My mother said: “Let him wait awhile. I know he is enamored of the Princess. He will agree to modify his terms. Give him time.”
He was disappointed, I believe, because my father and his advisers would not capitulate—but he would not give way; and the meeting over, he continued with his campaign throughout Normandy, with alarming results for the French.
I liked to think that he did intend to lower his demands, because he asked for another meeting, but by the time he arrived at Pontoise it was to find the tents had been removed. Only the Duke of Burgundy remained with a few of his men.
Henry said with some rancor: “Cousin, understand that we will have the daughter of your king or we will drive him out of his kingdom.”
The Duke replied: “Sire, you may do so, but before you have succeeded in driving the King and me out of this kingdom, I doubt not you will be heartily tired.”
So in spite of the meeting, it seemed that we had advanced very little.
But my mother did not accept this. She knew men, she said, and a spark had been struck between myself and the King of England, and he was the sort of man who would not rest until he had what he wanted.
I thought a great deal about Henry. At last he was a living person to me. I had seen him, though briefly, but it was enough to show me that he was not the man Isabelle had known.
My life since I had left Poissy had not been a happy one. I lived in fear of my mother. There was a suspicion in my mind, which I could not dispel, that she had poisoned my brother Louis. Of Jean, I was not sure. I knew that she despised my brother Charles. I thought he was safe, though, for there was no son to follow him; so it was to her advantage to keep him alive. I was fond of my father, but I was in a state of perpetual anxiety about his health. I thought of a new life…away from it all, away from the conflicts which had surrounded me since the day of my birth. I thought of Henry as my husband, of myself as Queen of England. I thought of children of my own. Yes, I longed for children.
I had come to the conclusion that I wanted a better life than that which I had hitherto known and that I might find it with Henry. I prayed that these negotiations would not fail. I was no longer a child. The years were slipping by. I was now eighteen years old. For so long I had been told I was to marry Henry. Should I ever do that?
During this uncertain period, there took place one of those events which was to shake the whole of France so violently that, temporarily, even the state of our country was forgotten. My brother Charles, the Dauphin, was under the control of the Armagnacs, and I believed he had now come to terms with his fate and, attempting to prepare himself for the role to come, was eager to make peace with Burgundy.
My father was becoming so feeble that even in his most lucid moments he was unfit to govern; and this must have made Charles feel that he must learn quickly and do his best to bring a stable government to the country.
He had now established himself at Bourges, where a small court had gathered about him. He was very serious, which might have been good had he not been of such a melancholy nature. I knew that he was haunted by the fear that he was illegitimate and therefore had no true claim to the throne. In view of the life our mother had led, it was a doubt which might come to us all. I felt fairly sure of my own parentage. I had my nose to thank for that.
Charles clearly saw that the reason we had fallen so low was the strife between our two great houses and, as he was involved with the Armagnac faction, he renewed his efforts to make peace with Burgundy.
I like to think that my brother was led astray by evil counselors. I cannot believe to this day that he planned what happened. Or if he did, it was because he was convinced that it was for the good of France.
What he did was to arrange a meeting between himself and the Duke of Burgundy when they would discuss how to bring about peace between the two rival houses. The meeting was to take place at Montereau. They would both come in peace and unarmed in order to show their confidence in each other.
I think the Duke must have been a little suspicious, for, although he might trust the Dauphin, the young man was in the hands of the treacherous Armagnacs. However, the meeting was arranged.
I heard that several men close to the Duke thought he was taking a great risk by going unarmed among his enemies and warned him not to agree to the meeting; but after a good deal of consideration the Duke decided that he must go.
“It is my duty,” he said. “If we can make peace, the Dauphin and I can stand together against the English.”
It was a never-to-be-forgotten day in September when he set out for the rendezvous.
The Duke arrived as arranged and was met by one of Charles’s men, a certain Duchâtel, who greeted him with great respect and told him how delighted the Dauphin was that he had agreed to come. It was time they settled their differences and stood together against the English, who were the real enemy of France, instead of fighting each other.
This seemed a satisfactory beginning but, as the Duke was preparing to go with Duchâtel to the Dauphin, one of his own men came running to him and, throwing himself on his knees, begged the Duke not to go. “You will be betrayed, my lord,” he said. “I am sure they mean to kill you.”
The Duke turned to Duchâtel and said: “You heard that, my lord. It is what the people around me have in mind.”
“They are wrong,” Duchâtel assured him. “I swear they are wrong. The Dauphin loves you. You are his close kinsman. All he wants is to end this strife, and that all Frenchmen stand together for France.”
The Duke bowed his head and said: “I trust your word. In God’s holy name, do you swear you have not murder in mind?”
“My good and most noble lord,” replied Duchâtel. “I would rather die than commit treason to you or my lord. I give you my word that the Dauphin wishes nothing but reconciliation.”
“Then let us proceed,” said the Duke.
When he came to the Dauphin, the Duke took off his cap and knelt before him. The Dauphin appeared to be seized with emotion and made him rise and cover his head.
