The Agincourt Bride (59 page)

I did it when the ship was halfway across the Sleeve and the coast of France had dwindled into a blurred line on the horizon behind us. The action of a stiff breeze on the triangular sails hoisted fore and aft had been enough to push us out to sea, but as we cleared the harbour the crew had broken out the huge square mainsail and I had gasped in wonder at the bright-coloured image revealed on its flapping canvas. The king’s ship was called the Trinity Royal and there, in benediction over us all billowed the sacred figures of God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost. Perhaps Catherine was right. It really did look as if the Almighty did not intend King Henry or any of his entourage to drown on the crossing to Dover. I approached her as she stood on the deck of the forecastle, the wind blowing her veil off her face, which was turned resolutely towards the north and England. There was no one else nearby.

‘I have a letter for you, Mademoiselle,’ I said softly. ‘I have had it for some weeks but now it seems the right time to give it to you.’

She took it from me and examined the seal. ‘A letter from Charles!’ she exclaimed in astonishment. ‘However did you come by it, Mette?’

‘It was brought to me by Luc, Mademoiselle. No one else knows of it.’

Her face fell. ‘Ah, yes. I suppose it must be kept a secret, even from Henry.’

‘Particularly from King Henry,’ I echoed solemnly.

‘Do you know what it contains?’ She seemed suddenly reluctant to open it.

‘No, Mademoiselle! As you see, the seal is intact.’

She shrugged. ‘I thought perhaps Luc might have an inkling. He must be much in my brother’s favour if he was entrusted with a secret document.’

‘As you know, Luc cannot read, so he is a safe courier.’

‘Ah, yes.’ She pondered this then gathered her courage and broke the seal. As she unfolded the letter, one single word stood out, written in bold black ink at the top of the page.

Seeing it my heart sank and I turned away, not wanting her to feel that I was reading over her shoulder but I need not have bothered for once she had scanned its contents she handed me the letter without speaking, her face as pale as the paper.

It did not take more than a few seconds to read.

You were my sister but you are no longer.

You have betrayed me and think to steal my throne but I warn you, when you go to England do not hope ever to return to the land of your birth. It is written in the stars that I and my heirs shall rule France and yours shall rule England. Our nations shall never live in peace. You and Henry have done this.

The devil take you both.

Charles

The hand holding the letter dropped to my side and I crossed myself with the other. ‘I am sorry to be the bearer of this, Mademoiselle,’ I said.

She shook her head and bent to take the letter from me. ‘Let us pretend it was never written,’ she murmured with a sigh and dropped it over the ship’s rail.

It was whipped away by the wind and the last thing I saw was that terrible word at the top, scrawled in the fiercest script and the blackest ink.

Traitor

Some of the people I would like to acknowledge are dead, inevitable when you’re transporting the reader back six hundred years. If I could I would personally thank Catherine de Valois for living such an extraordinary life and, for contemporary accounts of 15
^th
century France, the marvellous chroniclers Enguerrand de Monstrelet, Juvenel des Ursins and Jean Froissart. How I wish I could meet them! And there are many historians of subsequent centuries whose work I have shamelessly cherry-picked – too many to name but to whom grateful thanks are due and of course any factual errors made are my own.

Expert medical advice regarding the possible causes and symptoms of Charles VI’s madness came from Bill and Janie Riddle, psychiatrist and psychotherapist respectively, and I gleaned vital information from a string of patient curators and librarians on my research trips to Paris, Picardy, Normandy, Champagne and the Île de France, during which I was inevitably forced to consume some gorgeous French food and wine. So I thank all of them, except perhaps the proprietors of an Algerian restaurant in Poissy where I was served a Couscous Royal from which my figure has never recovered!

