Hugh sighed. He might have said: Living in peace with fewer enemies around us! But he restrained himself. She looked so magnificent in her anger, and he knew that without her his life would be bleak indeed.

‘I shall never forgive Blanche and her saintly Louis for this,’ she muttered.

Hugh was not unduly perturbed because over the years she had often expressed her hatred of the Queen, and he knew that it had always been so intense that nothing could in fact make it more so than it was already.

There was worse to come.

Alphonse, third son of Blanche, who had been promised to Isabella, daughter of Hugh and Isabella, was married to Joan of Toulouse.

This was flouting Lusignan indeed. The treaty was forgotten. All these years when Isabella and Hugh had been faithful to the Court of France – even though Isabella’s own son was the King of England – had brought them nothing. This was insulting.

Isabella raged and ranted so violently that her family feared she would do herself an injury. She raved against Spanish Blanche and cried out that she would be even with her. Hugh was afraid that her invective might be reported and reach the Queen’s ears.

Isabella did not care. She had never been so angry in her life. The Queen of France and her son the King behaved as though the Lusignans were the humblest vassals, of no account.

‘She shall see,’ cried Isabella. ‘She shall see.’

She wanted Hugh to call together the nobles of the neighbourhood to march against the King, and when he pointed out the impossibility of this, she called him a coward.

He tried to reason with her but she would not listen. She was a queen, she cried. It was difficult for those of less nobility than herself to understand. It may be that her husband was prepared to stand by and see her insulted; but she thanked God that she had enough courage left to fight for her rights.

For days she refused to speak to Hugh. Her son implored her to forget her anger. She raved against them all. They had no thoughts for the insults heaped upon her by that Spanish woman. Did they not see that her sole reason was to discountenance the woman she hated?

‘I shall get even with her!’ she cried. ‘One of these days it will not be Blanche who sits and laughs at Isabella, Queen of England, Countess of Lusignan. I can promise you that.’

Her family did not want her to promise them anything but that she would forget her rancour.

When she heard that Alphonse had been created Count of Poitiers and had taken possession of Poitou her fury broke out into even greater violence.

She was now sure that Blanche’s motive was to humiliate her, for Poitou had been the territory of her family for years. Richard Coeur de Lion had been the Count and at this time Richard of Cornwall, her second son, deemed himself to own it.

‘A deliberate insult to my family,’ cried Isabella.

And she shut herself into her bedchamber plotting revenge.


* * *

Blanche had every reason to be proud of her son.

After the death of her husband she had worked solely to protect young Louis from his enemies and to keep him on the throne, but when Louis came of age she had been able to pass over power to him with every confidence.

She had reason to thank God for Louis. He was extremely handsome and distinguished looking with his mass of blond hair and fine fresh skin, but what was most gratifying was that inherent goodness. There was about Louis a growing saintliness, something wise and gentle. Not that he was by any means aloof from the worldly pleasure. He was elegant, took a pride in wearing magnificent garments when state occasions demanded that he should; and he excelled in games and was fond of amusements such as hunting. No, there was nothing of the recluse about Louis. He was greatly interested in the way people lived and could be very distressed at the conditions of the poor. He determined to do something about bettering their conditions, he told his mother; and he liked to go out into the forest very often after Mass and would take with him some of his friends, but he made it clear that anyone, even a passing traveller, might join the company. Then he would bid them talk – of any matter which interested them. He wanted to know their opinions and not only of those who frequented the court.

Blanche at first remonstrated with him. Was this a kingly act? she wondered. Was he not in some way besmirching his royalty by making himself so accessible?

He shook his head at this and replied: ‘It is the King’s duty to rule his people, and how can he do this wisely if he does not understand his people’s problems?’

Blanche withdrew her disapproval. She had long before known that this son of hers was a king who would have a great effect on his country.

He had a few of the weaknesses of young men – including a fondness for the opposite sex – and she decided that it would be a good idea to get him married early, and when she suggested this to him, he raised no objection.

It was not difficult to find a bride for the King of France; and when Blanche selected a princess who was said to have received the best of educations and was also noted for her beauty, Louis agreed to be married without delay.

So Marguerite of Provence became Queen of France, and the two young people took to each other, and when Louis had a wife he settled down at once to a sober domesticity. No more amatory adventures. No more extravagant clothes; he began to dress with the utmost simplicity; he became more reflective. He confessed to his mother that he had two great missions in life: to rule France well and at some time, when it was safe to leave the country, to go on a crusade to the Holy Land.

Blanche replied that ruling the country was his first duty and she believed that most kings found it a lifetime’s work.

He agreed but she could see the dreams in his eyes and she wondered whether he was not a little too serious. She wondered too whether he was growing away from her.

He was completely content in his marriage and Blanche, who had believed her son’s welfare was her ultimate desire, surprised herself at her growing resentment. She loved this son of hers too much, perhaps. Of course she wanted his happiness, but she could not bear to lose him. Yet, as his wife passed out of her girlhood he took her more and more into his confidence; and it seemed to Blanche that, even apart from this, they had little domestic secrets in which she had no share.

