The Battle of the Queens

Chapter XII HUBERT IN DANGER

Richard, Earl of Cornwall, went straight to his brother at Westminster on his return from France. They embraced with real affection. Richard had proved himself an able general and he immediately told Henry that this was but a beginning. He had had some success and now had experience to know that everything would not be won back in one short campaign.

He studied his brother carefully. Henry was now nearly twenty years old – very conscious of his position and determined that everyone should be aware that he was the King. Richard could not help thinking that he himself would have been more suited to the task. Henry was too easily persuaded and if rumour did not lie he was completely in the hands of Hubert de Burgh, the Justiciar.

They talked of troubles in France and of the family. Joan was apparently content in Scotland with Alexander. There had been one or two matters of contention on the Border but thanks to the alliance nothing serious had developed.

‘There is no heir then?’ asked Richard.

‘None.’

‘There surely should be by now.’

‘She is young yet – barely seventeen. She complains a great deal about the Scottish climate. It is a pity she ever went to Lusignan. She seemed to pine for the warmth after that.’

‘A pity she did not stay there and marry Hugh.’

‘Oh, our mother will watch over our interests better than Joan ever could.’

‘I am not sure of that,’ said Richard. ‘She has another family now.’

‘Hugh’s. But that does not mean she will forget us. I am the King, remember.’

‘I heard that Hugh dotes on her and that it is she who makes the decisions.’

‘So much the better for we can rest assured that we have a good friend there. I am all eagerness to get over there and I shall do so as soon as we are ready.’

Richard felt mildly annoyed. Was his brother suggesting that he only had to cross to France and immediate victory would be his? If so, he would have a rude awakening.

‘And Isabella and Eleanor?’

‘Isabella is with the court. Eleanor is with her husband.’

‘Is William Marshal a good husband to our sister?’

‘I have heard no complaints. But I doubt she is a true wife to him yet. She is but twelve years old, you know.’

‘I suppose ere long a husband will be found for Isabella.’

‘Negotiations failed with the King of the Romans. I would prefer a marriage between her and the young King of France.’

‘A fine match. That would put an end to our wars. Why, if our sister’s son inherited Normandy, how could you fight him for it?’

‘Before our sister would be of an age to get a son I intend that the whole of Normandy shall come back to the English Crown.’

Richard looked sardonic. This brother of his had no idea of the difficulty of that task. Their father had done such disservice to the Crown of England that it was doubtful whether it would ever be put right.

It was no use trying to explain what it was like over there to Henry. He would have to find out for himself.

Richard would go off and see his sister Isabella and tell her about his wonderful deeds in battle. He would frighten old Margaret Biset out of her wits with his gruesome tales. She had always tried to protect her charge from the world. It was no good when poor Isabella would very shortly be shuffled off somewhere to be the wife of a man she scarcely knew.

It had happened to Joan and it had happened to Eleanor. It was only due to chance that young Isabella remained in the nursery with Biset brooding over her.

Hubert de Burgh, Justiciar of England, who had the complete confidence of the King, came to see him in some dismay. It was some months after Richard’s return from France and after a brief stay at court he had gone to his estates in Cornwall of which he was very proud, for the tin which was found in the mines there had made him rich.

Hubert de Burgh was not discontented with his lot either. He had succeeded in persuading the King to banish his great enemy Peter des Roches from the country and Peter had joined Frederic II, Emperor of Germany, on a crusade to the Holy Land, so he was well out of the way. Since then Hubert had consolidated his position and although Henry was striving to be more independent he could not govern without Hubert, so Hubert was becoming richer and more influential every day. He knew that resentment against him was rising among those who sought to take his place; but that he recognised as the inevitable result of power. He must accept it, while being wary of it. But with Peter des Roches so happily disposed of, he had begun to feel very confident.

Now he came to the King with a complaint against Richard of Cornwall and he had no doubt that his advice would be acted on.

Richard was becoming truculent and too sure of himself since he had led an army. Hubert did not doubt that it was in truth his enemy, the now defunct Earl of Salisbury, who had been the genius behind that campaign.

‘My lord,’ said Hubert, ‘I have to bring to your notice the conduct of your brother who has acted in a manner which I know will give you little pleasure. You may not remember that your father gave to Waleran le Tyes, the German, a manor for his services. Waleran fought well for your father, and although he was but a mercenary the King wished to reward him. Richard has now seized this manor.’

‘For what reason?’ demanded Henry.

‘He says it once belonged to the county of Cornwall and as Earl of that county it is in fact his.’

‘I will tell him to give it up without delay. Send for him, will you, Hubert?’

Hubert said he had already anticipated the King’s feeling in the matter and had sent a messenger to Richard commanding him, in the King’s name, to present himself at once.

Henry frowned slightly. Now and then people hinted to him that Hubert de Burgh took too much upon himself. One had actually said: ‘Does he think he is the King?’ But he did want Richard to come to him, so how could he complain?

Hubert was quick to notice the expression which passed across the King’s face and he said: ‘I am sure, my lord, that you will deal with this matter in the right way.’

‘I intend to,’ replied Henry.

‘I do not know, my lord, whether you consider your brother has perhaps become too much aware of his importance and feels that his relationship to yourself should give him especial privileges.’

‘I think this may be so.’

‘Ha, you will know how to deal with that,’ said Hubert.

When Richard arrived at court Hubert was with the King and when he asked if the King would wish him to leave, Henry had replied: ‘No, you may stay.’

Richard looked haughtily at his brother and demanded to know what all the bother was about.

‘This manor which you have taken from the German …’ began Henry.

‘It belongs to Cornwall,’ retorted Richard, ‘and therefore belongs to me.’

‘I command you to give it back,’ said Henry in his most regal manner.

Richard hesitated for a moment while he regarded his brother through half-closed eyes. Henry, thought Richard, not quite two years older than he was and imagining he had the right to command him! What a tragedy that he had not been the first-born. And what was Hubert de Burgh doing there? Was Henry afraid to move without his wet nurse?

Richard spoke coolly and calmly. ‘That I shall not do. The manor is mine by right.’

‘But I command it,’ cried Henry.

‘Then there is one thing for me to do. I shall take the matter before the King’s Court and the magnates whose judgment must be in my favour. Only if they decide against me would I consider giving it up.’

Henry saw this as a direct insult to that which he was eager to stress, his royal dignity.

He clenched his fists and approached his brother. He was beginning to betray a hot temper, Hubert noted, which could rise suddenly and result in somewhat impulsive actions.

‘You will either give up the castle or leave the country,’ he said.

‘So you would banish me! You give yourself airs, Henry.’

‘Airs. I the King.’

‘There was a charter, have you forgotten? Our father was forced to give his name to it. There is, as a consequence, some justice in this country. I shall go now to the barons and insist on justice and abide by the judgment of my peers.’

With that he turned and strode from the chamber.

Henry was too taken aback to speak for a moment. His rage choked him.

Hubert watched him and waited for him to speak. He was realising that Henry was not so easy to handle as he had once been, and he himself would have to tread carefully. Those sudden rages were alarming and if he could turn so on his brother for whom he was supposed to have some affection, how much more easily he could do so on his Justiciar.

At last Henry spoke. ‘Well, Hubert de Burgh, what think you of that?’

‘I think you have decided that the Earl of Cornwall must be dealt with in a manner he may not like.’

Henry was relieved. He had thought for a moment that Hubert might consider Richard had right on his side.

‘You think I was over harsh?’

‘I think you were just, which is what a king should be.’

Henry looked with affection on Hubert. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what now? What if he takes this matter to the court? What if it is decided that he has right on his side?’

‘In one matter he has no right on his side. He has behaved in a manner towards his King as no loyal subject should, and though he is your brother he is your subject. For that he deserves to be taught a lesson.’

‘What lesson?’

‘He should be seized and kept in confinement. Perhaps that will show any court that you will brook no insults.’

‘You are right, Hubert.’

‘Shall I send a troop of men out to take him?’

‘Pray do so. When he is my prisoner he will have time to cool his temper.’

The command was given, but by the time a guard was sent in pursuit, Richard had already escaped.

He was on his way to William Marshal, his sister Eleanor’s husband, and the man to whom those who thought the power of Hubert de Burgh was too great, were beginning to turn.

Richard rode with all speed to Marlborough, where he expected to find William Marshal. He was not sure what Henry’s reaction would be when he had time to recover himself. Henry was very unsure of himself – that much was certain, but when Hubert had told him what to do, he might take some revenge.

It was a good idea to go to Marshal because Richard knew that there was a growing resentment in the country – not so much against Henry whom they all regarded as little more than a boy, as against Hubert de Burgh. Hubert was far too rich and powerful – and getting more so; and it was obvious that in this matter of the Cornish manor Hubert was on the King’s side. Therefore he would be against Richard.

It was bad luck that when he arrived at the castle William Marshal was not there. But Eleanor, his sister, was and how delighted she was to see him.

She flung herself into his arms and clung to him. She was thirteen years old and a wife; but a virgin still, Richard guessed.

It was amusing to see her as the châtelaine, and he was mildly touched because she was so very young.

She told him that her husband would shortly be returning to the castle. Perhaps that very day. His sister, Isabella, and Isabella’s husband Gilbert de Clare, were staying with them, and though Gilbert was with William, Isabella was in the castle.

They would be delighted with his company.

Eleanor commanded that a bedchamber be prepared for him and he sat with her and talked while this was made ready.

He had recently been at court. How was their sister Isabella? And he must have been with Henry.

He told her that Isabella was well and that old Margaret Biset was the same as ever.

‘Have they found a husband for Isabella yet?’ she asked.

He told her they had not but the King was feeling his way on that matter.

‘I hope she finds a good husband and does not have to go overseas.’

‘We cannot all be lucky like you, little sister.’

‘You will be. Men always are. They do not have to go away – and they have more choice in the matter of marriage.’

‘But you have been fortunate, little sister?’

‘I did not see my husband for a long time. He was in Ireland, you know. Now he is home …’

She looked a little bewildered, but not, Richard was glad to note, altogether alarmed.

He wished William would come back. He had so much to say to him and if he did not return soon he would have to ride on and find some other whom he knew would be sympathetic.

But there was something solid about Marshal which came from the present one’s father, the first Earl of Pembroke, who had served Henry II, Richard and John and, before he had died some eight years before, had been responsible for helping young Henry to the throne. He had been recognised throughout the kingdom as a most honourable man and one in whom those who worked for the right could put their entire trust. This William, young Eleanor’s husband, the second Earl, had not yet been tried, but he stood reflected in the bright glow of righteousness which came from his father’s reputation.

As he talked to Eleanor he was aware of someone coming down the stairs. He turned and was looking at a woman of great beauty. She was not young but that did not take anything from her charm. Her thick dark hair hung in a plait and she wore a blue gown embroidered with white silk.

‘My brother has come, Isabella,’ said Eleanor.

Richard rose and going forward bowed low.

Isabella de Clare extended her hand which he took and kissed.

‘This is a happy meeting,’ he said.

She smiled and said: ‘My husband will be pleased that we were here when you came.’

‘Not more pleased than I,’ he said.

She came and sat at the table with Eleanor and Richard and he told them of his adventures in France and that he supposed he would go again one day.

As he talked he watched Isabella. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

A servant came into the hall and Eleanor rose, enjoying her role of châtelaine.

‘This means that your chamber is prepared for you, brother,’ she said. ‘Shall I take you there?’

‘Later,’ said Richard, and went on talking to Isabella.

A few hours after Richard had arrived at the castle, one of his servants rode up. The man had travelled at great speed.

‘I must see the Earl of Cornwall without delay,’ he cried and when he was taken in to Richard’s presence, he said: ‘I come to warn you, my lord. The Justiciar is looking for you. He has advised the King that you should be made a prisoner and kept in restraint, he says, until you are brought to reason.’

‘This man dares say that?’ cried Richard.

‘’Tis so, my lord. I have it straight from two who overheard it. And it is a fact that the Justiciar’s men are searching for you.’

‘You did well to come here.’

‘Oh, I knew, my lord, that you would come first to the Earl of Pembroke.’

‘Let us hope that others did not share your knowledge.’

‘’Twas what I feared, my lord, and ’tis why I have ridden here with all speed that you may be warned.’

‘I am warned and shall know what to do if any should dare try to take me. I have a good sword as well as good servants. You shall remain here until I have decided what shall be done.’

His rage was great. To make him a prisoner! The King’s brother. It was not to be endured.

William Marshal returned to the castle in the early evening. He was not entirely surprised to find his brother-in-law there.

He had heard a rumour that there had been a quarrel between the King and his brother and he had remarked to that other brother-in-law, Gilbert de Clare, that trouble between the King and the Earl of Cornwall was inevitable sooner or later.

Richard explained to him what had happened and said that he was quite prepared to have his case tried, which was surely the just thing to do. And for this Hubert de Burgh would put him in prison.

‘Hubert de Burgh is a man who has grown foolish through power,’ declared Marshal. ‘He is like a man who drinks too much of an intoxicating liquor. He develops grand notions of himself. It is time an end was put to his posturings.’

Richard was relieved. William Marshal was on his side. So was Gilbert de Clare, husband of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Richard was somewhat susceptible to beautiful women and he had a fancy for those who were a little mature. Richard’s quarrel had been with his brother but somehow it had turned into a condemnation of Hubert de Burgh. After all it was Hubert de Burgh’s idea that he should be kept in confinement.

‘There comes a time,’ said William Marshal, ‘when injustice must be faced and put a stop to. I think this may well be the moment to deal with Hubert de Burgh.’

De Clare pointed out that the King thought a great deal of him, had an affection for him and had more or less banished Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester, because of him.

