Wife to Henry V: A Novel (9 page)

She put down her lute.

Surely that was Charles now; she could hear his step the length of two rooms away; a curious step, both halting and light.

Now she must hear about her father, now she must talk of him; And then, when Charles had gone, she must think, think, think about the madman in the dark cell. She wished they would send him right away where she could never see him. She was wicked she knew; a hard heart. But it frightened her to think about him, though he was loving to her when he was well. She wished she could love him in return, love him tenderly as his people did—their poor mad King. One could love a mad King—if he were far enough away. But a mad father! Watching him even when he was well; all the time watching; watching the eye and the mouth...and the hands; hands that had murdered in his frenzy. If Louis of Orléans had been truly her father she would bless her mother to her dying day.

The curtains clattered, were twitched impatiently aside.

As always, she wanted to laugh when she saw Charles. Like all Isabeau's children he had a handsome face; but he was an oddity with his short, thin legs. And he was so vain! The bright, short doublet he affected drew attention to the great knobbly knees. This to be King of France! She made the quick comparison with the godlike Henry.

His kiss fell light and cold upon her cheeks. Sympathy had always been imperfect between them; and now he could not forgive her because she was, he knew, all for her mother; for her mother and for the thief of England.

He waited, inimical, forcing her to the question she was unwilling to ask.

“Our father?” she said at last.

He shrugged; no need to pretend to be kinder than she. “Was ever prince so cursed? Our father mad; our mother bad!”

She had hoped to sound him on their mother's release. If this was the mood, she had best be silent.

“A bad woman,” he said again; he looked left and right, his big handsome head grotesque upon his narrow shoulders. He liked to pretend he went in fear of his life from Isabeau; it was a pretence he still affected, though she was now under lock and key.

“I go in fear of my life,” he said as she had known he would.

“You are ill?” she ignored the absurd suggestion.

“Not I. I was never better. But that isn't to say I may not die any moment. Look!” He unbuttoned the doublet. Light steel protected the narrow chest.

She decided he was foolish. All this playacting to impress her! At fourteen he was old enough to know better.

“By God it's hot,” he said and arranged himself with ridiculous majesty upon a chair.

She went across to the table, poured wine from the jug, held the cup towards him.

He jerked back in alarm. “You, first.”

“You think it's poison?” she asked, joking.

“I don't forget my brothers,” he said.

She was suddenly angry with him for a credulous fool. So he did believe the tale! And more. He actually believed her ready to poison him if she got the chance.

She set the jug down on the table. Let him go thirsty! She looked at him, the poor fool, all cased in his armour. Didn't he know that no armour in the world was proof against his foolishness? Then, seeing the narrow chest, the spindly legs, she felt her anger die. She could only be sorry for him, the poor frightened thing. She poured wine into the cup, took a steady drink; he took the cup, then drank thirstily.

She said, trying to reassure him, “But Louis was always sick; always fainting even as a child.”

“He went to see our mother—and he was well. He rode home—and he died. He died because he was the Dauphin.”

“But our mother was sick herself; couldn't rise from her bed.”

“There were other hands.” He stared at the wine cup. “And John? Our brother John—he was not feeble. Why did John die? He died because he was strong. He was Dauphin and he was strong with the strength of our cousin of Burgundy; all Burgundy's power behind him. And so John died, too...”

He whimpered a little. “And now I am left...the last of all her sons. And she would send me Louis' way, and John's way...if she could. She hates me; she hates all her children—except you. Because you are like her—no heart; no pity; no loyalty. And most of all she loves you because you are Orléans' bastard.”

“And, you?” The words were out; she had not meant to say them.

He began to tremble. Words bubbled with saliva in his throat; he spat them out like vitriol.

“Lies. To bar me from my crown. To put the Englishman in my place, the Englishman for whose bed you long, shameless as you are—shameless as any whore!”

“You are wise in the ways of whores!” She was growing angry again beneath the bitter attack.

“If I die,” he was screaming now with hysteria, “England shall never wear my crown. There are others...others...Make no mistake. But I shan't die, not I; not while my mother rots in prison! And there she shall rot, rot, rot...”

