by Jean Plaidy
But his habits did mean that he was regarded with awe, and Henry, who had a greater respect for the Church than any of his predecessors since Edward the Confessor, would not have dreamed of treating him with anything but the utmost respect.
Thus when he called a meeting Henry responded with alacrity.
‘My lord,’ said Edmund, ‘there is much anxiety in the country. Hubert de Burgh has fled and is in the company of the enemies of the Bishop of Winchester, Richard Siward and Gilbert Basset. They are laying waste to the Bishop’s lands and have saved Hubert de Burgh from his evil intentions. Twice he and his followers have violated the laws of the Church, yet he remains in your favour.’
‘My lord Archbishop,’ protested Henry, ‘the violating of sanctuary was not done at my command.’
‘You ordered the people of London to go to Merton,’ said the Archbishop sternly.
Henry quailed. Saints were uncomfortable people, for no matter how they were threatened they showed no fear. How could you threaten a man who tortured himself and cared nothing for the comforts of living?
‘I ordered them not to afterwards.’
‘That is true. When the folly was pointed out to you by the Earl of Chester you realised what you had done. But the same fault was committed once more. My lord King, if you do not dismiss the Bishop of Winchester and Peter de Rievaulx and their foreign adherents I shall have no recourse but to excommunicate you.’
Henry turned pale at the prospect.
‘My lord Archbishop,’ he stammered. ‘I … I will indeed do as you say, but …’
‘Then that is well. There should be no delay. You do well, my lord, to remember what happened to your father.’
‘Yes,’ said Henry, ‘I know full well.’
‘Never forget it. It should be a lesson to you and all kings that follow. Kings govern through justice remembering the good of their people and their allegiance to God.’
‘I know it well,’ said Henry. ‘I shall dismiss the Bishop and those who are with him.’
‘You should recall Hubert de Burgh and make your peace with him.’
‘That I will do, my lord Archbishop.’
When Henry was alone he trembled with fear to think of what might have happened if the Archbishop had brought about his excommunication.
In a short time Hubert came back into power. He had aged considerably; and he had grown wiser too in as much as he would never be at ease with the King again, for he would never trust him.
Chapter XV
THE PRINCESS AND THE EMPEROR
Isabella, wife of Richard of Cornwall, was expecting a child and her sister-in-law Eleanor, who had been widowed at the death of William Marshal, was with her.
Eleanor knew that all was not well with Isabella. Nor had it been for some time. Poor Isabella, she had been so happy during the first year of her marriage, even though she had talked now and then of the disparity between her age and that of her husband.
It had been so pleasant then at Berkhamsted where they had been living at the time. Eleanor had been comforted in an unexpected way. Perhaps it was because Isabella had like herself been married when but a child, had become a widow and then found this great happiness. Isabella had said: ‘A woman must marry first to please her family; then she should have a chance to please herself.’ It had been the case with Isabella. Would it happen in that way with Eleanor?
The two had become good friends. Richard was away from home a good deal, which was necessary, of course. He became more and more important and great homage was done to him as the King’s brother; and the less popular the King became, so Richard’s prestige rose. His quarrel with his brother and his friendship with the barons had made him one of the most important men in the country.
Isabella used to talk to Eleanor of his greatness and she admitted – in the utmost confidence of course and behind closed doors – that she believed he was more fitted to be the King than Henry was. Eleanor was inclined to agree with her.
But there was one thing Eleanor had noticed and which she did not mention to Isabella for a long time. It was a matter which – if Isabella wished to discuss it – she must raise herself.
Richard’s visits had become less frequent. When he did come to them he seemed less exuberant than before. Isabella was uneasy and not the same and she was becoming more and more preoccupied with her appearance in a frightened kind of way.
This was ridiculous for Isabella was a very beautiful woman.
Her hopes at this time were centred on the child she would bear, and Eleanor knew that she prayed for a son because she believed that the souring of her relationship with her husband was her inability to get a son.
Early that year Richard had come to Berkhamsted and stayed with them. It was clear that he had something on his mind. Isabella did not mention this but Eleanor was sure that she was aware of it.
And during that visit Richard, much to Eleanor’s surprise, had talked to her about his wife and tried to explain the cause of his uneasiness.
She had walked in the gardens with him, for he had requested her to do so and she believed afterwards that he had suggested this to prevent their being overheard.
‘Eleanor,’ he had said, ‘you are much with Isabella.’
‘Oh, yes, brother. We are finding pleasure in each other’s company.’
‘It is good for you to be here, for you are sisters twice over. Through your late husband and through me you have a kinship with Isabella. I doubt not you chatter together over your needlework and suchlike occupations which you share.’
Eleanor admitted that this was so. ‘Isabella says I am company for her during your absences which are frequent.’
‘Necessarily so,’ he said quickly.
‘Indeed we have not thought otherwise.’
‘We?’ he said. ‘You mean you and Isabella. Eleanor … what I wanted to say to you is this … Do you think Isabella would be very unhappy if … if … ?’
