Wife to Henry V: A Novel (48 page)

Catherine lay content between sleeping and waking. Her dear love was safe and she no more exposed to scorn. The new born at her breast, was a drowsy pleasure until, nearing Westminster, Tudor came to take the child away. Then, fully awake, she clutched at her baby, pressing the tiny head to the fullness of her breasts. “This at least he shall have of his mother. Oh,” she cried out, “so small a thing, so small...” They could not know whether it was of the child she spoke, shaking her pitiful head, or of the milk she gave.
Forgive, forgive
she besought the unconscious child.

She went on talking to it after they had taken him away.

What can I do? Destroy a man for no greater sin than being our father? For your begetting he could hang. A little while, yet a little and we shall fetch you again...

But she knew they should never fetch him again; that being given, unnamed, a foundling to the monks as Westminster he would never live free in the sweet world again.

Did she then do the child so great a wrong, giving him over to the service of God? She knew well that she did. She gave him not for love of God but for love of her lover and for love of herself.

She could not quiet her conscience nor her fears.

* * *

Harry the King came down from his throne, ran to his mother. He looked at her sweetly, crying out that she was wearied with travelling, blaming himself for his eagerness to see her. He was so lovely, this young son of hers, so gentle and so kind; but dearer than the royal child, than all her children, was the child she had abandoned.

Harry treated her royally. She lay in the Queen's chamber her bed heaped high with soft woollen coverings; and the King had brought from his own bed a rug of white fur. The great fire leaped in the wide hearth; the candles flung a golden light. The women had brought her wine and wastel bread and chicken; now, rested from the rigours of her journey, she lay back upon the pillows and the King sat upon a stool at her side.

He had more assurance, she thought, chatting away of his journey into France; but sometimes he would stop, looking about him as though my lord of Warwick stood there threatening him because his tongue wagged too free, even though it was but with love for his mother.

She asked him whether he had seen his grandmother and her cousin of Burgundy.

Our Cousin of Burgundy
had been away with the armies; but
our grandmother
he had seen. She had stood, like any stranger, curtseying to him from a window at St. Pol and he had asked to visit her. “But I didn't like her. I couldn't help it, even if she is our grandmother. She didn't look a nice person. And she's ugly. Her eyes were watering like the eyes of old people; the water was running down the paint on her cheeks like little rivers. She kissed my hand and left her mouth all over it—sticky and red. She's
very
ugly...”

She sighed, thinking of Isabeau's famous beauty. “We must be sorry for those who are old. We all grow old,” she said.

“You are old,” he said with his child's simplicity. “But you aren't ugly. Kind people can't be ugly Father Netter says; goodness shines in their faces. But she...she looked hard. Like stone...like a greedy stone.”

“You are not very kind yourself,” she said. “You must pray for a better heart.”

“Yes I will...but it would take a miracle, I think, to change my heart about her. And now, don't you want to hear about my crowning?” He dismissed Isabeau. “I tried to remember everything for you. That's why I wanted you to come quickly, before I forgot. Can I tell you now?”

She nodded smiling, settled back on her pillows to listen.

“Well, we left St. Denys in the morning—about nine o'clock it was. Such a procession! Hundreds of knights riding in the very front—all the cloaks and tabards and lances and pennants. It was lovely. And after them, the peers of both my realms.” She had to smile at his charming childish pride. “And archbishops and bishops—” he threw out his hand. “So many I can't remember them all. No-one could. And all the people were standing each side of the road to see me go by and they were roosting in the trees like great fat birds; and they were all cheering like mad. They liked me, I think. It
sounded
as though they liked me. Well, when we got to Chapelle—that's halfway to Paris...”

“I know,” she said softly, “I know...”

“Oh yes, I forgot. All the burghers of Paris came out to meet me; and they all wore doublets of rose red silk and hoods of corncockle blue. And after them rode nine knights—the nine worthies they were called. There was Samson and Alexander and...I forget the rest. Oh yes, there was Charlemagne…”

“You shouldn't forget Charlemagne.”

