Root of the Tudor Rose

by Mari Griffith

  ‘I did, Your Highness, and lost three good fingers to an English hatchet on the battlefield.’ He pulled the leather mitten off his mutilated left hand and Catherine recoiled at the sight of it. ‘Still, I got out alive which is more than most men did. Six thousand French dead and many more maimed, nobles and commoners alike.’

  ‘Was it really as bad as everyone says?’

  ‘Oh, yes, and a good deal worse. It was as if the gates of Hell itself had opened, men and animals drowning in pools of blood and filth, screaming in pain.’ He warmed to his subject. ‘And King Henry takes no prisoners: the poor bastards were herded up in the mud and killed where they stood. He is a brute, a beast, the very spawn of the Devil. Begging your pardon, Your Highness,’ he added. He had gone too far but, by God’s bones, he’d been honest.

  Catherine’s eyes were wide with dismay at the captain’s account of the battle and she felt real revulsion at the sight of his hand.

  ‘Excuse me, Your Highness.’

  She turned at the sound of a voice, glad of an interruption. A dark-haired young woman of about her own age was curtseying deeply to her.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  The young woman straightened up. ‘The Queen wishes to see you immediately, my Lady. I am to take you to her.’

  Catherine had been summoned to her mother’s presence. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

  ‘Very well, er … what is your name?’

  ‘Guillemote, my Lady. I am to be your personal maid.’

  A personal maid! How different her life was about to become. She rose from the bench and inclined her head in dignified dismissal of the captain. Then she followed the girl called Guillemote towards a heavy oak door behind the dais at the far end of the great hall. A liveried footman held open the door and a small brown dog scampered around them, yapping noisily as they crossed the threshold.

  ‘Catherine! There you are, child! Why are you so late arriving? Did that nincompoop of a captain lose his way?’

  Catherine was caught up in the whirlwind which was her mother, Her Highness Queen Isabeau of France. She had forgotten how things happened around the Queen, how servants rushed hither and thither to do her bidding, how she barked commands and demanded immediate obedience. She was wearing a tall, conical headdress of intricate design which made her appear to tower above everyone around her, and her high forehead and plucked eyebrows gave her a look of haughty superiority.

  ‘Come,’ the Queen fussed, slapping at the dust on Catherine’s cloak, ‘we must clean you up before our visitor arrives.’ She seized Catherine’s arm and began propelling her towards the stone staircase which led to the upper floor.

  ‘Visitor?’ Alarmed, Catherine tried to pull back. ‘Is King Henry coming here tonight?’

  ‘King Henry? Good heavens, child, no. What on earth made you think that?’

  ‘But the captain of the guard said …’

  The Queen tightened her grip on Catherine’s arm. ‘Don’t listen to servants’ idle tittle-tattle, Catherine, they never get anything right. No, the King is not expected but his special envoy is. Sir Robert Waterton. Come along. We need to impress him.’

  Still Catherine hung back. ‘But why? Why, my Lady?’

  ‘Because it is our business to make the English realise that France and the French are not just here for the taking. We must put a price on ourselves.’

  Catherine felt a sense of relief. What her mother had said made perfect sense. ‘Oh, I see. Yes, of course, I understand. The King of England is a monster, isn’t he? Everyone says so. The captain said he killed all his prisoners at Agincourt in cold blood. And … and … Sister Supplice says he probably has a tail!’

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake! Don’t be so naïve, Catherine. And take no notice of the insane prattling of nuns. A tail? What nonsense! As it happens, I have met King Henry and he is very charming.’ Queen Isabeau, who had been carrying another small, yapping dog under her arm, threw the poor creature to the floor and turned to look critically at her daughter.

  ‘Look at you!’ she said, ‘covered in dust and smelling like a horse. Come, we have work to do.’

  Queen Isabeau was as imperious as ever. It would have been pleasant, Catherine reflected as she climbed the spiral staircase behind her mother, to have been greeted with affection, perhaps even kissed. She was sure her father would have kissed her.

  ‘How is my dear Papa?’ she asked. ‘Will I see him tonight?’

  ‘No,’ the Queen paused on the stair for a moment and turned to look down at her daughter, her forehead creased in a frown. ‘Your father will not be joining us. He is not well. And for his own safety, I have ordered that he be kept at St Pol until this latest bout of illness passes. He has servants there to look after him.’

  ‘So his old malady still troubles him?’

  ‘Grievously,’ said the Queen. ‘When I saw him last month, he kept saying he was made of glass.’

  ‘Glass?’

  ‘Yes, glass. He insisted on having iron rods sewn into his clothes to protect him and he wouldn’t let anyone near him, for fear they’d break him.’

  ‘Not even you, Maman?’

  ‘Least of all me,’ said the Queen, tightening her grip on the handrail before turning to climb the last few stairs to the upper solar.

