by Jean Plaidy
‘And I doubt not that he declared it was in looks only that there could be a likeness.’
‘I heard not that, my lady. But he sought to molest her and she fled. He did not pursue her. He did not seem to have the spirit for it.’
‘And she escaped him. I am glad.’
‘News of what happened may have gone ahead of him to the Abbey if this rumour be true, for his men declare that it was the peaches which were given him there which set him in violent pain. He was in agony all the way to Newark and when he reached the Bishop’s castle there he lay on his bed and died.’
They were silent for a while. Then the Marshal rose and said: ‘Now, Madam, I must see the King.’
‘He is but a child, my lord Earl.’
‘He is the King of England, my lady.’
‘Grant me this,’ she said. ‘Let me go to them. Let me break the news. I must prepare him. He is a serious boy and will quickly learn.’
William Marshal saw the point of this. He had never greatly admired the Queen. That she was an exceptionally attractive woman he was aware and old as he was and strict in his morals, he could not help but be stirred by her unquestionable appeal.
He had thought often in the early days of her marriage to John that she suited the King. Her sensuality was immediately apparent. She wore it like a gleaming ornament and every man must be aware of it. John had been completely ensnared on that first meeting in the woods when she had been only a child. Hugh de Lusignan had remained a bachelor because, it was said, after having been betrothed to her, he could take no other woman. That she was a schemer, he knew. He had once remarked to his wife – another Isabella – that the Queen deserved the King and the King the Queen, but he sometimes thought that perhaps he had been a little harsh on her. There could hardly be a woman in the world who deserved John.
He was uneasy now. The new King a minor and a forceful mother in the background. He could see trouble ahead.
So he hesitated.
Then he said: ‘The situation is fraught with danger.’
‘I know it well. The French are here. There are many traitors in this country who would set Louis on the throne. He has brought foreign soldiers on to our soil.’
‘Your husband the late King has done that too, my lady. His army consisted mainly of mercenaries from the Continent.’
She was silent for a while and then said: ‘I pray you, my lord Earl, give me a little time with my son, that I may tell him of this burden which has descended on him.’
‘Go to him, Madam,’ said William Marshal. ‘And then I will pay my homage to the King.’
Isabella went at once to the schoolroom where she knew she would find the three eldest children. Isabella aged two and Eleanor one, would be in the nursery.
The two boys and the young girl were seated at a long table drawing together, their heads bent over their work.
At the sight of their mother the children all rose, the little girl curtseying prettily and the boys bowing. The Queen always insisted on this homage; she often wondered whether they knew they were in captivity on their father’s orders. They were aware that he came of course. Henry the eldest dreaded his coming even more than the others, for Henry was a boy who wanted to live in peace; his brother Richard was quite the reverse. Sometimes Isabella had thought that it would have been more fitting if Richard had been the elder of the two.
She took Henry by the hand and led him to the window seat, the others following.
Richard said: ‘There are visitors at the castle, my lady.’
She frowned slightly. It was always Richard who spoke. Why did Henry hang back? The boy looked different in her eyes now. He was a king even though his subjects might decide not to accept him. She thought again: It ought to have been Richard. Fleetingly she remembered the day her second son had been born. It was at Winchester and young Henry was only fifteen months old at the time. There had been a long period before she had conceived her firstborn, and she had indeed wondered whether she was barren – for John had already proclaimed his fertility by scattering bastards throughout the country. And then the birth of Henry had been quickly followed by that of Richard; and Joan was not far behind.
She need not have concerned herself about being barren. Children were a blessing, particularly when they could wear crowns.
She drew Henry to her and he said: ‘It was not my father who came, my lady.’
There was a note of relief in his voice. She knew the children cowered in their bedchambers when their father came. Henry feared he ill-treated her. Nay little son, she wanted to explain. I can give him as good as he gives me.
And now he was dead, and the world had become an exciting place.
‘Grave news, my children,’ she said. ‘You saw the arrival of the Earl of Pembroke then?’
‘From the window,’ replied Richard. ‘And we saw you go down to greet him.’
‘He is an old, old, old man,’ said Joan.
‘Pray that you will be as hale and hearty when you reach his age, child,’ said the Queen sharply.
Joan appeared to be fascinated by the idea of growing as old as William Marshal.
Her mother said: ‘He has brought me news of your father.’
‘He is coming here?’ That was Henry. Concern showing in his sensitive face.
‘No. He will never come here again. He is dead.’
There was an awestruck silence. Isabella took Henry’s hand and kissed it. ‘And you, my son, are now King of England.’
Henry’s face puckered in horror. Richard cried out: ‘He’s Henry the Third, is he not, my lady, because our grandfather was Henry the Second.’
Henry was plucking at his mother’s sleeve. ‘Tell me, my mother, what must I do?’
‘Only what you are told,’ she answered quietly. ‘Now,’ she went on, ‘there is no need for concern. I shall be here to help you and the Earl of Pembroke is waiting now to kiss your hand and swear allegiance to you.’
Joan went to her brother and touched his arm with an expression of awe on her pretty face.
