The Battle of the Queens (51 page)

Silently they rode back to Lusignan.

There was the castle, its towers reaching to the sky, its grey walls as solid as ever.

‘It might so easily have been taken from us,’ said Hugh sadly. ‘The King is generous.’

‘They were prepared,’ cried Isabella. ‘All our plans were known to them. Someone must have told them.’

‘They had their spies everywhere …’

‘So but for spies …’

All her dreams, all her hopes were gone. She would not give up, though. She cared nothing for Louis and his godly ways. Her enemy was the woman who stood there watching her humiliate herself … watching her with those icy blue eyes.

She had taken from Isabella what she had most coveted: power.

Now we are reduced to this, she thought. My husband has betrayed me. First John and now Hugh. Weaklings both of them.

But no matter. There is no weakness in me. I will have my way. She has reduced me to this. How can I hurt her as she has hurt me? What does she love more than anything on earth? The answer flashed into her mind: Louis.

Spies had ruined their plans. Spies should work for her.

It was not difficult to come by what she needed. Everything could be obtained by money.

She sent for two men – villains both of them, but she needed villains for this task.

‘What I wish of you is a delicate task,’ she told them. ‘Once it is completed you will slip away and come back to me. When I have the news I need you will be so rewarded that you will build a castle apiece and rise high above your humble station.’

‘It is a dangerous task,’ said one of the men.

‘Only if you are caught. If you are clever it will be easy. First you will find appointments in the royal kitchens. That should not be difficult. You will then know which dishes are prepared for whom and when you see one that is especially prepared for a certain person … that is all you need to know.’

‘It would depend on the person.’

‘Do you imagine that I should offer you this reward if it were for some humble knight? If you speak of this to any … and I say any … I will have your tongues cut out. Do you understand?’

The men turned pale. Isabella had an evil reputation. It was believed by some that she was a witch, for only a woman of her years could retain her beauty if she were a witch; and the power she had over Hugh de Lusignan made all marvel.

‘We understand, my lady,’ they answered.

‘Then take this powder. It is tasteless and will dissolve quickly. When you know that one special dish is going to the King, put this in.’

‘The King!’

‘I said the King. Speak of it to no one, before the deed is done and after.’

‘My lady, you ask a good deal.’

‘I know it and I will give a good deal when the news is brought to me that the King is dead.’

She dismissed them and settled down to wait.

She was pleased with her revenge.

At first she had thought of poisoning Blanche, but what good was that? At most a few hours of torment before death. No, she wanted a greater revenge for her enemy. She wanted to deprive her of what she loved more than anything on earth: her beloved and saintly Louis.

When Louis was dead, the whole meaning of life would be lost to Blanche. Her punishment would be that she would have to go on living without him.

How long the waiting was! How quiet she was! Hugh thought: Events have changed her. And he looked forward to a peaceful life. Could it be that she had indeed learned a lesson, that at least she realised that to bow the knee to a man such as Louis was no humiliation?

Each time a messenger came to the castle she was waiting for him.

What news? What news of the court?

But there was nothing of importance.

Often she wondered about those two villains. Had they become afraid? Had they put as long a distance between her and themselves as they could?

How far could she trust them? What if they talked of what she had ordered them to do?

What would happen then? It would be the end of everything for her.

She should have had their tongues cut out before she let them go. But then they would never have worked for her. They might have had their revenge.

This was a bold plan she had embarked on. But then she was bold. Was that not why she was so impatient with Hugh and all those who surrounded her?

Some day there must be news.

It came. A messenger from the court. Not the villains she had sent. But one who wished her well.

She saw the messenger coming. She went down to the hall of the castle. Hugh had seen and was there too.

‘It is someone from the court,’ he said.

‘My lord, my lady.’ The man stood there with wide staring eyes. He was looking at Isabella and there was horror and fear in his eyes.

‘Yes,’ said Hugh impatiently. ‘What news of the court?’

‘Two men have been taken in the kitchens.’

Isabella caught at the table for support.

‘They were discovered putting poison into the King’s dish.’

‘What then?’ she cried.

‘They were hanged.’

Isabella felt floods of relief sweeping over her. It had failed then but none knew.

But there was to be no comfort. ‘First they were put to the torture … they were questioned …’ The man was looking straight at Isabella. ‘They named you, my lady.’

The silence in the hall seemed to go on for a long time. It was over then. This was the end. The Spanish enemy had won.