Then, changing his mood abruptly, my brother began upbraiding the Duke. He had not cared for the good of France, he said. He had followed his own inclination. He was wanting in his duty.
The Duke must have been surprised at this sudden change. He had come to talk peace, not to listen to a harangue against his actions.
He said haughtily that he had done what he had thought was right and would do it again.
My brother, alas, was no diplomat. I think that secretly he must have been afraid of Burgundy, who had a very powerful and overbearing personality and considered himself equal to—perhaps greater than—the highest in the land.
Duchâtel ran up and shouted: “The time has come!” He lifted his battle-ax and struck the defenseless Duke.
I wondered if Burgundy had time to realize that he had stepped into a trap. Had he forgotten that he himself had brought the Duke of Orléans to an untimely end? That had happened twelve years earlier, but such things are never forgotten.
Vengeance had been brewing for years. It had been decided that the murder of Orléans should not go unpunished.
As the Duke fell to the ground, others came forward, their swords unsheathed.
There were several who were eager for revenge; and there on the ground lay the once-mighty Duke. They fell upon him with their swords.
The murder of Orléans was avenged.
The Duke’s followers waited at some distance, as had been arranged. They did not know what had happened until they were set upon and, weaponless as they were before armed men, they were forced to fly.
There were some among the assassins who wanted to strip the Duke’s body and throw it into the river. But my brother, already regretting the part he had played in the murder of his kinsman, would not allow that. The Duke’s body was prepared for burial, albeit in a pauper’s shell, and taken to the Church of Notre Dame in Montereau to be interred.
And so died Jean the Fearless, the great Duke of
Burgundy. The new Duke Philip was the husband of my sister Michelle.
I wondered what Michelle was feeling now, for she was happy with the heir of Burgundy, and I wondered how this would affect their relationship, for her brother would be held responsible for the murder of her husband’s father.
It was small wonder that I felt a desire to escape from the scene of this strife.
It was not to be supposed that the murder of such an important personage as the Duke of Burgundy would not arouse a storm of condemnation.
The next day, when the news was spreading throughout the country, the Parliament and all the leading dignitaries met. They were determined to bring the criminal to justice. People were crowding into the streets, demanding that the murderer be delivered up to them.
My poor brother was thrown into a state of deep depression. All he had wanted to do was to stop the quarreling between Burgundy and the Armagnacs. He had been led into this. Only the death of Jean the Fearless could bring peace, he had been assured, and, young and inexperienced as he was, he had believed them. And now this terrible deed was on his conscience. Never would he be able to forget the look of horrified reproach in the eyes of the Duke as he fell, when, in those fleeting seconds, he realized he had been betrayed. Charles would be haunted by the murder all his life.
There was an attempt to justify the deed.
The conspirators said that the Duke had been greeted in a friendly fashion but he had suddenly started to abuse the Dauphin. He had been ready to draw his sword.
As the Duke’s supporters had made it clear that he had come to the meeting unarmed, this carried little weight. But, said the conspirators, the Duke had attempted to attack the Dauphin, and it was then that they had found it necessary to dispatch him with speed. It was through his own madness that he had died.
This story was quickly proved to be untrue when two of the knights who had accompanied the Dauphin declared that they had known the Duke to be unarmed; they had seen him walk into the trap; they had wanted no part in such treachery; they cursed those men who had planned the murder and so betrayed the honor of their master, the Dauphin. They would rather have died before they had been present on such an occasion, and they had played no part in it.
There was condemnation throughout the country.
As for Henry, he was determined to turn the murder to his advantage.
It was a great loss to France, he said. The Duke of Burgundy was a true and honorable knight. Through his death he, Henry, had reached the summit of his wishes, for one of the greatest Frenchmen was no longer there to oppose him.
The murdered man’s son, now Philip, Duke of Burgundy, was deeply grieved by his father’s death. He was filled with hatred for the Dauphin and the Armagnacs. He was determined to bring them to disaster, and to this end he threw in his lot with the English that he might stand up in arms against the true enemies of France, the Armagnacs.
I could imagine Henry’s glee. At least he had profited from the terrible deed.
The Dauphin and his Armagnacs were doomed. My brother was overcome by remorse and despair. This wicked deed which was to have silenced the Burgundians had succeeded in making them stronger and—an unforeseen development—who would have believed they would have ranged themselves beside the English!
The result of this alliance did not take long to show itself.
There was no alternative for the Dauphin but to make peace with the conqueror of his country.
Henry was triumphant.
I accompanied my mother to Troyes, where I was to be formally betrothed to Henry. I felt a sense of relief that it was to happen at last. My longing to be free from conflict was now intense. I had seen Henry only briefly, but I felt I knew a great deal about him and I was ready to trust myself to him.
I went with my mother to the church of Notre Dame in Troyes. Henry was already there. He had arrived on May 20 with his brothers, the Dukes of Clarence and Gloucester, and 1,600 men, chiefly archers, to remind all that they must accept him as the conqueror or take the consequences.
