Isabella had docilely submitted. Like all girls she had been brought up to believe that a marriage would be arranged for her and that she had no alternative but to accept the man whom her father had chosen for her.
So they were married and the marriage was tolerably happy and certainly fruitful. Amicia, the eldest child, was betrothed to Baldwin de Redvers although she was but ten years old; and good marriages would be arranged for Agnes and Isabel. Her eldest son Richard was eight at this time and he had two brothers, William and Gilbert.
They were with her when news of their father’s death was brought to her and solemnly she went to the schoolroom to tell them of it.
They listened quietly, but of course they had seen little of Gilbert and it was clear that his death did not touch them deeply. It was different when his body was brought to Tewkesbury and they attended the ceremony of his burial. There was genuine mourning among those attached to the Abbey for he had been one of its greatest benefactors.
After the ceremony they returned to the castle and Richard asked her what would happen to them now. She told him that she doubted not that they would go on as before. The arrangements made for them by their father would be carried out and Richard must work harder than he had been doing because now he was the head of the family.
It was not long before her brother came to see her.
He took her hand and kissed her warmly for there was affection between them.
‘Well, Isabella,’ he said, ‘how are the children and you yourself after this shock?’
‘We continue as before,’ she answered calmly.
‘My dear Isabella, you were always noted for your good sense. Even our father remarked on it.’
‘You can rest assured that I shall know how to manage my household.’
William saw the children at dinner and talked to them reassuringly, as though he had taken the place of their father, to which they responded politely. Afterwards he talked alone with Isabella and when he pointed out that she was still young and very handsome, she knew what was in his mind.
Their father had been one of the richest men in the kingdom and they had been well endowed; so what he was saying was that Isabella the widow was in a position to make a very good marriage.
‘Ah,’ said Isabella, ‘I knew you were coming to that. I have always thought that a woman who has married once for the sake of her family should the second time marry for the sake of her own.’
‘My dear sister, you are a woman of great fortune. You could be deceived by one who sought to share it.’
‘I am not a young girl, William. I believe I should recognise a fortune hunter.’
‘There are some clever rogues about. If one should take your fancy I could not give my approval to your marriage.’
‘William, my good brother, my husband is recently dead. Give me time to recover from that before you talk about replacing him.’
‘Assuredly,’ said William. ‘But even though we do not talk of the matter, it may rest in our minds.’
‘I confess I had given it no thought.’
‘Then it shall be laid aside … for a while. We will return to it later.’
‘Shall we say that if I should decide to marry again I shall return to it.’
William smiled affectionately. She had a strong will, this sister of his. Well, it was what one would expect of the daughter of William Marshal.
He had done his duty and departed, and after he had gone Isabella began to remember a day in Marlborough when Gilbert had been visiting her brother and there had come to the castle a bold young man, of kingly bearing, who had shown a marked interest in her.
She must be a fool to have cherished memories of that time. He was the King’s brother, and several years younger than she was. But he had admired her. He had shown his pleasure in speaking to her and sought to detain her in conversation and walk with her in the gardens even though at that time he had been deeply concerned with his quarrel with his brother.
What foolish thoughts! She, the mother of six children – and a young boy! For Richard, Earl of Cornwall, was little more.
It was most unseemly. But William had been right when he had implied that, however unsuitable, one could not help one’s thoughts.
The old year was passing. It was three months since the death of Gilbert. Then the New Year came and Isabella concerned herself with the arrangements to set up a memorial stone to her husband in Tewkesbury Cathedral.
It was in the spring when her brother sent a message to Tewkesbury that he was about to visit her with a friend. She went down to greet them and she was taken aback to see that the man who came with her brother was Richard of Cornwall.
He held her hand and looked into her face.
‘By my faith, lady,’ he said, ‘you are more beautiful than ever.’
William was quite clearly pleased and as she led them into the castle a wild thought occurred to her, but she dismissed it at once as impossible.
She would never forget that brief stay of the visitors to the castle. She went about her duties as châtelaine in a state of excitement for which she could only reproach herself. She was behaving like a foolish frivolous girl instead of a serious-minded widow.
She rode out with the men and Richard often contrived to be alone with her – and in this she was aware that her brother was his willing ally. Did William really think … He was ambitious, she knew, and he was married to Richard’s sister Eleanor.
Richard was courteous, charming and always admiring.
He told her of his life at Corfe under the stern Peter de Mauley and the equally severe Roger d’Acastre. He made her laugh by recounting the pranks he had played on his tutors. Then he told her of his adventures abroad as though he were trying to impress on her that although he was twenty-one the life he had lived had made him mature.
She felt that she should remind him of the difference in their ages and constantly she referred to her six children. His reply was that she must have some secret power because she had the looks of a young girl.
‘Perhaps you have not known any young girls,’ she answered.’ It would seem so since you confuse a matron such as I with them.’
He told her that he was far from inexperienced and it was due to this that he was able to appreciate her.
‘It surprises me,’ replied Isabella, ‘that being a man of such wide experience you have not yet married.’
‘That is easily answered. Nor has my brother married – because we are of a mind to make our own choice in this matter.’
This sounded significant, but she continued to refuse to believe it possible.
When they rode away she felt melancholy. Their brief stay had been one of the happiest times of her life, which was a sad confession for a widow to make. But what was the point of lying to herself? She had never been in love with Gilbert and if the choice had been left to her she would not have married him. How different he was from this royal prince.
And herself? A matron, yes, the mother of six children, but still handsome. Had she not been known as one of the most beautiful girls in the country before her marriage? She still was beautiful, and her good looks had become accentuated by an inner radiance which she heard came from being in love.
There! She had confessed it. She was in love with the King’s brother.