‘We must never make Henry angry any more, must we,’ she said. ‘If we did he could cut off our heads.’
Richard cried out: ‘I’d cut off his head first.’
‘That is no way to talk of your king,’ said Isabella severely. ‘And you should never have made Henry angry, Joan. That was wrong of you. Certainly now it will be well for you to remember that he is your king.’
She looked at her daughter with certain dislike. Her feelings had changed towards Joan ever since John, with typical devious cunning, had decided that it would be an excellent idea to betroth her to Hugh de Lusignan. Isabella’s eyes narrowed; she could hear that mocking voice. ‘He didn’t get the mother so perhaps the daughter will provide some consolation.’ ‘You must be crazy,’ she had answered. ‘Hugh is a grown man and Joan but a baby.’ ‘Let him wait,’ was the reply. ‘He’s a waiting man.’
Hugh – the man she was to have married and about whom she had often been regretful because she had not, to be the husband of her young daughter! John had known that she preserved some feelings for him, and that was why he had done his best to humiliate Hugh at every turn. But it was not easy to humiliate Hugh for he had that innate dignity which a man like John – royal though he might be by birth – could never aspire to. He had known that she would hate her daughter to go to Lusignan there to be brought up in the household of the man she had once loved. For she had loved Hugh, though in a self-seeking way, which was all she knew herself to be capable of. Hugh was however the one person for whom she might have made a little sacrifice. And John had betrothed her daughter to him! She could not help it, but the child irritated her, and to see her growing prettier every day gave her no comfort.
She turned from Joan to Henry.
‘Now, my son, I am going to take you to the Earl of Pembroke. Put aside those frightened looks. Are you a baby that you must be afraid of your crown? You should rejoice. Some have to wait years for what is yours in
your youth. Come, look like a king. Act like one.’
She gripped his shoulder firmly and led him from the room. Richard watched him enviously, Joan with wonder; and Henry was wishing that he had been fifteen months younger than Richard instead of being his senior.
It was a strange sight to see the noble Earl kneel before the pale-faced boy. Yet in those moments Henry seemed to acquire a new dignity; and as William Marshal looked at the slender boy a new hope came to him that perhaps his accession could put an end to the torment of civil war in the land and might even result in driving the foreign invader from the country.
The young King had retired to his chamber, for his mother said he was still her son and must do what she considered best for him.
Henry, rarely other than docile, obeyed her. He was glad to be by himself that he might contemplate the enormity of what had happened to him.
Meanwhile Isabella and William Marshal talked earnestly together.
‘The King must be crowned without delay,’ declared William. ‘We must let the people see that a new era is about to begin.’
‘With a king who is a minor!’
‘With a king, Madam, who will have good advisers.’
‘Yourself,’ she said with a hint of wryness.
‘I think that many would consider me fitted to the task. I have sent a message to Hubert de Burgh and I doubt not that ere long he will be with us.’
Isabella’s spirits rose. With two such men to support her son, his chances were good.
‘I do not think that the people of England want to hand over their country to the French,’ went on William Marshal.
‘It would seem that many of them were attempting to do just that,’ she retorted.
‘In desperation, my lady, seeing anything preferable to rule by John.’
She had no answer to that, for she knew that he spoke the truth.
‘But now that we have a new king – a boy who can be guided – it could mean a turning point in this dire state of affairs.’
‘I hope and pray so, my lord.’
‘A king becomes a king when he is crowned. We must therefore have no delay in bringing about the coronation.’
‘With what could he be crowned? John has lost the crown jewels in the Wash.’
‘It is not the crown itself which is so important as the ceremony of crowning and the people’s acceptance of their king.’
‘But a king needs a royal crown. And that of Edward the Confessor is in London. Is it true that London is overrun by the French?’
‘To the shame of the Englishmen – yes. But it shall not be for long. Let the people of England know that the tyrant is dead, that we have a new young and innocent king on the throne – with strong men to support him – and you will find that they rally to him. I doubt not that this time next year – if we act wisely – there will not be a Frenchman in the land.’
She could not but be convinced, for William Marshal was known throughout the country, not only for his bravery and loyalty but for his sound good sense.
‘My lord,’ said Isabella, ‘the Archbishop of Canterbury should perform the ceremony.’
‘Impossible. Stephen Langton is in Rome – whither he went to escape the persecution of your late husband.’
‘And the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of London …’
‘My lady, a coronation does not depend on a bishop nor yet an archbishop. We will find someone to perform the ceremony. I have already sent a messenger to the Bishop of Winchester. He, being the only one available, must crown the King.’
‘And the people …’
‘Ah, there is a greater problem. So heartily sickened were they by John’s tyrannies that they might stand out against his son. We have to woo the people, Madam, and that is our greatest task.’
Isabella shrugged her shoulders. ‘A hostile people, absent Archbishops of Canterbury and York, also a Bishop of London, no royal crown … and you would have a coronation.’
‘Yes, Madam, I would, for I believe it to be the only way to save England for the rightful King.’
His eyes were on a gold throat-collar which she was wearing. Noticing this she touched it wonderingly.’
‘Could I see the ornament, my lady.’
