The Star of Lancaster - Plaidy Jean (бесплатные онлайн книги читаем полные TXT) 📗

Nor did he. He died in Pontefract. Some said he had been starved to death; Thomas Swynford's story was that he had refused to eat. There was rumour that he had been attacked and had died defending himself. But the story which worried Henry most was that he was not dead at all and that a priest who bore a striking resemblance to him had taken his place in the castle while Richard escaped.

That was a story which must be denied at once. Richard must be shown to be dead, and Henry acted with his usual promptness. The late King must be accorded a burial worthy of his rank, he declared. True he had become merely Sir Richard of Bordeaux, but he had once been a king; and he was after all first cousin to the reigning monarch.

Henry gave orders that Richard's body should be placed

on a litter and covered with black cloth. There should be a canopy over the litter of the same black cloth. Four horses should be harnessed to the carriage-litter and they also must be caparisoned in black. Grooms should ride the horses which drew the litter and four knights should follow it on its journey. Their demeanour must match their garments of mourning for it must be seen that all due respect was paid to the late King. His face should be exposed so that all might see who the dead man was that there might be no more tiresome rumours about his not being dead. In all the towns and villages through which the cortege passed the litter was to be left in the market square or some such public place where all might see it and satisfy themselves that it was indeed Richard who lay there.

In due course it arrived in London and it proceeded at a slow pace through the streets until it came to Cheapside and there it rested for two hours.

Twenty thousand men and women came to see it and gaze mournfully at the dead face which was all that could be seen of the King.

When the funeral litter left Cheapside it travelled to Lang-ley and there Richard was buried.

Harry of Monmouth, Prince of Wales, was riding out to Havering Bower. He was in good spirits. Life was turning out to be very interesting indeed. Who would have believed it could have changed so quickly! It seemed only a week or so ago that he and Humphrey had been playing and fighting together, captives in Trim Castle, and his father had been an exile with little hope of returning to England for years. He did not wish to think too much of Trim Castle for that brought back thoughts of Humphrey which made him sad. If only Humphrey had been here now how he would have enjoyed boasting to him. But Humphrey was dead and Harry was Prince of Wales with a King for a father.

It was too exciting a prospect for him to entertain melancholy for long.

And he was almost a man. He chuckled too, contemplating his mission.

His father had come straight to the point in his customary manner.

^

'Harry, you're growing up. Moreover you are the Prince of Wales. It is time we considered a marriage for you.*

Marriage! The thought excited Harry. He had already shown a certain fondness for w^omen—and so far his attentions had been mainly for serving girls. They liked him and were ready to accept his attention with a giggle and a rather patronizing air which reminded him that he was 'only a boy'.

Marriage would be different.

'Well, you will soon be thirteen and not over young for your years,' went on his father. *I think there need be little delay. I see no reason why the marriage should not take place as soon as we have arranged all that will be necessary.'

'Who is to be my bride?' asked Harry.

His father smiled at him. 'One you have already met and I believe are inclined to admire. She is of the highest birth— in fact a queen. What do you think of that?' As Harry looked puzzled, his father went on: 'Why, young Isabella of course.*

'Richard's Queen!'

*A widow now—a virgin widow. Just about your age, Harry.*

'Isabella!*

*Ah, I see the idea does not displease you.*

'She is the prettiest girl I ever saw.*

'That is exactly what you should say about your future wife.*

'When shall I marry her?*

'Not quite so much haste, please. She is the daughter of the King of France. I don't want to let her go for he is sure to demand her dowry back, so it seems an excellent solution for you to marry her. In due time she should be reigning Queen of England again.*

'I think she will like that.*

'What is most important at the moment, Harry, is that she should like you.*

'Oh she will like me,* boasted Harry. 'I will go and see her.*

His father had thought that would be an excellent idea. Isabella was an imperious young person and as she had been far too much indulged by her late husband, she would need a certain amount of wooing, reasoned the King. He wanted the marriage to be acceptable to her.

Harry had no doubt whatsoever that he was carrying

good news to Isabella and he arrived at Havering in good spirits.

When she heard who had come to see her Isabella was at first amazed and then angry. She was in a state of great melancholy mourning Richard. From the moment she had seen him she had loved him; he was so beautiful with his golden hair, blue eyes and delicate skin. He had always been so exquisitely dressed and perfumed and he had been as delighted with her as she was with him. She had been longing for the day when she would be old enough to live with him as his wife and now here she was nearly twelve years old and reaching that goal, and they had killed him.

She was certain they had killed him. She did not believe that he had starved himself to death. He had talked so glowingly of what their life would be together when she was grown up. He would never have killed himself. After all she was his wife and even if they robbed him of his crown and called him Sir Richard of Bordeaux instead of what he really was, King Richard, she was still his wife.

And now he was dead and she was alone and she did not know what would become of her—yet in her grief she did not care.

*I shall not see this braggart Harry,' she said. 'Why should he come here to see me?'

Her maids, Simonette and Marianne, whom she had brought with her from France and whom Richard had indulgently allowed her to keep, fluttered round her, one brushing her long dark hair and the other putting on her shoes.

*It is important, my lady,' said Simonette. 'He is the Prince of Wales now, this Harry.'

*He is not the Prince of Wales,' cried Isabella. 'There is no Prince of Wales. He is the son of the usurper.'

'Hush, hush, my lady,' warned Marianne. 'People listen. They say the King is very harsh with those who go against him.'

'Let him be harsh with me. Let him kill me as he has killed my dear Richard. My father will come and fight him and perhaps kill him which would please me much, I tell you.'

The two chambermaids shook their heads and looked sadly at each other. It was hardly likely that the King of France would come to England to rescue his daughter. He was at this

time in one of his lost periods, which meant that he was kept shut away from the world, until his affliction left him and he was sane again.

The little Queen had been so indulged by her husband that she believed that the whole world would be ready to grant her whims.

'She has much to learn, that one,' was Simonette's comment to Marianne.

Isabella could not refuse to see the Prince of Wales and now she did not want to because her hatred for his father—and that hatred extended to him—was so overpowering that she wanted to give vent to it.

She was dressed all in white for mourning and with her cheeks ablaze and her eyes alight with passion she made a very pretty picture and Harry's heart leaped with pleasure at the sight of her. She was indeed the loveliest creature he had ever met. The daughter of the King of France, a Queen already ! What luck that she was worthy of him.