Crown in Candlelight (52 page)

Western wind, when will thou blow,

The small rain down can rain?

Christ, if my love were in my arms

And I in my bed again!

Anon.

John, Duke of Bedford, sometime Regent of France, paced the audience chamber at Westminster. He was awaiting the presence of his sovereign, now a growing boy of eight years old. Spring sunshine poured through the windows. Bedford was too preoccupied to notice or enjoy it. His brown, slightly protuberant eyes were veined with worry. He paced as a soldier does, to loosen his muscles and let his mind run free. He grudged even this brief but necessary visit to England, with its accompanying sloth. France called him; battle called him, even after the years of fighting and achieving nothing. One step forward and two back. He realized it. And now this latest curse, unprecedented perhaps since Boudicca of the Iceni. A woman soldier. A living inspiration infusing the blood of the jaded French. A village wench with a mind like a seasoned warrior. A parody of all womankind. A vile blasphemer, with her saints and her secret voices.
La Pucelle d’Orléans. Jeanne d’Arc
.

Bedford was more slightly built than his brother of Gloucester, but less delicate than the dead king his brother. He was a mixture of gentleness and ruthlessness. At this moment his kind mouth was thinned with trouble. He slapped his thigh as he paced, as if goading a horse. His regency was in ruins. Less than a year ago, the Dauphin had had himself crowned Charles the Seventh of France at Rheims, in direct contravention of the bloodily won Treaty of Troyes. The witch had been there with him in the Cathedral. Had her black wings been folded? No, he thought; no ordinary devil she, but a monstrous travesty of womanhood. They said she had no female parts. Only a mind tuned to her diabolical visitors. Blaspheming her way through the steely pastures of triumph, swearing that her voices came from blessed Margaret, Catherine, Michael. When, in truth, they were from Lucifer, the fallen and glorious.

He chewed absently at a handful of little wild strawberries the Queen-Dowager had sent him in a gilded basket. He was looking forward to seeing her properly for the first time in nearly seven years. A pity that Harry had died, for many reasons, not the least being that he and Katherine were happy together. He regretted having failed so far in his promise to Harry—he had promised to cherish her. And yet—a reluctant smile touched his lips—since her retirement she seemed to have been compensated … but there were problems in England too. The strawberries tasted sweet. He had not forgotten the autumn of 1425, when armies belonging to Humphrey of Gloucester and the Bishop (now Cardinal) Beaufort had been arrayed in opposition on Tower Bridge. Humphrey had wanted sole possession and jurisdiction over the little King, and Beaufort, wanting exactly the same, had removed the chains from the southern end of the bridge and had occupied positions for firing from the houses built on it. But Gloucester had been the victor on that occasion. He had taken the King under guard to Westminster. And now these two great lords held an uneasy truce. Bedford had made them swear friendship. A grant of 5,000 marks from Parliament had sweetened Humphrey. With this he was supposed to have rescued Jacqueline once more from the grasp of Brabant. Poor Jacqueline.

Jacqueline had been left a virtual prisoner of Brabant and Philip of Burgundy Humphrey now had a new wife. Eleanor Cobham. Perdition have him, Bedford thought. He nearly wrecked my own alliance by his wild provocations. Christ be praised; I am wed at last to Anne of Burgundy. We love one another, very much. A bonus in these times of policy and gain. Humphrey had declared that the Pope had never recognized his liaison with Jacqueline. By sleight of hand, bribery, and God knew whatever chicaneries, he had extricated himself from any charge of bigamy or other crimes. Very clever, thought Bedford in disgust. He would be a fit companion for
La Pucelle
. Although she would not suit him, having no female parts …

His mind fretted again over the witch, as one probes a sore tooth. At Chinon she had infected Charles of France with her blazing zeal. With Alençon as her commander she had relieved Orléans (which Salisbury had died to capture earlier) and then had taken the river-fort of Tourelles from the English. She was a thing against nature. She had the heart of a man. She had attacked St Loup as a diversion, and then stormed in to secure the fort of the Augustins which Bedford had deemed invincible. The Patay was hers, and Auxerre, Châlons, and Rheims, where her victories were consummated in Charles’s coronation. She had tried for Paris next and had been wounded near the Porte St Honoré in a skirmish with Burgundian and English forces. That had cheered Bedford a little. He feared her, he was not ashamed to admit it. She was a thing of the Devil, with her inspired expertise in campaigning. Philip feared her too. But we’ll have her, Bedford had assured him.

