the king will be driven to make peaceand there will be no peace until John agrees to repay what he has taken. Where do you think that repayment will come from?”

Coincidentally, Geoffrey was not the only one voicing doubts about the king’s seizure of Church property. Peter des Roches, bishop of Winchester, was saying almost the same thingexcept that he did not bother to comment on where the money for repayment would come from. The king, to whom he was speaking most earnestly, removed his eyes from the
tableau vivant
he was contemplating and looked toward Winchester. The two men were an almost laughable contrast, partly because they were much alike in coloring and wore their hair and beards cut in the same fashion. However, King John had become very heavy in the past few years, looking remarkably like a wine tun with a protruding head and limbs. Winchester, on the other hand, was thin as a whip and as supple.

“Perhaps,” John agreed in his beautiful voice, “but by then I will have achieved my purpose. Ireland and Scotland already lie quiet under my yoke. When I have tamed the Welsh it will be time enough to make my peace. Then I will deal with the English barons.” He smiled slowly. “And if I must repay, who will dare deny to give whatever I ask?”

“Indeed, my lord is wise.” The voice was sweet and lilting.

Both men now looked back at the tableau John had been contemplating. Unlike its effect on her husband, time seemed to have passed without touching Isabella of Angoulême. She was as dark as John, her eyes huge pools of black shaded by long lashes and surmounted by thin, perfectly arched brows of hair so fine and glossy that they shone like silk. Her nose was small and straight; her lips deep red and formed into an exquisite, slightly pouting bow. Her skin was a marvel, a rich brunette delicately tinted with rose so that it seemed to have an inner glow. To look upon her was a pleasure almost physical; she was called the Helen of Europeand with perfect justice.

At her knee, stood a boy of about four, tall for his age and a surprising contrast to both his parents, for his hair was fair and his eyes a clear blue. He was well formed, with a bright, intelligent expression, marred only slightly by one eyelid that drooped unnaturally. The only other oddity in the child was his stillness. Boys of four wriggle; this one did not, as though he knew he was part of a picture and, if he disturbed it, he would be sent away. On the floor at Isabella’s feet another boy, a year younger, played with some bright objects and, in a bedecked cradle, an infant slept.

After seven years of barrenness, Isabella had done well by the Plantagenets. She had produced two sturdy sons and two attractive daughters, and there seemed no reason to believe she would not bring forth other childrenall strong and lively and all delivered with little fuss and bother and not the slightest effect upon their mother’s beautiful body. There were those who said that the children had not produced the slightest effect on their mother’s icy heart either. This opinion was not universally held. Another party argued that Isabella
had
no heart and, therefore, it was unreasonable to expect her children to find a place there.

Both parties were wrong. Isabella had a perfectly normal heart. It beat steadily and strongly at the normal temperature of her body, keeping the roses in her lips and her cheeks abloom. Nor was it impervious to love, but its object had been chosen long, long before Isabella’s children were born. In fact, the first time Isabella had looked in a polished metal mirror and been capable of understanding what she saw there, her heart had been so completely ravished that it   became insensible to any feeling beyond what directly affected the object of its devotion. Wholly and completely, Isabella of Angoulême loved herself.

It was fortunate for Isabella that this was true. Otherwise her life would have been exceedingly unhappy. She had been betrothed from childhood to a young nobleman of power, wealth, and characterHugh le Brun de Lusignan. Only weeks before her wedding, John met her, coveted her, and, in short order, married her. Isabella made no protestand not because she was young and overawed. She had exchanged the count for the king, the vassal for the overlord, quite willingly. To her mind, being a queen could only set her beauty in a more appropriate frame.

Isabella was well satisfied with her bargain, even though it was clear within months of her wedding that her husband was a confirmed lecher. However, his open contempt for the women he bedded casually, coupled with the formality and respect he showed Isabella herself, prevented her pride from being hurt. Since no emotion other than pride had ever touched her relationship with her husband, she was content. She did not doubt that John loved her; he would never be long separated from her and spent much time in her company just looking at herno matter whom he took to his bed.