‘All of which,’ said William Marshal, ‘has so puffed up the pride of our Justiciar that he has become intolerable. He decides when the Earl of Cornwall, who is as royal as the King, shall be made a prisoner.’

‘What do you suggest we do?’ asked Richard.

‘That we make at once for Chester. There we will meet the Earl who, I know, will be our very good friend. I will send for the other earls, who have had enough of this Justiciar of yours. Warwick, Hereford, Ferrers, Warenne and Gloucester.’

‘You can be sure of the support of these men?’ asked Richard incredulously.

William assured him that he could.

There is indeed a conspiracy against Hubert de Burgh, thought Richard. I wonder how loyal these men are to the King if they so hate one whom the King has raised up and admires so certainly?

They left for Chester and when they arrived, found that the five earls were waiting for them there.

The King was deeply disturbed. After his first bout of anger against Richard he began to think he might have acted a little rashly to have allowed Hubert to threaten his brother with imprisonment. After all, it had merely been a quarrel, and he and Richard had quarrelled often when they were young children.

While he was thinking thus he received an ultimatum from an unexpected quarter. He could not believe it when he read it. A large force was collecting at Stamford and this was composed of disgruntled earls and their followers. When he looked at the names of those earls he was alarmed: Marshal, Gloucester, Ferrers, Hereford, Warenne, Clare, Warwick and Chester. Some of the most formidable in the land. Richard had added his name to theirs.

So this was due to a foolish quarrel about a manor house. It need have been no more if Hubert had not absurdly threatened him with imprisonment.

The earls reminded the King that he had recently annulled the Charter of the Forest, an act which was extremely unpopular with the people. He would remember his father’s conflict with the barons and their fight against repression such as the cancelling of the Forest Charter. If the King did not want to see the country plunged into similar disruption, it would be well for him to meet the earls – without Hubert de Burgh in attendance – and then perhaps these unfortunate matters might be settled in a manner satisfactory to all sides. They considered Hubert de Burgh to be at the root of the trouble and would not meet the King if he were present. The alternative would be civil war.

Henry was in a quandary. While he consoled himself by blaming Hubert, at the same time he wondered how he would meet this challenge without him.

He made a decision. He would meet the earls; he would consider their demands; he would show them – and Hubert – that he was capable of taking command without the aid of his Justiciar.

They met at Northampton. It was a subdued Henry who faced these rebels; but he was glad to notice that Richard was a little shamefaced to find himself on the side of his enemies.

Marshal was spokesman. He pointed out that he was aware that Hubert de Burgh had led the King astray and the entire blame must rest on the Justiciar. Henry became stubborn about dismissing Hubert and the earls did not press that point, for Marshal had agreed that it would take a little time to dislodge him from a position in which he had become so firmly entrenched. Hubert could wait awhile. The point of this encounter was to bring home to the King the fact that the barons were as powerful now as they had been in the reign of his father; and the fact that, through the Justiciar, his brother was alienated from him and on the side of the barons, was a significant point which he must realise.

He must be watchful of the Justiciar, he must reissue the Forest Charter and if he wished to take the Cornish manor from Richard he must compensate him with something greater than that which he had taken.

Henry was overawed. Without Hubert he could not barter. He could see great trouble ahead with strife in England when his great desire was to regain the lost possessions in France.

He gave assurances and he would bestow on Richard his mother’s dower which included the lands in England which had been owned by the Counts of Brittany and Boulogne.

Richard had come well out of the affair and he was glad for he hated quarrelling with his brother.

He was fond of Henry and his only real grudge against him was that he had been born before him.

They embraced.

‘It is as it was before between us?’ asked Henry.

Richard agreed that it was.

‘It was Hubert de Burgh who caused the trouble,’ said Richard.

Henry said nothing. He knew he could not do without Hubert … just yet.

Christmas was spent at York. Joan, Queen of Scotland, was delighted as she always was to be with her family. It gave her great pleasure to be back in England; she confided to Isabella and old Margaret Biset that Scotland could never be home to her.

‘It always seems cold,’ she told them, ‘even in summer. The draughts are bad for my cough.’

There are enough of them here in York,’ grumbled Margaret, ‘and I am constantly scolding my lady here because she will not wrap enough against these icy winds.’

‘Oh, Margaret, you coddle me,’ said Isabella.

‘And look at her for it,’ cried Margaret proudly. ‘Is she not the picture of health?’

Joan agreed and Margaret thought: It is more than I can say for you, my lady of Scotland.

Margaret shivered. She did not believe in these royal marriages. She would have liked her little ones to have married noble lords of the court so that she could flit about between them and look after their babies when they came. She lived in terror that ere long they would find a husband for her remaining charge. She stoutly told herself that if they tried to marry her pet to some old man – king of a remote country – she would tell the King she would not have it. Merely bravado of course. How could she prevent it?

Joan asked if Isabella had seen their sister Eleanor recently.

‘Yes,’ said Isabella. ‘She came to court with the Earl of Pembroke.’

‘Is she happy?’

‘Poor mite,’ said Margaret Biset. ‘Little more than a baby … and to be a wife.’

‘It happens to us all, Meg,’ said Joan.

‘But my little Eleanor … she had no notion of it at all … and there she was married to that man. Now you, my lady, went off to foreign parts first and lived in that strange place.’

‘Yes,’ said Joan wistfully.

‘It gave you a little foretaste, you might say.’

‘Yes, Meg, you’re right.’

‘And your mother took your place.’ Margaret’s lips were tightly pressed together. And good riddance, she was thinking. ‘And a big family she’s providing I hear.’

‘Yes, our mother had a great many children,’ said Isabella. ‘I wonder how it feels to have two families.’

Margaret made a clucking sound which might have indicated contempt or indifference. She loved those she called her children the more because they had had such unnatural parents.

She was going to make a posset or two for Joan and see what she could do about that cough before the child went back to that unnatural place above the Border.

They were like children together – Isabella and Joan. Margaret was glad Joan had been able to come here for the festivities. It was company for Isabella and it gave Margaret a chance to look after Joan. It was a pity Eleanor couldn’t be with them, but there had been some trouble between Eleanor’s husband and the King and although the quarrel had been patched up, there was this difference which fermented underneath.

I hope we’re not going to have that sort of trouble, thought Margaret. Why couldn’t people live in peace and why did there have to be all this juggling with the young people to make this and that alliance?

Her girls had a right to be happy – as happy as she had always made them in her nurseries.

Now they were indeed like two children together discussing their gowns for the Christmas celebrations – Isabella forgetting the ever-present menace of a foreign marriage and Joan refusing to remember that soon she would have to go back to the bleakness of Scotland. Margaret listened happily to their chatter.

Joan would wear a wimple of gold tissue and Isabella one of embroidered silk. Perhaps they would let their hair hang loose or perhaps wear it caught up in a coil of gold thread. Joan as Queen would be more sumptuously clad than Isabella. She would wear a circlet of gold jewels about her head. She showed it to Isabella, who tried it on, and as she did so said: ‘I wonder if I shall be a queen too?’

Margaret watching was saddened, for she thought it very likely that before long her last remaining charge might be snatched from her.

There were the customary Christmas celebrations with dancing, singing and games which included roy-qui-ne-ment, in which a king who did not lie was chosen to ask questions and comment on the answers – whether they be true or false. This was a great favourite, for everyone sat in trepidation lest they should be called upon to answer truthfully a question when it might be an embarrassment to do so. What the penalty was if a lie was spoken, no one was quite sure; it was never referred to; but most of those who played the game believed it would be swift and terrible. The enjoyment of this game seemed to be the shivering terror in which the players sat throughout and the relief when it was over.

Then there were the usual jugglers and sword dancers, morris dancers with their bells, sticks and hobby horses; vaulting, tumbling and even wrestling.

Beside the King sat his brother Richard of Cornwall and Hubert de Burgh. There had been a certain coolness between the King and Hubert, and Hubert and Richard after the meeting with the earls, but that had seemed to have passed away and they talked amicably.

The King looked on at the performers with pleasure, obviously enjoying the manner in which everyone deferred to him.

The pleasures of kingship were a delight at times such as this when there was nothing to think of but entertainment and everyone looked to him to begin the dance, to give dismissal to the dancers, to choose the king or queen who does not lie.

He thought how much more powerful he would have been if his father had not plunged the country into civil war and all that rich land in France belonged to him. But it should not prove an insuperable task to get it back. A young king on the throne, guided by his mother it was said; and there had been trouble with the barons there as there had in England. Spies over there reported that Hugh de Lusignan, Guy de Thouars and the Count of Champagne had joined forces against the young King and his mother. Naturally Hugh would. Why, Hugh was his stepfather and his mother would be unnatural indeed if she sided with the French against her own son.

Why this delay then? He had thought the French possessions would be in his hands by now.

He turned to Hubert and said: ‘Next year I intend to take an army into France.’

Hubert looked dismayed. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘that would be a big undertaking.’

‘A big undertaking. What do you mean? Have not my ancestors taken armies into France ever since it came into our hands?’

‘It would need preparation …’

‘Well, we will prepare.’

Richard was listening intently. Having been in France he considered himself far more knowledgeable than the King or Hubert de Burgh.

‘The time is ripe,’ he said. ‘Louis is young … completely tied to his mother’s apron-strings. She is not popular with the French. She is a foreigner and the French do not fancy being ruled by a foreigner. And rule she does. Louis does everything she tells him to.’

‘There, you see,’ said Henry.

‘There could be dissension in the country,’ said Hubert, ‘but you will see that if the English came against them, they would join ranks and stand against us.’

‘Hubert is determined to kill the enterprise before it begins,’ said Richard.

‘Nay, my lord,’ protested Hubert, ‘I am as eager as you to bring back what is ours by right. I merely say that the time is not yet.’

Henry looked sullenly at his Justiciar and many noted it.

‘The time will be when I say,’ said Henry.

Hubert was silent. He did not want an argument at the table.

Later he contrived to be alone with the King and raised the matter of taking the war into France during the year which was about to begin.

‘I would beg of you to consider, my lord, the low state of the treasury, which is the main reason why an expedition to France would not be wise.’

‘I will raise the money,’ declared Henry.

‘More taxes! That would not please the people.’

‘I shall not wait on people’s pleasure.’

‘It would be wise to.’

‘Listen to me, Hubert. When I say I shall go to war I mean I shall do so.’

Hubert bowed his head.

No good purpose could be served by a quarrel. He would have to try to find other means of preventing the King from attempting to go to war until he was well equipped to do so.

This proved to be impossible. Henry had made up his mind.

He was going to take an expedition into France at Michaelmas and no matter how Hubert tried to dissuade him he would not listen.

Hubert was in despair. He asked himself again and again how they could equip an army without money; how could they even procure the ships to transport that army overseas. Henry was childish, completely unable to grasp practical details. When Hubert tried to explain and Henry showed signs of losing his temper, Hubert was uneasily reminded of the King’s father.

There was nothing he could do but stop pointing out the inadvisability of continuing with the preparations, yet they went on apace.

Henry would have to learn by his own bitter experience, Hubert realised, and it was going to be a costly matter.

In due course they were ready to sail for France and Henry at the head of a large army rode down to Portsmouth, Hubert beside him, and that hardened warrior, the Earl of Chester, was at the other side of the King.

Henry glowed with pride. This was how a king should be, at the head of his troops going into battle. He felt noble and brave. He wanted to impress his brother who had already been engaged in battle and who thought he had inherited some special quality from his uncle Coeur de Lion as well as his name.

But when they reached Portsmouth it was realised that there were not enough ships to take the soldiers across the sea, and Henry fell into a violent rage.

‘Why so? Why so?’ he kept shouting. ‘Where are the ships? Why is it that there are but half of what we need?’

‘My lord,’ began Hubert, ‘I warned you that we would need a great many ships. The cost of supplying them was so great that your treasury could not meet it.’

Henry turned white with rage. ‘So it is you who have done this. You would teach me a lesson, is that it? You would let me bring my troops here to find that there is not enough transport for them. You traitor … you old, sly traitor. I believe you are in the pay of the Queen of France. Is that it?’

There was a shocked silence among the beholders. Hubert was suddenly afraid. The Earl of Chester was thinking that the end of the Justiciar’s rule must be in sight.

‘You jest, my lord,’ began Hubert. ‘You never had a more loyal subject than I. And you will remember I persuaded you to wait until you were properly equipped …’

This was adding fuel to the fires of rage.

With a gesture worthy of his father, Henry drew his sword and would have run it through his Justiciar if the Earl of Chester had not seized Hubert and dragged him away.

‘My lord,’ said Chester, placing himself between Hubert and Henry, ‘you do not mean to kill the Justiciar.’

Henry glowered at them all and Chester thought: Is he going to be such another as his father?

Chester wanted to see Hubert’s decline but not in this manner. If he were not careful this Henry would soon be emulating that other of his name who had done penance at Canterbury for the murder of Thomas à Becket. They did not want Hubert to be made into a martyr.

‘He has deliberately done this,’ spluttered Henry.

‘Nay, my lord,’ said Chester. ‘He but warned you that the enterprise will be costly and so shall it be. We need more ships, but the way to get them is not by thrusting your sword through the heart of your Justiciar.’

Henry regarded Chester steadily. He was not sure what to do. His anger had cooled. He knew he had acted foolishly for Hubert had truly warned him that it would be too expensive to provide all the ships they needed; and he was really angry with him because he had been proved to be right.

Chester went on: ‘Should we not use what ships there are and then when we have transported all they can carry they can return for the rest?’

‘It would seem there is nothing else to be done,’ said Henry sullenly.

He did not look for Hubert. He had slipped away; he would tactfully keep out of the King’s sight for a while, and when they met the incident would appear to be forgotten.