His visit to England had a twofold purpose. First, to borrow troops from Beaufort, troops originally levied for the Cardinal’s forthcoming Bohemian crusade. Beaufort had acquiesced, albeit grudgingly. Second, to take back the little King to France. Henry must be crowned King of France, in the hope of stimulating any latent French loyalties; remind them of the Treaty, and of Agincourt.

‘A pox on necromancers!’ he said aloud, and finished the last of the wild strawberries. On Jeanne, the devil-haunted goat-girl of Domrémy, and also on Eleanor Cobham. The black one. She had turned Humphrey from a mere nuisance into a positive plague, and how else but by witchery? Nothing could be proven against her; she was so clever. I’d like to burn them both. The door was tapped. His wife Anne entered. As always, he was enchanted by her douce gentleness. Some of his care evaporated.

‘The King is coming, John,’ she said. ‘With his mother.’

They knelt, and waited, and Henry entered with Katherine behind him, escorted by Louis de Robsart and Richard of York. Bedford kissed the royal hand. Such a thin hand. Such an old-looking child. More like eighteen than eight. Those long eyes, so dark and far away, the straight thin figure, the gentle, weak mouth. He had a priestly look. All spirit. Then Bedford looked at Katherine, and for a moment was quite lost.

She had a light about her that was nothing to do with the spring sunshine through the blazoned window. Either he had never looked at her properly before, or war, worry and sieges had muddled his memory. She wore a full-skirted gown of saffron and rose. Even her strong features seemed to have softened, grown tender. Her eyes were beautiful beyond words. Her skin had a seashell glow. She moved sensuously, even in her curtsey, like a lithe dancer. You could warm your hands at her. Her smile shattered him. For a full minute he was deeply in love.
Katherine la Belle
. A true woman. Not a rabid, sexless witch.

The King put his arms about the kneeling Duke’s neck.

‘We are graciously pleased to see you, good Uncle. Are we for France? I’m told I am to be crowned in Paris.’

‘Then Paris it shall be, your Grace. If God wills that we come through all our trials.’

‘Amen.’ The child spoke so devoutly that Bedford was moved. ‘My trust is in Our Blessed Saviour. He has sworn to look after us.’

Someone has influenced him well, thought Bedford. His mother? But he hardly ever sees his mother. It was scarcely likely to be Humphrey of Gloucester. He noticed a young priest hovering in the background, praying silently, constantly, his lips moving, his eyes fixed on the young king as on a saint’s image. A pity that the time has come for him to leave home, Bedford thought. He could do worse than remain here—under such holy influence. The occasional presence of that beautiful mother could do him no harm either. But I need him in France, as a buckler against that daughter of Hell … He rose to his feet.

‘I have prepared a psalm for our voyage,’ Henry said, as practically as if he spoke of baggage. ‘Master Tydier has set it to music.’

The blush, like a kindling beacon, caught Bedford’s eye. It rose from the neckline of Katherine’s dress, swept over her neck and face and was gone. Not an unhappy blush; more like sunrise through a seashell. Bedford said gently to the King: ‘Will you make ready? Choose your favourite companions. Our army is all set to move.’

‘I will take Richard.’ Henry glanced back to where Richard of York stood quietly listening. ‘You’ll come, won’t you, Richard?’

Katherine said: ‘Go, Harry, Make ready’ She bent and kissed him. Momentary sadness stole some of her glow.

‘Assist them, my lady’ Bedford told his wife. ‘I wish to speak with the Queen-Dowager alone.’

Outside the gay glass window the concupiscent birds carolled of springtime. Bedford and Katherine sat down together in the window-seat.

‘Well, my dear sister,’ he said. ‘Are you glad to see me, after this long time?’

‘John,’ she said, dropping all formality. ‘Many times in the past I wished you were here. I prayed you would return safely and for good.’

I wanted your protection, she thought. Not now. You are a little too late. She looked at him with her radiant eyes.

‘I’m safe,’ he said. He could not take his eyes off her. ‘But I may not stay. How do you, Katherine? Do you need my assistance? In any way?’ Then he said acutely: ‘Does Gloucester harass you?’

She looked down, smoothing her saffron-and-rose skirts. ‘No. No. I keep my household well away from him. I see him occasionally. I fancy he is more objectionable since he married Lady Cobham. Have you news of poor Jacqueline?’ And Bedford told her what he knew; her face grew sad.

