Wife to Henry V: A Novel (6 page)

Catherine shrugged. “He's a fool. The tennis balls—what possessed him? So small, so stupid, so deadly an insult!”

“Who knows the truth of that? It's not unlike Louis to make bad worse with dangerous jokes. And yet it's all a tale, or so I think, put about by England. But Louis plays their game—one moment bragging of his cleverness, and the next, flat denial. Well, tennis balls or not, blood will flow for it.” She was silent, staring into the thin flames of the brazier. “But still—” and now she was brisk again. “Harfleur isn't the end. It's only the beginning. Harfleur is taken—what then? He'll never hold it. Too many dead; and more, sick. And there's no food; and they march in enemy country. Even his English, his own English, implore him to return. And what can he do but go home?”

“The lion doesn't turn tail.”

“He may be taken in the net. Oh Catherine, my girl, my girl! The blood in you fights against your dearest blood. You love the man...knowing nothing of men. You pray for his success, oh yes you do, I know you well. Your happiness lies with England—or so you think, won by a pretty phrase in a letter. Well, words are cheap enough! It isn't you he wants, it's the crown; he'd take any woman who would help him to it. The crown...the Valois crown. Could you share it thinking of Louis?”

“He'd be happier without it. Let him but wench by day and sing by night!”

“You have a hard heart once it's set. Don't think to match it against this Henry. No man moves him against his will; and no woman, neither—certainly no green girl.” She looked at Catherine so young, so hard...so vulnerable. “Take care,” she said and sent the girl an almost pitying look.

* * *

Henry was on the march for Calais. He would not turn for any man's advising; not even for Arundel sick of dysentery, like many more. Arundel his captain and his friend; thirty-four and dying.

“Home, home,” Arundel kept saying. And on his fainting breath the words were a longing and a lament. “France is not for you—not this time.”

“France is for me—this and every time. How should I turn back now? What would they think of me in France which is mine? How cheap would they hold me in England...”
which I have not yet won
.

“So few men,” Arundel said, “so many sick. And it's cold...cold.” He shivered so that the pallet shook beneath his wasted frame.

But it was not only the sickness that shook him, Henry knew it well enough. It was winter breathing its icy breath too soon. He took the cloak from his shoulders and threw it over the sick man; bent to warm his hands over the sulky brazier.

...Winter closing down on an enemy country and I, with my sick men on the march. Am I wrong, obstinate with pride? But there is no choice...no choice; turning back I shame myself in the eyes of Christendom...

He looked again at Arundel. The face was grey, Arundel's warm and friendly face. To die in the heat of battle is an easy death, the King thought; to die slowly of this filth, another. He sent his pity for the sick man packing. Keep pity for myself. England will have his bones. But I? If I may not have France, then let France have me—bones and all! He bent over the sick man, spoke, forcing his words through the indifference of death. “Calais. I will take it. I have sworn it.” And it was almost as though he made a pact with the dying man.

* * *

“This Henry!” Isabeau said tight-lipped. “Truly France will have his bones—as he has sworn. For certainly he will not get through to Calais. And don't tell me again about Harfleur! That was unexpected, how could we send relief? But Calais; Calais is different. Now we know the danger; now we have time; now we shall act together, all, all of us. Well, girl, speak! Have you lost your tongue?”

“Burgundian and Armagnac fighting side-by-side! We have yet to see it,” Catherine said.

“We shall see it. Burgundy's a sly snake but it wouldn’t pay him to bite us in the heel, not just now. No, my girl, this time we'll act together And let the Englishman look out with his handful of men and no food; with bridges broken all the way; and arrows behind each tree waiting to find their mark.” Catherine said nothing.

“You think he will get through,” Isabeau said, but you’re wrong. You pray he will get through—and you're even more wrong. How many times must I warn you against this hero of yours, this hypocrite? He walks barefoot through Harfleur to offer thanks to God- and while he prays his brothers hurry from house to house to hang those who haven't made a full declaration of their property. He prays, oh yes he prays; but does he himself heed the prayer of the helpless and the innocent?”

Catherine said, slowly, “Who would? Would Burgundy? Would my brother?”