But it would never be. There had been too many to witness it; and in the thoughts of many was the notion that this was the beginning of the end for Hubert de Burgh.

It was as Hubert had thought it would be. They met again in France and there the King behaved as though that scene had never occurred.

Hubert thought: The thought of war has gone to his head like too strong wine. He is a boy in truth. But I should act more warily in future.

Henry knew in his heart that he had behaved foolishly and in an ungrateful manner. If the Earl of Chester had not stopped him in time he would have killed Hubert. It was a most unwise thing to do – and he regretted it; but this made a rift between him and Hubert; he could not feel the same towards his Justiciar again, for he could not forgive him for having made him act so foolishly.

The many enemies of Hubert had exalted in that display of royal anger and ingratitude. This was the beginning of the end for Hubert de Burgh, they thought. Metaphorically they began to sharpen their knives.

Nor was it in Hubert’s favour that his warning had proved to be right.

The expedition to France was quickly proved to be a failure, and an extremely costly one.

The English returned, chastened with the knowledge that conquest was not going to be easy.

Hubert had been right. It had taken place too soon.

The King was fully aware that he had turned his back on Hubert’s wisdom, but his knowledge did not make him love Hubert the more.

Chapter XIII THE LOVE MATCH

Among those who lost their lives in that ill-conceived campaign was Gilbert, the seventh Earl of Clare and husband of William Marshal’s sister Isabella who had made such an impression on the King’s brother, Richard of Cornwall, when he had met her at Marlborough.

Isabella was in the castle near Gloucester when she heard the news of his death. Gilbert had been a good husband and she had been a worthy wife, bringing him rich estates and during the years of their marriage six children – three sons and three daughters.

Her father, the great William Marshal, who had been responsible for putting the young King on the throne and until his death in 1219 had, with Hubert de Burgh, Justiciar, governed the realm, had arranged her marriage with Gilbert when he had taken him prisoner at the battle of Lincoln, Gilbert at that time having been fighting on the side of the French. As a prisoner Gilbert could scarcely refuse to accept her father’s terms among which was the condition that he should marry his daughter.

Isabella had docilely submitted. Like all girls she had been brought up to believe that a marriage would be arranged for her and that she had no alternative but to accept the man whom her father had chosen for her.

So they were married and the marriage was tolerably happy and certainly fruitful. Amicia, the eldest child, was betrothed to Baldwin de Redvers although she was but ten years old; and good marriages would be arranged for Agnes and Isabel. Her eldest son Richard was eight at this time and he had two brothers, William and Gilbert.

They were with her when news of their father’s death was brought to her and solemnly she went to the schoolroom to tell them of it.

They listened quietly, but of course they had seen little of Gilbert and it was clear that his death did not touch them deeply. It was different when his body was brought to Tewkesbury and they attended the ceremony of his burial. There was genuine mourning among those attached to the Abbey for he had been one of its greatest benefactors.

After the ceremony they returned to the castle and Richard asked her what would happen to them now. She told him that she doubted not that they would go on as before. The arrangements made for them by their father would be carried out and Richard must work harder than he had been doing because now he was the head of the family.

It was not long before her brother came to see her.

He took her hand and kissed her warmly for there was affection between them.

‘Well, Isabella,’ he said, ‘how are the children and you yourself after this shock?’

‘We continue as before,’ she answered calmly.

‘My dear Isabella, you were always noted for your good sense. Even our father remarked on it.’

‘You can rest assured that I shall know how to manage my household.’

William saw the children at dinner and talked to them reassuringly, as though he had taken the place of their father, to which they responded politely. Afterwards he talked alone with Isabella and when he pointed out that she was still young and very handsome, she knew what was in his mind.

Their father had been one of the richest men in the kingdom and they had been well endowed; so what he was saying was that Isabella the widow was in a position to make a very good marriage.

‘Ah,’ said Isabella, ‘I knew you were coming to that. I have always thought that a woman who has married once for the sake of her family should the second time marry for the sake of her own.’

‘My dear sister, you are a woman of great fortune. You could be deceived by one who sought to share it.’

‘I am not a young girl, William. I believe I should recognise a fortune hunter.’

‘There are some clever rogues about. If one should take your fancy I could not give my approval to your marriage.’

‘William, my good brother, my husband is recently dead. Give me time to recover from that before you talk about replacing him.’

‘Assuredly,’ said William. ‘But even though we do not talk of the matter, it may rest in our minds.’

‘I confess I had given it no thought.’

‘Then it shall be laid aside … for a while. We will return to it later.’

‘Shall we say that if I should decide to marry again I shall return to it.’

William smiled affectionately. She had a strong will, this sister of his. Well, it was what one would expect of the daughter of William Marshal.

He had done his duty and departed, and after he had gone Isabella began to remember a day in Marlborough when Gilbert had been visiting her brother and there had come to the castle a bold young man, of kingly bearing, who had shown a marked interest in her.

She must be a fool to have cherished memories of that time. He was the King’s brother, and several years younger than she was. But he had admired her. He had shown his pleasure in speaking to her and sought to detain her in conversation and walk with her in the gardens even though at that time he had been deeply concerned with his quarrel with his brother.

What foolish thoughts! She, the mother of six children – and a young boy! For Richard, Earl of Cornwall, was little more.

It was most unseemly. But William had been right when he had implied that, however unsuitable, one could not help one’s thoughts.

The old year was passing. It was three months since the death of Gilbert. Then the New Year came and Isabella concerned herself with the arrangements to set up a memorial stone to her husband in Tewkesbury Cathedral.

It was in the spring when her brother sent a message to Tewkesbury that he was about to visit her with a friend. She went down to greet them and she was taken aback to see that the man who came with her brother was Richard of Cornwall.

He held her hand and looked into her face.

‘By my faith, lady,’ he said, ‘you are more beautiful than ever.’

William was quite clearly pleased and as she led them into the castle a wild thought occurred to her, but she dismissed it at once as impossible.

She would never forget that brief stay of the visitors to the castle. She went about her duties as châtelaine in a state of excitement for which she could only reproach herself. She was behaving like a foolish frivolous girl instead of a serious-minded widow.

She rode out with the men and Richard often contrived to be alone with her – and in this she was aware that her brother was his willing ally. Did William really think … He was ambitious, she knew, and he was married to Richard’s sister Eleanor.

Richard was courteous, charming and always admiring.

He told her of his life at Corfe under the stern Peter de Mauley and the equally severe Roger d’Acastre. He made her laugh by recounting the pranks he had played on his tutors. Then he told her of his adventures abroad as though he were trying to impress on her that although he was twenty-one the life he had lived had made him mature.

She felt that she should remind him of the difference in their ages and constantly she referred to her six children. His reply was that she must have some secret power because she had the looks of a young girl.

‘Perhaps you have not known any young girls,’ she answered.’ It would seem so since you confuse a matron such as I with them.’

He told her that he was far from inexperienced and it was due to this that he was able to appreciate her.

‘It surprises me,’ replied Isabella, ‘that being a man of such wide experience you have not yet married.’

‘That is easily answered. Nor has my brother married – because we are of a mind to make our own choice in this matter.’

This sounded significant, but she continued to refuse to believe it possible.

When they rode away she felt melancholy. Their brief stay had been one of the happiest times of her life, which was a sad confession for a widow to make. But what was the point of lying to herself? She had never been in love with Gilbert and if the choice had been left to her she would not have married him. How different he was from this royal prince.

And herself? A matron, yes, the mother of six children, but still handsome. Had she not been known as one of the most beautiful girls in the country before her marriage? She still was beautiful, and her good looks had become accentuated by an inner radiance which she heard came from being in love.

There! She had confessed it. She was in love with the King’s brother.

Richard was the most impatient of young men. He knew what he wanted and determined to get it.

He told Henry: ‘I am going to marry Marshal’s sister.’

‘What! Gilbert de Clare’s widow?’ cried Henry.

‘None other.’

‘You must be joking. She is an old woman.’

‘Indeed she is not.’

‘What? The mother of how many children is it?’

‘She is beautiful. You would never guess that she has borne six children. It is an added virtue. She will give me sons.’

Henry was thoughtful. He knew that if he raised objections Richard would thrust them aside. He had no desire to quarrel with him again.

‘Well?’ said Richard.

Henry shrugged his shoulders. Marriage was a sore point with him. It was time he had a wife, but he seemed cursed in this, because every time a suggestion was made for him, there was some reason why it was impracticable. Marriage negotiations had a way of petering out. A marriage with the daughter of Leopold of Austria, another with the daughter of the King of Bohemia; then marriage with Yolanda, daughter of Peter of Brittany … nothing came of them. At one time he had been ready to consider the daughter of the King of Scotland, but the Archbishop had pointed out to him that as the Justiciar had already married the elder daughter, the King could scarcely marry the younger. Hubert again! He was beginning to feel more and more resentful of him.

And now Richard wanted to marry this mother of six. Well, let him. Richard was a fool and would soon realise that. It would do him good; it would show him that he was not always so much wiser than his brother – which Henry was beginning to suspect he really thought.

‘It is your affair, brother,’ he said. ‘If you asked my advice, I would say it is folly but if you wish to act so, pray do so. She is rich and handsome you tell me, and Marshal’s sister, and he already has our sister for a wife. One thing, it should assure Marshal’s loyalty to us and that has at times been something I have been led to doubt.’

‘It will indeed,’ agreed Richard. ‘In fact, brother, it is an alliance which will do us much good.’

‘And you are looking for the good it will do you. Go then and marry your widow.’

Richard was pleased, although had Henry been against the match he would have made it all the same.

He went at once to William Marshal, who delightedly agreed to ride with him down to Tewkesbury.

Isabella was in a state of excitement as she welcomed them and Richard lost no time in coming to the point. William left them together and Richard immediately asked her to marry him.

It was an unusual situation. How many women in her position had ever received a proposal of marriage? It was the general rule that she should be told by her family that she was to make such and such a marriage and she would be obliged to fall in with their wishes. This was most romantic, but she wished she were younger, at least a little nearer to his age.

Richard told her that he had fallen in love with her the first time he had met her. Then of course she had had a husband and he could not declare himself, but now that obstacle had been removed there was no impediment to their happiness.

She attempted to protest. ‘I am so much older than you.’

‘You do not look so. Nor would I want a young and foolish girl. You are to my fancy – and what more could I ask than that?’

Still she hesitated. ‘I am the mother of six …’

‘Another of your virtues. You have been so generous to de Clare, you will be so to me. We will have a nursery full of boys.’

Still she shook her head. ‘Now perhaps you feel it will be good. But in a few years’ time the difference in our ages will be more apparent.’

He kissed her and immediately she was ready to throw aside all her objections. Even if in time he grew tired of her, why should she not be happy for a while?

They were married in April – a beautiful month, thought Isabella, with the trees full of buds and the joyous birdsong in the air.

Young Eleanor, her sister-in-law, Richard’s sister, was with her and the two were very happy together.

Eleanor was sixteen years old and certainly not in love with her elderly husband, but she was aware of the happiness which Isabella was experiencing and perhaps a little wistful. To choose one’s husband! That must be wonderful and Richard was such an attractive adoring lover that it was an experience to watch them together.

‘I wonder,’ said Eleanor, ‘if it will ever be like that for me.’ Then she realised that for it to be so, William would have to die, and she was ashamed to have spoken. But all her shame could not stop the thoughts in her mind. It was unfair to William who had been a kind husband and happy to be married to her – though largely she was knowledgeable enough to realise it was because she was the King’s sister.

Isabella prepared for her wedding, discussing with her young sister-in-law the clothes she would wear. The gold mesh snoods, the wimples of silk, the embroidered gowns, they were all a delight to see. Isabella was like a young girl and even her own children scarcely recognised their mother in this gay bride.

It was wonderful, thought Eleanor, that while the bride and groom were so happy in each other, everyone said what a good match it was; and nobody could have been more pleased than William.

The marriage was celebrated. William gave away the bride; and Richard and Isabella were left together while Eleanor with William rode back to Marlborough.

William was somewhat exhausted by the journey, and she was glad when it was all over. He went straight to his bed for he said he felt very tired.

Like the good wife she had been taught to be Eleanor looked to his comfort. She herself prepared the possets. She sat by his bed and he told her how delighted he was by this marriage, for it bound the families even closer together. Eleanor said yes indeed, and if Henry failed to have children, Richard would be King and the son he might have by Isabella would follow him to the throne.

William smiled at her. ‘That is so, little wife,’ he said. ‘My father would be pleased by this match.’

‘It is a rare match,’ said Eleanor, ‘for not only is everyone pleased but the husband and wife also.’

William looked at her a little sadly. She was such a dainty child – and beautiful too. All the daughters of Isabella of Angoulême had had some beauty – though none could compare with their mother. When he rose from his sick bed they must give themselves to the matter of having children.

She herself had always seemed to him such a child that his efforts in that direction had not been many. He had promised himself that there was time.

He was mistaken, for a few days later he died, and sixteen-year-old Eleanor was a widow.

Chapter XIV PERSECUTION

The relationship between Hubert de Burgh and the King had never regained its old footing since that unfortunate episode at Portsmouth. It continued to rankle with Henry who had displayed a violence in his nature which he had been ashamed of, and he could not forget that Hubert had proved him to be in the wrong when the expedition failed. Instead of being grateful to a wise man who had been frank with him, so unsure of himself was he that it irritated him to contemplate he had been less than wise himself; and he imagined that Hubert was remembering it too.

Hubert’s enemies were aware of what was happening and they sent a message to his old enemy Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester, to the effect that it was time he returned to England.

