‘She is a little way behind. I rode on ahead. She wished it.’
‘Will you return to your mother and tell her to come with all haste to the château?’
‘But my father….’
‘It would be well, my lord, if you would come with your mother.’
Louis turned and rode back.
When she saw her son a terrible fear came to Blanche. She spurred up her horse and galloped to the castle.
Philip Hurepel was waiting for her there. There were tears in his eyes and she knew before he said: ‘My lady, the King is dead. Long live Louis IX.’
Blanche was in command now. The new King was a boy of twelve and, though possessed of great gifts, but a boy.
She must set aside her personal grief. There was no time for it. Later she would think of Louis, the understanding between them, the affection, the respect they had always had for each other, the happy married life – almost as felicitous as that of her own parents; but now she must think of the future.
When a King died and left an heir not of an age to govern, there was always danger.
‘The King is dead. Long live the King.’ It was an old cry; but that King was not truly recognised as King until he was crowned.
So before she sat down to grieve, she must get Louis crowned. And then she knew that there would be little time for grief. Louis was too young; he would need guidance. She had good friends and Louis would have loyal subjects, but on her would rest the main burden.
From Philip Hurepel, the Counts of Bourbon and Blois she heard the story of Louis’s last days. He had exhausted himself before Avignon; they had known he was ill but not how ill – and could be said to have died fighting for a holy cause, so they need have no fear for his soul.
‘I never had fear for his soul,’ cried Blanche. ‘He was a good man. There are few as good in this world or in the next, I assure you.’
The men bowed their heads and said: ‘Amen.’
‘Indeed we need have no fear for him,’ said Blanche. ‘He is at peace. Now we must think what he would wish us to do. We have a new King, Louis IX. He is a promising boy … but a boy. My lords, the late King would wish us to make sure that he is crowned without delay.’
They agreed that this was so.
‘Then, my lords, let us see that this is done.’
She should rest a day at the château, Philip Hurepel told her. ‘You need your strength to support him. You must not be ill.’
She agreed to rest there and in her room her grief and desolation swept over her.
Dear, good, kind Louis … dead! She could not believe it. Never to speak to him again. She needed him now … so much she needed him.
Her women came to her and found her seated on her bed staring ahead of her, the tears slowly falling down her cheeks.
‘My lady,’ said one, ‘is there something we can do for you?’
She shook her head. ‘There is one thing I would you would do for me and that is bring a sword and run it through my heart.’
‘My lady!’
‘Oh, that is foolish is it not? But if I could make a wish it would be to be lying in a tomb beside him. He has been my life. We have been together in love and understanding. Do you realise what that means?’
‘To have seen the King and you together, my lady, was to understand.’
‘I have no wish to live without him.’
‘There is the young King, my lady.’
‘Yes, the young King. Could it be that others could guide him better than I?’
‘None can guide him as you can, my lady.’
‘I know that to be true and it is for this reason only that I wish to live.’
‘You must live, my lady. You must not harm yourself with grief. You must remember, the young King needs you.’
‘It is true,’ she said. ‘Send the King to me.’
Louis came and throwing himself at her feet gave way to weeping.
‘My beloved son,’ said Blanche, caressing those shining blond locks, ‘you have lost the best of fathers, I the dearest of husbands. But we have work to do. We must not forget that.’
‘No, my lady, I do not forget it.’
‘His death which has made me a sorrowing widow has made you a King. He would want you to be worthy of him, my son.’
‘I will be. I promise you, my lady. I will never do anything that would make him ashamed of me.’
‘May God bless you always.’
They were silent, weeping together.
Just this night, thought Blanche. Just this little time to mourn him. Then there will be work to do. My dear young King – so beautiful, so vulnerable – it will not be easy for you.
But he would have her beside him – and she knew she would be strong.
Chapter XI
ISABELLA SCHEMES
Six years of marriage had not had the effect of lessening Hugh de Lusignan’s passion for his wife – rather had it increased it. Uxorious, adoring, he had allowed her gradually to take over his life; he rarely made the most insignificant decision without consulting her and if she disapproved of it, that was an end to it.
His reward was a life of such eroticism as would have been beyond his belief had he not known her and the knowledge that – as far as it was possible for her to love anyone – she loved him.
In many ways she was not discontented with her life. She was close to her native Angoulême, and indeed spent much of her time there; she had children without much difficulty, although she did deplore the mild discomfort that must be endured before their arrival. She was very fruitful, which seemed natural in view of her insatiable sexuality, and she accepted her children with a certain amount of pleasure. Children could be very useful. In six years of marriage she had had five; and she guessed there would be more. Hugh, the eldest, was a fine boy who was very like his father in appearance and manners – a child as yet but one of great promise. Then there was Guy, only a year younger, and Isabella, William and Geoffrey. Four boys – all strong, all healthy. And a girl was useful. Young Isabella was a charming creature but Hugh declared she would never have the beauty of her mother. But then whoever had and whoever would?
But there was one thing Isabella could never forget and that was that she was a queen. It was all very well to be the centre of Hugh’s life and domain, to be admired wherever she went, to have every whim respected, but in Lusignan she was merely the Countesse of La Marche. With John she had been Queen of England and even when she was his prisoner, that fact had remained. In England she would still be Queen – though Queen Mother. She grimaced at the expression, but still with a son who was young and had not yet found a queen of his own she would have had considerable standing.
So there was always the need to remind everyone that she was a queen, to bestir Hugh to actions which would let everyone know how important he was.
Of course he was a lord of a great deal of territory. There were many who owed allegiance to him; but one fact remained and it irked her more than anything she had ever known – and that was that Hugh must swear allegiance to the King of France.
How she hated that cold-eyed queen who had regarded her with such distaste. She would like to see her brought low, her and her stupid Louis who doted on her. He was completely faithful to her. People were constantly commenting on it. Well, he was scarcely a man – and what of her? Did she have lovers? Although no scandal had touched her, all knew that the fat troubadour made songs about her. Isabella despised them all – Louis, Blanche and Thibaud of Champagne.
Messengers arrived at the castle with letters for the Count. She had gone down to the hall with Hugh to receive them, and when she saw that they came from the Queen she could not conceal her impatience.