Виктория Холт - Passage to Pontefract

Gloucester asked leave to retire. He was fuming with rage which he could not keep to himself much longer.

So the King had already entered into negotiations to marry Isabella of Valois, daughter of the King of France.

There had been an air of great excitement in the Hotel de St Pol ever since the embassy had arrived from England; and there was none more aware of this than the little girl who was the cause of it.

Isabelle de Valois, although but eight years old, was very much aware of her beauty and importance. She was clever too and had always believed that as the daughter of the King of France a bright future lay ahead of her.

‘Many people will want to marry me,’ she told her maids who clustered around her, dressing her in soft silk gowns and curling her beautiful dark hair. ‘I wonder who will be the lucky one?’

They smiled at her; secretly they said: ‘The Lady Isabelle has a good conceit of herself. She is too pretty, that one. But she will have her own way, that is a certainty.’

If Isabelle had heard them, she would have agreed. Yes, certainly she had a good conceit of herself. Why not? Was she not very pretty? Were her little ways not quite fascinating? Was she not alert of mind? And in addition to all this she was the daughter of the King of France.

Life at the Hotel de St Pol circulated about her. Her mother, who was beautiful – Isabelle was very like her – doted on her child. So did her father. He and his Court were at the Louvre, but he often slipped over to the Hotel de St Pol to see his family. She looked forward to his visits, but there was a strangeness about him and sometimes he disappeared and was not at the Louvre and although she was told he was travelling about the country there was something in the looks of the people which made her wonder what he was really doing. Lately she had discovered that he suffered from some mysterious illness which attacked him now and then, so that he acted in a strange manner and had to be hidden away.

Her mother was gay and beautiful; she liked to dance and surround herself with admirers. Isabelle thought that her mother must have a very pleasant life … much better than her father who was always surrounded by dull ministers and had his bouts of illness to contend with.

Then came this exciting day when the English embassy arrived in Paris. Her attendants talked of nothing else. She listened avidly. It was sometimes better to listen than to ask questions for grown-up people always seemed to have so much they wanted to hold back and to question them made them cautious. So she listened.

‘They say the streets of Paris are crowded with them.’

‘There are at least five hundred.’

‘It is rare that we have the English in Paris!’

‘No, but it is where they would like to be.’

‘I doubt it not. Well, this should put a stop to this foolish war.’

‘Who knows? They are lodged near the Croix du Tiroir, I have heard.’

‘Yes, there and all the streets close by.’

‘It won’t be long now.’

No, thought Isabelle, it won’t be long. She was right. The very day after the conversation her father came to the Hotel de St Pol. Her mother was with him and they summoned their daughter to them.

Isabelle had been well schooled in correct behaviour, and with grace and charm she knelt before her father.

His eyes were soft at the sight of her. She was such a beautiful child and it was sad that one so young must leave her home.

He raised her up and seating himself drew her close to him. She studied him, fascinated as she always was by the strangeness in his eyes. Sometimes they looked wild as though he were seeing things which were invisible to others. Today however, they were less wild. He was looking at her and seeing her and, she guessed, thinking how beautiful she was.

‘Daughter,’ he said, ‘the time has come for you to leave us. Your mother and I have decided that it is best for you. We do not want to lose you, but …’

She nodded gravely. She looked at her mother who was said to be the most beautiful woman in France, and people said that she, Isabelle, closely resembled the Queen.

‘All Princesses leave their homes in time. Many of them then become great ladies.’

Her eyes widened. She would enjoy being a great lady she was sure.

‘The King of England wants to marry you.’

‘I shall wear a crown,’ she said, and she pictured herself with the golden circlet on her flowing dark hair. She would look very like her mother then.

‘It means you will go to England.’

‘When shall I go?’ she asked.

Her mother said: ‘That is a matter which we shall have to decide when we have consulted with the English. We shall miss you sorely, Isabelle.’

‘Yes, my lady, and I shall miss you.’

