Paris it was finally settled that Isabel should be restored to France
and allowed to live with her family. But in all these transactions the
meanness of Henry's nature came out. When we remember that Richard had
appropriated the revenues of the lands of Lancaster to defray the
expenses of the Irish expedition we may perhaps find some excuse for his
division of Isabel's jewels amongst his children (though a large number
of them had been given her in France); but he pretended that he had
ordered their return, which was plainly untrue, and declined to give her
and her attendants proper clothes for their journey. The French court
was far more indignant with his conduct than Isabel, who, still stricken
with grief and wearied with imprisonment, was longing to be back in her
own country. At the end of May Isabel set out from Havering with a great
train of ladies, the noblest in the land. They rode slowly, for the
roads were bad, and in the towns people crowded to see them and to
wonder at the beauty and sad face of the 'little queen,' whose six years
of sovereignty had held more of sorrow than the lifetime of many of
those who watched her. Through the green fields and past the country
houses at Tottenham and Hackney she went, till at length she reached the
Tower, and her cheeks grew white as she glanced at the great hall which
was the scene of Richard's abdication. Happy memories there were, too,
of her early married life, and of her progress through the City; but
these did not bear thinking about, and she hastily turned and spoke some
kindly words to the old countess of Hereford, who was behind her.
During the six weeks that Isabel remained in the Tower Henry renewed his
son's suit, and urged truly that nowhere would Isabel find a more
gallant husband. The prince of Wales, boy though he was, had always
admired and loved Isabel; 'there was no princess like her,' he thought,
'and now that she was free why should she not be queen of England
again?' And so she might have been had not the shadow of Richard lain
between them; once more she refused, though she liked the youth well,
and would have been content to know that years after she was dead he
would marry her sister Katherine. It was only on French soil that Isabel
parted with tears from her English ladies, to whom she gave as
remembrances the few jewels she had left. Then she was delivered by Sir
Thomas Percy to the count de St. Pol, who was waiting with a company of
high-born damsels sent to attend on her, and by him she was conducted to
the dukes of Burgundy and Bourbon, with an armed force at their back.
So the merry little girl of seven years old came home again, sad,
widowed, and penniless, for Henry had refused to restore her dowry or to
make her the customary allowance. This behaviour so enraged her uncle,
Louis duke of Orleans, that he is said to have challenged Henry to fight
a duel, but Henry had replied that no king ever fought with a subject,
even one of royal blood. Isabel herself cared little about the matter.
She found, on arriving in Paris, that things were changed very much for
the worse. Her father's fits of madness were more frequent and more
severe, her mother was more bent on pleasure, and her children were more
neglected than before. Isabel did what she could, we may be sure; but
the queen of France, though she omitted to perform her own duty, would
not suffer it to be done by other people; and Isabel, finding she could
be of little use, passed most of her time with her uncle, the duke of
Orleans, and his wife, Violante Visconti.
---------------------
Now the duke of Orleans had a son, Charles, three years younger than the
'queen of England,' and it was his cherished plan to marry him to his
niece. The two cousins had much in common; they both loved music, and
old romances, and songs, and Charles had already begun to write some of
those poems that sound sweet in our ears to-day. Of course the boy was
too young for a marriage to be spoken of at present, but after a while
it became understood that the ceremony of betrothal would shortly take
place. Isabel had not given her consent (in those times that counted for
little) without a long struggle. The memory of Richard was still green
in her heart, but she was alone in the world. Nobody wanted her except
her uncle and aunt, and her friend Charles. Oh yes! and one other, but
she would not think of him. Charles was her friend, and in a way she
loved him; so, to his great joy, she promised to be his wife, and when
she burst into tears during the magnificent ceremony of betrothal he
imagined that she was tired with all the feasting, and he led her away
to rest and read her the little song he had written all about
themselves.
