Crown in Candlelight (3 page)

The stable was one of the warmest places in the palace precincts. Low strips of beam crossed its vault; straw and hay were piled in drifts. There was the rustle of feeding horses. Odette bent to the youth who slept half-buried in hay.

‘Gaspard!’

He stretched, groaning, knuckled his eyes.

She sank to sit beside him, warning him with a pressure of her hand. His eyes were a dim spark in the gloom. He was her bastard brother, and the horsekeeper, often unpaid, resigned like herself to wait for better days. He could be trusted.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘The King has recovered.’ He sat up sharply. A horse, startled, whickered through a mouthful of hay.

‘What time is it? Is that she-wolf still here?’

‘Isn’t that her horse, stupid? It’s late. They’re talking in the Hall. Be soft, the noise carries. I’ve often heard you from above, singing and swearing.’

‘Is he really well again?’

‘He is very fatigued,’ said Odette quietly. ‘He had me find him food, and a clean bedgown. But he’s himself again.’

‘So now … Gaspard stood up, drew Odette to her feet. ‘He will confront her, demand back the jewels, money, honours she’s drained off … thank God. I’ll go to him. I’ve stayed obedient, without a sou …’

‘Wait.’ She disengaged her hands. ‘It’s not over yet. He’s very weak, capable of little, vengeance or anything else. But they are warned and afraid, and about to take action.’

She had stood for an hour at the lowest curve of the stairs leading to the Hall. She had heard Isabeau cursing everyone, the ragged pages, her brother of Bavaria and Louis of Orléans, in a drunken fury like the first autumn wind battering the walls and spinning the bodies on Montfaucon gibbet. The three children, sick with sleep, had been brought from their beds. Louis had kicked his uncle of Orléans on the shins, earning himself a smack across the cheek.

‘They plan to abduct the children, and take the treasure from the Louvre Palace. Listen well. Ride to the Duke of Burgundy’s emissary. He lies at the Palais.’

‘Jean sans Peur’s man?’

‘Yes. Tell him they plan to take the children, if not tonight, tomorrow for sure.’

‘Where?’ he asked. ‘To Tours?’ For Isabeau had a court of her own there, a Babylon of pleasure and plots.

‘To Milan.’

‘Milan!’

‘Ask no more.’ She was impatient. ‘Ride now. I’ve promised the earth to the gateward, he’ll let you through.’

‘And what shall I ride, dear sister?’ he mocked.

‘Take a horse, any horse.’ She pointed to a tall bulk placidly feeding. ‘Louis of Bavaria rode in on that … take it.’

‘And be hanged.’

‘It’s a risk. Take it.’

He peered at her. ‘Do the children mean so much to you that you risk your own brother’s life?’

‘I don’t love them. They came from the Queen, that murdering bitch. But I love their father … Name of God! Why these questions? By now you should be kneeling before Burgundy’s man.’

‘I’ll go.’ Lifting down a saddle, he said: ‘I’ll need good payment.’

Odette sighed. She unclasped the amber necklet.

‘You are as greedy as an Englishman. Sell this to the Jew on the Grand Pont. Do your work first.’

He led the saddled horse to the door.

‘One more thing: leave word for Madame at the convent at Poissy.’

‘Madame?’

‘You grow more imbecile daily. The Princess Isabelle is
always
called ‘Madame’ since she was Queen of England, and has captured the heart of Orléans’s son. All his verses are written to ‘Madame’.’

Gaspard opened the door. The rising wind hurled a crowd of leaves across the yard.

‘Not one more word. Ride this instant.’

The horse’s hooves sounded very loud across the cobbles. Odette’s heart was racing, the wind moaned in wonder at her rashness.

As the royal party crossed the square towards the Porte St Antoine, men were taking down the corpses from the gibbet. They laid the cadavers on the ground and with axes proceeded to dismember them. Heads and limbs would be spiked on the twelve gates of Paris. Katherine peeped out through the window of the moving
charrette
. She saw a severed head swinging in a butcher’s casual grip. She thought vaguely: St Denis! The small Dauphin Louis gave a raucous shriek.

‘It’s the stableman! He was my friend!’ He began to leap about in the confined space where the three children were cramped by a vast jewel-coffer brought by Isabeau from the Tour du Louvre. The carriage swayed as he jumped about, and the Queen, riding a dark stallion, looked down angrily.

‘My son needs discipline,’ she said to the Duke of Orléans who rode with her. He was looking rather aghast. The arbitrary execution of Gaspard, apprehended in the early dawn, had increased both his respect for Isabeau and his trepidation.

