Wife to Henry V: A Novel (7 page)

But it was gone now, the pain and the purging. He was just tired...tired.

He was glad now his mother wasn't here. Always she had beaten him down with whip and tongue, forever talking of duty—she, whose name was a byword! He could have borne it all had he believed her honest. But he hadn't, he hadn't. She was cruel. She had poisoned his life with her unkindness.

Tears burst through his closed eyes, rolled down his cold cheeks. “Poisoned,” he muttered, “poisoned...”

The holy Father turned his head.

...He didn't want the holy Father; he wanted his own father, his real father; his father was kind. But his father was ill; he was always ill. A bad woman and a mad man...And why was he weeping? For himself? For his father? For France, for France, perhaps?

He was tired...tired; and it was worse than any pain. He was sinking through the bed and through the floor and into the darkness, down...down.

Margaret...Margaret
. He called her name forgetting he had long discarded her.

Mother...mother
. He began to call, not because he wanted her but because the sound of the word comforted him.

Mother...mother
. And it was dark, dark.

Mother...mother
. His head fell back.

Louis the child of prayers and hopes dying alone in his nineteenth year; alone and in fear of the dark.

Henry was riding through London—his London. Today it was not a mortal city; the rare November sunshine streamed upon saints, upon white virgins; streamed upon high golden towers and gilt angels as though London were Paradise itself.

It was wonderful and he thanked the people for their love. But the cost! He would have preferred it in the shape of coin to pay for his wars. Did they think all was won? Didn't they understand it would take more than Harfleur, more than Agincourt, even, to win France?

He halted his horse. A troop of kings had issued from a pavilion, stood bowing before him. They were clad in turbans and loose robes—kings of the East. They let loose a flock of white birds; the birds flew away singing and the kings sang, too.
Sing unto the Lord for He has done marvellous things
. He looked at their fine silk of Damascus, at the gold leaf spread thick upon their pavilion. What all this cost he should be spending upon his wars!

Money, money. He needed more ships, more arms, more men; and he was in arrears with his payments already. Money, money. Where was he to get it? Parliament? It might be easier now that he had returned trailing his glory; easier—but not easy. Money. The merchant princes knew how to drive a bargain—it was their trade. But the Holy Church knew how to drive a harder one with God's Soldier. And the rich churchmen who drove their own private bargains were the hardest of all.

Money, money.

He rode on smiling, nodding, gracious.

He must get it from friend and foe alike.

He was aware of Johanne riding behind him.

She had lost something of her beauty, he had noticed it that first moment he had seen her again, noticed the lines scored upon the white forehead. Had they come, he had wondered pricked by jealousy, with grief for Arthur her son, now his prisoner? Or had they come for himself—fear because of that terrible march from Harfleur, fear of the trap of Agincourt? Or had they been there all the time and he hadn't noticed them? He had, he supposed, been a little in love with her. Could it be that having seen the picture of Catherine in her pretty youth, the picture sly Isabeau had sent, he had noticed Johanne's wrinkles at last?

He had not known. But it had flashed through him that the great jewelled S. chain she wore was too grand for a widow.

He had put the thought from him. One did not despoil a widow—and his father's widow at that! Besides, he had already cut her revenues.

But now riding in the midst of this costly splendour, more than ever conscious of his desperate need for money, the thought was at him again.

She was rich; richer than she had any need. Lands and castles north and east, south and west—from Cornwall to Wiltshire, from Wales to Essex; to say nothing of the duchy of Lancaster his father had given her—the duchy that should be his! Yes, she had jewels and revenues above any Queen Dowager, she who had come to his father penniless!

He tried again to put the thought from him, riding kingly through his city. She had, he reminded himself, been kind to him in all her dealings, generous with time, with trouble...

...But not with money.

The thought would not be driven away. She had struck many a sly bargain with him, slipping in her innocent request in the midst of a loving conversation, turning a small concession into a monopoly. The presents she had made him were ludicrous. For his crowning, two panniers of Breton lampreys! He had been touched at the time, grateful for her kind thought in the midst of her grief at his father's death. He had forgotten she had sent no other gift.