A year after the betrothal the duke of Orleans was stabbed by the duke
of Burgundy in the streets of Paris. No notice was taken of the murder,
so Isabel and her mother-in-law dressed themselves in deep mourning and,
mounting in front of the carriage, which was drawn by white horses with
black housings, they drove weeping to the Hôtel de St. Pol, where the
king was, followed by a long train of servants and attendants. But
Charles was in no state to settle these questions, for any excitement
only brought on a paroxysm. The duke's murder remained unavenged, and a
year afterwards his widow died, deeply mourned by her son and by Isabel,
to whom in the last years she had been a true mother.
It was only in 1408 that Isabel was really married to her cousin, and
the one year that was left to her to live was a very happy one. If she
had not forgotten Richard, Charles had grown to be part of herself, and
once more she was heard to laugh and jest as of old. But in September
1409 a little daughter was born, and in a few hours after the mother lay
dead with her baby beside her. At first it was thought her husband would
die too, so frantic was his grief, as the poems in which he poured out
his heart bear witness. But after a while he roused himself to care for
the child, and later to fight for his country, and was taken prisoner at
Agincourt by Isabel's old suitor, Henry V. Orleans was brought to
England, and in the Tower, where he was imprisoned for twenty-three
years, he had ample time to think about his lost wife—of her life in
that very Tower, of her body resting quietly in the abbey of St. Lammer
at Blois. It lay in the abbey for over two hundred years, and was found,
in the reign of Louis XIII., perfect as in life, the linen clothes
having been wrapped in quicksilver. By this time the Valois had passed
away from the throne of France, and their cousins the Bourbons reigned
in their stead, and by them Isabel's body was reverently brought from
Blois and laid in the sepulchre of the dukes of Orleans.
_TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER_
AND what became of the Ladies Blanche and Philippa, the playmates of the
'Little Queen'? Well, Blanche's life was, unlike that of her friend, a
very happy one; but she and the 'Little Queen' died, strange to say, in
the same year, leaving behind a son and a daughter. Philippa lived many
years longer, but she had no children, and her husband was restless and
quarrelsome, and always at war with his neighbours; and Philippa had
often to govern the kingdom in his absence, and ruled a great deal
better than he did himself. But this all happened 'by-and-by,' and we
must begin at the beginning.
---------------------
Towards the end of Edward III.'s reign there died Humphrey de Bohun, the
great earl of Hereford, leaving a widow and two daughters. These little
girls, whose names were Eleanor and Mary, were the richest heiresses in
England, and many greedy eyes were cast upon them and the vast estates
which they were to share. Mary was a mere baby at her father's death,
and Eleanor only a few years older, so for a while they lived quietly at
home with their mother; but as soon as Eleanor was old enough to marry,
the king's youngest son, Thomas of Woodstock, then earl of Buckingham,
and later duke of Gloucester, came forward as a wooer. His offer was
accepted by the countess of Hereford, and after the ceremony was
completed he took his young bride to Pleshy in Essex, one of her own
estates. Mary remained with her mother, under the care of John of Gaunt,
duke of Lancaster, who was her guardian.
Now, rich though he had become through his marriage, the earl of
Buckingham was not content, and longed to become richer still and more
powerful than either of his elder brothers, Lancaster and York. So,
under pretext that he was frequently obliged to be away at the wars, and
that his wife was very lonely during his absence, he prevailed on the
duke of Lancaster to allow Mary de Bohun (at this time about eleven
years old) to come to Pleshy and keep her sister company. Once at
Pleshy, Buckingham believed that his persuasive tongue would easily turn
the girl's thoughts to a religious life,—for she was quiet and gentle,
and liked music and books better than tournaments and dances,—and when
she had become a nun, her money and lands would go to him and his
children. Thus he plotted in his secret heart, for he was too wary to
take any man into his confidence; but he constantly sent for the nuns
from the convent of St. Clare 'to attend her and tutor her in matters of
religion, continually blaming the married state.' Great, we may feel
sure, was his delight when he saw that 'the young lady seemed to incline
to their doctrine, and thought not of marriage.'
