The Agincourt Bride (46 page)

As I climbed the steep stair I wondered at the confidence I had managed to inject into my voice, for it had no firm foundation.

With the shutters wide open the room was freezing, but Alys’ face and throat were glistening with a slick of oily sweat. Her eyes were closed and she looked utterly exhausted. I hastily threw a couple of logs on the fire before hurrying to the bedside.

As my hand touched hers, Alys’s eyes flickered open but another pain seized her before she could speak. She arched back against its onslaught, the mound of her belly like a swelling wave pushing up the quilted coverlet. ‘Gently, my little one,’ I crooned, stroking her clammy brow. ‘Try not to fight it.’

‘You went away,’ whispered Alys hoarsely, when she could speak. ‘Did the princess need you for something?’

‘No, darling girl
.
She had something you need.’

Grizelde came to stand beside me. I took the heavy gold ring from its leather pouch and heard the midwife gasp. The smooth round stone glowed like a pool of blood in the lamplight as the midwife took Alys’ hand and nodded for me to slip the ring onto her middle finger. As I did, I said urgently to Alys, ‘This is a very special ring. It will ease your suffering and bring the baby safely out. Here, let the baby feel its strength.’ I lifted her hand and laid it on the mound of her belly while she struggled to lift herself to see it. I helped her, feeling the slightness of her shoulders as I held her up. Dear God, she was so young and frail! How could she withstand the fierce forces of nature that battered her so mercilessly? Then a thought struck me.

‘Why do you not sit upright,’ I suggested, my maternal instincts surging to the fore. ‘Perhaps the baby wants to fall down from you and Grizelde will catch it!’ I gave a little laugh to encourage her. ‘You could sit on my lap! Like when you were a child. Come, let us try it. Before the next pain comes.’

But she was already in its grip and it was minutes before she could catch enough breath to put her arms trustingly around my neck and be lifted. With Grizelde’s help, I carried her to the big wooden armchair which had been set by the fire and I lowered myself onto it, holding Alys in front of me, her hand with the bloodstone ring still held firmly against her belly.

When the next pain came she suddenly sat bolt upright, as if infused with a new and purposeful strength. Her cry was not of pure agony but of mingled pain and effort. ‘Blessed Saint Margaret,’ I prayed aloud, throwing all my religious scepticism to the four winds, ‘intercede for these two young lives and give them both the strength to overcome this trial.’

We will never know which of the desperate measures worked the miracle – the wide open house, the red power of the jasper, the change of position or the saint’s intercession – but after only two more convulsive contractions of her womb, Alys let out a great sigh and my hands felt the pressure lessen in her belly. Hot, sharp-smelling liquid burst from her and she fell back against me with a deep moan, as if a dam of suffering had been relieved in a single moment.

‘God is good.’ I murmured, watching steam rise gently from the flood of birth fluid that soaked my fine woollen skirt. I saw Grizelde’s smile and delighted nod and shouted out with glee. ‘The baby is coming. Push!’

Within minutes we were welcoming the new infant into the world, crying and laughing at the same time while the baby sent up a squalling yell of protest. Grizelde gently sponged the child and wrapped it in a warm shawl while I carried Alys back to the bed and arranged the quilt over her before hastening to close the shutters and heap wood on the fire. Jacques hurtled through the open door as Grizelde placed the baby in its mother’s willing arms.

‘I heard a cry!’ exclaimed Jacques. ‘I thought there would never be one.’ He flung himself down beside the bed and reached out to smooth a lock of Alys’ damp hair back from her forehead. ‘Jesu, Alys, I thought I was going to lose you!’

Eyes wide, he reached out and drew back the shawl, but he was rendered speechless by the sight of the small, pink, bawling scrap of human life that was revealed and looked up at me in bewilderment.

‘It is a girl,’ I told him gently, ‘a tiny, beautiful, healthy girl.’

