The Agincourt Bride (56 page)

Guessing that Catherine would enjoy the light-hearted amusement of Lady Joan’s company, I had asked the Duchess of Clarence for permission to bring her along. While Agnes and I supervised unloading the baggage, she and Catherine explored the pavilion and I could hear their exclamations of surprise and delight as they discovered its camp-style furniture and silken cushions and hangings. Cooling breezes blew through the open shutters, catching the light fabrics and causing them to billow softly.

‘Look, no stuffy curtains and heavy covers!’ cried Catherine, twirling on the bed posts which the carpenters had embellished with gilded crowns. ‘I believe I shall sleep well for the first time in weeks.’

On that first evening of our stay King Henry brought the Earl of Warwick to the pavilion for a meal and Edmund Beaufort had also been invited to join his sister. Cooks had been busy at the kitchen spits and a supper of roasted birds and salads was served at a trestle set up under a canopy by the stream. Torches thrust into the ground gave a dancing light and herbs had been strewn on small braziers to scent the air and deter biting insects. Agnes and I took our food to a separate spot a little distance away, but after the board was cleared Catherine sent Edmund to invite us to bring our stools to join them as they prepared to listen to the music of a harper from among the ranks of the Welsh archers, who had attracted King Henry’s attention whilst playing at a siege campfire.

‘His name is Owen Tudor,’ the king announced, ‘and he sings the legends of the hills and valleys of the land where I was raised. You may not understand his words because he mostly sings in his native tongue, but I think you will hear in the music the wild beauty of Wales and the strength and bravery of the people that produce the best archers in the world.’

‘The king has a soft spot for Welsh archers,’ Warwick told Catherine with a teasing glance at his royal friend, ‘but in truth they are a bunch of ruffians!’

Henry laughed. ‘They have saved your life enough times, Dick!’ he retorted. ‘And the whole world knows they were the reason we won at Agincourt. There may be a few rogues among them, but they are the pride of my army.’

‘I thought it was a Welsh archer that gave you that scar on your cheek, my lord,’ said Catherine, surprised by his admiration of a people who had marked him so.

‘Yes it was,’ nodded her husband. ‘And the wound that made it showed me how withstanding pain and disfigurement can build a man’s inner strength and determination. It may surprise you, but I feel that I owe the Welsh bowmen a debt of gratitude, even the unknown archer who shot me in the face.’

At this point Owen Tudor made an unobtrusive arrival, going down on one knee at the shadowy edge of the canopy. He was a young man with the broad shoulders and fine physique of all longbow-men and a handsome face with dark features and deep-brown eyes, framed by a luxuriant mop of curly chestnut hair that was scarcely tamed by a soft-brimmed hat of green felt. He wore an archer’s thigh-length belted leather jacket which had clearly seen active service judging by the grazes and bruises on its surface, hose of murrey red and long brown equally battered leather boots. Slung across his back was a leather sack which contained his harp.

‘Ah, Owen,’ said the king, catching sight of him and waving him to rise. ‘Come and present yourself to the queen. Catherine, this is Owen Tudor. Despite being a Welsh barbarian, he seems to have acquired an education somehow and actually speaks French, do you not, soldier?’

King Henry’s teasing tone was designed to put the young man at his ease and seemed to succeed because the archer smiled good-naturedly, moved forward and dropped gracefully to his knee again before Catherine. Bowing his head he replied using hesitant French, heavily accented and with a distinctive lilt. ‘The king’s grace may generously call it French but I doubt if Madame the queen would do so.’

Catherine smiled. ‘I most certainly would, Master Tudor, for it far surpasses my feeble attempts at English. And if your music is as wonderful as my lord describes, then your talents doubly eclipse mine.’

As Owen Tudor raised his head and looked up into Catherine’s face, I thought I saw a jolt of recognition in his eyes, as if a dream or a memory had resurfaced and taken him by surprise. But his voice was steady and his expression grave as he shook his head. ‘Nothing of mine could eclipse anything of yours, my queen,’ he said humbly. ‘It will be an honour to play for you. With your permission, sire, I will begin at once.’

‘Do so,’ nodded King Henry and waved at his squire. ‘Edmund, place a stool for the harper.’