It was amazing, thought the King, how very calm the child was. One might have expected tears. But Isabelle was thinking of her golden crown rather than the parting with her parents.

Of course, she was very young.

‘The King of England has sent his ambassadors to us,’ said her father. ‘You understand, my child, that there has been great conflict between our countries.’

‘Yes,’ said Isabelle. ‘The King of England wants your crown.’

‘This King – the one who will be your husband – is different from his father and his grandfather. He is a lover of peace. When you are married to him that will be a reason for keeping the peace. He will not wish to fight against his own father.’

‘Shall you be his father then?’

‘His father-in-law as they call it.’

‘And I shall be the Queen.’

The King looked at his wife and said: ‘I think the English could be brought in now. She is very composed and will know how to behave.’

She watched with wonder as the men came in. They looked very splendid and one of them came forward and knelt before her.

‘Madam,’ he said, ‘if it please God, you shall be our lady and our Queen.’

There was a moment’s silence. Her parents were watching her.

Then she said: ‘Sir, if it please God and my lord father that I be Queen of England, I shall be pleased thereat, for I have been told that I shall then be a great lady. Pray rise that I may conduct you to my mother.’

Queen Isabeau was beaming with pride and pleasure. Her daughter was indeed a credit to her and her upbringing. The English could not fail to be impressed.

* * *

Richard was gratified. He was to have the little Isabelle as his bride and this delighted him. He had to have a wife and there was no one who could take Anne’s place in his heart; but it would please him to have this little girl – who was charming by all accounts – and to bring her up in the English tradition. In due course she would be his wife and perhaps by that time he would be prepared to live with her.

He had never been greatly attracted by women. It was true he had been devoted to Anne; but Anne had been a beloved companion, a helpmeet, one whom he could trust absolutely. That was different; and perhaps it explained why the idea of a child wife with whom there could be no physical relationship for some years appealed to him.

He sent word to his uncles, Lancaster and Gloucester. They were to accompany him with their wives to France. The foremost men in the country – among them Arundel – received the same summons.

The Countess of Arundel was thoughtful when she heard that she was to prepare to go to France with her husband for the King’s marriage.

‘Richard will have summoned all the most noble in the land,’ she said.

‘He will want to make a display,’ replied her husband. ‘You know what he is. He will expect us all to dazzle the French.’

‘Lancaster will be there, of course.’

‘My dear, Lancaster could not fail to be there. He is the leading noble, second only to the King.’

‘And,’ went on the Countess, ‘if Richard has summoned the wives as well, can that mean that woman will be there?’

‘Richard accepts her.’

‘Richard!’ spat out the Countess. ‘He is very foolish sometimes.’

‘Sometimes?’ replied Arundel with a laugh. ‘Often times, I would say.’

‘And never more so if he invites that woman to attend the ceremony.’

‘Lancaster married her.’

‘After she had been his mistress for how long was it … for twenty years?’

‘It shows his regard for her.’

‘And his lack of regard for the rest of us! I shall show her no friendship. In fact I shall refuse to speak to her.’

‘You will arouse Lancaster’s wrath if you do.’

‘Lancaster! What of Lancaster? Whatever he touches he fails in. He only settled the Castile question by marrying his daughter to the heir. I take little count of Lancaster.’

‘Perhaps I take more, my dear. He is a very powerful man.’

‘And are we not powerful? Were you not the victor of the sea battle off Margate which crippled the French and made England safe for the English? As for myself I am descended from royalty and not very far from the throne. I can tell you this, husband, I shall have nothing whatsoever to do with that woman.’

‘Lancaster is also near the throne, my dear. Let us remember that.’

‘I remember this. I will not have anything to do with that woman Lancaster has made his wife. Lancaster should be ashamed to bring her with him. Who is she, anyway? A low-born slut. Daughter of a knight, they say. A Flemish knight. Knighted on the battlefield. And when she was married to Hugh Swynford … some country hobbledehoy … she was Lancaster’s mistress and has a string of bastards to prove it.’