Wife to Henry V: A Novel (28 page)

Exeter said, turning at the door, “It's a long, wet, filthy, bloody business! But that's no reason to lose heart. Men, looking back, may yet say Meaux was your finest work, Harry; your masterpiece.”

“Looking back! But we are in it, up to the neck in the mud and the blood and the hunger.”

“Then look to the future, lad, the near future. Think of Madam the Queen and the child she carries.” He came back into the room, looked close into the King's face. “It's not like you to lose heart, Harry,” he said. “Go to Paris, take a rest. You know what this people say—
reculez pour mieux sauter
.” And was gone.

* * *

Birth of his son. God had smiled. God had given him a sign.

It was hard to keep back the tears. He left the man kneeling, stared across the dismal countryside. He felt weak as though he had escaped some danger; as, indeed, he was ready to admit he had—the danger of despair.

From behind its walls, the city, dark against a dirty sky, mocked him still. He lifted his head. It should mock him no more. Justified. Justified the long and bitter fighting. He had begun to ask himself lately, For what do I waste my manhood in this land that will have none of me? And sometimes the answer had been
For God
. And sometimes,
For England
. Now he knew neither answer was enough. He was a man like any other. He laboured for his son. When his weary bones were dust, his line, his glory would continue.

And hard on that thought, another.

Where had his son been born?

He knew his answer; he had laid his command upon his wife—she had been well-schooled to obedience, her mother had seen to it. But still he must know, hear certainty put into words.

When the man told him it was as though the whole world fell silent, even the thunder of the guns. And in the silence, when a voice spoke, he knew well it was his own and no other repeating the old words, lifting the wretched doggerel into prophecy.

* * *

And now it was Christmas; and now there was a truce for the festival. And yet, in spite of his pride because of his son, in spite of the holy season, Henry could not rejoice. His words had been disregarded, idly set aside by a foolish woman.

Between his fatigue and his anger Henry looked, Exeter thought, eaten from within. He said, gently, “God has given you a son; and there you sit fretting your soul for nothing...nothing. Take example by your people. Throughout England there is perfect joy; more, they say, than was ever seen for any royal child.”

Henry's face softened at that. England loved him; not only her princes and her priests, not only her common people; but some spirit compound of its earth, its hills, its rivers—the intangible thing called England loved him.

But still he remembered Catherine; and still he could not forgive her.

* * *

Henry turned sleepless on his pallet.

Now it was spring; and still Meaux held out defiant. But buds were breaking green; and spring, he reminded himself, is the season of hope. And hope he would, in spite of this saucy city; in spite of Burgundy; in spite of the thought that had crawled in his mind on his wedding-night. He had hushed it to sleep, but now it was awake again. It had been haunting him these last weeks; ever since Burgundy had come a-visiting bringing their father-in-law with him. Looking into that ravaged, childish face the thought had leaped again to Henry's mind. What had he done mixing his blood with the blood of such a one? And though he had thrust it back, still it crept and crawled waiting to leap again.

That visit had given rise to other thoughts, too. Ever since those two had departed he found himself less certain than ever of Philip's good faith. There had been too much talk of negotiating with the Dauphin. Negotiating—what? The Dauphin was finished; Henry was heir to France now. He would wear the French crown and his son after him. He had not spent his country's strength—and his own—to make peace with that treacherous boy.

A pity he needed Philip. Philip's reputation was none of the sweetest. Paris hated him for his greed and his lechery and his shiftiness, hated him more even than it had hated his father. No, a man could not count overmuch on Burgundy; a man must count upon himself. But more than that he must count upon God.

* * *

“Why don't they surrender? Why do they keep me here? Now the rain has stopped and we've plenty of food; now the sickness is all but gone they must give way and they know it.”

“They know it,” Exeter agreed; and added, grim, “And they know you!”

“Surrender, surrender!” Henry turned facing the city. “I will be merciful, I swear it—to those to whom it is becoming to show mercy. But Vaurus, the bloody hangman, I will hang from his own hanging-tree. And the trumpeter I will hang...”

“The trumpeter? How should the King vex himself about a trumpeter?”

“How should a trumpeter vex the soul of the King? That trumpet. I hear it in my dreams; and in the daytime I grit my teeth since I cannot close up my ears...
teedle-de-tee
—the thin high note of derision; and then the farting note of insult. The trumpeter shall hang!”

