at the small window. 'Who can they be? One has a mitre; is he a bishop,
think you? or an archbishop? And the others? I know not the devices on
their shields, but they are richly dressed, and they hold themselves
proudly. And, see, they are entering the gateway. Oh, Louis, you are the
dauphin! I wonder if they will send for you!'
After all, it was not Louis but Isabel, who was summoned, and in a few
words learned from her great-uncle the duke of Burgundy the object of
this magnificent embassy. Isabel listened in surprise, but it was not
the first time that she had heard talk of her marriage; so she showed no
signs of shyness, and bade her maids put on with all haste her light
blue velvet dress, the colour of France, and clasp the loose folds with
her jewelled belt. Then, escorted by her uncle, she entered the great
hall, and, standing by her mother's side, awaited the appearance of the
envoys.
[Illustration: "LOOK LOOK SHE CRIED TO HER BROTHERS & SISTERS"]
'Who can know how such a child will behave?' the council of regency, who
governed France during Charles's fits of madness, had asked of the
English nobles when they had begged for an interview with the princess
herself. But the earl marshal, looking at the tall and dignified young
lady before him, felt that they need not have been afraid. This was no
child, beautiful indeed, but caring for nothing except sweet confections
and puppets, but a girl whose face and manner showed marks of thought
and of careful training in the ways of courts.
'Madam, if it please God, you shall be our lady and queen,' said the
earl marshal, falling on one knee, and Isabel answered, 'Sir, if it
please God and my lord and father that I be queen of England, I shall be
content, for I know that I shall be a great lady.' So saying she signed
to him to rise from his knee, and, taking his hand, led him to the queen
her mother, who was well pleased with her reply.
So Isabel's fate was settled, and as the poor French king was not in a
state to talk about business, it was the duke of Burgundy with whom the
ambassadors held daily discussions. It was decided that, though the earl
marshal should represent Richard in the marriage ceremony, which, at the
urgent request of the English king, was to take place at once, the young
bride should remain in Paris another year, to get her trousseau and be
taught the duties of the 'great lady' she was to be. Among these
'duties' we may be sure the learning of English was included, and also
the practice of music, which Richard loved. No doubt she managed to find
out something of her future husband from the count of St. Pol, who was
his brother-in-law, and she would only hear the many good things that
could truly be said of him: of his grace, his beauty, his cleverness,
and his gallantry when as a boy of fifteen he faced the rebel archers of
Wat Tyler and Jack Straw, and won them over to his side. Of his
wilfulness, his extravagance, and his heedlessness there was no need to
tell her; and indeed, whatever were his faults, Richard was always true
and loving to her.
---------------------
The year that was to pass between the marriage by proxy and the real
marriage most likely seemed as long to the 'queen of England,' as she
was now called, as it would have done to any little girl of her age. But
at length it was announced that at the end of October Richard would
cross over to Calais, which was to be English ground for nearly two
hundred years longer. The king, who, unlike his people, much desired a
peace with France, sailed with a noble company across the Channel, for
at his express wish his famous uncle, John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster,
with his third duchess, the duke and duchess of York, and the duke and
duchess of Gloucester, with their two daughters, sailed with him. It was
with great unwillingness that Gloucester obeyed the summons of the king
to attend his marriage. He hated his nephew for many reasons, and
Richard was not slow to perceive and return his feelings. Well he knew
that his uncle was an ambitious man, who would fain have seen his
daughter queen of England; and, besides, the duke longed to go to war
with France, and lost no chance of exciting the passions of the English
people and making the French alliance more unpopular than it was
already. Perhaps Gloucester had cherished secret hopes of being left
behind to rule the kingdom while Richard was away; but if so he was
disappointed, for the king's cousin, Henry earl of Derby (afterwards
Henry IV.), was declared regent.
