Wife to Henry V: A Novel (17 page)

“No devil but God's bishop.” He smiled his charming smile. “God's rich bishop. God must love me well!”

“Three years,” Henry said. “Three long years fighting. And never once within sight of winning France, Conqueror though they call me. With right and with justice I fought to win my own. Right and justice failed. Now, suddenly, a foolish boy's wickedness brings me my heart's desire.”

“The ways of God are strange,” Beaufort said, the churchman in him perfunctory; the statesman broke through. “All France is sick with shame at Burgundy's death; or must pretend to be. Yes, even those same priests and statesmen—mad and bad all of them—who bewildered the wretched boy with their counsels. Well, it has left Madam Isabeau free to play her hand...which happens to be your hand. She made her move without waste of time.”

“A strange woman,” the King said, “she knows no natural tie of blood.”

“Lust for power is stronger than any tie of blood,” sly Beaufort said, reminding the King of his own itch for his father's crown. “Her own flesh-and-blood the Dauphin may be; but there's no place for her if ever he comes to power...except one place. It's prison for her and she knows it. Why should she wait for that when she holds the cards? The shrewdest brain in France, Madam Isabeau—and no more to be trusted than a tiger.”

“You give me a good belle-dame,” Henry said, sour. Suddenly good-humour returned. “Now I am at the high peak of fortune. The Queen of France hot for the marriage and the little Burgundy running...”

“...and crying out for vengeance. There's another you can’t trust. He confuses his desire for justice with his hatred of the Dauphin. Well, you didn't overwhelm him with compliments when he came running with Isabeau's terms.”

“I told him outright I would not endure from him the blow-hot, blow-cold I endured from his father. Why should I, with the Dauphin waiting for my nod? I told him my terms once and for all—the lands ceded to my great-grandfather; every one of them down to the last length of a man's foot; and with them every town, castle and farm. Full sovereignty. No need to name them over, I said. It stands clear in the
Treaty of Brétigny
. And I must have the Lady Catherine to wife; and with her the Regency of France while her father lives and the crown when he dies.”

“A bitter pill; you were wise to add a little honey. The whole cost of the wedding to fall upon England; no dowry, even; and a douceur for Madam Isabeau in the shape of two thousand crowns a month. Let's hope that at home they'll be pleased with the bargain.”

“It's little enough to pay for a crown. But let Isabeau and Burgundy take heed. I am not to be fooled. One shuffle from either of them—and it's the Dauphin for me!”

“And if he shuffles, too?”

“Play one against the other; not in great things, not in matters of high policy; but in the smaller things, the personal things, the things that prick and fester. There are plenty and I don't forget much.”

“No. You know how to make the most of human failings. That head of yours...”

“Might have made me a bishop, a rich bishop—if I hadn't been born a King.”

* * *

“He's not very trusting this Henry,” Isabeau said. “We give way in everything, accept everything; and yet he doesn't trust us.”

“True!” Philip of Burgundy said scowling, lip out-thrust in ridiculous imitation of his father. Catherine wanted to laugh. She did not laugh. She was learning to sit still, to watch.

“I have treated the man well,” the young Burgundy said, pompous, “given him gifts, honoured him with my .friendship. On Christmas Day we feasted together.”

“And very merry,” Isabeau said drily, “so I heard. But by any reckoning that is all of four months ago.”

“Much can happen in four months,” King Charles said very suddenly; and there was the heart-broken note she knew only too well. Killing himself because he had declared his son unworthy of the crown!

It had not been easy to bring him to it; she had forced upon his poor wits the pressure of her iron strength. Now she patted her husband's arm. “It was well done,” she said, “and rightly done. Had you not done it, Paris would have risen, yes and all France, too. They would have murdered our son's friends—hunted them from their hiding-places, dragged them out to die shamefully in the streets. No one spared, not one; not even our son; not even Charles himself.”

He nodded, weary, wondering as always, how she managed to fish into the deep places of his poor mind, drag up the thought unspoken. He went on plucking at his poor thin beard...
Wrong, all wrong. God chooses the King; not any man; not even Isabeau. And it was he who would suffer for it; suffer in his head, his poor buying head; for this he would go down to the dark place where all was cold, dark and cold; and in the darkness slimy creatures touched him, ran away, touched again...