Careful as was the earl to hide his plans, whispers got abroad as to the
frequent visits of the nuns to Pleshy, and reached the ears of the duke
of Lancaster. It happened that Lancaster also had a son, a handsome and
promising youth, called Henry of Bolingbroke, earl of Derby, and, says
Froissart, 'the duke had for some time considered that he could not
choose a more desirable wife for him than the lady who was intended for
a nun, as her estates were very large and her birth suitable to any
rank; but he did not take any steps in the matter till his brother of
Buckingham had set out on his expedition to France. When Buckingham had
crossed the sea, the duke of Lancaster had the young lady conducted to
Arundel castle, for the aunt of the two heiresses was the sister of
Richard, earl of Arundel. At the desire of the duke of Lancaster, and
for the advancement of her niece, this lady went to Pleshy, where she
remained with the countess of Buckingham and her sister fifteen days. On
her departure, she managed so well that she carried the lady Mary with
her to Arundel, where the betrothal between her and Henry took place.'
'The earl of Buckingham,' ends the chronicler, 'felt no desire to laugh
when he heard these tidings; and when he learned that his brothers had
all been concerned in this affair he became melancholy, and never after
loved the duke of Lancaster, as he had hitherto done.'
We do not know exactly what Eleanor thought about it all. Most likely
she was delighted that her beautiful young sister should get a husband
whom she could love, though she was too much afraid of the earl of
Buckingham to approve openly. The bride went back at once to her mother,
and a large sum was allowed by her guardian for her expenses, though
Mary cared but little for the fine clothes and extra servants that were
given her, and busied herself with her books and music as before. If she
wanted amusement, were there not the minstrels and _jongleurs_, singers
and dancers, whom young king Richard had brought over from France; and
could she wish anything better than to sit and listen to their songs,
while she sat close to the window to get light for her embroidery?
As Mary's fourteenth birthday approached, an ever-increasing stir might
be noticed in the castle. Travelling merchants drew up in the courtyard,
accompanied by pack-horses laden with rare silks and velvets and laces.
These were carried into lady Derby's bower, and she and her mother spent
hours in fingering the stuffs and determining which to take and which to
leave. Jewellers too rode down from London, with an escort of armed
servants, for highwaymen were much to be dreaded on the lonely heaths;
and then at last came the journey to Arundel, where Henry was waiting
for Mary; and her wedding day drew near.
Unlike some of the marriages common in those times, as well as these,
this wedding was not merely a matter of riches on one side and high rank
on the other. Henry and Mary loved each other dearly, and nothing ever
came between them. Mary was always ready to be pleased with everything
and everybody, and made friends at once with her sisters-in-law:
Philippa, two years older than herself, and by-and-by to be queen of
Portugal; and Elizabeth, about her own age, who soon after married the
earl of Huntingdon, half-brother of the king. The chapel of Arundel must
have been a fair sight during the ceremony, with all the gallant young
nobles and their youthful wives, and no handsomer pair was present than
king Richard with his queen, Anne of Bohemia, now a bride of two years'
standing. Knowing Mary de Bohun's passionate love of music, Richard had
brought his court minstrels with him, and sweetly they sang through the
banquet which followed the marriage. And never once did the bride's
thoughts stray back to the nuns of St. Clare, or her heart 'blame the
marriage state.'
When the rejoicings were over, the earl and countess of Derby bade their
friends farewell, and journeyed down to the hilly west country, to their
home in Monmouth castle, where the little river Monmow flows into the
Wye. Mary would gladly have stayed there for ever, but soon Henry was
called away to fight, and her mother came to keep her company. In a
little while she had another companion also, who took up all her time
and attention, her baby, Henry of Monmouth, afterwards Henry V. Thus the
years came and went, and the earl of Derby was sometimes at home, but
more often travelling. At one moment he joined the band of Teutonic
knights who were fighting some pagan tribes on the south-east coasts of
the Baltic, with the hope of converting them. Then he sailed for
Morocco, and later visited Austria, and altogether he must have had many
interesting adventures to tell his wife whenever he returned to England.
Meanwhile four little boys were growing up under their mother's care,
and in 1392 his eldest daughter was born in Peterborough, where lady
Derby was then living, and was christened Blanche after her grandmother.