Catherine watched the archer as he backed away and swung the bag off his back. ‘He seems quite young, my lord, to be as accomplished as you say,’ she remarked quietly to her husband. ‘Where did he learn to play?’

King Henry shrugged. ‘I do not know. He is one of Sir Walter Hungerford’s men and he recruited in the north of Wales, I believe, but I have a mind to acquire his services myself, just for his musical skills. After you have heard him play you may tell me whether you think I should or not.’

Owen chose a spot where the firelight cast dancing shadows across the ground and settled himself on the stool which Edmund brought for him. A minute later the air was filled with humming vibrations as he skilfully tuned his harp strings. Then, after a short pause, he laid the calloused tips of his fingers on the strings again and began to coax from it music of quite astounding sweetness. When he sang his voice was like liquid gold and the vocal lilt which had coloured his French found its home in the melodic cadences of the Welsh lyrics of his song. The music he made seemed to take possession of the valley, floating out into the shadows of the crags and joining with the sounds of the stream so that we all became quite mesmerised by its rhythmic harmony. It was not a lullaby, but by the time it was over young Joan had succumbed to its hypnotic charms and Edmund had to carry her up to her truckle bed in the little tower ante-room.

After Owen Tudor left, King Henry had his own small harp brought from his saddle-bag and when he and Catherine retired to the upper chamber he sat playing it and humming softly while Agnes and I helped her prepare for bed. He was not as expert as the archer, but his music contained the same plangent evocations of legend and landscape. As I said good night I saw Catherine throw a cushion to the floor at his feet and sink down on it to listen. Agnes and I spread our pallets out in the lower chamber and I lay sleepless for some time but I did not hear the king call for his body squire.

When I went to Catherine in the morning she stretched luxuriously under the soft linen sheets and smiled at me with a cat-that-got-the-cream expression I had never seen before.

‘Did you sleep well, Mademoiselle?’ I asked unnecessarily.

‘Like a newborn babe, Mette,’ she cooed. ‘And now I am starving. King Henry rode off to the siege camp at dawn and said he would send his confessor to say Mass for us later but I do not think I can wait until after that to break my fast.’ Rising with unaccustomed alacrity, she took her chamber-robe from me and pulled it on herself, crossing to where the king’s harp lay where he had left it on the stool. She bent to pick it up, dreamily plucked a few random notes and turned to glance at me over her shoulder. Her hair was tumbled into curls about her face and I noticed a radiance about her, a glow to the skin on her neck and throat. It did not need a soothsayer to put two and two together and make four.

I said nothing but raised one enquiring eyebrow, which elicited a gurgling laugh. ‘Might there be any hot water, Mette?’ she asked. ‘I would like a bath and one of your delicious rubs with attar of roses.’

‘Would that be before or after breakfast, Mademoiselle?’ I asked, poker-faced.

‘Oh, after I think.’ She sat down with the harp on her lap and there was a ripple of sound as she ran her fingers across the strings. ‘It is a thrilling instrument in the right hands, is it not? That man last night – what was his name? – Owen, the archer – he was a magician.’

‘He certainly knows how to play and sing, yes. He must have had a good teacher.’

‘But I think my lord plays with equal feeling,’ she declared loyally. ‘And, what is more, he sings in French so that I understand the words.’

‘Were they romantic words by any chance?’ I asked slyly.

She gave me another of her sidelong looks. ‘Yes, Mette, they were – very romantic.’

‘I am glad, Mademoiselle.’

The archer did not come to play every night, but I noticed that when he did come, King Henry did not again invite any of his captains or generals to share the music, preferring to sink onto cushions with Catherine, where they would listen leaning close together, occasionally whispering comments to each other. During these concerts Agnes and Joan would sometimes play board games at a discreet distance, but I would just sit and watch the sun set and the bats begin to fly from the caves in the cliffs to hunt for night insects. Occasionally Edmund and Joan were asked to join Catherine and the king for supper, but most evenings the two newlyweds chose to eat and talk alone together for the precious hours that Henry could spare away from the increasingly complex logistics of the siege.

