Crown in Candlelight (41 page)

‘Clarence was envious of your prowess,’ she said softly.

‘Yes, jealous. As, I fear, is Gloucester. Bedford is the most loyal of all my brothers. Katherine. When I’m in France, stay close by John of Bedford. He will look after you.’

She said: ‘I think Humphrey …’ and bit back the words. Ridiculous to say
I think he’d do me harm
, even to Harry. He looked at her keenly, his tired eyes narrowing.

‘What of him? Has he displeased you? He shall hear from me…’

‘No, no,’ she said hastily. ‘He upsets only Bishop Beaufort. He will be more settled when he’s married.’

‘That’s more or less arranged,’ Henry said impatiently. ‘And praise God, Philip seems unperturbed. Perhaps Brabant is glad to be rid of the Hainault wench after all. And she will bring money into England from her estates. God knows I need money in face of this new catastrophe.’

‘And his Holiness?’

‘His Holiness Pope Martin owes me a favour,’ Henry said grimly. ‘He will agree to the annulment. Although he has ceased to love me, it seems. He remarked after Baugé that the Scots are the antidote to the English! appearing pleased. There were many Scottish lords fighting under Armagnac—Archibald of Wigtown, Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and they had archers! Clarence’s cavalry were stunned by the hail of fire. He rode across the bridge wearing a gold crown, as I once did. He died, as I did not. Had it not been for Salisbury’s counter-charge into Maine, I should have lost more lands. As it is I have lost much, and must ride to regain it.’

She had summoned servants with food and wine for Henry and now dismissed them, kneeling beside his chair to serve him herself. He protested. ‘No, Katherine. You are my queen, not my servitor.’

‘I am your dear love,’ she said, with a fluttering dark secret look. She set a brace of little birds roasted in honey before him. ‘Can you eat? Has the pain returned?’ She had not dared ask before.

‘No, I feel strong, despite everything. And you?’ His gaze swept her ardently, tired though he was. ‘When will my son be born?’ He gnawed hungrily at the little fowl.

‘They say towards Christmastime. We’ll rejoice over him together.’

‘If I am back by then,’ he said flatly. Her heart dipped, and she turned her face away. Eight months! He rinsed his fingers and dried them on the surnape. He turned her cheek to his.

‘Be of good heart. Bear and baptise my son in the faith of the Holy Spirit. Name him after me. Let him come into this wicked world strong and just and loving God. Don’t be downcast, my Katherine.’

She rested her head on his chest. The gold collar of SS was cool and hard to her face. She felt the vital impatient beat of his heart, like an augury of the swift journey that was imminent. She clung to him, gathering the safety of Now against the emptiness ahead.

As it happened, the departure was delayed for another five weeks while they rode south through April into May, seeing spring take hold of the countryside in a flutter of blossom and green leaves. The couriers continued to stream to all points of the realm collecting the promised funds for the campaign. The money came in from lords too old to fight or infant lords bound by family loyalty; from Englishmen who, stirred by Henry’s past exploits, now shared his present anxiety. Ships were fitted out, new cannon cast, weapons forged. Nine hundred knights and three thousand bowmen prepared again for war. In early May Katherine was back at Windsor, and Henry in the Painted Chamber at Westminster where Parliament was in session. The Speaker, Thomas Chaucer, spoke eloquently of the King, and the Treaty of Troyes was ratified. Debates were accelerated under the growing tension and Henry, sparing neither himself nor his ministers, worked for days at a stretch. He signed treaties long in abeyance, ordered fleets to stand off the Scottish ports to safeguard against further defection to Armagnac, and posted border guards to that end. He dealt with lesser matters: the Commons requested that England should be given the monopoly of wool exports to Burgundy, prohibiting competition from Scotland and Spain. The Lollard problem was discussed; he set up further commissions of enquiry. Bishop Langley commended him for attributing his past conquests to God and not man, and, watching Henry doing the work often, the Chancellor wondered indeed with what secret power God had endowed the King.

And then it was June, and the ships ready to sail. The roses bloomed in the pleasaunce at Windsor. The scent of summer jasmine and honeysuckle swept through the window of Katherine’s bower. Two new harps Henry had recently purchased for them stood, as yet unplayed, in a corner. A linnet in a cage chirped dolefully for the world outside.

