Wife to Henry V: A Novel (2 page)

But Charles was back elephant-stalking.

She frowned. There was no sense in it, none! But the sky was blue and the sun bright; she forgot she was nearly twelve and marriage-high. She was a child resolving her question in play.

…If my hammer falls to the right then I will help my cousin of Burgundy though I hate him. If it falls to the left then I will help Louis though I despise him...

The hand lifted above her head circled, sent the bone flying.

The Hammer of God cast about for a place in which to hide. Her sister had appeared from nowhere, Michelle walking with that absurd air of hers, because she was two years older, because she was a married woman, wife to Burgundy's heir. Catherine wanted to laugh. Michelle looked even more ridiculous with the drumstick entangled in the veil of her head-dress! The Hammer of God held her breath instead. She did not relish her sister's tongue. Michelle, Catherine thought, didn't look nice when she was cross. It made her nose look too long. If she went on letting her temper get the better of her, in spite of her pretty pink-and-white complexion and her light, curly hair, she'd grow into an ugly old woman; and someone ought to tell her so!

But this was not the moment. Michelle was struggling to unwrap her veil from the bone. “Stealing from the kitchen again!” Michelle was growing exasperated. “Time, isn't it, you stopped your childish tricks?”

“
Our
childish tricks,” Catherine corrected. “It isn't so long since you stopped stealing, yourself.”

The bone was released with a tearing of silk. Michelle's face was so sour Catherine had to laugh. “Once you were glad enough to eat from a servant's trencher, it was good enough for a Valois,” she said. “But now you eat from Cousin Philip's dish, now you sleep in his bed...”

Michelle's prudish face was too much for her.

“Well and why not? You're married to him, aren't you?”

Michelle ignored the question. She cast a sour look upon this pretty, impudent sister of hers. Twelve years old—and the manners of a gypsy in a ditch! “It's time to forget our most unpleasant childhood,” she said.

“What's wrong with it? If there isn't much on the table there's plenty in the kitchens. And if I'm dirty, at least I know how to laugh.”

“Our mother laughs, too. From her sort of laughter, God defend us! They say that when Uncle Louis died it broke her heart. But I see no signs. She hasn't a heart to break!”

“That's an old story.” But for all her careless manner, Catherine felt her heart shake. She had loved her Uncle of Orléans best in the world; and, though it had happened six years ago, half her entire lifetime, the shock of his murder was still with her. “It's an old story,” she said, “And it's yet to be seen what his murderer will get out of it. I refer,” she curtseyed, “to your good father-in-law, Michelle, our noble Duke of Burgundy.”

“Keep your tongue off your betters,” Michelle advised. “As for our Uncle of Orléans, the air is sweeter for his death.”

“The word is...murder,” Catherine said; and for the moment looked the older of the two. “As for harping upon the thing you daren't say, I'll say it for you. Uncle Louis was our mother's lover.

Don't make a face as though you'd bitten on a stone! I'm old enough to know what I say. And as for you, you're married-quite old enough to understand. A woman like our mother! What should a woman like that do with our father?”

“Her duty.”

“She's done that. How many of us? Twelve? Thirteen? She began to tick them off on her fingers. “Isabella. I was sorry when she died; Queen of England at seven-think of it! She was kind to me when she came home again. And there's Jeanne in Brittany and Marie in her convent. And Louis. And John-I can't remember all the babies who died. Then there's you and me and Charles. All those children. Breeding with a madman!” She stopped; her face wore an odd unchildlike look. “I don't like our father, I don’t
like
him. I remember once...when he was ill. They took him away. I was frightened. I ran away. I don't know where. Just anywhere; you do when you're frightened. I got lost. All those passages! I was passing a door; it was before they'd shut it. I couldn’t see inside; it was pitch-black. But I heard him. Like an animal. But worse. A sick animal would be put down! They say he won’t let anyone near him, not even to clean him. And when the servants go into him they're blacked all over so he can't see them in the dark; and they’re quite naked; greased, too, so they can slip out of his hands. And they say—”

Michelle, hatefully fascinated, pulled herself together. “Who says?” she asked, sharp.

