Wife to Henry V: A Novel (44 page)

To Talybolion, as ever, news came late. June was fresh with budding roses before they heard the full tale of English disaster.

Orléans stood triumphant within her walls. Early in May the English had abandoned the siege. Left in a hurry, the messenger said.

“Seven months besieged,” Catherine said, only half-believing. “All our captains and our armies ringing the city round about, the starving, hopeless city. Seven long months. And she, within seven days, raises the siege and sends us flying.” She turned from the kneeling messenger to Tudor. “You and your talk of saints! The thing reeks of witchcraft.”

“The devil looks to his own,” the messenger told her. “The witch has been wounded—foot and back.”

“In God is our help,” she said; only to have her hopes dashed. The witch was whole again.

“The girl is clearly the devil's paramour,” Catherine said.

Tudor let her talk, and held his peace. Certainly there was something strange about the girl. If God was not her Master then surely the devil was!

* * *

Defeat after defeat.

Tudor tried to keep the messengers from Catherine, to save her the worst of the news; but she would have it all.

Jargeau had fallen to the witch; and Beauregency, the great castle. The English had retreated, orderly, to Patay that strong town. The French captain had hesitated to attack; but she, the paramour of Satan, had driven them on.

He had feared for Catherine—bad news upon bad news, and she four months gone with child. He need have no fears, she was all Isabeau.

“The devil may look to his own,” she said when she heard that Patay had fallen and the English dead and dying beyond telling. “But it cannot last. The devil cannot stand against God.”

He mistook simplicity for courage; loved her for it and told her so.

“Courage?” she said. “What need of courage? France cannot be lost. My husband won it, under God, by sword and by treaty. Whoever forgets that, God remembers.”

The sweet summer moved on; a summer heavy with sun and blossom. In her garden at Talybolion, Catherine moved languid, heavy with child.

Towards the end of July she had news that, for all her belief, made her cry out. Not all the defeat of English arms nor the loss of cities had moved her so; she was shaken to the soul.

Charles had been crowned in Rheims.

The witch had dragged him, all be-spelled with the glory of Patay, to Rheims. Now he was truly crowned, in the crowning-place of Kings. Now all France would accept him—the true King. It was but a question of time, she said, the soft and drooping Valois mouth all drawn and bitter.

“God,” she said, twisting and wringing her hands, “God, for this the witch must burn!”

It was horrible to Tudor the way she said it, gently as praying.

“Burn, burn, burn,” she said it softly again and again. She looked a little crazy, he thought, all sly with her whispering to God.

“Have you ever seen a man burn?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Why should I?”

“God forbid that you should. It is not a thing I would wish you to see...or any man.”

“He is no man,” she flashed, “that has no stomach to punish the enemies of God. My husband was not so nice; God's enemies were his enemies; he knew how to deal with them.”

It was the first time she had taunted him with the splendour that had been her husband. But it was not this that troubled him now; it was the shocking harshness of eye and voice. He would have calmed her, gentled her if he could—she was bearing his child. But she would not be gentled.

“If a man must burn to save his soul, why then he must burn! Yes,” and she was spiteful still, “and others be man enough to watch!”

“To watch,” he said, “see a human body burn...flesh and blood like yours, like mine...skin burst and shrivel, flesh blacken, blood boil. And the smell. Dear Saviour, the smell of a man's pain, a man's agony.”

“It needs a man, I grant; a full man!” And she could feel how his compassion exacerbated the bitterness within her. Quarrel with him she must, rid herself of the poison, heal herself. Though she killed their love with her insults, she could not, would not stop herself.

“You are one to blind yourself with words,” she cried out, wondering that she could so hurt him, glad that she could so hurt him. “But Henry. There was a man, there was a King! He told me once how he had stood by and seen a man burn and let a man burn—and only a boy himself! Do you suppose it was easy for him? He was no priest but a soldier; easier for him by far to kill a man quick and clean with his sword. But he stood fast; and for that God remembered him—His Soldier. The man cried out from the fire and the prince called to them to release the man. So they brought him forth all charred by the fire; and the prince besought him to remember his God while yet there was time and to recant and his life would be spared. But the fellow, heretic to the last and obstinate with devil's pride, refused. And so...” she shrugged.