He came alone and stood before her, his mind full of a thousand matters overlaid by the impotence of all farewells. He thought she looked pale, attenuated, but she stood graceful and straight, her hands folded over the tiny curve at her waist. She in turn was relieved by his bright colour, his vigour. It would have been unbearable had he been ill at the start of this enterprise.

‘I am for Dover now, Madame,’ he said, as if formality could lessen pain.

‘God speed,’ she said faintly. ‘God be with you.’

He stood as if frozen, then took her into an embrace that made her gasp for breath. She fancied for an instant that the child writhed in protest, but the child was too young to move, he was a good child and would not abhor his father’s touch, and he was to be dedicated to God. She had sworn it …

She kissed his neck as he held her. He had been barbered more severely than usual and there was a white line between the weathered skin and the short hair. She kissed the scar on his face. He thrust his hand in her long hair and groaned. Over his shoulder she saw gilded strings, gold-painted wood.

‘We never used the harps,’ she said with a sobbing laugh.

‘If you need new strings,’ he said, as wildly, ‘John Bore in London is the vendor. Send Owen Tydier, he knows the kind.’

‘I know of no Owen Tydier,’ she said weeping.

‘You call him Jacques … your father called him so. A Welshman. He kissed her eyes. ‘My dear wife, it’s time.’

‘Do not think of me,’ she drew back, composed, inwardly shivering.

‘No,’ he said.

‘But write to me.’

‘Whenever possible.’

‘And in God’s mercy return soon. Or send for me.’

‘I give my word.’

She knew then she must cease clinging with outworn phrases and let him go. She foresaw the sad hard summer, the endless conversations with the unborn child. She watched from the window until the army gathered below had rolled gleaming away through the gate. On impulse she opened the linnet’s cage. The small bird stood uncertainly on one leg, then dived with a swift flick of wings into the living air outside. She thought: he shall sing my dear companion on his way.

‘He has your eyes,’ said Jacqueline of Hainault, hanging dotingly over the cradle.

‘He favours my father,’ said Katherine. The baby, bound from neck to toes in a case of starched ribbing, gazed up opaquely. He had a sad, ancient look, as vulnerable as one of the monkeys in the menagerie at Windsor. On the milky pearl of his neck a chafe glowed red. Katherine slid her finger beneath the swaddling. Once again the laundress had used too much arrowroot. Jacqueline should dismiss her. Poor baby.
Mon pauvre petit prince
. The great eyes swam about like dark fish between the pale bald lids. The resemblance to Valois was truly unearthly, like Charles on the verge of a nerve-storm.
Bébé
, she said softly, and the eyes crept back towards her, seeming to look at her with sober trust.

‘He was so good at the christening,’ Jacqueline said for the hundredth time. ‘The lovely prince.’

A great crucifix swung from Jacqueline’s breast. The tiny Henry’s eyes found a target and fixed on it. Jacqueline whispered: ‘Look! already he embraces the image of Our Lord!’

Humphrey of Gloucester touched Katherine’s arm reverently.

‘He will be as devout as his parents,
ma chère soeur
.’ Near the crib hung his own christening gift, a solid gold wand inlaid with sapphires.

‘He will be happy,’ Katherine answered. She turned to smile at Gloucester, thinking: how we have all changed! Since Henry’s departure, she had had occasion to revise her opinion of Humphrey of Gloucester. He had become a paragon. None could have been more tender, thoughtful, or respectful. During the summer, and the winter of her lying-in, he had addressed himself to her welfare exclusively, and gradually her glacial feelings towards him had thawed. Had he been Henry he could not have ministered to her more efficiently. It was Humphrey who had found the best wetnurse in England, Humphrey who, whenever she felt dispirited, had sent Jacqueline to cheer her or come himself. Totally reformed, he had not uttered a murmur when Bishop Beaufort and John of Bedford were appointed the prince’s sponsors at the christening. In her presence, at least, he had shown civility to the Bishop, lest their enmity should cause her pain. Best of all, he had brought her the news of Henry, snatching the rolls from the couriers almost before the regent, Bedford, had had time to see them. For that alone, she thought, I shall ever be in his debt.

We have all changed. Even Jacqueline, who looks almost matronly. At first there was a little jealousy from her, but I explained. Humphrey takes his duties seriously. It is well that he does. For John of Bedford, to whom Harry bade me cling close, is always too busy. Immured in Council, writing more letters than Harry did, desperately worried about the outcome in France and itching to be there. Well that I did not depend on him for my comfort during these months! During the summer when I became great and sick and weary, an autumn during which I thought I should burst like a pod, a winter of fulfilled joy.