“Everyone. They whisper. If you walk softly you can catch them at it.”

“You ought to be ashamed...”

“Why? You listen, too; you're listening to me, now. We can’t help it. We have to listen-it's so horrible...the dark and the smell and the weeping and the wailing. I hate thinking of it; and yet I keep thinking of it. I hate seeing him even when he's well.

“You should pray for a better heart. Haven’t you any pity?

“Yes. For our mother.”

“You can save it. She knows how to console herself. She’s not particular.”

She learnt not to be. And yet, she
was
particular. She took the finest gentleman in France for her lover. Uncle Louis. When he was murdered I cried; and every lady in France cried with me. I couldn't stop crying.”

“A six-year-old cries for nothing.”

“It was not for nothing. You know well why I cried. It was because I thought he must be my father. I still think so. He was so kind—heavenly kind! Up on his shoulder, comfits in my hand; or putting back my hair and stroking my cheek. But it wasn't only that. He was so...so
not
like our father. I used to pray about it, still do; pray Our Lady to let uncle Louis be my father; Charles' father and mine.”

Michelle's fingers caught at Catherine's shoulder.

“Consider yourself whose child you please, but be careful how your tongue wags about Charles.”

Catherine pulled herself away; she rubbed a sore shoulder.

“You are a very ignorant girl,” Michelle said. “You would make our brother a bastard.”

“I'd rather be my uncle's bastard than my father's true-born child.”

“It may not matter whose child
you
are,” Michelle spoke with cold patience, “but it matters very much to Charles.”

“It doesn't matter to him, either!” Catherine shrugged.

“Youngest sons have worn the crown before now. You let your tongue wag and don't know what it wags about.”

“I know well enough! Who wouldn't choose a fine man like our uncle to a poor thing like our father?”

“You're a hateful girl,” Michelle said, “overfree with your tongue—like a gypsy.”

“I wish I were one. Gypsies are free in more than their tongues; they're free to mate where they will. But we—we're mated for convenience, Burgundy's convenience, all of us. You with his son; our brother Louis with his daughter—Margaret's the next Queen of France, God save us! Listen to me, Michelle, I'll choose my own husband.”

“Royal blood can't choose.”

“It can. I can.”

“You think you'll get Henry of England?”

“If I want him...enough.”

“You do want him enough, disgusting child that you are! But you won't get him. You'll learn that in time and not such a long time, neither. This very day England offered for you—and was refused.”

To Catherine's blank look she said, impatient, “You talk and talk! You live in a dream and don't know what's happening about you. Surely you know why Milord the Duke of York is in Paris?”

Catherine nodded. “To make peace between Burgundy and our brother Louis.”

“You're very simple! Peace in France—how would that help England? And when did England interfere but for her own advantage? No, my clever child! That's an excuse; and even our father, foolish though you think him, is not deceived. And so the answer, as you might expect, is—” she stopped; she said, very deliberate, “
no
.”

“And why should it be
no
?” Catherine was cool beneath her anger.

“Because this new house of Lancaster doesn't sit too easy on the throne. There are plenty who prefer the true line.”

“Henry will sit easy enough. He's handsome and he's clever and he's brave and...”

“Take a lesson from your own sister. He wanted Isabella when her husband Richard died. Nothing would induce her to take him. And can you wonder? Marry the son of the man who murdered your husband!” Michelle made a little mouth of disgust.

“And yet your father in-law is not so nice!” Catherine said, quick. “He'll marry one of
his
daughters—if he can—to Uncle Louis' son; son of the man
he
murdered.”

“Watch your tongue, must I tell you again? My father-in-law is out of favour...for the moment. But the wheel turns; watch the wheel, Catherine. As for this hero of yours, this usurper of England—he's been refused. So much for your choosing!”

“And still I shall choose!” Catherine said, obstinate. “And when I'm Queen of England...”

“…
if
you are Queen of England! Then you will be wife to a trumped-up king; and I shall be Duchess of Burgundy, wife to the first peer in France.”

“Don't count on dead men's shoes! Your father-in-law may outlive you...or your little Philip tire of you.”

She saw the colour die in her sister's face—everyone had heard rumours about Michelle's young husband. “It's you that's the fool Michelle.”

