Instead, in measured tones I said: ‘You are better informed than I, my lady.’ She obviously had her sources. I had not realised that the threatening conflict had progressed so far. ‘At least it seems that there has been no battle, no bloodshed.’
‘Is that good news?’ Her eyes bored into mine. ‘What I do not know is what has happened to my lord the King. Is he still free? What will happen to him if he is taken prisoner?’ She clasped and unclasped her hands, her rings reflecting the light again and again. ‘I fear for his safety.’
‘There is no need. My lord of Lancaster took a sacred oath that he wanted only what is his by inheritance. He intends no harm to his cousin.’
Which Isabelle ignored, her fingers now toying with some glittering fairing tucked into her sleeve. The venom had dissipated as fast as it had appeared. Again she was merely a woeful child, which engaged my compassion. ‘What do I do if my lord is no longer King?’
‘Hush, my lady.’ I tried to dispel the panic that sat on her shoulder like some chattering creature. ‘We do not know that he is no longer King. My lord of Lancaster has assured me that…’
The panic swelled, her voice rising. ‘What do I do if he is dead?’
‘He is not dead. You must not fear that, my lady.’
She lifted a square of linen to her eyes, to her nose; she sniffed like the child she was, but when she spoke again her voice was clear.
‘My lord gave me this.’ From her sleeve she drew the fairing which showed itself to be a jewel-encrusted whistle. ‘It was a gift to him from the Bishop of Durham. He said that if I were ever in danger I should blow on this whistle.’ She gave a sharp toot that caused the finches in the cage at her side to hop in matching panic from side to side. ‘He would hear it and come to rescue me, he promised. But I fear that he never will.’
Poor Isabelle. Standing, stepping up onto the dais, I encroached on her royal dignity to clasp her hand around the whistle, even though she stiffened at the contact. She feared Richard’s death, and it would be impossibly foolish to say that it had never crossed my mind. While I considered some suitable words of comfort, Isabella, looking up into my face said: ‘If our marriage is unconsummated, I must return home to France. It is my father’s wish. My dowry and jewels must return with me. I expect that I will marry again.’
‘You must not ill-wish the future, my lady.’ I released her hands as if they burned.
‘I do not know what to do. What would you do?’
‘If I were you, I would live in hope that all can be resolved.’
‘How can I?’ Abruptly she rose to her feet so that I perforce must retreat. ‘How can I? I am in despair.’
When I saw tears on her cheeks, forgetting that she was Queen, I took her into my arms as I would have embraced my daughter in a moment of her distress, so that she rested there, her jewels a hard carapace, her cheek against my breast.
‘You must be brave,’ I murmured.
‘I think my heart will break,’ she replied. Then, pushing against me: ‘You must release me now.’
Isabelle walked away, collecting her damsels, leaving me to curtsey to an empty room, to mull over the dangers that had erupted to threaten her marriage and her existence as Queen of England.
What do I do if he is dead?
Isabelle’s fear suddenly found an answering chime within me. Harry led a charmed existence, returning from battle and skirmish without undue harm. Even when he had been taken prisoner at Otterburn, he had been ransomed and released, healthy and unharmed, after a year of captivity.
What would I do if he was dead? My mind could not encompass it.
Broken hearts suddenly became a real fear. But for whom? All I knew in my own heart was that the resolution of these events would never be to Isabelle’s contentment.
I waited, carved emblems of royal power pressing down upon me in case I should forget who was King of England. Would he be in shackles? I thought it not appropriate that he should be.
Even at this moment of high anxiety, the Great Hall at Westminster, newly furnished and embellished, heralded the power of King Richard the Second. His personal emblem, the white hart, collared in gold, was repeated again and again, with a throng of heavenly angels carved at the end of each beam in the great hammer-beam roof. Each angel carried a shield, the majesty of the fleur-de-lys of France quartered with the three leopards of England. Richard’s heraldic symbol. This was Richard’s hall, built by him, with a new throne that he had had carved, complete with a gilded cushion, positioned on the dais for all to see.
I was here because I had been told that Richard was coming. I was here because I thought it my duty to be here to witness the return of my cousin.
Without warning the great doors were dragged back; in marched an armed guard, and there at the centre of their protection, or perhaps their containment, walked King Richard.
The guard came to a halt and so did the King.
I could not take my eyes from his face.
Never had I seen Richard so unkingly, whether in demeanour or in apparel. Pale, dishevelled, his soft lips pressed hard together, he stared around him as if he had still to accept where he was and why he was here, hemmed in by soldiers not in his livery. Without thought, so it seemed to me, he was plucking at the hem of his tunic, a garment that he might have been wearing for the whole of the journey from Wales, so travel-worn and stained as it was. His boots were covered in dust, and his hose to the knee. His eyes looked wild and uncomprehending as if he had been pushed beyond his bearing. Strained, even hollow-cheeked, he might not have eaten a good meal since he had fallen into Lancaster’s hands.
At last Richard’s vacant gaze fell on me, so that I stepped forward, and from a lifetime of custom and loyalty I curtsied. The King made no sign of recognition. At close quarters, his eyes were glassy as if unknowing of what was expected of him. Perhaps that was the problem, I thought, watching the febrile glance he cast this way and that. For the first time in his adult life nothing was expected of him. He was not in control of who must do what at his royal command. And I realised the enormity of what had happened. What Lancaster had done. What we had done. Whatever my ambitions for my Mortimer family, Richard was the true heir. No one could promote a legitimate case for his not wearing the crown. His blood was true in descent from King Edward the Third, eldest son to eldest son. Yet what hope was there for him now?
Compassion touched my mind, as it had for Isabelle.
As he was led away, his shoulders bowed, I knew that Richard would never again take his seat on the throne beneath the angelic throng.
Fleetingly, I wondered if Isabelle would be allowed to see him.
More critically, as I watched Richard being escorted to some place of confinement, I wondered if Lancaster was still intent on keeping his oath, that he would not disturb the true inheritance. A warm fear rose to fill every space in my mind, in my heart. What we had done, whatever it might be, was irrevocable. I could not yet see with any clarity the road that I would be forced to tread. And beneath the fear, struggling to be born, was just the faintest breath of guilt.
Westminster: 13 October 1399
Cold and cramped, I stood in my chamber in the rambling palace of Westminster, clad in robes that were not of my choosing although the fit was remarkably good, aided with a pin and a stitch here and there. Opposite me stood Harry, even more resplendent, hands fisted on his hips. Harry looked uneasy as if he would rather be in hunting leathers or readied for some Scottish skirmish, but there was a determination in the rigidity of his jaw as he carried the finery