Victory indeed!
This would be the end of Louis’s hopes. How the Conqueror would be smiling on this day. He would say that Hubert de Burgh, who by a simple strategy had saved the throne for Henry, was a man he was proud to claim as a Norman, a man after his own heart.
John was dead. A new king was on the throne. There would be peace with France. It was a new beginning.
Isabella’s women were dressing her in scarlet; this was a triumphant moment, for after Hubert de Burgh’s masterly defeat of the French fleet the throne was safe for Henry; and a great deal of that disaster which had come about through King John’s ineptitude could now be repaired and men of good will, nobility and intelligence could begin the task of rebuilding a kingdom.
William Marshal came to her. He was ready to conduct her to the ceremony.
As he bowed and took her hand he could not but be aware of her beauty; she seemed to be possessed of a new vitality which must be due to the fact that she had escaped from John. She looked, though, more like a woman setting out on adventure, than one who has just been bereaved of a husband.
Her eyes mocked him slightly. ‘You think I am gaudily dressed for one so recently widowed? Nay, my lord, the last thing the people want to be reminded of is John. I have my son to consider. I do not wish that people should think of him as the son of John. ’Tis better if they forget that he is.’
There was something in that, Marshal acceded. But at the same time he thought it might have been more becoming for a widow to show some discretion.
‘Come, my lord,’ she went on. ‘This is a happy day. Our good Hubert de Burgh has scored a marvellous victory. We are sending Louis about his business. England will be at peace and my son will learn to be a king when he has to guide him two of the greatest men this country – or any country – has produced. That is no reason for mourning.’
‘You are right, my lady,’ said William Marshal.
‘Then shall we proceed?’
They went out to the barge which would take them to that spot near Staines where the ceremony would take place.
There, Isabella took her place on one side of the river with William Marshal on one side of her and the Papal Legate on the other. Across the river were Louis and his advisers. Isabella noticed with satisfaction that Louis was crestfallen, as well he might be. She imagined his returning to his father, sly Philip the King, who had wanted the conquest of England but would have no part in it because he feared defeat; and he would return to his wife Blanche too. Isabella had heard of their conjugal bliss. So might it have been if she had married Hugh.
Louis was slender and had a look of frailty about him which she felt to be deceptive. His features were fine drawn and his thick blond hair gave him a youthful look which was not unattractive in its way but he lacked the virility of Hugh de Lusignan which even now she remembered.
But what would Hugh be like after all these years? Ever since he had passed out of her life she realised she had been comparing every man with Hugh. The lovers she had taken had borne some resemblance to him and John had known this. Perhaps it was one of the reasons why he had so savagely murdered one of them and hung him on the tester of her bed.
How she would love to see Hugh again! Perhaps when he was her son-in-law she would. The thought made her hysterical with amusement or rage … Which? A mingling of the two of course.
But she should be concentrating on this ceremony which was going to make England safe for her son.
The solemn pledges were announced and spoken across a narrow stretch of water; and in the fields tents were being set up and in one of these a chapel was erected in which it would be necessary to make vows before the altar and Louis would swear that he would return to France and keep the peace for which William Marshal would promise that he should receive compensation.
The next day the French crossed the river and in the chapel set up in the tent, peace was agreed upon and Louis would return to France with a compensation, to be paid by the English, of six thousand marks which would help reimburse him for the costliness of the venture.
The Papal Legate and the leading men of London then went with the King of France and members of his entourage to Dover where Louis set sail.
As the ship disappeared below the horizon there were cries of ‘England is safe. This is the King’s Peace. Long live Henry the Third – England’s King for the English.’
The Queen was feeling disgruntled. Neither William Marshal nor Hubert de Burgh had behaved in the manner she had hoped they would. It was true that Marshal was an old man and had always been one who would never adventure far in the realms of erotic passion. He had married his Isabella late in life and been faithful to her all the years they were together; they had had five sons and five daughters and he had been the model husband, she the model wife – everything that would be expected of William Marshal. So it was hardly likely that now he was rich in years he would be so overcome by the charms of Queen Isabella – not physically of course but enough to make him ready to indulge her.
Hubert de Burgh – now he was of another type. His married life had been very varied. Isabella had become interested in him at the time of Prince Arthur’s imprisonment; she remembered how John had summoned him and given him secret instructions to put out the boy’s eyes and castrate him – a fate which had filled her with dismay for Arthur was a good looking boy and it was horrifying to one so aware of masculine perfection to contemplate his mutilation. She had been amused when she had heard that Hubert had disobeyed John – a noble thing to have done – and despising her husband she had admired Hubert, and had looked at him with favourable eyes for he was of comely appearance; but she quickly realised that although he was ready to risk his life, or worse still hideous mutilation, for the sake of a young boy for whom he had felt affection, he would not have been ready to indulge any sexual appetite he might have felt for the Queen. She had dismissed him from her thoughts then. Now she considered him. He had had three wives … so far, for he was not old and could well marry again should his third wife die. First there had been Joan, daughter of the Earl of Devon; she had died and he had taken Beatrice, who was the widow of Lord Bardulf; he was now married to Hadwisa, which was an extraordinary coincidence because Hadwisa had been John’s first wife. This was rather amusing. Hadwisa had been far from beautiful but the greatest heiress in the country; that was why John had married her and that had been before it seemed he had a hope of wearing the crown. He had tormented Hadwisa and rid himself of her to make Isabella his wife. And now Hadwisa was married to Hubert de Burgh! Hadwisa had had another husband after John – Geoffrey Mandeville, the fifth Earl of Essex. He had died but it had not been long before she found another husband in Hubert de Burgh – both embarking on their third marriages.
Well there was Hubert – a much married gentleman, wise and shrewd and in no mood to become the slave of a widowed queen. It was exasperating, but if she wished she could find lovers in plenty. That potent sexual power in her had not diminished since John had seen her in the forest and been driven to desperate means to possess her, already affianced to Hugh de Lusignan though she was.
That brought her back to Hugh. Her first love. For her there would never be another like him. How she would enjoy seeing him again to test whether his charm had lost its potency.
But here she was – some would say in an enviable position – the mother of a king who was a minor, ten years old. Surely her place should be to guide him, to rule through him. That would be invigorating. People would come to her to ask favours. They would say: ‘Oh it is necessary to approach the King through his mother the Queen.’