Michelle said, yellow, “A princess of the blood—and your tongue would shame a gutter-wench!” She picked up the tail of her gown and walked slowly away.

* * *

A princess of the blood. Catherine knew very well what that meant. As a child she had thought it meant living in a house so vast it was hard not to lose yourself; a house where enormous passages stretched fearfully, and many, many steps to climb before she reached the small rooms, not very clean, where she slept and played with Michelle. A cold house; in winter every bone rattled.

A princess of the blood. It meant wearing Michelle's cast-offs, too short, too tight—she was taller than Michelle—the velvet soiled the fur moulting. It meant being hungry quite often and creeping down the backstairs into the kitchens where it was heavenly warm and where one of the cooks might slip her a meaty bone or a cook-maid cut a piece off her own trencher—lovely thick bread, soft and fat with gravy.

A princess of the blood. It meant other things, too. Her head might be tangled—and worse; but still she must learn to hold it correctly; must learn the hundred-and-one rules of behaviour that govern a royal court. She must play prettily upon lute and harp—and her fingers stiff with chilblains; she must learn the English tongue, and the Latin, too, though she tripped still upon her own. “Who knows where your fortune may lie?” her Uncle of Orléans had said. “Your mother here! They brought her from Bavaria, a little girl. And there she stood, the pretty poppet—dumb!”

She had thought, being small, three perhaps or four, that she would rather not be a princess; she would rather be a cook-maid!

She had not understood, until she was older, that a princess could become a quite glorious person. She had come one day into her mother's room; as usual, her Uncle of Orléans had been there. She must have been going on for six—it was just before he died.

They were playing chess, those two; and she stood in the doorway feeling the warmth of their beauty reach out to her—her mother was lovely and her uncle the handsomest man in France.

He looked up and smiled; and she saw her mother slyly nudge a pawn into the next square. And, “My move,” her mother cried and moved the pawn again. “Queen!” she said.

Her uncle looked lazily over the board. “One watches the kings and the queens and the bishops and the knights,” he said, “and all the time the sly pawn creeps. Mark that, my child. A nothing becomes a queen!” He stretched out a lazy hand to draw her near. His gay face darkened. “Faugh!” he said and pushed her away. And then, while she stood, her heart ready to break, he said more gently, “A little princess is like a pawn; she must be ready to move into the Queen's place. Go bid your nurse scour you well and comb your hair; and, when you are clean, I will send you the prettiest gown in Christendom.” And, as she left the room, she heard him say, “It's a shame and a scandal to neglect her so and I will not endure it!”

No wonder she had loved him and thought he must be her father; and prayed that he might be her father. It was quite a long time before she had really understood about pawns and queens. But it was a lesson she had learned well. Now they treated her like a pawn. But she would be a Queen yet. She would be a Queen.

He was King now, King Henry the Fifth. Death had taken a hand and there was no more need to lie, to cheat, to conspire for the crown.

The mare splashed through the ford at Westminster, picked her careful way through the water-logged flats on the other side. The March wind lifted his cloak; impatient of the chaperon snug about his head, he tugged at it, threw it behind him to his page. The wind stirring in his hair added to his pleasure, for he was going to see his stepmother, Queen Johanne. A visit to her was seldom wasted. Shrewd, she kept a finger on the pulse of affairs; intuitive, she had the wit to interpret what that finger felt.

The easy motion of his horse set his thoughts in train; his mind moved amongst his difficulties, sorted them out, dealt with them.

Being a King, he had thought once, was an easy thing, glorious. He had actually believed that, in spite of his father dying by inches before his eyes, dying worn out with constant rebellion, eaten by his disease. Now—his father dead a year—he knew that being a King was pretty much like being a soldier, captain of forces. One planned the campaign, no single point forgotten, each step meticulously performed.

But the scale was greater, greater the burden. One carried it alone. No sharing. No-one he could truly trust. Certainly not his Uncle Beaufort of Winchester, the rich bishop with eyes turned always to his own advantage. Useful enough when one's advantage touched his own. The King's man...up to a point.

Brothers then? A man's shield and his armour, his father used to say.