Eleanor’s heart began to beat very fast. She was no longer a child and she understood something of the relationship between these two. In the beginning it had been all romantic passion. That it was now something less, she was well aware – not on Isabella’s side but on Richard’s. She now began to suspect that the emphatic manner in which he had asserted that his absences were necessarily frequent meant that they were not and the reason that he did not come often was because he did not want to.
‘What are you telling me, Richard?’ she asked.
‘Well, sister, you will understand that my marriage has not turned out as I hoped.’
‘Isabella loves you dearly.’
‘You see, I need a son. I must have a son.’
‘You have had children …’
‘Neither of whom have survived – little John dying soon after he was born and our Isabella living exactly one year. It seems that we are doomed not to have children. Isabella is not a young woman.’
‘Oh, but she is not old, not beyond childbearing. You will have children yet, Richard.’
‘I am not sure. I am uneasy. You know Gilbert de Clare has a blood relationship with me.’
‘Oh, not a close one, Richard.’
‘In the fourth degree.’
‘But almost everyone one thinks of is connected with us in some degree.’
‘Such closeness is frowned on by God.’
‘Oh, I can’t think God would frown on your marriage with Isabella. She is such a good person.’
‘Eleanor, you talk like a child.’
‘What … are you going to do about it?’
‘If you will promise me not to tell Isabella … as yet … I will tell you.’
‘Yes, I promise.’
‘I have sent to the Pope asking him whether I should seek a divorce.’
‘Oh, Richard … it will break her heart.’
‘Better that than offend the Almighty. He is displeased. That much is obvious. Otherwise why should our children die?’
‘Many children die, Richar
d.’
‘But a man in my position must have sons.’
‘Many of them don’t.’
‘It is said it is because of some past misdeed. If one has sinned in some way and incurred the wrath of God the only thing to do is to rectify that sin.’
‘You have not told Isabella what you have done then?’
‘No. I will await the Pope’s verdict.’
‘And if he agrees to the divorce?’
‘You will comfort Isabella, Eleanor.’
She was too disturbed to speak. She wanted to be alone to think.
She went to her bedchamber and lay on her pallet. The beautiful romance – for which she had envied Isabella – was over. It was like the castle built on sand and the first rough winds had swept it away.
Isabella had been right. She was too old for him. He realised it now, although at the time he had been the one so sure that it was not so.
He was making excuses to be rid of her. When he said he had a fourth degree of kinship with her late husband he was really saying he was tired of her.
So much for love! So much for choosing one’s own husband the second time!
No one had thought it a very suitable match – except Richard and Isabella. He would leave her soon and marry someone else. Perhaps he already knew whom.
Poor sad Isabella! She would be in need of comfort.
Richard left the following day and in due course and before Richard received news from Rome, Isabella discovered that she pregnant.
When he heard the news, Richard came with all speed to Berkhamsted.
Eleanor was surprised at his pleasure in the news. He was kind and gentle to Isabella but he said at once that he could not stay long.
Eleanor had an opportunity of speaking to him alone and she asked him if he had heard from Rome.
He admitted that he had and that the Pope was against a divorce. He thought that he should continue in matrimony, but if Isabella failed to give him a son, added Richard, he would not let the matter rest there.
They were quite gay during that visit.
‘Oh, let her bear a son,’ prayed Eleanor.
She was glad that Isabella did not know how much depended on her getting a healthy boy who lived.
Isabella did notice that she had changed. ‘What is it, Eleanor?’ she said. ‘You are different.’
‘In what way?’ asked Eleanor.
‘You are less … soft … less innocent … perhaps. There are times when you are even somewhat cynical.’
‘I suppose I am growing up,’ said Eleanor.
‘One day they will be finding a husband for you.’
Eleanor’s face hardened. ‘I have no wish for marriage,’ she said firmly.
Isabella smiled. ‘Oh it is the happiest of states. There are disappointments, of course. I thought my heart was broken when my babies died. But now you see I am expecting again and all is well.’
Is it? thought Eleanor sadly.
On one of his journeys Edmund Rich, Archbishop of Canterbury, called at Berkhamsted.
Isabella was delighted to see him; she wanted to give him a banquet but that was not to the Archbishop’s taste; nor did he want the best chamber in the castle prepared for him.
He would be on his knees for most of the night, he told her, and perhaps he would sit on a stool where he would meditate for the rest of the time. So he needed no bedchamber, only a plain, quiet room.
Isabella asked him to bless her and her child and he readily did so, adding that it was the blessing of God she needed, not that of his servant.
The humility of the Archbishop was the wonder of all and Isabella told Eleanor that to have this saintly man under their roof at such a time was a sign of good fortune. She knew that her child would be a boy – and live.
The Archbishop indicated to Eleanor that he wished to see her and she went to the room in which he had slept. It was almost bare apart from the crucifix on the wall which had been put up by his servants.
She knelt with him and prayed with him and he asked after the health of Isabella.
Eleanor told him that it sometimes gave her cause for anxiety.
‘Tend her well,’ he said. ‘It is important that the child she bears shall live.’
