Wife to Henry V: A Novel (13 page)

“And Henry left to cool his heels. Who could have believed such madness even from Charles?”

“And there axe some who doubt still he's his father's son!” Burgundy chuckled. “Well whoever fathered him he's struck the stoutest blow for us. The great Henry will never forgive him. Now it'* for us to throw the ball. Speak to your girl, Madam, lest like her brother, she mar all with folly.”

She caught her lips between her teeth. His rudeness was beyond all bearing.

If he saw her anger he gave no sign.

“She burns for the man...and for what he can give.” He gave a sly laugh. “But let her not appear too eager; let her not recall the tavern wenches of his youth. Let her not be too bashful, neither. A man has no use for ice in his bed. You must tutor her there, Madam—who better?”

Anger was fire in Isabeau's heart, a slow, steady-burning fire. Of all men she hated him most; hated him with the old hatred because of her dear Jove's death; hated him with a new hatred enduring his gross rudeness. But she needed him; she must damp down the fire...for the present. She said nothing; she smiled.

* * *

Catherine was so happy, her heart, it seemed, must burst with joy. She walked beneath the white lilacs in the garden at Troyes.

Her match was made—thanks to her brother; Henry was finished with young Charles. Now the truce was to be sworn between Henry and her father; that meant, as everyone knew, between Henry and her mother and Burgundy. Now my lord of Warwick was riding backwards and forwards between his master and Burgundy; between his master and the Queen. Catherine liked the English milord—the way he looked at her, straight, learning her points to take home to his master. She liked his smile too; not a courtier's smile, but a man's smile. She would lose nothing, she was sure, in his tale of her.

Soon, soon she was to meet her King; so soon there was scarce time for all the preparations. At the thought of the new gowns—tailors cutting, seamstresses sewing—she could not contain herself.
The charming princess all crowned with gold
sang Catherine beneath the lilac trees. There had never been enough money to dress her properly, except on special occasions and they had been few enough. For years she had gone shabby in Michelle's cast-offs or worse still, her mother's, spotted, torn, perhaps; Isabeau was not particular.

Isabeau was not particular; but Isabeau was subtle. “White, white,” Isabeau said, “white for a betrothal; white for a wedding.”

“But, Madam,” she implored, hankering for the rich jewel colours, the ruby, the emerald, the sapphire and topaz, “when my sister Isabella went into England her gowns were the wonder of Christendom. There was one, cherry velvet worked with branches of gold and upon every branch a jewelled bird his mouth open to sing; and another—sapphire blue...”

“You are to be congratulated on your memory—since you were not yet conceived,” Isabeau said, tart. “But Isabella was a child—too young to be bedded. For you it is different. White is virginal: it whets the appetite. Wear your white while you may!”

* * *

Houppelandes of Flanders-cloth, of scarlet-cloth, of velvet; cotes of satin, of brocade of Italy, of silk of Damascus; jackets edged with miniver, with sable, with ermine; and great jewelled headgear with floating veils of samite.

Catherine hung over them with rapture; she reached out for a head-dress, perched it upon the chestnut curls. “Now I am married!” She tossed her head; the head-dress slipped sideways.

“There is more to being married, my lady,” Guillemote said darkly, “than wearing a head-dress. Keep your innocence while you may!”

“All this talk of innocence!” Catherine told her. “I am sick of the word.”

“It does not last long, my lady.”

“Overlong for me. For you, too, my dear!” she laughed in the woman's red face.

“You can stop your mumming,” Isabeau at the door was tart. “Your father is sick again.”

Delay. Again delay. Always delay...and the fear of the unexpected thing twisting her joy awry. These nights she dreamed of Henry, waking all soft with desire. If she could not have him, she thought, she would die.

“Must we wait, Madam? And how long? Who knows when my father will recover? Or, having recovered, when the sickness may not fall again?”

“Not so much haste my girl, it isn't seemly. Leave this matter to your betters.” But the spirit was out of Isabeau; she looked tired. Suddenly she smiled the rare smile men found so bewitching. “Patience, child; you shall be a Queen yet. You have my word for it.”