More than a year later Blanche had a little sister to play with, and to
her was given the name of Philippa, after the Queen of Edward III.
Henry of Monmouth, the eldest of the six children, was only seven years
old when, in 1395, his mother died after a short illness, and the
countess of Hereford took her place. Lady Hereford was a very different
woman from Mary, and thought that children should be kept at a distance,
so, though she meant to be kind to them, they missed their mother
deeply. Mary had never been too busy to listen to them, or to play with
them, or to sing them old songs, but now everyone was in too much of a
hurry to pay them any attention. Soon they were removed into
Lincolnshire, and shortly afterwards Henry, whom the rest considered a
man and full of wisdom, was sent to Leicester, and little John to his
kinswoman the lady Margaret Plantagenet.
In this manner things continued for a year, and when the day of their
mother's death came round again, the countess of Hereford ordered fresh
suits of deep mourning to be prepared for herself and her little
granddaughters, and set forth with a train of servants to the Abbey at
Leicester, where Mary de Bohun was buried. Blanche and Philippa, who
were now only three and four, had forgotten what their mother was like,
and the long hours passed kneeling in the black-hung chapel must have
seemed endless to them, and very trying to their poor little backs; but
they were delighted to see Henry again and to watch the twenty-four poor
women, who each received a warm black cloak, in memory of the dead lady
who was twenty-four when she died. And they hung about Henry and admired
him, while he on his part told them how much he had learned since he
last saw them, and bade them take heed to their lessons, and learn
courtly ways and manners. Then they returned to Bytham, and the next
morning, when they looked round for their dark dresses, they had
vanished, and instead gay scarlet frocks edged with green lay in their
place. If they went out to walk in the stately garden, or accompanied
their grandmother on a visit to some neighbour in the big stuffy coach,
they were wrapped up in hoods and cloaks to match if the weather was
cold, while on the occasions that a great lord or noble lady spent a few
days at Bytham cloth of gold and ermine capes were put on their small
figures, and golden coronets upon their heads, in case they should be
summoned into the hall to pay their respects. A few months after their
journey to Leicester their grandmother considered it was time that they
should each be given special attendants, and sometimes even a house of
their own. One would have thought that with the number of servants
already in the castle two or three nurses and governesses would have
been enough for little girls of three or four, but children in those
times were treated very differently. The ladies Blanche and Philippa had
cooks and scullions, pages and waiting-maids, and a steward called John
Green, who kept all the servants in order. They also had a
head-governess, and a knight of the chamber, named Sir Hugh Waterton, in
whom their father placed absolute trust. Indeed they were sent to pass a
whole year in his house at Eton, which must have been very large if it
was able to hold all his servants as well as theirs, and when they left
they paid some visits to their relations, before joining their father in
his beautiful home at Bishopsgate, on the outskirts of London. Rich
people changed their houses very often then, for though they were rich
they were not clean, and the houses became unhealthy.
In spite of his long absences, the earl of Derby had always been very
fond of his children, and Blanche and Philippa were enchanted to go and
live with him again, and to watch their two eldest brothers, Henry and
Thomas, taking their daily riding lessons, while their father, who next
to king Richard was the best horseman of the day, corrected their
faults. How Philippa longed to have a pony too, and to jump the
barricades with them. She was sure _she_ would not fall off any more
than Thomas did—why should she? Of course Henry was different, she
could never sit as _he_ did; why, he did not _move_ when Black Roland
gave that plunge! but her father said she was too little and must wait
awhile, and wait she did. But when Blanche was married, and Philippa,
though only nine, was, 'the first Lady of England,' what a store of
horses and saddles and housings her stables could show!
