Wife to Henry V: A Novel (34 page)

She looked at the man above the rich cloths.

Jacqueline had called him a proper man. Yes, he was that! Not unlike Henry in build—the same lean elegance. But this man had a warm, a gentle eye.

She had chosen her gown—white with a cloak of rich blue. Cloak and gown lent her a Madonna look, most subtly proclaimed her right to her child. When she would have chosen for the King, Astley pushed herself forward. The Clerk turned his look upon the nurse; an enquiring look, gentle enough. Astley coloured and fell back letting him take the child.

This man had more than gentleness, Catherine saw; he had the strength that goes with true kindness. She might do worse than advance him. Her chamberlain? That would be too great a step. Steward then? She might do worse; a great deal worse.

He brought the little boy and set him upon the Queen's knee.

“We must make robes for my little lord; never have we had so tiny a King.” Kneeling with the measure, he smiled; the baby put out a hand towards the gay and smiling face.

* * *

She was driving through London, her moving throne drawn by white horses. About her rode princes of Church and State. But for all their massed magnificence, for all their banners and their swords and their golden chains; for all the rainbow of their colours and the glitter of their jewels, it was upon her all eyes turned; upon her with her Madonna look, her King innocent and good upon her lap.

She knew well they made the picture she had planned, the charming, the almost holy picture—the young mother so fair, so royal and so sad; and the lovely child in crimson and ermine, the velvet cap upon the golden head held by the jewelled circlet. What was it the Wardrobe Clerk had said fitting on the tiny crown? “Those pretty hands that cannot feed himself, yet hold the sceptre.” He had been silent for a while; then he had added, “Here is God's Wonder. This little child who must look to his nurses for food, yet feeds two nations with law and justice.” A poet!

Now looking down upon London from her high throne and holding her King, she thought of Henry. Could he see her now, gentle and proud, would he not love her then? But could Henry be here to see, the child would not now be driving to Parliament.

For one fierce moment she was glad Henry was dead. He had tried to cut her off from any share in her child. Well, wherever he might be now, let it be standing arrogant by the very Throne of God, let him see she was not the foolish creature he had thought. She was Isabeau's daughter, Isabeau who with her gibes, had taught her that lacking a child, a woman—queen or peasant—is but half a woman.

And suddenly she thought of Michelle who had never borne a child, who lay forgotten now in the dark earth.

In the Queen's eyes a tear sparkled, dropped. And the crowd loving her child and loving her for her sorrows, worshipped her as she went by.

Catherine sat with Johanne in the Lady's Bower at Baynard's Castle. It had been granted for her use until the little Duke of York came of age; in return she kept the house in good repair and the gardens in order. Though hard by St. Paul's and in the midst of London's bustle, the gardens were secluded and charming. Catherine liked the house well and used it constantly.

Now, on the window-seat, the two-year old King knelt breathing upon the frosted pane and rubbing the little hole with his finger. Catherine, that indifferent needlewoman, rose from her chair, went and stood by the little boy. She laughed at the tiny peep-hole, bent her own red mouth to the frosty pane, rubbed it with the palm of her hand. Now they could look out together.

From her place Johanne watched. And this was that Catherine who aspired to power—why she was nothing but a child herself! Curious how Isabeau, that determined woman, had bred true to the Valois stock. Not one of her children had her cleverness, her courage, her iron will.

Johanne sighed looking at the pretty, gentle child. Was it true gentleness, or had he inherited the Valois weakness, too? Yet—and she was glad to see it—he could be obstinate. His mother was pointing out London Bridge, and the houses that stood upon it, dark and sharp as though cut from paper. But he was not interested; he wriggled from her hand, turned his back upon the water sullen beneath the snow-packed sky. Small cheek against the cold pane, he knelt staring at the finger of St. Paul's thrusting upward into the sky.

Catherine came back to her seat, looked with disfavour upon her needlework. “That child!” She nodded towards the absorbed King.

“He cannot take his eyes from that church or any other. A Child of God.”

“Like all children, or so we are told.” Johanne was a trifle dry. “As for Harry—you want him to look at one thing, he pleases himself looking at another. Again—like all children!”

“How can you say so? Of course it's the church—the little saint!”

