Виктория Холт: The Queen's Secret

“Are you sure?” I asked.

She nodded. “It was like something which had happened before, some said. There was a king once who asked his knights why they did not rid him of a turbulent priest; and the result was the murder of Thomas à Becket. They told me that Bolingbroke, one day, said to his knights: ‘Have I no faithful friend who will deliver me from one whose life will be my death, and whose death my life?’ I do not know if this be true or if it be rumor…but Richard died soon after. Some said it was Sir Piers of Exton who took a company of some eight persons and went to his prison and there slew him. I do not know if this be true. Others said Richard starved himself to death. He would not eat. His grief was too great because he had lost the crown, but I like to think that his greatest grief was for me. And he died and I was the widowed Queen.”

“My poor, poor sister.”

“I was thirteen years old. It did seem a great deal to have happened in a not very long life. They kept me at Havering Bower. Our father was too ill to demand my return and Henry said I should be treated with great honor. It was unfortunate, he said, that I had been given to Richard who was too old for me, but now there was another, younger prince eager for my hand. Again and again I refused young Henry and it was good luck for me that our mother and our Uncle Orléans did not want the match. We have no say in our destiny, Katherine. It happens to us all. When we have once done what they call our duty to the state, we should have the freedom to please ourselves.”

“Yes, we should,” I agreed.

“But I was a child still. There was a lot of haggling over my jewels. Henry would not give them up. Then there was this matter of the dowry. This went on for a long time while I was kept in semi-captivity. Two years passed and at length I was allowed to return home to France without any of the valuables about which they had been quarreling. I was fifteen years old. You were only a baby at that time.”

I nodded.

“I am surprised,” she went on, “that they have left me so long. They might have forced me into marriage by now. I know why, though. It is because they are unsure which marriage would be profitable to them. I live in fear that they may decide after all to send me to England.”

“As the wife of that…Henry?”

“Yes. I believe they would have done it if our Uncle Orléans had not wanted me for his son Charles.”

“Our mother will surely say that you must do as our uncle wants.”

“But there are times when our father is aware of what is going on. There are others, too. I know they hesitate. I was terrified when Henry Bolingbroke said that if I were given as wife to his son, he would give up his crown, and his son should be King of England and I the Queen.”

“Second time Queen of England!” I cried.

“There is more to life than crowns, sister. I would forgo the greatest crown on Earth if it meant I had to take that man with it.”

“Poor Isabelle! How frightened you must have been.”

“I was glad then that our mother is so enamored of our uncle. Of course, she was very much against the match with England because he was. I am sure that was the reason why, after a good deal of deliberation, it was refused. We even had an embassy from England to settle the matter. It was a time of great anxiety for me. Just imagine going to England a second time…with all the memories of the first. I don’t think I could have borne that.”

“But it did not happen,” I soothed.

“No. But did you hear what Orléans did? He sent a message to the King of England, saying it was the duty of noble knights to protect the rights of widows and virgins of virtuous life. He referred to Henry as the plunderer of my goods and the murderer of my husband; and he challenged him to a duel to settle the quarrel between them and decide the matter of the return of the dowry.”

“And what did Henry say to that?”

“It was an absurd challenge in the first place, and Orléans must have known that it would never have been accepted. Henry’s reply was cold and dignified. There was no example in history, he said, of a crowned king’s fighting a duel with a subject, however high that subject’s rank might be. As for the implication that he had been responsible for Richard’s death, God knew how or by whom his death was brought about, and if the Duke of Orléans implied that it had been brought about by his, Henry’s, order, the answer was that he had lied. I knew that was the end of my fears and that I should not be sent to England. It was a great relief, sister, I can assure you.”

“And Charles of Orléans?”

“I fear it may come to marriage with him. You see, I am of an age to be married…and that is the fate of all princesses.”

She was right. I did not see her for some time, but Odette, who came to see us frequently while our father was sleeping, told me that our sister Isabelle was now betrothed to her cousin, Charles of Orléans.

“He is a gentle boy,” said Odette. “Quite a poet. I pray they will be happy together.”

I prayed too. So did Marie and Michelle; and we listened eagerly to the stories we heard of the fêtes and banquets which took place at Compiègne where Isabelle, in the company of our mother, joined up with the Duke of Orléans and his son.

Isabelle was nearly twenty years old and Charles was younger.

It was five years since she had left England, but I knew, for she had made it very clear to me, that she still mourned Richard.

It was about this time that an event took place which shocked the entire country and changed the course of our lives.

It was a dull November evening. The Duke of Orléans had been with my mother, as he often was. It was eight o’clock and he was returning to his hôtel in a very merry mood, probably thinking that all was going well for him. His brother, the King, was never going to return to complete sanity and his relationship with Queen Isabeau gave him the position for which his ambitious heart had always craved; he was, in all but name, ruler of France.

It was not the sort of night when many people would be out unless it was necessary, and the streets were deserted. He had two squires with him, and one or two servants on foot, carrying torches. Suddenly some twenty armed men sprang upon him. The squires’ horses took fright and bolted, and, brandishing their swords, the armed men fell upon the Duke.

“Do you know that I am the Duke of Orléans?” he is reputed to have demanded.

“Yes,” was the reply. “You are the one we want.”

One of his men attempted to defend him but was immediately struck down. Another was badly wounded and crawled into a nearby shop.

Everyone was talking about the murder of the Duke of Orléans. We had heard so much of our Uncle Orléans. He was the most discussed man in the country. His liaison with my mother, his usurping of his brother’s rights…it had all been common knowledge and everyday gossip; so even the children could not be prevented from hearing of it.

Odette told us a little of what had happened. She was wise and I believe she thought it would be better for us to know something near the truth rather than form our opinions from the random gossip which would undoubtedly be circulating.

“Who killed him?” I asked.

“That is something which has to be discovered,” replied Odette.

“Why did they kill him?” Michelle wanted to know.

Odette surveyed us for a moment and then she said: “A man in the Duke’s position would have many enemies. They will discover why in time.”

“Why was he out in the streets at night?”

“He had been dining with the Queen, they say.”

“He always dines with our mother,” said Michelle.

“Did no one see who did it?” asked Marie. “They must have heard the noise.”