‘You were hasty, my lady. I would like to have learned where that knave had been, riding your brother’s horse.’

Isabeau’s beauty showed dark against the silvery mass of the Célestins church. She looked at her best in the morning, before the day’s wine had flushed her and clouded her eyes.

‘He offended,’ she said simply. ‘Had it been you, I would have done the same.’

And by St Marie, you would, he thought ruefully. You’re a despot as dreaded as any barbarian. They rode through the portal of St Antoine. Although the wind had dropped a little, the sky was dark as armour, and above birds wheeled, thrown up like chaff from a hopper. He felt himself likewise tossed and urged. He must go where Isabeau blew him. He shuddered, feeling pressed by danger. There had been genuine sanity in that one look from King Charles’s eyes. He thought: my only wish is to live secure with Isabeau in Milan, where at last she will surely grant me her favours, long withheld. He looked at the brilliant ruthless face. Isabeau, my incubus, my storm.

Katherine had cut her foot on the clasp of the heavy coffer. Beads of blood ran down. Leaning wearily against Michelle, she had no idea where they were all going. In her mouth was the accustomed taste of fear. A cup of spiced wine had been forced on her at daybreak by the Queen. It was twenty hours since she had had solid nourishment. Her vision was blurred, her bones seemed disjointed, as if there was not enough flesh to hold them in place, and she was very cold.

Louis of Bavaria rode behind the others and six mounted armed men brought up the rear, weighed down by paniers of gold and more jewels. Colard de Laon rode with them, his face worried and his pack filled with priceless paintings.

‘My lord.’ Isabeau turned her head, with its purple veil, towards Orléans. ‘We shall ride by Melun and make for Sens.’ She turned her horse’s head east of the Seine.

‘I would have thought it better to go by river.’

‘Too slow. I’d rather risk an ambush.’ She yelped with laughter. ‘And who will ambush us? My Bayard is fleet!’ She spurred, the horse sprang forward. ‘Prick your old nag, brother-in-law.’

He said as they rode: ‘Tell me, my queen, of your design for Isabelle. I’m anxious to know.’ He. tried to disguise his anxiety. His own son Charles’s love for the princess was a thorn in Isabeau’s flesh. The Queen gave him a malicious look and pinched his thigh, as if their sexes were reversed.

‘She will marry Henry of Lancaster’s son, the Prince of Wales. I will see some recompense for the dowry she left behind when King Richard died. Twenty thousand crowns should see her safe on England’s throne again.’

‘She’ll not hear of it. She is full of hate.’

‘Indeed!’ The Queen laughed, to cover annoyance. ‘Be this so, England shall buy another of my daughters. Michelle or Katherine shall marry the Prince.’

‘What does the King think about this?’

‘Since when was he capable of thought?’ she sneered. ‘He was not against the match, the last time he was coherent. And Henry of Lancaster, they say, is leprous and has few years left. His son will soon be king.’

They rode fast. The road to Melun across a plain gave way to uplands on either side. There were vineyards, terraces of leaves browning in the fall, the tendrils stripped of all but the most wizened grapes. Looking out, jolted and sick, Katherine could see her mother’s foot and the sprayed blood from the stallion’s spurred hide, mirroring the red drops on her own foot. They skirted the walls of Melun and entered the county of Blois where to the south-east rose the hills of Troyes and church spires like swords against the heavy sky. Katherine dozed, waking to a raging thirst and the sound of water. They had come to a rickety bridge where the Seine, swollen by recent rain, whirled to its confluence with the Yonne. Her mouth was parched; her bladder pressed agonizingly. The Queen, like one without human need, had not drawn rein for hours.

‘I dare not ask her to stop,’ muttered Michelle. ‘Louis …’

The Dauphin pushed his fingers through the window. He touched the leg of Orléans who rode close to the carriage.

‘Uncle,’ he said with hatred, ‘my sisters are thirsty.’

A flask was slid through to them. Katherine sucked at it, choked, cried. Wine again. The carriages swayed on to the bridge, she was pitched about, and involuntarily voided her bladder. They were over the river safely, although Colard de Laon’s horse almost slipped on the far bank. Approaching the Archbishopric of Sens, their pace was slowed by close forest. Ahead, rearing oak-clad, were the hills of Burgundy. The Duke of Orléans squinted uneasily and Isabeau laughed.

‘Not to fear, sweet lord, Jean sans Peur is far from home. And who are we but a parcel of poor merchants?’