Whatever attention was paid to their manners, neither Blanche nor
Philippa seems to have learnt anything, though it is very certain that
had their mother lived she would have taught them as she had taught
Henry. But when the 'Little Queen' came to Court, and people talked of
the songs she knew, and the tales she had by heart, and the poetry she
could repeat, the earl of Derby felt ashamed of the ignorance of his own
little girls. So he ordered some alphabets for them, and very costly
they were, for there was no printing then, and books were all written
and copied mostly by the monks, who often put beautiful pictures in
them. The children were both clever, and anxious to imitate the queen,
to whom they paid frequent visits, and as _she_ could dance and play the
lute, of course _they_ must do so too. But it was more difficult for
Blanche to do her lessons than her sister, as she was constantly sent
for by her father to be present at some banquet to his friends, and
though she was no more than six, the child knew how to behave like a
grown-up woman, and never showed when she was tired or bored.
But all this came to an end a few months later, when the King suddenly
banished the earl of Derby for ten years, just after he had created his
cousin duke of Hereford. At Richard's wish, the little girls and their
brother Henry, now an undergraduate of Queen's College, Oxford, were
sent to Windsor Castle, to be brought up with queen Isabel. The king was
always fond of children, and treated them all kindly, Henry in
particular. And Henry never forgot this, and one of his first acts after
succeeding to the throne was to bring Richard's body up from its
resting-place at Langley, and bury it with honours in Westminster Abbey.
---------------------
After Richard II. had abdicated and died, and Henry, now duke of
Lancaster, was crowned as king Henry IV., the princess Blanche was
forced by her father to take her mother's place entirely. It was she of
whom the knights had to ask leave before fighting in a tournament, and
it was she who gave the prize to the victor. How glad Blanche felt for
the months she had passed by the side of the 'Little Queen', when she
had learned from her how such things ought to be done! And Blanche's
thoughts would go back to her former playfellow, and all the troubles
she was passing through, and tears of sorrow would fill her eyes, for
the princess was always faithful and loving to her friends.
---------------------
It was early in 1401 that the emperor sent over messengers from Germany
to ask for the hand of the princess Blanche for his son Lewis. Henry IV.
had just returned from fighting some Welsh rebels, and he would much
have liked to have kept his little girl with him for a few years longer;
but the marriage pleased him, and he readily gave his consent. In
general, as we know, the bride was suffered to remain at home for some
time after the ceremony of betrothal, but the emperor desired that
Blanche should come over at once to her new country, so she was bidden
to begin her preparations as soon as possible.
The two little sisters were very sad when they heard their father's
decision. They had never been separated in their lives, and how strange
and dreadful it would feel not to be able to talk together about all
that interested them! Of course they knew they would be married 'some
day,' but 'some day' is always a long way off, and meantime there were
journeys and tournaments and music, and all manner of delightful things
in the world, especially horses.
'Oh, you _must_ give a prize to that grey horse!' Philippa would whisper
in Blanche's ear, as she sat by her side at the lists at a tourney.
'But how can I,' asked Blanche, 'if the knight that rides him is not the
victor?'
'Oh, he _must_ be when he has a horse like that,' Philippa would answer.
Then the trumpet would sound, and the eyes of both children would be
fixed on the field. _Now_ it was Philippa whose lot it would be to give
the prize, and Blanche would be far away amongst strangers.
The young leaves were out, and the 'ways and the woods smelt sweet,'
when the day of parting actually came. 'They say the lord Lewis is good
and kind, and has many books and a number of minstrels about him,'
observed Philippa, who always tried to make the best of things. 'You
will write and tell me what he is like, and about your palace, and your
wedding. Oh, and you will promise to be married in the dress of cloth of
gold that you bought from master Richard Whittington, who had the black
cat which made his fortune? It is so much, much more beautiful than any
of the rest!' Then good-bye was said, and Blanche began her journey with
the household that her father had formed for her. The countess of
Salisbury was her lady-in-waiting, and Henry could not have made a
better choice. Blanche's old friend John Green was to go too, and the
child's heavy heart grew a little lighter as she remembered that here
was someone who knew all about her, and who could talk of Philippa and
her brothers as well as she could herself. And besides the servants and
attendants of every degree, her uncle the duke of Somerset was in charge
of the party, together with the bishop of Worcester, who was to perform
the marriage.