An hour or so later, Alys and the baby were sleeping and I wended my way back to the palace, very happy, but anxious to return the ring as soon as possible, and conscious that Catherine had promised to pray until she heard of Alys’ safe delivery.

‘She is at her prie-dieu,’ Agnes confided. ‘She says she is not to be disturbed unless you come.’

I hugged Agnes impulsively. ‘Well here I am!’ I exclaimed. ‘And there is good news.’

Not wishing to startle Catherine, I poked my head quietly around the door. She was kneeling before the gilded Virgin triptych, her solace through so many of her troubles. When she turned her head at the noise, I noticed that she had been weeping and was touched that she should be so deeply affected by Alys’ plight.

I bobbed a curtsy. ‘Mademoiselle,’ I said gently. ‘All is well.’

In an instant she had covered the distance between us, her arms spread wide. ‘Oh God be thanked!’ she cried, closing them around me. Then, releasing me quickly, she raised a hand and laid her fingers on my cheek. ‘But you are frozen, Mette! Come and warm yourself! I will ask Agnes to mull some wine.’

‘Do not call Agnes yet, Mademoiselle,’ I warned. ‘First I must give this back to you.’ I drew the leather pouch from my bodice and pressed it into her hands. ‘The baby is born, a beautiful girl, and Alys is safe, thanks to your kindness.’

She looked delighted at that, but she said solemnly, ‘No, Mette, I believe it was the power of God.’ Then she said, 'I would like to stand as godmother to the child. I feel a certain responsibility towards her, which you and I will not disclose to them. What do you think?’

It was some seconds before I could reply for a big lump came to my throat. To make a vow at the font to protect and nurture a child was of enormous significance, she would become one of its guardians, and for a little girl to number the princess royal among her sponsors was to provide her with an enormous advantage in life. ‘This is a great honour that you do us, Mademoiselle,’ I said, swallowing hard. ‘I do not need to ask the child’s parents if they will accept, for I can tell you their answer.’

Catherine raised an admonishing hand. ‘Nevertheless, it is only right that they have the choice. I will send a page first thing tomorrow morning to fetch their answer and to discover the time and place of the baptism. And now we will call Agnes to mull the wine and drink the baby’s health.’

Next morning I carried the baby, carefully wrapped against the biting cold, to the church of St Jean au Marché, with Jacques walking proudly by my side receiving the blessings and congratu-lations of his neighbours and fellow tailors. Behind us, Grizelde carried the traditional christening cap, a tiny cream silk helmet which Alys had embroidered with Christian symbols, and beside her strode Jacques’ apprentice, who would be the child’s godfather. Alys, of course, was not allowed to take part in religious activity or prepare and serve food to others until she had been ‘churched’ in a week or so. Although she protested against this ruling, I thought it sensible that she should concentrate on her own recovery and on her baby and to leave the domestic chores to others, which in this case would be me.

Although the market was not yet busy, a substantial crowd had gathered around the church door, attracted by the glamorous group waiting under the portal; Catherine in full court regalia accompanied by Agnes and several royal guards carrying pikes and wearing the distinctive fleur-de-lis livery. As I had predicted, Alys and Jacques had been overwhelmed by the princess’ offer to be godmother for the baby. For the occasion Catherine had abandoned deep mourning and wore a beautiful white velvet gown and jewelled headdress. A formal crimson mantle trimmed with ermine clearly demonstrated her regal status. It would be only a matter of hours before every burgess of Troyes knew that royalty had stood at the font for Jacques and Alys’ baby.

The priest was ready, but he was only a junior member of the clergy and he was so overawed by the magnificence of Catherine and her train that he tripped clumsily on his soutane and almost fell flat on the floor as he bent his knee before her.

‘Y-you do our church m-much honour, your grace,’ he stammered, staring fixedly at the hem of Catherine’s gown, too abashed to raise his eyes further.

‘It is a beautiful church, Father,’ she said graciously. ‘Please rise and let us proceed with the ceremony. I am anxious about the baby in this cold weather. Is the Holy water warmed?’

