The Queen From Provence - Plaidy Jean. Страница 29

So the unsatisfactory marriage had gone on for nine years and during those years she had produced one son – their now five-year-old Henry. And it was to see Henry that Richard came to Berkhamsted now and then, for the child was the only reason that Richard did not entirely deplore his folly in marrying her.

Now here she was – an ageing woman, about to be delivered of a child, uneasily feeling that all was not going well with the birth and a premonition coming to her that she might be living through her last days on earth.

Through the windows she could see the snow fluttering down, whipped to a blizzard by the bitter north winds. Young Henry, rosy-cheeked, was sitting at her feet playing with a board and dice – a game which was called ‘tables’. Two should have played it but because his nurse had said no one must disturb Lady Isabella and she seemed to find comfort from the society of her son, Henry who was a resourceful child was playing the game against himself.

She watched him tenderly. He was indeed a handsome child.

He looked up at her and seeing her eyes on him, he said: ‘My lady, will my father come?’

She was so weak that she could not resist the tears which came to her eyes.

‘I am not sure, my dearest.’

‘Are you crying?’ he asked wonderingly.

‘Oh no.’

‘You look as if you’re crying. Is it because something hurts you?’

‘No, no. Nothing hurts. I am happy because you are with me.’

‘He,’ said Henry, pointing to the other side of the board, ‘is losing and I am winning.’

He laughed, forgetting his momentary alarm.

He bent over the board and chuckled as he threw the dice.

The pain seized her suddenly and she said: ‘Henry, go now and tell them to come to me at once.’

He stood up, the dice still in his hand. ‘I have nearly won,’ he said reproachfully.

‘Never mind, my love. Go now.’

He hesitated, glanced at her and was suddenly frightened to see her face distorted in pain. Then he ran out of the room shouting to her attendants.

Her child was dead and she was dying. Richard had come but she was only vaguely aware of him. He was sitting at her bedside, and the priest was there too, holding the cross before her eyes.

So it was over – this brief life. Richard would have his freedom and he would have Henry too. Thank God Henry was a boy and Richard had always wanted a boy. No matter whether he married again Henry would always be his firstborn. He would remember that and do his best for their son.

She wanted to be buried at Tewkesbury beside Gilbert de Clare. He had been her first husband and he had cherished her. It was fitting that she should lie beside the father of her three sons and three daughters.

She had made her wishes clear. There was nothing left now but to die.

She was aware of Richard at her bedside. He was weeping as were her attendants. Richard in tears? Crocodile tears? He must be inwardly rejoicing. He had tried to divorce her and had been angry and frustrated when the Pope had refused to accept his case. Now Death was giving him what the Pope had denied him.

But perhaps there was a certain regret. Perhaps the tears were genuine. Perhaps he was remembering the early days of their passion. But she was too tired to wonder any more.

Her great concern was their son.

‘Henry,’ she whispered.

Richard’s face was close to hers now.

‘Have no fear for Henry. I love him as I love my life. He is my son. Never fear but that I shall do everything for him.’

She nodded. She could believe that.

She closed her eyes and departed from this life in peace.

So his marriage was over and he was free. Only the direst hypocrite could pretend he was not relieved. For years now – in fact after the first two years of marriage – he had known he had made a bad mistake in marrying Isabella. He thought of Henry with his young Queen and how excited he, Richard, had been at the Court of Provence among those young girls and now he envied Henry.

Well, now he was no longer encumbered. Poor Isabella. She had been a beauty in her youth. But youth passed her too quickly and her melancholy brought on by his infidelities did not add to her charm. Had she accepted the inevitability of his dallying with other women, he might have been inclined to visit her more frequently.

But what was the use of going over it? It was over. He was a free man.

She had expressed a wish to be buried at Tewkesbury beside her first husband. That was a reproach to him, being a suggestion to the world that her first marriage had meant more to her than the second. He was not going to have that. She should certainly not be buried at Tewkesbury. He would bury her at Beaulieu, the proper place for a wife of his to lie.

It was unwise however to ignore the wishes of the dead, and Richard was adept at compromise. He knew what he would do. Her heart should be taken from her body, placed in a silver casket and buried before the great altar at Tewkesbury. That should satisfy both the dead and the living.

Having made this decision he dismissed the matter from his mind.

Isabella was dead. He would go on from there.

He had, since the birth of Prince Edward, been preparing for his crusade. Before that he had hesitated, because it had seemed that Henry might not have children, in which case if he were to die suddenly Richard would be King. It would have been extremely unwise to leave the country when such a contingency was possible. But now there was an heir to the throne who showed every sign of growing up into a healthy man. Richard had taken a step back from the throne; therefore he could continue with his plans to leave the country.

He sent for his son and when the boy was brought to him he dismissed his attendants that he might be alone with the child.

He drew the boy to him and taking his chin in his hand turned his face upward. A skin fair and flawless, strong brown hair, bright eyes and well marked brows; and above all an alert intelligence which delighted his heart.

‘Henry, my child,’ he said soberly, ‘you have no mother now.’

‘She is dead,’ agreed Henry.

‘But you still have your father who loves you dearly.’

Henry nodded and waited.

‘Never fear, my son, that I shall forget to care for you.’

‘But you forgot to come and see my mother.’

How innocent he was. He did not seek to please. He spoke the truth as he saw it naturally as though it were the only thing to do.

‘I had much with which to occupy myself. I have been fighting in the King’s war.’

‘Shall I fight the King’s war?’

‘When you are old enough. But first, son, you have to grow up, and that can take a long time. You are but five years old but seem older. You have worked well at your lessons and at your sport. Your riding master tells me you took to the saddle as though you had been born to it.’

‘I like much to ride, father. I no longer have the leading rein.’

‘That is good.’

‘Would you like to see my falcon?’

‘Later. Now I want to talk to you.’

Henry nodded gravely.

‘Where has my mother gone?’ he asked.

‘Did you not understand, my son? She has gone to Heaven.’

‘When will she come back?’

‘She has gone to stay with the saints. She will be so happy with them that she will not wish to come back.’

‘She will want to come back for me,’ said Henry confidently. ‘Perhaps she will take me back with her.’

‘God forbid,’ said his father, suddenly catching him to his chest in a firm grip.

‘Yes, she will,’ said Henry confidently. ‘She never liked me to be away from her too long. I wonder what it is like in Heaven. There would be a lot of horses … white ones I think.’