“No. And I didn't forget, did I? Well, after the nine worthies came the Lords of the Parlement; and after the Parlement Lords there were hundreds and thousands of important people and they were all bowing.”

“But the people,” she said, “the common people.” And remembered suddenly how this child's father had courted them when it had paid him to. “Those who weren't wearing silks of crimson and blue. They can be important too...though sometimes we forget them.”

“I didn't forget them. I couldn't. Because they smell. They all shouted
Noël
and they cheered and I waved my hand and I didn't mind the smell. Then we got to St. Denys and there was a most wonderful thing. There was a great shield over the gate much taller than the tallest man, because—guess why?”

He didn't give her time to guess but chattered on; she could not but be surprised at her silent little son.

“There were real men inside it, real live men—inside the shield! One man stood for the burghers of Paris and one for the Church and one for the University and...I can't remember the rest. And they stood and they didn't blink an eye and it was very excitement-making.

“Well, when we got through the gate and into Paris, was the nicest thing of all. Three girls gave me three crimson hearts; they were pretty girls.

“The first heart was a little box and I opened it; there were two doves inside and they flew away. The second heart had a lot of little birds inside—larks, I think. And I set them free, too, and they flew away singing. The third heart was best of all. It was full of roses and violets. I
was
surprised; because you don't expect roses and violets in cold winter, do you? And I shook them out of the heart and they fell over me and over my Uncle of Bedford and over my Uncle the Cardinal and over my lord Duke of York and we all smelled like the saints in Heaven.”

He stopped short, smiling at all the wonders. She smiled back. Now that they had seen him so beautiful and so good; now that they had crowned him, sworn allegiance, surely now all would be well!

“Then they brought me a canopy and they held it over my head as I rode through Paris. It was blue as the Virgin's robe and all sewn with flower-de-luce. It was very pretty and it kept off the wind.

“There was so much to look at—I can't remember it all; but there was a fountain and it fell into a lake all of wine; and there were three mermaids swimming about in it; they were real mermaids because they had tails. And I hope they didn't get drunk!” He giggled a little. “Oh yes and I remember another thing. In front of the church they'd made a little forest and there was a white fawn in it, a little white fawn. As soon as I got there they unleashed the dogs and I don't think that was kind because the fawn was frightened. But it ran to me and I saved its life. It was a dear little fawn and I wanted to keep it; but my lord Governor said
No
. Crowned Kings don't play with fawns, he said...”He sighed.

“I can't tell you all the things. But I went into my palace—the Louvre you know—and I saw the holy relics. And they let me take them into my very own hands and I said a prayer, holding them you know. Afterwards we had a great feast and then I went to St. Pol...”

“I was born there,” she said softly, remembering how she had played in its gardens, a neglected near-hungry little girl.

“That was where I saw our grandmother and I told you about her. Well, after that I was tired and so we went to St. Vincennes for me to rest.”

“Your father died there.” Her eyes darkened with tears not for Henry dying but because he had neither sent for her nor remembered her.

He nodded. “I went into the room—where he died you know—and I prayed for his soul. I hunted a bit but I don't like hunting; I don't like to see animals hurt. But my lord Governor says it's a kingly sport. We stayed two weeks about and then we went back to Paris for me to be crowned.

“All the streets were crowded and the church was crowded and it smelt of people and wine and incense and you could hardly breathe.

My uncle the Cardinal did the crowning and he sang the mass, too. The Bishop of Paris was angry about that! Then I made the offering of bread-and-wine and I prayed to be a good King. And I saw God, very little, standing on my Uncle Beaufort's hand. And He looked sorry for me. Why should God be sorry for me?”

She shook her head, a little disturbed.

“You think I didn't see him,” he said very quickly, his mouth trembling. “But I did, I tell you, I did, I did...I often do.”

“Yes,” she said, “yes...”

“Perhaps He was sorry because of all the quarrelling in His House. Grown-up people do quarrel a lot! You see the wine was in a great silver cauldron and our priests claimed it for theirs; and the canons of Nôtre Dame said it belonged to them. So my uncle Beaufort said they should have it and then our priests were angry.