With the coming of her children, Isabella’s life was almost complete. Young Henry and Richard and the little girls had secured her position. She could never be put aside like John’s previous wife for childlessness. There had been the danger, of course, that John would dote more upon the babes than upon herself, but that problem soon resolved itself. John no more than she wished to be bothered with squalling and puking infants and, by the time Henry was old enough to be amusing, his strong resemblance to John’s hated older brother Richard was apparent. In fact, when Isabella saw how coldly her husband regarded the coloring and large stature of his son, she had feared John would accuse her of adultery. However, it soon became clear that his distrust was of the child, not of herself.   The other children meant even less to him. Perhaps he favored Richard, whose coloring resembled his own, a little, but in general John took no delight in childish babble. He enjoyed his family when it made a pretty picturea beautiful wife surrounded by quiet, handsome babesbut he did not wish to be disturbed by any demands the picture made upon him. Once it was established that John’s attention would not be drawn away from her by the children, Isabella dismissed them almost completely from her mind. They were well cared for she knew. They appeared on call, well dressed, healthy, and well mannered. When they became annoying, they were removed.

Thus there was only one blot on the bright surface of Isabella’s life. There was only one person in the world who was her rival for influence upon John. Isabella did not understand the expression in her husband’s eyes when they looked upon his half brother, William of Salisbury, but she knew he did not look on her that way. She knew too that in any contest of desire between her will and Salisbury’s will, John would yield to his brother. The one quarrel she had ever had with her husband revolved around Salisbury. It was John who had insisted she take William’s sonthe bastard of a bastardinto her service. And then, when Salisbury had removed Geoffrey from her household because he said the boy was ill-treated, her husband had berated her like a madman; he had very nearly hit her. To this day, she was not sure what John had wanted her to do about Geoffrey FitzWilliam. He had seemed equally angry that the boy had survived and that he had been made unhappy.

The whole affair had annoyed Isabella very much. She could not help it if the bastard was the butt of her other pages, and if he was so careless and awkward that she frequently had to punish him. Surely John did not expect her to put herself out to smooth the sin-born child’s path. And as for having him murderedwell, if that was what John wanted, he could do it himself. Isabella had no intention of endangering
her
salvation for her husband’s convenience. If the boy would not sicken and die of himself or take his own   life, it was his fault and not hers. She had certainly put no impediments in his path. Isabella came as close as it was possible for her passionless nature to hating William of Salisbury and Geoffrey FitzWilliam, but she did not dare attack either of them openly. They were never far from the surface of her thoughts, however, and if she could say a spiteful word or do them an ill turn, she did.

There had been a short pause after Isabella spoke while both John and the bishop of Winchester stared at her. They were not surprised at her remark. Isabella did not have much sense, but she had sense enough always to agree with and praise her husband. The pause was simply for a pleasurable contemplation of her loveliness. Isabella knew it and sat perfectly still for a time. When she felt she had conferred a sufficient favor by allowing their admiration, she spoke again.

“You know, my lord bishop, that every plan my husband has designed that rested upon the support of the barons has fallen apart through their cowardice and disloyalty. It is only when he is strong enough to act upon his own that they rush to take credit for his glory and act as if it were their doing alone.”

“It is true enough,” John sneered. “When I had none but my own household guard, they deserted me rather than sail for Normandy, but when I had a good mercenary army readied to subdue Ireland, then they rushed to my support.” He laughed without mirth. “Many came who were not even summoned. And the same was true when I marched north to tame Scotland.”

Peter des Roches did not contradict the king, although he was no fool. The barons had refused to sail for Normandy because an aroused Philip of France in control of every stronghold in the province was waiting to cut them to pieces. No one had refused the king’s summons to Ireland because, by 1209, William, earl of Pembroke had been fighting there for two years already and the country was nearly beaten into submission. When King John arrived with his army, he had little to do beside march the massive   force up and down and accept the Irish lords’ capitulation.