But now he remembered.

He hardly recognized St. Paul's churchyard, all gilt towers and flying pennants. The gate had been fitted with niches and in each stood a pretty girl with a cup of gold from which she lightly blew gold leaf towards him.

Money, money!

Dismounting, receiving the salute of his eighteen bishops, saluting them in turn, he put his troubles from his mind. The moment belonged to God.

The
Te Deum
rose, swelled. He knelt and prayed; kissed the relic, made his offering.

It was only when he was out in the street once more, riding along the Strand to Westminster that he remembered Johanne again and her meanness.

And here she was riding beside him, smiling and nodding and waving a hand, pretending to herself that the English liked her, foreigner though she was. Well, there'd be no more nonsense from her! She should pay back some of what she and her foreigners had stolen; she should pay!

Johanne, troubled by the darkness of his face when all should have been joyous, sent a dazzling smile to her
dearest son
.

He returned the smile to his
dearest mother
.

* * *

“No,” Johanne said, “no! He has cut my revenues enough...enough. The King cannot expect it!”

“And yet he does expect it,” Henry Beaufort, the rich bishop who was Chancellor, too, smiled. He held out a long, jewelled hand. “Madam, be advised. All Christendom knows you are wise.”

She shrugged the compliment away.

He nodded. “Wise enough, for instance, to rejoice for Agincourt—though your son Arthur is taken and your daughter widowed. Wise enough to know that one does not cross the King with impunity.”

She knew he spoke good common sense. But the money; the dear, the precious money. She could not forget the penury of her youth; could not give her gold as freely as she gave her heart. Henry's father had understood that; he had dowered her richly.

“Wise?” she said. “I have not been wise. I have given overmuch already; given and given again.”

“That was wise,” he told her. “What is not given may well be taken.”

“It
has
been taken.”

He ignored her.

“And what was given,” he said, smooth, “was, it seems, not enough.”

“When will it be enough? And what will be left for my old age?”

“There may be...no old age.”

“You hint?” Johanne said.

“I hint nothing...except there are women who never grow old.” He bowed. And it might have been a compliment. “Be advised, Madam,” he said again. And the words took something from his smile.

When he had bowed himself out, she paced, restless.

What had Beaufort meant about not growing old? A threat? It looked like it. He had reminded her—and truly—that Henry was not to be crossed. But Henry was her
dearest son
. She had nothing to fear from him, nothing.

Her ruling passion caught her, seized her, made nothing of her shrewdness, her wisdom.

She would not part with her money.

* * *

Henry was a stallion curbed. England rejoiced in his glory—but was not minded to pay for it. He offered more and more glory in return for a capful of gold, but still his men went unpaid. He did not know which way to turn. His own resources he had mortgaged to the last jewel; even the Harry Crown redeemed at long last from the Lord Mayor of London had been pawned again to his Uncle Beaufort. That would mean the rich bishop in camp again, watching all comings and goings, anxious for his precious gold. And Johanne, rich Johanne, his
dearest mother
, was obdurate. He could not think of her without anger.

He attended, not hopefully, the opening of Parliament. Beaufort preached on the text
God hath opened for you the way
. “Now is our time to help, to lend to the Lord of Hosts Who has helped our King...”

It was moving, Henry thought, sardonic. Beaufort himself was moved, forgetting, no doubt, the good security he had taken on his loans. There was Parliament nodding and smiling; but what would it do? Not much he feared; money was short and who knew how long glory would last?

He was right. The money voted was not generous. Well, money or not, he was going on with his preparations. God would open the way for His Soldier.

* * *

The Emperor Sigismund had arrived in London—a poor, shabby man for so great a title; he had come at the Pope's request to preach peace.

“Peace!” Henry said. “Peace! I claim nothing but my lawful rights and everywhere the Armagnacs harry my men. They have closed up the Seine and my garrison is starving—Harfleur, my Harfleur that I won with English blood. You talk of peace while my English bleed and starve!”

