Виктория Холт: The Queen's Secret

“Who?” I whispered.

“Henry Bolingbroke…he who calls himself Henry IV of England. He sits there on Richard’s throne…and the only way he could keep it was by murdering Richard. And they wanted me to marry … his son. It was to keep my dowry, of course. Oh, they are wicked.”

“His son?” I asked.

She nodded. “Henry of Monmouth.” Her lips curled in contempt.

It was the first time I had heard the name of the man who was to play such an important part in my own life. Afterward, looking back, I felt how strange it was that I did not have some premonition at the time. But I did not, and Henry was then just a name to me. He was the son of that wicked predator who had stolen the noble Richard’s throne and murdered him.

“Henry of Monmouth?” I repeated.

“He is still called that by some, because it was in Monmouth that he was born. He is odious. I hate him. How could they think I would marry him!”

“Never mind, sister,” I said. “You are home now. He cannot harm you here.”

“But they would marry me…to my cousin of Orléans.”

“But he is our mother’s …”

“No…no…not the Duke. Charles, his son. Oh, Katherine, I do not want to marry. I want Richard to be alive. I want to go back. I want to be Queen of England.”

“If you married…this Henry of Monmouth…he will be King one day.”

She shuddered. “Perhaps. Most of all…I want to be left alone. I want to spend the rest of my days thinking of Richard.”

“Poor, poor Isabelle.”

“If only those traitors had not succeeded. It is so unfair…so cruel. Richard was a good king. He thought he had got the better of his enemy, Bolingbroke, because he had sent him into exile. How pleased he was about that! He ought to have had his head…when he could have. But he did not, you see. He was too kind and Bolingbroke was his cousin…the son of John of Gaunt. He might have known that Henry would have his eyes on the throne. John of Gaunt would have liked to be King…and he passed on that ambition to his son.”

“But Richard came first.”

“Oh yes. Richard. Richard was the son of the greatest of King Edward’s sons—the Black Prince. He used to talk of his father. He had been a great hero to him. When he died, Richard had been about nine years old. Richard was wonderful. Oh, Katherine, it is a tragedy to be a king…and so young…with scheming men around one.”

“Like our father,” I said.

“Yes, our poor sad, sick father. But Richard was wise and clever. He quelled the peasants’ revolt when he was only fourteen. He had the makings of a great king. I cannot describe him to you, Katherine. He was so handsome. His wonderful golden hair…his nobility of countenance…and he was my husband. He was never impatient with my youth and innocence. He was always tender, calling me his Little Queen. People called me the Little Queen. It was because I was small and young. I thought it was going to be so wonderful…and it would have been, but for those wicked men.”

She was silent for a few moments and I prompted: “That Bolingbroke …”

“We thought all would go well when he was sent into exile. He was the one who made the trouble. We all knew that. Richard used to talk to me sometimes…very seriously. He used to tell me how troubled he was. Then he would laugh and say: ‘What of it, eh, Little Queen? I want you to try this sweetmeat I have had them make for you. And look at this brocade. How would you like a dress made of that?’ I cannot explain to you, little sister.” And again she broke down in tears.

It grieved her to recall that happy past, but her only comfort was in talking of it.

“It was while he was in Ireland,” she said, “that Bolingbroke returned to England. Richard had taken a loving farewell of me. I had wept at his departure and he had said he would be back soon. He said: ‘And see how you are growing.’ He reminded me that soon I should be done with the schoolroom. I should be at his side…his true Queen. We would have children…heirs to the throne. It was a wonderful prospect before us. We only had to be patient for a little while.”

“And it did not come to pass,” I said sadly.

She shook her head. “The traitors. Richard had been so good to Bolingbroke’s children.”

“That was Henry of Monmouth. He was one of them.”

“Yes…he and his brothers. When their father was sent into exile he took charge of them. They never suffered for their father’s sins. And when Richard returned from Ireland…the country was in the hands of Bolingbroke, who called himself Henry IV, and Richard the King was their prisoner.”

“How can we know what will happen to any of us?” I said, speaking from experience.

“It was so sad…so heartbreaking, Katherine. They came to me at Windsor and said I was to leave at once. They took me to Wallingford, which was like a fortress. I stayed there…while Richard was their prisoner. His one thought was of me. Later…after he was dead…I was told that he found comfort in writing to me. He called me his mistress and his consort. He cursed the men who had separated us. He was filled with grief because of it. He knew that he was hourly in danger of death and he wrote that he had lost his joy and solace…and by that he meant me. How I wished that letter could have reached me.”

“It would only have made you more sad,” I told her.

She shook her head. “If only they had let me be with him. I would have died with him most willingly.”

“Do not talk of death, sweet sister. You are young yet and there is much to live for.”

“With Orléans?”

“Will you marry him, then?”

“Do you think I shall be allowed not to? Our mother and our Uncle Orléans wish it…and that is enough. It will come to pass.”

“But you refused Henry of Monmouth.”

“That was different. I think that our mother and the Duke, who are the rulers of France when our poor father is in his sorry state, did not wish it. If they had …” she shrugged her shoulders “… it could well be that by now I should be the wife of that monster.”

I shivered with her.

She went on: “He lives riotously. He is the friend of the lowest and frequents the taverns of London, mixing with rogues and vagabonds…and lewd women. I could tell you tales of what I have heard. But I forget, sister, you are only a child. You would not understand.”

“I do understand,” I insisted. “I listen to them talking. That tells me much.”

She laughed at me and kissed me. “It does me good to talk to you. You may be a child, but you have the sympathetic ear. You seem to care.”

“I do care,” I assured her. “Tell me more. Tell me about Richard and the wicked Bolingbroke and Henry of Monmouth.”

“They were all against Richard. They welcomed Henry. They kept me a prisoner and they took me to Sunninghill.”

“I have heard of that,” I said. “Our father was so worried about you that it made his illness worse.”

“They told me lies. They said that Richard was well and free. Oh, why did the people turn against him? All he wanted was to live in peace. Why do people want kings who lead their countries into war? Why do the people have the power to depose a good, kind king? They cheated me. It was the Earls of Kent and Salisbury. They told me that they had driven the usurper from the throne and I was to place myself at the head of the men they had brought with them and march to join Richard, who was waiting for me. How can I tell you of the joy I felt then! I was dizzy with happiness. I was in a delirium of joy. I was advised to send out a proclamation that Henry was no King. There was only one King…Richard. We marched to Cirencester…and into the trap. Richard was not free…not waiting for me. They had found someone who looked like him and dressed him up as the King. I knew at once that he was not my Richard. They did not deceive me. And then I understood that I had been betrayed. Bolingbroke’s plan had been to capture me, and to show the people that I was the leader of a revolt. He could not execute me. He dared not because I was the daughter of the King of France. Besides, he wanted me for his son Henry. I did not see Richard. I never saw Richard again. They murdered him in Pontefract Castle.”