No sooner had he gone than the Queen came back to Paris with the Dauphin, and the latter was very warmly received by the Parisians. It was clear that the people were with him. The widowed Duchess of Orleans then began to plead with the Dauphin to bring her husband's murderer to justice and the Dauphin was advised to tell her that he would consider the matter, but before he had time to do this news came that Burgundy had subdued the rebels in Flanders and was on his way back to Paris. The Queen with the Dauphin and all the members of the royal family set out for Tours so that when Burgundy returned he found no one there to greet him.

He was wise enough to know that he could not rule as King; what he wanted was the Dauphin to be his figurehead; so he immediately set out for Tours in an attempt to make peace between the two factions. At this time Violante died —some said of a broken heart so much had she loved her faithless husband; but with her no longer begging for revenge and with the Queen realizing that it was to her advantage to

make a pact with Burgundy, peace was made between the parties.

Isabella had watched all that was going on with disgust and sadness.

She did not dislike her young husband, and she was now going to have a child. She wondered whether that would change her feelings and whether she might be happy again.

If only it were Richard's child, how happy she would be! So many years had passed. Was it nine since she had last seen him? She remembered how he had picked her up and held her fast and begged her never to stop loving him.

As if she could!

He had not known what lay ahead then—a cold and dismal cell in Pontefract Castle, death ...

And she a child then, to be left alone ... to face life without him.

From the Court of that scheming murderer and the blustering hateful Harry she had come to her home to find her father mad, her mother a wanton and to be plunged into another drama of murder and revenge.

But soon she would have a child. It must make a difference.

Charles, her young husband, had grown up considerably in the last few months; he was delighted that they were to have a child; he could not do enough for her. She was beginning to care for him.

As she lay on her bed, heavy with child, she sometimes asked herself if she could be happy again. Perhaps. When she had the child and she and Charles had become absorbed by it. Who knew? Perhaps the future would chase away those figures of the past. Perhaps she would cease to mourn for Richard and accept the fact that he was lost to her for ever.

She had gone to Blois, home of the Orleans family of which she was now a member. There was something formidable about this massive chateau with its thick stone walls rising from the rock on which it was built. It looked impregnable standing high over the town, supported by its mighty buttresses. Isabella could not forget that here such a short time ago Violante Visconti had died, of a broken heart, they said; and on her deathbed she had implored her three sons and daughters to avenge the death of their father. There had been one other child she sent for—the bastard son of her husband and a woman called Marietta d'Enghien; she saw in

this boy of six the making of a warrior. *You will avenge your father, little bastard of Orleans,' it was reported she had said; and he had sworn he would.

Was she wise to have come to Blois, the scene of so much unhappiness? But then what place was not so haunted?

Charles came to her. He did not seem so young now. She herself was twenty-one—not so very much older than he was yet she felt old in experience.

He talked of the child. He wanted a boy who would become a future Due d'Orleans. She wondered how often he thought of his murdered father. He never spoke of him. Like her he was looking forward; there was only sadness in looking back.

The thought of the child was always with her. It will be a new life, she thought. And she shut out the memory of the violent happenings about her. Her mother did not come to see her. She was too involved in her intrigues. She must not brood on what might be to come. She had had enough of trouble and wanted peace.

September had come. She had carried the child through the hottest months; now she was grateful that the weather was a little cooler.

Her pains started early in the morning. Her labour was long and arduous. She was only half aware of the figures round her bed. There was nothing now but the agony.

She fell into unconsciousness... and when at last she heard the cry of a child, she was not sure where she was. She was riding in the country. It was England and Richard was coming to meet her. They were looking at each other, in a kind of bewilderment. He was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen with his golden hair waving in the breeze and his blue eyes alight with admiration for her and a faint flush on his delicate skin. And for him she was the most beautiful little girl in the world. She could hear his voice telling her so.

*Oh Richard ... Richard ... dear Richard ... I am coming to you now .. /

How had she known? It was some premonition. She had a new life to lead but she was not going to start it. Her happiness had been Richard. There was nothing that could replace that.

They put the child in her arms. A little girl.

Charles, Due d'Orleans since the murder of his father, was kneeling at her bedside. She could see his anxious eyes. She

put out her hand and touched his face. It was wet with tears.

Why did he weep? But she knew.

She was twenty-one years old. It was young to die. But she was ready.

Within a few days after the birth of her child Isabella was dead.

PRINCE HAL

The Queen of England was thoughtful as her women dressed her. She was beautiful, everyone had agreed with that; but she had to grow accustomed to the fact that the people did not like her. She was not very sure that they liked the King himself. They called her the Foreigner and some whispered of him: Usurper. Coming to the throne as he had would naturally mean that there would always be some to raise their voices against him.

Her hair hung in thick curls; and her close-fitting gown accentuated the excellence of her figure. She did not look as if she had had several children. Her women placed the tall Syrian cap on her head. It became her. She would have changed the fashion if it had not done so; she herself arranged the transparent veil.

Life had not been quite what she had expected in England. She supposed that after her arranged marriage to the ageing Duke of Brittany it had seemed romantic when Henry of Lancaster had come to the Court—an exile needing comfort and help, and with a throne to win. And a far ofE lover ... that had been very romantic. Both of them waiting on fate. And when fate had worked in their favour it had seemed like a miracle.

Well, the reality was somehow different.

Kings and Queens could not expect life to run smoothly for them. They were neither of them in their first flush of

youth; she was thirty-three years old, Henry four years older; both had known other marriages—fruitful ones. She had her daughters here with her. More important perhaps was the existence of her sons, and their interests, closely allied with France, might not always be the same as those of Henry.

Henry's daughter Blanche was married to Louis, son and heir of the Duke of Bavaria and Elector Palatine of the Rhine. The child had already left England when Joanna arrived. His second daughter, Philippa, would soon be departing for her marriage with Eric of Sweden, and Joanna's own daughters would have to marry sooner or later.

There were too many cares in their lives for romance.