The Battle of the Queens (20 page)

‘If she is it will be due to the wise tutoring of her grandmother.’

‘Nay, she has much to learn. She will grow in wisdom. I promise you that. All I have done is set her feet on the path along which she should go. Remember me for that. Now I hear sounds of arrival. It may be that the good Archbishop of Bordeaux is here.’

The next day Eleanor said good-bye to her granddaughter, and the old Queen and her party went on to Fontevrault while Blanche, in the care of the Archbishop of Bordeaux, rode north towards Paris.

Chapter VI

BLANCHE AND LOUIS

B
lanche was now desolate. She missed her grandmother even more than she had believed possible and the Archbishop of Bordeaux was no substitute for her. His sermons and his heavy advice were very different from the colourful homilies on life presented by her grandmother.

She now began to think with great trepidation of what lay before her. Very soon she would meet her bridegroom – the one with whom she was to spend the rest of her life. He was six months older than she was, she had heard, having been born in September 1187 while her birthday had been in March 1188. So they were both twelve years old. To think of his age comforted her a little, for it seemed possible that he might be dreading meeting her as much as she was dreading meeting him. She would remember her grandmother’s words about women being as important as men in the world, for after all if she had been selected for him he had been selected for her and he had had no more say in the matter than she had.

So perhaps she should not be afraid. They would both have to obey the King of France, and she imagined him benign and like her own father. She would come through her ordeal and it might be that she was unduly anxious.

It was a few days since they had parted from the old Queen’s company when the Archbishop told her that they were not going first to Paris, They were travelling to Normandy where she would be met by her bridegroom.

‘But that will lengthen our journey surely,’ cried Blanche.

‘It is the orders of the King of France,’ answered the Archbishop.

‘It is very strange,’ she said blankly. ‘I understood I was to go to France … to Paris and be married there. Surely the future Kings of France are married in Paris.’

‘It is the King’s wish that the ceremony should take place in Normandy.’

She was very puzzled and uneasy. How she wished that her grandmother was with her. There was something strange about these arrangements and she began to wonder whether the King did not wish her to marry his son after all.

The Archbishop was silent for some time. Then he said: ‘You need have no fear. The Queen, your grandmother, put you into my charge, and you may rest assured that having given her my word, I will look to your welfare as certainly as she would herself.’

Blanche nodded but she continued uneasy and at length the Archbishop seemed to come to a decision.

‘There seems no harm in telling you for you will know soon enough. The marriage cannot take place in France because the country is under an Interdict from Rome which means that no church ceremonies can be performed while this state of affairs exists.’

‘You mean he has displeased the Pope.’

The Archbishop nodded. ‘He has put away the wife he married and taken another woman to his bed and the Pope insists that this woman is no true wife to him. The King defies him declaring that she is and that his marriage to Ingeburga of Denmark was no true marriage.’

Blanche was aware of what the Interdict from Rome could mean. She had heard it spoken of in Castile as one of the worst calamities that could befall a man or woman; but in the case of a king it would apply to the whole of his kingdom.

‘And why has the King put away his wife?’

‘The church says because he has no fancy for her. He says because she was too nearly related to his first wife and therefore the marriage is null and void on the grounds of consanguinity.’

‘And where is she now?’

‘She goes from castle to castle and convent to convent while the King lives with Agnes, the woman he calls his wife, and is so deeply enamoured of her that he will not listen to the Pope, and so the country continues to suffer under the Interdict.’

Blanche was silent. It was disconcerting to learn that if a King did not like the bride who had been chosen for him, he could put her away from him on grounds of consanguinity. Royal families had inter-married throughout the centuries and it seemed it would hardly be an impossible task to discover blood ties between any of them. She was thoughtful as the cavalcade made its way into Normandy.

At last they had come face to face. He had ridden out to meet her and eagerly they had taken stock of each other.

He was not tall, nor was he short; his features were good and his expression kindly. He was fair and there was about him an air of delicacy which immediately won her heart and filled her with a determination to protect him.

She was about his height, fair and strong, with a hint of her Norman ancestry in her looks which had no doubt been noted by her grandmother when she had been certain that Blanche must be the future Queen of France. That strength in her appealed to Louis; it was reassuring to his own weakness; and from the moment they met there was a harmony between them which augured well for the future.

They rode side by side to Port-Mort and he told her how he had looked forward to her coming and that the marriage would be celebrated without delay so that they could return to Paris together.

It was easy to talk to him and in the castle close to the Abbey they sat side by side at the top of the table while the company feasted and he told her a little of what she must expect.

