The Forgotten Princess (Forgotten Royals)

Chapter Twenty-Five

"Do you know why I named you Isabella?" I said, one day as I sat in the garden with my seven-month-old daughter one warm spring day.

Of course, the baby, safe in her swaddling, couldn't respond. But as loneliness shadowed me, I felt the need to talk. In the past, I could share my thoughts with Richard. It wasn't as easy now.

Her birth had been hard, and I had a bad illness afterwards, leaving me a little weak. It didn't help that the previous year I had gone through a difficult childbirth with her brother. Later, I found out the midwives were afraid I wouldn't make it. I survived, but my son Henry of York now slept beneath the earth. Forgotten by everyone but me.

I tried to hide any weakness from Richard, knowing he feared the consequences if we had another. But he worried. Never mind that I was only twenty-one and made it through the illness. He stayed away, doing business for his brother like a nameless messenger. When he returned, sometimes he would spend his time in the barracks, never coming to bed until the faint light of dawn crept into our room.

The sweet scents of spring brought little cheer, though God knows it was better than passing the dreary chamber where I lost my first child. I wanted Isabella to see the sky that her brother never did. So young, but her eyes were so bright and full of wonder about the world. I could almost believe she understood everything I said.

A soft breeze tickled my skin, and I heard a faint rustling from the rosebushes. I fiddled with my wedding ring as I decided what I wanted to say.

I leaned closer to my cooing daughter. "You were named after two of your ancestors. The one was the mother of your noble father. She was the daughter of a king of Castile. The other is my ancestor, Isabella of France. Most would rather not speak it, but she was the lover of Roger Mortimer, another of our forebears. Together, she and Roger invaded England and overthrew her husband, Edward II. Nothing like that had ever happened. No one believed a woman could do it."

"I'm starting to think we should name our daughter Joan. You never hear of anyone named Joan making trouble for England."

A smile crept on my face, and I looked over at my husband. White roses rustled as he brushed against them, the faint noise alerting me to his presence long before he spoke. His eyes sparkled and somehow he appeared even more attractive than that Christmas when he first came back into my life. There was a time when we couldn't keep our hands off each other. But now he was cautious around me, as if I were some fragile glass window that could break.

At least he was here now. For a second, I worried he might wander off with one of his awful excuses. Uneasiness gripped me until he walked over. The rest of the world could abandon me and I would survive. But I needed him.

"Is that really a story to tell our child?" He furrowed his brow in an imitation of his grumpy brother as he plopped down beside us. "Perhaps you should wait until she is at least twelve before you encourage her to betray her husband and overthrow a kingdom."

I winked at him. "The story might not have been for her benefit."

He snorted. "You heard me?"

I nodded. "A word of advice, my lord husband. You might want to leave skulking and spying to someone else."

"I wasn't spying." He reached toward my hair, free of any elaborate headdress. Inches from me, he froze and settled for patting our daughter. "I was counting my blessings."

He could probably count them on one hand, but I refrained from saying it. I wasn't ungrateful for what we had. But I knew we could have more. My husband had the skills to be one of the greatest knights that England had ever seen, but he sat here, uncalled by the Lancaster King. We remained tenants of his brother, living on his charity as if Richard wasn't the grandson of a king of Castile and I hadn't almost been a princess.