He said: ‘Does Humphrey still keep you from the presence of the King?’

‘Yes, when he can outwit Cardinal Beaufort. I am with my son when Parliament is prorogued, and on feast-days. With this I must be content.’ Smiling her unbelievable smile, she sighed, and Bedford studied her. He wondered; there was a delicate fullness about her breasts, the sheen on her skin was something no creams, no maquillage could invest. He had seen that look before, in his own wife. Yes. He was right. He was neither offended nor shocked.

‘And otherwise you have retired,’ he said gently. ‘You live in seclusion, at Hertford, with your handsome esquire. And I see that you are
enceinte
. When will your child be born?’

She was speechless. She turned pale. Then she saw the kindness in Bedford’s eyes.

‘So you know,’ she said faintly.

‘I’ve known for some days. Unfortunately so does Gloucester. I refused to listen. God knows what he expected me to do about your liaison. There’s nothing. It’s done. How long is it now?’

‘Over five years,’ she said. ‘Who told him?’

‘It appears,’ said Bedford, frowning, ‘that Lady Cobham—I should say the new Duchess of Gloucester—had it from your little maid. I gather some duress was involved.’

Now she remembered. Some months ago. Guillemot crying and crying as if her heart would break. They had only just returned from a brief visit to Westminster. Guillemot had had a great angry wound down the length of her arm. As if it had been held in a fierce flame. None could get from her the reason for her anguish. Not even Owen, who could draw things from almost anyone, just by looking at them and speaking softly. Katherine felt sick.

‘Damn her,’ she said violently. Troubled, she looked at Bedford; said uncertainly: ‘What now?’

He took her hands, kissed them, patted them hard. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘But be discreet, Katherine. And remember the decree … that none shall aspire to marry the widow of King Henry the Fifth.’

‘I thought that decree was made to discourage Edmund Beaufort!’

Bedford looked out of the window. Roses and ivy twined richly against the ancient stone.

‘When I ransomed Beaufort from France, he told me that he wished to marry you. He had heard of you through his sister, Joan of Scotland. I knew then that Humphrey would do all he could to prevent it. Thus he robs the Beauforts of any further enhancement of power, and likewise your …’ he was lost for a fitting description. Very difficult.

‘My lover,’ she said. ‘My husband in all but name. My life.’

‘Of course, the Welsh,’ he mused, ‘are excluded by law from marriage with any Englishwoman.’

‘I am no Englishwoman,’ she said tightly.

‘You are English now,’ he said.

‘
Y diafol!
’ she cried. Bedford’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I’m in love with Wales! He took me to Wales. We stood upon a golden, singing mountain. It’s a land of love and passion and courage. And if they say that Owen is a landless upstart, they lie! His father and his three uncles, Goronwy, Gwylym and Rhys descend from Sir Tudor of old Goronwy’s great line, and his grandmother from Thomas ap Llewellyn, kinsman to the greatest of Welsh princes, and to Owain Glyn Dwr. The senior line of Theodor is related to the great Gwylym ap Griffith of Penarth, and …’

Bedford was laughing.

‘Katherine, Katherine. I didn’t ask for his pedigree.’

‘The King is very fond of him,’ she said quietly.

‘Then that is well.’ Bedford spoke with great gentleness. ‘Katherine, listen to me. I am your friend in this. I only beg your discretion. Humphrey of Gloucester knows nothing of your coming child, and I shall not tell him. But I must speak truthfully. There is more than a possibility that Parliament will repeal the Act barring Welshmen from privilege. It’s an obsolete Act, and stems from the Glyn Dwr rebellions. Maybe in a year or so your—’ he struck the right note at last—‘your
bel-ami
will be regarded
sicut verus anglicus ligeus
—a true English subject. But put marriage with him from your mind. There would be heavy penalties, in unforeseen ways. Humphrey can be very spiteful. I beg your discretion.’

For a. moment she looked very sad. Marriage. Marriage. That was all Owen ever thought about, when he wasn’t making love. He was obsessed. Never a day went by when he didn’t bring up marriage to her in some form or another. Again, he would be disappointed. She would make it up to him.

Bedford watched her affectionately. A real woman. Not like that creature in France, that armoured limb of the Fiend …

‘I am arranging for you to have extra funds for your Privy Purse,’ he said. ‘Is there anything else you need? Are your servants loyal? Have you a good midwife? And where will you bear your child?’