For the first time in her life Blanche felt alone. Her husband had loved her dearly and greatly respected her. She had helped him make decisions; she had ruled with him; and on his death she had ruled for Louis and then with him; and now this little girl from Provence was slowly but surely ousting her from her position. It was becoming Louis and his wife Marguerite – not Louis and Blanche his mother.

Because she was fundamentally wise, Blanche reasoned with herself. It was not an unusual situation. Mothers who had greatly loved their sons frequently resented their sons’ wives. The fact that, in their case, this meant a shifting of power made the situation even harder to bear.

Marguerite became pregnant and there was great rejoicing throughout the court. Blanche took charge and would not allow her to accompany the King on some of his journeys.

‘I shall be with him, my child,’ she told Marguerite. ‘It is for you to rest. You must take great care of yourself.’

Louis knew what was happening. He and Blanche had been so close that he understood her thoughts completely. He loved her dearly; he was appreciative of all she had done for him; but she would have to understand that his wife must come first with him. It was something to which he would have to bring her in time, but he would do it gently, for he had no wish to hurt Blanche, for whom he had such love and respect.

Moreover Marguerite was made very unhappy by Blanche’s treatment of her. Like most people she was decidedly in awe of Blanche and had tried hard in the beginning to win her approval. She saw that this was useless for the Queen Mother had no intention of allowing intrusion and could not bear to share her son with anyone.

So alarmed was Marguerite by her formidable mother-in-law that she warned her servants to let her know when Blanche was approaching so that she might have time to escape. Even Louis resorted to this subterfuge; and matters grew worse, for when Blanche was under the same roof, she made it difficult for the royal pair to be together at all.

Blanche was aware of her selfishness and hated herself for it, but she could not bear to relinquish her hold on her son. She realised that beyond anyone she loved this son; and never had she cared for any as she cared for him. To such an extent had her obsession grown that she could not endure it when his attention strayed from her; she wanted him all to herself; and gradually she had begun to look on his love for his wife as the biggest threat to her happiness.

Often she asked herself if she would have wanted him to have had an unhappy marriage. Of course she would not. What she wanted was for him to have married a nonentity, a silly pretty little wife who was good for nothing but bearing children. It had been a mistake to choose one of the most educated princesses in Europe.

In due course, Marguerite gave birth to a sickly child who died soon after and the Queen herself came near to death. Louis remained at her bedside, so much to his mother’s chagrin that she came to the sick room and told him how much it grieved her to see him stay there. ‘You can do no good, my son, by remaining here,’ she insisted.

Louis stood up and as he did so, Marguerite opened her eyes and looking full at Blanche said with unusual spirit: ‘Alas, neither dead nor alive will you let me see my lord.’

She had half raised herself in her bed and as she spoke these words she fell back, her face ashen pale, her eyes closed, and she appeared to have stopped breathing.

There was intense horror in that room. Louis fell on to his knees at the bedside and said quietly: ‘Marguerite, come back to me … I swear that we shall be together … if only you will come back.’

In those moments, when it seemed that the Queen of France was dead, Blanche suffered an overwhelming remorse.

She could not bear the sight of her weeping son kneeling by his wife’s bedside; she could not bear to think of what the future would be if Marguerite died.

She came to the bed. ‘Glory to God,’ she whispered, for Marguerite was still breathing.

‘She has fainted merely,’ she cried. ‘Go to the doctors, Louis. Bring them quickly. We will save her yet.’

And they did. During her convalescence it was Blanche who insisted that Louis should be with her. ‘Give me grandchildren,’ she told Marguerite, ‘and I shall be content.’

This was as near as she could get to an expression of contrition.

It was a bitter lesson she had learned for she knew that had Marguerite died Louis would never have been close to her again.

She accepted her own selfishness. She faced the truth; she had made him the centre of her life; but she saw now that her love had been selfish. His happiness, his victories were hers, and she must learn to rejoice in his marriage to a wife whom he loved.

Released from her determination to keep her son to herself, she was happier than she had been since his marriage. Marguerite quickly became pregnant again and accepted the new relationship between them with a sweetness which was characteristic of her.

There was so much evidence that Marguerite loved Louis truly, and as a good mother Blanche began to rejoice in their happiness together.

Rumours were coming to court constantly. There were always enemies, and she had never trusted the Lusignans. She talked of them with Louis and Marguerite.

‘Hugh would be a good and loyal vassal,’ she said, ‘but I would never trust Isabella of Angoulême. There is an evil woman.’

‘Hugh is too powerful to be lightly put aside,’ said Louis. ‘He could, if he had a mind to it, stir up great trouble.’

‘He has no mind of his own. That should be our concern. We have to deal with Isabella, and believe me, I know from the past, she is capable of any evil.’

Blanche had always had friends who travelled about the country and reported to her what was happening. Louis knew this and was interested to hear that in Lusignan Isabella made no secret of her determination to take revenge on the King of France and his mother. She greatly resented the desire of Princess Isabella to go into a convent and Alphonse’s marriage had even more infuriated her.