I am delighted to announce that THE IRISH PRINCESS is now out in paperback – the story of Aoife Machmurchada, Richard de Clare and a political marriage with far-reaching consequences for Ireland that are still being felt a thousand years later.
But politics is also about people; their emotions and drives. Who were Aoife and Richard? Whenever I write a historical novel, I always feel as if I am opening a door and entering the personal lives of the vibrant flesh and blood people behind the dates and the dust. They are still there in all their colours if you care to look.
When I originally handed in THE IRISH PRINCESS the concluding chapter was more like an afterword than a part of the novel and my editor very rightly decided that the penultimate chapter was the better ending for the story. However, I haven’t discarded the deletion and it adds, I think, a little more context to the future of Aoife’s daughter, Isabelle de Clare, who features in my Marshal novels THE GREATEST KNIGHT and THE SCARLET LION.
Here, for your pleasure is the final chapter out-take from THE IRISH PRINCESS.
Tower of London, May 1189
Tense with excitement and anticipation, Isabelle waited for her mother’s arrival. She had not seen Aoife since Lent and she was eager for their meeting. Catching her mood, her small silver-grey hound, Damask, whined and gave her a moist nudge with her nose. Isabelle stroked her pet’s sleek head and murmured a distracted endearment.
In the four years she had dwelt in the Tower of London, Isabelle had grown accustomed to its confines. She had her own chamber and servants. She could walk the grounds freely. She could even ride into the city if escorted and she had made friends with many of the other young heiresses dwelling here in the same situation as herself – marriage prizes too valuable to live unguarded in the world. She fully understood why these thick walls protected her but knew bitter irony that her status restricted her freedom. The seamstresses, the goose girls, the ale wives who came and went from the Tower had more liberty than she did. It was a powerless power indeed, and yet she knew she should be grateful because she had privilege, she had her life, and her cushioned existence. Her cage was gilded and her mother visited often. Aoife’s dower manor of Parndon was less than a day’s ride. Isabelle had her life before her to make of it what she would – unlike her brother.
Thinking about Gilbert, she picked up the little carved wooden knight on horseback from the shelf behind her bed. It had been his favourite toy. He had died at twelve years old, thrown from his spirited new mount during a visit to Haverford. The fall had broken his neck and he had died almost instantly in their mother’s arms. The shock still made Isabelle’s stomach lurch if she thought about the incident and an aching sadness like ravenous hunger remained in her heart.
Gilbert’s death had left their mother devastated and bitter. For Isabelle, her childhood companion had been snatched away in an instant, and she had realised anew how swiftly everything could be lost. Her father, now her brother, and even for a while her mother as Aoife descended into a deep well of grief.
The King had ordered Isabelle to be brought to the Tower, for she was now the sole heiress to Striguil and Leinster, of marriageable age, and her importance as a prize had risen to a point where she had to be taken into custody.
Turning Gilbert’s little toy in her hands, she remembered the day they had sent for her.
Four months after Gilbert’s death, she and her mother had been at Goodrich. It had been early April, turning toward spring, and Isabelle had been weaving a length of braid on her loom. The repetition was soothing and she could let her mind wander like a slow river.
A letter had arrived bearing the King’s seal, and as her mother read it, Isabelle saw her catch her breath and close her eyes, pressing her fist to her heart. Isabelle’s tenuous happiness had evaporated on the instant. Her mother had turned to her with features thin and sharp, frown lines scoring her brows. ‘Leave that,’ she snapped, making a terse gesture at the weaving. ‘I have something important to tell you.’
‘What is it, Mama?’
‘The King commands you to go to London. You are to be lodged in the Tower with other heiresses in his wardship.’
Isabelle had stared at her in dismay, feeling as if her stomach was full of stones. ‘But why?’
‘Because you are the heiress to great lands. Because you are of marriageable age,’ her mother said bitterly. ‘Because your brother is dead.’
Isabelle had just stared numbly until Aoife said angrily, ‘We have to go and pack the things you will need. Do not just sit there like a helpless rabbit.’
Even back then, Isabelle had understood her mother’s moods and her pain, and had known she was angry at the situation and not her. She had watched her cope with the death of her father and then of Gilbert. Damaged, but surviving against the odds and constantly battling to hold their position steady and prevent them from sinking amid a rough storm of political ambition.
