Wife to Henry V: A Novel (35 page)

“And meanwhile,” Catherine sighed, “Philip rages. Whoever fights against Brabant fights Burgundy—that's the latest. And John stuffs him with sweets to keep him quiet.”

“Sweets that belong to Harry. A fine godmother you chose for him! Auxerre and Macon, and the lordship of Bar; Roye and Peronne and heaven knows how much more besides. All, all in Philip's hands and there they will stay. Madam Jacque will cost us dear. Philip is not a man to satisfy his hunger with sweets; this business will nibble at our possessions in France until nothing's left.”

* * *

Johanne was right. Those two had sailed and no listening to anyone! Catherine heard with anger, Johanne without surprise, that in spite of all Bedford's sweetmeats Burgundy had made a truce with the Dauphin. He had withdrawn his men. No help from Philip for seven months at least. But all the same the patient John, the prudent John was feasting him in Paris in hopes of winning him again.

“All John's sweetening is no use,” Johanne said. “Philip has no intention of seeing Humphrey lay hands on his 'inheritance'. Oh yes,
his
! He and his father plotted and planned for it.”

“And Jacque was the sacrifice.” Catherine was obstinate with loyalty to her friend.

“And Jacque was the sacrifice—and a willing one at the time. It's over-late for her to object now.”

“Seemingly it isn't. But I think you're making too much of the matter. Oh, I admit I thought so myself once; I thought the Humphrey-Jacque business might send Harry's French crown toppling. But not now; not with Philip's sister married to John.”

Johanne sent Catherine a narrow look. Did Catherine really think the Bedford-Burgundy marriage would keep Philip true? Burgundy was her own cousin, her own brother-in-law...but that hadn't kept him true. Didn't Catherine know that nothing keeps a faithless man faithful but his own interests? And this was the pretty feather-pate who aspired to power!

News came fitfully to England. Hainault, protesting, had received those two—Jacqueline was its Lady, what could it do? But Brabant would have none of them. Their Duke—for whom it did not care a pin—had been insulted. His wife was living in sin with the licentious Englishman. Brabant closed its gates.

Gloucester lost his temper. He harried the town with fire and sword.

“Now he will pay for it,” Johanne said. “And Harry will pay for it, too. Philip is on the march.”

“They should be fighting for us in France, both. And they destroy themselves—and us—instead. Oh fools, fools! They should be sewn in a sack together and dropped into the sea.” Catherine was roused at last.

“The best place for them!” Johanne agreed. “It isn't enough for Philip to have sworn a truce with the Dauphin; he must needs throw out feelers for peace. For peace! And—” she spoke slowly, “Catherine...I must tell you myself, though I hate the telling. My son Arthur. Your brother has made him Constable of France. There go our two allies. What did I tell you?”

* * *

“There's no end to the foolishness of men,” Johanne said. “Here's Philip and Humphrey publicly insulting each other like a couple of bad-tempered women.”

“They're to fight it out—single combat. So my mother writes.”

“Single combat. Never in this world! Philip will fight with his armies till he gets Madam Jacque into his hands. However, that's all to the good. In my opinion Philip's armies are best where they are! Who knows what use he might make of them in France? He's found yet another sister—no doubt your mother has written—and married her off to the Bourbon.”

Catherine nodded, pale.

“Bourbon—your brother's staunchest supporter! Master Philip makes himself all too clear. Still, let us not worry overmuch. We have a stronger ally than Philip—Charles' own foolishness. He may well ruin everything himself.”

“Pray God!” Catherine sighed.

* * *

Humphrey the firebrand was back in London. And without Jacqueline. She had wanted to stay behind, he said. Catherine knew better. Events might have forced her to stay, but Jacque loved her charmer more than she loved her country. As for leaving her behind, Humphrey, evidently, had not been unwilling.

The reason was clear; he had brought it back with him—Jacqueline's lady-in-waiting, that slant-eyed beauty Eleanor Cobham.

The last straw, as far as Catherine was concerned. When Humphrey came to pay his respects, louting and touting with that gallant air of his, she let fly. “You left Jacque behind because you were glad to leave her, glad to bring back the slant-eyed witch in her place!” And it might have been Isabeau herself, raging. “You've made Jacque the laughing-stock and the shame of Christendom. For you she has let her honour be blown upon; for you she may lose her inheritance, yes and her freedom, too. And you! You've tired of her already—as you tire of all your women. And you haven't the decency to hide it. What kind of man are you to insult her with your whore?”