Meanwhile trouble flared up between the Archbishop of Canterbury and Hubert over the town and Castle of Tonbridge which Hubert had been holding for the young Earl of Gloucester, since he had been put into his charge. The Archbishop declared that they did not belong to the Earl but should be held by the See of Canterbury. The Archbishop, Richard Grant, took the matter to the King who gave the ruling that they were held through the crown and that the See of Canterbury had no claim on them.

Incensed at this verdict Richard Grant set out for Rome to set his case out before the Pope, and as the Archbishop was one of Hubert’s greatest enemies he decided to make the most of the occasion by bringing more complaints against the Justiciar.

Hubert de Burgh, he told the Pope, governed the country and tried to set the King above Rome. This was obvious because he had encroached upon the rights of Canterbury. Moreover he had married the daughter of the King of Scotland who was too closely related to his previous wife, Hadwisa, who had been the first wife of King John, and repudiated by him in order that he could marry Isabella of Angoulême. Hubert was a much married man, pointed out the Archbishop. He chose wives from that quarter which could bring him most good. His first had been Joan, daughter of the Earl of Devon and widow of William Brewer, his second Beatrice, daughter of William of Warenne and widow of Lord Bardulf; his third Hadwisa, divorced by John. So it would be seen that he had had a fondness for those who had been previously married providing they were also wealthy. Then he had turned his attention to the daughter of the King of Scotland, whose royalty doubtless made up for her lack of a previous husband. But His Holiness would see that this was a man who seized every opportunity. The closeness of the ties of Hadwisa and Margaret of Scotland therefore made his last marriage invalid.

The Pope listened to Richard and the King was obliged to send his proctors to Rome to defend his cause. The Pope, nevertheless, sided with the Archbishop which was upsetting for Henry. He disliked being at enmity with the Church.

Having made his point the Archbishop decided to return to England, there to engage in argument with the King and his Justiciar, but on the way passing through Italy he fell ill in Umbria where he had paused to rest for a night at the convent of the Friars Minor.

Within a few days of arriving at the convent he died.

He was buried in his Archbishop’s robes wearing jewels and after his burial thieves came in the night to rifle his tomb. It must have been a grisly scene, but unabashed the robbers proceeded to strip the corpse; but when they tried to remove the ring from his finger they could not do so although it appeared to be quite loose. Convinced that this was a sign of divine displeasure they took fright and ran away, leaving the opened tomb and the jewels they had taken from the dead man scattered around him.

The next day he was buried again and news was sent to King Henry of his death.

It was not long before people were saying that the Archbishop had been poisoned. And who was the most likely man to be responsible for that dark deed? Why, Hubert de Burgh, the Justiciar, of course – acknowledged to be his enemy. It mattered not that Hubert was in England and nowhere near the Archbishop when he died. Had he been near the Earl of Salisbury when he had died? No, but old Longsword had died soon after he had quarrelled with Hubert de Burgh and such a man would have his spies and servants everywhere.

Peter des Roches was entertaining the King at Winchester and never had Henry been so lavishly treated. The Bishop who, when Henry had been but a young boy, had been inclined to lecture him and to adopt a tutorial manner which secretly had made him turn away from Peter to Hubert, now behaved as though Henry were the fount of wisdom.

Henry enjoyed that.

It was Christmas time and the Bishop had determined that this should be a festivity which the King would never forget. The gifts he lavished on the King won the admiration of all. He had brought home jewels from the Holy Land and silks and wines from abroad, and he implored the King to take his choice of these.

Peter had changed. He had ceased to be the stern priest and was an amusing companion. Of course he had had many adventures which he described vividly and wittily so that Henry could believe himself on the spot. He had met the French King and his mother as he had passed through France and had succeeded in making a peace treaty between England and France which was to last for three years.

He had shown himself to be a good servant of the King. Moreover he had won the approval of the Pope and came to England with his blessing to show the King of England how he had been led astray by guilty advisers.

It was not difficult to realise to whom he referred. During those Christmas festivities he had the King’s ear, it was said. Into it he poured his venom and it was all about the misdeeds of Hubert the Justiciar.

His treasury was always empty, complained the King.

But of course it was, replied Peter. As fast as his subjects filled it with their taxes, Hubert directed it into his own coffers. Had the King noticed how all his friends and relations had wormed their way into the important positions in the land? Hubert had had the temerity to marry into the royal house of Scotland. Did the King know that he had seduced poor Margaret of Scotland – and in such a manner which some might call rape – so that the poor girl could do nothing but implore her brother to allow her to marry the man who had made it impossible for her to marry anyone else?

This was startling. The King had not known. But he did know that his treasury never seemed to contain what he thought it should.

He began to think that it would be well to be rid of Hubert. Whenever any controversy arose between them, he fancied he could see in Hubert’s eyes that he was recalling that disastrous expedition to France.

As soon as Christmas was over Henry dismissed Hubert from his office and told him that he would not have it back until he had produced an account of all the payments he had made from the treasury during his reign and that of his father.

This was an impossible task. Henry knew it and so did Hubert. It was tantamount to telling him that he was out of favour and there was no longer work for him to do in his old post.

Peter des Roches was delighted. He came to the King and congratulated him on his wisdom.

‘But, my lord,’ he said, ‘you will see at once that this is not enough. There are certain charges which all righteous men wish to see brought against Hubert de Burgh for it is only just that he should answer them.’

‘What charges?’ demanded Henry.

‘It was he who prevented an alliance between you and Margaret of Austria.’

Henry looked bewildered and Peter went on: ‘Your expedition to France would have been successful but for him. It was he who delayed preparations so that there were not enough ships to take your men to France. And later, so I hear, when you were there, he had friends in France, who saw that the expedition did not succeed because he had said it would not – and it suited his friends, the French enemies of England, that it should not. He is supported in this by the treasurer Ranulf Brito – a man chosen by him. Dismiss him from the post and appoint Peter of Rievaulx in his place.’

The King promised to consider this and quickly agreed to the replacement, turning his mind from the fact that Peter of Rievaulx was the nephew of Peter des Roches.

When Hubert heard of this he knew that the battle had begun in earnest. He was immediately called upon to relinquish Dover Castle and other properties and at the same time he was told that the wardship of the young Earl of Gloucester, whose estates had been the cause of the controversy with Archbishop Richard, was to pass to Peter des Roches.

The Londoners had never forgiven Hubert for the death of Constantine FitzAthulf and were ready to give their support to any move against him.

Peter des Roches came gleefully to the King and told him that now he himself had acknowledged the villainies of Hubert de Burgh others were joining with him and there was a demand throughout the country that he be brought to trial.

Henry was unsure but had no wish to appear so. He had only wanted to dismiss Hubert and had had no intention that matters should go so far. But it was difficult to hold back now that Peter des Roches had set the case against Hubert in motion, so he agreed that a date should be fixed when Hubert be brought to trial to answer charges against him.

Hubert could not believe what was happening. So often he had been aware of enemies but he had so far managed to get the better of them.

His wife was very anxious and he tried to soothe her.

‘Why,’ he told her, ‘I knew that as soon as the Bishop of Winchester returned to the country there would be trouble. It is he who is making an effort to destroy me.’

‘He is more powerful since his return,’ replied Margaret. ‘And now he is ever with the King.’

‘Henry will tire of him.’

‘I hope so, before it is too late.’

‘I should never have advised him against going to France,’ said Hubert sadly. ‘I should have flattered him and told him his judgment was wise. He blames me for the failure of that expedition. How can one deal with a man who is headstrong, acts unwisely and then blames those who tried to advise him against such conduct?’

‘He blames himself in secret, Hubert,’ said Margaret, ‘but refuses to see it. He is angry with you for knowing this.’

‘He has not yet grown up.’

‘It is time he did. He is of an age now to govern and how can he govern a kingdom if he cannot govern himself?’

‘What we have to consider is your position. Dismissed from your post, your lands and castles taken from you, these ridiculous charges … What will the outcome be?’

It was while they were talking that his friend Ranulf de Brito came to him in great haste to warn him that he was going to be brought to trial and preparations were going ahead to take him prisoner.

‘You know what the verdict will be,’ said Ranulf.

‘It is already decided that I am guilty,’ answered Hubert.

‘God knows what they will do. Hubert, they will brand you traitor.’

‘I cannot believe the King will allow it.’

‘The King sways this way and that. He is so anxious that none shall believe he is unsure of himself. I would not put my trust in the King.’

‘You must go from here,’ said Margaret. ‘You must not be here when they come to take you.’

‘Where?’ said Hubert. ‘I have begun to think that there is no way out.’

‘There must be a way out,’ said Margaret. ‘Think of the dangers you have faced throughout your life – and you have always defeated your enemies.’

‘Yes,’ said Hubert. He thought then of how he had defied King John over Prince Arthur. Then it would have been understandable if John had destroyed him; but he had come through that dangerous situation. But now he was fighting a different battle. He had done nothing but serve his King, and his enemies were calling for his blood while the young King who had stood amicably beside him had suddenly changed sides.

Margaret said: ‘You must not stay here. They will be here soon to take you.’

‘There is nowhere else to go, lest it was sanctuary.’

‘Sanctuary! That is the answer,’ cried Margaret. ‘You must go into sanctuary. None would dare harm you there and in time the King will come to his senses and see that the traitors are those who now call for your blood.’

‘It is the answer, my lord,’ agreed Ranulf. ‘You must leave at once. Any delay could be dangerous.’

‘I see that you are right,’ said Hubert.

‘Merton Priory is the nearest,’ added Margaret. ‘You must go there.’

Within half an hour Hubert was on his way.

When the King was told that Hubert was taking refuge in Merton Priory he was angry. He had heard then that he was about to be arrested and was either guilty or he did not trust the King’s justice – Henry preferred to believe that he was guilty.

‘He shall see that it is useless to attempt to hide from justice,’ he declared; and he pondered as to what he could best do.

The Londoners had hated Hubert since the riots when he had ordered their leader and his nephew to be hanged and had caused to be mutilated those who had been taken prisoner. The dead might have been forgotten, but there were so many men living minus a limb or their ears that the grievance was kept alive.

Henry sent out a proclamation.

Hubert de Burgh, traitor to the country, was hiding in Merton Priory. Londoners who had long been aware of his perfidy and had good reason to remember his villainy should take him from his refuge and bring him to the courts.

The Londoners were on the march to Merton.

There was one among them – a merchant of deeply religious leanings who raised his voice at this order and asked whether it was fitting to violate a sanctuary. The law of the Church was that any man – however wicked – could find refuge, if only temporarily, in a holy place. He knew that the King had ordered this but the King and the Church were not always in agreement and they must remember that the King was young and the Church was old.

‘What then?’ cried the crowd. ‘Tell us what then.’

The merchant was a respected man among them known for his pious ways and just dealing, and considering this the mob was halted in its madness to get at Hubert.

‘The Bishop of Winchester is lodged nearby,’ said the merchant. ‘We could ask him if it is fitting for us to take the Justiciar from a sanctuary when it is the command of the King.’

‘To the Bishop,’ cried the crowd; and instead of going to Merton they made their way to the Bishop’s lodging.

Peter des Roches was amazed to find them gathered at his gate.

He addressed them from a window.

‘What would you have of me, good people?’ he asked.

The merchant was the spokesman. ‘My lord Bishop, we have had a command from the King to go to Merton and take Hubert de Burgh that he may be brought to justice. Should we obey the King?’

‘Are you good subjects?’ replied Peter. ‘If you are you know full well that you should obey your King.’

‘My lord Bishop, he is in holy sanctuary.’

Peter des Roches hesitated. The merchant was a moderate man, that much was certain. Not so those who gathered about him. There was the blood lust in their eyes. They hated Hubert. They were bent on revenge. They blamed Hubert for the hanging of Constantine and the mutilation of so many of the citizens and they wanted a scapegoat. Hubert was known to be severe because he believed that it was the only way to keep law and order in the country.

The fate of Hubert, as he saw it, could rest on the next few seconds. If he came to court, he might well prove himself guiltless. After all he had governed the country well. Peter des Roches knew that. But if this mob got at him, he would never have a chance to do anything. In their present mood they would tear him apart.

‘We would ask your guidance, as a man of Holy Church,’ went on the merchant.

Peter made his decision. This was an easy way of getting rid of Hubert – once and for all.

‘The King has given you an order. You must obey your King.’

There was a shout from the mob.

‘To Merton,’ they cried. ‘The blood of Hubert de Burgh.’

The Earl of Chester had seen the mob marching to the Bishop’s house and had heard their bloodthirsty shouts.

He had believed that the Bishop would advise them to disperse and was astonished when they came from his house shouting, ‘To Merton.’

He went at once to the King.

‘My lord,’ he said, ‘the mob is on the march.’

‘To Merton,’ replied Henry. ‘I have asked them to bring me Hubert de Burgh.’

‘Bring him to you! They will murder him first.’

Henry did not answer and Chester went on: ‘My lord, it is dangerous to rouse the mob. They will murder Hubert … horribly, doubtless. I have seen these men. It is a fearful sight to see a mob on the march. I beg of you to disband the mob while there is still time. It is not good for the people to see that it is possible to get what they want by force. I implore you, my lord. Command them to disband while you still have the power to do so.’

Henry hesitated. He knew that Chester was an enemy of Hubert. That was why he could believe him. He was suddenly afraid. He knew what had happened when the barons had risen against his father. Retaining the crown depended to a large extent on the good will of the people. The terrible story of his father’s reign was a lesson to him.

‘What must I do?’

‘Ride out with me now. We can catch up with the mob. You must command it to disband.’

So the King rode out with Chester and when they had caught up with the marchers Henry spoke to them.

