The Agincourt Bride (35 page)

‘He judges everyone to be like himself,’ I observed tartly. ‘Does your royal father even wear a sword?’

‘Yes, on formal occasions, but the tip and the blade are blunted,’ Catherine revealed. ‘His squires have done that ever since he set upon a member of the council years ago.’

‘How is his grace?’ I asked gently, vividly remembering that occasion and the awful neglect that had resulted for the royal children. ‘Will he attend the conference?’

Catherine made the sign of the cross. ‘He is still quite well, God be thanked.’

I fanned myself with my hand. ‘I wondered, because it is very hot for May. In the past he has been badly affected by the heat.’

‘That is true, but I pray he will remain in reasonable health, because even if he makes no contribution, his presence seems to curb Burgundy’s worst excesses.’ A heavy sigh punctuated these remarks. ‘The duke drew me apart at dinner tonight. From his expression an observer might have thought he was whispering words of encouragement, but what he said was:
Monmouth cannot have you yet but I can, however much you try to hide behind your mother.’

I saw tears welling in her eyes and tried to quell the flow. ‘Dear Mademoiselle, you must be strong. These are just words. He is angry because the apartments were rearranged. He is a bully and bullies do not like to be thwarted.’

Catherine nodded, a tear running down her cheek. ‘And he is such a powerful bully! But you are right, I must be strong.’ She brushed away the tear and drew herself up. ‘It may make him even angrier, but I want you with me at the conference, Mette. I need you there. I am allowed two ladies to accompany me. Agnes will be one and you are to be the other. Will you do this for me?’

I was now blinking tears from my own eyes and I coughed to clear the lump in my throat. ‘Well, of course, I would be honoured, Mademoiselle, but will I be permitted?’

Catherine threw back her shoulders, suddenly businesslike. ‘No question of that, for we will not ask. We must find you some clothes. By the time you are wearing a fine gown and jewels and one of those horrible headdresses with templettes over the ears you will look just like one of the Flanders mares.’

This was not a comparison I treasured, but at least it meant that two days later I found myself among the distinguished party which embarked before Tierce on the royal barge bound for Meulan. On some pretext Agnes had managed to persuade one of Catherine’s Flemish attendants to supply her finest gown – a grandiose garment of murrey wool which made me perspire freely under the growing strength of the sun. Fortunately the heavy black headdress also rendered me unrecognisable. At the last minute the unseasonably stifling heat had brought on a recurrence of King Charles’ glass delusion and he had been hurriedly conveyed to his padded chamber. Therefore, to Catherine’s intense disappointment, it would not be her father but the hated Duke of Burgundy who presided over her presentation to the English king.

Shaded by a tasselled gold canopy, she sat with the queen and the duke in the waist of the gilded barge while Agnes and I were packed into the stern with the queen’s ladies, finding what shade we could in the lee of the barge-master’s great tiller. Music from a small band of musicians seated in the bow lent the journey a melodious formality. Behind the royal barge three more galleys followed, carrying parties of chosen knights, clerks and counsellors.

As the procession approached the wharf, the
Meadow of the Cat presented a magnificent display of welcome. At a blast from a line of trumpeters drawn up on the battlements of the timber gatehouse, rows of weighted silk banners in blue and red broke open in unison and avalanched down the side of the stockade to undulate gently in the warm breeze, revealing the heraldic badges of France, Burgundy and Valois embroidered in threads of azure and argent, gules, vert and or. The other landing stage was hidden from our sight but an answering call of trumpets indicated that King Henry’s barge was approaching simultaneously at the other side of the island and banners showing the lions of England and the swans of Lancaster were performing a similar stately gavotte on the playful wind. On the river banks multi-coloured lines of billowing standards identified the knights of the English and French encampments, gathered in their hundreds and cheering lustily as the two royal parties arrived. I recalled the Rules of Behaviour, stipulating that any unruly conduct would be punishable by instant imprisonment and concluded that they must be grateful to be able to let off a bit of steam. Compared with waging war, making peace was a dull process.