Nothing could protect her now.

She snatched at Hugh’s sword and tried to kill herself, but Hugh was there and the sword went clattering on to the flagstones.

‘Isabella!’ he cried.

‘Let me go,’ she cried. ‘This does not concern you.’

Then she ran out of the hall to the stables and she seized a horse and rode away.

Chapter XIX

FONTEVRAULT

T
he end, she thought. This is the end. Those fools – to have been caught! If they had not … all would be well.

But what to do? Where to go?

Sanctuary. Fontevrault. No one could take her there. Even Spanish Blanche could not break the rules of Holy Church.

It was her only hope, to reach sanctuary before they took her.

She rode on, thinking of Hugh. He would come for her, fight for her, defend her. Would he? Would even he shrink from one who had planned the diabolical murder of the King who had so recently shown them so much kindness?

It was over. She realised that at last.

Her only hope now was Fontevrault.

She reached the Abbey. The nuns took her in.

They would succour her. There was refuge here for all.

They put her into a secret chamber where none could reach her.

‘I am in flight,’ she said. ‘I have sinned greatly, and I wish to pass my days in repentance.’

They believed her. They knew she was the beautiful Isabella who had been responsible for much strife throughout the land. They had not yet heard of her attempt to poison the King of France.

They left her to rest and to pray.

And she thought: So it has come to this. When a woman must spend her last years in repentance, that is indeed the end.

Alone in her secret chamber she sat brooding on the past. What was there left to her but prayer and repentance? She thought back over her life and was afraid for her sins. It was as though her carefully guarded youth dropped from her now and the years which she had held at bay were at last overtaking her.

There were no lotions to preserve her smooth skin; no oils for her hair; no scents for her body.

If she were truly seeking repentance, she should have no need of such things.

Strange it was that she, proud Isabella, should have come to this.

There was no safety outside for her. If she emerged they would accuse her of attempting to murder the King. Her Spanish enemy would have no mercy on her.

She scarcely spoke to any, and so deep was her melancholy that the nuns believed she would die of it.

They brought her news of the world outside the convent. She heard that her husband and her eldest son had been arrested on charges of being involved in an attempt to poison the King.

‘Oh no, no,’ she cried aloud. ‘They knew nothing of it.’

Hugh defended her as she knew he would. ‘They lied,’ he cried. There had been no poison attempt in which his wife or any member of his family had been involved. The villains had mentioned his wife’s name because of recent happenings and they thought their wicked story would be believed. He challenged Alphonse to single combat that he might defend his wife’s honour.

Dear simple Hugh!

Alphonse would not fight. He declared that Hugh de Lusignan was so treason-spotted that he would not demean himself by meeting him. Young Hugh then offered to fight but his offer was refused because, it was said, with such parents, he was unworthy.

Thus they were all brought low, and since it was believed by Louis and Blanche that Isabella alone was guilty, Hugh was freed and went back to Lusignan to mourn his sad fate.

Isabella would see no one. Nothing would make her emerge from her chosen solitude.

She would take the veil and live out her life seeking forgiveness for her sins.

With the passing of the days her will to live escaped her. She sought nothing now but death.

She told the nuns that when she believed her sins were forgiven she would take to her pallet and rise no more.

There was nothing for her in the outside world. All she sought now was death.

So earnestly did she seek it that within two years of her flight from Lusignan it came to her.

They buried her, as she had wished, not in the church but in the common graveyard, for she had said, ‘Proud was I in life but humble in death.’

Thus passed the turbulent Isabella of Angoulême, and on her death Louis saw no reason why Hugh and he should be enemies. He had known – and Blanche had known – that only Hugh’s excessive love for his wife had made him a traitor of him. Such good friends did they become that Hugh accompanied Louis when he realised one of his main ambitions: to join a crusade to the Holy Land. It was on this crusade that Hugh was mortally wounded.

Six years later after Isabella’s death Henry, King of England, on a visit to Fontevrault, was shocked to discover that his mother lay in a common grave.

He ordered that her body be taken from it and buried beside his grandfather and grandmother, Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine. Then he caused a tomb to be built over it and a statue of her in a flowing gown caught in by a girdle and a wimple veil framing her face.

‘I remember her beauty in my childhood,’ he said, ‘and when I met her later she was as fair as ever. I never saw a woman as beautiful as my mother, Isabella of Angoulême.’