Apart from attending her on waking, I rarely found myself alone with Catherine during that time so we did not discuss her relationship with King Henry in any detail but it was easy to see that they had turned a corner. When King Henry rode in from the siege camp she would drop whatever she was doing and run to greet him and although she always stopped to make him a curtsy it was plain that it was mostly done for the pleasure of feeling his hands cup her elbows and raise her for a lingering kiss. Any formality in their relationship was now restricted to public occasions, of which there were very few in the
Vallon Vert
. Slowly and shyly I could see that Catherine was finding the man behind the king and he was beginning to love and trust her for doing so.

She had promised her husband that, with soldiers everywhere in the vicinity, she would not wander beyond the confines of the valley, but she and Joan explored every nook and cranny and everywhere they wandered men-at-arms shadowed their movements. There were also lookouts posted on the tops of the crags and substantial guards set at either end of the valley. Even in that quiet and peaceful oasis, danger was never far away.

King Henry had acquired several new giant guns from Germany to add to the considerable battery that already pounded the walls of Melun and one day Catherine proposed that we all climb over the steep side of the valley and take a look at the siege. I think she wanted to see just what it was that she was competing with for his attention and the king agreed that she could arrange it, but said he would send Edmund with a suitable escort of men-at-arms to ensure our safety.

King Charles and Queen Isabeau arrived at their own pavilion at noon on the day of our proposed expedition, having travelled most of the way from Corbeil by barge. We all gathered to watch them enter the valley, the queen in a chair-litter, carried by eight sturdy grooms and the French king, swamped by his full regal regalia of crown and mantle, mounted on a docile white pony. Catherine and King Henry met them at their pavilion and patiently waited while Queen Isabeau inspected the facilities and King Charles was gently discouraged from immediately taking a paddle in the stream. As soon as was decently possible, King Henry persuaded his father-in-law to remount his pony and join the procession of knights and heralds who had come to escort him through the siege camp for his first parley at the main Melun gate.

This whole process took more than an hour and meanwhile Catherine, Joan, Agnes and I met Edmund and our escort of men-at-arms and climbed the steep path up the side of the valley. It was the first time the four of us had ventured beyond its tranquil confines and it was a shock to breast the summit and encounter the roar of the guns as we descended steeply through the woods that covered the far side of the bluff. At the edge of the trees was a vantage point which gave a panoramic view over the siege camp, the town of Melun and the network of freshly dug earthworks that now surrounded it.

Until the dauphin had established his garrison there, the royal castle of Melun had been Queen Isabeau’s favourite summer residence, chosen for its cool river breezes and glorious surrounding countryside. Its walls seemed to grow out of a sheer red sandstone bluff on the opposite bank of the Seine, which mirrored the one we stood on ourselves. Below the castle the walled town occupied flatter ground on an island in a bend of the broad, fast-flowing stream, which in itself presented a major obstacle to any besieging force. As the only river crossing was within the walled town, in order to coordinate their attack, the besiegers had built a new bridge upstream, just out of range of the defenders’ arrows, and by so doing had joined up a ring of trenches and ramparts, which allowed them to move between gun emplacements without exposing themselves to the archers on the walls.

Scores of guns of different shapes and sizes were deployed at various strategic points and continuously hurled a variety of missiles vast heights and distances to crash into the walls of the castle and the town. There were also ranks of mangonels and arbalests, ancient forms of artillery which Edmund explained were now mostly used for flinging fireballs and quicklime over the town walls to set fire to the houses within. The squire also pointed out caves in the cliffs where sappers had started to build tunnels to undermine the walls of the castle.

However, surely the most daunting prospect for the defenders must have been the battery of huge new cannons that King Henry had deployed to attack one comprehensively pockmarked stretch of wall close to the main town gate. We had heard much of the English king’s admiration for these bombards, which were cast in the belching foundries of the Rhine and manned exclusively by teams of specialist German gunners, who were paid a fortune to risk life and limb to aim and fire what were notoriously unwieldy and unstable weapons. I counted six of them; huge cast-iron tubes capable of projecting vast stones several hundred yards and I found it hard to understand how any defending constable could look down on that array of death-dealing monsters without immediately raising a flag of surrender.