Of course the Archbishop knew of Richard’s plea to the Pope, which would be passed on doubtless through him; and she knew that he was anxious for Isabella’s welfare because of this.
‘My lord Archbishop,’ she said, ‘I promise that I will care for her in every way.’
‘Stay with her until the child is born – and after. She will need you to rejoice with her … or to help her if aught should go wrong.’
‘I had intended to do that.’
He did not look at her; the palms of his hands were pressed together and he looked ahead at the crucifix. Her eyes were also on the crucifix and she stared at it unable to do anything else.
‘My child,’ he said, ‘it may be that ere long your brother the King will find a husband for you.’
She thought of Isabella and Richard and she cried out: ‘No.’
‘The married state is not to your liking?’
She shook her head.
‘You were a young wife once. Has that made you feel that you would not wish to enter into marriage again?’
‘Perhaps, my lord, what I have seen of marriage makes me feel I should be happier without it.’
There seemed to come to pass an understanding between them, for he knew that she was thinking of the romantic passion of Isabella and Richard and how quickly it had changed.
‘It may be, my daughter, that you would wish to take your vows of chastity.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Ah. Then in due course you must do so. You are sure it is what you wish?’
She looked at the crucifix, which seemed to glow with an inner fire, and it was as though some stranger spoke through her.
‘It is what I wish,’ she heard herself say.
The Archbishop took her hand.
‘You have given yourself to God,’ he said. ‘You have made your promise to me. You are not ready yet but the time will come. Now you must stay here with Isabella, care for her. She needs you and you can best serve God by looking after her at this time. But the time will come …’
‘Yes, my lord,’ she said.
Edmund Rich left that day. When he had gone she began to feel uneasy. There was something mesmeric about his presence. He had made her feel she wanted to shut herself away from the world, but now she was not so sure.
In November Isabella’s baby was born and, joy of joys, was a healthy boy.
The whole household rejoiced and everyone was smiling and happy. They called the baby Henry.
Richard came. He was wildly happy. His little son was healthy in every way. He cried lustily, smiled, was bright and happy even in the first months of his life.
Richard seemed to have fallen in love with Isabella all over again and everyone was happy.
Eleanor thought: To marry, to have children. What a happy state.
Margaret Biset was alarmed. It could not go on thus, she knew. The day would come when a husband was found for her charge and then there would be separation. Margaret could not imagine herself apart from the Princess Isabella. It had been a wrench when the others had gone but it seemed fate was on their side for the marriages arranged for Isabella – as for the King himself – always came to nothing.
Margaret at times felt illogically indignant. What did they think they were doing, bargaining for her darling – and then these fine gentlemen daring to change their minds.
But Isabella was now in her twentieth year. Unless they had decided not to marry her off at all, they would have to do something soon.
Therefore she was not entirely surprised when Isabella was sent for by her brother the King.
Isabella shared Margaret’s apprehension and it was with misgivings that she bowed to her brothers – first to Henry, then Richard – for Richard was at court at this time.
Henry was no longer so young, being twenty-seven years of age and still without a wife himself. Richard and Joan were the members of the family who were married – and Eleanor of course, who was now a widow.
Henry said: ‘Good news, sister. Let us pray that this time our hopes will not be foiled.’
Then she knew that the dreaded thing had happened and they had found a husband for her. She waited.
‘A very great match for you,’ said Henry. ‘The Emperor of the Germans, Frederic II, is asking your hand in marriage.’
‘The Emperor of Germany!’
Henry smiled. ‘You see, Richard, our sister is overcome by the honour. Well, it is a good match for you, Isabella, although doubtless the Germans will consider that their emperor has done very well in securing the sister of the King of England.’
‘He does indeed,’ said Richard. ‘I have had it from his own lips. He is eager that there shall not be any delay.’
Isabella felt dizzy. Of course he was in a hurry. He was an old man. It was nearly ten years ago that she had been betrothed to his son.
‘He will be kind to you,’ said Richard. ‘He is experienced in matrimony. You need have no fear, Isabella.’
‘You mean he has been married more than once.’
‘He has been twice widowed and so enchanted is he by the thought of another marriage that he will hear of no delay.’
‘When … am I to go?’
Richard came and laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘Ah, your eagerness matches that of your bridegroom. There will be certain matters to be arranged. The Emperor says that he will send the Archbishop of Cologne and the Duke of Brabant to escort you to Germany. They are already on their way.’
Henry said: ‘You do not look as pleased as I thought you would.’
‘It is a big undertaking to leave one’s native land.’
‘I know it well,’ said Henry. ‘But it is a fate of princesses. Would you wish to spend your life in the company of Margaret Biset?’
‘My lord,’ cried Isabella, ‘may I ask one favour? I could only go if Margaret came with me.’
The brothers exchanged glances and Richard nodded his head. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘You will take some attendants. If you choose to take your old nurse, why should she not be one of them?’ Henry was beginning to look annoyed, and knowing him well Isabella said quickly, ‘It is for the King to decide. Henry, I beseech you. I know you have a kind heart. To leave here without Margaret would break mine.’