And dear reader, The Agincourt Bride would not have reached your hands without passing through those of some wonderfully encouraging (and obviously very discerning!) people. They are, in order of handling, Scotland’s literary agent
sans pareille
Jenny Brown, friend and novelist extraordinaire Barbara Erskine and the crème de la crème of Harper Fiction – Kate Elton and Sarah Ritherdon, editor par excellence Kate Bradley and copy-editor
magnifique
Joy Chamberlain. I am extremely grateful to all of them and also to the production team of designers, publicists, marketeers, distributors and printers. I tremble with fingers crossed in the wake of their expertise but if you enjoy it, dear reader, it will have been well worth our while, so thanks to you most of all for picking it up or, in this digital age, downloading it.

Twitter: @joannahickson    www.joannahickson.co.uk

Joanna

Read on for an exclusive extract from the compelling
follow-up to
The Agincourt Bride

T
he grey-green sea had a hungry look as it lapped and chewed on the defenceless shore, like the monsters that map-makers paint at the edge of the known world. With her sails flapping, the
Trinity Royal
idled nose to the wind under the walls of Dover Castle, a vast stronghold sprawling atop chalk cliffs which gleamed pink in the flat February sunlight. At their foot it was possible to make out flags and banners and a large crowd of people gathered on the beach. Unfamiliar music from an unseen band drifted towards us on a dying breeze.

Having almost completed my first sea voyage, I could not say that I was an enthusiastic sailor. Queen Catherine, on the other hand, looked radiant and unruffled after the crossing from Calais, even when faced with the prospect of being carried ashore in a chair by men bizarrely called the Wardens of the Cinq Ports; bizarrely because apparently there were seven ports, not five, as the title suggested. It may have been an English tradition, but I considered it barbaric that she and King Henry were expected to risk their lives being lifted shoulder high over treacherous waters to a stony beach when they could have made a dignified arrival walking down a gangway to the dockside. Besides, being keeper of the queen’s robes, I, Guillaumette Lanière, would have the job of restoring the costly fur and fabric of the queen’s raiment from the ravages of sand and salt-water. As one of her attendants, I stood a few paces behind the royal couple on the aftcastle deck, much relieved that the swell which had plagued my stomach all the way from France had now eased and the ship’s movement had dwindled to a gentle rocking motion.

From our high vantage point we watched a gaily painted galley advancing fast over the waves, oars flashing in the sunlight and a leopard and lily standard proclaiming the approach of the King of England’s brother, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, the man responsible for the coming chair-lift. That his grace of Gloucester thought himself a fine fellow was amply evident in the swashbuckling way he climbed the rope-ladder, vaulted the ship’s rail and sprang up the companionway to reach us. A short green velvet doublet and thigh-high boots hugged his muscular physique and his broad shoulders admirably displayed a heavy gold chain from which hung a trencher-sized medal of office. His knee-bend showed practised perfection and he flourished his stylish chaperon hat in his right hand as he grasped his brother’s with the left.

‘A hearty welcome to both your graces!’ Although Gloucester pressed his lips to the king’s oath ring, he raised his eyes to Catherine. ‘England waits with baited breath to greet its beautiful French queen.’

Catherine was indeed beautiful in her ermine-lined mantle, sapphire silk gown and sleek silver fox turban which spurned the playful breeze and accentuated the long, smooth line of her neck. A faint flush stained her cheeks but she remained straight-faced under the impact of Gloucester’s dazzling smile. I believe few men of thirty can boast such a complete set of white teeth. If the duke’s youth had been in any way misspent, it did not show. His clean-shaven face, smooth and unblemished, was like that of a youth compared with the scarred and care-lined visage of the king, only four years his senior.

King Henry raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘We hear you have a ceremonial welcome planned for us, brother. We are to be carried shoulder high through the surf.’

‘As is customary for honoured arrivals, sire.’ Gloucester appeared reluctant to drag his gaze from Catherine’s face. ‘Fortunately the surf has dwindled to friendly ripples and you may remember that when he visited England we welcomed Emperor Sigismund in this way. If the Warden’s Lift was appropriate for the Holy Roman Emperor it is surely appropriate for the return of the glorious and victorious King Henry the Fifth of England and Second of France – and the advent of his beauteous queen.’