It was on October 27, 1396, that the kings of France and England met in
a plain outside Calais. Everything had been carefully planned
beforehand, and the two sovereigns quitted their lodgings at precisely
the same moment and walked slowly to the appointed place, which must be
reached at exactly the same time, as it would be unfitting for one king
to look more eager than the other! Tents splendidly furnished had been
prepared for them, and all around stood eight hundred French and English
knights, their drawn swords shining bright in the autumn sunshine. From
one direction came Charles, with Richard's two uncles, Lancaster and
Gloucester, on each side of him, while from the other Richard was
escorted by the dukes of Burgundy and Berri, brothers of the late king.
'At the moment of the meeting,' says the chronicler, 'the eight hundred
knights fell on their knees; the two kings swept off their hats and
bowed, then took each other by the hand, and so entered the French
king's tent, while the four dukes followed them.' Here another welcome
awaited Richard, for he was received by the duke of Orleans, brother of
Charles, and the duke of Bourbon, his cousin. But as soon as they had
greeted the bridegroom these two left the tent to join the dukes
outside, and at length Charles and Richard were alone and could talk
over business.
Next day—the feast of St. Simon and St. Jude—a grand banquet was given
by Charles, and when it was over presents were exchanged between the
kings, a ceremony which kept them employed until the little bride
arrived, attended by the duke of Orleans (who had gone to fetch her) and
a great suite. Some of the ladies were drawn in the long carriages, like
furniture vans, that were fashionable in the days of Charles VI., while
Isabel herself and her young maids of honour were mounted on beautiful
horses, with gorgeous velvet trappings, embroidered in gold. The 'queen
of England' wore a golden crown, which must have felt very uncomfortable
on horseback, and her dress was blazing with precious stones. She had
ridden a long way and was very tired, but she greeted her uncles gaily
as they lifted her from her horse, and went forward to speak to the
duchess of Lancaster and Gloucester. Then she entered the tent, where
Richard sat awaiting her.
It was not until Isabel had knelt twice before him, as she had been told
to do, that Richard got up, took her in his arms, and kissed her. When
he set her down, she looked at him, anxious to see what her future
husband was like. She found his eyes fixed upon _her_, and they both
smiled, well pleased with their first sight of each other. He was not at
all like what Isabel had expected: a man of thirty—almost an _old_ man,
too old to care for anything but serious matters, such as making laws
and governing his kingdom. Why, the king was quite _young_ and very,
very handsome, with his dark blue eyes and golden hair, and a complexion
as white and fair as her own. He could laugh, too, and be merry, she was
sure. Oh no, she could never be afraid of _him_, and some day she might
even be able to chatter to him as she did to Louis. And Richard read her
thoughts in her face and was content with what fate had brought him.
The marriage did not take place till four days later, on All Saints'
Day, and, curiously enough, neither the king nor queen of France was
present at it. Since they had bidden farewell to their daughter, after
her meeting with Richard, they had stayed quietly at the little town of
St. Omer, though they had news of Isabel from the duke of Orleans and
the duke of Burgundy, who went over to see her at Calais, before she
sailed for England. It was the first time that Isabel had ever been upon
the sea, and she did not like crossing, for though the wind was in their
favour, it must have been very high, as the ship reached Dover in three
hours. Two days later she dismounted at the palace of Eltham in Kent,
and at last had time to rest from her journey.
---------------------
In those days houses were few and there were no coal fires to make
smoke, so Isabel was able to see in the distance the towers of
Westminster Abbey, where by-and-by she would be crowned. Between the
Abbey and Eltham stretched the gorse-covered common of Blackheath, the
scene of some of Richard's youthful deeds, and the tall trees of
Greenwich Park. And when she was tired of looking at the view, and
wandering through the gardens with her maids of honour and madame de
Coucy, her lady-in-waiting, she would summon them to her own rooms to
watch the unpacking of her trousseau. This of itself was a wonderful
sight. It not only included dresses of velvet covered with fur and
jewels and embroideries for grand occasions, but gowns of the finest
scarlet or green or white cloth for every day. The sleeves were very
long, and so was the train; but this could be drawn through the belt and
tucked up when the wearer wanted to play or run races, as we may be
certain Isabel often did. When they had finished admiring her clothes
and jewels, there were the rich stuffs and tapestries to be arranged on
the different walls or hung on the different beds; and, better than all,
had not Isabel brought with her a store of figs and sweet things of her
own choosing, which she bade her waiting women set out on little silver
plates before her friends?
