It was then that her Uncle Louis spoke to her about his son Charles of Angouleme.

"He loves you dearly," said Louis. "It is a wish very close to my heart ... and to your mother's ... that you two should marry."

"I do not think my mother cares very much what becomes of me," said Isabella.

"Oh my dear dear child," cried Louis, attempting to show deep concern, "you must not say that. She cares for you so much ... you and your brothers and sisters."

"I have not noticed it, sir," replied Isabella coolly. "My sisters are in need of new clothes. Their food is not of the best. I am told that the money is not available to feed and clothe them in a manner due to their rank. My mother of course needs it for her ornamental fringes and big cuffs."

Louis laughed. "You have been listening to the ramblings of that miserable preacher. If I had my way he would be thrust into an oubliette and left there."

"I doubt that not," replied Isabella. "But know this. I have no wish to marry."

"Oh come, dear child. You are not meant to waste the years. Why, you are a beauty. You will be like your mother one day."

"I pray not."

"She is the most beautiful woman in France."

Isabella was silent. A terrible fear gripped her. They would pretend for a while that they wanted her consent and when she refused it they would force her. She knew their methods.

The possibility of a match was forgotten temporarily for to the great rejoicing of Orleans and the Queen, the Duke of Burgundy fell ill. Within a short time he was dead. The new Duke of Burgundy was his son John the Fearless, Count of Nevers.

The whole of France waited in trepidation for what would happen next.

Louis was more anxious than ever now to bring about the marriage of his son and Isabella and the Queen told her daughter firmly that there must be no more delay.

"Do you want us to send you to England?" she demanded. "That is what will happen in time, depend upon it, if you delay much longer. There are some who believe it would be good to bring about a truce with England and they would do it with this marriage. The new Duke of Burgundy is against pursuing the war. You can guess what he has in mind. There is your cousin Charles. I know he is younger than you, but that will give you a chance to mould him in the way you want him to go. Come, Isabella, do not be foolish. Marry Charles. It is what I want for you and so does your Uncle Louis."

"And what of my father? Does he want it?"

"Your poor father alas is in one of his twilight phases. He does not know what he wants. But when he is in good mind he would agree that this is right for you. Think, child, it will keep you with us. Do you want to go to a foreign land? Do you want to be sent back to the son of your first husband's murderer? I hear rumours of the life young Harry leads. Roystering in taverns ... choosing the lowest companions. Not the sort of husband who would suit your sensitive nature and your refined tastes. If they wanted to find you a man as different from Richard as they could they would choose no better."

So it went on and finally she agreed.

There was great rejoicing and her mother, delighted that her daughter had promised to marry the son of her lover, set about preparing the most lavish entertainments. They were cousins of course—first cousins at that—but never mind. The Pope would not dare to raise any objection and the dispensation was a foregone conclusion. Banquets and jousting, dancing, players ... everything that could be devised was included. The Queen excelled at arranging such occasions; and Louis of course was beside her. It was the best thing that had happened since Burgundy had ousted him from his position as Regent.

Only the prospective bride was unhappy. She sat mournfully through the festivities and she could only think of Richard.

She had little feeling for the boy to whom they were marrying her, but he seemed bewildered and she tried to comfort him as well as she could.

"You need not worry," she told him. "It will be all right."

He clung to her hand reassured; but she could only turn away to hide the tears which she could not hold back.

So she became the Countess of Angouleme and was no longer Richard's sorrowing widow.

The wedding did not arouse a great deal of interest throughout the country. People were more concerned with the scandalous behaviour of the Queen and her paramour and the growing tension between the Duke of Burgundy and Louis of Orleans.

There was a certain relief when Burgundy showed that he was seeking to placate Orleans. In the streets of Paris they said if these two could forget their differences, it would be to the advantage of France; and Burgundy, in order to show that the fault did not lie with him, invited Orleans to dine with him.

It was a dark November evening before the day fixed for the meeting between Orleans and Burgundy. Louis had dined with the Queen and he was in very high spirits. It was eight o'clock. He would join the Queen later but now he was returning to his apartments.

He was accompanied by two of his squires riding on one horse and by four menservants who carried torches. The Duke was singing as they walked along. As they came into the Vieille Rue du Temple, a band of armed men sprang out and surrounded the party.

Luckily for the squires their horse took fright and bolted with them on its back; the servants dropped their torches and closed in round the Duke, who cried out: "What is this? I am the Duc d'Orleans. What do you want of me?"

One of the assailants cried out: "You are just the one we want. Ready friends."

The man who had spoken struck at the Duke with an axe and another came at him with a sword. Louis fell fainting to the ground.

One of his servants attempted to defend him and was struck down but managed to crawl away, the others seeing it was useless to try to defend themselves escaped into a nearby shop.

By this time windows were flung open for many had heard the commotion and the shouts of the assassins.

"Murder!" screamed a woman from the window of a cobbler's shop.

"Hold your tongue, strumpet," shouted one of the murderers and shot an arrow in her direction at which she immediately disappeared from sight.

"Out with all lights," cried the leader of the band.