He had not meant them to go thus to Merton. They knew that Hubert de Burgh was resting in sanctuary. It was against the laws of the Church to take a man from such a refuge. He had spoken rashly and they were in no way to blame or would not be if they disbanded quietly and returned to their homes.

The merchant who had doubted the wisdom of breaking into sanctuary was clearly relieved. He spoke for the mob and said they would return to their homes. They knew that the King would do what was necessary and that Hubert de Burgh would be brought to justice in due course.

When Peter des Roches heard what had happened, he was furious. Not only was Hubert still alive but he had been exposed as giving advice which was contrary to the rules of the Church.

He presented himself to the King and told him how wisely he had acted. He had been confronted by the mob, he explained, and he had told them that they must at all costs obey the King, which was what he believed good subjects should do; and Henry, who realised how foolish he had been in giving the order in the first place, was quite relieved to accept this explanation.

‘What do you propose to do in this matter now, my lord?’ asked Peter.

‘It is a matter for consideration,’ murmured Henry.

‘I doubt not that you will decide that he should have a list of the charges against him and be told that he is to prepare his answers.’

‘That had been in my mind,’ said Henry, looking eagerly at the Bishop for more suggestions.

‘And perhaps a safe conduct from the sanctuary to some place of his choice.’ Then taking him would not present the same difficulties.

‘It is what I had been considering.’

The Bishop retired well pleased. It was gratifying to his self-esteem to be able to guide the King so effortlessly.

When Hubert received the safe conduct from the King he and Margaret went to Brentwood – a house which belonged to Hubert’s nephew the Bishop of Norwich. He could rely on the help of the Bishop who owed his present position to him. But feeling it unwise to stay in the house he took refuge in the Boisars Chapel close by that he might once more find sanctuary.

As soon as Henry heard where he was he sent guards to take him and bring him to London.

When Hubert realised the perfidy of the King who had promised him time to prepare his answers against the charges, he tried to defend himself, but was soon outnumbered.

His captors, however, were afraid he would escape and sent for the local blacksmith to make chains that he might be fettered. The blacksmith, however, knew who he was and he declared that he wanted nothing to do with the matter. If the troops wished to fetter the Bishop’s uncle they must find some other to do it. Hubert decided that if ever he came into power again he would remember that blacksmith. His captors were not to be beaten however; they would do without chains and would bind him with ropes.

So he was bound and set upon a horse and brought to the Tower of London, and there he was lodged to await his trial.

The Bishop of London, hearing that he had been taken from the Boisars Chapel where he was in sanctuary and brought in fetters to London, went to see the King and pointed out to him that it was against the law of the Church for a man to be taken from sanctuary. No matter what a man’s crime, he was immune.

The Bishop was a little stern, implying that the King had forgotten the law of sanctuary which was that any man, be he the most hardened criminal, was entitled to refuge under the roof of the Church. For forty days and forty nights he should be safe there and any who dared touch him defiled the Church. At the end of that time he was bound to leave the country and should be guaranteed freedom from molestation while he made his way to the coast.

This law, the Bishop pointed out, had been ignored in the case of Hubert de Burgh and the men who had dragged him from Boisars Chapel.

Henry was once more in a quandary. The Bishop of London was very stern and although he referred to the soldiers who had taken Hubert as the offenders, he meant of course the King. Henry, who liked to think of himself as a deeply religious man, hated the thought of conflict with the Church; so he immediately agreed that Hubert should be taken back to the chapel where he would be guarded by two sheriffs. His servants might be with him to provide his food and any comforts they could.

After that, he could leave England, according to the laws of sanctuary, or if he failed to do this he would go to prison as was fitting for one who had proved a traitor to his King and country.

Hubert decided that he would leave England for a short period during which time he would prove his innocence, but it was discovered that he had a large quantity of jewels and gold and when these were found his enemies declared that these were in fact the King’s property and here was the proof they needed that he had enriched himself at the King’s cost.

It was no use Hubert’s protesting that the goods had been honestly earned during a lifetime of service. His enemies, led by Peter des Roches, advised the King that Hubert deserved to die.

Henry agreed and it appeared that the end was in sight. But it was not so, for Henry’s conscience began to worry him. He remembered scenes from the past and how Hubert had been there in many a crisis and that when the French were overrunning the country at the time of his father’s death, it was Hubert with William Marshal who had arranged for his coronation and had made the people see that with two such men beside him, supporting him, it was possible to drive the French out of the country.

Peter des Roches came to him and he could not hide how exultant he was. Henry took a sudden dislike to him and began to ask himself why he had allowed himself to be led by him.

‘We have cornered the wolf,’ said Peter des Roches. ‘His days are numbered. Nothing can save him now.’

Was this a man of God, to rub his hands in glee, to lick his lips in anticipation because a man’s blood was to be shed?

Henry said: ‘I can save him.’

‘My lord, what mean you?’ cried the Bishop.

‘I mean,’ said Henry, ‘that I am unsure of what will happen to Hubert. I have always heard it said that from the time he was a very young man he served my uncle Richard and my father very well. I used to think he served me well too.’

‘My lord, he is a cunning man.’

It was the wrong approach. It was suggesting that Hubert’s cunning had deceived Henry because he was less wise.

‘I have decided what shall be done,’ he said, regarding the Bishop of Winchester with a certain coldness of expression. ‘I shall restore some of his castles and he shall be lodged at Devizes. I shall appoint certain lords to watch over him and his fetters shall be removed.’

Peter saw that it would be unwise to press for a favour he was determined to ask. That was that he should be appointed custodian of Devizes Castle; and if he were it would not be long before Hubert died of some vague sickness which perhaps gullible people might believe had been brought on by all he had suffered.

Life had become like a nightmare for the once powerful Justiciar. At least he had some faith in the King who swayed this way and that and could not seem to make up his mind.

Hubert understood. Henry was young; he was unsure; he was unable to form his own judgment and was so eager that none should guess that he changed his views according to the person who influenced him most at a given time.

He may grow up into a strong king, thought Hubert, but he doubted it. Perhaps Richard of Cornwall would have been the better one.

The fact that the King had released him and placed him here in this castle, showed that he was not listening completely to those who were determined to destroy him. There was a spark of honour in the King. If only he could get near enough to ignite it, he might win back Henry’s favour.

In the meantime he must lie low at Devizes and hope that would satisfy his enemies; and perhaps in due course the King would see him and he could talk him into reason.

He was distracted when one of his manservants – a loyal man whom he could trust – came to him in some agitation.

‘One of the servants of the Bishop of Winchester has come to the castle. He did not immediately tell us for what purpose, but a little good wine loosened his tongue. He has come in advance to make ready for his master. The Bishop of Winchester has prevailed upon the King to give him the custodianship of Devizes Castle.’

‘God help me,’ cried Hubert, ‘this is the end. You know his purpose.’

‘It is to murder you, my lord, I would say. We should retire once more into sanctuary.’

‘You are right, my good fellow.’

‘We have made ready. Two of us will come with you. We will take food and warm robes and there we shall be when the Bishop of Winchester arrives in Devizes.’

It was night when they made their escape from the castle, Hubert creeping out disguised as one of his servants.

They spent the night in the church but when those who had been set to guard him discovered Hubert’s disappearance they were so alarmed because they had let him escape that they decided they would rather face the wrath of God than that of the Bishop of Winchester, so they went to the church and brought Hubert and his servants back to the castle.

It was the old pattern. The Bishop of London this time protested at the violation of sanctuary and Hubert went back to the church.

Henry had now swayed back again and was listening to the Bishop of Winchester.

‘What can I do?’ cried Henry. ‘Whatever happens he slips through our fingers. He is now once more in sanctuary. There is nothing to be done but leave him there.’

‘There is something,’ said the Bishop. ‘If no food is allowed into the sanctuary how can he stay there for his forty days? You could starve him into submission.’

‘That I will do,’ cried Henry. ‘I can see there will be no peace for me while this man lives.’

He gave the order and it seemed to Hubert that this really was the end. There was no church law regarding the refusal to allow food into sanctuary, and the grim choice lay ahead for Hubert. Stay there and starve or come out and face the charges.

Hubert knew that in time he would have to give in. He would have to come out and allow them to take him back to the Tower of London. Who knew that he might yet be able to confute his enemies. Those who would comfort him told him that the Bishop of Winchester was losing his hold on the King. That was a comforting sign, but Peter des Roches was not his only enemy.

It was one night when the decision seemed imminent. Hubert was cold and hungry. He could delay little longer and perhaps the next day he would walk out and give himself up to the King’s men.

Darkness had fallen. The church door opened silently. A man was standing there looking for him, he knew. Hubert could see him but he could not as yet see Hubert.

Hubert called out: ‘Who are you?’

The man came over to him and two more seemed to materialise in the gloom.

‘Do you want your freedom, Hubert de Burgh?’ said a voice.

‘I do.’

‘Come with us then.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Enemies of the Bishop of Winchester.’

Hubert hesitated and the man said: ‘Stay here and die or come with us. Take your choice … only we might decide to take you whether you wish to come or not.’

Hubert had spent a lifetime making quick decisions, but he had never made one more quickly than this.

‘I will come.’

That is good. There are guards outside and if you did not come of your own accord a fight might result.’

‘Where will you take me?’

‘You will see.’

Weak with hunger, Hubert rose unsteadily. He crept out of the chapel and mounted a horse which was waiting for him.

‘Away,’ said the man. ‘We’ll stop soon to feed you, for you are near to starving I see. Can you ride a little?’

‘Since my life would appear to depend on it, I believe I can.’

‘Wise man. Ride … and then soon you shall eat.’

They turned their horses in the direction of Wales.

The new Archbishop of Canterbury, Edmund Rich, had been watching the rise to power of the Bishop of Winchester and his protégé, Peter de Rievaulx, with misgiving; and he decided that he must warn the King that the violation of sanctuary which had occurred more than once had indicated a lack of respect for the Church and this must be stopped without delay.

He called together certain barons – many of them those who had risen against John and forced him to sign the charter and with them the leading bishops who shared his anxieties.

The King received them with great courtesy for Edmund was a man who was beginning to be called a saint. He was known for his piety and austere living. It was said that he had not lain on a bed for many years but took a little rest now and then sitting or on his knees. His clothes were rough worsted and he submitted himself to self-inflicted torture with knotted ropes. He gave money to the poor so that he had very little of his own, keeping back only enough to provide the small amount of food he allowed himself.

Among churchmen who looked for land and favours and made a habit of promoting their friends and relations to those posts where they could do their benefactor most good, Edmund was a rarity.

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, Richard.’

‘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.’

Thus appealed to, Henry’s good humour was restored.

‘My dear Isabella, of course Margaret Biset may go with you.’

‘She must make sure not to offend the Emperor or he might send her back,’ warned Richard.

‘She will not offend him, knowing what is at stake.’

‘Now there is much to be done,’ said Henry. ‘Go back to Biset and tell her that you will ere long be leaving.’

Isabella left them and ran to the old nursery where she flung herself into Margaret’s arms.

‘There,’ cried Margaret. ‘What is it, my love? What did they say to you?’

‘You are coming with me,’ said Isabella. ‘My brother has promised it.’

‘Then we can face the rest. Where is it?’

‘Germany … to the Emperor.’

‘An old man! Well, it is not so bad as I feared. Old men can be kinder than young ones … and we shall be together.’

‘If they had tried to separate us, Margaret, I should have refused this marriage.’

Poor child, thought Margaret. And what would that have availed?

But it was well that she had the royal consent to accompany her charge.

After Isabella had left them, Henry said: ‘Let us hope that I have found a husband for her at last.’

‘Poor Isabella. It has been a string of disappointments for her – though I doubt she sees it as such. If Joan hadn’t come home in time she might have been Alexander’s wife. How is Joan?’

‘Not well. She declares that she never has been since she went to Scotland. The harshness of the climate is not good for her. Each winter she is ill.’

‘Poor Joan! She would have been better in Lusignan.’

‘But our mother decided otherwise.’

‘Our mother! Little she has done for us. She is more loyal to her family by Hugh than to that by our father.’

‘Well, she hated our father, did she not? And who could blame her? She seems to have some affection for Hugh – because he allows her to lead him where she would have him go. Our father would never have had that.’

‘One of these days, Henry, we are going to win it all back.’

‘I have vowed to do so,’ agreed Henry.

‘Alliances help.’

‘It was a pity that you chose to marry as you did.’

‘It was a great mistake, I grant you.’

‘A woman so much older than yourself.’

‘Isabella is one of the beauties of the day.’

‘Was, brother. She is an old woman now.’

‘Still an attractive one … and not so old. We do not seem very fortunate in our matrimonial adventures, Henry. Joan in Scotland … that is not bad, except that her health suffers. Eleanor a widow …’

‘And you are married to an old woman!’

‘And you not married at all.’

Henry’s lips tightened. He wanted to marry. It was time he produced an heir to the throne. What was wrong that all his efforts to do so came to nothing? Was he not the King of England? One would have thought that every ruler with a marriageable daughter would have been eager to present her to the King. Yet every attempt had come to naught. People would be saying soon that there was something wrong with the King of England.

‘Eleanor should be brought back to court,’ said Henry. ‘We should find a husband for her.’

‘Isabella and she are good friends.’

‘Eleanor has a role to fill in life other than that of keeping your wife company while you go off on other adventures.’

‘If it is your command,’ said Richard with a bow.

‘Let her come back then. I will send for her. And there is another matter. I myself intend to marry soon.’

‘You could not do better. You owe it to the country.’

‘I know that well. I have spoken to the Archbishop.’

‘And the lady?’

‘The daughter of the Count of Provence. His daughter Marguerite, as you know, is already married to the King of France.’