The priest clambered awkwardly to his feet and put a hand on the side of the large ewer that stood beside the font. ‘I asked the housekeeper to put it by the fire, Madame, and it is indeed warm.’

Steam rose from the font as he poured the warm Holy water into the cold stone bowl and I quickly unbound the baby’s blanket and swaddling and passed her to Catherine. Wriggling and screaming at shock of being suddenly naked in the chill air, the little infant also sprayed urine over the princess’ beautiful velvet gown but Catherine was unperturbed.

‘I am sure that is a sign of good fortune for us both,’ she said, smiling and handing the baby gently to the priest. ‘I have been baptised again.’

Blushing, the priest plunged the protesting baby into the water, gabbling the Latin words of the baptismal service, barely audible over the sound of the infant’s vexed cries. ‘Who names this child?’ he shouted finally and, without hesitation, the princess announced loudly and clearly, ‘I do. Catherine. Her name is Catherine.’

The Fateful Year

1420–21

T
owards the end of March, the outline of a peace treaty between Burgundy and England had been agreed and the Duke of Burgundy brought it to King Charles for ratification, riding to Troyes with a retinue a thousand strong to demonstrate his paramount status as regent of France. Six months of mourning for Jean the Fearless’ death was officially over and, despite Lenten restrictions, the French court was to be
en fête
to greet the young Duke’s arrival.

The prospect of grand events stirred the queen out of her prolonged depression. She sent a hundred royal knights with heralds and trumpeters to accompany Michele out of Troyes to meet her husband at the Seine Bridge and escort the ducal couple through the town to the palace. Along the route damsels strewed armfuls of scented spring flowers before their horses and an elaborate welcome feast had been prepared in the king’s great hall.

Now that I had an official court post, I was among the courtiers who gathered in the royal ante-room waiting for the royal party to come and warm themselves and take refreshment before beginning the long ceremonial of a public banquet, at which I was also entitled to a place.

Duchess Michele wore as flamboyant a display of wealth and status as her ultra-fashionable husband, managing to eclipse both her mother and sister in the magnificence of her appearance. Requiring the assistance of three ladies-in-waiting to manage her train, she moved majestically into the room gowned in gold-figured scarlet beneath a sable mantle so voluminous it must have touched the ground as she rode her palfrey. Her chestnut hair was held in a neat cap of gold filigree studded with glittering jewels and framed by a veil of crystal-scattered silk-gossamer, cunningly folded and wired into points. Such sumptuous and sophisticated attire outshone anything seen since the French court had left Paris and I could almost hear the queen’s teeth grinding. Michele’s facial features were not as fine as Catherine’s, but her shrewd sea-green eyes were piercing and the exaggerated shaving of her hairline heightened her brow and emphasised the nobility of her long Valois nose. Collaring Catherine at the hearth, she immediately launched into the topic that was uppermost in her mind.

‘Are you aware of the terms of this treaty, sister?’ she enquired over the head of an attendant who knelt to brush mud off the hem of her gown.

‘No, not in detail; I do not have the advantage of being married to one of the chief negotiators,’ Catherine responded, matching Michele’s businesslike tone.

‘But my lord has written to you concerning the marriage contract, has he not?’ Impatiently Michele tugged her skirt from the grip of the kneeling attendant. ‘Take care not to pull me over, Madame!’ she snapped. ‘Enough.’

The lady with the brush rose and backed away, murmuring an apology, but I noticed that she had left a dark smear of mud to mar the costly sheen of the fabulous gold-figured fabric. Catching her eye, I fielded a conspiratorial twitch of the mouth which told me this neglect was not entirely accidental. Serving royalty was not without its little moments of triumph.

‘I know that King Henry specifically insisted that the treaty be sealed with our marriage,’ agreed Catherine. ‘But that is all I know. Why do you ask? Is there something you wish to acquaint me with particularly?’

Michele glanced about her as if suddenly aware that this conversation was not private. ‘We cannot talk of such matters here. We will discuss it later.’