The star of Lancaster

ISABELLA AT THE COURT FRANCE

When Isabella had returned to France she had quickly realized that something was very wrong at her father's Court, and gradually she began to understand what it was.

Her father had bouts of madness. People did not at first talk about this to her. She just heard that he had attacks. These attacks could last for months and when they were in progress he would be shut up in the Hotel St Pol, that Paris residence where she had spent much of her childhood. When he recovered her father was just as she had always remembered him, kindly and seeming in full possession of his senses, but she detected a wariness in both him and the people around him and she knew they were watching for the madness to break out again.

There was her mother—beautiful, and forceful so that she seemed to be the real ruler of France, with Uncle Louis of course.

Louis Duc d'Orleans, her father's brother, had been appointed by the King to be Regent during his bouts of madness. The Queen who had great influence with the King had advised this and sometimes it seemed to Isabella that her mother and her uncle wanted her father to fall into madness, for when he did Uncle Louis behaved as though he were the King and it was obvious to everyone—even young Isabella— that Isabeau acted as though Louis was not only the King on the throne but in her bed as well. The fact was that this adulterous intrigue between Queen Isabeau and Duc Louis of Orleans was becoming a scandal not only throughout France but beyond.

Then there was her father's uncle the Duke of Burgundy, a serious-minded man, who deplored what was happening and made no secret of this.

It was a very unhealthy state of affairs and Isabella yearned as much as ever for the happy days at Windsor when Richard had ridden out to see her and they had been so happy together.

"I shall never be happy again," she mourned.

She did however enjoy being reunited with her family. There were her three brothers and three sisters; for recently a new baby girl had been born. She was named Katherine.

The little girls were lodged at the Hotel St Pol and no one bothered very much about them. When the King was ill he would be taken to a part of the Hotel and shut in there with a few attendants. Isabella would often lie awake and listen for the strange sounds which came from her father's apartments. She did what she could to look after the little girls for their nurses were not always careful and when Isabella told her mother this, the Queen said they should be dismissed but did nothing about it. She was too busy with her own affairs which mainly consisted of entertaining and being entertained by the Duc d'Orleans. Isabella thought the Duc the most handsome man she had ever seen and that her mother was the most beautiful woman. It seemed inevitable that they should be lovers. She wondered whether her father knew. Everyone else seemed to, so perhaps he did too.

It was a strange life for one who had been a Queen of England; she clung to her memories of her life with Richard. Isabella would hold little Katherine in her lap and the others would cluster round her while she told them stories of her life at the English Court; and always Richard would appear in these stories, the knight in shining armour.

Isabella kept her ears open and discovered much of what was happening at her father's Court. As soon as Uncle Louis had the power he had levied a tax on the clergy as well as the people which made them very angry. Some said: "We will not endure the rule of this profligate young man and his shameless concubine any longer."

And the shameless concubine was Isabella's mother!

Oh, it was a very unhealthy state of affairs.

It was difficult not to like Uncle Louis—who besides being handsome, was always good-tempered and generous; he was amusing and there was always laughter where he was; his clothes were exquisite and he was notorious for his extravagance. He always treated Isabella as though he were very fond of her and when she had first come to France he had professed himself to be very angry at the manner in which Richard had been treated. It had given her great comfort at that time to hear Richard's praises sung and the usurper King of England vilified. "He and his son Harry, I hate them both," she said. "And they tried to marry me to Harry. I would have none of him."

Uncle Louis said. Indeed not! She was far too beautiful and too important. What, a daughter of the King of France to marry the son of an impostor! True he held the title of King at this time, but how long would that last?

"I will go and fight him on your behalf," he declared.

"How can you. Uncle Louis?"

"By challenging him, my dear. He has plundered you of your dowry and he has murdered your husband. I shall challenge him to face me in the lists."

"You would not do this, Uncle," she breathed.

"I would indeed, my dear. I shall send a challenge to him without delay."

