Catherine was about the business of her household when the herald arrived. She recognised his livery at once – the blue and the grey and the Lancastrian arms embroidered on his tabard.
Her heart beat uncertainly. He was coming. She had waited long for him and she had tried to convince herself that she would never see him again. It was true he had talked to her of what he would do if he were free – but did she believe him? Did she not know that some project must present itself, some thing which would further his ambitions. How could he possibly marry a woman such as herself who had been criticised by so many for what would be termed her loose behaviour?
No, it had been pleasant talk, lovers’ talk of what should be, when it was believed it was impossible.
She went swiftly about the house giving orders here and there.
‘Make ready, my lord Duke of Lancaster will soon be with us.’
She stood in the hall waiting to greet him – alone. First she must see him alone.
He strode towards her, looking a little older than when she had last seen him. There were flecks of white in his tawny gold hair and new lines about his fine Plantagenet eyes. He was no longer young. He was fifty-five years of age and she was only ten years younger. They had first been lovers twenty years before.
‘Catherine,’ he cried, taking her hands. He held them firmly in his and looked into her face. ‘As beautiful as ever,’ he said.
She laughed and shook her head but he just drew her to him and held her fast.
‘Never to be parted again,’ he said, ‘for such time as is left to us.’
‘My lord …’ she began.
‘Nay,’ he said, ‘call me husband for I am going to marry you, Catherine.’
She felt dizzy with joy; but even then she would not believe it.
She answered: ‘My lord, have you thought …’
‘Of nothing else,’ he said, ‘since Constanza died.’
‘It is not possible.’
‘I will show you how possible. All we need is a priest.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Never more sure of anything. What is it, Catherine?’ He had seized her shoulders and drawn back to look at her more intently. ‘Is this marriage distasteful to you?’
She laughed in the way he remembered so well.
‘It is something I sometimes dreamed of.’
‘Then you need dream no more.’
‘It is wrong,’ she said.
‘It is right,’ he answered.
‘Our children …’
‘Our Beauforts shall be my legitimate children. Catherine, will you marry me?’
‘Never have I done anything in my life with a thousandth part of the joy with which I shall do that.’
‘So it is settled. We will lose no time. From this day forth, my love, you are my Duchess of Lancaster.’
Anne was dead and Richard would mourn her for the rest of his life, but he was reminded by his ministers that he was a King and must marry.
Gloucester was back at Court, suave and placating, trying to pretend that there had never been any trouble between him and the King. He would know of course that Richard was one never to forget a slight; all the same Gloucester’s mind was so full of plans that he was not going to let a little matter like the King’s enmity come between him and his ambition.
It was Gloucester who broached the matter of the King’s marriage.
It had been suggested to him, the King replied, but at the time he could think of nothing but his adored Queen Anne and the thought of replacing her did not appeal to him.
‘I understand, my dear nephew,’ said Gloucester, but Richard looked at him contemptuously. How could Gloucester understand? Married to the not very attractive Eleanor Bohun for the great fortune she could bring him! How could Gloucester compare his marriage with the bliss Richard and Anne had shared.
‘The fact is,’ went on Gloucester, ‘you should choose a bride and I am of the opinion that the people would like someone from our own country.’
‘Tell me whom?’ asked Richard.
‘My daughter Anne is recently widowed as you know. Poor Stafford! He was young to die. My daughter is beautiful and experienced. She is royal … as royal as you yourself. You share the same grandfather. I can think of no better match.’
‘I can think of none more likely to cause complaint,’ retorted Richard.
‘And why so? Anne is a very desirable young lady, I can tell you.’
‘She happens to be my first cousin. The blood tie is far too close.’
‘Bah! Popes can help very much in such instances. All we have to do is make it worthwhile.’
‘I consider the tie too close.’
‘Oh my dear nephew, you have yet to grow up.’
There could be nothing more maddening than this persistence that he was a boy and unable to arrange his own affairs as well as those of the country.
‘Do you realise,’ he said, ‘that I am thirty years of age?’
‘Oh not yet …’
‘I shall soon be thirty and if I were not I would have you remember that I am the King.’
It was true what his brother John said, thought Gloucester, he and the King could not be together for more than a few minutes before a storm arose.
Richard went on: ‘I have already discussed this matter of my marriage with those whom it concerns.’
‘Your happiness concerns me as a subject and as your uncle.’
‘Then you will be very pleased that I have found a wife.’
Gloucester’s brow darkened.
‘Who … may I ask?’
‘You may. I have chosen the daughter of the King of France. It has always been my ambition to bring about a peaceful settlement of these continental affrays in France which absorb our wealth and bring us little gain. This marriage will please both the King and myself. It will make us friends.’
‘The eldest daughter of the King of France is but seven years of age … if that.’
‘An enchanting child, they tell me.’
‘You need a wife …’
‘It is what I intend to have.’
‘This child is far too young. Why even in five or six years’ time she will scarcely have reached the proper age for a wife.’
‘Every day will remedy the deficiency in her age. Moreover her youth is one of my reasons for choosing her. I wish her to be educated here and brought up in our ways. I want her to be English in manners and customs and her way of thinking. That is what the people will like. As for myself I am not so old that I cannot wait for her.’
Gloucester asked leave to retire. He was fuming with rage which he could not keep to himself much longer.
So the King had already entered into negotiations to marry Isabella of Valois, daughter of the King of France.
Chapter XIV
THE LITTLE ISABELLA
There had been an air of great excitement in the Hotel de St Pol ever since the embassy had arrived from England; and there was none more aware of this than the little girl who was the cause of it.
Isabelle de Valois, although but eight years old, was very much aware of her beauty and importance. She was clever too and had always believed that as the daughter of the King of France a bright future lay ahead of her.
‘Many people will want to marry me,’ she told her maids who clustered around her, dressing her in soft silk gowns and curling her beautiful dark hair. ‘I wonder who will be the lucky one?’
They smiled at her; secretly they said: ‘The Lady Isabelle has a good conceit of herself. She is too pretty, that one. But she will have her own way, that is a certainty.’
If Isabelle had heard them, she would have agreed. Yes, certainly she had a good conceit of herself. Why not? Was she not very pretty? Were her little ways not quite fascinating? Was she not alert of mind? And in addition to all this she was the daughter of the King of France.