“Back to the fire again?” And he could hardly believe it even of Henry, that righteous burner of heretics.

“The body; not the soul,” she said.

He tried to speak and could not for sickness in the tale.

“And God,” he said at last, “so we are told, made us in His Image.” He looked at her, at Catherine his own dear love. “You find such...such beastliness good?”

“Good enough for God's Soldier.”

“Beware how you take the name of God!” He was a little stern. “As for the King—he was a great man. But for all that there were things in which, as you say, he was not nice. He took the road straight before him and would not, when he might, step aside, no not for all the blood. Brave? Yes; indeed, yes. But he lacked the inward eye.”

“You with your inward eye! You would rob my son of his crown. Praise God there are not more like you!” And she turned and walked quickly away for all her burden and would not stop for all his pleading. Nor would she speak with him nor eat with him. But night found her gentle again. “There is but one place for you, cruel heart,” he said.

* * *

Catherine no longer received the messengers. In Wales she was safe; but her swelling figure told its tale...and gossip has winged feet. Now Tudor brought letters and news to the Queen's chamber.

The crowning in Rheims had certainly been a master-stroke. Wherever Charles appeared, city gates were thrown open; the people ran before him scattering flowers and crying out,
Noël, Noël
.

“And Burgundy?” she asked at once. “Does he cry out
Noël
, too?”

“In his own way—as you may suppose. Greetings, congratulations...”

“A foot in both camps.” She tried to shrug.

“So it has always been. But now, more open. Well, between two stools a man may fall.”

“Not Burgundy,” she said.

The crowning in Rheims had set her fretting, to wish her lying-in over, to be in London, to catch the news as it came. She was not easy to live with these days. She loved him; but she was no longer content to play queen to his king. She
was
a Queen.

News came in steadily. Victory, victory for the French arms.

“It cannot last,” Catherine said. “How can it last? The girl's army marches on corn in the ear, on green beans.”

Tudor did not tell her that they marched on hope, too. He did not tell her, either, that Bedford, that great captain, did not underestimate the girl. Limb of the Fiend he called her, acknowledging her powers, albeit dark.

The witch had bespelled her fainéant to march on Paris.

It was early August before they heard the news in Wales. Now Catherine could no longer hide her fears. “Paris,” she said. “But
Paris...
”

“Paris is well-fortified,” Tudor told her. “My lord of Bedford is there with great forces; and my lord Cardinal Beaufort with his own private army—and not a small one, neither. What a soldier is this priest! You need not fear for Paris. Besides, there's a thing you've forgotten. She's got to get her laggard there.”

Now messengers were riding in quickly with news of Charles' northward march; Laon, Château Thierry, Provins—all fallen to his hand. And everywhere the same old story—Charles greeted with flowers, with the bent knee, with the oath of allegiance, with the cry
Noël, Noël
.

“Soissons,” Catherine said and caught her breath. “Charles is at Soissons. It's a short and open road to Paris.”

“It's the last lap hips a man,” he said. But this time he did not believe it.

* * *

Charles with Paris before him had turned his back; was marching south again. His evil genius Trémouille had urged it.

“He has turned his back on the girl's counsel,” Tudor said. “He has betrayed her. He will betray her again and again.”

“I could almost love Charles for this,” she said.

In mid-August, when she walked heavy beneath heavy foliage, Tudor sought her with glad news. Charles had allowed himself to be trapped, north and south. Poor, silly Charles had thrown away his chances.

Swing high, high, high!

Now the messengers were riding in daily, riding in hourly.

Burgundy's men were still in the field—but Burgundy himself? He knew well how to take advantage of Charles' despair. Burgundy was in Arras flirting with Charles, offering friendship, offering help...at a price.

“He will betray us,” she said.

“Not yet,” Tudor told her, “not just yet.”