In their chamber Aoife had begun sorting through the coffers and cupboards, pulling out fabric, veils, ribbons and trinkets. Talking half to herself and half to Isabelle. ‘We need this, we don’t need that. You must take that bolt of blue cloth for a new gown. You are growing so fast. You need more laces and ribbons. I was hoping to buy some next month in Bristol. I thought . . . I thought we had more time.’ She stopped and swallowed and stared at the heap of belongings in front of her. And then Aoife had jerked herself back into the moment and reached for her daughter. ‘Oh, come here!’ Grabbing Isabelle, she had pulled her into her body and hugged her hard and they had both wept bitter tears.
At last Aoife had wiped her eyes and put the clothes on the bed to fold them. ‘Your father left us in a difficult condition when he was taken untimely from the world,’ she said. ‘We have to fend for ourselves as women, you no more than me. This is not my doing; I hope you understand. This is the doing of men.’ Her expression hardened. ‘Do not ever, my daughter, depend upon a man, for he will let you down. Do not let yourself be beguiled; it is all falseness and wit until it comes to the moment of truth.’
Isabelle felt as though she had been being thrown into a pool of icy water and could only gaze at her mother in bewilderment. Aoife had exhaled hard, taken her in her arms again and drawn her to sit before the hearth.
‘I was barely older than you when I came to England for the first time and made a betrothal with your father,’ she said, stroking her hair. ‘You do not yet understand the machinations of men, but you must learn swiftly, for you stand in the stead of your father and all that he once was and all that he owned. It has come down to you and it is your burden to bear and to face down anyone who would take it from you. King Henry seeks to draw you into his enclave of so-called protection and we must bear with it for he is the king. I cannot be with you every day – it hurts me that we shall be separated. But I will come to you whenever I can and I will make the King mindful of his pledge. I will protect you until my dying breath. We are mother and daughter and part of each other for ever. We must be brave and tread this path, even if it is not one we would have chosen.’
Isabelle still had not fully understood, but she was able to take the words inside her and with them, her mother’s formidable strength. There might be unpleasantness ahead, but she would show no weakness.
She remembered leaving her mother, climbing into the litter with her escort to take her to London. Aoife had grasped her hand for a final moment. ‘You are a princess in my stead and you are born from royalty.’ Her voice had rung with pride. ‘You have the strength of the Murchadas in your blood and you are the one to carry it forward. Show no weakness to the world and honour me and our forebears. I will come to you as soon as I can and I miss you already. I will send you gifts and letters more often than I can afford.’ Her voice caught and her eyes shone with tears. ‘I will not let you down, my daughter, my precious girl. I love you more than the earth I walk upon. My heart is torn, but I shall not show it to the world, and I pray you do the same.’
The cart picked up the pace and their hands had parted and Isabelle had been borne away to this new life in a cage of stone and gold.
Coming to herself, Isabelle set the little horseman back in his niche and wiped away the tears running down her face. Irish rain, her mother was wont to call them in her gentler moments. Isabelle always cried when she thought about Gilbert and her life before coming here. She had left Leinster as a tiny girl and remembered little of it, save the rain and the greenery and sometimes the misty image of a copper-haired man who had carried her in his arms and loved her.
When she had come to the Tower, her mother had moved to the manor at Parndon in order to visit her as often as possible. For the moment the King was preoccupied with personal and political matters on battle campaign in Normandy. She had heard he was not a well man, although it was all rumours, of course. The Tower thrived on rumours.
One of her attendant women put her head around the door. ‘Your lady mother the Countess has arrived,’ she announced.
Isabelle thanked her and smiled, but she was circumspect, giving nothing away. She had learned to guard herself because everything here was reported. She sent the woman to bring two cups and a flagon and sat down to wait.
Aoife smoothed her gown and removed her riding gloves as her horse was taken by a groom. Most of her entourage had gone to wait for her in a lodging outside the tower, but she had Deirdre with her and one of the senior squires. It was a fine April morning with a good breeze blowing fluffy clouds across a delicate blue sky. Last time she had visited at Lent it had been bitterly cold with icy sleet driving across the river, but today the roads had been firm and the countryside springing into new green. She was looking forward to seeing Isabelle, but she was tense, too, for they had important matters to discuss and she had to be sure her daughter understood what she had to say.