“There's a church on the Bridge if it's churches he wants. But he wouldn't so much as look at it. Don't make your child into a saint, Catherine; you'll make this world too hard for him.”

“Kings have been saints before now...”

“And they've come to an uncomfortable end first. Being sainted is a somewhat late douceur.”

“What a thing to say! Anyhow they've won a heavenly crown.”

“This child is concerned with an earthly one,” Johanne reminded her.

“He shall have both. Did you hear how we brought him from Windsor to attend Parliament?”

Of course Johanne had heard! They were telling the story everywhere. But since Catherine meant to tell it again, she resigned herself to listen.

“We were at Staines for the night—it's a long journey for a child. The town was crowded, everyone pushing to get a glimpse of the King. They didn't see much; it was far too cold. I had him well wrapped up; daren't even bring him to the window—all that wind! Of course those who came to pay their respects did see him. Harry behaved beautifully. There he sat in my lap laughing and gracious and winning all hearts.”

“His father's way—when he was young. Clarence's way, too. And Gloucester's. The Lancaster way...when they choose. Except Bedford. John's cut to a different pattern; less charm but a true heart—the pick of them all!”

“Maybe.” Catherine was not interested. “Well, next morning bright and early, there I was in the charette all ready to be off and waiting for them to bring the King. And then! The most dreadful roaring as though all the lions in the Tower had broken loose. And there was my lord screaming like any common child; he was stiff as a rod and purple with rage. And there was Astley standing over him and threatening the whip. But for all that, towards the charette he would not suffer them to carry him, no, not an inch.”

“A pin? Or, if one may say it of a king...wet, perhaps?”

“Not the one nor the other! I made them carry him back to the house to see. And the look I got from Madam Nurse when she thought my back was turned! That woman is over-quick with her whippings. What need has he of whipping, the little saint; for he
is
a saint, because—are you listening, Johanne?—it's as true as my Saviour hears me! At the first step towards the house the shrieking stopped. Quiet. A lamb. Lamb of God. When they brought him once more towards me he screamed again and would not stop until he was within doors again. We tried time after time, and always the same thing. And then, suddenly, I understood. Do you know why he cried?”

“He did not relish the cold.”

Catherine made a gesture of impatience. “It was the Lord's Day—I realized that afterwards. He would not travel upon the Lord's Day.”

Johanne's plucked brows ail-but disappeared beneath the great head-dress.

“But it
is
so,” Catherine said. “For when we set out next day—and it was colder still you remember—he smiled and crowed like a small angel.”

“A saint, indeed!” Johanne said, her voice dry as ever.

* * *

Catherine was satisfied...up to a point. Her widow's dower had been confirmed by Parliament; with her father's jointure she had an income of over six thousand pounds; and, in addition, with their lands and revenues, all the Queen's houses in England and Wales, except Havering and Langley; they were Johanne's. She was rich now, very rich. And she had her child—my lord the King's Governor had been generous; but not entire control. Exeter himself had chosen the King's governess. And there lay Catherine's dissatisfaction. “It's for me to choose, I should have thought,” she told Johanne. “Still, she's a pleasant creature this Butler, not a bitter thorn like Astley. And—the Privy Council must be at a loss for something to do—they've actually written a letter in Harry's name beseeching his nurses and governors to chastise him as they think fit. Did you ever hear such nonsense? Astley doesn't need much urging. But Butler!
Chastise the King—that little saint!
she keeps saying.

“All this talk about saints!” Johanne threw up her hands. “It's a good thing you have Astley. You and Butler between you would ruin the child.”

* * *

Her annoyance, for the moment, was nothing; blown on the wind. How could one think of rubs when everywhere the little King's armies were victorious? Day by day the messengers rode in with the glorious news. And Burgundy, it seemed, had simmered down over the Jacqueline-Gloucester affair. He had sworn a fresh alliance—a brother's alliance—with Bedford and with Arthur of Brittany.

“God be praised,” Catherine said. “Burgundy and Brittany fresh-sworn to our side. Now the French crown is ours.”