In the flamboyant grandiose manner in which Louis of Orleans did everything he sent his challenge.

Her mother was delighted.

"How like him!" she said. "He is a very gallant gentleman." Then she added: "Henry will not accept, I promise you." But she was really promising herself. The last thing she wanted her lover to do was fight in a combat which could end in death.

She was right. Henry treated the challenge with scorn. "I know of no precedent which gives the example of a crowned King going into the lists to fight a duel with a subject," was his cold reply. "No matter how high the rank of that subject."

This made Louis fume and fret. Queen Isabeau was with him when he received the reply and she sent for her daughter that she might realize what a gallant champion her uncle was.

"I shall answer this!" cried Louis. "I shall shame him."

He sat down and wrote with Queen Isabeau standing over him, watching, applauding and stroking his neck as he wrote.

"How could you allow the Queen of England to return to her country desolate with the loss of her lord, robbed of her dowry and everything she carried with her at the time of her marriage? Those who seek to gain honour should espouse her cause. Are not noble knights bound to defend the rights of widows and virgins of virtuous life such as my niece was known to lead? It is for this reason that I challenge you." He added with sarcasm: "I must thank you for the care you have taken of me by refusing this combat which is more than you did for the health and the life of your royal and rightful King Richard."

"That," cried the Duc, "will upset him. I understand there is one thing that never fails to and that is to refer to the murder of Richard in Pontefract Castle. I'll swear the deed will haunt him for the rest of his life. Yet if he had never committed it, how could he have become King of England?"

The note did sting Henry into reply.

Louis laughed over it with Isabeau as he read it aloud. Most indignantly did Henry deny that he had had a hand in Richard's death. "God knows how and by whom my cousin— whom may God absolve—met his death, but if you are hinting that that death was brought about by me then you lie and will lie foully whenever you say so."

Nothing more was done about the matter and the months passed. It seemed to Isabella that there was a perpetual tension as though trouble was ready to burst out at any moment. Her mother and Uncle Louis were quite blatant in their relationship; her father was overcome with melancholy; her father's uncle, the Duke of Burgundy, was constantly urging the King to do something, threatening that if he did not he would lose his crown. Did he want to find himself in the position of the dead Richard of England? he demanded. Isabella wanted to protest. It was no fault of Richard, she wanted to cry out. It was due to the wicked ambitious men around him. But no one would listen to her, of course. She was afraid of the Duke's son, who was known as John the Fearless, Count of Nevers. He was a man of violence, not caring what he said and of whom he said it. He always seemed to be at the centre of some cause and vowing vengeance on someone. She was glad when he was not at Court.

The Duke of Burgundy was for ever trying to persuade the King to take the Regency out of the hands of his brother of Orleans during those periods when he was unable to govern himself. The King wavered, but Isabeau always managed to persuade him. She was a siren who could conduct her smouldering love affair with Louis of Orleans in her husband's presence and somehow delude him.

Isabella would never forget the day the Augustine monk came to the Court to preach. He was named James Legrand and noted for his writings, and the directness of his sermons, and the subject of his sermon was the corruption of power and licentiousness. It was clearly aimed at the Court.

During the sermon the King rose from his seat and went and sat closer to the preacher, being immediately opposite him so that he could watch him while he spoke and not miss a word.

"The King your father," said Legrand, "likewise taxed his people but he did so to build fortresses to defend his country. He saved his treasure and made himself the most powerful of kings. Now nothing of this kind is done. The nobility in this day spend the money on entertainments; they live in debauchery; they wear dresses with ornamental fringes and big cuffs." He turned to the Queen and thundered: "This is the shame of the court, oh Queen. If you do not believe me, dress as a peasant and go into the city and mingle with the people that you may listen to what they say."

The Queen was incensed. She said that the preacher should be arrested. Let him rot in a dungeon and see what brave words he would have to utter then; but for once the King would have his own way.