‘Why, brother, it is a stroke of brilliance. I am sure your choice will win approval. The Count will be sore put to it to give his allegiance to France when one of his daughters is the Queen of England.’

‘A similiar situation would arise if he thought of giving it to England.’

‘It will render him neutral, brother. And think of the harm he could do our cause.’

‘It seems to be a wise choice and I intend to give the country an heir at the earliest moment.’

‘Let us pray that you will do so.’

‘The first thing is to get married. Which I shall do as soon as satisfactory treaties have been drawn up.’

‘May you have luck in your marriage, Henry,’ said Richard.

‘Better than you had in yours, I hope,’ retorted Henry, not without a certain gratification.

It was a beautiful May day when the Princess Isabella travelled with her brothers and her sister Eleanor to Sandwich.

Through Canterbury they passed, calling at the cathedral to ask the blessing of St Thomas and then on to Sandwich where Isabella, in the company of the Archbishop of Cologne and the Duke of Brabant, would set sail.

Margaret was beside her so she was not unhappy. Margaret pretended to be in high spirits but Isabella knew that they were a little false. Margaret was wondering what sort of man her darling was going to and if he would be a good husband. They watched orange-tipped butterflies sporting among the ladysmocks and cuckoo flowers along the banks; they smelt the scent of hawthorn blossom on the air, and Isabella said sadly: ‘It is a beautiful country to be leaving.’

‘It may be, my love, we are going to a more beautiful one.’

‘More beautiful than this! Impossible!’

‘Your native land is always the sweetest. But Germany will be our home, dearest child; and we’ll grow to love it.’

‘I have thanked God every morning on rising, since I knew, that you are coming with me.’

‘Your gratitude was no more fervent than mine.’

They were together so it was not too sad an occasion.

Eleanor rode side by side with a young man who appeared to be about six years older than herself. He was handsome, charming and lively in his conversation and she had rarely enjoyed anyone’s company more. She was beginning to think that she was shut away from the pleasures of Court life with her sister-in-law and there was a great deal that she was missing.

The young man told her that his name was Simon de Montfort and that his father was that Simon de Montfort l’Amaury who had made a name for himself in the war against the Albigensians.

The King had been good to Simon and had restored to him all the lands which had belonged to his father, and he had what he had long sought, a secure position in England and the favour of the King.

Eleanor was delighted to hear that Henry was his friend and she told him freely of her marriage to William Marshal and how she was a widow of some years standing.

He had said that he was surprised she had been allowed to remain so for so long.

‘Oh,’ she answered, ‘I had no inclination to remarry. Not that the decision would rest with me.’

Simon de Montfort looked at her rather quizzically and said: ‘Do you know, I believe that if you were so inclined you are of a nature to insist that the decision should be yours.’

That remark impressed her deeply.

Was it really so? She had always been so meek with William Marshal. But then she had been but sixteen at the time of his death.

Simon de Montfort had made her realise something. She was growing up; her character was forming and it was going to be that of a strong-minded woman.

Isabella and Margaret Biset said good-bye to those who had escorted them to Sandwich and set sail for Antwerp.

The four days at sea were far from pleasant and during them Isabella thought little of what was awaiting her. Of one thing she was certain: nothing could be worse than being at sea.

When finally they did land it was to find friends waiting for them to tell them that there was a French plot afoot to capture Isabella and prevent her marriage to the Emperor. They stayed at an inn, where Isabella was said to be a young noblewoman travelling with her governess, and under cover of darkness they left the town. It was several days before they could be assured that they had outwitted their would-be kidnappers and by that time Frederic had sent a strong guard to protect and bring her to Cologne.

There was a halt in that city. It was dangerous to proceed because the Emperor was at war – strangely enough with his own son who at one time had been put forward as a husband for Isabella – so she and Margaret had six weeks’ respite during which they began to learn the ways of the country.

In due course the Emperor arrived to greet his young bride with great rejoicing. He exclaimed at her charm and beauty and declared himself to be absolutely delighted.

He embraced her warmly and told her that he was determined to care for her and make her happy. Margaret clucked with delight. She was glad they had not given her charge to some brazen young man. From the Emperor she would receive tenderness and consideration.

The wedding celebrations were magnificent and continued through four days, for the Emperor wanted his subjects to know how delighted he was with his bride.

Isabella found that her marriage was not nearly as distasteful to her as she had feared it might be. The Emperor, delighted with her youth and freshness, was anxious not to frighten her. He told her that he had loved her from the moment he had seen her and her beauty exceeded all reports of it. She was his treasure, his sweet young bride; and his great desire was to please her.

However, he did propose to send back all her English attendants and when she heard this she was filled with fear.

She threw herself at his feet and wept bitterly and when he raised her and asked what was wrong she burst out: ‘Margaret Biset and I have been together all my life. I cannot let her go. If you send her away I shall never be happy again.’

Then he kissed her and said that although he had wanted all her English attendants to go and she to become his little German wife, he would show his love for her by allowing Margaret to stay with her for as long as she needed her.

At that Isabella dispensed with all ceremony, threw her arms about his neck and kissed him fervently.

‘It seems that you love the old Emperor then?’ he asked.

‘I do,’ she answered fervently. ‘You are so good to me.’

‘And you can be happy here?’

‘I can be happy if you do not take Margaret away from me.’

‘So Margaret remains.’

The Emperor grew so enchanted with his wife that he wanted nothing but to be with her all the time. He took her to his palace at Hagenau and surrounded her with all the luxury he knew of. The furnishings of her apartments were as rich as anything she had ever seen. He brought her more jewels than she could possibly wear. There were silks and fine clothes for her servants to make into any garments she fancied, and there were rich meats and wines to suit her taste. But he could not bear that anyone should see her lest they take her from him.

She and Margaret were together as they had been at her brother’s court; and the Emperor’s fondness for her was remarked on throughout the land.

In due course she was pregnant and merchandise was sent to her that she might choose what she fancied for her child. Margaret liked to make most of the garments herself and it was their pleasure to sew and talk together of the child.

It was pleasant to be so petted by her loving husband; and at this time Isabella was content to be shut off from the world in her silken cave. Margaret was with her and they played the guessing games they had played during her girlhood. It was all so like her childhood – apart from visits from the Emperor – that she did not feel in the least like a prisoner.

When her child was born it was a girl. If the Emperor was disappointed he did not say so, but she knew he would have preferred a boy. When she jokingly told Margaret that she would name the child after her and mentioned it to Frederic he made no protest. If that was what his little darling wanted, so should it be.

So the child became Margaret and so did the nurse dote on her namesake that Isabella declared the baby was taking her old nurse away from her.

‘What nonsense!’ cried Margaret. There’s enough love in this old body of mine for you both.’

So the pleasant life went on – except that one cage was changed for another. The Emperor had to visit his Italian subjects so he moved her to Lombardy and there she with Margaret and her baby and the few maids who attended on their needs lived once more in a luxurious palace, with their beautiful gardens – high-walled where no one came but the Emperor.

He rarely let anyone see his bride.

And there Isabella’s son was born. She called him Henry after her brother. And the Emperor said he had never known such joy.

It was a strange life, but one which was not unhappy.

The old ageing Emperor and his beautiful young wife had become something of a legend in the land.

Chapter XVI ELEANOR AND SIMON DE MONTFORT

Eleanor was in love.

The most interesting, exciting man at her brother’s court was Simon de Montfort. Henry liked him, she was glad to notice; but he had many enemies. She lived in terror that one day they would harm him.

He had said to her once: ‘I am considered to be French by the English and English by the French. It does not make either side over fond of me.’

When she rode out with a party she would invariably find him beside her; and on one or two occasions, greatly daring, they would slip away from the others. How she enjoyed those rides, galloping over the grass with Simon a little behind, allowing him to catch up, when he would say: ‘Halt a while, Princess. I would talk with you.’

Then they would walk their horses and talk. It was mostly about themselves.

He was an adventurer, he said. She was the King’s sister. Was it not strange that they should have so much to say to each other, such understanding?

‘I am an adventurer too, I sometimes think,’ she told him.

‘You … a princess!’

‘Why should a princess be doomed to a dull life?’

‘Not all princesses are,’ he reminded.

‘I am determined to live my life as I wish.’

‘I knew there was something unusual about you from the moment I first saw you.’

He told her about his life and she told him about hers.

If his grandfather the Lord of Montfort and Evreux had not married the sister and co-heiress of the Earl of Leicester he would never have come to England. ‘Think of that. But for that marriage you and I would not be riding together here now.’

‘I am glad of that marriage,’ said Eleanor.

He laughed; his eyes gleaming with pleasure. It seemed to her that there was deep meaning behind everything they said to each other.

‘Their second son, Simon, led the crusade against the Albigensians and to him came the title of Earl of Leicester and half the estate.’

‘And you are the son of that crusader.’

‘I am he. My brother Amaury resigned his rights in the estate to me and I came to England to claim them.’

‘It seems you have not been unsuccessful here.’

‘Your brother has been good to me.’

‘He took a fancy to you. I understand why.’

‘The fact that his sister understands why means more to me than the King’s favour.’

‘Then I must change my opinion of you. You are not as wise as I thought.’

‘That, my dear lady, remains to be seen.’

‘How long must we wait for this revelation?’

‘I hope not long.’

Eleanor was exultant. What could he mean? She knew her feelings. What were his?

‘Your brother has given me a pension of four hundred marks,’ he told her. ‘When I recover my estates I shall be rich. But I shall not forget the help I have received.’

‘My brother’s pension must be of great importance to you.’

‘Not so important as the sympathy I see in his sister’s eyes.’

‘Surely to a man of good sense a pension should be of more use than sympathy.’

‘Nay, not so,’ he contradicted. And it was at moments like this that she spurred her horse and galloped away because she had never been so happy in her life before and she knew that it meant she was in love.

She tried to explain to him what her life had been.

‘As a child I was married to old William Marshal. It had to be, because they were afraid he would go over to the French. I was only a child. After the ceremony he went away to Ireland.’

‘Poor little girl!’

‘I stayed in the palace with my sister Isabella and our old nurse Margaret Biset. Isabella is an empress now and Margaret is with her.’

‘They will find a husband for you.’

‘I will not take him … unless he is of my choice.’

‘Ah, when the moment comes shall you be strong enough, think you?’

‘I know I shall be strong enough.’

‘Kings, archbishops, barons, lords … they can be very strong.’

‘I can be strong too. A princess who marries once for state reasons has the right to take her second husband when and from where she pleases.’

‘You think that would be permitted?’

‘I should decide.’

‘Oh, you are a bold princess as well as a beautiful one. You have the qualities I admire most in women – beauty and independence.’

‘I am glad that I please you, my lord.’

‘I hope that the pleasure I find in your company will never give you cause for regret.’

No one had ever talked to her in this way before. She knew that he was telling her he loved her. Was it possible for her to marry a man without a fortune? For he had none and had still to regain his estates. All he had at the moment was a claim to them. What else had he? The King’s friendship; the love of the King’s sister.

And yet because he was Simon de Montfort it seemed that he had a power within him to accomplish what would have been impossible in another man.

She wondered what Henry would say and do if she told him that she wished to marry Simon de Montfort.

Henry would be more inclined to be lenient now because he had a bride of his own. This time he had actually achieved marriage and there was a queen at court. Eleanor – named as she was – was very young and very beautiful and had come from Provence to be Henry’s queen. She was a little spoilt and petulant, demanding her own way, but Henry was so delighted to have a bride and so enchanted by her beauty that he had mellowed considerably and because of this would have some understanding and sympathy for his sister.

It was when they were in the forest and had evaded the rest of the party – a habit which was becoming too frequent not to go unnoticed – that Simon broached the subject.

There could not be many men at court who would dare suggest marriage to a princess, but Simon of course was no ordinary man. He had complete confidence in himself. He was going to make his mark in the world. He was so distinguished. That was clear to himself and Eleanor. So he could therefore do what other men would never dare to.

He said: ‘You know that I love you.’

She was too forthright to pretend. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know it.’

‘And you love me,’ he stated; nor did she deny it.

‘When people love as we do there is one thing they must do, and that is marry. Do you agree with me?’

‘I do,’ she answered.

‘What then?’ he asked.

‘We should marry.’

‘Would you be ready to, Eleanor?’

She held out her hand and he took it. How his eyes gleamed. He was looking to the future.

‘Then one thing is certain,’ he said. ‘We shall marry.’

‘That is certain,’ she agreed.

‘How I love you!’ he said. ‘You and I were meant for each other. We are bold, are we not? Ready to take what we want from life?’

‘It is the only way to live,’ she answered.

‘Well, what next?’

‘We marry.’

‘Secretly.’

‘I could sound the King.’

‘Would he agree?’

‘I think he might … if we were careful. We must not let others know. There would be objections.’

‘Simon de Montfort and the Princess,’ he said. They would tell me I was unworthy.’

‘We know otherwise. I will discover from my brother what his feelings are in this matter. He is inclined to be lenient with lovers just now.’

‘The uxorious husband loves his Eleanor … but not as I love mine.’

‘How can you know?’

That child! What does she know of life?’

‘She knows how to get what she wants of Henry. But then it would not be difficult for a woman to get what she wanted from Henry.’

‘Even his sister?’

‘I will sound him.’

It was Christmas time and they were at Westminster. The King was very busy with preparations, eager to show his new queen how lavish they could be.

Eleanor hesitated to approach him because if he would not help her he could make it impossible for her to marry Simon. Possibilities occurred to her. He could even imprison Simon, have him mutilated, murdered … Not that Henry had ever showed any signs of behaving in such a cruel manner. He was not like their father. Henry was more of a man of peace. And yet she was taking a risk. Talking to Simon, she had felt so bold and brave; when she was not with him she found herself facing realities.