Sigismund cast an eye upon the steel-cold young man and talked no more of peace. He collected the precious gifts Henry had given him, and, poor man, gave in return his greatest treasure, the authentic heart of St. George.

* * *

“The King of England collects his fleet,” King Charles said, mumbling in his beard, biting at his beard. “Carracks and barges and ballingers...and his dockyards turning out ships without number.”

“Little, little ships,” Isabeau said as one comforts a child, holding her spaced fingers to show how small. “He must be hard put to itl For what are ballingers but merchantships with a few guns! As for the famous carracks...”

“The
Jesus
and the
Grâce Dieu
” his voice dropped in awe. “And the
Trinity
and the
Holy Ghost
. How can we hope to stand against such godly ships?”

“God is not deceived. He can take care of such tricks,” she said, brisk.

“But there is worse, far worse. Have you heard?” He stopped, looked about him, whispered with careful articulation, “He has the heart of St. George—the true heart, the very heart.”

“We have a more potent heart,” Isabeau said smiling still. “The heart of our daughter. When did a dead man's heart weigh against the heart of a living woman—if she is pretty enough.”

“You blaspheme. And you talk in riddles—hard riddles.” He was growing fretful. “The heart of St. George, the heart of England. Sigismund should not have done that, Sigismund is our friend.”

“It is not true, believe it. Would a friend play so vile a trick?” And how long, she wondered, could a woman endure to be tied to this...this thing? “We shall keep our France, every yard. And maybe we shall win England, too; all England. That would be fine, you would like that!” she said, smiling coaxing.

“The heart,” he said again, “the heart of St. George. And where are our own saints, tell me that!” Sickness was driving away the warm colour, he had the waxen look of a corpse. “It was mad to give the heart to him. The Emperor is mad. And you are mad. And the whole world is mad, mad, mad...” His eyes were pin-pointed with anger, with fear. He was dribbling upon his beard; his fingers crooked, plucked and plucked again.

Isabeau pulled upon the bell.

When they had dragged the King away she turned, humming, towards her chamber—and to pleasanter company.

* * *

Sa belle fille aux blons loriaulx,

Et elle a sy fresche couleur

Qu'avoir doilt ami de valeur,

Et fu belle que fleur de may...

sang Catherine. The little song they had made for her went well with the lute. How would it go in English? She was glad they had made her learn English when she was a child and lazy. She knew that now she was sixteen and grown-up.

...
His beautiful daughter
...She frowned; she was not minded to drag her father into this; she tried again.
The pretty young lass
...Too simple! She walked about the room, humming, trying out the words. At last she had it!

The charming princess all crowned with gold,

Her colour as fresh as the spring I am told.

A lusty lover be hers I pray,

For she is as fair as flower-of-may.

She picked up the lute, complacently watching the young, white arm moving across the strings.

Outside Isabeau listened, her hand on the hasp. What sort of girl was this Catherine to sing so lightly and her brother new-dead—John returned to take Louis' place? Two sons...two Dauphins, dead...dead.

Her face twisted.

Young John. She hadn't seen him since he left, a little boy for Holland, until she'd looked upon him dying at Compiègne. Abscess of the ear—that was Burgundy's tale. Poisoned by Burgundy himself, some said, because he wouldn't jump to the crack of the whip, wouldn't sell his country to the English. Who would have thought little John had so much courage? Poisoned by his mother—they said that, too, spitting out again the old lying wickedness.
John, oh John…

She stood biting upon her lips. Well, youth is short enough, God knows. Let the girl sing while she could I She lifted the hasp.

In spite of herself irritation took her; the girl was so heartless, so careless, so fresh and so young—irritation and perhaps a little jealousy.

“Your father is sick again and I must think for all. Think and think again until my head reels. All the time weighing, all the time pondering, balancing this against that. Who is the safer ally? Burgundy's a sly snake and no friend of mine; but he's strong, he's strong. The Armagnacs are strong too, in the south; but Paris hates them. And besides, they favour young Charles...”