The Kingmaker's Pawn

Chapter Twenty-Four

Isabelle hated Calais. They killed her baby girl. If they had done what was right and followed her father rather than the king then her little girl would be sucking at her nursemaid. There would be the nursemaids with them, they would be French but they would have cared for Isabelle's baby.

If George would but speak to her she would have their names. Those who refused them port, killed her child. She wouldn't forgive them, when she was queen she would have them stripped of their posts and hanged. That would satisfy her; but it would not bring back her baby who she would not even seen buried. Calais had even taken that from her.

In the litter Isabelle did not have to wear her headdress and took to untangling her long hair. The wild winds had knotted it and left her face feeling burnt like when she spent too long in the sun. Her fingers hurt too, they were like ice and even as she ran them through her hair removing the knots she could barely feel them.

The rain was thundering down too, it was seeping through the curtained sides of the litter were sodden and a puddle was gathering in near the door. If they hadn't left England it wouldn't have been like this.

But Isabelle had to remember that they had, and now she had to work with the hand she was dealt. To be an Queen without a crown in  a foreign country. Just like Margaret of Anjou. The wheel of fortune was simply falling down, but it would rise again just as it always did in Isabelle's favour.

She stopped untangling her hair and reached for Anne's hand. They were even colder than Isabelle's and though it hurt to do so Isabelle squeezed it. Anne didn't look up, her hair was tangled too but even more. She had been riding along side the litter for a while refusing to sit in it because Isabelle needed the space. Their father did not seem to care so much as let her. That was until she was shivering and holding onto her horse's mane to stop herself falling.

The guards had scooped her up and with teeth chattering she was sat beside Isabelle, head rested on the side still wet and cold. She would be ill again. Isabelle didn't think she would cope with that again. Not now.

Isabelle wanted to rest a hand upon her stomach to feel her baby kick, but her belly was no longer swollen. It just sagged. There wasn't a baby in there anymore. There wasn't a baby anywhere. At least not Isabelle's baby.

If George would only speak with her she would see that they have enough. But he hated her, he loathed her being his healthy son and heir was a dead daughter. How could Isabelle blame him, but it was not her fault and the next one would be a boy. If he would give her that chance he would see she was right.

She was crying now. The tears were heavy and stuck to her cheeks. She wiped them away but she could feel the tracks they had left down her cheek. Her face would be red and her eyes puffy. She always looked a fool after she had cried. What even was the point of these tears? They didn't fix anything If anything they made things worse. They made her weak.

"How long now?" Isabelle asked her lady mother who sat opposite her.

"Not long," Lady Anne said rubbing her eyes, she must have been sleeping, Isabelle hadn't noticed, "why? do you feel ill? My dear if you do we may stop."

"No, I am fine, Lady Mother," Isabelle said and looked to Anne, "but I worry she is not. She is so blue as her dress and shivering even with all those furs."

"Does she have a fever," Lady Anne showed little concern and Isabelle swallowed the words she wanted to shout.

"No, she is too cold to have a fever. She is cold as stone," Isabelle ran the back of her hand down her sisters cheek. It was truly like running her hand over one of the statues at Warwick. It was not health, not at all.