But after a few days these joys were interrupted, for it was necessary
that Isabel should make a progress through the City of London and show
herself to her new subjects, who hated her so much, though she did not
guess the fact. So she left Eltham under a strong escort and rode to
Greenwich, where she stepped on board the royal barge, and was rowed
down to Kennington, near Lambeth. Richard was delighted to welcome her
here in the old palace which had belonged to his father, the Black
Prince, and where he himself had lived for a while with his mother when
she became a widow. The next morning Isabel rose early, for she knew she
must be carefully dressed so as to look her best to her husband's
people. Her long bright hair was brushed till it shone, and over it a
fine white veil hung from a golden circlet. Luckily the day was fine and
warm, for of course the hood which she usually wore out of doors had to
be laid aside. Then her richest robe of velvet edged with ermine and
covered with gold embroidery was put on, with a jacket of the same
colour over it, and her golden shoes with the long pointed turned-up
toes were fastened, and very fair she seemed to her ladies and her
husband as she was placed on her white palfrey, covered like herself
with gold.
[Illustration: RICHARD & ISABEL COME TO LONDON]
Her face was so full of happiness as she rode along by the side of the
king, mounted also on a white horse, whose housings or trappings tinkled
with silver bells, that the hearts of many who most bitterly disliked
the French marriage melted towards her. Behind followed the king's
uncles and great nobles, all wearing their special badges or coats of
arms, and accompanied by their retainers. The procession passed through
Southwark and came at last to London Bridge, which, though made of stone
and not yet cumbered with houses, was filled with such a dense crowd
that there was hardly room for the king and the queen to move, even at a
foot's pace. Then an accident happened, as it was sure to do. Something
touched a horse; he grew frightened and kicked; the throng pressed back
on each other; someone stumbled and fell. There were no policemen or
soldiers lining the way to keep order or to give help, and by the time
the procession had crossed the bridge nine persons had been trampled to
death.
---------------------
In Isabel's day, and for long, long after, the street which we call the
Strand was filled with the palaces of great noblemen with their large
gardens sloping down to the river and barges moored to the bank; for the
streets were so narrow and so dirty that no one willingly went through
them even on horseback or in a carriage. However, on the day that Isabel
first saw them the fronts of the houses were draped with rich hangings
and crowded with shouting people, while every now and then a platform
might be seen on which a show of some kind would be given or a company
of minstrels would sing a song. Altogether, pleased and touched though
she was with her welcome, Isabel must have been glad when the houses
were left behind and Westminster was reached—Westminster, not as we
know it now, with houses everywhere, but as it was when Guinevere went
a-maying, with broad fields and pleasant streams, and in the distance
northwards the russet leaves of a forest. But queens are not so
fortunate as their subjects, and have little time to rest themselves,
and Isabel's days for some time to come were spent in receiving
graciously and smilingly as she well knew how, the homage of all who
came to pay their respects. Soon after there followed a tournament which
lasted fourteen days, held in the open space of Smithfield, where the
victor claimed his prize from the hands of the queen. The tournament
over, the preparations were begun in good earnest for Isabel's
coronation.
At length the festivities were finished and life went on quietly as
before, Isabel remained in the palace at Westminster, and daily rode out
past the marshy ground which is now Conduit Street, where flag flowers
and forget-me-nots and marsh marigolds might be plucked in spring, and
wildfowl were shot when the weather grew colder. Or sometimes she would
accompany the king and his friends to a grand hunt after boar or deer in
the woods that lay about the stream called the West Bourne, whence the
chase would often lead them eastwards to the heathery spaces beyond what
was afterwards the Moorgate. When it grew too dark or too wet for these
sports, Richard would bid the queen play to him, and he could correct
her faults as well as any master; or she would try and speak English to
him, and they would both laugh heartily over the blunders she made.
