She was twelve years older than I and had been sent to England at the age of eight. I was not born at that time. I was overawed to meet her…the Queen of England—for I supposed she was still that even though the King was dead, and she a widow had returned to France.
She was very beautiful, I thought, and I was surprised and flattered when one of our attendants pointed out that there was a striking resemblance between us. But there was a sadness in her beauty, and the reason for this soon became clear to me, for she still mourned her late husband, although it was some years since he had died.
She and I were specially drawn to each other from the beginning and she talked to me frankly.
I learned something of the terrible trepidation a young girl can feel when she is sent to a new country to be the wife of a man whom she has never seen before.
Isabelle told me about her experiences.
“But as soon as I saw Richard,” she said, “I was afraid no longer. I went to a new life…I left all this.” She smiled and looked thoughtful. “It was not so happy here. There were troubles, even then. We traveled to Calais. Our father was with us. His illness had only just started then. He was very handsome in those days. He met the King of England who was to be my husband and they embraced. He liked Richard. Who could help that? Everybody loved him…except those wicked, cruel men who wanted to take his crown.”
She was overcome with emotion and I tried to soothe her.
I wanted to hear how happy she had been in England, how she had loved her wonderful husband who was so good and kind to her. How she had never known such kindness until she met Richard.
She wept a great deal and I would sit silently beside her, holding her hand, not knowing how else to comfort her. But I believed I did…just by sitting there and listening to her.
“I had been frightened, of course, but as soon as I saw him I knew it would be all right. I was glad, Katherine. Glad that I had come. Was that not wonderful?”
I agreed that it was. “Was he so handsome?”
“He was the most wonderful man I had ever seen…or ever shall.”
She was crying again for him.
“Why should that have happened to him?” she demanded. “What had he ever done to deserve that? I wish you could have known him, Katherine. He said he was surprised when he first met me. He had expected me to be pining for my home and that he would have to comfort me. I told him I liked being his wife and Queen of England better than being a Princess of France. He was very touched and we loved each other from that moment. I had to do my lessons when I reached England for I was only a little girl. Not much older than you are now, Katherine. But he used to come and sit with me and listen to me. He laughed a lot. He was never stern. And he bought me fine clothes and we used to ride together…and the people cheered us. I was so happy, Katherine.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes.”
“And then they killed him. They were not content with taking his crown.”
“Who?” I whispered.
“Henry Bolingbroke…he who calls himself Henry IV of England. He sits there on Richard’s throne…and the only way he could keep it was by murdering Richard. And they wanted me to marry … his son. It was to keep my dowry, of course. Oh, they are wicked.”
“His son?” I asked.
She nodded. “Henry of Monmouth.” Her lips curled in contempt.
It was the first time I had heard the name of the man who was to play such an important part in my own life. Afterward, looking back, I felt how strange it was that I did not have some premonition at the time. But I did not, and Henry was then just a name to me. He was the son of that wicked predator who had stolen the noble Richard’s throne and murdered him.
“Henry of Monmouth?” I repeated.
“He is still called that by some, because it was in Monmouth that he was born. He is odious. I hate him. How could they think I would marry him!”
“Never mind, sister,” I said. “You are home now. He cannot harm you here.”
“But they would marry me…to my cousin of Orléans.”
“But he is our mother’s …”
“No…no…not the Duke. Charles, his son. Oh, Katherine, I do not want to marry. I want Richard to be alive. I want to go back. I want to be Queen of England.”
“If you married…this Henry of Monmouth…he will be King one day.”
She shuddered. “Perhaps. Most of all…I want to be left alone. I want to spend the rest of my days thinking of Richard.”
“Poor, poor Isabelle.”
“If only those traitors had not succeeded. It is so unfair…so cruel. Richard was a good king. He thought he had got the better of his enemy, Bolingbroke, because he had sent him into exile. How pleased he was about that! He ought to have had his head…when he could have. But he did not, you see. He was too kind and Bolingbroke was his cousin…the son of John of Gaunt. He might have known that Henry would have his eyes on the throne. John of Gaunt would have liked to be King…and he passed on that ambition to his son.”
“But Richard came first.”
“Oh yes. Richard. Richard was the son of the greatest of King Edward’s sons—the Black Prince. He used to talk of his father. He had been a great hero to him. When he died, Richard had been about nine years old. Richard was wonderful. Oh, Katherine, it is a tragedy to be a king…and so young…with scheming men around one.”
“Like our father,” I said.
“Yes, our poor sad, sick father. But Richard was wise and clever. He quelled the peasants’ revolt when he was only fourteen. He had the makings of a great king. I cannot describe him to you, Katherine. He was so handsome. His wonderful golden hair…his nobility of countenance…and he was my husband. He was never impatient with my youth and innocence. He was always tender, calling me his Little Queen. People called me the Little Queen. It was because I was small and young. I thought it was going to be so wonderful…and it would have been, but for those wicked men.”