After disembarkation the crush of retainers in the French pavilion rendered the atmosphere suffocating, but a small ante room had been partitioned off for the ladies, with doors opening onto a patch of meadow, screened from prying eyes by a copse of willows. There we were served cold drinks and honeyed cakes and I helped Catherine make the final adjustments to her appearance for this all-important meeting with her potential lord and husband. As I adjusted her headdress, I noticed to my consternation that she was pale and shaking and I led her hastily to the open door and fanned her with my veil. My instinct was to give her a reassuring hug, but my disguise as a Flemish noblewoman held me back and, anyway, I judged that now was not the time for tears and sympathy.

‘Pinch your cheeks, Mademoiselle,’ I urged her in a whisper. ‘This is the moment you were born for. The lieges may have lost at Agincourt, but you can conquer their conqueror. Go and retrieve the pride of France.’

Surprised by my fierce expression and rallying tone, Catherine stared at me wide-eyed, then straightened her back, raised both hands to her face and pinched her cheeks. In that flash of time she changed from a trembling girl into the heart-stopping beauty of every knight’s dreams.

‘Sweet Jesu, Mette, you should have been a general!’ she exclaimed wryly and turned to take her place in the procession to the main pavilion.

Catherine of France faced Henry of England for the first time across a wide expanse of priceless Persian carpet. In its central medallion a crouching golden lion confronted a kneeling white unicorn, a design worked into the rug by the skilled weavers of Esfahan. Heralds sounded a fanfare; Henry advanced to the lion, supported by his brothers, Thomas of Clarence and Humphrey of Gloucester; Catherine glided serenely to the unicorn, her mother and the Duke of Burgundy at her side.

‘I have the honour to present her grace Queen Isabeau of France and her daughter Catherine, the Princess Royal,’ intoned the whiplash voice of Burgundy as I watched Catherine sink into a deep obeisance, skirts billowing, head lowered, eyes modestly downcast. At the sight of her I felt my stomach knot with suppressed pride.

Braided into nets of gold filigree the bright hair I had brushed so vigorously shone like polished silk, encircled by a jewelled coronet. Sunlight streaming through the open sides of the pavilion reflected off the gleaming folds of her gown, while behind her stretched the purple mantle displaying her dynastic pedigree; the fleur-de-lis of France, the crusader’s cross of St Louis and the three toads of Clovis. At this pivotal moment I could not help wondering what the English king would do if he knew that this beautiful and noble princess, offered to him in all her magnificent and costly finery, was the victim of the vile abuse of the man at her elbow and the daughter of a promiscuous queen and a king who thought he was made of glass?

King Henry bowed punctiliously over Queen Isabeau’s hand, kissed her whitened cheek briefly and then turned to raise Catherine from her curtsey. My mind jittered with jumbled questions. Surely no red-blooded male could fail to be stirred by the sight of her, but how would she react to him? Would she be impressed with his tall, athletic figure arrayed in a sable-trimmed doublet that blatantly trumpeted his claim to the French throne – the lions of England quartered with the lilies of France – or captivated by the noble outline of his profile and the proud set of his cropped head under its heavy gold crown? Or would she be devastated by the mangled scar which almost obliterated his right cheek?

Descriptions of King Henry had mentioned the scar, the result of a Welsh arrow which had nearly killed him at the age of sixteen while he was helping to quash a rebellion against his father, but none had ever portrayed the full extent of the damage. A whole flap of skin was missing from the right side of his face so that where there should have been a clean-shaven cheek to match the left side, there was just tight, white scar tissue stretching from his cheekbone to his jaw. Some guardian saint must have been protecting him when that arrow struck, I thought and wondered if all the damage was visible or whether the arrow had also scarred his mind. It was not easy to tell because the blemish lent the affected side of his face a gaunt immobility and gave more than a hint of the skull beneath the flesh.

Catherine gave no outward sign of anything untoward as she rose like windblown thistledown from her low crouch. His first words to her were heavy with meaning and audible to the whole gathering. ‘I have waited a long time for this, Catherine,’ he said, then swiftly bent and kissed her lingeringly on the mouth.

I almost felt the kiss myself; the firm, dry pressure of those hard soldier’s lips against her soft, smooth mouth and the electric silence as the assembled company froze at the audacity of it. Burgundy had his back to me but I could see his shoulders go rigid with anger. Then the pages found themselves scrambling to manoeuvre Catherine’s train as King Henry swept her imperiously across the carpet to a line of three thrones which had been placed on a flower-decked dais. Queen Isabeau was escorted to one of them by Burgundy while the English king, having seated his putative bride, took the middle one himself and waved at the heralds to start proceedings.

