by Jean Plaidy
The little Queen had been so indulged by her husband that she believed that the whole world would be ready to grant her whims.
‘She has much to learn, that one,’ was Simonette’s comment to Marianne.
Isabella could not refuse to see the Prince of Wales and now she did not want to because her hatred for his rather – and that hatred extended to him – was so overpowering that she wanted to give vent to it.
She was dressed all in white for mourning and with her cheeks ablaze and her eyes alight with passion she made a very pretty picture and Harry’s heart leaped with pleasure at the sight of her. She was indeed the loveliest creature he had ever met. The daughter of the King of France, a Queen already! What luck that she was worthy of him.
He bowed in his best manner while she regarded him with haughty disdain.
‘Well met, my lady,’ he said. ‘It is long since I have known such pleasure as this meeting between us gives me.’
She remained silent. Wait till she knows, thought Harry. Pretty little Isabella, she is a prisoner here. She must have been wondering what will happen to her. I have come to rescue her. How she will love me when she knows.
‘I have a matter of the greatest importance to discuss with you,’ he went on.
She said coolly: ‘I do not know what you and I could have to discuss.’
‘You will, sweet lady. You will. Such good news I bring to you that I will withhold it no longer. Is there somewhere where we could be quiet that we may talk?’
‘State your business here and now, my lord,’ said Isabella. ‘You have a long journey back to Westminster.’
Her manner made Harry laugh. Of course, she still thought of herself as the Queen. She had forgotten that Richard was dead, that he had been dethroned. Still, she still bore the title of Queen and she was the daughter of the King of France, madman though he might be.
‘I shall go back with good news for my father, I doubt not. Come sit with me and I will tell you why I have come.’
With reluctance she allowed him to conduct her to the window seat.
Then he took her hand and said, ‘Isabella, my father has created me Prince of Wales. That means I am heir to the throne. You never reigned with Richard. How would you like to do so one day with me?’
She refused to believe the implication.
‘I do not understand, my lord,’ she said. ‘I know that the true King is dead and that there is a usurper on the throne. You mean that if the true King’s loyal subjects do not displace this usurper you will one day be King.’
‘There is no usurper. My father reigns by the will of the people because Richard proved himself unable to do so. My father is the descendant of Kings on both sides of his family. England will be happier under him than it ever was under Richard. My father, King Henry, has given his consent to our match and I come here to give you this good news.’
‘Our . . . match!’
‘Isabella, my beautiful little Isabella, I love you. I want you to be my wife . . . my Queen one day. My father . . .’
She had sprung to her feet; her hands were clenched at her sides; her eyes stony.
‘You . . . the son of my husband’s murderer . . . You dare to come here and say this to me!’
‘Isabella, you are mistaken. Richard was not murdered. He chose to die. He knew he was useless and he gave up the throne of his own free will. You were his bride . . . his child bride . . . you were never his wife in anything but name.’
‘Please do not speak of him. I do not wish to hear his name on your lips. Your father is a murderer, Harry of Monmouth. You have killed my husband. You make your crime worse by suggesting that I would marry you.’ Her voice had risen. ‘I hate you, Harry of Monmouth. I hate you. I hate you.’
‘Well,’ said Harry with a grin, ‘that need not prevent your marrying me.’
‘Go away. Never let me see you again.’
‘Now that is asking too much. A wife must see her husband now and then you know. How else are they going to get the heirs the country will expect of them?’
She tried to push past him but he held her fast.
‘You are like a wild cat,’ he said. ‘I must tame you.’
‘I shall send to my father,’ she cried. ‘I will tell him how you insult me. He will make war on you.’
‘Sweet Isabella, dear child. Kings do not make war because of naughty little daughters. Your father will welcome this match as mine does. Come Isabella, I am a fine fellow really, and I am ready to prove it to you.’
‘Let me alone. Go away. Never talk to me like this again.’
With that she gave him a push which sent him back to the window seat and she ran as fast as she could up the stairs to her bedchamber.
Harry looked after her ruefully. She would get used to the idea.
In her bedchamber Isabella found the Duchess of Ireland whom Richard had put in charge of her. The Duchess who had been Eleanor Holland before she married Roger de Mortimer had little cause to love the new self-styled King, for her son was Edmund de Mortimer whom many said was the true heir to the throne. The Duchess was still mourning the death of her husband who had died of his wounds in Ireland just before Richard had begun his campaign there.
Isabella turned the lock in the door and stood against it facing the Duchess.
‘What do you think he has dared say?’ she demanded. ‘This . . . this boy . . . who calls himself the Prince of Wales. He says his father wishes me to marry him.’
‘Oh, my child!’ There was a bitter twist to the Duchess’s lips. ‘He wastes little time, does he, this Henry of Lancaster.’
‘Eleanor, I refuse. I told him I hated him. I will never . . .never marry him. Oh why did they kill Richard? I love Richard . . . I’ll always love him. Being dead doesn’t make any difference.’