She made up her mind that there was one person whom she could safely consult and that was her sister Joan who had been with the court since September when she had gone on a pilgrimage to Canterbury with the King and her husband Alexander. Alexander had now returned to Scotland but Joan had made an excuse to stay on in England for a few weeks longer. That stay had extended.

So to Joan went Eleanor and contrived that they should be alone together.

Concerned as she was with her own affairs, Eleanor could not help noticing how wan her sister looked. Poor Joan seemed to be wasting away. She made excuse after excuse to stay in England and so far she had remained. She had spent several weeks in her bedchamber when the weather was cold and seemed to be better for it, but she dreaded returning to Scotland.

Beside her Eleanor looked blooming, knew it, and was a little ashamed of it.

She asked with tenderness after her sister’s health.

‘It is better,’ Joan told her. ‘It is always so in England.’

‘Poor Joan.’ Eleanor was thoughtful. No matter where Simon went she would gladly follow. Joan clearly did not feel the same about Alexander.

‘I want to talk to you, Joan. It is secret … very secret. I want your advice.’

Joan smiled at her sister. ‘I shall be pleased to help if I can, you know.’

Eleanor nodded. ‘I am in love and want to marry.’

Joan looked concerned. ‘It so much depends with whom. Is he what would be considered suitable?’

‘To me he is the only one who could possibly be suitable.’

‘That is not what I mean, Eleanor.’

‘I know it and I suppose he is what would be called completely unsuitable.’

‘Oh, my poor sister.’

‘Not so, Joan. I refuse to be called poor when Simon loves me.’

‘Simon?’

‘Simon de Montfort’

Joan wrinkled her brows. ‘Is he not the son of the General who fought the Albigensians?’

‘He is the same. We are going to marry – no matter what anyone says. If we have to go to France, if we have to escape … we shall do so to be together.’

Eleanor raised her eyes to her sister’s and saw that Joan’s were shining with admiration.

‘You are right, Eleanor,’ she said. ‘If you love … and he loves you … then let nothing stand in your way. You married once for state reasons. Now freedom of choice should be yours.’

Eleanor went softly to her sister and took her in her arms. She felt uneasy because of Joan’s frailty.

‘I did not think you would understand,’ she said.

‘I do understand, Eleanor,’ answered Joan. ‘I loved once … I am glad that I did, although it did not bring me happiness.’

‘You, Joan …!’

‘It was long ago, oh, long long ago it seems.’

‘You were sent away when you were a child. Sent to Lusignan.’

‘To the man who was to be my husband,’ said Joan. ‘I was frightened and I learned not to be. I grew to know him. He was so good … so kind.’

‘You loved him!’ cried Eleanor. ‘And he married our mother.’

‘Do you remember her, Eleanor?’

‘But little.’

‘She had some allure. I cannot explain it. I never saw it in any other woman. It was a kind of magic. Not good, not kind, but she bewitched people with it. She bewitched Hugh. So I came back and married Alexander.’

‘My poor, poor Joan!’

‘Oh, it is too long ago now to talk of, and here I am the Queen of Scotland.’

‘A poor compensation, you are telling me, Joan.’

Joan held out her thin hands on which blue veins were painfully visible.

‘I am telling you that if you have a chance of happiness you should take it. You do not want to spend your life regretting.’

‘So that is your advice, Joan?’

Joan’s answer was to put her arms about her sister and kiss her gently on the brow.

‘Sound our brother,’ she said. ‘But carefully. It may be that at this time he will feel tender towards lovers.’

Henry regarded his sister with mild affection. He was very contented with his marriage. His bride was very young, the second daughter of the Count of Provence; and her elder sister was already the bride of Louis IX of France. Not only was she beautiful, she was accomplished too. She was noted for the verses she wrote and she could sing and dance in a manner which was enchanting.

Henry was particularly delighted because his brother Richard had made the acquaintance of the Princess of Provence on his travels and had been charmed by her bright intelligence and her beauty; Henry knew he would have liked to marry her himself. No hope of that. He had his ageing Isabella, whom he had insisted on marrying. So this was one of the occasions when Henry could score over his brother.

When Eleanor came to him he was in a state of some euphoria and she, in her newly found wisdom and her awareness sharpened by her desperate need, began by telling him how delighted she was by his happiness and how enchanting the new Queen was, and how fortunate he had been to wait awhile before hurrying into marriage. Whereupon Henry began enlarging on the perfections of his queen and the joys of the married state which made it easier for Eleanor.

‘Ah, I would I had the good fortune to know such happiness!’ she sighed.

‘My poor sister, you were married to old William Marshal. How different that must have been from that state in which I find myself!’

‘My fortunate brother! None could wish you greater happiness than I. I know that, understanding so much, you would, if it were in your power, help me to attain a similar joy.’

Henry smiled expansively. ‘Dear Eleanor, I would the whole world could be as happy as I am.’

‘I could be so … or almost, I think, if only it were possible …’

Henry was looking at her questioningly and she went on: ‘Henry, I am in love. I want to marry and I implore you – understanding so well – to help me in this.’

‘My dear sister, what can I do? Who is this man?’

‘He is Simon de Montfort.’

Henry was silent for a few seconds, while Eleanor suffered agonies of doubt and plans for immediate escape from England began to form in her mind.

Then Henry slowly smiled. ‘He’s a bold fellow. I always knew it. But I did not know how bold.’

Eleanor caught his hands and cried: ‘Henry, you who have achieved such happiness … can you deny it to me, your sister, who has already suffered one unwelcome marriage and years shut away from your court?’

Henry embraced her. ‘I will help you,’ he said. ‘It will have to remain secret for a while … No one must know.’

‘My dearest, dearest brother, if you consent, that is all I ask!’

Henry, smiling benignly, told her that she should have her wish. He would arrange it. But for the time being she must remember … secrecy.

She could scarcely wait to see Simon. There was no opportunity until they rode out with a party in the forest, for she realised the need to keep her coming marriage secret. They were not safe yet. Henry could change his mind if he were prevailed upon and it was certain that he would be if their plans were discovered. Many of the barons were envious of Simon and they would consider that marriage with the King’s sister was a move he had made from ambition. They would do anything rather than see him advance.

They escaped from the party. There again – this would be noticed if they did it much more.

She told him: ‘I have spoken to Henry. He will help us.’

Simon was astounded. ‘Is this really so?’

‘I chose my moment. He is so delighted with his marriage, I flattered him. He is always susceptible to that.’

‘My God!’ cried Simon, ‘then ere long you will be my wife.’

‘It should not be too long delayed. He could change his mind.’

‘That’s true enough. As soon as Christmas is over … Oh, you clever princess!’

‘You will find that I shall always be clever when it is a matter of getting what I want.’

‘I see I shall have a very forceful wife.’

They were too moved to say much and they rode silently through the forest.

They came upon a chapel there and it was Eleanor who said they should alight, tether their horses and go inside to pray at the altar to thank God for His goodness to them and ask for His continued help.

‘We may need it,’ commented Simon.

So they went inside the chapel and at the altar they knelt together. And as Eleanor raised her eyes they came to rest on the crucifix and she was transported back to a time when she had knelt in a bedchamber side by side with Edmund the Archbishop of Canterbury.

She could not control the trembling which came over her. She had said on that occasion that she would take a vow of chastity. Oh, but she had spoken lightly. She had felt that that was what she had meant then, but she had not at the time met Simon.

It was not binding. It was nothing. She must not think of it.

They rose from their knees and as Simon took her arm to lead her from the chapel he said: ‘Why, you are trembling.’

She answered: ‘It was cold in the chapel.’

And that was all.

It was a cold January day when Eleanor stood beside her brother who gave her away, after commanding the priest to swear to secrecy, and she was married to Simon de Montfort.

She could not believe her happiness, but she wished all the same she could rid herself of that niggling fear which had come to her in the chapel.

Again and again she reminded herself that the words she had spoken to Edmund had not been seriously meant. He could not take them in the nature of a vow … or could he?

She thought of that stern aesthetic face. People who subjected themselves to great self-sacrifice could be very harsh on others.

It was foolish of her to allow her happiness to be spoiled when Henry had given his consent and had actually given her away. But then he did not know of that scene between herself and Edmund. And when Edmund did …

She would refuse to think of it.

As they came out of the chapel, Henry looked rather worried.

He had begun to believe that he might have acted rashly. He had been so anxious for his sister to be happy and it had given him a deep satisfaction that he could provide that happiness; but now that the ceremony was over, he was asking himself whether he had acted wisely.

He said sharply: ‘None must know. You must keep your secret for a while.’

Eleanor took his hand and kissed it fervently.

‘Dearest brother, most noble King, I shall never forget what you have done for me.’

That satisfied Henry. Until he began to be uneasy again.

As the weeks passed the cold was intense. The wind whistled through the castle rooms and even great wood fires could not keep the inhabitants warm.

Joan’s cough grew worse and when Alexander sent messages to Westminster to know why she did not return she was very depressed, but she made her preparations.

Eleanor spent a great deal of time with her. Joan was one who knew of her marriage. It was pleasant, as Eleanor told Simon, to be able to talk to someone; and Joan was so pleased that they were happy.

Poor Joan! If only she could have known this bliss. Of course Alexander was not like Simon. It amused Eleanor to contemplate that Joan’s would be said to be a good marriage, whereas hers … well, it was most unsuitable. Oh, but happy, thought Eleanor. How wonderful life was!

She sat talking with Joan in the cold room, Eleanor seated on a stool and Joan lying on a pallet covered by a fur rug because she could not get warm.

‘You cannot leave yet,’ said Eleanor. ‘You will have to wait until the weather is better.’

‘Alexander grows very impatient. I should have gone before the winter started.’

‘Nonsense. Why should you not visit your family?’

‘It has been a wonderful visit. It has made me so happy to see Henry and you contented in marriage.’

Though mine is to be kept secret for a while.’

‘You like that. Confess! Does it not give a zest to it all?’

‘It did not need it,’ replied Eleanor.

‘May you always be as happy as you are now, dear sister.’

‘I intend to be,’ replied Eleanor. ‘When we have our castles you will come and be with us often.’

‘I should like that.’

Joan began to cough and could not stop, and Eleanor was distressed and frightened. When one of these paroxysms seized her sister, Eleanor was afraid she would choke.

Joan lay back on her cushions. Eleanor saw the blood and shivered.

‘Dearest Joan, is there anything I can get for you?’

‘Sit by me,’ said Joan.

Eleanor sat until darkness fell. And she was thinking of poor Joan’s going far away to Lusignan to a husband she had never seen, loving him, and losing him.

Joan said suddenly: ‘Eleanor, are you there?’

‘Yes, sister. What can I get you?’

‘Bring Henry, will you?’

‘Henry!’

‘Please … I think he should be here.’

Eleanor went out. It was half an hour before she could find her brother and bring him to the bedchamber.

They came carrying lighted candles; and the sight of their sister lying on her cushions filled them with deep foreboding.

Henry knelt by the bed and took her hand.

‘Dear brother,’ said Joan.’ You know this is the end, do you not?’

‘Nay,’ declared Henry. ‘We shall keep you here. You shall not go back to Scotland. My doctors will cure you.’

Joan shook her head and said: ‘Eleanor … sister.’

‘I am here, Joan.’

She took her sister’s hand and held it.

‘God bless you both,’ she said. ‘Be happy.’

‘We shall all be happy,’ Henry assured her.

‘Help me up a little,’ said Joan; and Henry put his arm about her and held her thus.

‘I … am happy to be with you … here in England … I am glad … to have come home to die.’

Both Henry and Eleanor could not speak; they averted their eyes from their dying sister.

‘Henry, I should like to lie in Dorset … in the nunnery of Tarent …’

‘When the time comes so shall you,’ said Henry with a sob in his throat. ‘But it is far off, sister.’

She shook her head and smiled.

For some time there was silence; then Henry looked into her face and slowly released her.

‘She has gone,’ said Eleanor, and she put a hand over her eyes to hide the tears.

It was impossible to keep the marriage of Eleanor and Simon de Montfort secret for long.

When Richard of Cornwall heard of it – and that it had taken place with the consent of the King – he was furious.

He himself was growing more and more dissatisfied with his own marriage. Every time he saw Isabella she seemed to have aged a few years. He did not realise that she understood that he no longer cared for her and this gave her sleepless nights and days of anxiety.

Simon de Montfort was one of the most unpopular men in court circles. He was a foreigner and Henry had always had a tendency to favour foreigners, more so now that his wife was bringing in her friends and relations, and favours which should have gone to Englishmen were going to them.

The barons were beginning to gather round Richard. He had a fine son, young Henry, and the King was, so far, childless. Henry did not have the power to attract men to him. There was a certain weakness in him which they detected and which made him act sometimes most unjustly when at others he was over eager to please.

Richard came to the King and gave way to vociferous indignation.

He would like to know why Henry should have given his consent to a marriage which was clearly displeasing to many of the most important people in the country, who should have had some say in choosing a husband for the King’s sister.

‘It was unnecessary for others to choose,’ said Henry. ‘I gave permission. That was enough.’

‘Clearly it is not! It was important that you should have brought the matter to light. Instead you join in the secrecy.’

‘Know this, brother,’ cried Henry, ‘I shall do as I please.’

‘That’s what our father said.’

This was the kind of remark which had been flung at Henry ever since he came to the throne. It never failed to enrage him because it frightened him.

‘Have a care, Richard,’ warned Henry.

‘It is you who must have a care. There are rumblings of discontent throughout the kingdom.’