He looked back at the paniers of gold and tried to smile. A huge drop of rain splashed his head, trickling over the edge of his chaperon, and running down his nose. What a journey! He had changed horses twice already and the third was almost done. About ten miles from Sens Isabeau impatiently ordered the spent mounts to be abandoned, and he watched his favourite mare dragging off wearily into the forest with Louis of Bavaria’s horse which Gaspard had been hanged for riding. More rain fell. He looked into the carriage. Katherine and Michelle sat bunched together frozenly and the Dauphin, pale, was swearing to himself like an old trooper.

‘For God’s love, highness!’ His own voice startled him. ‘The children must rest. We’ll have them sick before Milan.’

She looked at him coldly. ‘We shall ride through the night.’

The sky opened. Ahead in a forest-choked ravine lay the town of Tonnerre, celebrated for its storms. The surrounding hills caught the tempest and boiled it in the valley. Lightning glared and thunder bounced off the uplands. Louis of Bavaria rode up.

‘We must shelter,’ he yelled over the tumult. ‘This is madness.’

Isabeau shouted: ‘We’ll rest an hour at Sens. Then on to Italy.’

Orléans said: ‘No, my queen.’ She turned to him, haloed by storm. ‘You yourself will fall ill, and you are our all, our might, our mother.’ (Likewise mother to those wretched brats, he thought, surprising himself with compassion.) ‘Let’s rest the night at Sens.’

‘If we don’t the horses will founder.’ Louis of Bavaria spat rain from his lips.

‘Name of God! Very well.’ She set off at a manic pace, through the spearing water and light and thunder. The gates of Sens were closed. By now a premature night was lit by snakes of lightning and washed by cold rain that beat down the vines and shattered on the trees in the gorge. From Tonnerre the storm lashed back; lightning jumped the miles. The warden had covered fire and gone to bed, and nothing would stir him. Nearby there was a low crumbling inn.

‘A godless place, but it must do,’ said Isabeau. They dismounted into mud. The children were released from the carriage into torrential rain. The inn had one windowless room and was blue with peat-smoke from a sulky fire-basket. A sow with six piglets snored under a table strewn with dirty pots. A line of hens roosted on the beam of a straw-filled gallery, from which peeped the sleepy faces of children. The landlord had been dozing and creaked upright. In the corner, his wife squealed at sight of the armed men.

‘Be easy, mother,’ said one with a grin. ‘Tapster! your best wine for my lieges.’ The landlord scuttled to obey, falling over the sow and piglets.

‘And food,’ said Louis of Orléans.

‘Cheese?’ trembled the alewife. She watched the Queen warming her wet hands and skirt at the brazier. She had made up her mind who they all were; demons, descended out of the frantic night. Soon she and her husband would be changed into hares, to run wailing on the hills for ever.

‘Damn your cheese,’ said Louis of Bavaria, throwing himself on a bench and pointing to the piglets. ‘Roast a few of those in wine and rosemary, and be sharp about it.’

The inn-keeper’s eyes screwed up. ‘I was fattening them for market …’

A knife pricked his greasy jerkin; he saw the dour faces of the henchmen. Devils. Every time Tonnerre spoke it meant trouble. Last time his eldest son had fallen down the well. He sighed and set of in pursuit of the devil’s supper.

‘In God’s name, where shall we sleep?’ The Duke of Orléans looked hopelessly at the foul straw. Isabeau smiled at him through the steam from her garments, like something beautiful risen from Hell.

‘Together?’ she mocked. His heart raced. A splitting roar of thunder bombarded the inn, the pots danced on the table. He looked at the children, crouched together on a bench beneath the line of drowsy hens. All three were soaked from crossing from the carriage to the inn. Katherine’s face was scarlet. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing was agony. Again surprised at himself, he rose and picked her up; she lay inert against him. Carefully he mounted the ladder to the loft where, in straw, the inn-keeper’s brood nestled wide-eyed. He laid her down. To one of the boys he said:

‘Give me something to wrap her sacking? It will do. Look after her. I fear she’s very ill.’

He descended to meet Isabeau’s twisted smile.

‘So, my lord, you play wetnurse now.’

‘Someone must care for them.’ He frowned.

‘They’re hardy, like me. In Milan, dear Louis, I shall want swords, not lilies. Do you take after Mad Charles, your brother?’

‘Compassion isn’t weakness.’ He flushed.

‘You will serve me in Milan.’ Her eyes held him, full of half-promises, taunting love. A prescience of doom struck him. As if one day she might, even unwittingly, encompass his ruin.