The Last Plantagenet

by Thomas B. Costain

  “Death! Death!” they cried.

  “I am the Duke of Orléans!” he protested.

  The servants had dropped their torches and fled for safety. In the small light thus left, the assassins dragged the debonair duke from his saddle and hacked him to death on the cobbled street.

  Queen Isabeau fled from Paris, knowing that her affair with the duke had been one reason for his murder. She remained at Melun four months and then returned with an escort of 3000 men, taking up her residence at the Louvre. The tragic consequences of her open dalliance with Orléans had not served as a curb on her licentious conduct. She had been scandalously open in the favors she had shown a nobleman of Auvergne, one Louis de Bosredon. The latter had begun to swagger and even to boast publicly. The king regained his reason quite unexpectedly and was informed of what was going on. He acted promptly. Bosredon was taken into custody and put to the torture. He confessed abjectly and, on the king’s orders, was sewn in a leather sack and thrown into the Seine. On the outside of the sack the words had been printed: Let the King’s justice run its course.

  Between the time that Louis de Bosredon went down with the tide in his leather sack and the momentous days when the English threat loomed upon the horizon again, Queen Isabeau experienced a change of heart. The poor mad Charles was never going to recover and the sons she had borne him had the stamp of the Valois on them—in other words, they were spindling specimens with the Valois nose jutting out from pale and hollowed faces. The two older ones had died early, and the third, now called the dauphin, was deeply immersed in the political quarrels, with a genius for getting on the wrong side. A hand was needed at the helm and she decided that her own was the only one available. It was, in fact, a beautifully white and slender hand despite the fact that the years were broadening her to an effect almost of obesity. To compensate for the passing of her period of pulchritude, the queen had actually begun to develop a sense of statecraft—to divide her interests, at least, between counterpane and chancellery. With the princess Michelle already married to the heir of Burgundy, and quite unhappy in the relationship, and with Marie taking her vows, there was only Katherine left to serve as a pawn in her mother’s hands. She was whisked out of her squalid obscurity. Instead of wearing dresses cut down and stitched up by clumsy fingers, made of sleazy materials or soiled velvet, the last daughter was now attired in the silks and satins which befitted her rank.

  Mother and daughter became attached to one another. There was some trace of affinity between them which both recognized. Certainly they had one objective in common. Katherine must marry Henry of England.

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  Even those who admire Henry most and revere his memory, and this includes all who have read much history or have seen the Shakespeare play, are compelled to concede that he had no just reason for going to war with France. He did not at first claim the French throne but limited himself to demands for the return of Normandy and the Angevin provinces in the west and south. The rejection of his offer for the hand of Katherine offered the most flimsy pretext but, in lieu of something better, he made much of it. The honesty and forthright qualities of the great warrior king were less perceptible in this phase of his career than at any other time.

  His brilliant victory at Agincourt had set England aflame with enthusiasm for the continuance of the Hundred Years War. Again the ports saw the unloading of great stores of booty, and even common soldiers had come back with feather beds on their backs (the king later forbade the use of such comforts) and pockets filled with jewelry. After a brief visit home and a triumphant reception at London (where he was too modest to display the battered helmet he had worn in battle as proof of his personal part in the fighting), Parliament decreed such liberal financial support that the young king returned to France with an army estimated at 50,000 men. France was to be beaten to her knees with one more decisive blow.

  The campaign which followed was a demonstration of sure strategy, and on June 19, 1419, Henry had the satisfaction of receiving the capitulation of Rouen, the capital of Normandy where William the Conqueror had ruled. Paris was now almost within sight. The poor madman was still king and the bitter strife of the factions kept France in turmoil. How could they hope to defend themselves against this conqueror?

  It was not until May 28 of the following year, however, that Henry met the Fair Kate.

  Charles had recovered a small shred of reason and he accompanied his queen, the Duke of Burgundy, and his last available daughter to discuss peace with the new master of Normandy. They rode regally down the Seine in a barge which blazed with color. A temporary enclosure with webbed planks had been built on the river at Pontoise, with tents on each bank. It was in this somewhat insecure structure that the great romance began.

  Henry entered the enclosure after the French royal party had seated themselves. Poor Charles was not present and so Isabeau sat in the center. The English king’s eyes inevitably fastened themselves on her first. Although she had become almost massive and her once wonderful complexion could no longer be simulated even with the most skillful use of cosmetics, she still commanded first attention. Her eyes were large and brilliant, her hair was lustrous, and she had an air that was not only regal but intensely feminine. It was only on a slow second glance that Henry realized there was a slender girl seated beside the dominating figure of the queen.

  Katherine was still thin, but her figure promised an engaging maturity without any fear of reaching the outlines of the licentious Isabeau. Her complexion had the Bavarian freshness of snow and mountain berries. She had her mother’s eyes, quite as large and with the same brilliance. Some say they were black but a safer judgment makes them of a very dark gray with glints of a slate blue in them.

