“Well, what happened to her next?” asked Albert, for there was no telling when the story would ever go on again, if Marie-Celeste was allowed to indulge too freely in these sentimental flights of hers.
Her Majesty waited a moment, hoping Marie-Celeste would take up the thread of the story, which she did almost unconsciously.
“Oh, she had a dreadful time, Albert. Richard left her in the care of a man named Huntington, and I don't believe there ever was a man so bad as he. Why, when Henry Bolingbroke was made king he had pardoned this Huntington, though he had been as untrue to Henry as he could be, because he was his sister's husband. But no sooner was he pardoned than he laid a deep plot with some other men as wicked as himself to overpower the King. As part of the plan, they were going to surprise Windsor Castle; and Huntington, if you will believe it, hoped to murder the four sons of Henry with his own hand; and they did march on Windsor Castle, but not before Henry and his sons had heard of the dreadful plan and ridden safely away. But Huntington could not believe that they had gone, and they searched everywhere in the castle here for them, and he was so angry at not finding them, that he let his soldiers in and they stove in doors and tore down curtains and cut up furniture and carried off silver, so that in five hours the castle was ruined.”
“Is that true?” whispered Albert to Miss Belmore. It seemed so incredible that Windsor Castle, with its present state and grandeur, could ever have been in such a sorry plight.
“Only too true, dear. There would be many more priceless treasures in the castle to-day but for the untold mischief of that terrible morning.”
Marie-Celeste waited with a decidedly martyr-like air till this inexcusable whispering was through with, chiming in again at the first opportunity. “And then what did the wretch do but hurry to little Isabel, and tell her that he had freed Richard from the Tower, and that he would soon be kins: again; so that Isabel was glad to go with Huntington. But it was all a lie, for Huntington simply wanted to have Isabel for his own prisoner instead of Henry Bolingbroke's. And so the poor little thing was right in Huntington's camp, among his rough soldiers; and what was worse, as soon as Huntington found himself in a tight place, and had to fly for his life, he deserted her, and Henry Bolingbroke's men came and carried her up to London, and then she was Henry's prisoner once more. But Huntington got what he deserved at last” (and the smile of grim satisfaction with which Marie-Celeste adorned the statement showed how simply enormous to even her childish mind seemed the crimes of the fiendish Huntington), “for after he deserted Isabel he fell into the hands of some peasants, who knew what a wretch he was, and who took him and drove a chopper through his neck, and so made an end of him. And then what did King Henry do but decide that it would be a good thing for England to keep friends with France, if that were possible; and so he said, 'The Pope shall say Isabel is no longer the wife of Richard, and I will marry her to my son Harry.' Of course everybody thought that would suit little Isabel well enough, for Harry was tall and handsome, just Isabel's age, and would make a line man some day; but Isabel would not hear of such a thing. She still loved the weak, bad man, older than her own father, who had fed her on sugar-plums, called her his little sister, fingered her mandolin, and sung with her at morning mass. Then besides her own feeling, the French themselves did not seem to want to be friendly with England, or to have Isabel stay here; and so at last she was sent back to her own people, and she died at Blois in France, when she was only twenty years old.”
“And—and now I think dat's a very sad an' interestin' story and Albeit, pondering over the remarkable tale, shook his head gravely from side to side.
“And the saddest part,” said Her Majesty, “is that there would probably have been no Joan of Arc nor Agincourt nor siege of Rouen if only the little Isabel had chanced to fancy the little Prince Hal.”
Agincourt and the siege of Rouen were only names to the children's ears. But there was time for no more questions; the flower garden was almost all in shadow now, and besides it had occurred even to Albert that the “old lady” might be growing a little tired.
“We have had a beautiful time,” said Marie-Celeste, with a sigh, as though unable to give full expression to her appreciation; “but I hope we haven't stayed too long;” and then, as though reluctant to take final leave of the little Isabel, she added: “Don't you think it is more comfortable just to be one of the people, and be a regular little girl, and grow up always near your mother, like other children?”