"Nay," he said. "The man speaks some sense. It is true what he says of my father. I would I were more like him."

The Duke of Burgundy was beside his nephew. "Take warning," he said. "During your illnesses the country is being led to ruin. Your brother is too feckless, too frivolous. His morals are not of the highest standard. His wife frets about him. He has a good wife in Violante Visconti and how does he treat her? He is notoriously unfaithful to her. She is an unhappy woman. Sire, you must take from him the power to govern when you are stricken. There are others more suitable to the task."

"You mean yourself, uncle"

"I am of a more sober age, nephew. You will find there are many who support me."

The King had been so impressed by the sermon and the fact that it was true there were many to support the Duke of Burgundy that he gave way. He knew in his heart it was the right thing to do although he could not allow himself to believe what was so blatantly obvious and that was that his brother was his wife's lover.

When the Queen knew that power had been passed to Burgundy she was furious. So was Louis. They both disliked Burgundy who they knew would keep a firm hold on the reins once he had them in his grasp. Life was not going to be as amusing as it had been.

"A plague on Burgundy!" cried Louis of Orleans, but what was the use of words. It was a fact that under Burgundy a new rule of law and order was imposed. The great Duke set an example to the country by his exemplary family life. He surrounded himself with men of his own kind, whose great desire was to preserve the country, and the people were beginning to see what a difference a good ruler could make. There were no longer the bacchanalian feasts in which the Queen had loved to indulge at the expense of the State. Burgundy could not stop the intrigue between herself and Louis of Orleans, but he could mend so much that was wrong and he had the people behind him.

Isabella was now seventeen years old. The day she had known Richard was lost to her was a long time ago but for her it was as fresh as ever. Never, she told herself, would she love anyone but Richard. He would always be there in her thoughts to stand between her and whoever they married her to; and they would marry her. She would not be allowed to live long in her single state.

Matters came to a head when an embassy came from England. It contained surprising news. It was secret it seemed, but Henry of England stated that if the King of France would give him the hand of his daughter Isabella for his son Harry, Prince of Wales, he himself would abdicate in favour of his son.

This was astounding. Henry abdicate? Why? The rumours of the terrible disease which had taken possession of him must be true.

Could he really be suffering from leprosy? It was the disease which had finished that great Scottish warrior, Robert the Bruce, years ago. Afflicted by it a man must become so unsightly to society that he had no alternative but to hide himself away.

Isabella Queen of England again! It was a glittering prospect.

It was necessary to convey the information to Isabella. There was a tradition that a woman who had once been married for reasons of state should be given a modicum of choice in her second marriage. Moreover Burgundy was not sure—nor were his advisers—that this match with England was the best possible at this time. If Henry were indeed incapable of ruling and was ready to be supplanted by his son, was that not an admission of weakness? If he wanted a marriage with France could that mean that he was seeking peace or at least a truce, because he feared his grasp was weakening? One country did not fight another when there was a marriage alliance between them.

The French were uncertain.

When the proposition was put to Isabella she was vehement in her denunciations of it.

"I will never go there. I will never live among the murderers of my husband. Anything ... anything but that."

"Anything?" said the Duc d'Orleans. "Dear niece, it is necessary that you marry, you know."

"I know it," she replied. "But I will not marry Harry of Monmouth."

Since Isabella was so determined and the council was so unsure, it seemed a good way out to let Isabella decide, but none knew better than she that had it been expedient to her country for her to marry Harry of Monmouth she would have been forced to do so.

It was then that her Uncle Louis spoke to her about his son Charles of Angouleme.

"He loves you dearly," said Louis. "It is a wish very close to my heart ... and to your mother's ... that you two should marry."

"I do not think my mother cares very much what becomes of me," said Isabella.

"Oh my dear dear child," cried Louis, attempting to show deep concern, "you must not say that. She cares for you so much ... you and your brothers and sisters."