Duty done by her friend, she proceeded, Isabeau's spirit inspiring her still, to deal faithfully with his jeopardizing of her son's French crown.

Gloucester said nothing. He stood bowing and smiling until he had bowed himself out.

“You've made an enemy,” Johanne said.

Catherine shrugged, exalted still with her fury.

“Two enemies. Be sure the Cobham will hear every word.”

“The Cobham!” Catherine was bitter with contempt.

“A spiteful woman,” Johanne said, “if she's subtle enough, can harm even a Queen. And it was all so useless that anger of yours. Jacque will never see her lover again. The good Philip will strip her to her shift and Humphrey won't raise a finger. Why should he? There's nothing in it for him, he sees that now. He isn't one to throw good money after bad. She's seen the last of her gallant lover; the dark-eyed witch won't let him go.”

* * *

And now it was April again and the promise of May sweet in the air. Catherine forgot her quarrel with Gloucester, her pity for Jacqueline, in the excitement of carrying the little King once more to Parliament.

“When I carry him all crowned in my lap,” she told Johanne, “I feel like the Queen of Heaven herself.”

“Then make the most of it,” Johanne said.

Catherine looked up startled.

“Next year Harry will be five. I'm surprised he's been left with you so long. And truly it's time he was with men; you know that for yourself—or would know if your head was not stuffed with dreams.”

Catherine lifted a mute and troubled face.

“My poor child!” Johanne spoke with that dry tolerance of hers. “You're no Isabeau—how many times must I tell you? You were never meant to meddle in politics, nor to have power. You were not meant for a Queen—except to sleep in a King's bed and bear his children. You've been allowed to keep Harry so long because it has pleased the Beauforts. And it has pleased the Beauforts because it has pleased the people. Mother and child—a pretty picture. Now the picture grows a little stale; soon it will lose its appeal altogether. And then—out goes the Queen; thrown out by bishop and knight. The priest Beaufort and the fighting Beaufort will tolerate you no longer.”

“And...Humphrey?”

“Protector without power; the Beauforts have seen to it. And he's lost his personal appeal with the people for the time being, because of the Jacqueline affair. No-one's pleased with him, not even his loving Londoners. Oh yes, he'd be glad enough to get the King into his hands—a matter of prestige; but it wouldn't do you much good—you've made an enemy there. Oh Catherine, Catherine! You dream of power but you can't even add two and two.”

“King and Power; Power and King!” Catherine wrung her hands. “And meanwhile it is nothing but a little boy and his mother.”

“Who herself is not averse from power.”

“I'm his mother,” Catherine said again.

“It's because you blind yourself with sentimental talk that you'll never wield power. So if it's power you want, there'll be none, make up your mind to it. You've been allowed to see a good deal of Harry; and you'll still see a good deal of him—if you're sensible and not afflicted by the itch to meddle. The King must learn kingship; and he must learn courtliness and the rudiments of knighthood; and those things you cannot teach him. And he must not be smothered by women's petticoats; that's a thing these English will not endure. This is your last Parliament; it needs no witchcraft to know that!”

“It's wrong, wrong.” Catherine was passionate. “A little child should play, he should laugh...even though he be a King. I should have been named among his guardians. It was cruel of Henry; it was cruel and wrong.”

Johanne said dispassionate, “Henry chose his captains with a clear eye; it was part of his success and his glory. Be sure that he chose his son's governors with as much care. He knew you, Catherine. He knew you were not the one to guide the King—neither head nor heart hard enough.”

“You mean I crossed him in one small thing—the house where my son was born,” Catherine said, bitter.

“Disobeyed was the word he would have used. Disobeying Henry in anything, great or small—it was not a thing to be forgiven.”

“The pains were on me. Was it for that he robbed me of my son?”

“Let us not pretend you were taken unawares; we are women together. Wiser heads than yours warned you well in time. And this disobedience, small though you think it, was enough to show Henry how the wind blew. If I knew him—and who better?—he thought the child might inherit your softness and not his hardness. After all—forgive me if I hurt you—your father, your brothers...they were not, let us say, over-dowered with strength, body...or mind. Training, though it can't do all, can do much. Henry had to do what he thought best for his son.”