Her anger leapt to his. She saw the grotesque knees a-tremble, and the wine he had forgotten to finish for all his thirst; remembered the steel against his boy's chest and held her peace.

* * *

Catherine was back in the heat and the smells of August in Paris. And still her mother languished in prison; and still her father, when he was well enough, diverted himself in his bed. And still the Armagnacs and the Burgundians spilled each other's blood.

As for herself she was weary of all the mess and muddle. She longed for release as ardently as any princess in an old
conte
. Daydreaming, she saw herself crowned, riding through London, riding beside the hero of Christendom.

And why not? Henry and his armies had reached Caen—no stopping him. And after Caen—what then? Rouen? Paris? Wherever the King of England knocked, gates opened. God's Soldier; with Burgundians and Armagnacs fighting his battles for him! Let Michelle preach about bleeding France; let her preach to her father-in-law and to her husband, first!

She shrugged her shoulders at France bleeding, starving. She painted her face as Isabeau had taught and walked in beauty; Catherine of the royal house of France bred to no loyalties.

* * *

Guillemote came in, as usual breathless and babbling her news.

“Caen. They have taken Caen. Treachery. A new weapon—the flame thrower. Terrible. The King of England himself invented it.

I Soldier of God! Soldier of the devil, I say! Flaming shell. It's against chivalry, against nature, against God.”

“Then you may leave it to God,” Catherine said.

“You may smile, my lady; but it's witchcraft all the same. If they catch him, he'll burn.”

“Let them catch him first. But kings don't burn, girl; only babbling fools like you.”

“I'm not the only one that says so, Madam. This Henry! He's turned his men loose on the countryside—wild beasts, no less.”

“It's the way of war. But, Mistress Know-all, have you heard this? No woman, nor child, nor any priest, however humble, is to be hurt. This same Henry has commanded it.”

“That's his cunning. He dazzles us with a show of mercy; and behind it, as much savagery as you please! Those soldiers of his strike terror into every heart.”

“Our men have women's hearts, so it seems. They had best wear their hair long—unless they wear a tonsure instead. Many do, so I hear; some that never prayed in their lives.” Her nod dismissed Guillemote.

* * *

He had succeeded in puzzling wiser heads than Guillemote's; he had bewildered all France. Well might the King of England take the fox for his device—who knew which way he would jump? Slaughter—that was well understood; but to show mercy? It made the man more strange, more subtle, more to be feared.

“He's clever, that one!” the Dauphin said, young, frightened, sullen. “He cozens God to his side. He spares the priests; and the sound of his prayers drowns the cries of anguish.”

“God is as clever as the King of England.” King Charles plucked at his beard.

“Still he's clever, clever,” the ancient Duke of Berri said fretful, worried. His precious gems, his pictures, had he hidden them in a safe place? It was an effort to turn his mind from his treasures. “Certainly he has won the poor. All that remitting of taxes!” he said. “Now we shall have all Normandy swarming to bend the knee to this new Duke of theirs—self-styled.”

“Not a single gentleman,” the Count of Armagnac began. “Only the poor in spirit...”

“The poor in spirit shall see God,” Charles the King said unexpectedly; and it was clear his own spirit had begun to wander.

“The poor,” the King said and raised troubled eyes. “They are the yeast, the leaven. Soon all France will bend the knee; all, all the finest gentlemen in France. You, our Uncle of Berri; and you, our Cousin of Armagnac; and you, you too, our son...all...all.”

He was laughing a little, dribbling, the tears running down his cheeks as they hurried him away.

* * *

My lord Duke John of Burgundy lay before Corbeil languidly besieging the English within the town. After much delay he had gathered his fighting men—he could do no less with honour. But his honour was accommodating. He would fight for his King—if he must; but he had no mind to make common cause with Armagnacs. Let France bleed, rather! Besides, he had his understanding with England...very secret, very sly.

Now, uncaring whether Corbeil surrendered or not, he waited to see which way the Fox of Lancaster would jump.

Frowning, he considered the Queen's message.