"I have not noticed it, sir," replied Isabella coolly. "My sisters are in need of new clothes. Their food is not of the best. I am told that the money is not available to feed and clothe them in a manner due to their rank. My mother of course needs it for her ornamental fringes and big cuffs."

Louis laughed. "You have been listening to the ramblings of that miserable preacher. If I had my way he would be thrust into an oubliette and left there."

"I doubt that not," replied Isabella. "But know this. I have no wish to marry."

"Oh come, dear child. You are not meant to waste the years. Why, you are a beauty. You will be like your mother one day."

"I pray not."

"She is the most beautiful woman in France."

Isabella was silent. A terrible fear gripped her. They would pretend for a while that they wanted her consent and when she refused it they would force her. She knew their methods.

The possibility of a match was forgotten temporarily for to the great rejoicing of Orleans and the Queen, the Duke of Burgundy fell ill. Within a short time he was dead. The new Duke of Burgundy was his son John the Fearless, Count of Nevers.

The whole of France waited in trepidation for what would happen next.

Louis was more anxious than ever now to bring about the marriage of his son and Isabella and the Queen told her daughter firmly that there must be no more delay.

"Do you want us to send you to England?" she demanded. "That is what will happen in time, depend upon it, if you delay much longer. There are some who believe it would be good to bring about a truce with England and they would do it with this marriage. The new Duke of Burgundy is against pursuing the war. You can guess what he has in mind. There is your cousin Charles. I know he is younger than you, but that will give you a chance to mould him in the way you want him to go. Come, Isabella, do not be foolish. Marry Charles. It is what I want for you and so does your Uncle Louis."

"And what of my father? Does he want it?"

"Your poor father alas is in one of his twilight phases. He does not know what he wants. But when he is in good mind he would agree that this is right for you. Think, child, it will keep you with us. Do you want to go to a foreign land? Do you want to be sent back to the son of your first husband's murderer? I hear rumours of the life young Harry leads. Roystering in taverns ... choosing the lowest companions. Not the sort of husband who would suit your sensitive nature and your refined tastes. If they wanted to find you a man as different from Richard as they could they would choose no better."

So it went on and finally she agreed.

There was great rejoicing and her mother, delighted that her daughter had promised to marry the son of her lover, set about preparing the most lavish entertainments. They were cousins of course—first cousins at that—but never mind. The Pope would not dare to raise any objection and the dispensation was a foregone conclusion. Banquets and jousting, dancing, players ... everything that could be devised was included. The Queen excelled at arranging such occasions; and Louis of course was beside her. It was the best thing that had happened since Burgundy had ousted him from his position as Regent.

Only the prospective bride was unhappy. She sat mournfully through the festivities and she could only think of Richard.

She had little feeling for the boy to whom they were marrying her, but he seemed bewildered and she tried to comfort him as well as she could.

"You need not worry," she told him. "It will be all right."

He clung to her hand reassured; but she could only turn away to hide the tears which she could not hold back.

So she became the Countess of Angouleme and was no longer Richard's sorrowing widow.

The wedding did not arouse a great deal of interest throughout the country. People were more concerned with the scandalous behaviour of the Queen and her paramour and the growing tension between the Duke of Burgundy and Louis of Orleans.

There was a certain relief when Burgundy showed that he was seeking to placate Orleans. In the streets of Paris they said if these two could forget their differences, it would be to the advantage of France; and Burgundy, in order to show that the fault did not lie with him, invited Orleans to dine with him.

It was a dark November evening before the day fixed for the meeting between Orleans and Burgundy. Louis had dined with the Queen and he was in very high spirits. It was eight o'clock. He would join the Queen later but now he was returning to his apartments.

He was accompanied by two of his squires riding on one horse and by four menservants who carried torches. The Duke was singing as they walked along. As they came into the Vieille Rue du Temple, a band of armed men sprang out and surrounded the party.