Then the murderers ran. By this time people had been wakened and were coming fearfully down onto the street; and now that the murderers had gone they came to look at that night's work.

The Duc d'Orleans was dead. His body had been hacked and mutilated till there was no sign left of the handsome philanderer.

The Queen was in despair; so was Orleans' wife, Violante. There was no doubt that they loved the Duke dearly.

"Find his murderers," cried the Queen. "I swear I will take revenge of them."

The Duke of Burgundy joined his voice with the Queen's.

"There was never a more wicked murder in the whole of the kingdom of France," he declared.

The Provost of Paris, Sieur de Tignouville, was sent for. Nothing must be spared in the hunt for the murderers, he was told.

"My lord," was his reply, "if I may be granted permission to make my enquiries in the hostels of the King's servants and those of the Princes, I will discover the criminals."

The answer was that whatever help the Provost needed was to be given to him. He was to have free entry into every palace, hotel, shop or house in Paris.

"Then," cried Tignouville, "I think I shall be able to give you the murderers."

The Duke of Burgundy showed obvious signs of stress at this pronouncement and the Duc de Berri, his uncle, noticed this.

He drew him aside for a terrible suspicion had come to him.

"You know something I believe, John," he said.

Burgundy could see that there was no point in denying that he was the instigator of the murder.

He answered: "Orleans was bringing dishonour to the King's bed. He was a menace to the nation. Yes, it was I who hired the assassins to kill him."

"Oh my God," cried the Duc de Berri. "Now I have lost both my nephews. Louis murdered and you John his murderer.

"You should not go back to the council," added Berri.

"Nor will I," said Burgundy. "My wish is that none shall be accused of murdering the Duc d'Orleans, for it was I and none other who caused what has been done."

With that he walked out, leaped onto his horse and taking only six of his attendants with him galloped away across the frontier to Flanders.

When it was known that he had escaped there was great indignation and a hundred of Orleans' men gave chase but they were too late and could not catch up with him.

The affair had shaken the Court. People talked of nothing else. There was nothing that could be done to bring Burgundy to justice; and people were beginning to say that Orleans had deserved his death. He had dishonoured his brother; he had made no secret of his adulterous relationship with the Queen, he had imposed taxes on the people, his rule had nearly brought the country to ruin, whereas everyone knew that Burgundy was a strong man. Fierce he might be, ruthless, violent; but his father's rule had been good and he showed signs of his father's strength.

Violante Visconti, widow of Orleans, was determined that his murderer should not go unpunished. In spite of his infidelities she had loved the Duc passionately, and she was eager to avenge him. She arrived in Paris with her children. The weather was bitterly cold—the worst Paris had experienced for several years. Nevertheless she came because the King was in the midst of one of his lucid periods and she believed that she would get justice from him.

She came to the Hotel St Pol, where the King was in residence and she forced her way into the room where he was sitting with his council. There she threw herself onto her knees and demanded that her husband's murderers be brought to justice.

The King promised her that everything should be done. "We regard the deed done to our brother as done to ourself," he told Violante.

Isabella, unhappy in her own unsatisfactory marriage, did her best to comfort Violante. She knew what it meant to have a husband done to death.

"We have much in common," she said sadly. "I feel for you."

There were rumours in the town. Burgundy had no intention of remaining outside France. True he had murdered the Duc d'Orleans but he had done it for France. Everyone knew that he was ruining the country. Burgundy was building himself up as the saviour of France. The King beset on all sides immediately lapsed into madness.

Paris waited for what would happen next. It soon came. A monk arrived with a message from the Duke of Burgundy to the King. Poor Charles, his mind being in a clouded state, was unable to receive the monk; but his son the little Dauphin who was now aged twelve, sat at the head of the council and listened to what the monk had to say.

The burden of his discourse was that it was lawful, honourable and meritorious to slay or cause to be slain, a traitor to his country—especially when that traitor holds greater power than the King. Was this not what had happened in the case of the Duc d'Orleans, whose object had been to set aside the King and his sons and take the crown himself? Far from blaming the Duke of Burgundy, the King and the country should applaud what he had caused to be done.

The poor little Dauphin was bewildered. So was the council. There was some truth in this. Orleans, the extravagant libertine, had no gift for government. The country had prospered temporarily under the old Duke of Burgundy. Was his son right in what he had done?

While the monk continued to lay before the Dauphin and the council the case for Burgundy, the King recovered and was able to preside and listen to the arguments put forth. It was true, he thought, that Orleans had almost brought the country to ruin; it was true also that the old Duke of Burgundy had saved it. All he wanted was peace and there never would be if he did not agree that what Burgundy had done was good for France. Orleans had been a traitor to him. The King knew of his liaison with the Queen.

A letter was brought to him from the monk who implored him to sign it.

"My lord," he pleaded, "a stroke of the pen from you and this matter will be settled."

The King read the letter:

It is our will and pleasure that our cousin of Burgundy abide in peace with us and our successors in respect of the aforesaid deed and all that hath followed it, and that by us and our successors our people and officers no hindrance on account of that may be offered to the Duke and his."