Isabella
Queen Without A Conscience
By Rachel Bard
Chapter 24
King John, with all his enemies pacified and subdued, returned to England at the time of the feast of St. Michael. He came with his wife Isabella, daughter of the count of Angoulême, whom he had married overseas with the consent of King Philip. He had put aside his first wife in the previous year on the basis of their consanguinity. The next day, John wore the crown at Westminster, and his wife was crowned queen.
Ralph, Abbot of Coggleshell, chronicler of the life of King John
First the sudden blare of the trumpets, piercing the quiet as John and I stepped into Westminster Abbey. Then the long slow walk down the nave of the vast church while the organ played a solemn hymn. John marched ahead of me, preceded by his chancellor, his treasurer and three earls bearing the swords of state. I was accompanied by a bishop on either side. I heard the choir somewhere behind me singing an anthem but I couldn't make out the Latin-something about "Let mercy and truth go before thy face." Tall candles in sconces fixed to the lofty pillars along the nave lit their immediate surroundings brilliantly, and I could see faces turned toward me, the gleam of scarlet cloaks and jeweled headgear. Beyond there were shadowy areas where I sensed rather than saw that the immense abbey was crammed with nobles, merchants and churchmen. All were standing and craning their necks, come to see what kind of queen their king had chosen. To see me! I glanced up once but the ceiling was quite invisible, it was so high and dark. I felt I might sink under the weight of my ermine-trimmed ceremonial robe, and I gripped the arm of one of the bishops. I wanted so desperately to appear grown-up and composed that I clenched my teeth to keep my chin from trembling.
When I reached the transept I ascended a few steps to the high altar where John was standing before the archbishop. This, John had told me, would be Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, primate of all England. I knelt before him; I was too petrified to look up and kept my eyes fixed on his red vestment only a few inches from my nose. It smelled musty like a garment recently unpacked from a chest.
The archbishop spoke at some length but I hardly heard, I was so nearly dizzy with excitement. Then he told me to rise, removed the gold circlet from my head, dipped his hand in a silver bowl held by an acolyte and anointed my head with the holy oil. A bishop held out a cushion and the archbishop took from it a ring and put it on my finger.
"Let this ring, worn by Matilda, the wife of your royal husband's illustrious great-great-grandfather, King William the First, be always a reminder to you of your duties to your king and your people."
I looked in awe at the gold circlet with its huge ruby that seemed to glow with an inner fire. What a fat finger Matilda must have had! The ring hung loosely but I held my hand carefully so it wouldn't slip off.
I liked the anthem that came next. The choir exhorted the English people to "rejoice in their Queen's virtuous prudence." As the strong voices, all in unison, delivered this message to the assembled cream of the English people, I composed my face in what I hoped was an expression of virtue and prudence. It was too bad I had my back to my audience.
Now the archbishop had been handed my crown and I saw it for the first time. It was of gleaming gold, its wide solid band topped by two fleurs-de-lis made of pearls embedded in delicate gold petals. It looked heavy. The archbishop held it high for the spectators to see, then placed it gently on my head. I was so transfixed that I hardly felt the weight. It was no more burden than one of my lace caps.
I looked up at John, standing beside me, but he was staring straight ahead. Then the archbishop's stern baritone doled out more momentous words:
"Now Isabella of Angoulême, we proclaim you, by the grace of God, henceforth to be Queen of England, Queen of Ireland, Duchess of Normandy, Countess of Maine, Countess of Anjou, Countess of Touraine, Countess of Poitou, Countess of Aquitaine and Countess of Gascogne."
So many titles! Was I really ready to be a queen, a duchess, a countess? The anxiety came back. My robe was too big, my ring was too big, and I was reminded of how Adèle and I used to borrow our mothers' gowns and play at being grown-up.
I came to myself to realize the archbishop had stopped speaking. The last words of his benediction hung in the silence.
"Now may our Lord bless His handmaid the Queen, who by His will is the partner of her royal husband. Rise, Queen Isabella."
John took my arm and helped me to my feet.We turned to face the lords and ladies who had come to pay us honor. I heard a murmur that I hoped was approval. Here at the high altar we were bathed in light from three tall gilded candelabra. All eyes were on me. I should acknowledge this attention, but how? These were not people I knew. What did they expect from me?
Hesitantly, I raised my right hand and smiled. I heard a shout from the rear, "God save our King and God save our new Queen!" John put his arm around me and squeezed me to him, a familiar gesture. Then he turned my face up to his and kissed me. This must have been what the crowd was waiting for, and a cheer rose that filled the great church with glad sound. When quiet returned, John spoke. His voice was no match for that of the archbishop, but where his words did not reach his gestures made his meaning plain.
"We thank you, loyal Englishmen. We rejoice with you in this welcome to our Queen. Now let us all celebrate together in Westminster Palace where the coronation banquet awaits."
So often a long-anticipated event isn't the turning point one had expected, but when I left Westminster Abbey with the crown of a queen of England on my head I became a different person, just as I had known I would. With every step, as John and I led the procession down the nave, I felt taller, older, more self-confident, more queenly. I could relax and bathe in the admiration. I could cast more than a fleeting glance at John and we could exchange a few words.
"You've enchanted them, Queen Isabella."
"And I've never seen you look more regal and resplendent, my lord King."
It was true. He'd flung his purple cloak back over his shoulders and now I could get a good look at his rich attire. He paced along like a walking black velvet jewel case, with sapphires, rubies and emeralds at wrist and belt, on his fingers and set into the heavy gold chain around his neck. For the first time I saw him wearing the crown of state, which he didn't take on his Continental travels but kept safely locked in the royal treasury in London. It was like mine but more massive and had three fleurs-de-lis where mine had two.
We marched out from the dim church into the blinding sunlight of the courtyard, followed by the archbishop, his bishops, the other church dignitaries, John's noble companions and the still-singing choir. The organist was playing now with noisy abandon. The triumphant chords poured out from the church, almost drowning the babble of the crowds who hadn't been invited in. Cheering and throwing caps in the air, they were massed before us where we stood on the church steps. It was a warm, crisp London afternoon. The River Thames below the palace caught the rays of the sun and its waters were transformed into a sheet of rippled gold.
While John and I stood there above it all, a magnificently clad footman came and removed our cloaks. My hand rested lightly on John's arm, not for support now, but to show that we were partners, as the archbishop had said. I looked up at him and we smiled at each other. I believed we envisioned the scene the same way:
Behold, Londoners, your King and Queen. Are they not a splendid sight? Admire the dark elegance of the King so richly jeweled and the delicate beauty of his golden-haired Queen. How fortunate you are in your monarchs!
John and I led the procession along a red-carpeted path to Westminster Palace. The crowds pressed close, tossing flowers and calling out with huzzahs and cries of "Long live the King and Queen." I basked in the sun and the adulation.
"Now, my little bride, do you still think it's better to be the Queen of England than the Countess of La Marche?"
I knew what he was really asking: Had I forsaken all thoughts and regrets about Hugh? To be sure, I'd not thought about Hugh for weeks, not since we'd outrun the Lusignans and come to safety at Le Mans. But would I ever completely forget him? That chapter in my life was over, but one can't erase memories.
I knew what John wanted to hear. My answer came from my heart.
"I do, John. You are my husband and I love you and I love being the Queen. I can't imagine any other life."
He stopped and took me in his arms. I turned up my face. We kissed.
The crowd cheered.
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