September was golden and the first leaves falling when the news came to Talybolion, great news.

The witch was wounded.

Catherine could scarcely control her exultation.

“God's Saint!” she said. “Now let them talk of saints! God has shown He is not with her; He has punished her wickedness.”

* * *

Autumn was misty on the Welsh hills. The sun rose red as fire, as red, sank again. Tudor took Catherine's arm when she walked out-of-doors lest she slip upon the leaves.

“Soon,” she said, “soon. And then—London.”

The first week in October brought her a letter from Johanne; it had been sent express, but even so it was dated the twenty-second of September.

The King” must be sent to France for his crowning, Johanne wrote. John had written to the Council more than once...

“But of course,” she said, “of course!” and lifted her glowing face; but, reading on, she paled, a hand to her head, so that Tudor's arm must go quickly about her.

...But it is useless to crown him in France until he has been crowned at home. That must come first; and that is the reason for the delay. And delay indeed! It took my Lords in Council until this very day to reach their decision. Now all is fixed. Harry will be crowned in November, the sixth day. And I write to you that you may know at once. For it is not enough, in my opinion, that you be present at Westminster, only. You should be present at the public occasions that precede the crowning—the thanksgivings, the processions, the banquets. In these the King's mother must take her part. Harry expects it; even Humphrey expects it. They are puzzled, both of them, by your long absence in a foreign country...and they are not the only ones...

Johanne was telling her, plainly, that there was gossip and that she must come back to give it the He. The mention of Humphrey was clear warning. But November. Month of crowning; month of childbirth. Let her but show herself now and Humphrey would lose no sleep over throwing her into prison. Yes, and stealing her properties into the bargain! She was enough Isabeau's daughter not to forget that.

As for Owen...

At that she dared not look. But all the time it was clear in her mind, whispering, whispering.

* * *

There was no doing anything with her. She laughed and cried by turns; was terrified, was boastful; was pitiful, was proud; was suppliant, was arrogant—a Queen. She would go, outstare them all. She would not go, could not go...she would die first.

There was but one thing constant about her—the inconstancy of her mind.

The King's mother with child
. She was incapable, at this moment, of thinking beyond that.
Her lover hanged
. That was a thought so black, so devastating, so utterly against nature, she could not believe God would let it happen. But if God were cruel, then it was, at least, her own private heartbreak; but the other was the scandal of Christendom. How her brother would laugh about it, cosy in bed with his Agnes Sorel; he would laugh...laugh...laugh.

She could not endure the mere sound of another's voice. Even Tudor's beloved voice breaking upon her frightened mind, scattering her distracted thoughts, wasting her precious moments, drove her frantic. Minutes were flying, precious minutes, never to be found again.

* * *

She would go to London. Now she had made up her mind; and nothing would stop her. She had one poor hope—the long journey, the rough roads might settle her problem.

But she was too sturdy in her pregnancies. The last week of October found her with Guillemote and her two Joans, de Coucy and Bellknap, safe in England. Now, actually facing her danger, she found courage of a sort, the courage of despair. Here, in Hatfield she would play the game she had played before—the simple game of
Hide-the-Queen
.

Johanne came over from Westminster to see her; Johanne was not pleased with what she saw.

“You tempt fate too far,” Johanne said; she was troubled Catherine could see. “You're expected in London, and naturally people are asking why you're not there. And Madam Eleanor isn't backward in prompting those who've given no thought to it as yet. She's continually wondering aloud why her dear sister is not yet come. She's wondered so many times to Harry that he's beginning to wonder, too.”

Catherine sat like stone. What would they tell him, her little saint? Scandal and sorrow for her little King on the greatest day of his life!

For the moment she hated the innocent creature that moved within her. She could neither sit nor stand but must go dragging herself from chair to window and back again.

“Now we must think!” Johanne said. “The whole court knows the Queen rests at Hatfield on her way to London. And here-what do they know?”

“Nothing, I keep my room. The long, hard journey—the excuse is good. And I keep de Coucy always with me.”