“Come now,” Isabeau said comfortably, her eyes watchful, “we have done well with England, we have done very well. This wedding will cost us nothing, nothing at all. No dowry, even, think of that!” She turned to Catherine, “Mistress Pusscat, sitting there, eyes cast down as if this concerns you not at all...and drinking in every word, I have something for your private ear.”

Catherine rose, made her curtsey to the King; they went out together.

The Queen's chamber was over-hot and not over-clean. Isabeau did not mind such trifles, did not notice them, even. Now she seated herself, the fine gown sweeping the dust of the floor, and motioned the girl to a stool.

“The messengers are back,” Isabeau said softly, “my own private messengers. Never look at me like that, girl, Queens don't wear their hearts on their sleeve. I've said nothing yet to anyone; I had to think first.” The long jewelled hand went to her forehead. “It is always for me to think—there is no-one else.” She sighed a little. “They saw your King at Pontoise; and they took Paris on the way back. There was a full meeting in the Parlement Chamber, everyone crowding in to hear England's terms. Then Henry's promise was read aloud—France to be left free to follow her own customs if he succeeds to the throne...”

Isabeau paused, teasing. Catherine besought her with wide dark eyes.

“France is sick of bloodshed,” Isabeau said and chucked the girl under the chin. “When they were asked if they would accept England's terms, they rose to their feet; everyone rose.
Yes
, they shouted,
Yes
. This settles your brother, I fancy! That is all I think; or is there something more?” She was still teasing.

“There is something more,” Catherine said, very low. “The messengers...what did they say of...him?”

“Of...him? Of whom? Can you mean Henry? Well, the Chancellor could talk only of his handsome face; but I needn't repeat it—his looks you know; you've seen the man. But there's more to a man than a handsome face—and so you may find soon enough!” Isabeau gave her lewd chuckle.

Catherine spoke stiffly from a burning face. “I speak of his manner, Madam, the words he spoke. How did they find him?”

“De Morvilliers is not so easily taken by the eye as our good Chancellor; he says your King is proud and cold. So look out, my girl! He says kindness may move him to kindness—and there's your cue. But his anger is terrible. Consider that, consider it well. Remember our cousin Johanne.”

“She is not the first queen to lie in prison,” Catherine said thoughtless.

“A princess will follow her if you take that tone with me!” Isabeau said and waited for the apology. “To return to this Henry of yours. He doesn't talk much, de Morvilliers says; and when his mind's made up nothing on earth can change it; least of all a woman.”

“A man should be a man,” Catherine said.

“Take care he is not too much of a man for you. They say the discipline in the English army is frightening. No women. Imagine it! Admirable, of course. But it comes hard on men; and it may come hard on you, too.”

The scarlet was sudden again in Catherine's cheeks.

“Come, girl, don't play the prude! If you want your crown, marry the man and get yourself with child as soon as may be. You hear me?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Yes Madam , no Madam.”
Isabeau broke out as once before. “What are you? Milk-and-water, or flesh and blood? Or do you think the miracle of the Virgin will be worked again for you?”

Catherine did not answer. She hated her mother's banter because it struck the answering note within herself—a shameful excitement. She did not want it so. She knew very well what marriage was. She loved the man, she would meet her own experiences; she could not endure them to be smeared beforehand. She looked with hard young eyes upon her mother's blown-upon beauty; and, looking, remembered the dozen of children born to that fearful man her father; remembered that if Isabeau had taken light loves to fill the empty years, they
had
been empty; remembered, too, how she, with all her children, had wept—so they said—and would not be comforted for Orléans' still-born child.

* * *

May once more. In the gardens at Troyes hawthorn red and white shook summer perfume on the air. Every day the messengers rode in with the news...Henry of England had reached St. Denys; he had prayed at St. Denys...

Isabeau took in her breath, her tired thoughts flew backwards.

...St. Denys. And the mad masques; and the madder love-making in the abbey stalls; and the torchlight making the horned head-dresses dance upon the floor as though hell were let loose, a lovely hell, lovelier than any heaven, women in short doublets, buttocks rounded beneath long fine hose; and the men trailing silken skirts; exquisite, but full men for all that. Lovely, lovely days when she was young...