I understood nothing of the ensuing debate, since it consisted of a series of long speeches given in Latin, starting with the two principle negotiators, the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Burgundy. So I spent the time watching Catherine and her royal suitor.

For the most part King Henry’s attention remained on the speakers, but every so often I caught him stealing a sidelong glance to his right, where Catherine sat poised on her throne, chin high, hands resting quietly in her lap. I wondered if it bothered him that protocol had placed Queen Isabeau on his good side, whereas Catherine was presented with the scarred eloquence of his damaged cheek. If so, she gave him no visible cause for concern, presenting an image of calm containment. But I knew that Catherine was like the swan she so gracefully resembled; all regal serenity above the surface and frantic mental paddling beneath.

If I could glean nothing of King Henry’s reaction to her from his own expression, that of his brother Humphrey was more revealing. The Duke of Gloucester was the youngest and, by repute, the most impetuous of Henry’s brothers. He had travelled from England for the peace conference, swapping roles with the third and most statesmanlike brother, John of Bedford, who took on the regency in England. Shorter and swarthier than Henry, Humphrey had a handsome, expressive face and was seated at the forefront of the English nobles. His appreciation of Catherine’s beauty was obvious in his unashamedly admiring gaze and I noticed him give a knowing little smile when he caught one of his brother’s sidelong glances, as if he recognised a male reaction similar to his own.

There were two hours of speech-making, at the end of which I was intrigued to note that, as if to make a point, King Henry spoke briefly in English, a language I understood as little as the others’ Latin. Then trumpets sounded a break in proceedings and both sides retired to their respective quarters while the central pavilion was prepared for the banquet.

The minute the doors closed on the French pavilion, Queen Isabeau turned to Catherine excitedly.

‘Well, daughter, are you happy with our choice of bridegroom for you? Did you not thrill to King Henry’s splendid appearance? Those broad shoulders, his well-muscled thighs and the way he kissed you? That was so naughty of him, but so indicative of his ardour! I did not understand what he said – English is such an outlandish language! – but he was obviously very taken with you. I think all is going very well.’

During this outburst the Duke of Burgundy hovered nearby with a sardonically curled lip, before disappearing into a huddle with his advisers. Listening from a judicious distance to protect my disguise, I marvelled at the queen’s apparent blindness to the scar, which manifestly prevented King Henry’s elevation to the Adonis status she seemed to be awarding him.

Catherine was noncommittal in her response. ‘It may be a little early to celebrate, Madame,’ she murmured, keeping one eye on Burgundy whose black brows were knitted in anger as he harangued his lawyers. ‘The Earl of Warwick made no mention of territorial concessions in his speech and a great deal hangs on that, as you know. May I have your permission to retire to the ante room? I am sorely in need of air.’

At a curt grunt and a nod from her mother, Catherine managed to escape so that we could press cold napkins to her brow and remove the heavy mantle for some temporary relief from the heat and strain. Ever the practical one, I suggested that she use the close stool and took her to the far corner where I had set it up behind a privy curtain. In her elaborate apparel any call of nature was unanswerable without considerable assistance and as Agnes and I lifted her voluminous skirts, Catherine dropped her voice to whisper, ‘How did I do, Mette? I was so shocked when I first saw his face. That awful scar – the poor man!’

‘You gave no sign,’ I assured her. ‘Not by one twitch of a muscle. But the scar is a dominant feature. Are you very dismayed by it?’

‘No, no!’ she exclaimed. ‘If anything, it makes him seem less daunting – less perfect. But why was I not told? Did they think I would throw a girlish faint if I knew I was to be given to a battle-scarred warrior?’ She gave a hollow little laugh. ‘And his kiss! That was a surprise. Did I blush? The trouble with battle-scarred warriors is that they always seem able to hide their feelings.’

‘Then you are a warrior yourself, Mademoiselle, because I could read none of this in your face.’ I jerked my head in the direction of the main pavilion. ‘In there everyone is acting a part.’