‘There always have been and always will. There are too many men who seek riches for themselves and will make trouble hoping to get them.’

‘It is no help to your cause to act like this. Our sister is a royal ward. You know what that means.’

Henry burst out: ‘I had my reasons.’

‘What reasons could there be for giving our sister to an … adventurer?’

‘I will tell you this. He had seduced our sister. I thought it better to set this matter to rights by giving her to him in marriage.’ Henry had turned pale. It was a lie. But if it were true – and who knew it might be? – none could blame him for getting them married.

‘The scoundrel!’ cried Richard, who had seduced many women in his not very long but somewhat full amatory life.

‘She wished for the marriage,’ continued Henry. ‘Let us hope he will make her a good husband.’

‘I shall seek out Simon de Montfort,’ cried Richard.

‘Pray do. Eleanor will not bless you. She is extremely happy with the fellow.’

‘An adventurer … and a royal ward! Our own sister.’

‘Oh, come, Richard. They are fond of each other. You married of your own free will and I forgave you. Eleanor took Marshal at a time when it was necessary to prevent his going to the enemy. Let her live in peace with the man she chooses.’

‘Who seduced her before marriage!’

‘So thought I,’ said Henry cautiously.

Richard stormed out of his presence, leaving Henry angry and at the same time ashamed.

It would seem that he is the King, not I, he thought; and then he laughed inwardly to think of Richard with his ageing wife, of whom he would clearly like to be rid, and his own sweet queen who continued to delight him.

Edmund Archbishop of Canterbury came to the King to tell him that he was very concerned to hear of the marriage of the King’s sister. He had a very special reason for being so …

‘It was a true marriage,’ said the King. ‘I was present myself.’

‘I have something very grave to say to you, my lord,’ the Archbishop explained. ‘Your sister, widow of William Marshal, made a vow of chastity to me. It would seem that she has broken that vow. This is a grave sin in the eyes of heaven.’

Henry was weary of the matter. Why should they not let Eleanor and Simon de Montfort live in peace? Did all these people so hate to see a happy married pair? Were they so envious that they must seek to destroy that happiness?

Of course Edmund was a saint. Hair shirts tormented his skin; he beat himself with knotted ropes; scarcely took enough food to keep himself alive, never went to bed and spent half the night on his knees. One could not expect such a holy man to be overjoyed by the carnal happiness of Eleanor and Simon.

But if it really was true that Eleanor had made a vow, what could she have been thinking of to break it?

‘I know of no such vow, Archbishop,’ he said.

‘Nevertheless it was made in my presence. She has placed her immortal soul in peril.’

‘I do not think God and his saints will be so hard on her. She was married to old Marshal you know when she was only a child, and she truly loves her husband.’

‘My lord, I understand you not. Can it be that you have forgotten your duty to the Church? It is small wonder that our kingdom is in turmoil.’

A plague on these pious churchmen, thought Henry. Then he was afraid of such irreligious thoughts and fervently hoped that the recording angel had not garnered that one.

‘I will speak to my sister,’ said Henry.

‘My lord, that will not be enough. She will need a special dispensation from the Pope.’

Henry sighed and sent for his sister.

Eleanor came in some trepidation. She had been in a state of great uneasiness ever since she had known that the news was out.

Simon had said they must hold themselves in readiness to fly from the country. He himself had gone to Richard and humbly asked his pardon. He had taken gifts and had tried to explain to his brother-in-law how he had been carried away by love for his sister.

Richard listened, accepted the gifts and said that he was in trouble with the Archbishop over some matter of a vow Eleanor had made – and that could provide even more difficulties for them.

There was a certain understanding between the two men and during the interview Richard had relented a little. He began to think that if the barons rallied round him and it became necessary to rise against Henry, Simon would be a good ally.

He said that he understood Simon’s feelings and that he knew Eleanor had grown into a strong-minded young woman. If she had made up her mind to marry Simon, then Simon had little help for it but to obey her. They laughed together and Richard was mollified.

It was not going to be so easy with the saintly Archbishop. Eleanor’s knees trembled as she stood before the old man. His fiery eyes seemed to penetrate her mind and she remembered vividly kneeling with him before the crucifix.

Henry said: ‘The Archbishop brings me grave news.’

Eleanor faced the old man unflinchingly – hoping he could not see how her hands trembled.

‘It would appear,’ said Edmund, ‘that you have forgotten the vow that you made to God.’

‘I did not regard it as a vow, my lord.’

‘So you made a vow which was no vow,’ said Edmund. ‘I beg of you do not add flippancy to your sins.’

‘I was very young and inexperienced of the world. I said I might consider going into a nunnery.’

‘Take care. Your words will be recorded in heaven.’

‘I have a husband whom I love. I do not think God would consider that a sin.’

‘You have broken your vow to Him. Every time you lie with this man you commit a sin against Holy Church.’

‘I do not think so.’

‘You … a foolish girl!’

‘Nay,’ said Eleanor with spirit, ‘a proud and happy wife.’

Henry could not help admiring her. Of course he must respect such a saint, but Eleanor did not seem to care whether or not she offended God. He almost expected the Almighty to show His displeasure by striking her dumb or blind … or barren perhaps. He could not tell about the last but she certainly escaped the first two.

‘You give God … and us … great cause for sorrow.’

‘There are so many nuns,’ said Eleanor, ‘and not so many happy wives.

‘You are without shame,’ cried the Archbishop.

‘Am I?’ said Eleanor.

‘You must have a care, sister,’ Henry warned her mildly. He wanted an end of the scene so he went on before the Archbishop could speak again. ‘What must my sister do, my lord? She is married. We cannot unmarry her. Pray give your advice.’

‘A plea for dispensation must be sent to the Pope with all speed.’

‘That shall be done,’ said Henry.

The Archbishop regarded Eleanor coldly.

‘There is only one who should be sent to His Holiness to make the plea. That is, you will agree, Simon de Montfort.’

How she hated the saintly old man. He could not unmarry them, but he could separate them … for a while.

It was not a bad solution, Henry decided, for with the bridegroom away, the barons could forget their discontent with the marriage.

Eleanor was angry. That could not be helped. She must expect to pay some price for her unconventional behaviour. She had the husband of her choice and in due course he would come back.

Eleanor’s sorrow in the temporary loss of her husband was somewhat alleviated by the knowledge that she was pregnant. Moreover the Pope, seeing that the marriage had already been celebrated, was of the opinion that there was no other alternative but to grant the dispensation.

In due course Simon returned and Eleanor’s son was born in Kenilworth Castle. Eleanor decided to call him Henry after her brother, which delighted the King.

In fact Henry himself was in a state of excitement over his wife’s pregnancy, and when his son – whom he called Edward – was born, he was overjoyed.

To show that Eleanor was completely forgiven he invested Simon with the Earldom of Leicester.

Alas, there was some trouble of a debt Simon had incurred during his stay abroad and as Simon could not meet the payment the account was sent to the King.

Then Henry was enraged. It seemed to him that his sister was using him. She flattered him when she wanted something – Richard had suggested as much. Her husband so took advantage of his elevation into the royal family that he ran up bills he could not meet. He was going to show them that he was aware of their chicanery.

He made an attack on Simon in the company of several of the dignitaries who had gathered together for the churching of the Queen, accusing him of seducing Eleanor before their marriage, and bribing the Pope for the dispensation and then failing to meet his debts.

‘If you do not remove yourself from my sight this moment you will be in the Tower before the night is out,’ he declared.

Simon was bewildered. It seemed to him that Henry was behaving in a manner such as his father often did.

But he and Eleanor left the court without delay.

‘He will have recovered from his ill temper in the morning,’ said Eleanor.

‘What if he does not?’ asked Simon. ‘I did not care for the look in his eyes.’

‘What then?’ asked Eleanor.

‘Get the child. We will leave the country for a while. It is safer so. I see that he will always remember this accusation against me and use it when it best suits him.’

Eleanor sighed; but she knew that he was right and as long as they were not separated she was reconciled to anything that had to be. A week later they arrived in France.

Isabella, Countess of Cornwall, was an unhappy woman. She knew that Richard was seeking an excuse to be rid of her. He should have listened to her when she had told him that she was too old to please him. She missed Eleanor and often envied her her happiness with Simon de Montfort. Dear Eleanor, she deserved to be happy at last; and she would be because there was a certain strength about her which Isabella admired the more because she knew she herself did not possess it.

Richard rarely came to see her now. He made an effort to be affectionate but it did not deceive her, for she knew that he was seeking means to be rid of her, and although the Pope had decided against that dispensation five years ago, Richard had not given up hope.

Sometimes she felt very much alone in the world. Her great father long since dead; her brother on whom she had relied now gone. All she had was her son Henry – and he was a delight to any mother’s heart – but how long before he would be taken away from her? Nobly born boys were never allowed to grow up in their own homes. He would be sent away to be educated that he might become what they would call a man – the tender care of a mother being considered a handicap in such a training.

She was again with child, though – her one consolation, although during this pregnancy she had become easily exhausted and often felt ill.

She was fortunate to be surrounded by good servants. Those close to her knew of the sadness her husband’s neglect had brought her. It was touching to see how they tried to make up for his lack of care by lavishing their attentions on her, with something more than could be expected from the best of servants.

In due course her time came and to her delight she gave birth to a son.

Richard arrived at Berkhamsted a few days after the birth.

He looked young and vital as he sat by her bed; she felt old and tired and she knew that she looked it.

‘It was good of you to come to see our son,’ she said to him.

‘Naturally I should come to see the boy … and you.’

‘Even more good of you to come to see me … when it is against your inclination.’

He shifted uneasily on his stool.

‘You are not looking well, Isabella,’ he said. ‘Are they caring for you? I must speak to them.’

They give me loving care, Richard. You can imagine how I appreciate that.’

‘I am glad of it,’ he said.

He sat in silence and she wondered whether he was thinking that she looked so ill that she might never rise from this bed.

It would save him a lot of trouble, she thought, and me a great deal of heartbreak.

It was, said her servants, almost as though she were willing herself to die.

He spoke to the most devoted of those who were with her night and day.

‘Your mistress seems lifeless,’ he said. ‘Is she very ill?’

The old woman bridled a little and faced him coldly. Such women he knew cared for no one, however high in rank, and would fight an army of kings for the sake of their beloved charges.

‘It has been an unhappy time for her, my lord,’ was the brusque answer.

‘A difficult pregnancy, I know.’

‘Did you know, my lord? You have seen little of it.’

‘But I know such things are.’

‘This was aggravated by my lady’s melancholy state.’ The old woman bobbed a curtsey and turned away muttering: ‘I must see to my lady.’

He went to see the child which lay quiet in its cradle. White and still, eyes closed, it reminded him of Isabella.

He called to the wet nurse.

‘How fares the child?’ he asked.

‘Oh, my lord, a good child. Never cries …’

He went to his chamber thinking of poor melancholy Isabella and the child that never cried.

The doctor said the child should be baptised at once, and he was christened Nicholas just before he died.

He did not tell Isabella but she knew. She lay in her bed, listless.

Richard sat beside her.

Then she said: ‘Richard, I should like to be buried at Tewkesbury beside my first husband.’

Richard said: ‘Nay, you are not going to die yet, Isabella.’

She turned her head away and he knelt by her bed, taking her hand in his. He knew that he had been a bad husband. He knew that he had caused her great suffering.

Theirs had been an impulsive marriage – on his side. She had loved him though. He wished he had been better to her. If he had known her end was near he would have visited her more often during the last year. But how could he have known? And the truth was that she was ageing; she was not gay as he liked women to be; she was too virtuous, too serious to please him.

Their marriage had been a failure as she had said it would be. He could hear her voice coming to him over the years: ‘I am too old, Richard.’

And how right she had been.

But now he must comfort her. He would not allow her to be buried at Tewkesbury beside her first husband. That would be construed as a slight to him. He knew what he would do, for it was a mistake to ignore completely the wishes of the dead. Her heart should be put into a silver casket and buried beside her first husband, her body in a place of his choosing.

The pressure of her clammy fingers in his reminding him that he was disposing of her before she was dead and in a sudden access of shame he said: ‘Isabella, you must get well.’

And he promised himself that if she did he would be a better husband to her.

‘Richard,’ she said, ‘do not reproach yourself. I was to blame. I knew all along …’

He said: ‘I loved you …’

‘You love easily, Richard. I know that now. Take care of little Henry.’

He kissed her hand. ‘I promise you I shall love that boy as I love none other.’

‘I believe you,’ she said. ‘I think it is time to send for the priest.’

So the priest came and he sat with her as she died. He wept a little and he tried to stop himself exulting because there need be no more negotiations with a Pope who raised objections. He thought of the beautiful daughters of the Count of Provence.

Free. He was free.

In the hall at Westminster Henry had summoned all the magnates to a council meeting. Richard was present and sat beside him on the dais.

Henry addressed the assembly: ‘I have a message from my father-in-law, the Count of La Marche. He has promised that if we take an army across the Channel he will help us against the King of France. My lords, this is the opportunity for which we have been waiting. At last we have a chance to regain all that we have lost. The Poitevins, the Gascons, the King of Navarre and the Count of Toulouse are with him. Their quarrel with Louis has grown and they are ready to march against him.’

There was a murmuring among the assembly. If this were true, it could indeed be the chance they were waiting for, but how far could they trust the Count of La Marche?

Henry answered that question. ‘The Count, through his marriage with my mother, has become my stepfather. I have always known that when the moment was ripe he would come to my aid.’

It seemed reasonable. It could well be the time. Many eyes glistened at the thought of recapturing those lost castles.

‘Then, my lords,’ said Henry, ‘we are of one mind. We will now begin to make ready to make war on the King of France.’