Luckily for the squires their horse took fright and bolted with them on its back; the servants dropped their torches and closed in round the Duke, who cried out: "What is this? I am the Duc d'Orleans. What do you want of me?"

One of the assailants cried out: "You are just the one we want. Ready friends."

The man who had spoken struck at the Duke with an axe and another came at him with a sword. Louis fell fainting to the ground.

One of his servants attempted to defend him and was struck down but managed to crawl away, the others seeing it was useless to try to defend themselves escaped into a nearby shop.

By this time windows were flung open for many had heard the commotion and the shouts of the assassins.

"Murder!" screamed a woman from the window of a cobbler's shop.

"Hold your tongue, strumpet," shouted one of the murderers and shot an arrow in her direction at which she immediately disappeared from sight.

"Out with all lights," cried the leader of the band.

Then the murderers ran. By this time people had been wakened and were coming fearfully down onto the street; and now that the murderers had gone they came to look at that night's work.

The Duc d'Orleans was dead. His body had been hacked and mutilated till there was no sign left of the handsome philanderer.

The Queen was in despair; so was Orleans' wife, Violante. There was no doubt that they loved the Duke dearly.

"Find his murderers," cried the Queen. "I swear I will take revenge of them."

The Duke of Burgundy joined his voice with the Queen's.

"There was never a more wicked murder in the whole of the kingdom of France," he declared.

The Provost of Paris, Sieur de Tignouville, was sent for. Nothing must be spared in the hunt for the murderers, he was told.

"My lord," was his reply, "if I may be granted permission to make my enquiries in the hostels of the King's servants and those of the Princes, I will discover the criminals."

The answer was that whatever help the Provost needed was to be given to him. He was to have free entry into every palace, hotel, shop or house in Paris.

"Then," cried Tignouville, "I think I shall be able to give you the murderers."

The Duke of Burgundy showed obvious signs of stress at this pronouncement and the Duc de Berri, his uncle, noticed this.

He drew him aside for a terrible suspicion had come to him.

"You know something I believe, John," he said.

Burgundy could see that there was no point in denying that he was the instigator of the murder.

He answered: "Orleans was bringing dishonour to the King's bed. He was a menace to the nation. Yes, it was I who hired the assassins to kill him."

"Oh my God," cried the Duc de Berri. "Now I have lost both my nephews. Louis murdered and you John his murderer.

"You should not go back to the council," added Berri.

"Nor will I," said Burgundy. "My wish is that none shall be accused of murdering the Duc d'Orleans, for it was I and none other who caused what has been done."

With that he walked out, leaped onto his horse and taking only six of his attendants with him galloped away across the frontier to Flanders.

When it was known that he had escaped there was great indignation and a hundred of Orleans' men gave chase but they were too late and could not catch up with him.

The affair had shaken the Court. People talked of nothing else. There was nothing that could be done to bring Burgundy to justice; and people were beginning to say that Orleans had deserved his death. He had dishonoured his brother; he had made no secret of his adulterous relationship with the Queen, he had imposed taxes on the people, his rule had nearly brought the country to ruin, whereas everyone knew that Burgundy was a strong man. Fierce he might be, ruthless, violent; but his father's rule had been good and he showed signs of his father's strength.

Violante Visconti, widow of Orleans, was determined that his murderer should not go unpunished. In spite of his infidelities she had loved the Duc passionately, and she was eager to avenge him. She arrived in Paris with her children. The weather was bitterly cold—the worst Paris had experienced for several years. Nevertheless she came because the King was in the midst of one of his lucid periods and she believed that she would get justice from him.

She came to the Hotel St Pol, where the King was in residence and she forced her way into the room where he was sitting with his council. There she threw herself onto her knees and demanded that her husband's murderers be brought to justice.

The King promised her that everything should be done. "We regard the deed done to our brother as done to ourself," he told Violante.

Isabella, unhappy in her own unsatisfactory marriage, did her best to comfort Violante. She knew what it meant to have a husband done to death.

