The Agincourt Bride (29 page)

‘I do not know, Mademoiselle,’ I whispered. ‘I could not see, but I am certain there was someone in the room.’

‘How could that be?’ Catherine responded. ‘There are guards at the door of the building.’

‘Guards can be persuaded not to see things,’ I replied. ‘But I will go and ask them if anyone entered the tower.’

‘You had better wear more than a shawl and chemise if you do.’ I heard a rustle of rich cloth as Catherine shed her robe. ‘Here, wear this and I will go back to bed.’

Naked without the robe, she plunged back under the bedclothes and I wrapped the robe around me and felt my way through the door. In the passageway a single lamp burned on a bracket, allowing me gingerly to descend the first flight of the spiral stair. At the bottom it opened out into a ground floor lobby before continuing down into the undercroft below. Another lamp burned at the main entrance, where two men-at-arms sat playing cards in a small guardroom alongside the barred door. They seemed very surprised by my arrival, but assured me that they had orders to admit no one to the princess’ apartments.

Back in the bedchamber I said, ‘I must have been mistaken, Mademoiselle,’ as I drew back the curtain to return her robe. ‘No one has been admitted. I am sorry to have woken you.’

Nevertheless, before I lay down again I moved a stool across the chamber door so that there would be a noise if it opened. I had no proof, but I was still utterly certain that someone had been there.

From the Princess Royal, Catherine of Valois, Daughter of France,

To my beloved brother Charles, Dauphin of Viennois,

Yesterday I received from the queen’s own lips that you and the Duke of Burgundy are about to sign an agreement that will bring you back to the king’s side. If this be true, I am desperately praying that you will not to do it. Do not put yourself within reach of the Duke of Burgundy. Whatever his promises and assurances, he is not to be trusted. In following the advice and counsel of Tanneguy du Chastel, you have always shown yourself to be wise beyond your years and I firmly believe he will always keep the vow he made to you on the dreadful day of our brother Louis’ death.

I now have proof that the duke has his spies closely and intimately surrounding me. It is only in my own bedchamber that I feel free of his malevolent influence and I greatly fear his ability even to invade that sanctuary. I pray daily to God’s holy Mother to keep me safe from his evil intentions, but now that he has withdrawn all embassies to the English, I realise that I no longer have any value as a virgin bride to dangle before King Henry. How long will it be before the devil duke violates every code of honour and steals that state of purity for himself, as he constantly and lewdly insinuates is his intention? And what defence do I have? I would marry Henry of England or anyone else tomorrow if it would remove me from this vile entrapment.

I cannot trust the queen to defend my honour, for she seems totally in Burgundy’s thrall. I have no protector other than you, my brother. How I wish I could saddle a horse and ride to your side! Yet I cannot reach you and I am urging you under no circumstances to come to me. I thank God daily that you are free and pray to the Almighty to give me the freedom that you enjoy. Do not squander it!

I am, as always, your loving sister,

Catherine

Written at the Chateau Pontoise this day, Friday August 19
^th
1418.

S
everal days went by and there was no sign of Prince Charles coming to kiss his father’s hand. Having no other form of respite from the stifling confines of the castle, Catherine continued to ride out in the company of Guy de Mussy and his band of spies and gaolers, but there were no more Courts of Love and no more kisses on the stairs. As far as harmless flirting was concerned, the veil had been lifted from her eyes and my heart ached for her. The green leaves of youthful passion shrivelled under a blazing autumn sun.

The heat-wave took its toll on the king. Early one scorching morning, just before Mass, he ran out into the inner bailey screaming at the top of his voice that no one should come near him. Rushing down to investigate, we were greeted by the sad sight of King Charles cowering bare-headed in the centre of the courtyard, his grey hair wild and his skinny white limbs sticking out below his chemise. Several of his body squires and guardians had dashed out of the keep after him, but each time one approached he screamed more hysterically and flailed his arms to keep them off. He seemed utterly terrified of anyone touching him.

Catherine turned to me, her eyes wide. ‘Oh dear God, Mette, I remember …’ she whispered and her hands flew to her mouth to stifle a cry of horror. I knew what she remembered, even though she had only been three years old; that stifling day in the rose garden at St Pol when we had encountered her father in the throes of a similar sudden madness.

‘He believes he is made of glass,’ I nodded, speaking as steadily as I could. ‘We must not frighten him any more than he is already frightened.’

There was general air of helplessness among the royal household because all the king’s previous guardians had been replaced by Burgundians and the new men had not experienced this most extreme form of his illness. None of them seemed prepared to risk subduing him physically.

‘I think we need some padding, Mademoiselle,’ I suggested. ‘Perhaps if Alys was to fetch a quilt …’

‘Yes, yes,’ nodded Catherine. ‘Please Alys, find some quilts. I will try and talk to him – see if I can get him to calm down.’

‘There are quilts in the chests in the room where you sew,’ I told Alys and she hurried off.

Catherine began carefully to approach the still-screaming king who was turning in a slow circle, glaring with bloodshot eyes at the ring of curious people gathering around him. When he saw his daughter coming nearer, he clamped his elbows to his sides and flung up his hands like claws, sticking out his chin and baring his teeth at her like a wild animal at bay. His scream became a desperate screech and I wanted to run and pull Catherine back to safety, but she just kept walking towards him, speaking slowly and softly as if he were a no more than a naughty child.

