Wife to Henry V: A Novel (25 page)

* * *

For the first time the Queen looked at Tudor. He was not unlike the King in figure—lean and long-legged; wide shoulders, narrow waist. But he looked ten years younger than Henry; there was no grey in his dark hair. He was, she could not but admit it, debonair. For all his respect for Madam the Queen, there was a gaiety about him, a warmth. And his voice was warm, too; there was a lilt to it she had riot noticed before, maybe because her French ear had not been sufficiently attuned to the English tongue—the singing lilt of Wales.

With his own hands he brought out gowns and cloaks, cotes and houppelandes. They lay across press and stool, in rainbows of colour.

She lifted a yellow gown. His eyes, before her own, warned her that it dimmed her brightness, changed delicacy to sickliness, brought out all the Valois in her. After that, she left the choice to him—gowns and jewels, shoes and gloves. Everything.

And now it was Jacqueline's turn. He did not wait for her to choose; he held out the yellow gown. Catherine had the notion that he was willing to give only what would not suit the Queen.

“Madam the Countess will make her own choice,” she said a little sharp; but Jacqueline was already holding the glowing colour against her cheek, her hair.

“Yes,” Jacqueline nodded. “Your gentleman has perfect taste. What did I tell you?” She sent the man a smiling, sidling glance.

“A good servant.” Shocked at the glance, Catherine spoke as though he were stock or stone. She wished Jacque had more dignity.

* * *

It was early March when the Queen rode out from Windsor. Spring had come early; the willows were out and the hazel waving scarlet banners. She was troubled about leaving Jacqueline; she hoped Gloucester would not take it into his head to come ariding. Much as she loved Jacque she wished again that Henry had not welcomed her.

Through Hertford, through Oxford, through Northampton.

The towns were gay as she passed through—everyone in Sunday clothes to greet the Queen; civic processions, public prayers and gifts; gifts enough to turn any young woman's head, even a Queen's. She forgot about Jacqueline.

It was mid-March when the Queen's train entered Coventry. Henry rode out to meet her; he looked well, she thought, as he bowed over her hand, kissed her cheeks—clear-eyed, tanned, rested. Her own triumph riding through his England, the cheers of his English and their praises, rose to combat her fear of him. She looked at him, he thought, not like a wanton or a child; she looked at him like a Queen.

The city went mad with joy. Not only the Queen, the new young Queen, but the King—England himself—was within its walls.

When she dressed for the banquet her woman lifted out a gown the Queen had not seen before. It was a satin of creamy pearl shot with pale rose. And the ornaments, as Guillemote held them up—the great pearl necklace, the bracelets, the rings for ear and finger-glimmered cream and pink and tender green, casting colour upon the pale gown.

“Beautiful, beautiful!” Guillemote lifted her hands; it was almost as though she prayed before the lovely gown. “It was sent to the Queen's apartments a bare hour before we left. They were up all night, sewing. Master Tudor brought it himself.”

She said nothing standing there all bewildered at the lovely gown.

“But surely Madam knew! It is for the night of the Queen's first meeting with the King, so he said.”

She flushed at that. This Clerk of the Wardrobe went beyond himself dictating not only what the Queen must wear but when.
I shall not wear it...
but the gown was beautiful. She caught the words back on her tongue.

Henry came to her bed that night. A temperate drinker, he had drunk more than usual. He had a warm, a boyish look. “The gown...a poem!” he told her. “Who's the poet? I'll send him a gift.”

She shrugged, pretending ignorance.

“When you are well-served, my sweet, remember the servant.”

That night he took the trouble to woo her. Her fear of him receded. She would be afraid of him again, she knew; but not tonight...not tonight.

* * *

Rich Leicester welcomed them, pomp piled upon pomp.

She did not see much of Henry; engrossed as ever in state affairs, in the business of raising money, in making his public thanksgivings and his pilgrimages, he found time for her only in bed. But still he thought of her; fearing she would be dull he sent for James of Scotland to amuse her.

