The Agincourt Bride (43 page)

‘Yet another parly was arranged between Burgundy and the dauphin,’ he began, talking between mouthfuls of cheese and griddle cakes, ‘at a place called Montereau. There is a bridge there – a very long bridge which spans two big rivers where they join – the Seine and the Yonne. The two parties were to meet in an enclosure which had been built in the middle. Burgundy came from one side and the dauphin from the other. I think the duke was nervous because he had cancelled a meeting a few days before. Apparently he does not like bridges. Can you believe that? But the dauphin insisted that it was the safest place.’

‘But how do you know all this, Luc?’ I asked. ‘Were you there?’

Luc gave me a patient look. ‘Well of course I was there, Ma. I look after the dauphin’s dogs. He has two new deer hounds and he never goes anywhere without them. But I was not in the party that went into the enclosure. Only ten men were allowed from each side. It was all very cautious.’

‘So you did not actually witness the killing of the duke?’ I remarked with relief.

‘No, I was waiting with the escort party at our end of the bridge. We heard a shout that sounded like “Kill! Kill!” and some of the escorting knights made a rush to the enclosure and went inside, which was strange because the gate was supposed to have been bolted against entry. Then the dauphin was hurried out by the Seigneur du Chastel and a couple of other lords. Inside we could hear a big fight going on – swords clashing and men shouting and several of Burgundy’s retinue were wounded before they were all eventually arrested by the dauphin’s knights. Then my lord and the seigneur mounted up and rode into the town and I had to follow with the hounds so I did not see any more, but later it was confirmed that the Duke of Burgundy had died.’

‘Was the duke the only one killed then?’ I asked, feeling slightly sick at the thought that it might have been my letter to Tanneguy that sparked this violence.

Luc frowned. ‘Yes I think so, although some say that another Burgundian died later of wounds. No one really seems to know exactly what happened. The dauphin has written a statement which his herald is presenting now to the king and queen. According to the Seigneur du Chastel, it says that the duke tried to draw his sword and take him – the dauphin – prisoner and it all kicked off from that, but one of the other knights is supposed to have claimed that Tanneguy himself hit the duke on the head with his battleaxe.’

I crossed myself again. ‘My God!’ I breathed. ‘Did Tanneguy murder the duke?’

‘Ssh, Ma!’ hissed Luc. ‘Nobody knows exactly what happened and it seems that your friend Tanneguy is determined that nobody ever will. Perhaps the letter will explain, but I do not want to know.’ He stood up. ‘I had better go. Viennois Herald will be returning to Melun very soon. I do not know when there will be another opportunity to get together, but if there is one I will take it.’ To my surprise he gave me a big hug. ‘Read the letter, Ma,’ he urged and was gone.

From the Seigneur du Chastel to Madame Guillaumette Lanière,

Esteemed Madame,

I am sending this letter with your son because I know he cannot read. Do not share it with him and when you have read it please destroy it.

The dauphin was deeply shocked by the content of your letter to him and it is primarily due to that that you are hearing the news today of the death of the Duke of Burgundy. Having learned of the dreadful crimes perpetrated by the duke on the person of his sister, his highness decided he could no longer treat with Burgundy while Duke Jean remained alive. Therefore my lord and I agreed that he should not. It is done. And if France is ever to become united under the dauphin’s rule, how and by whose hand he was killed must remain a mystery. I trust you understand this.

I would also like you to know that your son Luc has become an important member of the dauphin’s entourage and contributes much to the well-being of his future king.

Take good care of your mistress for I fear that many ripples will flow from the death at Montereau.

May God in his mercy forgive us all.

In haste,

Tanneguy Seigneur du Chastel

Do not forget to burn this
.

I read the letter twice, holding it in a trembling hand. Tanneguy had more or less admitted that he had murdered the devil duke and in doing so effectively condemned his soul to hellfire. As I committed his letter to the kitchen flames, I could not decide whether he was a man to be deplored, admired or pitied.

From Catherine, Princess Royal of France to Madame Guillaumette Lanière,

Greetings to my beloved Mette,

The devil duke is dead! I cannot believe it. The whole convent has gone into mourning, while I feel like throwing off my novice’s habit and dancing around the cloisters in my chemise!

Oh, Mette, previously Poissy was my refuge but suddenly I cannot bear the restrictions of my enforced enclosure. Nor can I rid myself of thoughts of King Henry, which continually intrude at inappropriate moments, such as when I am kneeling in penitence before the Virgin or trying to assemble my list of sins before confession. Perhaps I should confess these thoughts and then I might be given absolution and they would go away, but in truth I do not want them to go away, so I do not confess them.