King Henry frowned. ‘It is premature, not to mention unlucky, to place the crown of France on my head while the father of my “beauteous queen” still lives. I am as yet but the Heir of France, as you well know, Humphrey.’ He made a brisk upward gesture with his hand. ‘You may rise, but only to tell us how we are to enter these chairs of yours without getting wet. I have always avoided such mummery in the past.’

On his feet Gloucester stood almost as tall as his royal sibling, which was a head taller than Catherine. ‘A simple matter, sire!’ he declared, gesturing over the side of the ship. ‘The litters are safely roped onto my galley. The captain will bring your ship as near to the shore as he may, the gangway will be lowered and you and the queen will walk regally down it. Once seated, you will be conveyed towards the shore until the water is shallow enough for us to take the litters on our shoulders and bear you ceremoniously to the beach. Trumpets will sound, the musicians will play and the crowds will cheer. When he can make himself heard the Lord Warden – my humble self – will make a speech of welcome. Then your litters will be lifted shoulder high once more for the short journey to the castle. I can assure you that the whole town is out to greet you.’

‘And do I have your solemn word that there is no question of either of us receiving a ducking?’ The king favoured his brother with a fiercely narrowed gaze.

Gloucester made an appreciative gesture in Catherine’s direction. ‘Her grace appears to be made of fairy dust, my lord. We could carry her from Dover to London without a stumble. As for your grace’s royal person, it can surely rely on divine protection to remain dry.’

‘Hmm.’ King Henry grunted, unconvinced.

Catherine favoured Gloucester with one of her most regal smiles and surprised him by speaking in charming broken English, her voice light but firm. ‘My Lord of Gloucester is gracious to honour us with this ceremony but should I not also descend from the chair and set my foot on English soil? The people will expect it, surely.’

Humphrey bowed. ‘There will be an opportunity for that your grace, when the Mayor of Dover humbly presents you with the freedom of the town. And I trust you will forgive the coarseness of the peoples’ greetings. They will doubtless hail you as “Fair Kate!” It is not meant to offend. Fair is in praise of your beauty and Kate is a shortening of your name.’

‘The king has told me this. If they think me fair before they have even seen me, such blind devotion cannot be deemed … how do you say? … an insult,’ responded Catherine with another smile. ‘And if they call me fair how can I then not like the name they give me?’

I watched Gloucester bow deeply in acknowledgement, as if he recognised that, like him, she possessed a keen appreciation of the importance of public acclaim. ‘You are a lady of great wisdom, Madame. And you are to be congratulated on your grasp of English. Is she not, brother?’

King Henry directed one of his rare smiles at Catherine. ‘You will find that my queen grasps many things quickly, Humphrey, including the relative value of flattery. Now, let us get this carnival started. I think you will need help in mounting the chair-litter, Catherine, however much my brother makes light of the matter. You should summon your ladies.’

There were only three of us to summon because Catherine’s French attendants had been left behind with the exception of me and Agnes de Blagny, a devout and practical knight’s daughter who had been orphaned and impoverished by her father’s death at the Battle of Agincourt. The third attendant was a recent recruit, an English beauty and cousin of the King, Lady Joan Beaufort. At nineteen and fourteen years old respectively, I readily conceded that Agnes and Joan were better fitted than I to help Catherine down the gangway and onto the gilded litter. Being the same age as the king, I do not suggest for one moment that I was over the hill but the years had broadened my beam and made me less agile than my young companions. However my relationship with Queen Catherine ran closer and deeper than that of any teenage court damsel, for I had suckled her as a babe, nursed her as an infant and steered her through a profoundly troubled youth. She had left her mother, Queen Isabeau, in Paris with barely a second glance but she had raised me from the rank of a menial servant and given me a courtier’s post in order to bring me with her to England as one of her closest companions. I had come a long way from my father’s bakery on the banks of the Seine.