Wife to Henry V: A Novel (11 page)

Messengers were hastening from Tours to Paris with news—Burgundy himself was following hard on his victory; triumphantly riding, castles and towns and cities fallen to his hand.

“Things are moving,” Catherine said and struck upon the lute.

* * *

Paris had forgotten its blood-lust. The corpses were shovelled from the street; the gutters ran no longer with blood, they ran with wine instead. Flowers and tapestries, pennants and banners—Paris crazy with joy at the coming of the Queen; forgotten her greed, her wantonness; remembered, only, her strength, her courage. Paris, crazy with joy at the coming of the Duke, the long-hated Duke, swung into glory by the side of the Queen.

In the great hall of St. Pol Catherine waited. She kept her eyes steady before her, not to see the figure in the great chair, her father twitching and muttering; not to see the mean men, servants decked in the clothes of their betters murdered in the riots. In their borrowed plumes they made, for the moment, a fair showing; her mother would deal with them later!

The high sweet note of trumpets cut across her thoughts.

On a fanfare, Burgundy leading the Queen came into the room.

With a shock of surprise Catherine found she had forgotten how mean-looking a man this duke was; rising from her curtsey to the Queen she felt herself flinching from the glitter of triumph in those bold eyes.

Charles the King sat staring into vacancy. His page, the Bourbon child, small sprig of nobility miraculously spared in the rioting, bent to the sick man, whispered.

“We...we thank you...” the King said and looked at the child asking whom he must thank, “...our dear Cousin of Burgundy,” he repeated obediently, “for...for the care of our Queen...because...because...”

Even Burgundy could stomach it no longer—the spectacle of the madman thanking those who meant to betray him.

“Madam the Queen is fatigued,” he said shortly and brought the hateful scene to a close.

* * *

Isabeau sat with her daughter. There had been little in the way of affection between them—Isabeau was not given to soft murmurings. She had taken a quick look to see whether the girl blossomed still in prettiness and that was all. Catherine, all submission on her stool, listened, trying to pluck her own future from the spate of words.

“The people are mad with joy; ready to worship me as though I were Queen of Heaven!” She sent the girl an amused look from her bold eyes. “And all because I have made friends with Burgundy. Peace, now there will be peace, they think. And perhaps there will be—if I can keep my new friend honest.” She tossed back her head with its famous hair; freed from the great head-dress it fell to her knees like water—but there were new threads of grey in its darkness. Imprisonment had aged her; she was still a woman in bloom—but the bloom was fading.

“Oh but it was wonderful—a thing to be born for!” Isabeau said, exultant. “Burgundy's armies and mine marching together, marching in battle order. And everywhere the people cheering me. And Burgundy riding and pretending it was him they cheered, and pretending to be pleased; bowing and smiling and his eyes scowling all the time. At Nogent it was like a wedding-journey; at Provins a triumph. But Paris...Paris...”

Her full red lips curved to a smile.

“Thousands coming out to meet me; and all, all wearing the white cross—that put my lord duke in a better mood. And then riding through the gates; and the music and the flowers—lilies, lilies all the way; my lilies. And it was my song they were singing
Dame enclos en fleur de lis...”
She hummed the old tune. “It was as though I were a girl again. Oh Paris, Paris, there is no city in the world like you!”

She lay back in the great chair, eyes closed.

“But you, my girl!” She rose with that abruptness of hers. “Let us talk of you.” She put an enamelled claw on the girl's shoulder, set her back a little.

“Pretty enough, my dear, but no beauty as yet! You haven't the
sure
look, the look of power. That's a thing that may be learnt—and you are not over-quick at the learning. Well,” she shot her sudden question, “is your heart set still upon England?”

“Yes,” Catherine said and would not mince words with this formidable mother of hers.

“Consider well, my girl.” Isabeau gave no sign that as far as she herself was concerned the match was made. “You are scarce seventeen and he won't see thirty-five again.”

“Just turned thirty, Madam,” Catherine corrected her. “It is young enough in a man. As for me, I should have married long since; Michelle was younger by far.”

“The girl burns!” Again, unexpected pity stirred for the girl so untouched, so ignorant. “Be warned in time. The man is hard; bitterness in him like a canker when he's crossed.”