Lodgings had been prepared for him at the Hôtel de Ville.
I remember now the moment he came into the church. He looked godlike in shining armor, and in his helmet was a fox’s tail decorated with gems.
As he approached me, he gave me a most warm and loving smile. Then he took my hand and that of my mother and led us both to the altar.
My mother explained to him that her husband, the King, was too indisposed to be present.
Henry graciously inclined his head. He would know that my father was suffering from another of his mad spells—which was not surprising considering that this ceremony was tantamount to the surrender of France to the conqueror.
The terms of the peace were read aloud so that all might hear.
It was as though my father were speaking and, when I thought of him alone in his room at the Hôtel de St.-Paul, I was glad that he would be unaware of what was happening about him. He would be happier that way. At least he did not know that he had lost a kingdom.
“I, Charles VI, King of France, give my daughter Katherine in marriage to King Henry V of England.
“King Henry shall place no hindrance in the way of our retaining the crown for as long as we shall live.
“It is agreed that immediately on our death the crown and kingdom of France shall belong perpetually to King Henry and his heirs.
“During those times when we are prevented from taking part in the affairs of the kingdom, the power of government shall belong to King Henry, with the counsel of the nobles and sages of our kingdom.
“King Henry shall strive with all his might to bring conflict in this kingdom to an end and bring back peace to those cities, castles, places and districts that belong to the party commonly known as that of the Dauphin or Armagnacs.”
As I looked around among those assembled in the church to listen to the terms of surrender, I wondered what their feelings were to hear this solemn renunciation of their country to an invader.
Philip, Duke of Burgundy, was present. Now the ally of the conqueror, he was in deep mourning for his father.
Henry was beside me. He had taken my hand, and on my finger he placed a ring encrusted with jewels. It was one worn by English queens at their coronations, he told me afterward.
I felt a certain contentment. It seemed now that my marriage with Henry was certain.
It was a little more than two weeks after that ceremony, on June 3, that I was married to Henry and became Queen of England.
The ceremony took place in the parish church of Troyes, and I doubt the people of that town had ever seen such a magnificent spectacle before.
My husband wanted everyone to realize that he was, in all but name, the King of France; and all the pomp and glory were an indication of his power.
It touched me deeply that this mighty warrior could be tender toward me. I felt happy and secure and I thanked God that, out of the terrible tragedy which had befallen France, at least this had come about.
The truth was that I was proud of him. He was triumphant and I wanted him to be, even though his triumph was the defeat of my country.
My mother was pleased with me. She cared nothing for France, only for herself, and I believed she craved excitement so much that she would have welcomed it whatever it cost.
She was ingratiating toward my husband, exerting all her wiles. Not that he appeared to be aware of the feminine allure which had led men like Louis de Bosredon to destruction. At the same time I had a feeling that he was assessing her in his shrewd manner and wondering how she could be of use to him.
After the ceremony, Henry and I sat side by side, and he spoke to me in his rather anglicized French and I responded in my quaint English which amused him.
I told him I should improve my English. I had learned to speak it, but the manner in which he spoke was somewhat different from that of my teachers.
“You must not change it too much,” he said. “It is charming as it is, Kate.” He wen
t on, “I shall call you Kate. It sounds more English. Kate, I would not have you change one little bit.”
I blushed and hung my head for there, before them all, he kissed my lips.
He prided himself on being a soldier. He told me he lacked the fancy manners of prancing courtiers.
“So much of my life has been spent on the battlefield,” he said. “It makes a man rough and ready perhaps…but honest, Kate…an honest man who says what is in his mind. If you want me otherwise …” He lifted his hands in mock despair.
I said: “I would not want you other than you are,” at which he laughed and kissed my hands and said I delighted him and that I was all he wanted in his bride, which was how he had known it would be from the first moment he saw me.
And I refused to remember that he might have married me long ago if he had accepted the terms offered. I understood why he had refused. He was a man of great ambition. He wanted France…as well as me.
But why should I think these thoughts? I was newly married. I was excited. I believed I had left the melancholy days behind me. I was starting a new life.
QUEEN OF ENGLAND
The Archbishop of Sens had blessed the bed and prayed God to make it fertile. We had been ceremoniously put to bed. This was the moment about which I had thought a great deal. No one had talked to me of what was expected of me. Isabelle’s marriage with her King of England had never been consummated; and afterward, when she had married the Duke of Orléans, she did not speak of such matters. My mother had told me nothing. She was the sort of woman who would have been born with the knowledge of everything that would be required of her.
I felt inadequate. I need not have done. Henry was a gentle and tender lover, and I was greatly relieved to discover that, instead of irritating, my innocence enchanted him.
During the night a grand procession came to our bedside with wine and soup as though to fortify us against the night’s activities.
When they had gone, Henry took me into his arms and laughed.
Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 07] Page 9