The Agincourt Bride (36 page)

‘And now I have to talk to him at table!’ she fretted. ‘Sainte Marie, what shall I talk about? For all that Louis called him a libertine, they say that now he is pious. That he reads St Augustine and St Gregory. Shall I talk to him about them or will he think that too pretentious? Does he have a sense of humour? And if I make him laugh, will he think me frivolous?’

‘You are not frivolous,’ Agnes protested.

‘Laughter is an attractive trait, surely,’ I interjected.

‘Not in a queen, Mette,’ observed Catherine despondently. ‘It is not for queens to be amusing, but to be discreet. Perhaps I should remember that he is the conqueror who still holds my cousin of Orleans to ransom and not be tempted to tease or flirt.’

‘Just be yourself, Mademoiselle,’ I advised, thinking privately that a little flirting might not do any harm. ‘Do not forget that beneath the crown there is a man.’

‘After that kiss, how could I forget?’ She sighed and stretched her neck uncomfortably. ‘And beneath this coronet there is only a girl. It is hideously heavy!’

When the privy curtain was drawn back and Catherine was restored to her state of regal elegance, I could not help reflecting that King Henry’s sense of humour might be severely tested if he was ever to know on what kind of throne his character had been discussed!

Despite her vow of restraint, during the banquet I heard the bright ring of Catherine’s laughter more than once, even from the farthest reaches of the table where Agnes and I shared a cup and trencher. To my relief it was not a place where the queen or duke deigned to glance, so I remained undetected in my Flemish masquerade but from that distance it was hard to glean any real clue as to progress between Catherine and the king. However, I thought it a good sign that they did not appear to stop conversing throughout the long meal. From a distance, King Henry’s puckered cheek was barely discernable and he looked much younger than his thirty-two years. I thought they appeared a well-matched couple. Of course the likelihood of happiness resulting from such a union was another matter entirely and one to which I was probably the only person present who gave any thought at all.

I could see that Catherine found the return trip to Pontoise nearly as taxing as the oarsmen who pulled against the flow of the river. Sandwiched between the queen and the Duke of Burgundy, who appeared to argue long and intensely, causing the duke’s expression to turn blacker and blacker as the journey progressed, she spent the time fiddling with the rings on her fingers and casting despairing glances back at Agnes and me. Nor did she gain any respite when we reached Pontoise, for Queen Isabeau insisted that Catherine accompany her to the great hall where eager courtiers were gathered to hear an account of the day’s events. The candles had burned low when she finally stumbled up the grand staircase to her bedchamber.

I had shed my sweaty finery with heartfelt gratitude and I knew that Catherine must be exhausted in her heavy gold gown and weighty headdress. Her body swayed as she stood in silence while we undressed her and I rubbed unguent of camomile into the angry red chafe marks left by the heavy coronet. However, it was not until all the ladies had departed and she and I and Alys were left alone that I discovered her inertia was due not to exhaustion but to despair.

She sank down onto a stool by the hearth, wrapping her chamber robe tightly around herself and I noticed that she was shivering violently.

‘Shall I light the fire, Mademoiselle,’ I asked hastily. ‘I did not do so because it was very hot today, but if you are feeling chilled …’

She shook her head. ‘No, Mette, I am not shivering with cold, but shaking with anger. As the queen and I left the hall tonight, Burgundy bent his foul mouth to my ear and whispered. “
I can see that you pant for him, but you shall not have him.”
By all that is holy, how dare he?’

It felt as if an icicle was sliding down my back. ‘Sweet Mother of God!’ I breathed as my hand flew involuntarily in the sign of the cross. ‘He is Beelzebub himself.’

Catherine dropped her head into her hands and clutched at her hair in desperation. ‘Surely God will not allow it?’ she cried.

‘The duke cannot threaten you here, Mademoiselle!’ I protested. ‘There are guards and courtiers and servants everywhere and the queen is in the next chamber.’

‘You may be right, Mette, but do you know what he has done? He has banned me from the peace conference. He told the queen that King Henry should not be allowed to see me again until he reduces his exorbitant claims on French lands and monies. He is using me like a carrot, as if King Henry is an ass! But he is not. He will never back down. Despite all the elaborate preparations and high-flown speeches, the
Pré du Chat
will end in deadlock and I shall never get away from Burgundy’s evil grasp!’

From Catherine, the Princess Royal, to Charles, Dauphin of Viennois,

My dear and beloved brother,

I go from hope to despair in the space of a moment. Today I finally met King Henry, for so long the object of my fears and fantasies. And, believe it or not, Charles, I liked him! I know he is the enemy of France and that you despise him as a glory-seeking warmonger, but he does not strike me like that at all. If anything, he is too thoughtful and analytical to put his faith in the sword alone. I see him as the antithesis of Jean the Fearless. Not a man who consorts with the devil, but one who puts his hand in the hand of God.

And I believe he liked me. He does not wear his feelings on his face like his brother Humphrey, who eyed me like a stag after a hind, but his manner was warm and his conversation lively, so I think he found me interesting. His kiss was certainly warm! Oh, he kissed me like a man putting his mouth to a fountain after a long, parched ride. I have never felt so thoroughly embraced at first meeting. And the conference seemed to go well. When we took our leave he kissed me again and I was happy that a peace treaty might come about.