They sang together, played duets upon the lute and harp. He put the absurd rhymes he had translated at her coronation to music; she sang for him the sweet, silly song of the charming princess. When she came to the lusty lover she crimsoned like any virgin; but James Stewart laughed aloud. There was talk of letting him buy his freedom, and who knew but that he mightn't take back Joanna Beaufort as his Queen? The lusty lover—it was a part he hoped soon to play himself.

* * *

Pontefract. She looked up at the dark castle from which few prisoners ever returned. “Your Cousin of Orléans is looking to see you,” Henry said...

She knew the moment's pause, wanting to refuse. This bird of Paradise, what did he look like after six years in a cage? Moulting, shabby—the exquisite Charles? Strange, she thought again, that Isabella's first husband had been done to death within these walls, and now her second husband was imprisoned here. Coincidence? or design, a sense of fitness?

“He's my prisoner, naturally,” Henry told her; “but he’s free enough—rides, hawks, sings his songs, and, as usual, he's in and out of love.”

She smiled at that. Even Isabella's death—and he had loved her to distraction—hadn't saddened him for long. He'd made a song for her—and then he'd married again. In and out of love, as Henry said; singing his heart out, pure and sweet as a lark. What did he look like now, handsome Charles, gay Charles? Six years...and captivity, however free, is still captivity.

Henry and Charles embraced each other like dear friends, not at all like gaoler and captive. Charles, Catherine saw, had grown a little stout and he had lost his fine, high colour. He kissed her cheek and chin and promised to make a new song for her.

But when Henry had left them together, Charles forgot about his new song; his voice trembled as he asked of France and of his wife. But he turned his head aside when he asked about the little daughter Isabella had left him.

“So pretty,” she said. “And gentle. And a most sweet dignity.”

“Like her mother.” He was silent for a while; then he asked, a shade too brightly, “Is her match made?”

“They talk of Alençon's heir.”

“Good. Good enough...save that she is too young. Eleven is too young. Let her play while she may. Tell them, Catherine, tell them that! Would God I were home again.”

Proud in her hope of conception, brave in his new kindness, she did not fear overmuch to ask Henry her favour. True he had scolded her when she had begged James' freedom; but for all that they were bargaining over the matter now. And what were a few rough words if she could gain liberty for her cousin?

Henry hardened at once.

“No,” he said. That and nothing more. His tone should have warned her. And when she persisted, said as once before, “You are no Isabeau. But were you Venus herself, bed is no place for meddling in public affairs.” And then added, “In bed or out I allow no woman to meddle.”

He took her coldly in the old way and went away quickly.

“He's cruel,” she told Orléans, bitter with her disappointment; she had not believed he could refuse her now.

“Be easy, mignonne. You could not expect him to open the cage; in his place I should do the same. For think how few princes stand between me and the throne of France.”

“There'll be more with God's help.”

“With Henry's help!” He cocked so comic an eye she could not but laugh. And, having set her laughing, he delivered his warning, “You reckon without your France. She will never tolerate the foreign yoke.”

“Foreign?” she said. “But I am France.”

“Your husband is foreign—and there is no succession through a woman. England will never hold France; and so I speak of our own princes. And who are they? The Dauphin and his infant son. And that is all. And how quickly princes die...when it is expedient for them to die! I am third in the succession and your husband does right to keep me here. I am too near the throne.”

“Near or far—Henry will be King of France; he—and no other! My father decreed it. The Parlement proclaimed it; and the people went mad with joy. Yes, Henry will be King and after him my son and my son's son...forever.”

She saw that he looked at her with something like pity. It goaded her since it stole from her assurance. “And what do you know, shut up in a cage?” she asked. And was already ashamed of her cruelty as she went out and left him to his luting.

She suspected she had conceived. She could not be sure; fatigue, excitement, might account for the suspicion. And yet a certainty within herself spoke.

She walked proud in her certainty; in the privacy of her chamber she would walk leaning backwards, throwing out her belly to see if pregnancy became her. Henry came upon her at the trick.

He laughed at first; but suddenly she surprised tears in his eyes. And yet she knew it was not joy in her child, hardly even in his son—except as he was the King. It was a deeper, stronger thing. She carried England within the womb.