“So you're against me, too.”

“Not I. I've no reason to love Henry. I'm for you; for you and Harry. He's a strange little child. He's gentle and he's sweet; and then, suddenly, you come up against a queer, hard streak. I've puzzled over him so often. That gentleness. It isn't, I think, a child's gentleness that hardens with the years. It's a saint's gentleness, perhaps; maybe you've been right there! But then—that obstinacy, that hardness. It isn't, I think, a saint's strength but a child's weakness. Be glad he has wise men to help him. Leave him to them...and, Catherine, look for happiness in yourself.”

“You talk of happiness. They tear away my child...”

“And your hope of glory,” Johanne said, dry.

“What else have I to hope for? A woman must have something, Johanne, something. I'm twenty-four. And I must not look at a man, nor any man at me. As for wanting to marry—that's a crime, so it seems. Ask my lord of Mortain.”

“Oh Catherine, it's more than ever plain that you've no head for affairs. Mortain of all people! Exeter's son. A Beaufort, my innocent, a Beaufort. Did you think Humphrey would let you marry a Beaufort?”

“And the others who offered? Not a Beaufort among them! Am I never to marry?”

“Never. Unless it pleases Humphrey. And it never will please him! Marry into a powerful family and his own itch for power wouldn't tolerate it. Marry into a lesser family and his pride wouldn't stomach it. And then you must needs add to your difficulties by quarrelling with him about his whore.”

“So between his ambition and his pride and his anger I am to be crushed!”

Johanne looked at Catherine. “Did you care for Mortain?”

“I like a proper man.”

“Do you indeed? Then you will find your own comfort I don't doubt. Meanwhile—this next Parliament; make the most of it.”

Johanne was right. My lord of Exeter came to inform Madam Queen Catherine of the new arrangements. The King, he reminded her, had long had his own establishments, now he was to use them. Windsor had been chosen as his summer palace; but my lord King desired Madam his Mother to remain there at her pleasure. He was, at the moment, much occupied at Westminster; and, for his leisure he preferred Eltham. My lords in Council had ordered the heirs of all baronies in wardship to the Crown to be brought up at court. “Each will bring his own tutor,” Exeter told her. “A school, in fact, where my lord King will learn all that is fitting. It is not good for a child to live alone.”

“Yes,” she said, “yes.” And all the time her mind was busy about his new companions...The tough little York whose London house she enjoyed at this moment; Exeter's own grandson the little Beaufort...strong children, sharp as a sword. “Yes,” she said and prayed, without much hope, that they would be gentle with her slow little boy.

* * *

She was driving through London, the child upon her knees; and she did, indeed, feel like the Queen of Heaven. Let Johanne say what she would, the crowds, the cheering, were as great as ever. She could not believe it was for the child alone. Some of it must surely be for herself in the halo of young motherhood.

At St. Paul’s the two Beauforts stood waiting; my lord Exeter and my lord Bishop, smiling and bowing and ready to snatch the child from her, the child her joy and her glory.

He was kneeling before the High Altar. So little a child, so serious, so beautiful. He looked like an infant Christ. But from Christ's sorrows, she prayed, Christ shield him!

Out in the churchyard again the people crowded for a sight of their King—Harry of England's son. The beautiful little child with his grave sweetness seemed to them something adorable—a miracle. And he was their King.

She took her place in the open litter, waited for them to bring her the child. The King came out between Beaufort and Exeter; they brought him towards her...and past her where she sat, empty hands upon empty lap. The child made a movement towards her but the Beaufort brothers led him on.

A great white horse stood—empty saddle, royal trappings. She caught her breath. They would never put him upon that! So great a creature, so little a child.

She saw, unbelieving still, Exeter lift the King, put him upon the great beast. The child stiffened; his mouth worked. He was frightened; he was going to cry; cry before all these people.

She was swept by swift, fierce joy. Let him cry! Let them see, all of them see, how young he was, how tender. Let him be brought back to his mother for comfort! But...cry before the people;

shame the dead hero, his father; shame her care of him; shame herself? She was taken with sudden revulsion because pale, stiffened, frightened, he looked more like her own father's son than Henry's.