“Your Henry is God's Soldier—so he tells us. Well, what does he do, this Soldier of God. He turns the helpless out into the open countryside.” Isabeau held her hands nearer to the comfort of the fire. “Women and children, and the old and the feeble—and nothing but the poor rags they stand up in. Just like any other soldier!”

“Not like any other soldier,” Catherine said. “They were fed on the way; bread and cheese, yes and wine, too. And no woman is to be harmed, nor any priest.”

“Oh he's a great one, a hero!” Isabeau said. “He sends a message to your brother offering to settle the matter by single combat!”

“And Louis refused,” Catherine said contemptuous.

“Of course he refused. D'you think I'd let him accept? A boy who spits blood at the slightest exertion and that man ten years older, hard as nails and pickled in blood?”

“A man,” Catherine said softly.

“A man, a man!” Isabeau lost her temper. “A man—and that's all. It would take a god to break through to Calais.”

“Yet he will break through,” Catherine said; but she did not say it aloud.

He had got through.
Better for France, Isabeau thought, if they had let him through, pretended the army had not found him. Instead they had forced the lion to turn at Agincourt. With his handful of men, with the dysentery and the hunger, the lion had turned. And the chivalry of France was broken.

And now what? Her shrewd brain went unhurried to work.

Her husband was sick; with the disaster at Agincourt madness was on him again. And what courage Louis had—she had seen it crumble and break in his face the day she had forced him to refuse the duel. He, too, looked a sick man.

The cool, unloving brain assessed him.

In bad condition; worn by his lecheries, wounded in his vanity and in his courage. Any slight sickness might carry him off. Better for France that way; better, maybe, for himself—he was too like his father.

But then, John? Her second son might be even worse for France; he was completely under Burgundy's influence—Burgundy who hadn't so much as shown his face at Agincourt; neither he nor his son, Michelle's husband. John and Louis, feeble, both. Louis, at least, she might hope to sway, watch the event, play party against party. But John—married to Burgundy's niece, educated by Burgundy's sister—one could do nothing with John!

Oh but she was tired of the plotting and the planning; tired of playing Queen and King, too. A woman's power should come from the game of love, not from politics. But there was no one else, no one.

* * *

He had got through.
The joybells were ringing the length and breadth of England, ringing for Agincourt. Queen Johanne heard them sleeping and waking. But Johanne must hide her grief.

Though her son had been taken at Agincourt—Arthur born of her body, prisoner in the hands of her
dearest son
Henry; though her young daughter was widowed and her best and dearest slain, she must give no sign; queens must hide their grief. So she would ride in the great procession, offer her thanks at St. Paul's, speak her words of praise, of joy, lest some mischief-maker, unforgiving of her foreign blood, inform the King. She must not offend her
dearest son
. She must forever bolster that vanity of which God knew he had enough and to spare. Oh, he could play humble but she knew him, she knew him!

The women tired her hair, set the head-dress and the flowing veil; put about her neck the great jewelled chain...and all the time she smiled.

* * *

He had got through
. By God's grace and his own courage he had got through. They had broken the crown upon his head, cloven it to the helmet beneath. Very well, he would set the crown of France in its place. Let them look to it!

He sat studying the names of the slain at Agincourt; the names of the prisoners their ransoms already estimated. The table was littered with his lists. He looked across at Charles of Orléans sitting dejected.

So this was the fellow who had married the young Isabella; who had climbed to his poet's glory lamenting her death...and had married again as soon as might be! He was glad Charles was alive; glad to hold him in the strength of his hand. A miracle Charles was not dead—a sign from God to His Soldier. He had seen, with his own eyes, his men drag the body from the pile of the dead and begin to strip it before throwing it into the great grave where Frenchmen lay higgledy-piggledy. And then he had heard it, the long-drawn sigh of the spirit lamenting its return. He had commanded the men to stop; they would have gone on with the work, thrown the living to lie among the dead, had they had their way.

And now Charles sat in the royal tent, his face turned away, refusing to eat, willing himself to die.

“Cheer yourself, man,” and he had feared Charles would die, indeed. “It's better to be alive than dead!” So he said, knowing as well as Charles that it is better to be dead though your body lie naked to the wolves, than to languish in a strange land.