Thus the days went by, and Richard was so good and kind to her that
Isabel was perfectly happy, and thought him the most wonderful person in
all the world. She did her utmost to please him and to take an interest
in all he told her, and she noticed with pride that he never treated her
as a little girl, but talked to her as he might have done to a grown-up
woman. Inside the palace all was peace; but outside the people had begun
to murmur again, and faces grew dark at the sound of Richard's name, and
men spoke of the debts that were daily increasing and the taxes that
were ever growing. But if Richard took no heed of these signs, there was
one person who never failed to watch and listen, and every now and then
to put in a careless word, which somehow always made matters worse. This
was the duke of Gloucester, uncle to the king, and a great favourite of
the Londoners. He, like them, wished for war with France, and lost no
opportunity of letting his views be known on the subject. When things
seemed ripe the duke sent for the earl of March, next heir to the
kingdom, to his castle of Pleshy in Essex, and there unfolded to him a
plot which he and the earl of Arundel had woven between them.
It was not without some hesitation that the duke of Gloucester told his
tale to the earl of March, for he knew that his great-nephew was a true
and loyal man, and that he dearly loved the king his cousin. But he had
prepared a bait which he thought could not fail to land the most
obstinate fish, only he resolved not to speak of that till the end of
his story. Therefore he began by relating all Richard's acts of
misgovernment—and they were many—and the burdens laid on his subjects,
which were many also.
The two earls nodded their heads. What Gloucester said was nothing but
truth, and well they knew it. But how to find a remedy? _That_, as they
say, needed sharper wits than theirs. Then Gloucester proceeded,
choosing his words carefully, but in spite of all his prudence he saw
March beginning to move uneasily.
'I do not think I understand,' he said, and Gloucester repeated that the
patience of English people had come to an end, that they would bear no
more, and demanded (for so his tale went) that Richard and his queen
should be taken possession of, and kept for life as honoured prisoners
in separate palaces. This news struck the earl dumb with amazement, but
before he could speak Gloucester added that, after asking counsel of
many wise and powerful men, they had determined that, as soon as Richard
was deposed, March should be declared king.
A dead silence followed. The earl burned to tell his tempter what he
thought of such treachery; but in those times speech was not always
safe, so he held his peace. Gloucester, however, read in his face
something of what was passing in his mind, and entreated him to ponder
the matter, and above all things to keep it secret, or the lives of many
of his friends would be endangered. This March joyfully promised, and
instantly returning to London obtained leave from Richard to go and
govern Ireland, of which he had just been made viceroy. Every man among
the conspirators was not, however, as loyal as March. The plot was
betrayed to the king, who instantly summoned his two uncles, Lancaster
and York, and his brother-in-law the count de St. Pol lately sent by
Charles VI. to see the queen. The king laid the matter before all three
and asked their advice how to prevent the success of the conspiracy. The
two dukes could not deny the truth of what the king told them—for the
scheme that was being planned had come to their ears also; but they
spoke soothing words, saying that Gloucester ever threatened more than
he meant or could do, and assuring Richard that, even if he really
cherished such an evil purpose, they would see that it was not carried
out. Then, to avoid taking sides against either brother or nephew, they
retired hastily to their castles, leaving Richard to fight his own
battles as best he could.
---------------------
The way which he chose has left a dark stain on his memory. He felt
helpless and alone, and there were not wanting people about him to
whisper that he would never be secure on his throne as long as
Gloucester lived. Still Richard knew too well that if he dared to arrest
him publicly his own doom would be sealed, for all London would at once
fly to arms. Therefore, taking some men with him on whom he could rely,
Richard rode down into Essex to the duke's house of Pleshy, and with
fair words requested his company to the Tower of London. Gloucester went
without misgiving—would he not be in the City which adored him?—and
was lodged in splendid apartments close to the king, on pretence,
perhaps, of caring the better, for his uncle who was at that time
suffering from illness. This may also have sufficed for a pretext to
keep the duke in his room, thus hiding his presence. But a night or two
later he was hurried over to Calais, doubtless by the river, which
flowed conveniently past the fortress, and handed over to the governor
by the earl marshal, now duke of Norfolk.