* * *

The Queen had a new lady; new to the Queen's service, though once she had been governess to young Charles. Isabeau had never liked her, the small kittenish creature with her pretty Ways and sudden scratches. Then what, Catherine wondered, was Jeanne de Giac doing about the Queen? Was Isabeau obliging Burgundy? Hardly, since all France—including the husband—knew that Burgundy slept with the lady. No need for cover there. It was curious. Isabeau who was not given to friendships with women, made much of her.

“She's a stupid creature,” Catherine said.

“That's why I like her.”

That was even more surprising. Isabeau was not kind to stupidity.

“She's untruthful.”

Isabeau nodded. “I like her for that too. When a person's both stupid and dishonest there's much to be gained.”

“Gained? From de Giac?”

“She should be good in bed, I think.”

“But, Madam, you are not to sleep with her.”

Isabeau laughed outright. “Now that is either very naughty or very innocent and I'm not sure which. I hope it isn't innocence. If you are to be a Queen, why, then you must keep your eyes and ears open. Now listen. Burgundy has been visiting his wife...”

“Why not?”

“So it
was
innocence! When will you begin learning to put two-and-two together? When Burgundy honours his wife's bed, it's farewell to the lady of the moment. And Madam Jeanne knows it—and she's not one to suffer in silence. Burgundy and I are 'friends'; but I trust him no more than any other snake. He's shuffling. There have been letters I fancy to your brother. Don't look so surprised, girl, it's all in the game! Now. In his cups and in his bed Burgundy—like better men—is apt to chatter. Madam Jeanne may yet be useful to me.”

* * *

The Field of the Cat
was ablaze with pennants when Catherine looked out from the litter. More like a battlefield than a place for lovers' meetings. It was like a tented city, she could not help thinking, with its palisades and its pavilions and its thousand upon thousand of men at arms.

In the middle of the field, rose three great pavilions; she saw the first hung with tapestries of leopards and golden lilies; above floated the royal arms of England. No need of Isabeau's sly nudge to tell her who waited there! The middle tent, hung with the royal arms of both England and France was a dazzle of glory. “Prelude to the marriage-bed,” Isabeau said. “And if you blush at the thought, what will you do at the deed?” At the last tent hung with the royal arms of France, the litter stopped.

Burgundy, sour in his black suit, waited; he bent to the Queen, gave her his hand.

“He looks more like a funeral than a wedding,” Catherine whispered to young St. Pol waiting to help her to alight.

“My uncle is no sweetmeat,” the boy said and smothered a laugh.

Moving to her place in the pavilion she dismissed Burgundy and his sourness. She sat upright in the great chair, the train of her white gown spread about her. She was pale; Isabeau had judged it better to leave her so. Beneath the circlet of pearl the chestnut locks, free-flowing—sign of her maidenhood—swept back upon her young shoulders. She sat motionless, except for the rise and fall of her bosom beneath the low-cut gown.

“This Henry would have a heart of stone if it did not melt at the sight of her,” Isabeau said.

“The girl looks well enough,” Burgundy said, grudging. “But looks alone won't hook our fish.”

“Which fish?” she asked, sharp.

And had she, he wondered, heard of the feelers he'd been putting out? He had sensed lately the wind of popularity shifting ever so slightly in the Dauphin's direction. A wise man, surely, should take account of that! Young Charles was a fool, admitted; but a fool could be dealt with if you handled him aright.

“Whose fish?” Isabeau asked again.

He gave her his sour smile. The trumpets sudden on the air saved him.

Catherine rose; kneeling, Isabeau herself spread the train, motioned the pages. Burgundy leant to her; her long white hands lay upon the dark of his arm. Young St. Pol bent his fair head; Catherine laid her fingers upon his green embroidered sleeve.

Walking slowly, her heart beating fit to choke her, she could not but be glad of her father's continued sickness. She could not have endured those vacan’t eyes, those picking fingers, those dribbling lips. Burgundy was not much to look at and he could be monstrously rude; but he carried himself with an arrogance that imposed itself. Her eyes moved to Isabeau walking royally—her mother had the most beautiful breasts in France and did not care who knew it. Isabeau's full bloom took the eye; but her own white gown implied a bud, a bud that would bloom with the same magnificence.

Head high beneath the little jewelled crown, Catherine of France moved towards the centre tent.

The trumpets pealed again, were silent.