She was silent for a few moments and I prompted: “That Boling-broke …”
“We thought all would go well when he was sent into exile. He was the one who made the trouble. We all knew that. Richard used to talk to me sometimes…very seriously. He used to tell me how troubled he was. Then he would laugh and say: ‘What of it, eh, Little Queen? I want you to try this sweetmeat I have had them make for you. And look at this brocade. How would you like a dress made of that?’ I cannot explain to you, little sister.” And again she broke down in tears.
It grieved her to recall that happy past, but her only comfort was in talking of it.
“It was while he was in Ireland,” she said, “that Bolingbroke returned to England. Richard had taken a loving farewell of me. I had wept at his departure and he had said he would be back soon. He said: ‘And see how you are growing.’ He reminded me that soon I should be done with the schoolroom. I should be at his side…his true Queen. We would have children…heirs to the throne. It was a wonderful prospect before us. We only had to be patient for a little while.”
“And it did not come to pass,” I said sadly.
She shook her head. “The traitors. Richard had been so good to Bolingbroke’s children.”
“That was Henry of Monmouth. He was one of them.”
“Yes…he and his brothers. When their father was sent into exile he took charge of them. They never suffered for their father’s sins. And when Richard returned from Ireland…the country was in the hands of Bolingbroke, who called himself Henry IV, and Richard the King was their prisoner.”
“How can we know what will happen to any of us?” I said, speaking from experience.
“It was so sad…so heartbreaking, Katherine. They came to me at Windsor and said I was to leave at once. They took me to Wallingford, which was like a fortress. I stayed there…while Richard was their prisoner. His one thought was of me. Later…after he was dead…I was told that he found comfort in writing to me. He called me his mistress and his consort. He cursed the men who had separated us
. He was filled with grief because of it. He knew that he was hourly in danger of death and he wrote that he had lost his joy and solace…and by that he meant me. How I wished that letter could have reached me.”
“It would only have made you more sad,” I told her.
She shook her head. “If only they had let me be with him. I would have died with him most willingly.”
“Do not talk of death, sweet sister. You are young yet and there is much to live for.”
“With Orléans?”
“Will you marry him, then?”
“Do you think I shall be allowed not to? Our mother and our Uncle Orléans wish it…and that is enough. It will come to pass.”
“But you refused Henry of Monmouth.”
“That was different. I think that our mother and the Duke, who are the rulers of France when our poor father is in his sorry state, did not wish it. If they had …” she shrugged her shoulders “… it could well be that by now I should be the wife of that monster.”
I shivered with her.
She went on: “He lives riotously. He is the friend of the lowest and frequents the taverns of London, mixing with rogues and vagabonds…and lewd women. I could tell you tales of what I have heard. But I forget, sister, you are only a child. You would not understand.”
“I do understand,” I insisted. “I listen to them talking. That tells me much.”
She laughed at me and kissed me. “It does me good to talk to you. You may be a child, but you have the sympathetic ear. You seem to care.”
“I do care,” I assured her. “Tell me more. Tell me about Richard and the wicked Bolingbroke and Henry of Monmouth.”
“They were all against Richard. They welcomed Henry. They kept me a prisoner and they took me to Sunninghill.”
“I have heard of that,” I said. “Our father was so worried about you that it made his illness worse.”
“They told me lies. They said that Richard was well and free. Oh, why did the people turn against him? All he wanted was to live in peace. Why do people want kings who lead their countries into war? Why do the people have the power to depose a good, kind king? They cheated me. It was the Earls of Kent and Salisbury. They told me that they had driven the usurper from the throne and I was to place myself at the head of the men they had brought with them and march to join Richard, who was waiting for me. How can I tell you of the joy I felt then! I was dizzy with happiness. I was in a delirium of joy. I was advised to send out a proclamation that Henry was no King. There was only one King…Richard. We marched to Cirencester…and into the trap. Richard was not free…not waiting for me. They had found someone who looked like him and dressed him up as the King. I knew at once that he was not my Richard. They did not deceive me. And then I understood that I had been betrayed. Bolingbroke’s plan had been to capture me, and to show the people that I was the leader of a revolt. He could not execute me. He dared not because I was the daughter of the King of France. Besides, he wanted me for his son Henry. I did not see Richard. I never saw Richard again. They murdered him in Pontefract Castle.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
She nodded. “It was like something which had happened before, some said. There was a king once who asked his knights why they did not rid him of a turbulent priest; and the result was the murder of Thomas à Becket. They told me that Bolingbroke, one day, said to his knights: ‘Have I no faithful friend who will deliver me from one whose life will be my death, and whose death my life?’ I do not know if this be true or if it be rumor…but Richard died soon after. Some said it was Sir Piers of Exton who took a company of some eight persons and went to his prison and there slew him. I do not know if this be true. Others said Richard starved himself to death. He would not eat. His grief was too great because he had lost the crown, but I like to think that his greatest grief was for me. And he died and I was the widowed Queen.”
“My poor, poor sister.”