“We went back to the Louvre and we had the feast. I sat in the middle of the Table of Marble; it goes right across the middle of the hall...”

“I've seen it.”

“So you have! But you didn't see me there in all my robes.” He chuckled. “And while we were feasting there were all sorts of masques. One of them was Our Lady with a little King crowned by her side—and it was meant to be me. Well, the next day there was a great tournament at St. Pol and when it was over I said Goodbye to our grandmother. She curtseyed right down to the ground; and she sent you her love...but I didn't like her any better.

“The next day I went back to Rouen.”

“Rouen!” she said and asked the question she had not dared to ask. “Did you see anything of the burning?”

“The burning?” And he was crimson.

“The Witch,” she said.

He was white now but still he looked at her wide-eyed—innocence overdone.

“Before you went to Paris. Last spring—have you forgotten? Surely there were not so many witches burnt!” And God grant he had the spirit of his father!

“It was not a witch,” he mumbled and would not look at her. “It was a heretic.”

“The heretic, then.”

He did not answer but sat there eyes cast down. She took his chin in her hand, forced him to look at her.

“I was not brave enough...not good enough,” he said.

“When a deed is done in the King's name, the King must be man enough to witness it,” she said.

He said nothing. He sat there on the low stool looking miserable, guilty.

“And though you burn the body, still you save the soul; you said that yourself, remember?”

He nodded troubled. “So Father Netter says...” he corrected himself, “
used
to say.” His lips trembled remembering the one person who had understood him, the beloved confessor dead in Rouen. “But,” he was a little defiant, “my uncle of Bedford said I should please myself. Though—” he added honest, “my lord Governor was not pleased. But,” and he was glad to have something to offer, “I was at the trial...at least some of the time.”

“What was she like—the Witch?”

“Just a boy. Or rather a girl. But she had short hair, and she was like a boy.” He touched his own meagre chest. “She didn't look wicked; just tired. But—” in spite of himself the truth came bursting out. “I didn't like the trial. It was because of her voice. Every time she spoke my heart began to shake. It wasn't the voice of a bad person; it was like...like the voice of the saints. I hear them and I know. That's why I didn't like the trial; I didn't
like
it....” His voice was thin with hysteria.

“A devil's spell,” she said, comforting.

He nodded, ashamed. “When I'm big I will be better, serve God better. I promise.”

* * *

It was long before she slept. She turned wearily trying to forget Tudor's face drawn in disgust at the thought of a child staring upon agony. But this is no ordinary child, she told herself, told Tudor, this is the
King
. I am afraid for his gentleness, his compassion...Great Henry's son.

But she knew his answer well enough.
Compassion is not weakness, nor does the hard heart signify success.

But, for all that, she remembered the old prophecy and she was afraid; she was very much afraid.

Fallen asleep at last she dreamed of Henry—for the first time in years. .

My son should have been born in Westminster, he said and he wore the old, cold look.

The pains came suddenly and there was no time, she told him. But what does it signify where he was born? What he is, himself, that is the thing.

That is the thing, Henry agreed; and now he looked not angry but sorrowful. The thing in you—the weakness, the not understanding—that is in him, too. It is because of that weakness, because of that not understanding, he was born in Windsor; and, it is because of these things that, in the end, the prophecy will come to pass.

She cried out that it was not true...the child was a saint. But in her heart she knew it was true; that something within herself, something she had passed on to her son, might yet rob him of everything.

Next day Harry gave a masque in her honour. She sat in her rich gown, her lips, her pale cheeks painted; she looked little more than a girl. In this moment she forgot the abandoned child, forgot the nightmare dreaming. Harry bent lovingly towards her, whispered in her ear; they nodded towards each other, smiled.

She looked up to find my lord Governor watching them. In his still face nothing was to be read...but still the child read it and tossed his head in a little swaggering gesture. There was no change in Warwick's face.

She was not surprised, next day, to be given the royal permission to depart. Nor to hear, later, that the King had been taken to task for insubordination.