Root of the Tudor Rose (6 page)

‘Is he all right?'

‘Oh, Charles is perfectly well, apparently. Which is more than can be said for John the Fearless, poor soul.' She crossed herself. ‘He's dead.'

‘Dead? My uncle of Burgundy?' Catherine's hand flew to her mouth. ‘He's dead?'

‘So it seems. Murdered, they say. I knew that he and Charles were to meet at Montereau, it's been arranged for some time. But it seems the situation got out of hand.'

Catherine looked stunned. ‘What happened?'

‘I don't know, Catherine, I really don't know. My only fear is …' Isabeau hesitated. ‘I can only pray that Charles had no part in this murder. But he can be such a stupid boy: between the two of us, I wouldn't be at all surprised.'

‘I can't believe that … that my uncle is dead.' Deeply shocked, Catherine was pushing her clenched fist hard against her mouth, trying to stop her lips trembling.

‘Apparently it's true. Of course, we'll know more very soon. Bad news has a habit of travelling fast.'

‘What will happen? What will happen to the family? Aunt Margaret? The girls? Anne and little Agnès will be beside themselves with grief. Michelle, too. And what of cousin Philip?' Catherine was beginning to appreciate the seriousness of the situation.

‘Philip will inherit his father's title,' said Isabeau abruptly, ‘of course. And as for Michelle, well, your sister is now the new Duchess of Burgundy. Get used to it, my dear, there's going to be a new Duke of Burgundy at our negotiations with King Henry from now on.'

‘But Philip is young, he hasn't the experience …'

‘No, he hasn't. But we might be able to turn that to our advantage,' Isabeau was plotting already. ‘Leave me now, Catherine. I have much to do. Go back to Guillemote and your sewing. There's no point in upsetting yourself. Who knows, some good might come of all this, though you might not think so at the moment.'

Isabeau went straight back to her escritoire and began another letter. John the Fearless was dead and she could lose no time in extending her deepest sympathy to the new duke and duchess in their loss. She was even more anxious, though she did not say so, to ensure that the young duke would be prepared to continue the association with the English which his father had favoured. The fragile alliance must not be threatened by the events of the previous day. She needed young Philip of Burgundy's support for her plans.

There was one more letter which Queen Isabeau wanted to write but, having thought about it, she decided against committing herself to paper. She didn't want anyone to have proof of what she was about to do. Instead, she summoned one of her closest advisers, the Bishop of Arras, to a meeting in her private chamber and asked him to make an excuse to request an audience with King Henry. She urged him to point out to the English King in a subtle way that not only had the Dauphin Charles disgraced himself at Montereau but that there were, in any case, serious doubts about his right to the throne, doubts which could be verified if need be. Then, of course, if King Charles should happen to die – and he was, after all, gravely ill – there would be nothing to prevent Henry from claiming the throne of France for himself, especially if he was married to Catherine. But if the large dowry he was demanding could not be found, then Catherine could not become his wife. So, in the circumstances, would he not like to reconsider his demands?

The Bishop nodded doubtfully. He had tremendous respect for Isabeau's political acumen but was less sure of his own gifts as an actor.

Henry, a tactical soldier, was bemused by the turn of events. It was quite obvious to him that the murder of John the Fearless had entirely changed the political landscape. John's son Philip, the new Duke of Burgundy, was inexperienced, as was his faintly unpleasant cousin the Dauphin Charles, and neither young man was mature enough to present a serious challenge to what Henry wanted.

And what Henry wanted was the throne of France when old King Charles died. He wanted Catherine, too, so much more now that he had met her. He wanted her the way any man wants a beautiful woman. He wanted her in his bed, whether or not she brought the throne of France to their union. The thought that he could now have them both was irresistible.

It was time to make his move.

Queen Isabeau had spent a considerable amount of money on dancing lessons for Catherine who, having worked hard with her dancing master for several months, was now confident of her new skills. Her favourite dance, and quite the merriest in her repertoire, was the
saltarello,
the latest fashionable dance from Italy, and she revelled in the ease and fluidity with which she was now able to perform all the little kicks and jumps required of the dancers. She felt well-equipped to deal with the Christmas festivities at Troyes where the French court, their religious devotions completed, would be spending the rest of their time in music, dancing, and feasting.