“Once swearing is enough for honest men,” Johanne told her. “I hate to damp your joy, Catherine, but the only one of the three you can trust is Bedford. My son Arthur takes his orders from his eldest brother; and their first thought, naturally, is for Brittany. It's been blow-hot, blow-cold with them right from the beginning—yes, even as far back as Agincourt. I know my sons and I'm warning you. As for Burgundy—do I need to tell you Philip will break the alliance the minute he thinks fit?”

“It's different now—John's to marry his sister; Anne's the fifth girl, I think.”

“Who can keep count of Burgundy's sisters?” Johanne laughed. “Don't forget he keeps the balance equal between his allies. Arthur is to have the eldest girl.”

“My brother's widow—not enough virgins to go round it seems. Your poor son! Margaret was deadly dull, Louis couldn't endure her. Like having old Burgundy in his bed he used to say.”

“Pleasant for Arthur! Still, pleasant or not, that's a marriage you should watch. When three are in partnership, one had best look out—especially if one of the three includes Burgundy. He'll be plotting and planning to detach Arthur from the alliance. It'll take a subtler man than my son to withstand Burgundy's nattering, Burgundy's promises. I tell you John had best look out.”

“John knows Philip as well as you do; he's no fool.”

“He has the misfortune to be honest,” Johanne said, dry. “And I'll tell you another thing—the success of that alliance depends largely upon Humphrey. If he and his Jacqueline behave themselves all may go well. But if they really mean that nonsense about seeking rights in Hainault, there'll be trouble.”

“You're always looking for trouble!” Catherine laughed. “Jacque and Humphrey have promised Parliament to wait. Why can't you sit back and enjoy yourself when things are going well? Just think of our victories—so many I can't remember all the names. But Cravant—no-one could ever forget that! As for Vermeuil—there go my brother's chances for ever, or so my mother writes.” She sighed a little. “I wish I were in France, again. I'd give my soul to hear the drums and the trumpets and the fifes.”

“And the splitting of cannon stones and the shrieks of the dying! I thought you'd had enough of that.”

“Yes...yes. But the men marching and the music playing. You've forgotten, Johanne—all these years in England! But I don't forget—ever. It's in my blood.” She lifted a glowing face. “John takes the field in a surcoat of blue velvet, my mother says. And he displays two crosses—red upon white—sign of England's double sovereignty.”

“Very pretty! He'd remember, you would think, his brother Clarence and the crown upon his helmet; a target for all eyes and the crown and the helmet and the head beneath them all hacked to pieces. When will they learn, these Lancasters?”

“Nothing could happen to John. A man like a rock.”

* * *

It was mid-March and cold. Catherine was at Havering, Johanne's guest. Her pretty face was wearing a faintly sullen look. She had the wanton blood of her parents running in her veins; and her short loveless marriage had brought little satisfaction. And now her life seemed emptier than ever. True she had her child. But he was so hedged about with his tutors and his governesses that sometimes he seemed hardly her child at all. If she was to be kept from all real part in her child as well as from public affairs, why wouldn't Gloucester let her marry again? There had been more than one suitable offer but he had refused them all. Well, she must be patient. She knew—none better—the vagaries of fate. Between the scrappings of Beaufort and Gloucester she might yet snatch the bone. That the size of the bone was beyond the size of her mouth she did not, in spite of Johanne's warnings, believe. Let her but get the bone! Meanwhile—she shrugged. In France she would have taken a lover already—and no particular need of discretion. But here in England—!

She shrugged again.

* * *

“There'll be trouble over Madam Jacque,” Johanne said and held swollen fingers to the warmth; since her imprisonment she had kept her braziers bright in all weathers against the pain of aching joints. “Now she is truly for the Low Countries, she and her Humphrey. And for all their promises nothing will stop them; not Bedford's advice nor Parliament's displeasure, nor Burgundy's fury. And the scandal is the greater because no-one knows whether those two are truly married.”

“We may take it that they are; she's been accepted by everyone, even the Beauforts.”

“Catherine, Catherine, where are your wits? They play their own game, the Beauforts—to get Master Humphrey out of the country. If he carves a kingdom for himself in the Lowlands—good; it'll keep him quiet. If he fails and disgraces himself—also good. But that doesn't make them truly married—and so they will find—until the Pope speaks.”