She looked again at the pale, old-eyed baby. St Nicholas’s child! What better day on which to be born. His future is assured; the saint of youth shall succour him. If only his father could see him. I am nearly a year older since our leavetaking. Is this a new spring, or did time stop then? Are not those the same bright nestlings outside my window, the same puff of honeysuckle striving towards the light against the stones of Windsor? There are things that have not changed. New greenness on old towers. But in me,
hélas
! the same ache and waste and wanting. That love-need, that terrible, carnal need.

‘Don’t be sad,
ma reine
,’ said Humphrey. ‘See how the prince thrives. Is he warm enough?’ He touched the baby Henry’s brow with a ringed finger. There was a raging fire in the hearth and all the windows were tightly closed. It had been a dreadful winter, but, according to reports, nothing like so fierce as in France.

She had not heard from Harry since the christening. He had written, bidding her hear a Mass to the Trinity for the baby. Since then she had heard many Masses. There had been only three loving letters altogether since his departure. From their content she had the feeling that there should have been more, but Humphrey said they had been lost on the journey. Ships had foundered, couriers had been waylaid. She had to be content. If Humphrey said it, then it was so.

He took her arm and moved with her from the cradle where Dame Alice Boteler the nurse, and Anne of Burgundy and the Duchess of Clarence congregated. He said softly: ‘I have news of Harry.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

‘I only learned myself today. Bedford has instructions from him—he has the rolls in Council now. I must go there shortly.’

‘Is Harry well?’

‘Yes. But the army has suffered much, at Meaux. They sat all winter outside the gates. Men died of hunger, and the bloody flux …’

‘You’re sure he’s well?’ Her face was white.

‘
Ma soeur
, have I ever lied?’

Not that know, her little inner counsellor said, and she dismissed it as unworthy. Our feud was in my uncertain wits. It never really existed.

He said: ‘The Armagnacs tried to push towards Paris, but Salisbury fought them back at Chartres. Philip of Burgundy has been indisposed—I wonder if this was a diplomatic illness? He didn’t fight with Harry against Jacques d’Harcourt in Picardy. The Dauphin declared he would fight in person near Beaugency and left his new wife at Bourges …’

‘Marie d’Anjou?’

‘Yes. Sweet and docile by all accounts. Anyway, your brother didn’t show, himself after all. Harry captured the lands surrounding Orléans. He lost a lot of men, but he continued, to the Yonne; Villeneuve surrendered. Then he reached the Marne, and Meaux. A hive of bandits like the Bastard of Vaurus and Pierron de Luppé in command. The enemy never slept. Even with Philip back to aid him, and Exeter and Salisbury, Harry suffered an ordeal. Men dropped like frozen birds … the sickness …’

‘He was victorious.’ The descriptions distressed her immeasurably. ‘And he is safe.’

‘Yes. Meaux capitulated after a siege of seven months. And Harry hanged the Bastard of Vaurus from his own tree, where he used to strangle women and innocents for sport!’

Katherine looked at the cradle, wishing the infant was old enough to hear of his father’s prowess.

‘He’s undone part of Clarence’s mischief. He rules the re-captured lands peaceably. He’s willing to treat with the Dauphin. Your father, alas!’ he said delicately, ‘is once more in no condition to partake in rejoicing or grief. He’s mad again, Katherine.’

So. She was sad, but more anxious about Harry. ‘Will my lord be coming home?’

‘There are more campaigns. He has asked for reinforcements, that is why Bedford is now in Council. Next month, a new army will cross the sea.’ And then, very softly: ‘Why should you not go with it?’

The ache of ten months spread illimitably within her. ‘I will not join him uninvited.’

‘Write to him,’ said Humphrey. ‘You could be with him next month, in Paris!’

They looked at one another like conspirators, he nodding encouragement, she thoughtful, troubled.

‘Bedford would care for the baby …’ Humphrey shook his head. ‘No, Bedford is summoned to France to lead the new contingent.’

‘Then the prince would have to come with me.’

Humphrey took her hand, squeezing it. His rings made her wince. ‘Katherine. That little soul is heir to two great kingdoms! Would you risk a dynasty? Rough spring tides, ambushes in France … Think again.’