He sent Charles a friendly smile; Charles did not return it, knowing that beneath the friendly face the cold mind watched to squeeze every drop of advantage from the living and the dead.

“There is wealth and to spare here!” Henry slapped upon the papers and saw how Charles brightened at the mere thought of ransom. But there would be no ransom for him—now or ever. Charles stood too near the throne. Let him cool his ardent blood in prison; Isabella lay in a colder place.

Charles, watching still, knew his fate.

“You should have left me to die,” he said.

Henry lifted an eye from his lists. “What's wrong with living? England's a fair place. And a peaceful one. You may write your rhymes to your heart's content.” He was spiteful, a little, remembering Orléans' lament for Isabella—
The Obsequies for Madame
; remembering, again, how soon Orléans had taken a new wife. “And,” he was smooth above his spite, “the ladies of England are kind.”

Charles said nothing. Henry could see how bitterness choked him. But it would not last long. Henry knew his sort! The poet's alchemy would transmute bitterness into the sweetness of song.

* * *

He had got through
. Catherine sat in her bower and thought her thoughts. To whom could she speak? Not to her father wild with the fear that drove its iron wedge through his poor brain. Not to her mother sick in her bed, plotting and planning with fever-bright eyes. Certainly not to Louis...dying they said.
Poisoned by his mother
—Burgundy's wicked tongue wagging.
Poisoned by Burgundy
—that was yet another tale. Well, they might be right there! But...dying; poor, silly, idle Louis!

She would have liked to see him before he died, say she was sorry for laughing at him. But greater than her desire to comfort was her fear of the dying.

Her father, mad; her mother sick; her brother dying. But still Catherine could pluck upon the lute. A hard winter and food at famine prices. But still she could sing as she plucked. Why not? The blood ran warm in her veins; there were furs for her bed; and if food was scarce in Paris there was still enough for the lady Catherine. She was the pawn who might become Queen...who would become Queen.

These days, time heavy on her hands, she practised with passion the trick of willing herself to beauty; noted the charming carriage of the head; the brilliance of the eye through its darkened curtain of lashes; the carnation colour; the proud, sweet curve of the mouth-it was a curve she had cultivated these last few months.

The pawn who would be Queen. The wheel turns, Michelle had said. Turn wheel, turn.

* * *

He had won through.
Louis turned his fleshly body in the bed, muttering, mumbling. Agincourt had been lost; but he no longer knew it. Soon he would die; but he did not know that either. He only knew that he was tired and cold; and that more than anything he was frightened. Frightened—of what? He did not know. He wanted to speak, to tell someone; the thoughts ran in his head.

...Ever since he was a child he had been afraid; afraid because he couldn't sit a horse without his blood turning to water; couldn't even ride in a litter without the most deadly fatigue; sometimes he fainted. His mother hated him for it, the big woman strong as a horse. She was glad to humiliate him so that the others laughed at him—Michelle and Catherine, in spite of the duty they owed him; yes, and even the little Charles. No wonder a man sought pleasure where he could find it. And if the arms were those of light women, they were kind arms. The worst wrong they had done him was marrying him to Margaret. Not that she was a bad sort of girl. But plain...a young owl with her pale round face and her big eyes. A man needed to rest his eyes on beauty; feel beauty in his arms. But for all that he'd wanted to be kind to her. A man needs to be kind for his soul’s sake. But he couldn't forget she was Burgundy's spawn. It was like having Burgundy in your bed. Burgundy in your bed! He laughed at that. The priest at his bedside looked up from his missal.

“Confess...Father! I slept...with...Burgundy.”

The priest wasn't shocked. He didn't understand. He thought it was the girl you'd meant, not the old man himself. Well it didn't matter...nothing mattered.

His dying mind led him back again to his dreaming.

He came to himself in the brief December daylight. It was grey in the room; no warmth; no nicker of fire. Alone. Except for the priest asleep in his chair.

Why had they left him alone?

His mother was ill—he remembered now. He had ridden over to see her. He'd been tired as he always was and she'd given him a cup of wine. Afterwards, when he'd got home, he'd spat blood. It hadn't frightened him—nothing new in that! But then it had begun, the agony in his belly, the vomiting, the dreadful purging. That
had
frightened him; that was new.