It was not a thing to be spoken aloud as yet; the time was too short, the hope too tremendous. But all the same she caught a nod here and a smile there, and whispers running in and out of corners.

She thought the whisper must have preceded them. Staid York was mad with joy; she had not seen such welcome, ever, such love, such gifts.

In the minster they knelt before the High Altar; she knew that, all else for the moment forgotten, Henry prayed, beseeching for this one thing. Beneath downcast eyes she saw the vast congregation; her pride mounted to exaltation. She sent her thoughts outwards to this unknown people...
I am your Queen. In me is your heir. Give me your love and your thanks and your worship.
Here in God's House, she herself forgot to worship.

* * *

She had expected that Henry would stay with her a little. But he would not alter his plans, he had promised public thanksgivings at the shrine at Bridlington and at Beverley. Should his thanks be less now he had so much more to pray for? Very well then, let her go with him! He would not hear of it. The northern roads were too rough. He would be gone a few days only; she must stay at York until his return. She pouted at that, coaxed, wept—and was surprised at his forbearance. Let her only be patient! When his son was born she should make her progress the length and breadth of the land; there would be feasts and tourneys as never before and she should be doubly crowned—Queen of England, Queen of Love and Beauty.

She let him go but she was not pleased. She had thought to win at least his friendship. Love and friendship; she had neither the one nor the other. This husband of hers was hardly a man—he was a symbol, a symbol of kingship—he'd taken long enough about man's business of getting her with child...
The child. The future King...and she, his mother...and Henry away in France.
A woman is but half a woman till she bears a child, her mother had said. And her mother had been right. Well, if Henry would give neither love nor simple friendship, she would take power instead, power to shape events as her mother did.

So she dreamed over the unborn child forgetting Henry's warning that she was no Isabeau; forgetting also Henry's warning against women meddling in his affairs.

April was gentle in the sheltered close where the dean and canons had placed their houses at the King's disposal. But in France, Isabeau wrote, it was bitterly cold; men and horses fell, breaking their limbs upon 'the iron roads. That was hard to believe when, under the minster walls, Catherine found primroses and wild, sweet violets.

Now that Henry was gone she was pleased to have him away. For this short time she was free—neither husband nor mother to tutor her with wisdom gone sour. She hugged sweet freedom, escaping for long hours, terrifying her women with her absence. They never knew where they might find her. Heaven send it might be kneeling in some quiet corner of the great minster, a new gentleness upon her face; there at least she was safe. But it might be wandering the springtime woods; and suppose she stumbled upon outflung root or briar? And once it was walking the high walls of the city and who knew when an April gust mightn't wrap the head veil about her eyes and blind her eyes and make her fall? That terrible time they had knelt in the dirt at the foot of the wall, beseeching her to come down while she laughed—the walls were wide—she pretended to run, to stumble, while their hearts turned to water; and she laughing the while. If there was a new gentleness in her, there was the old sauciness as well.

With Henry away, the minster was a small and joyous court. Her courtiers walked the lawns gay and brilliant—birds of Paradise. And gayest of all and most brilliant of them all—Catherine the Queen.

* * *

Quite suddenly Henry was back. And everything was different. There was no tenderness in him; he hardly looked at her. His eyes were sunk in dark sockets; his mouth bitten to a thread; there was more grey than she had remembered in the dark of his hair. She was too young, too inexperienced, to recognize the devastation of utter grief; but she did recognize that she must not ask him—dare not ask him—what was amiss.

She asked my lord Bishop of Winchester instead.

She fell back a step, hands out-flung for balance.

Clarence was dead.

Dead. Killed in the thick of the fight, his coronet hacked to pieces on his head. Clarence brave and strong and gentle. Sweet Clarence.

“We had spared my Nephew of Gloucester more readily,” Henry Beaufort said and shrugged delicately; there was little love between those two.

Henry's mouth was full of bitterness; it flowed upwards from the heart.

Clarence was dead. And of all living men he had loved Tom best. The fact of death he could have accepted—he was a soldier. But, to die like a fool in mere bravado, that was another matter. Tom had thrown not only his own life away at Baugé, but the lives of his captains and his men. That Henry could not forgive—he was a soldier.