Guillemote had tossed a handful of pine cones onto the crackling logs in the small fireplace in Catherine's bedchamber, and their fragrance mingled with the delicious smells of spit-roasting goose and wild boar which wafted up from the palace kitchens. Sitting at her little oak dressing table, Catherine could hear occasional snatches of music or a shriek of laughter from another room and was thrilled at the prospect of the festivities to come. She had decided on a crimson gown for the dancing and Guillemote, having finished dressing her mistress's hair, was now beginning to lace up the back of the bodice.

The excited barking of a small dog in the corridor outside the room heralded the arrival of the Queen and, a moment later, the door burst open to admit her. She was brandishing a piece of paper above her head as her yapping lap dog pranced around in excited circles in front of her then stood on its hind legs, pawing at her skirts. Pausing only to send the little creature skittering across the floor with the toe of her shoe, Isabeau pushed poor Guillemote impatiently out of her way and made a beeline for her daughter.

‘Catherine! Catherine! Such good news!' she screeched, flinging her arms around her daughter's neck from behind and nearly upending her chair.

‘What, my Lady? What is it?' Catherine attempted to stand, her unlaced gown falling from her shoulders. Isabeau took a step back and waved the piece of paper in her hand, a ribbon and seal dangling from it.

‘Catherine, look! Look! It's from Rouen, where King Henry and Philip of Burgundy have been holding discussions. It is a copy of an agreement made between them yesterday and sent to us for our information. It will be formally issued today under the great seal of the King.'

‘Let me see, Maman …' Catherine reached out her hand, her gown falling off her shoulder again.

‘Oh no, child,' Isabeau held the letter in an embrace against herself. ‘Oh no! This is too important. I've waited too long for this. I'll read it to you.' With reverence, she held the piece of paper in both hands while she took a deep breath and began to read.

Catherine had succeeded in getting to her feet and Guillemote, who had been cowering against the wall since the Queen had shoved her to one side, began to make another attempt to lace up the crimson gown while her young mistress stood, anxiously clenching and unclenching her fists at her sides. Queen Isabeau, in a voice cracking with emotion and excitement, began to enumerate the proposed terms of the treaty designed to bring about a general truce between England and France. It was dated the twenty-fourth of December 1419.

Catherine listened intently. There were several points made in the agreement about the division of land between England and France; Normandy and Aquitaine were both to be handed back to the English crown and there were formal endorsements of some concessions made by Philip of Burgundy earlier in the month. Both the King and the new Duke agreed that, after the debacle at Montereau, the Dauphin's opinion should not be sought on any matter.

‘Charles won't be pleased at that,' Catherine said. ‘He is the Dauphin. He will inherit Papa's title.'

‘Dauphin or not, his opinion doesn't count for anything,' said Isabeau, dismissing Catherine's comment with a wave of her hand. She began to read again. There was a clause in the agreement which secured the interests of Philip's wife, Michelle. Isabeau gave a whooping cheer at that, having heard that Michelle had become deeply melancholy after the death of her father-in-law, convinced that he had died at the hand of her own brother. Then Isabeau paused for a long moment and looked at Catherine.

‘Now, Catherine, do you want the good news? The
really
good news?' She was quivering with excitement.

‘Yes, yes, Maman. Don't tease me!'

Isabeau took a deep breath. ‘Catherine, Henry wants to marry you. And …' Isabeau didn't take her eyes off her daughter.

‘Yes, Maman? What else?'

‘He has dropped his demand for a dowry!'

‘What? Completely?'

‘Absolutely and entirely!' Isabeau let the letter fall to the table and held out her arms to her daughter. The pair hugged each other, not knowing whether to laugh or cry and doing both at the same time, tears running down their faces.

Saucer-eyed, Guillemote watched the two of them, the Queen of France and the future Queen of England, embracing and jigging around the room like a pair of over-excited children. How things were going to change from now on, she thought. She would have to go to England with her mistress and live among English people. And everyone
knew
that Englishmen had tails!

