Isabella shrugged her shoulders. ‘A hostile people, absent Archbishops of Canterbury and York, also a Bishop of London, no royal crown … and you would have a coronation.’
‘Yes, Madam, I would, for I believe it to be the only way to save England for the rightful King.’
His eyes were on a gold throat-collar which she was wearing. Noticing this she touched it wonderingly.’
‘Could I see the ornament, my lady.’
She unfastened it, gave it to him. He examined it and smiled.
‘This could be the crown of Henry the Third of England,’ he said. ‘Methinks it would fit well on that young head.’
Before the day was out Hubert de Burgh had arrived at the castle.
He was exhilarated by the turn of events. He was a loyal man; he had done his best to hold off the French; he had held Dover Castle against them until it had been no longer possible to do so. He had deplored the fact that foreigners were on English soil, but he rejoiced in the death of John.
Perhaps he, as well as any, was aware of the villainy of that twisted nature. He had seen England lose the greatness which rulers like the Conquerer, Henry I and Henry II had brought, but no country could prosper when its king was so enamoured of military glory that he was scarcely ever in the land he was supposed to govern as king. Richard – whom they called the Lion-hearted – had been thus; and when such rule was followed by that of a depraved, cruel, unscrupulous man – whose folly was even greater than all his faults – England was doomed.
And now, the tyrant was dead and the Marshal had sent for him. The King was a minor. Could it be that they could take England out of the wretched humiliation into which she had fallen? If William Marshal believed this was possible, Hubert de Burgh was ready to agree with him.
There had been encounters with John which Hubert would never forget. All men now were aware of his villainies but what had happened between him and Hubert thirteen years ago would be a hideous memory for ever. Hubert often thought of the boy who had loved and trusted him and whose life he had tried to save. Poor Arthur, so young, so innocent, whose only sin had been that he had a claim to the throne of England which might have been considered by some to be greater than that of John.
Hubert would always be haunted by those scenes which had been played out in the Castle of Falaise where he had been custodian of the King’s nephew, son of John’s brother Geoffrey, poor tragic Prince Arthur. A beautiful boy – arrogant perhaps because of the homage men had paid him, but how pitifully that arrogance had broken up and shown him to be but a frightened child whom Hubert had grown to love as Arthur had loved Hubert. Sometimes in his dreams Hubert heard those dreadful cries for help; he could feel a hand tugging at his robes. ‘Hubert, Hubert, save me Hubert. Not my eyes … Leave me my eyes, Hubert.’
And in his dreams he would smell the heat of the braziers and see the men, their faces hardened by brutalities, the irons ready in their hands.
And for Arthur he had risked his life – for Hubert knew his master’s rewards for those who disobeyed him; he had risked his own eyes for those of Arthur, dismissed the men, hidden the boy and pretended that he had died under the gruesome operation which was to have robbed him of his eyes and his manhood.
It had been as though fate were on his side for he could not have kept the boy hidden for ever. It was ironical that foolish John should have become afraid of the uprising of the men of Brittany and the constant whispers set in circulation by his enemies – the chief of them the King of France – that the King of England had murdered his nephew. So Hubert had confessed and been rewarded with the King’s approval, for John, whose evil genius had ever made him act first and consider the consequences afterwards, realised that Hubert had done him a favour by saving Arthur’s eyes. But it was not long before Arthur was taken from Hubert’s care and murdered in the Castle of Rouen. At least, thought Hubert, I saved his eyes and death is preferable to one who has known what the green fields are like and then is cruelly deprived of the blessing of seeing them.
But often he had found John’s eyes upon him and he had wondered whether the King was remembering that Hubert de Burgh was the man who had disobeyed his orders and refused to mutilate Arthur.
Hubert had been useful. Perhaps that was why he had outlived the King.
And now jubilation. John was dead and William Marshal was with the new King.
Could it be that a new era was coming for men such as himself?
He was in sight of the castle when he saw a solitary figure riding towards him. As the rider came nearer he realised with great pleasure that it was none other than William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, himself.
Their horses drew up face to face, and the two men raised their hands in greeting.
‘This is good news, William,’ said Hubert, and William acceded the point. ‘He died as he lived,’ went on Hubert, ‘violently. It was inevitable that death would overtake him. Do you think it was poison?’
‘Whenever a man or woman dies suddenly it is said to be due to poison.’
‘No man could have been more hated.’
‘He is gone,’ said William. ‘We need consider him no more. Long live King Henry III.’
‘And you think, my lord Earl, that the King will be Henry and not Louis?’
‘If we act wisely.’
‘Louis is in command of much of the country.’
‘Give them a king – a crowned king – and the people will rise against the foreigner. Within a few months we’ll have the French out of the country. None could know better than you, Hubert, how difficult it is to invade a country which is protected by water.’
‘Louis is safely landed here …’
‘But uneasily. Let the news spread through the land that John is dead, and that we have a new king.’
‘A boy of nine.’
‘With excellent counsellors, my dear Hubert.’
‘Yourself?’
‘And the Justiciar.’
‘I am to keep hold of that office?’
‘Assuredly. Hubert, we are going to make England great, and a land for the English.’
‘Pray God it will come to pass.’
‘Let us go into the castle. We must make plans. Henry is going to be crowned, even if it is only with his mother’s throat-collar.’
Before the month was out the young King was crowned. The ceremony was performed by Peter des Roches, the Bishop of Winchester, and the crown used for the purpose was that gold throat-collar which had belonged to his mother.
After the King had been crowned the Bishops and Barons must pay homage to Henry.
Eager for action William Marshal, supported by Hubert de Burgh, summoned all loyal barons to Bristol where they would be presented to the new King.
It was comforting to the Earl to discover that more had assembled than he had dared hope. It seemed that now King John was dead they had no quarrel with the crown. A young monarch was always appealing though a matter for apprehension, for surrounding the immature, there were usually too many ambitious men. But in this case there was a difference. Providence had rid them of the most hated most foolish king that had ever been known – and was ever likely to be – and if his son was a minor he was backed by one of the finest and most noble men England had ever known – a loyal servant to Henry II and Richard, and who had even tried to guide John to reason. That man was William Marshal.
So they came to Bristol and when they saw the pale boy, who could not have looked more unlike his father, so gentle was he, so eager for their approval, they were ready to swear allegiance to the crown. There was not a man among them who did not deplore the fact that there were French invaders in England; and they wanted to turn them out.