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.’