However, I foolishly forgot the interference of a third party. The Duke of Burgundy! All the way back in the royal barge I was forced to listen to the poisonous outpourings of fearless Jean and the querulous protests of the queen, whom I find it more and more painful to call my mother. By the time we reached Pontoise, my feelings of optimism had been overwhelmed by a sense of utter despondency. Burgundy refuses to allow me to attend any further sessions of the peace conference until King Henry reduces his territorial demands, which is as likely as snow in August. Jean the Fearless cannot stomach the idea that another man might achieve more by honourable conquest than he has done by pusillanimous thuggery.

I write this at the Hour of Matins, when monks and nuns stumble sleepily from their cells to offer the first prayers of the day to the Almighty, but sleep does not come to me. My mind is overcome with fear that I am destined to live constantly under the threat of Burgundy’s evil abuse and that France is destined to wither under his insidious malevolence.

Unless you do something about it. You are my only hope, Charles! Can you not broker a peace with Henry and rally your forces against Burgundy? That way we will all have what we want and Jean the Fearless can be left to fester and fulminate in Flanders!

I will pray for this outcome every day as I will pray for you to stay free from harm and free from HIM.

Your ever-loving sister Catherine,

Written at Chateau de Pontoise in the dark hours of morning on Tuesday May 31
^st
, 1419.

C
atherine’s absence did not bring the peace conference to an end. It stuttered on through a gloriously sunny June while she waited impatiently at Pontoise, nursing a flicker of hope for a return visit because she thought it inconceivable that a man like King Henry would waste his time talking unless he felt there was some point in it.

During these balmy days she resumed her practice of taking regular rides along the river to escape some of the heat trapped within the castle walls. Her old sparring-partner, Guy de Mussy, was still entrusted with command of her security, so it was he who arranged for the horses to be saddled and the escort assembled. On the last day of June, Agnes had begged to be excused from the excursion, and took to her bed in the Constable’s House suffering one of her recurring sick headaches. However, over recent weeks Catherine had managed to form a working relationship with the two youngest of her ‘Flanders mares’, and they were more than willing to take fresh air and exercise.

Although Catherine felt safer living in the royal apartments, there was only one (admittedly quite large) chamber, in which she was obliged both to sleep and entertain and the afternoons when she and her ladies rode out were the only chance I had to get the tire-women in to clean the place. Time was when the actual scrubbing and sweeping would have been my job, but I had progressed from such drudgery, I am happy to say.

On this particular day, once I had supervised the cleaners’ work and shooed them out, I began to arrange Catherine’s change of clothes for the evening meal, taking the previous night’s weighty court gown from its hook in the guarderobe and hauling it up a narrow stair to the attic chamber which contained both the queen’s and her daughter’s wardrobes. It was a long, low-beamed room packed with chests and boxes in which the royal ladies’ many gowns and mantles, hats and headdresses, veils and shoes were stored, layered in lavender-scented linen; a quiet place with a distinctive smell that was part moth-repelling spices and part stale sweat. To my alarm I found Alys there alone and weeping. Her eyes were swollen, as if she had been crying for some time, and I rushed to comfort her. For my self-contained daughter to give way to tears meant something must be seriously wrong. ‘Alys, my Alys. Come on now, my little girl. It is quiet here. There is no one except me. Whatever it is, I am sure I can help.’ I pulled a kerchief from the sleeve of my bodice and gave it to her, which inspired a new bout of weeping and she buried her face in it, turning away.

‘Is it Jacques?’ I asked finally, in as mild a tone as I could muster.

‘I think I am pregnant,’ she said abruptly.

‘Ah.’ I stared back at her, unable for a moment to gauge my own reaction. Then I felt a great surge of warmth and sympathy. How could I have felt anything else? I leaned over to take her hand. ‘And you are frightened, yes?’ She nodded mutely and I saw tears spring afresh in her eyes. ‘But not of me, surely? You know that I have been in the same position as you. It is not so uncommon. Are you frightened of what Jacques will say? The baby is his, I suppose?’

Her chin jutted and she glared at me indignantly, as if I had suggested that the Virgin was a whore. ‘Yes, of course it is!’ she retorted. ‘I have never been with anyone else.’ Then she blushed and slumped, shaking her head miserably. A tear fell onto her restless hands. ‘I am so far away from him,’ she whispered.

‘Yes.’ I frowned and did some quick mental calculation. ‘And you are sure you are pregnant? It is not long since we left Troyes.’

‘I have just missed another of my courses. The first time I thought it could just be a mistake, the second time I am sure.’

I felt a pang of guilt that I had not noticed, as I certainly would have if Catherine had missed her monthly cycle. ‘Well, you are not far on at least. It will not show for a while yet.’

‘But the princess may not go back to Troyes,’ wailed Alys. ‘And I must go there, Ma. I must.’

I put my arms around her, hugging her tightly. She was so young and small and I hoped fervently that she had not misjudged Jacques.

‘You shall, Alys. I promise. We will find some way. How do you think Jacques will react when you tell him?

Alys shook her head and whispered. ‘I do not know.’

‘Does he have any family?’ I asked, remembering how my father had reacted when I fell pregnant as an unmarried girl and realising how lucky I had been to have him on my side, despite his initial anger. My little girl did not have a father to take her part. I would have to be both mother and father.

She blew her nose on the kerchief. ‘His parents both died last year in an epidemic of spotted fever. It used to be his father’s shop in the Rue de l’Aiguille.’