Guillemote crossed herself fervently.

Chapter Four

Troyes, France, May 1420

Catherine had to fight the urge to sneeze as motes of thick building dust danced in the shaft of coloured light streaming in through a magnificent stained glass window in the great Cathedral of St Peter and St Paul. At least, she assumed the window to be magnificent since her view of it was rather obscured by a tower of wooden scaffolding supporting a stonemason's work platform. Today the mallets and chisels lay unused and silent while a peal of bells rang out the message that the business in hand was the ceremonial signing of the Treaty of Troyes, followed by the betrothal of His Royal Highness King Henry V of England to Her Royal Highness the Princess Catherine de Valois of France.

Her one abiding memory of that May morning was the look of triumph on her mother's face as a fanfare greeted her entrance into the cathedral on the arm of her son-in-law Philip of Burgundy. At exactly the same time, King Henry made his entrance with his brother Thomas, the Duke of Clarence, from the opposite door. The four, with their attendants and advisers, met at the crossing which intersected the nave and the transepts, before moving in procession towards the high altar, on which lay the final draft of the Treaty of Troyes. The document already bore the signature of King Charles VI of France who, suffering another bout of his old malady, was not present. Now came the turn of the King of England, then the Queen of France, to sign the document, witnessed by several members of the French and English aristocracy. Under the terms of the Treaty, it was agreed that Henry would become ruler of both countries on the eventual death of the King of France.

Then Archbishop Henri de Savoisy summoned Catherine up to the high altar to take her place at the side of her future husband. Peace was declared between their two countries, God's blessing was invoked, and the formal betrothal took place.

Things moved quickly now. For Henry, the most urgent task was to send a message to his brother, Humphrey of Gloucester, who was performing the duties of Regent in England. He wished to inform Gloucester of recent developments and to issue his instructions. An official proclamation was to be made at St Paul's Cross in London, of the peace between England and France and of the King's impending marriage. He ended with an instruction to the Duke and the Council to destroy his seals and to strike new ones, bearing the inscription:
Henry by the grace of God King of England, and Regent of the Crown of France, and Lord of Ireland.

Guillemote had been staying up until well into the night, working by candlelight alongside two of the royal seamstresses, helping to stitch Catherine's trousseau. The wedding gown was the most beautiful thing Guillemote had ever seen and she stored it with great care in the garderobe, as near as possible to the latrine chute where the bad smells would protect it from the unwelcome attention of moths. Though she was almost afraid to touch it, it did need a very minor last-minute alteration. She worked first in trepidation and then with reverence on the sumptuous cloth of gold.

Her painstaking devotion to her mistress was rewarded by the sight of her on a fine morning in early June: Catherine looked magnificent in her bridal finery. It was such a shame, Guillemote thought, that because of the ongoing building work, the great cathedral at Troyes was deemed unsafe for such an important wedding ceremony. The smaller church of St Jean-au-Marché was to be used instead.

A large, excited crowd had gathered in the market square to catch a glimpse of the wedding guests as they arrived. When the last guest had been ushered into the church, Catherine took her place between her mother and Philip of Burgundy, under a canopy of red silk held aloft by four men of the royal guard. Her sister Michelle, looking whey-faced and thin, stood passively behind her husband.

Guillemote had to swallow hard to control her emotions as she hovered on the periphery of the wedding party, watching to make sure that no last-minute adjustment was necessary. Earlier that morning, she had washed Catherine's long fair hair in her favourite soap of Marseilles and rinsed it several times in an infusion of rosemary leaves, polishing it between two lengths of silk as it dried, until it shone. Now, unbraided as befitted a bride and held in place by a little headdress of twisted gold, it cascaded in burnished waves to Catherine's trim waist.

Everything about her was golden; she shimmered with beauty. Her creamy skin seemed to reflect the rich gold of her gown and even her shoes were decorated with little gold buckles. Guillemote had fussed with the long train of the gown, making sure it was correctly folded and supported by Catherine's attendants. She couldn't bear to think of it dragging in the dirt and whatever else might be on the ground. Nothing must be allowed to spoil Catherine's appearance.