‘My dear lady, he is only a boy obeying his father.’
‘I hate him. He’s just as bad as his father. I hate them both. I won’t marry him. I’ll run away. I’ll go to my father. Eleanor, I want to send messengers to him at once . . .’
The Duchess stroked Isabella’s hair.
Poor child, she thought, she is just a counter in a game to them all . . . to be moved this way and that as pleases them best.
Whatever the young Queen felt about her unwelcome visitor he could not be churlishly refused hospitality. He was after all the son of the King and must be treated as such. Everyone at Havering knew that his or her present position was precarious and that Isabella would not remain long at Havering. It had been believed that she would most likely return to France but the arrival of the Prince of Wales presented a new and exciting possibility for it was quickly learned what his purpose was in coming.
When Isabella recovered from the shock of Harry’s proposal she was a little calmer and her attitude towards him was one of cold disdain.
At first this amused him. He would not have cared for an easy conquest; and the more aloof Isabella became the more he decided that he wanted to marry her.
He contrived to be with her as often as possible but as she was determined to avoid him he was not always successful.
In exasperation she tried to explain to him. ‘I will never marry you,’ she said. ‘I have been married once. I loved my husband, the true King, and I shall never love anyone else.’
Harry tried to reason with her. ‘That is nonsense,’ he insisted. ‘Richard was never your husband. He was like an indulgent father and you were his little pet . . . like one of his dogs.’
‘I hate you, Monmouth Harry,’ she murmured.
‘You were never a wife to him. You don’t know what it means to be a wife.’
‘And you would teach me what it means?’
His eyes glowed in anticipation. ‘That would I do right gladly.’
‘You never will.’
‘Come, give me your promise.’
‘I will promise you one thing: I will never be your wife.’
‘I am not one who easily gives up.’
‘
It takes two to make a bargain like this.’
‘Not always,’ he answered. ‘In fact royal marriages are arranged for us. My father is very willing. What if your father is too?’
She was cold with horror. She escaped from him as soon as she could and seeking out the Duchess she told her that she was sending a message to her father without delay. He must save her from the odious Harry and his murdering father.
The message was sent to France and at the same time an embassy arrived from Henry proposing the marriage of his son to Isabella. Charles the King of France was at the time suffering from one of his bouts of madness and his brother, Louis of Orléans, received the message. He certainly did not wish for the marriage. For one thing Henry was scarcely firm on the throne. There would be all kinds of murmurings against him, he was sure; moreover Louis had a son and it seemed to him that Isabella would be a very suitable bride for young Charles of Angoulême who was a year or so younger than she was.
Louis was pleased that Isabella had no wish for the match with Harry although of course if it had been expedient her feelings would not have been of paramount importance.
Louis’s reply to Henry was that the King was at the moment suffering from one of his bouts of illness and it was impossible for the King’s eldest daughter to be given away without consulting the King. Therefore no answer could be given at this time.
When Isabella heard she was grateful for a little respite; she believed that her father who had always been affectionate to her would listen to her pleas.
For some weeks after that Isabella lived quietly undisturbed by the visits of her would-be suitor. His father had decided that as Isabella felt so strongly about the marriage it was better to leave it for a while. In a few months it would be considered that she had reached a marriageable age and then it might be possible to perform the ceremony in spite of her objections. As yet it was too soon and Richard’s death too recent.
The King of France came out of his madness as he had done on other occasions and as soon as his mental aberrations ceased he was quite normal again. His first thought was for his daughter and when he heard what was proposed for her and knew of her abhorrence for the match he decided to send the Count d’Albret with an embassy to England to see Henry and Isabella and discover what should be done. Isabella had gone to England with a magnificent dowry. If she returned to France that must come back with her and the King, like Louis of Orléans, felt that Henry’s hold on the crown might not be very secure.
Isabella meanwhile had continued in some trepidation at Havering. Harry paid another visit during which she had remained cool towards him and avoided him as much as possible. He was, however, unabashed because he had thought that Isabella would relent in time, but he was beginning to realise that what he had at first regarded as an amusing game was a more serious matter which might end in defeat for him, for Isabella truly hated him, and was amazingly loyal to Richard. There was no doubt that she was a person of determination and unless the French were very eager for the match it might well not take place.
When the Count d’Albret arrived in England and presented himself, King Henry entertained him lavishly at Eltham. The Count said that he wished to see the young Queen to which Henry replied: ‘You will find her in a melancholy state. She mourns the late King. I should not wish you to speak of him when you see her.’
‘How can that be avoided, my lord?’
‘If she mentions him you must indeed answer, but I insist though that you must not introduce the subject, nor must you discuss his abdication and death with her. I would need your oath on this.’
The Count replied that he had not come here to talk of what was past. It was the future with which he was concerned, and he gave his promise.
The King then sent one of his guards to Isabella to extract the same promise from her. ‘The King is allowing the Count d’Albret to visit you,’ she was told, ‘on condition that you do not mention the late King to him.’