“I like a proper man. As for bitterness—” she shrugged, “who cares, as long as it fall not upon me.”

“Who knows how or where? When his pride is rubbed there is no-one too great, no, nor too small, neither, for his spite. Spite, I say; not punishment. Punishment is a proper thing; but spite; spite in a King!”

“Then why call it so, Madam?”

“Because it's been proved so, and not once, neither. Didn't you hear of Louviers? Your King was ail-but killed. God's pity he was not; our task would be the easier.”

Catherine's eyes darkened. That he should die in the flowering of his glory! It was not possible. A soldier, of course; but God's Soldier. Oh no, it was impossible; God would see to it.

“Oh yes.” Isabeau nodded. “A stone from one of the town's guns. It was not aimed at him—who knew where he stood? Your true soldier accepts the chances of war; but not this Henry, not this Soldier of God! He hanged the gunners when he took the city, all nine of them, innocent men that only did their duty. No, I do him an injustice. The ninth was saved at the desire of the Legate—God's Soldier is too wily to offend Rome!”

Catherine said nothing. Henry of England—killed! There had gone her hope of any crown. She felt her anger rise. “I should have killed not nine but ninety; not ninety but nine hundred!”

Her eyes were as hard as Isabeau's.

Henry of England lay before Rouen. He looked at it with longing, he looked at it with anger—the obstinate city, the great, rich city rising from the river flats, sheltered by hills; vine-clad city of spires.

Five miles of wall; five great gates; bastions and towers; and the deep ditch that ran all round, except on the south side, where, more formidable than any ditch—the Seine. And behind those walls, seasoned and bitter fighters, Armagnac and Burgundian patching up their quarrels for once.

Staring across the ruined countryside he thought, House and garden, farm and field burnt, burnt by command of Rouen's captain. The good land ruined. He considered it with an almost impersonal anger, deeper and more bitter than his natural rage because they kept the city from him.

He turned to Clarence. “No cover for a dog!” he said.

Tom shrugged. “No food either—except what we brought with us.”

“It will be enough.” Suddenly Henry's bitterness broke through. “To keep the city from me, Rouen, capital of my dukedom—it's an insult to me. But to burn the good land—that's an insult to God. And for both insults the Rouennais shall pay, all of them, when the city falls.”

Clarence nodded. “Warwick should be here any day—we can do with him. And Humphrey should be close on his heels.”

“Glory for Warwick at Domfront. Glory for our brother at Cherbourg. And we; we sit here and look at St. Catherine.” Henry stared at the great abbey fortress. From its steep hill it stared back. How could one get near it, even? Between the fortress and his armies lay a mile or more of marsh; and above the marsh, a raised causeway, ten feet high at least—the only road.

Without St. Catherine he couldn't hope to blockade the east wall; and from the east—if from anywhere—help would come to the city; such help as the two-faced Laggard of Burgundy might be man enough to send. As long as the Catherine Fortress guarded the Paris road, so long would Rouen resist.

“I must have it!” It was to God he spoke rather than to Clarence.

“We shall take it.” Tom nodded. “Listen!” Even where they stood at the western gate they could hear the noise of the assault far away beyond the east wall.

Henry shrugged. “Noise—it's nothing new.”

“I think it is.” Clarence stood intent, “It sounds stronger, wilder...different.”

Henry snapped impatient fingers; horse and squire came at the trot. Clarence saluted and went back to his post.

Henry dug his spurs. At the Bouvreuil Gate the fighting was thick but Norfolk had it well in hand. At the Beauvoisine Gate his Uncle of Exeter waved a friendly hand. He was already more cheerful when he reached the Hilary Gate; here, at his own fighting station the men raised a cheer. His heart lifted further. Above the din of the battle he could hear his battle cry,
A Henry, à St. George!

He would have liked to stay a little, to show himself to the men; but he must push on. At the Martainville Gate the fighting was thickest of all. On his left, looming so near in the summer air that he was tempted to throw a stone at it, the towers of St. Catherine rose mocking.

He found himself despondent again. Would the great fortress never fall? Did the Lord of Hosts protect it because it was holy ground? He brushed the thought away.
Wherever God's Soldier treads, there is holy ground.

