It was none other than William Marshal himself who brought it.
She saw him riding towards the castle at the head of a small party.
He was very old – he must be nearly eighty – yet from a distance he might have been a young man. For a while she watched his approach and then she came down to the courtyard to greet him.
With what dignity he sat his horse. He was very tall and his features were clear cut; his were the kind of good looks which age cannot destroy. His dignity was great and it had been said of him that he carried himself like a Roman emperor. In his youth he had been one of the finest horsemen of his day and had won great honours in the joust. His curling hair was still brown in colour and he held himself like a soldier.
He dismounted and kissed the Queen’s hand.
‘Ill news, my lord?’ she said.
And when he answered bluntly, ‘The King is dead,’ her heart leaped with mixed emotions. She was surprised by a sense of desolation; but it quickly passed and excitement gripped her.
‘What now?’ she whispered.
‘Prompt action,’ he said.
‘Then come into the castle.’
‘There is much that must be done without delay,’ answered the Marshal.
It was a tale of horror. He did not tell her immediately but she learned of it later. The tyrant, the foolish reckless King who had brought misery to thousands, who had placed his country in jeopardy, was no more.
She sensed the relief in the Marshal; it was as though he were saying, Now we may begin to plan.
‘Where is the King?’ he asked. She was startled. Then the truth came to her like a river that flowed over her, taking her breath away.
She answered firmly: ‘He is with his brother and sisters in the schoolroom.’
The Marshal hesitated. He was a man for protocol. Instinct was urging him to go to the boy, dramatically to kneel before him and swear allegiance.
The Queen laid a hand on his arm. ‘Later, good Marshal,’ she said.
The Earl hesitated; then bowed his head in agreement.
‘He knows little of what is happening,’ said the Queen. ‘I did not wish him as yet to despise his father. I must talk with you. Ale shall be brought. You have ridden far and need it.’
‘As I have said, Madam, prompt action is necessary.’
‘I know it well.’
‘The King should be crowned as quickly as possible.’
‘We will talk of these things … but in secret – for who should know what tales are carried? Your own son …’
The Marshal agreed. ‘He had no love for the King. He believed that it was better to stand against him. I did not wish it, but I saw the reason in it.’
She clapped her hands and almost immediately ale was brought. She ordered meat but the Marshal was in no mood for food though he admitted a need to quench his thirst.
‘Pray leave us,’ said the Queen to her attendant who hovered awaiting further commands, and when they were alone, she said: ‘How did he die? Ignobly I doubt not, as he lived.’
William Marshal did not meet her eye. ‘It is uncertain,’ he said, ‘but there is talk of poison.’
‘Ah! So someone was bold enough. You must tell me my lord, for depend upon it, I shall discover and would rather hear the truth from your lips than the garbled tales of others.’
‘I can only say, Madam, that he paused with his troops at a convent on the way to Swinstead Abbey and there demanded refreshment. Rumour has it that he saw there a nun whose beauty was apparent in spite of her habit.’
‘Oh dear God, no. So! Right to the end …’
‘I hear Madam, that she had a look of yourself which amused the King.’
‘And I doubt not that he declared it was in looks only that there could be a likeness.’
‘I heard not that, my lady. But he sought to molest her and she fled. He did not pursue her. He did not seem to have the spirit for it.’
‘And she escaped him. I am glad.’
‘News of what happened may have gone ahead of him to the Abbey if this rumour be true, for his men declare that it was the peaches which were given him there which set him in violent pain. He was in agony all the way to Newark and when he reached the Bishop’s castle there he lay on his bed and died.’
They were silent for a while. Then the Marshal rose and said: ‘Now, Madam, I must see the King.’
‘He is but a child, my lord Earl.’
‘He is the King of England, my lady.’
‘Grant me this,’ she said. ‘Let me go to them. Let me break the news. I must prepare him. He is a serious boy and will quickly learn.’
William Marshal saw the point of this. He had never greatly admired the Queen. That she was an exceptionally attractive woman he was aware and old as he was and strict in his morals, he could not help but be stirred by her unquestionable appeal.
He had thought often in the early days of her marriage to John that she suited the King. Her sensuality was immediately apparent. She wore it like a gleaming ornament and every man must be aware of it. John had been completely ensnared on that first meeting in the woods when she had been only a child. Hugh de Lusignan had remained a bachelor because, it was said, after having been betrothed to her, he could take no other woman. That she was a schemer, he knew. He had once remarked to his wife – another Isabella – that the Queen deserved the King and the King the Queen, but he sometimes thought that perhaps he had been a little harsh on her. There could hardly be a woman in the world who deserved John.
He was uneasy now. The new King a minor and a forceful mother in the background. He could see trouble ahead.
So he hesitated.
Then he said: ‘The situation is fraught with danger.’
‘I know it well. The French are here. There are many traitors in this country who would set Louis on the throne. He has brought foreign soldiers on to our soil.’
‘Your husband the late King has done that too, my lady. His army consisted mainly of mercenaries from the Continent.’
She was silent for a while and then said: ‘I pray you, my lord Earl, give me a little time with my son, that I may tell him of this burden which has descended on him.’
‘Go to him, Madam,’ said William Marshal. ‘And then I will pay my homage to the King.’
Isabella went at once to the schoolroom where she knew she would find the three eldest children. Isabella aged two and Eleanor one, would be in the nursery.
The two boys and the young girl were seated at a long table drawing together, their heads bent over their work.
At the sight of their mother the children all rose, the little girl curtseying prettily and the boys bowing. The Queen always insisted on this homage; she often wondered whether they knew they were in captivity on their father’s orders. They were aware that he came of course. Henry the eldest dreaded his coming even more than the others, for Henry was a boy who wanted to live in peace; his brother Richard was quite the reverse. Sometimes Isabella had thought that it would have been more fitting if Richard had been the elder of the two.
She took Henry by the hand and led him to the window seat, the others following.
Richard said: ‘There are visitors at the castle, my lady.’
She frowned slightly. It was always Richard who spoke. Why did Henry hang back? The boy looked different in her eyes now. He was a king even though his subjects might decide not to accept him. She thought again: It ought to have been Richard. Fleetingly she remembered the day her second son had been born. It was at Winchester and young Henry was only fifteen months old at the time. There had been a long period before she had conceived her firstborn, and she had indeed wondered whether she was barren – for John had already proclaimed his fertility by scattering bastards throughout the country. And then the birth of Henry had been quickly followed by that of Richard; and Joan was not far behind.