Exeter stared at-his nephew from beneath shaggy brows. “I'm cold,” was all he said. “Wet to the skin, too. This damned spring with its bitter winds. It's freezing again. I'm for a cup of wine hot and sweet with spices. It puts courage into a man.”

“You need no courage.” Henry was reluctant to be left alone.

“We all need courage...sometimes.”

“Then drink with me!”

Exeter nodded; it was what he wanted.

Over the stale bread soaked in warm wine they faced each other.

“Harry,” the old man said and poked for the sodden bread with a questing ringer, “what troubles you? If you are not to speak to me, your own flesh-and-blood, to whom will you speak? Come, lad, what troubles you?”

Henry shrugged. “This war maybe. Who knows? The cold and the wet...”

“You're no child to whimper for cold and wet! As for war—” Exeter captured the bread, washed it down with a gulp of wine, wiped his mouth and settled the cup upon the table, “you have been in the game since you were fourteen.”

“All the more reason to tire of it. A man grows old. Thirtyfive, Uncle; and not living soft, either. A man may sicken at the killing and the hanging.”

“He might,” Exeter said, drily. “But as for hangings, you are not yet so sick, if I may believe you! Deceive another if you can. But not me. What ails you, lad?”

Henry lifted his untasted wine; put it down again untasted still. He said, his face turned a little aside, “If I should die...there are few I can trust.”

“And what is this talk of dying?” Exeter laughed.

“War is no respecter of princes. An accident. Remember Louviers? A hairsbreadth and...”

“There is no hairsbreadth with God—do I tell you that, Harry?” Exeter was worried a little. “You were not killed because it was not His Will you should be killed.”

“But if it should be His Will? In whose hands do I leave my son? My brother Bedford? I should need him here in France—the most level head I have, shrewd and faithful. Your brother the rich bishop? He doesn't serve the King of Heaven so faithfully, how shall he serve his King on earth, and that King so small? My brother Gloucester? There goes a rash and meddling fool! Who shall look to my son, my young son, if not you? Uncle of Exeter, should I die, I give him to your charge.”

“If you die, Nephew—which God forbid—I accept it.” “I thank you, Uncle. You will teach him, none better, to love God and to serve his people with both head and arm. But if he is to learn these things—without which there is no kingliness—then let his mother not meddle.” He caught Exeter's surprised glance. “A man child needs men.”

“He's hardly a child yet. A babe, a baby only. Harry...think of the slight to the Queen.”

“Think of the slight to the King. Direct disobedience to my command.”

“One place rather than another—Windsor and not Westminster. So small a thing.”

“Small thing or big, I am to be obeyed. Besides, is it so small a thing, this flouting of prophecy?” “Say superstition, rather.”

“Call it what you choose. But come a bad time—I know my people—and this superstition may well be remembered.”

“You make bad times yourself when you rob so young a child of his mother. Lacking his father, which God forbid, then surely his mother...”

“She's young and she's heedless; and her heedlessness may cost us plenty! What of her choice for my son's godmother? Madam Jacque—another as heedless as herself! Burgundy has long been cooling; that piece of news won't warm him again.”

“Harry, you must be fair—no, never bend that look on me! It was you who gave Dame Jacque refuge; you who gave orders for a royal welcome and a handsome pension. Yes, and you would have given her to Bedford, too, if you could.”

“To John, yes. He's prudent. And he's a soldier—the best we have. If I die, there's no-one else to take my place and Burgundy knows it. It would have been worth risking his anger for John. But even then—not till the Pope had spoken; there'd still be the little matter of declaring the marriage void. But Humphrey. Not for all the riches in the world would I let those two marry. He's as rash, as ill-disciplined as she! There was scandal in plenty before I sent for him here, I needn't tell you! And, if I know either of them, more scandal to come!”

“Then blame my Nephew of Gloucester. Why the Queen?”

“Isabeau's daughter.” And now it was out! “And, if that isn't enough, daughter to that crazy King. Can madness run in a man's seed, or wantonness in the stream of a woman's blood? Who knows? But the plant springs from the seed. I should have taken old Burgundy's daughter, or Castille's daughter or Navarre's daughter.”

“You would be the better for a holiday and so I've told you,” Exeter said, blunt. “You've married a pretty wife; through her you're heir to France. She's given you a son—the fairest prince in Christendom; and more to come if you give her the chance. Courage, man, what better choice?”