Sitting there, holding in his horse, he heard a fresh wave of sound rise, deepen, boom, break into a thousand brittle splinters.
Hurrah...hurrah.
He rose in his stirrups.

Salisbury came staggering a little towards his King; knelt in the dust. “St. Catherine,” he said, and waved towards the fortress; through the caked grime joy shone clear.

“God be praised,” the King said, rigid upon the horse. “Salisbury, dear friend!” and could say no more. He swung a leg, grasped Salisbury's hand, and heavy with armour lowered himself to the ground. “Rouen is ours,” he said half in wonder. “For who will help it now? Who send relief? What fighting men? What food, even? The town is locked within itself and we hold the key.”

“We are likely to go short ourselves,” Salisbury reminded him. “Oh there is enough at present; but soon we shall be into autumn; and then comes winter.” He stared at the blackened countryside.

“We'll ship it from home. Land it at Harfleur; send it up the river.”

“I doubt we should get it here,” Salisbury frowned. “There's Caudebec. The river's so narrow a man could straddle it. Our men would never get by, they'd be caught in a trap and the food with them.”

“Then we'll take Caudebec, and take it now!”

“Take Caudebec—the strongest of castles! We have no-one to send, no-one!”

“There's Warwick; I expect him any hour. And Talbot perhaps. And yes, there's myself.”

Salisbury stared. “Leave Rouen, Sir? You? The men will lose heart!”

“Lose heart—and St. Catherine taken? Have no fear, friend. God will not desert His Soldier.”

He unbuckled his helmet, went, stiff in his armour, upon his knees.

* * *

“God smiles upon this Henry,” Isabeau said.

“Then we must smile, too.” Burgundy was short.

“It is not we...it is our daughter.”

“The girl is not fine enough.”

Isabeau shrugged. “Our sweet son has stripped me; and the treasury...” she opened her empty hands, spread them palm upwards.

He scowled. “In God's name, must the fortunes of France wait upon a few paltry crowns?”

“And—if we have no crowns?”

“You must pawn, beg or borrow,” he said.

“Will you lend me some, Cousin?” she was half-mocking, knowing his wealth and his meanness.

“Before we talk of weddings,” he said and changed the conversation, “there is Rouen. What of Rouen? What help shall we send?”

“All the help in the world—if we could. As it is “ she shrugged.

He looked at her half in dislike, half in admiration. God knew he was not renowned for his softness of heart; but even now his soul shook when he remembered the messengers that had got through from Rouen, ragged scarecrows beseeching help for the city in the name of Christ. And he had promised. He had promised, knowing full well it was an oath he would not keep.

He would never forget their gratitude; his flesh crawled still from the kiss of their lips upon his hand. They had dragged themselves away, back through the burnt, enemy-ridden countryside, back with the news of help that would never come.

He said, “We must make, at least, a show of sending or what will men say of us?” And they would blame him for this, mocking him with the new and shameful name. They would not know that his heart was broken within him because it was not expedient to send help. But she, this Isabeau; she would leave them to starve as she would leave rats in a trap—and think little more about it.

“What will men say of us?” he asked again. “And what can we expect from our own men if we lift no finger to help those who fight for us? Help; we must send help, any sort of help.”

She nodded careless, knowing that he would send no help; because the cost would be too great, the reward too little. Let him talk, windbag that he was!

* * *

Catherine walked in the garden with her sister-in-law; they had sworn eternal friendship. They had scarcely met until now; Jacqueline's mother—Burgundy's sister—had kept the girl safe in the Lowlands, and her young husband with her, away both of them from Armagnac influence. Rotting under a Burgundian sun, Isabeau used to say, bitter with this rape of a mother's authority.

And now John was dead, and Jacqueline married again; pretty, plump Jacque, come to pay a visit. Anything to get away from this new husband of mine, she had said, throwing up her hands. Though Jacqueline was Catherine's own age, she was, in Catherine's opinion, a very experienced person. One couldn't help envying her. She'd been allowed to sleep with the first John when she was fourteen. It wasn't very exciting, she said. But he'd been a nice boy; gentle, easy to manage. But this second John, this John of Brabant!

“The very thought of him makes me sick,” she said; and, indeed, there was a sick look in her eyes.