She need not have concerned herself about being barren. Children were a blessing, particularly when they could wear crowns.
She drew Henry to her and he said: ‘It was not my father who came, my lady.’
There was a note of relief in his voice. She knew the children cowered in their bedchambers when their father came. Henry feared he ill-treated her. Nay little son, she wanted to explain. I can give him as good as he gives me.
And now he was dead, and the world had become an exciting place.
‘Grave news, my children,’ she said. ‘You saw the arrival of the Earl of Pembroke then?’
‘From the window,’ replied Richard. ‘And we saw you go down to greet him.’
‘He is an old, old, old man,’ said Joan.
‘Pray that you will be as hale and hearty when you reach his age, child,’ said the Queen sharply.
Joan appeared to be fascinated by the idea of growing as old as William Marshal.
Her mother said: ‘He has brought me news of your father.’
‘He is coming here?’ That was Henry. Concern showing in his sensitive face.
‘No. He will never come here again. He is dead.’
There was an awestruck silence. Isabella took Henry’s hand and kissed it. ‘And you, my son, are now King of England.’
Henry’s face puckered in horror. Richard cried out: ‘He’s Henry the Third, is he not, my lady, because our grandfather was Henry the Second.’
Henry was plucking at his mother’s sleeve. ‘Tell me, my mother, what must I do?’
‘Only what you are told,’ she answered quietly. ‘Now,’ she went on, ‘there is no need for concern. I shall be here to help you and the Earl of Pembroke is waiting now to kiss your hand and swear allegiance to you.’
Joan went to her brother and touched his arm with an expression of awe on her pretty face.
‘We must never make Henry angry any more, must we,’ she said. ‘If we did he could cut off our heads.’
Richard cried out: ‘I’d cut off his head first.’
‘That is no way to talk of your king,’ said Isabella severely. ‘And you should never have made Henry angry, Joan. That was wrong of you. Certainly now it will be well for you to remember that he is your king.’
She looked at her daughter with certain dislike. Her feelings had changed towards Joan ever since John, with typical devious cunning, had decided that it would be an excellent idea to betroth her to Hugh de Lusignan. Isabella’s eyes narrowed; she could hear that mocking voice. ‘He didn’t get the mother so perhaps the daughter will provide some consolation.’ ‘You must be crazy,’ she had answered. ‘Hugh is a grown man and Joan but a baby.’ ‘Let him wait,’ was the reply. ‘He’s a waiting man.’
Hugh – the man she was to have married and about whom she had often been regretful because she had not, to be the husband of her young daughter! John had known that she preserved some feelings for him, and that was why he had done his best to humiliate Hugh at every turn. But it was not easy to humiliate Hugh for he had that innate dignity which a man like John – royal though he might be by birth – could never aspire to. He had known that she would hate her daughter to go to Lusignan there to be brought up in the household of the man she had once loved. For she had loved Hugh, though in a self-seeking way, which was all she knew herself to be capable of. Hugh was however the one person for whom she might have made a little sacrifice. And John had betrothed her daughter to him! She could not help it, but the child irritated her, and to see her growing prettier every day gave her no comfort.
She turned from Joan to Henry.
‘Now, my son, I am going to take you to the Earl of Pembroke. Put aside those frightened looks. Are you a baby that you must be afraid of your crown? You should rejoice. Some have to wait years for what is yours in your youth. Come, look like a king. Act like one.’
She gripped his shoulder firmly and led him from the room. Richard watched him enviously, Joan with wonder; and Henry was wishing that he had been fifteen months younger than Richard instead of being his senior.
It was a strange sight to see the noble Earl kneel before the pale-faced boy. Yet in those moments Henry seemed to acquire a new dignity; and as William Marshal looked at the slender boy a new hope came to him that perhaps his accession could put an end to the torment of civil war in the land and might even result in driving the foreign invader from the country.
The young King had retired to his chamber, for his mother said he was still her son and must do what she considered best for him.
Henry, rarely other than docile, obeyed her. He was glad to be by himself that he might contemplate the enormity of what had happened to him.
Meanwhile Isabella and William Marshal talked earnestly together.
‘The King must be crowned without delay,’ declared William. ‘We must let the people see that a new era is about to begin.’
‘With a king who is a minor!’
‘With a king, Madam, who will have good advisers.’
‘Yourself,’ she said with a hint of wryness.
‘I think that many would consider me fitted to the task. I have sent a message to Hubert de Burgh and I doubt not that ere long he will be with us.’
Isabella’s spirits rose. With two such men to support her son, his chances were good.
‘I do not think that the people of England want to hand over their country to the French,’ went on William Marshal.
‘It would seem that many of them were attempting to do just that,’ she retorted.
‘In desperation, my lady, seeing anything preferable to rule by John.’
She had no answer to that, for she knew that he spoke the truth.
‘But now that we have a new king – a boy who can be guided – it could mean a turning point in this dire state of affairs.’
‘I hope and pray so, my lord.’
‘A king becomes a king when he is crowned. We must therefore have no delay in bringing about the coronation.’
‘With what could he be crowned? John has lost the crown jewels in the Wash.’
‘It is not the crown itself which is so important as the ceremony of crowning and the people’s acceptance of their king.’
‘But a king needs a royal crown. And that of Edward the Confessor is in London. Is it true that London is overrun by the French?’
‘To the shame of the Englishmen – yes. But it shall not be for long. Let the people of England know that the tyrant is dead, that we have a new young and innocent king on the throne – with strong men to support him – and you will find that they rally to him. I doubt not that this time next year – if we act wisely – there will not be a Frenchman in the land.’
She could not but be convinced, for William Marshal was known throughout the country, not only for his bravery and loyalty but for his sound good sense.
‘My lord,’ said Isabella, ‘the Archbishop of Canterbury should perform the ceremony.’
‘Impossible. Stephen Langton is in Rome – whither he went to escape the persecution of your late husband.’
‘And the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of London …’
‘My lady, a coronation does not depend on a bishop nor yet an archbishop. We will find someone to perform the ceremony. I have already sent a messenger to the Bishop of Winchester. He, being the only one available, must crown the King.’
‘And the people …’
‘Ah, there is a greater problem. So heartily sickened were they by John’s tyrannies that they might stand out against his son. We have to woo the people, Madam, and that is our greatest task.’