Isabella was aghast. ‘How can I not speak of something that is in my thoughts night and day?’
The guard replied: ‘Unless you give this promise the Count will not see you. He has given his promise to the King.’
Isabella was silent for a moment. She was a prisoner of the men she hated. There was nothing for her here – nothing but memories of her beloved Richard. She must go home. It was the only place where she could find peace of mind and escape from the odious attentions of Henry and his son.
She gave her promise.
The Count arrived at Havering where he was received by Isabella in the company of the Duchess of Ireland and a few other ladies.
Isabella plied the visitor with questions about her parents. Her father was well now, she was told; and so were Dauphin Louis and his two younger brothers and her sister.
‘I long to see them,’ said Isabella, her tone meaningful.
‘It seems, my lady, that you will do so ere long,’ was the answer.
It was an implication that the King was not eager to let his daughter marry into England.
The embassy returned to France but not until it had been made clear to Henry that there should be no marriage. The King of France wished to receive his daughter back at his Court. He would, of course, require that the jewels she had brought to England should be returned to France. She was young yet but at some time it might be necessary to provide another dowry for her. Charles wanted his daughter’s valuable jewellery.
Henry was not very pleased by the turn of events but he wanted no trouble with France. Isabella was young. It might be better for her to return to France and a marriage between her and Harry could well be arranged at a later date. But what of the jewellery which must go with her? Henry had distributed that between the members of his family. He could only promise to return it and informed the French that he had commanded his children to send it to him. He intimated to them that he had not told the French that the jewellery would be returned but only that he had commanded it to be; and they were not to hurry to send it to him. In the meantime certain other items were put together – silver drinking cups and dishes and tapestries which she had brought with her – and these could be sent in her baggage. Now there was no doubt that Isabella was going to return to France.
It was a beautiful May morning when she set out on her way to Dover accompanied by the Duchess of Ireland and the Countesses of Hereford and March, Lady Mowbray and a few others of slightly lower rank. Isabella looked with some emotion at the countryside which was at its most beautiful now, alive with the promise of summer. The fields were so green and the banks blue and white with germander speedwell and ground-ivy, stitchwort and meadow-sweet. As she passed woods she caught a glimpse of misty bluebells waving under trees and she thought of the first day she had set foot on this land. She remembered her trepidation, her homesickness . . . and then her first sight of Richard.
She must not go on thinking of him. But how could she help it, and she knew she would never be happy again.
Henry had determined that she should be treated with the utmost honour and she was met on the way by the Bishops of Durham and Hereford and the Earl of Somerset, who was the King’s half-brother, one of the Beaufort sons of John of Gaunt and Catherine Swynford.
Isabella was insensible of the honour. She was bemused. She did not want to stay in England, nor did she wish to go to France. All she wanted was to go back in time to the day when she had first come and seen Richard. I would protect him, she thought angrily and illogically. I would never have allowed him to be murdered. I should have been with him. But it was all such nonsense. He was dead and she was alone, floating in limbo not wanting to look forward, hating to stay where she was; all she could do was look back to the bliss she had shared with Richard.
At Hackney she was met by Prince Thomas, Harry’s brother, who was a year younger than he was and loathed by her because he was the son of his father. But at least he did not pester her as his brother did. She received him coldly.
The Lord Mayor a
nd the aldermen had come out of London to greet her and to guard her as she rode into the city. They did not forget that she was Queen and they were gracious to her and reminded her of the tumultuous welcome she had received when she had entered this city with Richard, but she despised them all. They had stood by and allowed Richard to be murdered; they had accepted the usurper and called him King.
She was lodged in the Tower of London and there she stayed for a few days before making the journey to the coast, and it was late June before she set out. In due course she reached Dover; and when she had crossed the Channel in the company of Sir Thomas Percy, a member of that family which had played such a big part in putting Henry on the throne, she was escorted to the little town of Leulinghen which was in between Boulogne and Calais and there she was ceremoniously handed over to the Count St Pol to be conducted to her father’s Court.
When she reached Paris her family awaited her. Her parents embraced her warmly while her brothers and little sister regarded her with frank appraisal.
Her father she noticed at once was different from the man she remembered. He looked haggard, which she supposed was natural after the illness he had undergone. But he was kind and calm and showed no sign of the mental stresses he must have suffered. Her mother too was different. Her beauty was breathtaking. Isabella had never seen anyone more beautiful. It was a glittering beauty, which made it impossible for people to stop looking at her. Her brothers and sister were just children, not so experienced of the world as she was. Had they been to England; had they been married and widowed and almost forced into hideous union with someone they hated! No, they were young, innocent, unmarked by time.
She soon discovered that there was something strange going on. She was aware of covert looks; of the manner in which her mother and the King’s brother, Louis of Orléans, looked at each other. She was aware of many watching eyes; and it soon became clear to her that an adulterous intrigue was going on between her mother and her uncle.