“True, true.” Henry brightened a little. “A man speaks, whether sense or madness, to rid himself of a burden. My heart is lighter now. But...one thing more...”

He stopped. The thing was harder still to say, hard. He said slowly, “Johanne...my father's wife. She must be set free; goods and properties restored; jewels, lands, everything. And at once. At once. See to it, Uncle...for my soul's sake.”

Exeter nodded. He said nothing. He was not surprised.

* * *

The country was frost-bound still, for all it was Easter. And still Meaux showed its contempt; and still the trumpet pealed its hateful insult. And now, as if that were not enough, they led an ass on to the walls and belaboured him till he brayed. Then they leant from the walls shouting, “Here is your King. Come and fetch him!”

He ought to have- laughed, Henry knew it. But he could not. What had happened to him that he could not laugh but must stand shaken with his anger while his thoughts ran on how he would punish...punish...and particularly the trumpeter. For now the fellow had added to his own especial insult. Now he heralded the silence in which the insult to majesty was flung.

The thought of the trumpeter goaded him on.

Day and night the bombardment went on unceasing.

* * *

He had taken the great bridge that spanned the river from the Market to the Town. He would never take it, they said in Meaux. How could he take it when the drawbridge sector was raised? As long as they held the bridge they were safe.

But for all that he had taken it. From the ramparts they had stared at the great wooden structure. No man had ever beheld the like. What was it for? They were soon to know. Watching, not believing the thing their eyes beheld they saw it wheeled along to the water gate, saw it span the gulf in the bridge, fit neatly into place. Now he had not only the bridge but the flour mills upon it and the warehouses beneath it.

Meaux began to feel the pinch of hunger.

But still it would not surrender; dared not surrender. The King of England's temper was well-known these days.

From the walls the town still beat him back. And hungry they were, and feeble they were; yet they were ready with their boiling water, with their oil, with their quicklime and their tar.

And now he had a plan. A marvel of a plan, so simple, so certain. Let men—his own as well as the enemy—whisper now that his powers were failing!

Another great erection. The men of Meaux could not understand it. What did he want it for? The bridge was his. They stared down at the two great ships lashed together; from mast-head to mast-head the great platform stretching. And upon that platform, towering into the sky—a tower; a tower higher than the loftiest tower in Meaux. Was the King of England scaling the heavens? And while they flung their balls and hurled their fire-darts, down came a drawbridge from the monstrous tower, down upon the ramparts.

* * *

In early May—though cold as any January—Henry of England rode into Meaux. He was not inclined to mercy; he had waited too long. The prisoners in their thousands were sent away by water. When the prisons in Paris overflowed, the captives were sent into Normandy until there were no more prisons to take them; were sent into faraway England, and, her prisons failing, further, further still into Wales. And if many died on the way who was inclined to weep? Not the King of England—as long as he lost no ransom. He had suffered insult; and insult enough.

His bitter mood held as surely as the bitter cold.

Vaurus who had hanged many an innocent—pregnant women and children at the breast—was hanged, as was right and proper, from his own hanging-tree; Henry had sworn it. The governor, that proud man, who had not seen fit to stay the insult to a King, was sent to Paris and executed. A fair trial; and who could quarrel with that? And the trumpeter? Grinning from a lance-head, that head that had grinned too often; and the headless body swinging in the bitter air.

She was for France.

Was ever woman so fortunate? She had enjoyed her pregnancy knowing herself beautified, loving her importance; childbirth had been easy; and she had given England its heir—a child beautiful as the little lord Jesus...and there had been no reprimand from Henry about the child's birthplace. Perhaps he was too busy; or perhaps he realized that it was woman's business after all. She had performed her duties, gone to her churching, baptised her son, chosen the godparents—John of Bedford and Bishop Beaufort...and Jacqueline. The King's trusted brother, the King's rich uncle. Henry should be pleased. But...Jacque. Would Henry be pleased about her, too? Why not? The Gloucester affair seemed to be fizzling out now that he was away fighting. Jacque sighed still for her handsome Humphrey...but he was not renowned for his faithful heart and there were plenty of pretty women in France. Besides, Jacque was, after all her friend, her own friend. Henry would see that; Henry was more reasonable than one might think from that dark look of his!