She unfastened it, gave it to him. He examined it and smiled.
‘This could be the crown of Henry the Third of England,’ he said. ‘Methinks it would fit well on that young head.’
Before the day was out Hubert de Burgh had arrived at the castle.
He was exhilarated by the turn of events. He was a loyal man; he had done his best to hold off the French; he had held Dover Castle against them until it had been no longer possible to do so. He had deplored the fact that foreigners were on English soil, but he rejoiced in the death of John.
Perhaps he, as well as any, was aware of the villainy of that twisted nature. He had seen England lose the greatness which rulers like the Conquerer, Henry I and Henry II had brought, but no country could prosper when its king was so enamoured of military glory that he was scarcely ever in the land he was supposed to govern as king. Richard – whom they called the Lion-hearted – had been thus; and when such rule was followed by that of a depraved, cruel, unscrupulous man – whose folly was even greater than all his faults – England was doomed.
And now, the tyrant was dead and the Marshal had sent for him. The King was a minor. Could it be that they could take England out of the wretched humiliation into which she had fallen? If William Marshal believed this was possible, Hubert de Burgh was ready to agree with him.
There had been encounters with John which Hubert would never forget. All men now were aware of his villainies but what had happened between him and Hubert thirteen years ago would be a hideous memory for ever. Hubert often thought of the boy who had loved and trusted him and whose life he had tried to save. Poor Arthur, so young, so innocent, whose only sin had been that he had a claim to the throne of England which might have been considered by some to be greater than that of John.
Hubert would always be haunted by those scenes which had been played out in the Castle of Falaise where he had been custodian of the King’s nephew, son of John’s brother Geoffrey, poor tragic Prince Arthur. A beautiful boy – arrogant perhaps because of the homage men had paid him, but how pitifully that arrogance had broken up and shown him to be but a frightened child whom Hubert had grown to love as Arthur had loved Hubert. Sometimes in his dreams Hubert heard those dreadful cries for help; he could feel a hand tugging at his robes. ‘Hubert, Hubert, save me Hubert. Not my eyes … Leave me my eyes, Hubert.’
And in his dreams he would smell the heat of the braziers and see the men, their faces hardened by brutalities, the irons ready in their hands.
And for Arthur he had risked his life – for Hubert knew his master’s rewards for those who disobeyed him; he had risked his own eyes for those of Arthur, dismissed the men, hidden the boy and pretended that he had died under the gruesome operation which was to have robbed him of his eyes and his manhood.
It had been as though fate were on his side for he could not have kept the boy hidden for ever. It was ironical that foolish John should have become afraid of the uprising of the men of Brittany and the constant whispers set in circulation by his enemies – the chief of them the King of France – that the King of England had murdered his nephew. So Hubert had confessed and been rewarded with the King’s approval, for John, whose evil genius had ever made him act first and consider the consequences afterwards, realised that Hubert had done him a favour by saving Arthur’s eyes. But it was not long before Arthur was taken from Hubert’s care and murdered in the Castle of Rouen. At least, thought Hubert, I saved his eyes and death is preferable to one who has known what the green fields are like and then is cruelly deprived of the blessing of seeing them.
But often he had found John’s eyes upon him and he had wondered whether the King was remembering that Hubert de Burgh was the man who had disobeyed his orders and refused to mutilate Arthur.
Hubert had been useful. Perhaps that was why he had outlived the King.
And now jubilation. John was dead and William Marshal was with the new King.
Could it be that a new era was coming for men such as himself?
He was in sight of the castle when he saw a solitary figure riding towards him. As the rider came nearer he realised with great pleasure that it was none other than William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, himself.
Their horses drew up face to face, and the two men raised their hands in greeting.
‘This is good news, William,’ said Hubert, and William acceded the point. ‘He died as he lived,’ went on Hubert, ‘violently. It was inevitable that death would overtake him. Do you think it was poison?’
‘Whenever a man or woman dies suddenly it is said to be due to poison.’
‘No man could have been more hated.’
‘He is gone,’ said William. ‘We need consider him no more. Long live King Henry III.’
‘And you think, my lord Earl, that the King will be Henry and not Louis?’
‘If we act wisely.’
‘Louis is in command of much of the country.’
‘Give them a king – a crowned king – and the people will rise against the foreigner. Within a few months we’ll have the French out of the country. None could know better than you, Hubert, how difficult it is to invade a country which is protected by water.’
‘Louis is safely landed here …’
‘But uneasily. Let the news spread through the land that John is dead, and that we have a new king.’
‘A boy of nine.’
‘With excellent counsellors, my dear Hubert.’
‘Yourself?’
‘And the Justiciar.’
‘I am to keep hold of that office?’
‘Assuredly. Hubert, we are going to make England great, and a land for the English.’
‘Pray God it will come to pass.’
‘Let us go into the castle. We must make plans. Henry is going to be crowned, even if it is only with his mother’s throat-collar.’
Before the month was out the young King was crowned. The ceremony was performed by Peter des Roches, the Bishop of Winchester, and the crown used for the purpose was that gold throat-collar which had belonged to his mother.