'What have I done to be so treated?' the duke inquired indignantly of
Norfolk, and the earl marshal answered soothingly that 'the king his
master was a little angry with him, and had given orders that the duke
was to be locked up for the present in his good town of Calais, and,
sorry as he himself was to displease his grace, he was forced to carry
out his orders.' Gloucester understood, and without further parley
begged that a priest might be sent for, to hear his confession and give
him absolution. The rite over, he was preparing to dine when four men
entered the apartment. The duke had not expected them so soon, but he
made no resistance. What would have been the use? He was speedily
strangled, and a messenger sent over to tell Richard that his uncle was
dead. 'As to the manner of his death, in France no man cared,' says the
chronicler; but the Londoners were furious, and the dukes of Lancaster
and York trembled for their lives, though they afterwards found that it
was to their interest to make peace with the king. More troubles
followed this act of treachery; several nobles were condemned to
banishment or execution, and a fierce quarrel broke out between Henry of
Bolingbroke, duke of Hereford (son to John of Gaunt), and Mowbray duke
of Norfolk. A court of chivalry to decide the matter was summoned to
meet at Windsor, and we can imagine Isabel's excitement as she watched
the assembling of the barons, knights, and bannerets of England in the
courtyard of the castle. The scene is described by Shakespeare in the
opening of the play of 'Richard II.' (though he places it in London),
and you can all read it for yourselves. After much talk judgment was
passed that the quarrel should be fought out at Coventry on September
16, in presence of the king, a body of representatives of the house of
commons, and the people.
[Illustration: The King Stops The Duel]
On the day appointed the dukes rode to their places clad in the heavy
armour of the time. 'God speed the right!' cried Norfolk, and Henry of
Bolingbroke solemnly made the sign of the cross. Each had his lance
in rest, and leaned forward, listening for the expected signal; the
trumpets were already raised for sounding the charge, when the king's
warder was suddenly thrown down between the combatants.
'Hold,' he cried; 'our kingdom's earth should not be soiled
With the dear blood that it has fostered;
Therefore we banish you our territories:
You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life,
Till twice five summers have enriched our fields.
Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom:
The hopeless word of "Never to return"
Breathe I against thee upon pain of life.'
'Those whom the gods will to destroy they first infatuate.' Surely the
old Latin proverb was never more true than in this act of Richard II. He
thought to rid himself of two powerful nobles, and instead he turned
them into two undying enemies, and he soon learned with dismay that
Hereford had been welcomed at the French Court. Then came news which
caused the king bitter grief; the earl of March, whom he so dearly
loved, had died in Ireland. Matters there needed a master's eye, and
Richard knew not whom to trust. At last, troubled as were the affairs of
England, the king felt that he must go himself and try to settle things.
And Henry duke of Hereford, on the other side of the Channel, watched it
all, and knew that his chance would soon come.
After the sentence had been passed on the banished lords, Richard had
sent prince Henry of Monmouth (son of Hereford) and his sisters to
Windsor, where the widowed duchess of Gloucester and her two daughters
had been living ever since the death of the duke. It was, we may
believe, with great unwillingness that the duchess consented to dwell
under the roof of her husband's murderer; but she dared not disobey the
king, and reminded herself that Isabel not only was innocent of the
crime, but ignorant of it, as she was of all Richard's evil deeds. The
'little queen,' who daily grew more beautiful and womanly, only knew
that her aunt had lost her husband, and judged her grief by what she
herself would feel at the death of Richard. So she busied herself in
doing all the kindnesses she could to the duchess and her daughters,
though these young ladies were some years older than herself, and did
not care to play the games in which prince Henry, her devoted friend,
and his sisters Blanche and Philippa delighted. Henry was about her own
age, but the little girls were younger, and Isabel, who had in the days
that now seemed so long ago taken care of her own brothers and sisters,
no doubt mothered these children also, and saw that they learned their
lessons, especially French, and that their manners were good. The duke
of Hereford had three other sons, but they were not sent to Windsor.