Her blood ached for it still.

* * *

The King of England had marched under the walls of Paris; the citizens had swarmed upon their walls to watch him pass. And he had been worth watching! So handsome, they said; smiling and proud, with his tilting-helm borne before him carrying the fox brush of his device. The people had cried themselves hoarse in welcome. In spite of the famine in the city they had sent out four great carts loaded with fine wines.

“A fox,” King Charles said, picking at his nails, his poor mind giving up half-way through the tale. “It is well understood. The man himself is a fox. Why does he come here?” he pondered, eyes dull upon the bitten nails. He reared himself suddenly. “To thieve, to kill, to suck our blood. Do not give our daughter to a fox...no...no...no.”

They led him away weeping.

* * *

Henry had left Provins. At Brie, the Dauphinists had blocked his way. He had taken the castle and hanged some of the defenders.

“A gentle bridegroom,” said Michelle come from Arras for the wedding.

Michelle was green with envy, Catherine was sure; and she looked much older than the two years between them. No mistaking the Valois nose now. Michelle wouldn't have to be an old woman to be an ugly one. She was suddenly sorry for Michelle. The good Philip neglected her. No wonder, perhaps, when he could take his pick of beauties! But he ought to have given her a child; he owed her that. He made her look a fool. But then Michelle was a fool. Sharp enough with everyone else, she was too humble with that husband of hers!

* * *

Troyes was hung with banners, strewn with flowers.

They stood upon the castle walls to see Henry ride into the city. The light wind caught Isabeau's veil, caught Michelle's veil, sent them streaming backwards. Catherine felt it stirring in her own unbound hair.

She heard the cries of welcome as the first party rode in, the knights and the men-at-arms; and after them the great lords of England and of France, princes of church and state.

Soon now...soon.

Her hands flew upwards upon the young, white breasts. Now why had she done that? Isabeau wondered. Modesty—the ninny? The gown was cut low.

Catherine herself was unaware of the movement. She knew, only, that at long last her eyes would see him again.

She heard the welcome swell to to a roar, saw the children throwing flowers. And now...Her fingers tightened upon her breast. Now!

The sun was breaking upon his armour in spears of light, the embroidered surcoat was a rainbow of colour; he rode in a blaze of colour and light, encompassed with glory.

Henry of England.

When her senses undazzled, she saw riding next to him, Michelle's husband, young Burgundy all in sober black. Isabeau spoke her resentment for her. “It's a wedding, not a funeral train.”

“He does well,” Michelle said, “to remind this Henry of the oath they have sworn together—to punish a most wicked murder. The bridegroom would appear to have forgotten!” The sallow face turned towards her husband was glowing as a girl's.

* * *

“You blossom like a rose,” Isabeau said and handed Catherine the mirror. Gazing, she caught sight of Michelle standing behind her; Michelle's yellow look enhanced her own sweet colour. She felt her breasts swell in the low gown; her slenderness took on new voluptuousness.
I blossom...I blossom like a rose.

She thought, with the hardness of the young, as she moved to her place on the dais, that her father spoiled all. His sickness was on him so that he stared with vacant eyes, his fingers plucking upon the velvet of his gown. Why had they not shut him away in pity for himself...for her?

She made her reverence, moved to her place on the left hand of the King. Her heart leaped to the sudden shout of trumpets. Advancing, with the great and glittering train of his escort, Henry of England walked alone. Beneath her eyes, downcast, she saw how he outshone them all—England and France—with his magnificence; saw again the lean elegance she had dreamed of, the beauty of head and brow; saw the almost gay grace with which he uncovered, walked proudly the length of the great hall.

Her father made no sign; he went on plucking at his gown. Henry of England came nearer, nearer...and still no sign, no sign at all. She felt herself sick with shame. She saw her mother sitting upright; knew that the Queen watched the moment.

There was no need. The Conqueror of France was bending the knee; was speaking gently, humbly, almost, to the sick man.

Charles peered forward, screwing up his weak eyes as though the young man's magnificence hurt them. “Oh,” he said, “it's you!” A flicker of sanity lightened his face. “You are welcome...since it must be so!” A deep sigh shook his frail body. “Here,” he waved a vague hand, “here are the ladies!”