My sister, Abbess Marie, says she has heard from Michele that her husband the new Duke of Burgundy has vowed to bring to the scaffold every traitor that was party to the killing. I do not know whether that includes our brother Charles, but I do know that if Philippe is going to wage a war of attrition on the dauphin’s affinity, he cannot fight the English at the same time. Also, Montereau is still held by Charles’ forces and while the late duke’s body lies buried there, Philippe cannot take it to Dijon for interment in the Burgundian basilica. Question; who is the leader most likely to storm Montereau successfully and enable Philippe to retrieve the body? King Henry. And what conditions will the English King set on any treaty of alliance? I think I can safely say that marriage to me is one of them. While my mother was in thrall to Jean the Fearless, she no longer had any use for me, but now I predict that if she is to keep the support of the new Duke of Burgundy, she will find that she needs me once more.

So I am hoping that you and I will be reunited very soon. Try praying to St Jude again if you like, Mette, but truly I think this time ours is not a lost cause.

May God and His Holy Mother bless and keep you safe,

Catherine

Written secretly in my cell at Poissy Abbey this Sunday the 18
^th
of October 1419.

T
he citizens of Troyes had held the Duke of Burgundy in awe as the powerful leader who had managed to preserve enough peace in their world to protect the commercial trade that was the source of their wealth. Dirge bells tolled over the town for days, sharp reminders that I should conceal my elation even from Alys and her new husband, who echoed the general Troyan view that the death was murder and that the dauphin, if not a murderer himself, was guilty by association with murderous individuals.

‘But then he is only sixteen,’ Jacques observed in mitigation, with the benevolence of a man six years older.

‘Huh!’ ejaculated Alys, not so demure a wife as to approve her new husband’s every utterance. ‘I am sixteen too, but I do not expect others take the blame for my actions.’

Jacques pointed out, ‘But you are a married woman and cannot avoid it, for a husband takes responsibility for the actions of his wife. I do not know about Paris, but that is the law in Troyes.’

His reply gave Alys food for thought. She shifted slightly on her stool as if the babe in her womb had given her a kick, but I suspected it was her thoughts that made her uncomfortable. ‘So if I steal a loaf from the baker, you are to blame,’ she postulated. ‘How does that work?’

‘The baker holds me responsible,’ replied Jacques. ‘If the theft is proven, I must reimburse him and I must ensure that you suffer the punishment.’

‘Which would be?’

Jacques shrugged. ‘Theft is serious. It might be a whipping, it might be the stocks.’

‘And who would whip me, pray?’ Alys demanded indignantly.

‘I would,’ he told her gravely and then his lips twitched as he repressed a smile. ‘But I promise I would not enjoy it.’

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

My dearly beloved brother,

I freely admit that I cannot regret the death of Jean the Fearless, yet I earnestly pray that you have not endangered your soul in the way it came about. Marie says you have made a statement claiming it was an accident due to a misunderstanding and I accept your explanation, while remaining extremely glad that such an accident occurred. God knows the truth but I fear the world may not so easily accept your innocence in the matter. For myself I am grateful that I no longer fear Burgundy’s malign presence, nor do I need to worry that you might be drawn back into the Burgundian web, because however much you deny responsibility for the death, Philippe will never forgive you for it. Now you and I must both follow our destinies in the best way we can.

Marie tells me that Michele is on her way to Poissy again and I admit that I anticipate her visit with mixed feelings. Judging by the way she sang her father-in-law’s praises the last time she was here, I am in for a tirade of anger at his death, most of which will doubtless be aimed at you. We children of Valois are destined never to enjoy a close family relationship!

I rather hope that Michele’s imminent arrival signals the end of my enclosure here, even if I have to suffer her outbursts against you throughout my journey to Troyes. How I wish you could be there to greet me. Nevertheless, may God advance both your cause and mine, dear brother.

Affectionately,

Catherine

Written secretly in my cell at Poissy Abbey this Thursday, the 20
^th
day of October, 1419.

When a royal messenger rapped on the door of the workshop in the Rue de l’Aiguille early on the morning of Catherine’s eighteenth birthday, my mind flew back to the Paris bake house and the day my life changed for ever. Now my destiny was once more to change on that memorable date. This time, however, it was no high-nosed individual with an ebony stick who enquired for ‘your girl’ in haughty tones, it was a cheerful young page with a gold fleur-de-lis on the shoulder of his blue doublet and an apologetic smile on his face. The princess was arrived in Troyes and requested that I attend her that afternoon.

The royal palace was decked out with ritual mourning black everywhere, reminding me of the days after Agincourt. However, dressed in the neat brown houppelande gown Jacques and Alys had made for me to wear at their wedding, I felt comfortably neutral – hoping neither to appear to mourn the man I abhorred, nor to stand out as one who did not. I was shown into an anteroom and, in a matter of minutes, Agnes arrived and we embraced with great fondness.