He was standing there to welcome her; in his cloth-of-gold he shone like the sun. She held her breath, forgot to let it go. Her lowered glance showed him graceful, debonair, shining above them all, above every man English or French. Henry of England.

He had no eye for her, it seemed; his first courtesy was for the Queen. But for all that, beneath her lowered lids, Catherine felt the cool eye appraising her. And now, Isabeau saluted upon both cheeks, he was bending towards herself. She stood, hardly daring to breathe; she felt she must die, standing there in her place, waiting for his kiss. His lips touched her cheeks, the left, the right; then, lightly, firmly, brushed her mouth.

It was no accident...and she had not been prepared for it. She felt her spirit move towards him, her whole body open and flower.

She saw her Cousin of Burgundy crook his knee a little, a very little; saw the dark pride in his bleak and shifty look. But Henry of England was taking him by the hand, smiling, embracing him brotherly. And now they were entering the tent; Henry led her mother by the hand. She envied Isabeau whose hand might rest in his.

When she dared look at him a little later, she had, for the moment, the slight shock of disappointment. He was older than she had thought. There was grey upon his hair dimming its warm brightness; there were lines scored about his eyes and about the mouth. Could it be the mouth that had so gently brushed her own? It had a hard, an arrogant look.

No prince out of a romance this, but a man of flesh-and-blood. A soldier, a victor, a king.

After the first shock she liked him the better for it.

She sat in her place, made a pretence of eating; she, who was greedy with the frank greed of youth, could no more than pick at her food. She sat sweetly, delicately, smiling above the interminable talk. What it was about she hardly knew, her English, limited to the conventions of greeting, to the courtesies of high romance, lost most of the long discussion. She only knew that he was there, there at last.

She had but to put out a hand to touch the gold of his sleeve; but she must not put out a hand. She only knew that he was the most desirable man in the world—blood as well as eyes informed her; and that until an end was made of this interminable talk, the small space that separated them was the distance of the world.

* * *

Henry was angry. Did they take him for a fool, these French? First the pup of a Dauphin and now the old dog Burgundy. He had been dancing attendance on Burgundy long enough over this treaty. Now it was mid-June—and nothing advanced. Advanced? Worsened, rather. Oh the show was fine enough! Feasting and jousting and bowing and smiling—and talk, talk, talk! But when it came to putting things down black on white, Burgundy always found some reason for refusing. Just now he was pretending he hadn't known the full terms of the treaty before setting foot on the
Field of the Cat.
Must Henry of England, Duke of Normandy and Lord of Rouen dangle still after false Burgundy? It seemed he must. Even now he was awaiting the results of his envoy.

There was a movement without the tent; Bishop Beaufort came in with Clarence. They were dusty, travel-worn, both; straight from their talks with Burgundy.

“The others will be here directly,” Beaufort said, beneath his smoothness obviously worried. “They are cleaning themselves. A moral cleaning is what we need after that man!”

Henry waited, silent.

“Burgundy is false, false as hell,” Clarence broke in impatient. “He's trying for peace with the Dauphin. If he can come to terms there you may whistle for your rights—and for your bride, too!”

“Yet I shall have my rights.” Henry was smiling in spite of the cold fury in his eyes. “Yes, and the lady as well.”

Exeter and his grace of Canterbury came in together.

“Sir,” Archbishop Chichele made his salutation, “my lord of Burgundy does not stand by his bargain. You are to take less dowry with the lady Catherine, less by six hundred thousand crowns.”

Henry waved aside this talk of money. “Let us have the worst. I am no child to be prepared.”

“Then,” Chichele said and looked straight at the King, “Burgundy demands in the name of France that you give up all claim to Touraine, Anjou and Maine; likewise to Brittany and Flanders, also to Ponthieu and Montreuil; also...”

“And if I am so far obliging?”

“Why then, sir, you may have Aquitaine.”

“They steal my goose and offer me the giblets in charity! But—” he turned to Exeter, “I see by your face, Uncle, we are not yet done. Well, what more?”

“The duke demands that you bind yourself by solemn oath never to accept the crown of France, whether by purchase or by conquest, by ceding or by transfer.”

“And what does my good friend of Burgundy suppose we are doing here, we and our armies?”