“I was thirteen years old. It did seem a great deal to have happened in a not very long life. They kept me at Havering Bower. Our father was too ill to demand my return and Henry said I should be treated with great honor. It was unfortunate, he said, that I had been given to Richard who was too old for me, but now there was another, younger prince eager for my hand. Again and again I refused young Henry and it was good luck for me that our mother and our Uncle Orléans did not want the match. We have no say in our destiny, Katherine. It happens to us all. When we have once done what they call our duty to the state, we should have the freedom to please ourselves.”
“Yes, we should,” I agreed.
“But I was a child still. There was a lot of haggling over my jewels. Henry would not give them up. Then there was this matter of the dowry. This went on for a long time while I was kept in semi-captivity. Two years passed and at length I was allowed to return home to France without any of the valuables about which they had been quarreling. I was fifteen years old. You were only a baby at that time.”
I nodded.
“I am surprised,” she went on, “that they have left me so long. They might have forced me into marriage by now. I know why, though. It is because they are unsure which marriage would be profitable to them. I live in fear that they may decide after all to send me to England.”
“As the wife of that…Henry?”
“Yes. I believe they would have done it if our Uncle Orléans had not wanted me for his son Charles.”
“Our mother will surely say that you must do as our uncle wants.”
“But there are times when our father is aware of what is going on. There are others, too. I know they hesitate. I was terrified when Henry Bolingbroke said that if I were given as wife to his son, he would give up his crown, and his son should be King of England and I the Queen.”
“Second time Queen of England!” I cried.
“There is more to life than crowns, sister. I would forgo the greatest crown on Earth if it meant I had to take that man with it.”
“Poor Isabelle! How frightened you must have been.”
“I was glad then that our mother is so enamored of our uncle. Of course, she was very much against the match with England because he was. I am sure that was the reason why, after a good deal of deliberation, it was refused. We even had an embassy from England to settle the matter. It was a time of great anxiety for me. Just imagine going to England a second time…with all the memories of the first. I don’t think I could have borne that.”
“But it did not happen,” I soothed.
“No. But did you hear what Orléans did? He sent a message to the King of England, saying it was the duty of noble knights to protect the rights of widows and virgins of virtuous life. He referred to Henry as the plunderer of my goods and the murderer of my husband; and he challenged him to a duel to settle the quarrel between them and decide the matter of the return of the dowry.”
“And what did Henry say to that?”
“It was an absurd challenge in the first place, and Orléans must have known that it would never have been accepted. Henry’s reply was cold and dignified. There was no example in history, he said, of a crowned king’s fighting a duel with a subject, however high that subject’s rank might be. As for the implication that he had been responsible for Richard’s death, God knew how or by whom his death was brought about, and if the Duke of Orléans implied that it had been brought about by his, Henry’s, order, the answer was that he had lied. I knew that was the end of my fears and that I should not be sent to England. It was a great relief, sister, I can assure you.”
“And Charles of Orléans?”
“I fear it may come to marriage with him. You see, I am of an age to be married…and that is the fate of all princesses.”
She was right. I did not see her for some time, but Odette, who came to see us frequently while our father was sleeping, told me that our sister Isabelle was now betrothed to her cousin, Charles of Orléans.
“He is a gentle boy,” said Odette. “Quite a poet. I pray they will be h
appy together.”
I prayed too. So did Marie and Michelle; and we listened eagerly to the stories we heard of the fêtes and banquets which took place at Compiègne where Isabelle, in the company of our mother, joined up with the Duke of Orléans and his son.
Isabelle was nearly twenty years old and Charles was younger.
It was five years since she had left England, but I knew, for she had made it very clear to me, that she still mourned Richard.
It was about this time that an event took place which shocked the entire country and changed the course of our lives.
It was a dull November evening. The Duke of Orléans had been with my mother, as he often was. It was eight o’clock and he was returning to his hôtel in a very merry mood, probably thinking that all was going well for him. His brother, the King, was never going to return to complete sanity and his relationship with Queen Isabeau gave him the position for which his ambitious heart had always craved; he was, in all but name, ruler of France.
It was not the sort of night when many people would be out unless it was necessary, and the streets were deserted. He had two squires with him, and one or two servants on foot, carrying torches. Suddenly some twenty armed men sprang upon him. The squires’ horses took fright and bolted, and, brandishing their swords, the armed men fell upon the Duke.
“Do you know that I am the Duke of Orléans?” he is reputed to have demanded.
“Yes,” was the reply. “You are the one we want.”
One of his men attempted to defend him but was immediately struck down. Another was badly wounded and crawled into a nearby shop.
Everyone was talking about the murder of the Duke of Orléans. We had heard so much of our Uncle Orléans. He was the most discussed man in the country. His liaison with my mother, his usurping of his brother’s rights…it had all been common knowledge and everyday gossip; so even the children could not be prevented from hearing of it.
Odette told us a little of what had happened. She was wise and I believe she thought it would be better for us to know something near the truth rather than form our opinions from the random gossip which would undoubtedly be circulating.
Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 07] Page 3