  It should be explained at once that Katherine had one mark of the Valois about her. She had the Valois nose, although in modified form. It lacked the hump which some of the royal daughters had, and which seemed to qualify them for riding a broomstick through midnight clouds, but it was slender and just long enough to incline slightly over the upper lip. Such a nose might produce an effect of homeliness in middle years but, when set in a fresh beauty of coloring, it suggested that individuality and character went with the prettiness.

  While the Earl of Warwick, who spoke French fluently, launched on a long speech, Henry seated himself before the princess and never allowed his eyes to wander from her face. It was clear that he was mightily pleased with her.

  She was wearing a gold circlet covered with a veil like mist from a fountain. A mantle, trimmed with ermine, had been thrown over a tight-fitting gown of the richest blue velvet. She sparkled with jewels.

  This first meeting was brief and there was no discussion of peace terms. When it came to an end, Henry kissed Isabeau and then drew the slender shoulders of the princess close to him and kissed her with noticeable warmth.

  Later he was asked by a French spokesman if he had been pleased with the princess. Henry, honest to a fault in all matters, said, Yes, he had admired her much and wanted her for his wife. Then, it was insinuated, since he found her so desirable, he would undoubtedly be prepared to accept a smaller dower with her. Henry shook his head. No, he saw no reason for accepting a crown less.

  When this was reported to the queen, the thought ran through her mind, without a doubt, This stubborn young man must be taught a lesson. When the second meeting was held, the princess was not present. Henry showed that he was disappointed. But he did not retreat from his position. He loved Katherine, but he felt his terms were just and he had no intention of moderating them.

  It is highly probable that the queen and the princess were at odds on their lines of strategy. Katherine had fallen as quickly and completely in love with Henry as he had with her. The speech which Shakespeare has put into the mouth of the English king is a deft delineation of the forthrightness of Henry, except in the references to his own appearance. He had not been created with “a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron.” When he came to woo ladies, he did not “fri
ght them.” Henry had his share of the traditional good looks of the family. His face was oval in outline and his features were handsome as well as strong. His eyes were the Plantagenet blue, although his hair departed from the accepted pattern in being dark instead of flaxen. In build he was tall but rather on the slender side, which did not lessen his strength nor his skill with weapons, as he had proven at Agincourt and on countless other occasions.

  He also possessed in some degree, at least, the pride (call it vanity, if that word seems more apt) which the members of the family had in their appearance. It is doubtful if he would have belittled himself to the woman he wanted to win.

  After a number of conferences, none brightened by the presence of the Fair Kate, the royal family went to the extreme of not appearing at one meeting. Henry said to the Duke of Burgundy, who alone was on hand:

  “Fair cousin, we wish you to know that we will have the daughter of the king or we will drive him and you out of his kingdom!”

  The pride of the duke took fire at this. “Sire!” he exclaimed. “You are pleased to say so. But before you have driven my lord and me out of his kingdom, I make no doubt you will suffer much weariness and pain!”

  Following this exchange of words, it was announced that a peace had been patched up between the conflicting parties in France, headed by the dauphin and the Duke of Burgundy. It looked as though the French had decided to break off all negotiations and to refuse finally Henry’s suit for the hand of Katherine. The English king heard the news with a composed face.

  His countermove was instantaneous and brilliant. He made a surprise attack on Pontoise and captured it without difficulty. This brought him closer to Paris than any English army of invasion had previously attained. It was reported to him that the people of Paris had not been thrown into a panic by his near approach. On the contrary they seemed ready to welcome the “Go-dams,” so great was their dislike for both parties to the French political struggle. Henry, wisely, did not make any move to capture the capital city at this stage. He had proven his ability to do so and now he preferred to make his inevitable entry in the role of peacemaker.

  The culminating point in this drama of tangled relationships was created by the dauphin, who had been irked by his enforced alliance with the Duke of Burgundy. The latter was invited to a conference which was to be held on the bridge at Montereau. The two leaders were to pass through wooden gates and to meet in a central compartment with exactly the same number of supporters. When Burgundy arrived there with the allotted number, the gates behind him were slammed shut and bolted. The central space was filled instantly by armed men, wearing the dauphin’s colors. The duke went down under the swords of his assailants. A wave of horror swept over France and the feeble explanations that the dauphin put forth were scornfully rejected.

  Philip, the new Duke of Burgundy, husband of Katherine’s sister Michelle, said to his wife next day when the tragic news was received, “Your brother has murdered my father.” He was gentle with her, however, in contrast to the furious haste with which he proceeded to renew his alliance with the English. He agreed to recognize Henry as heir to the French throne and to accept his other terms.

  Negotiations proceeded slowly in spite of this. The English forces had moved up to take Paris in a pincer movement before Henry answered a request for a final agreement with the statement that he would treat “with none but the princess Katherine herself.” Queen Isabeau, figuratively speaking, threw up her hands at this and sent the Bishop of Arras to see the English king, with authority to say that, if he would come to Troyes, Katherine would espouse him there. A letter which the bishop surreptitiously delivered to the king from Katherine was “full of sweetness” and left the ardent lover very happy.