Ranulf de Glanville, who had overall custody of the heiresses in the Tower, escorted her to Isabelle’s chamber. Aoife did not particularly like the man, for he was not of her affinity and she did not trust him, but she was always courteous and brought him gifts of money or jewels or fine cloth, for she knew his avid desire for such things, and such bribes were keys to unlock doors.
Climbing the stairs to Isabelle’s chamber, Aoife thought the accommodation mean when compared with the comfort of Striguil and Goodrich and even Parndon. The Tower was a cage for a bird that ought to be flying free like a Striguil peregrine. Reaching the door, she thanked de Glanville with charm but made it clear she wished to be alone with her daughter. De Glanville gave her a wary look, born of experience, but made his exit, a new pouch of silver heavy at his belt.
Aoife opened the door and watched Isabelle stand up. As always, she felt the twist in her heart that she and Richard had created such beauty between them. Isabelle’s eyes were her father’s, with all their changeable sea-colours. She had his height and long limbs, and at eighteen years old, the willowy figure of an adult young woman.
‘Mama!’ Isabelle embraced her in a hug; she was taller than Aoife now. ‘It is so good to see you!’
‘And you, my daughter. You have grown again! Are they treating you well?’ Aoife stared round the chamber at the furnishings. The sight of the small wooden horse in its niche sent a tender pain through her breast. She had endured the struggle, the sorrow and dark, debilitating bitterness. At times the memories were unbearable and she would seek oblivion in the wine jug. Her world had turned black when she lost Gilbert; she had even railed at Richard in Heaven, for now he had Gilbert too, their glorious, precious son, leaving her and Isabelle to fend for themselves. She had emerged from her grief scoured to the bone, living for the fight, staying strong and indomitable. Still the water did not erode the rock.
‘I have everything I need,’ Isabelle said. ‘Master Glanville is kind.’
Aoife raised her brows. ‘You should not mistake duty for kindness,’ she said, ‘and you should not trust Master Glanville because he can be bought. You have everything you need except your freedom and the execution of will.’
‘Yes, Mama,’ Isabelle said in a way that made Aoife narrow her eyes and wonder if her fledgling adult daughter was humouring her.
Isabelle poured her a cup of wine and it was decent enough – almost good. Aoife set it on the coffer and folded her hands. ‘I am returning to Ireland until the autumn,’ she said. ‘Raymond of Carew is dead and I need to go. It is a while since I saw our Irish kin and your half-sisters.’ She made no mention of Basilia. Let her make her own way now that she too was a dowager. ‘But before I leave, I must speak of your marriage.’
Isabelle’s expression tensed with a mingling of surprise and fear.
Aoife waited for her to settle. They had both known this was coming, but the reality of now was hard. ‘The King has written to me with details of the men he is considering,’ Aoife said. ‘I can do nothing to influence him and I know none of them well, even the ones I have met at court.’ She set her lips. ‘I have to be glad that he has even seen fit to inform me. They may be fine men – I have no notion if they are – but whoever is chosen, you must depend only on yourself, not them.’
‘What does the King say?’ Isabelle’s eyes were wide and her hands tightly clasped.
Aoife picked up her wine again. ‘He writes to assure me he will do his best for you – as he thinks. Hah!’ Irritated, she took a large swallow from her cup.
‘Who is he considering?’ Isabelle said anxiously.
‘Andrew de Chauvigny, he says. He is of high birth, Queen Alienor’s cousin, and a strong soldier, but he is of Poitou.’ Aoife waved her hand dismissively.
Isabelle shook her head. ‘I do not know him.’
‘William FitzReinfred.’ Aoife gave an impatient shrug. ‘He is not of sufficient weight. You are a jewel, not to be bestowed lightly for reward and hung on a collar of string.’
‘I do not know him either Mama, so I cannot say.’
‘John, Count of Mortain.’
Isabelle drew back sharply. ‘No!’ she declared with revulsion.
‘He is lord of Ireland and heir to the throne after Richard,’ Aoife said. ‘You should think on him.’