‘It is Catherine, your grace, your daughter. You know I would never harm you and I will not touch you. Please do not scream. You are frightening everyone and they do not know what to do. But I do. I know you are made of glass and will shatter if we touch you, so I will be careful not to. Can you hear me, my father? Surely you know me. It is Catherine. We go to church together nearly every day, do we not? We hear Mass and we pray. Shall we pray together now? Shall we kneel together and ask the Holy Mother to protect you so that you do not break?’

She was now only a few feet from the king and he had gradually stopped screaming to listen to what she said. Slowly and carefully she knelt before him and clasped her hands together. Then she began reciting the
Ave Maria
, murmuring it just loud enough for him to hear and repeating it over and over again until he too actually knelt and began to join in. It was a heart-touching sight, the wild-haired man and the veiled young lady kneeling three feet apart and reciting the words of the prayer while a growing crowd of palace inhabitants looked on. After a few minutes, one by one they all began to recite and the familiar words became a soothing chorus, resonating off the high grey walls of the castle courtyard.

When Alys arrived with the quilts, I thought it best that she take them to the King, since she was the least threatening figure among us, small, sweet-faced and solemn, laden with her downy burden which clearly could not harm the most delicate pane of glass. When she and Catherine held out a quilt between them, the king did not move and his lips continued to mumble the prayer as they gently wrapped him in its feathery softness.

I spoke to a man I took to be the captain of the king’s troop of guardians, a tall, surprisingly mild-looking character who was watching Catherine’s handling of the king with open admiration.

‘You need plenty of quilts,’ I suggested. ‘The king thinks he is made of glass and will break at the slightest touch.’

‘But the princess knows what to do,’ the man marvelled. ‘How does she know that?’

‘Perhaps because she is his daughter and she loves him,’ I said. ‘And he knows it.’

He shook his head slowly. ‘Amazing,’ he murmured. ‘It is a miracle.’

Without demur the king rose and trotted between Alys and Catherine up the steps of the keep and the chastened group of guardians fell in behind the unlikely trio.

‘We will go to the chapel,’ Catherine told them quietly over her shoulder. ‘He will be content there while you prepare a padded room for him. But make sure it is well aired. If he gets too hot the madness seems to get worse.’

A loud clapping sound was suddenly to be heard echoing around the courtyard. The Duke of Burgundy had appeared at the entrance to the keep and was slowly applauding the incongruous procession climbing towards him. The percussive noise was generated not by his hands which were gloved as usual, but from clapping together the pages of his Book of Hours, which he was carrying to Mass, and it brought King Charles abruptly to a halt.

‘Congratulations, Princesse,’ the duke drawled, his lip curling. ‘It seems you know how to cozen demons. We shall have to send you out to catch a unicorn.’

Chillingly, the king began to scream again. Then everything happened in quick time. At Burgundy’s peremptory signal, the guardians moved swiftly forward and Catherine was forced to watch, powerless, as they bundled her father up in the quilts and carried him, thrashing and screeching, into the keep. The duke bowed as the king was carried past him.

‘God be with you, father,’ Catherine called in a high, choking voice. ‘I will pray for you, to keep you safe from demons.’ She almost spat this last word.

Then she turned on her heel and ran down the steps. She did not attend Mass that day.

In the late afternoon a long procession of carts and closed wagons, packs of hounds and mounted huntsmen trailed through the gatehouse, escorted by a phalanx of armed guards. Within minutes word had spread that the king’s hounds and hawks had arrived from Paris in readiness for the autumn hunts. As soon as I could, I hurried down to the kennel in the hope that Luc might have come with them. The long wooden lean-to erected against the curtain wall in the furthest corner of the outer bailey had been a quiet place before this, holding only a few resident hounds, but now it was overflowing with excited dogs, barking and yapping and rushing about sniffing their new quarters. And Luc was there, helping to sort them into their allotted enclosures; one for the hounds, one for the terriers and one for the stocky brindle alaunts with their wet jowls and fierce jaws. Pleased though he was to see me, he was clearly flustered by my arrival and kept casting anxious glances at a senior huntsman, a stubble-chinned individual who wore a Burgundian badge on his leather jerkin and glared at me through one of the woven-willow panels that divided the long shed into cages.

‘I’ll be free once the dogs are fed and bedded, Ma. I’ll come and find you then,’ he said

I took the hint. ‘Come to the princess royal’s chambers in the inner bailey,’ I murmured, pushing off a couple of friendly terriers and backing away with a placatory smile at the huntsman. ‘Anyone will tell you where they are. I’ll warn the guard to look out for you.’

Though Luc’s behaviour worried me a little, I took comfort in knowing I would find out later why he was being so wary, but before I reached the tunnel where the guard stood, I was accosted by a royal page. I recognised him, for he came frequently to deliver messages to Catherine. Perhaps alarm bells should have rung because he had never before been accompanied by two men-at-arms, but his pleasant smile beguiled me.

‘You are bidden to the grand master’s office, mistress,’ he said. ‘I am to take you there now.’

I assumed it must be Guy de Mussy who wanted to see me. ‘What does he want?’ I asked, following as he set off towards the gatehouse.

The page shrugged. ‘He did not say. I am just to fetch you.’