"We have much in common," she said sadly. "I feel for you."

There were rumours in the town. Burgundy had no intention of remaining outside France. True he had murdered the Duc d'Orleans but he had done it for France. Everyone knew that he was ruining the country. Burgundy was building himself up as the saviour of France. The King beset on all sides immediately lapsed into madness.

Paris waited for what would happen next. It soon came. A monk arrived with a message from the Duke of Burgundy to the King. Poor Charles, his mind being in a clouded state, was unable to receive the monk; but his son the little Dauphin who was now aged twelve, sat at the head of the council and listened to what the monk had to say.

The burden of his discourse was that it was lawful, honourable and meritorious to slay or cause to be slain, a traitor to his country—especially when that traitor holds greater power than the King. Was this not what had happened in the case of the Duc d'Orleans, whose object had been to set aside the King and his sons and take the crown himself? Far from blaming the Duke of Burgundy, the King and the country should applaud what he had caused to be done.

The poor little Dauphin was bewildered. So was the council. There was some truth in this. Orleans, the extravagant libertine, had no gift for government. The country had prospered temporarily under the old Duke of Burgundy. Was his son right in what he had done?

While the monk continued to lay before the Dauphin and the council the case for Burgundy, the King recovered and was able to preside and listen to the arguments put forth. It was true, he thought, that Orleans had almost brought the country to ruin; it was true also that the old Duke of Burgundy had saved it. All he wanted was peace and there never would be if he did not agree that what Burgundy had done was good for France. Orleans had been a traitor to him. The King knew of his liaison with the Queen.

A letter was brought to him from the monk who implored him to sign it.

"My lord," he pleaded, "a stroke of the pen from you and this matter will be settled."

The King read the letter:

It is our will and pleasure that our cousin of Burgundy abide in peace with us and our successors in respect of the aforesaid deed and all that hath followed it, and that by us and our successors our people and officers no hindrance on account of that may be offered to the Duke and his."

"Just your name, sire," begged the monk, "and this highly dangerous matter is at an end."

Charles was tired of strife. He did not know from one day to the next when an attack was coming on.

He signed.

"Tell the Duke of Burgundy that I will receive him," he said.

The Duke did not need a second invitation. He came at once to the King.

Charles received him cordially but somewhat mournfully.

"I can cancel the penalty," he told him, "but not the resentment. It will be for you. Monsieur le Duc, to defend yourself from attacks which it seems likely will come."

"Sire" replied the Duke, "if I am in favour with you I fear no man living"

The Queen was dismayed. The King would not listen to her. She had lost her lover. She was distraught and she wondered what would happen to her.

Isabella, deeply concerned by all that was going on around her, caught up in a marriage which had not been of her seeking, found time to visit her little sisters who were lodged in the Hotel St Pol and were often neglected.

She arrived one day to find they had gone. The servants, distressed and weeping, told her that the Queen had come and taken them away.

"Where has she taken them to?" cried Isabella.

No one could say. This was particularly strange because the Queen had never shown much interest in the children.

Later it was discovered that she was hiding in Melun and had all the royal children with her. The King had lapsed into one of his mad periods and the Duke of Burgundy seized the reins of government and showed by his strength of purpose that he was capable of the task.

After a few months a revolt in Flanders demanded Burgundy's presence, so he left France and rode off to settle the trouble in Flanders.

No sooner had he gone than the Queen came back to Paris with the Dauphin, and the latter was very warmly received by the Parisians. It was clear that the people were with him. The widowed Duchess of Orleans then began to plead with the Dauphin to bring her husband's murderer to justice and the Dauphin was advised to tell her that he would consider the matter, but before he had time to do this news came that Burgundy had subdued the rebels in Flanders and was on his way back to Paris. The Queen with the Dauphin and all the members of the royal family set out for Tours so that when Burgundy returned he found no one there to greet him.