  Troyes had become the temporary capital of France in this period of incessant strife. It was a strong and high-walled city, lying a hundred miles or more southeast of Paris. However, the English forces were in possession of Melun and so lay close to the main road between Paris and Troyes. To go on to the latter city did not on that account offer too much risk. Thinking, perhaps, of the foolhardy unconcern with which the Burgundian duke had walked into the trap on the bridge at Montereau, Henry decided to go to his rendezvous in force. Early in May he assembled at Pontoise an army of 7000 men, under the command of his brothers Clarence and Gloucester. Then began a careful march to Troyes by way of the roads through Brie and Nogent. They arrived on May 20, to find the city bedecked with flags and noisy with trumpets to welcome the bridegroom.

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  Henry and his princess were not wedded in the cathedral of Troyes, which was large and grand and finely suited for such a ceremony. There was a reason for this which will bear explaining.

  When the victorious Henry reached Troyes he was met by the Duke of Burgundy and escorted to the Hôtel de Ville where he was to stay. The next day he met the French royal family for the betrothal and had his second glimpse of Katherine, finding her more charming and desirable than before. Henry had arrayed himself with complete disregard for all the rules, coming to the ceremony in full armor and with the brush of a fox in his helmet. Another rule was broken when he placed on the finger of his prospective bride the magnificent ring which had belonged jointly to all the queens of England, being transferred from one to the other when a new consort was crowned. He had established an even more surprising precedent by announcing the appointment of Sir Lewis Robsart, one of his knights, to act as the bride’s guard while she remained in France. Henry, in fact, was taking no chance of more diplomatic shilly-shallying. Katherine now belonged to him.

  There was some bickering back and forth over the terms of the peace treaty and so the marriage did not take place for another week. The impatient Henry did some wandering about in the meantime and found much to please him in this medieval city over which three flags floated, the standards of England and France and the arms of Burgundy. He was pleased in particular by a church of no great size but much charm which was so closely hedged in by the massive buildings in the heart of the old town that it was not easily seen. He liked its hint of quaintness and the ivy of earlier centuries on its gray walls.

  This recalls one of the most romantic of Robert Louis Stevenson’s stories in which he tells of a town held jointly by the English and the Burgundians in this exact period, and of a young Englishman becoming lost at night in the maze of dark streets, leaning finally against a door which swung back and projected him into the home of a vicious uncle and his beautiful niece.

  The English king paused at the church door in bright sunlight, but when he went in it was dark, still, and peaceful. The thought went through his mind, This is the place for my fair Kate and me to plight our troth, kneeling together in this friendly shadow, with no one to hear or see!

  And so on June 2, Trinity Sunday, the marriage was solemnized in the church of his fancy, St. Jean, with the Archbishop of Sens officiating and the bride wearing the English royal mantle, with all its conventional tassels and jeweled embroideries, which had been brought over hurriedly. How Henry was dressed is not recorded, but, at least, he had laid aside the foxtail.

  But it was not as he had pictured it, he and his Kate kneeling in the quiet of the little church, with the services chanted for their ears only. The nave was so filled with the nobility and their wives, and the high dignitaries of the church, and the townspeople who wedged themselves in somehow, that there was not an inch of standing room left anywhere.

  Henry was introduced that night to a custom completely French. It was in the middle hours and, without a knock, the doors of the nuptial chamber were thrown open to admit court officials carrying tall candles in silver holders. These were followed by what seemed a long procession of royal servants. Henry struggled to a sitting position and reached for the handle of his sword, which was propped against the side of the bed.

  Katherine, who had wakened at once, touched his arm and whispered: “There is no need for alarm, my dear lord and husband. It is a custom of my country.”

>   The purpose of the intrusion was to bring wine and soup for the newly wedded pair. Henry may have fallen into accord with etiquette to the extent of drinking a goblet of wine, but one doubts if he felt disposed to try the soup. The bride, sitting up so close beside him that her arm pressed against his, may have sipped a little of it, the French being much addicted to soup. But what happened must be left to the imagination, for nothing more is set down in the records.

  The next day a great state banquet was held, to which all of the English knights had been bidden. Henry here proceeded to set a precedent of his own. Hearing much talk along the tables of a tournament to celebrate the marriage, his brow clouded with disapproval. “I pray, my lord and king,” he said, directing himself to the father of the bride, “to permit and I command his servants and mine to be in readiness tomorrow to go with me and lay siege to Sens, where are our enemies.”

  This was a lesson which Katherine was to learn over and over but never to accept willingly. Nothing was ever as important in Henry’s eyes as the performance of his duties as a king. He felt the need of directing everything himself, even to the inspection of arrows for the archers and the contents of the barrels containing the salt fish and beef for his men. If a battle lay ahead, he must look over the ground in advance. If a conference were pending, he must study all the documents, no matter how long it took. And his wife, dearly loved though she was, must abide herself in patience until everything had been done to his satisfaction.

  Henry spent the first days of his honeymoon fighting before Sens, and Katherine waited for him with her parents, and with the ubiquitous Sir Lewis Robsart lurking in the background; whether in wifely patience or the impatience that came natural to her, history does not say.

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