Wife to Henry V: A Novel

 
Wife to Henry V

Copyright © 1954 by Hilda Lewis

All rights reserved.

G. P. Putnam’s Sons: New York

First American Edition 1957

Manufactured in the United States of America

ISBN: 9780091118709

* * *

She was Catherine of Valois, youngest daughter of that pathetic pair, Charles the Mad of France and Isabeau of Bavaria, most beautiful, most powerful and reputedly, most wanton woman of her time. He was Henry of England, that bright, shining star flashing through the heavens as victor at Agincourt and conqueror of France. Their troth was plighted while they were leagues apart, before one had ever seen the other, but to win his bride Henry had to fight his way through the massed chivalry of the greatest military power on earth.

And yet, was it Catherine he wanted, or the crown he could claim through her, so he might rule two thrones where no one man had ever ruled before? For did not his own uncle, the Bishop of Winchester, who knew Henry as did few men, say, “He has no lust for women; his whole lust is for war.”

So, Catherine, with her background of poverty amidst fantastic luxury, of blood and cruelty, of masques and triumphs, of true religious faith and spiritual fervor, went to the marriage bed to find Henry had little time or inclination for a wife. Always before his eyes was England, his “rights,” his lands—and his claim to France.

ENGLAND

Henry V, King of England

His Brothers:

Thomas, Duke of Clarence

John, Duke of Bedford

Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester

Henry VI, his young son

His Bastard Half-Uncles:

Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester and sometime Chancellor of England

Thomas Beaufort, Duke of Exeter, Governor to little Henry VI

Johanne, second wife to Henry IV and stepmother to Henry V

Jacqueline of Bavaria, Countess of Hainault

FRANCE

Charles VI, the mad King of France

Isabeau of Bavaria, his wife, Queen of France

Louis, his eldest son

Charles, his youngest son, afterwards Charles VII

Catherine (of Valois), his youngest daughter, wife to Henry V

Michelle, her sister

John, Duke of Burgundy, cousin of Charles VI

Phillip, son of John of Burgundy, afterwards Duke of Burgundy, husband to Michelle

The Thrones of England and of France During the Late 13
^th
, 14
^th
and 15
^th
Centuries.

Names in Capitals are those of Kings and Queens of England

The scene is set in England and in France. The story begins in 1413.

In England, Henry V has just ascended the throne. Young, untried, and of the usurping house of Lancaster, he has yet to win his people's love; the glory of Agincourt is yet to come.

In France, six years have passed since Louis of Orléans was murdered by John of Burgundy. The Count of Armagnac has taken upon himself the Orléans quarrel and the old hatred springs more deadly than before. The country is torn between Armagnac and Burgundian. No man knows loyalty save to himself and perhaps to his party. The mad King Charles VI turns first to this side and then to that. The wanton Queen Isabeau, hating both parties, watches with shrewd eyes to make herself mistress of France.

Into this torn and troubled land comes the demand of Henry V first for the vast territories ceded to his great-grandfather Edward III by the Treaty of Brétigny, and then—for the crown itself.

Catherine, youngest daughter of the house of Valois, walked in the gardens of Chateau St. Pol. Save for the set of the head, the carriage of the thin shoulders with their promise of beauty, you might have wondered what slut walked in the royal gardens dressed in cast-offs descended from her betters—the velvet so rubbed, so soiled, the places clear where the faded stuff had been let out at seams and hem; and where some prudent but impatient hand had removed the fur.

Catherine did not give her appearance a thought. In all her twelve years there had been no money except for her mother's pleasures. She accepted that as right and proper. Her mother was the Queen and she was beautiful. And the Treasury was in its usual state of emptiness. Catherine understood perfectly what that meant. Indeed there was no misunderstanding it. The University of Pans had presented a memorandum to the King—
the King's most humble and devoted daughter
it had styled itself. “I should know what to do with so humble and devoted a daughter,” Queen Isabeau had said and her laugh had not been pleasant. But then the memorandum had not been pleasant either. It had censured the shocking waste of money by thieving officials and greedy favourites; and it had laid special stress on the extravagance of the Queen.

But nothing had been done. Her father was so often ill, and sometimes they had to shut him up in the dark; and her mother went on in the same old way while Burgundians and Armagnacs tore France to pieces with their quarrels.

Well it had always been so—at least as long as she could remember. She shrugged her shoulders, bit greedily into the drumstick she had snatched from the kitchen as the scullion went by. When you want a thing—grab it! No other way!

Standing there, biting into the rich, dark meat, savouring the luscious covering of crackle, she was attractive with the grace of a young animal. It was too early as yet to know whether the delicate nose would set into the ugly Valois pattern; already it was a trifle long for prettiness. Her mother openly lamented the girl's looks—and certainly she was no plump beauty. But if the features threatened to inherit from her father, the eyes were lovely—unusual eyes of dark and brilliant grey that would, on occasion, darken to purple. And, already, in the carnation-and-white of her complexion, in the rich chestnut hair, she showed some of her mother's infamous beauty.

White teeth slid along the bone. She saw, rueful, she had picked it clean. Still, the tip of her tongue hopefully explored.

Undoubtedly finished.

She was not one to lament pleasures past, even so recently passed. About to cast the drumstick away she thought suddenly, It's like a hammer; stood there, arm upraised holding the bone. Her mind took a leap. I am Charles Martel, God's Hammer—and this is
my
hammer. If I were truly God's Hammer on which side would I fight?

It was a question. She hated John of Burgundy her father's cousin; he was grasping and treacherous, mean and hard. But then—her brother the Dauphin! Louis was weak and lazy, feeble in mind and body, the tool of his so-called friends the Armagnacs. Yes, certainly it was a question.

Catching sight of small, scarlet hose among the bushes, she cried out, “Charles, if you were God, which party would you help?”

Interrupted in his pursuit of elephants, fabulous creatures made to his measurements—sufficiently small, for he was not very brave—the little boy came back, unwilling, to the dazzle of August sunshine.

“Who would you help if you were God?” she asked again.

“Myself,” he answered at once.

Well, there was something in that!

“There are some people you can't help,” she said, thoughtful. “Our brother Louis is one, and our father's another. Banners both, changing with every wind.”

“It's what banners are for,” Charles said with nine-year-old logic.

“But not kings. Kings mustn't change with every breeze that blows. The country is torn in pieces; and our father? First on one side and then on the other. Why doesn't he behave like a king?”

“Because he doesn't want to be torn in pieces, too.”

“But this chopping and changing! A few months ago, our hateful cousin of Burgundy was the favourite, everything he did was right When he shut our brother up in St. Pol—Louis, the Dauphin of France—he was right! When he led on the mob to break into our mother's apartments—the Queen's apartments—he was right. When he allowed his creatures to take away her officers and her gentlewomen—still he was right. And when he robbed the prisoners he'd taken and tortured them and murdered them so that the Seine was thick with corpses and no-one was allowed to bathe in it, what did our father do? Signed one of his famous edicts.
It was done for the true honour of our crown.
And now? Up with the Armagnacs, up the Dauphin! And our father signs edict after edict against
that Burgundian
. Who's right? Who's wrong?”

Charles shrugged narrow shoulders.

“How are we to know?” she asked insistent.