‘Champagne writes of her as the unattainable,’ said Guy.
‘You are a soldier, my lord. You do not read into those poems what is there to be seen. He is mad with love of her. Louis dies suddenly. Did you expect him to die? Come, confess it. Was it not a shock to hear that the King was dead? But I tell you this: the Count of Champagne quarrelled with him. He left before the walls of Avignon … and soon after we hear the King is dead. Of a fever, we are told. Of drinking bad wine. Who gave Louis bad wine to drink? The Queen’s lover was there, was he not … and Louis died!’
‘But it was weeks after he had left that Louis died,’ Parthenay pointed out.
‘Those who are clever with poisons may choose the time they work. I tell you this, my lords, I call it strange that Thibaud of Champagne should write so of his love, and that he should be with the King before he dies. And the Queen … what of her? What does she say: “I must get my son crowned without delay.” In fact there has been such little delay that one might be forgiven in thinking that it was planned beforehand.’
There was a deep silence. With her glittering eyes and flushed cheeks Isabella presented a sight of such beauty that none of them could take their eyes from her. If there was something evil in her undeniable loveliness, that did not make it the less fascinating.
Hugh was undoubtedly uneasy. ‘There is no proof of this …’ he began, ‘but …’
‘’Tis better not spoken of,’ put in Guy quickly.
‘But we must think of the future,’ said Hugh.
The two men nodded.
‘Nothing rash should be done,’ went on Hugh.
‘Do you mean,’ asked Parthenay, ‘that we should not take our oath to the King?’
‘If we are not at Rheims we cannot do so,’ said Hugh. ‘In the meantime let us consider the friendship which must exist between my house and that of the English King. He is showing himself to be a king now … I do not think he would want to work against his mother and her friends.’
There was a deep silence in the hall. A young king; a woman to rule. It was not a good prospect. And was it not just the time when the King of England would attempt to regain the lands his father had lost?
He would need help. And who better to help him than the lords of Poitou and Lusignan?
Hugh was smiling quietly. Isabella is right, he thought. They are beginning to realise it. There is more to be gained from England than France. It was unwise of course to talk so of Blanche. Perhaps it is true. Why should it not be?
As usual he was beginning to believe what Isabella intended he should.
Then he thought suddenly: But by God, how she hates Blanche.
Thibaud of Champagne sang blithely as he made his way towards Rheims.
The King was dead and Blanche a widow. He thought of her constantly and now that she was a widow she had seemed to come a little closer to him.
As he rode along he was composing new songs to her. She was the White Queen now, for as was the custom she must go into mourning for her husband and mourning was white.
The Queen with a name as fair as her beautiful hair and the white mourning of a widow. Even her name was appropriate. Blanche, the White Queen.
He sang a little and he was enchanted with the words he made to fit the melody.
And now to the coronation at Rheims.
He had sent his sergeant-at-arms on ahead to make sure that an adequate lodging was found for him. It must be one worthy of his rank and loyalty. A coronation was a time when a new king must be reminded of his blood relations.
Rheims? What a fair city, situated boldly there on the Vesle river. It was becoming one of the important towns of France since Philip Augustus had been crowned there and Louis after him – and now young Louis the new King would share that experience. It seemed that a precedent was being set for the crowning of kings.
Thibaud was wondering whether he might present himself to the Queen immediately after the ceremony or if he should wait awhile.
He would make it clear to her that he would put his heart and everything he possessed at her feet.
‘You have but to command, Queen of my heart …’
He imagined the gratitude in her eyes. She would be glad of a protector now. She would have her enemies, for there were always those self-seekers who would be looking for advantages now that she was a widow. He would make her understand that she could rely on him absolutely.
He could see the towers of the cathedral. Many people were coming into the town. Knights with followers, all the highest in the land.
As he made his way through the streets to the lodging which he believed would be waiting him he was recognised by several people.
They cheered him somewhat mockingly. It was due to his size. He was known and recognised at once as the Fat Troubadour.
He acknowledged their greeting and broke into song. That silenced their mockery. They must be aware of the beauty of his voice and the merit of the songs he sang which were his own.
This put him in good spirits, and he rode along happily rehearsing what he would say to the Queen.
But where was his lodging? Where were the pennants fluttering in the breeze to tell the townsfolk that this was the temporary residence of Thibaud, Count of Champagne – a kinsman of the young King, and of royal blood?
His sergeant-at-arms was waiting for him at the house which was to have been honoured by his occupation, his expression woebegone, as he gesticulated wildly in explaining to his master what had happened.
‘My lord, I arrived here. I took up residence. I had your standards flying and the mayor and some of his men came to the house and demanded that the standards be removed … ay, and that I remove myself and all our servants from this place.’
‘God in Heaven,’ cried Thibaud. ‘I’ll have his blood.’
‘My lord, he pleaded that he acted on orders.’
‘On orders! Who would dare give such an order?’
‘The Queen, my lord.’
‘It can’t be so. Does she not know …? Why, I am the most faithful of her servants.’
‘Her orders were that you were to have no lodging in Rheims and that your servants were to be turned into the streets when they came to prepare one for you.’
‘But I am to go to the coronation.’
‘The Queen’s man said that the presence of one who had deserted the King’s father when he was in dire need, would not be welcome at the coronation.’
Thibaud was silent.
Then he clenched his fists. He realised he had allowed himself to dream too wildly. She was as remote as ever she had been.
A great rage possessed him.
‘We will go then,’ he said at length. ‘Doubtless there will be some who welcome us if the King does not.’
It was a moving sight when the boy King rode to the cathedral on a large white horse. The women among the spectators wept for him. He looked so young, so defenceless with his thick blond hair free of any covering, and so handsome were his beautifully chiselled features and his smooth fair skin.
One of the monks assisted him to alight and led him inside the cathedral. There was great dignity about the boy which was immediately noticed and commented on. Blanche, watching her son, was proud of him. He looked so vulnerable; he would need her guidance.
Had she been wise, she wondered, in refusing Thibaud of Champagne permission to attend? She was unsure now. A rumour had reached her that some were saying he was her lover and the thought had filled her with such anger that she had allowed her personal resentments to take precedence over her common sense.