It should never have been. How often had she said that to herself. She had told him from the start that a widow who had already borne her first husband six children was no fit wife for a man such as Richard of Cornwall.
He had refused to listen and perhaps she had not been as insistent as she should have been, because she had been in love with him and believed in miracles. For a year or so it seemed that that miracle had happened, but then reality took over from dreams. His visits were less frequent; and when he did come he was clearly in a hurry to get away.
Desperately he wanted a child – what ambitious man did not? – and during the first four years although she had borne children they had not lived. At last their son had been born. Sometimes she could believe that made everything worth while. Young Henry – named after his uncle the King – was indeed a boy to be proud of. And proud Richard was.
His visits were more frequent, but he came to see the boy, of course.
Young Henry was bright, intelligent and handsome – everything one could wish for. At least she had given Richard his son.
But Richard was young, lusty, fond of female society; he had the glamour of royalty; there had been a time when it had seemed that Henry and Eleanor might not have children, and Richard was looked upon as the heir to the throne. He had but to beckon and most women came readily enough. It was small wonder that his visits were rare and when he did come it was obvious that his main desire was to see the boy.
It was so cold in the castle at Berkhamsted – as cold as the fear in her heart. The draughts seemed to penetrate even the thick walls and Isabella found it difficult to keep warm in spite of the great fire.
Her women said it was her condition. They tried to comfort her by telling her that her child would almost certainly be a boy. But even if it was and Richard was temporarily pleased, what would that do to bolster up their marriage? The existence of young Henry – much as his father loved him – had failed to do that.
No, here she was an ageing woman whose husband was weary of her. He had tried to find an acceptable reason for divorcing her, but having failed must now be praying for her death.
A wretched state for a sensitive woman to come to. Perhaps she had been happier with Gilbert de Clare – a marriage which had been arranged for her by her mighty father. Gilbert had been his prisoner when, immediately after the death of King John, Gilbert had supported the Prince of France and William Marshal, her father, had been determined to set Henry on the throne. Gilbert had been a worthy husband for the Marshal’s daughter, so, without consulting that daughter the marriage had been arranged. It had been a not entirely unsatisfactory marriage and when he had died she had mourned him sincerely with her three sons and three daughters. Then she had fallen in love with Richard of Cornwall and had married him romantically half believing in his protestations of undying love because she wanted to while her common sense warned her that such a man was unlikely to remain faithful to any woman let alone one so many years older than he was.
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.