‘No,’ Isabelle said again and shuddered. ‘He . . . he has visited us in the Tower – the heiresses. He touches us when he thinks no one is looking and presses up against us. He plays cruel jokes. If I married him, I would sleep with a knife under my pillow, I swear! He may be the King’s son, but he is not worthy and the price would be too high.’
Aoife heard the loathing in her daughter’s voice. She had seriously considered John, especially since his father had designated him to rule Ireland, but she set the notion to one side, thinking it a pity, but not dismissing it entirely. ‘William the Marshal,’ she said. ‘He has little land to speak of – a small estate in the North, but he is an accomplished courtier and soldier. I met him at court when your father was alive. I have no idea why the King would choose him except for his loyal service and military skill. He is not your match in bloodline and estates.’
‘I thought he was going to wed Heloise of Lancaster,’ Isabelle said. ‘I have met him too – when he came to take her to Kendal.’
‘Well, clearly he is more ambitious than that.’ Aoife gave Isabelle a sharp look, for she had not miss her daughter’s blush. ‘You must be wary of ambitious men, especially the ones with reputations at court. You are more than a means to an end.’
‘I know that, Mama.’
‘I will write to the King, reminding him of obligation and friendship. He will not act until he returns to England, but we must be diligent, and you must know your own worth. Ask what these men can offer you in return for their right to have you and your land. What do they bring to the marriage? What lands do they have? What wealth and ties of influence? Are they worthy of your attention? What gain is there to yourself? And you must phrase your questions in ways acceptable to the King so it does not seem like a challenge.’
‘I know that, Mama,’ Isabelle said again, lifting her chin.
Aoife gave her a penetrating look and was reassured by the knowing in Isabelle’s eyes. ‘Might your husband be trusted with such high status? Might his character be weak or flawed so that he fails to protect you and your estates? You need someone who has power enough to fulfil his office and serve you but not one who will take it into his own hands and use it as a weapon. He should be in his prime too and give you strong, healthy children for your succession.’
Isabelle’s flush deepened and Aoife nodded. ‘Yes, you must consider that too. It will be your duty to lie with him and bear children from his seed and yours. We are trustworthy and we will provide trustworthy heirs. That too must be emphasised to the King. Not all children are loyal, including his own, and it is a thorny issue for him. Use it to your utmost but in a reasonable way. Smile and be gentle in your speech but hold firm – use the assets God gave you.’ Aoife slipped a pearl and crystal ring from her finger and presented it to Isabelle. ‘The King gave this to me in token of his willingness to protect us, and I give it to you now for safekeeping while I am gone.’
Isabelle slid it onto the middle finger of her left hand and discovered it a perfect fit. Looking at it, she remembered being a child, sitting in the middle of her mother’s bed, trying it on and watching it slide round with a huge gap. ‘I will do as you ask, Mama, and I will take great care,’ she said seriously.
Aoife embraced her and experienced a profound outpouring of protective love for her daughter. ‘No man will ever be good enough for you,’ she said, ‘not even if he is the greatest knight in all of Christendom. I would keep you with me, that is my wish, but it cannot be. At least you are safe here for now and preserved from danger. Keep well, I shall write to you when I reach Kilkenny, and you must write to me.’
Aoife departed at sunset. She kissed Isabelle tenderly and left in her care meticulous copies of all the documents pertaining to her lands. ‘Every stick and stitch, every mill, every cow and calf,’ she said. ‘This is what you have and I want you to learn it by heart.’ She pressed a hefty pouch of silver into Isabelle’s hand. ‘This is yours, from your manors. Show none of your women; keep it well hidden.’
Isabelle bade her mother farewell, her heart filled with love and gratitude, and sadness at parting. There was also a kernel of relief. She needed solitude and time to digest everything Aoife had said today. Whatever the future held, she was determined to live up to her mother’s courage and strength and honour her sacrifice.
That night, lying in her bed, the moon shining over the tower, Damask curled at her side, she thought of her mother crossing the wild sea to Ireland, facing the wind, indomitable. An Irish princess. As sleep took Isabelle deep into dreams that image departed with her consciousness, and instead she watched a knight ride toward her on a glossy chestnut stallion, his banner flying a scarlet lion on a background of green and gold.