Of all things in the world he had not expected this—from her prison, Isabeau's hand outstretched in friendship. A trap. But why a trap? For freedom she would barter the life of the son who had thrust her where she was; for revenge, her hope of heaven.

He paced backwards, forwards.

The Fearless
they had called him once;
the Laggard
they called him now. It was not undeserved, his new name; in his secret soul he admitted it. He knew his own uncertain mind; knew, too, the unflinching spirit of Isabeau. She had hated him with the full force of her formidable spirit; but hatred could not bring her lover back. Now she needed him; her strong fierce mind recognized it, accepted it.

With Isabeau at his side he would be strong, indeed. The Parisians loved her...at present. When she lay sick last year they had begged her to come to them; she had been carried in from the country through crowds cheering her litter and bowing before her and singing carols as though she were the Queen of Heaven. Her popularity might help to warm up his own. As for the King, by now he had forgotten, most likely, why he had ordered her to prison; all his life he had leaned upon his wife; what more likely then, well again, he would seek her once more? Who had the Queen in his hand had the King, too. And then—finished, the Armagnacs! The Queen in one hand, the King in the other; and, waiting upon his nod, Henry of England.

* * *

Isabeau dressed herself soberly, covered her white bosom and called aloud for Master Laurens de Puy. When the jailer stood before her, her hatred rose so that she could have spat full in his lout's face. She gave him, instead, a sweet, a most devout glance.

“The feast of All Souls,” she said, very humble. “A Christian must hear the blessed mass.”

“You can hear masses and to spare,” he told her, insolent. “I will send Madam the Queen's chaplain.”

“We have no chaplain,” she reminded him gently. “Our chaplain is in Paris. So,” she was grave, willing to make the best of it, “we will hear mass at Marmoutier.” She sent him a sideways glance; the slight movement uncovered a glimpse of the most beautiful bosom in France. “You may accompany me,” she said.

He said nothing, his eye on the gleaming flesh.

“My body you may imprison,” she said and the cloak fell away a little further, “do with it what you will!” And what, he wondered, did she mean by that? “But my soul,” she turned her lovely eyes full on him, “my soul belongs to God.” And she had the holy look of an angel...but an angel that promises.

“It is not allowed,” he told her, all itching flesh.

“Who does not allow?” she asked gently. “Today my lord King is sick and knows not what he does. But tomorrow—tomorrow he will be well again. Will it help you to have oppressed me so? Besides—” she sent him that smile of hers that could still make men tremble, “what harm if we pray together. Call what men you will. I will look to my soul; you to my body.”

Again, again, the veiled promise of her body. And what she said about the King was truth. And more, she had been the King's brain, the King's tongue, the King's hand...might well be again.

“As the Queen wills,” de Puy said. And who knew whether, having assoiled herself, she might not be ready for a little sinning? Her wanton blood all Christendom knew. She had been deprived for months now...and he was a man well-made. The eyes of women told him so; her own eyes, now, were telling him so.

“As the Queen wills,” he said again and sent her his sly smile.

* * *

Their horses' hooves stirred the early morning dust. De Puy kept at the Queen's side; a little before, John Torel; a little behind, John Petit. Isabeau rode quietly, as though her heart were not beating to madness beneath the sober gown. In the little square at Marmoutier they dismounted; de Puy tied up the horses. She passed between her jailers into the church.

She knelt and made her prayer to Our Lady for today's success. She looked sideways at de Puy through her long fingers and prayed with a steady mind for his especial destruction. Of all men, she hated him most. He never bent the knee, the low lout, nor raised his hand to his hood addressing her; nor served her with any courtesy; her comings and goings were subject to his command. All that her proud spirit might have borne—queens before now had submitted to the rudeness of low fellows. But his latest glances—desire not decently hidden, the certainty that he had but to wink himself into the Queen's bed...bed of
Monsieur
her dead love—those things could never be forgiven.

She was hearing mass, all gentle obedience, her mind it would seem upon nothing but heaven, when de Puy left his station at the door, came quickly towards her.

“Madam,” he said, “Madam.” He was afraid: she could see how he swallowed in his throat. “To horse. At once. There are men upon the road. Burgundians, as I think.”