‘You know that I am twelve years old as you are. We have still to study; and for me life will go on much as it did before … except that I shall have a wife.’ He smiled charmingly, implying that this fact pleased him; and she glowed with pleasure which was partly relief. He told her how he lived in his father’s castles and palaces; how he had to study for a number of hours a day and his tutors had told him that when he married his wife would share his lessons. He wondered what subjects she had studied in Castile. Those she studied in France would probably be the same. They would ride a great deal. Did she enjoy riding? He meant really enjoy it apart from the fact that it was a necessary part of one’s life. He loved horses. He glowed with enthusiasm when he talked of his stables and he discussed his favourite horses as though they were human. She had not cared for them so much, but determined to from henceforth.

She would not be lonely at the French Court, he told her, apart from the fact that she would always be with him once they were married, for there were so many people there. There were his little half-brother and sister and the sons and daughters of noblemen of whom his father was the guardian.

‘You must not be afraid of my father.’ He frowned slightly. ‘People do not always understand him. But he really does care about young people … particularly his family. He will love you as he does the others, for he is very eager to see me married.’

Louis looked a little embarrassed and conversation with her grandmother enabled her to realise the reason which would have escaped her before her encounters with the old lady. Now she knew that Louis meant the King of France wanted them to produce an heir to the throne.

The thought would have alarmed her but there was something entirely reassuring about Louis and she dismissed the matter.

She asked him questions about little Philip and Mary, his half-sister and brother and discovered that they were the children of Agnes, the lady on whose account the King had been excommunicated.

She told him of Castile and her sisters and how she had believed, almost until it was time for the journey to begin, that it would be her sister who was coming to France.

Louis touched her hand lightly.

‘I am glad,’ he said, ‘that it was you who came.’

A few days later the marriage ceremony took place in the Abbey Port-Mort. It was as grand an occasion as it could be, considering that the King of France was not present to see his son married. Many people thronged the Abbey however and although there was much shaking of heads over the quarrel of the King of France with the Pope, all agreed that the bridal pair looked suitably matched – a good-looking youthful couple with a look of happiness in their faces which indicated that, young as they were, they were happy to be united.

There was to be no consummation. The King of France had indicated that that was to come about naturally which it would if the young people were often together.

And so Blanche of Castile was married to Louis of France and together they left Normandy for Paris.

As they rode along by the Seine, Blanche was conscious of a silence in the villages and little towns. It would have been natural to suppose that when the heir to the throne passed through with his bride there would have been some sign of rejoicing; it was surely customary to ring the church bells to announce such a joyous occasion.

‘It is the Interdict,’ said Louis. ‘The people feel it deeply. All church services and benefits are forbidden by the Pope. They are longing for it to end, but it can’t end until my father gives up Agnes and that is something he will not do.’

‘So it will go on and on and there will cease to be a church in France.’

‘They say it cannot go on, that no one can hold out for long against the Pope. The people fear that God will turn against them. As you see there is a certain sullenness in their manner. They blame all their ills on the Interdict and say that it is my father’s lust for Agnes which has brought them to this state.’

‘And he loves her dearly.’

‘He loves her dearly,’ repeated Louis. ‘As you will see.’

‘It is a terrible position for him.’

‘They would say he should never have put Ingeburga away, for he did so before he saw Agnes. None of us know why he so turned against Ingeburga. He married her and they say seemed content enough and then the next morning he was pale and trembling – so I heard – and declared he would have no more of her.’

A faint twinge of fear came to her then. He had liked his bride before the mysterious happenings in the bedchamber. Louis liked her now but what if he should later feel towards her as his father did towards Ingeburga?

She had a momentary vision of herself being sent from convent to convent, castle to castle, without ever knowing in what way she had offended; and Louis taking another wife and her family appealing to the Pope and the Pope’s saying: ‘I will put the Interdict on your kingdom until you take back Blanche.’

That was folly. Louis liked her. She liked Louis. She did not know how she would come through the bedchamber ordeal, but when it came she would exert all her powers to make it a success. She was relieved that she had time to find out something about it. In the meantime she rode on through a France which resentfully suffered under the Pope’s Interdict.

At last they crossed the Seine and came to the Isle of the Cité which Caesar had called Lutetia – the City of Mud – because he declared there was more mud to be found there than in any city he had known.

Louis grew voluble as he regarded the city. It was clear that he loved it and greatly admired his father.

‘My father has done much for Paris,’ he said. ‘It has changed more in the years of his reign than it did in centuries. He told me once that when he was at the window of his palace looking down on the town – which he loved to do – he saw some peasants riding below in their carts and as their wheels churned in the mud there rose such a fetid smell that my father was sickened. The idea came to him that if the streets were paved with stone there would be no mud, so he called together the burghers of the city and told them it would be his endeavour – and they should join him in this – to rid Paris of the name of Mud Town by paving the streets so that the mud would disappear and he needed their help in the matter. They saw how right he was, for there was much disease in the city and the people had begun to realise that it could be due to the obnoxious mud, the smell of which attracted flies and other vermin. There was one rich merchant – I have heard my father speak of him often – he was Gerard de Poissy and he contributed eleven hundred silver marks to the making of pavements, and now as you will see Paris is a most agreeable city.’