He was wise enough to know that he could not rule as King; what he wanted was the Dauphin to be his figurehead; so he immediately set out for Tours in an attempt to make peace between the two factions. At this time Violante died —some said of a broken heart so much had she loved her faithless husband; but with her no longer begging for revenge and with the Queen realizing that it was to her advantage to make a pact with Burgundy, peace was made between the parties.

Isabella had watched all that was going on with disgust and sadness.

She did not dislike her young husband, and she was now going to have a child. She wondered whether that would change her feelings and whether she might be happy again.

If only it were Richard's child, how happy she would be! So many years had passed. Was it nine since she had last seen him? She remembered how he had picked her up and held her fast and begged her never to stop loving him.

As if she could!

He had not known what lay ahead then—a cold and dismal cell in Pontefract Castle, death ...

And she a child then, to be left alone ... to face life without him.

From the Court of that scheming murderer and the blustering hateful Harry she had come to her home to find her father mad, her mother a wanton and to be plunged into another drama of murder and revenge.

But soon she would have a child. It must make a difference.

Charles, her young husband, had grown up considerably in the last few months; he was delighted that they were to have a child; he could not do enough for her. She was beginning to care for him.

As she lay on her bed, heavy with child, she sometimes asked herself if she could be happy again. Perhaps. When she had the child and she and Charles had become absorbed by it. Who knew? Perhaps the future would chase away those figures of the past. Perhaps she would cease to mourn for Richard and accept the fact that he was lost to her for ever.

She had gone to Blois, home of the Orleans family of which she was now a member. There was something formidable about this massive chateau with its thick stone walls rising from the rock on which it was built. It looked impregnable standing high over the town, supported by its mighty buttresses. Isabella could not forget that here such a short time ago Violante Visconti had died, of a broken heart, they said; and on her deathbed she had implored her three sons and daughters to avenge the death of their father. There had been one other child she sent for—the bastard son of her husband and a woman called Marietta d'Enghien; she saw in this boy of six the making of a warrior. "You will avenge your father, little bastard of Orleans," it was reported she had said; and he had sworn he would.

Was she wise to have come to Blois, the scene of so much unhappiness? But then what place was not so haunted?

Charles came to her. He did not seem so young now. She herself was twenty-one—not so very much older than he was yet she felt old in experience.

He talked of the child. He wanted a boy who would become a future Duc d'Orleans. She wondered how often he thought of his murdered father. He never spoke of him. Like her he was looking forward; there was only sadness in looking back.

The thought of the child was always with her. It will be a new life, she thought. And she shut out the memory of the violent happenings about her. Her mother did not come to see her. She was too involved in her intrigues. She must not brood on what might be to come. She had had enough of trouble and wanted peace.

September had come. She had carried the child through the hottest months; now she was grateful that the weather was a little cooler.

Her pains started early in the morning. Her labour was long and arduous. She was only half aware of the figures round her bed. There was nothing now but the agony.

She fell into unconsciousness... and when at last she heard the cry of a child, she was not sure where she was. She was riding in the country. It was England and Richard was coming to meet her. They were looking at each other, in a kind of bewilderment. He was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen with his golden hair waving in the breeze and his blue eyes alight with admiration for her and a faint flush on his delicate skin. And for him she was the most beautiful little girl in the world. She could hear his voice telling her so.

"Oh Richard ... Richard ... dear Richard ... I am coming to you now .. "

How had she known? It was some premonition. She had a new life to lead but she was not going to start it. Her happiness had been Richard. There was nothing that could replace that.

They put the child in her arms. A little girl.

Charles, Duc d'Orleans since the murder of his father, was kneeling at her bedside. She could see his anxious eyes. She put out her hand and touched his face. It was wet with tears.

Why did he weep? But she knew.

She was twenty-one years old. It was young to die. But she was ready.

Within a few days after the birth of her child Isabella was dead.