  Catherine had few clear memories of her early childhood before she and Marie were sent to the convent at Poissy but she retained a strong impression of her father as a big, affectionate bear of a man. She remembered laughter, warmth, and security within the safe circle of his arms while she sat on his knee and he told her stories, taught her nursery rhymes, and played little games which involved much counting of her fingers and toes. But other memories always intruded: memories of being awakened at night and clinging in terror to her sister, their hearts hammering with fear, pulling the bedclothes up over their ears to muffle the sounds of wailing and shouting from the King’s room and the running footsteps of servants in the corridor outside. In her later years in the convent, her sleep sometimes disturbed by a hooting owl or a snoring nun, she had thought about those far-off, frightening nights in the nursery at St Pol and realised that her dear father lived more and more in his own dark world of madness. It saddened her to think of him so sorely troubled.

  There was a discreet knock at the door.

  ‘Ah, Guillemote, there you are,’ said the Queen, as it opened. ‘Now, go and heat up some water to wash the Princess Catherine’s hair. And make sure you use good soap of Marseilles. Then rinse it in a solution of lemon juice to lighten it, braid it when it’s dry, then dress her in one of my gowns. The new red one, I think, with that lovely fair hair. No, wait! Not the red, it will make her look too brazen. The green is more subtle. Yes, the green might well complement the colour of those eyes. And no, on second thoughts, don’t braid her hair. There’s no need to, she is not married: not yet. Besides, it has an attractive wave to it. We can take advantage of that. Get on with it, girl! We haven’t got all night.’

  Bobbing a hasty curtsey, Guillemote hurried away to do her bidding while the Queen pushed her daughter down on to a chair in front of a small dressing table and turned her towards a looking-glass, propped up by its handle in a holder. Meeting Catherine’s startled gaze was the oval face of a fair-haired young woman with large, blue-grey eyes, fringed with dark lashes. High cheekbones counterbalanced a slightly elongated nose and the pale, translucent skin was flushed with embarrassment. For the first time in her life, she was seeing the reflection of herself as an adult. Bending forward, she examined the mirror image more closely and heartily disliked what she saw.

  ‘My nose is very big,’ she said, pushing the mirror away.

  The Queen turned her daughter’s head from side to side, studying her from every angle. ‘Hmmm. Yes, you are inclined to have the Valois nose, I’m afraid, and there’s not much we can do about that. But it’s a long nose, not a big one. Elegant. Aristocratic. And at least there’s no mistaking your blood line; the whole roya
l family on your father’s side has the Valois nose.’ Isabeau continued her minute inspection of her daughter’s face. ‘Your skin is good, quite flawless, and you’re lucky you have my eyes. Let me see your teeth.’ Catherine winced as the Queen prised open her mouth; she might have been assessing the age of a sheep. ‘Ah, good! You still have all your teeth so your breath will be sweet and a little tincture of myrrh will sweeten it even further. That’s excellent.’

  ‘Isn’t this sinful, Maman?’

  ‘Sinful? Why should it be sinful?’

  ‘Well, the mirror. We had no mirrors at Poissy …’

  The Queen snorted her derision. ‘God’s knees, child! Mirrors are not sinful, though nuns will have you believe that if you look into one you’ll see the devil’s backside. No, it is not sinful to make the most of every advantage you have in this life. Surely those old hens taught you the Gospel according to St Matthew?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Catherine was shocked at her mother’s blasphemy.

  ‘Then remember the parable of the talents, Catherine. “To him that hath shall be given.” So let’s see what talents you have. Well, your hair is pretty enough but it will certainly benefit from a good wash. Did you ever comb it in that convent? It doesn’t look like it. And this dress! Dear God! It’s no wonder that women who wear clothes like this end up as virgins.’

  ‘They’re nuns, Maman.’

  Queen Isabeau grimaced. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘And to think that your sister Marie has chosen to become one. Poor misguided child! Thank God I still have you.’

  The tuneful little musical phrase went round and round in Catherine’s head. She’d first heard the rebec player practising it to perfection in the great hall during the afternoon and, joined now by the shawm and the rhythm of the tambour, it had proved the most popular dance of the evening. Catherine watched from the royal dais as some thirty men and women wove colourful patterns around the big room to the rhythms of popular dance tunes which she was hearing for the first time. She was enchanted by the music and elated at the changes which the expert ministrations of her mother and the maid, Guillemote, had wrought in her own appearance. Her gleaming hair tumbled to her shoulders under a delicate veil held in place by a circlet of gold. She had been laced into her mother’s gown of green watered silk and loved the way it shimmered in the candlelight when she moved. Fifteen years of convent-bred inhibitions were beginning to drop away from Catherine like a discarded cloak.

  Of course, she had not danced at all; that was certainly not something she had been taught by the nuns and her mother’s restraining hand on her left arm ensured that she was not tempted to exhibit her lack of dancing skills in front of the English King’s envoy. Sitting to her right on the royal dais, Sir Robert Waterton, too, seemed keen to touch Catherine’s arm at any excuse. A square-jawed man with a slight cast in his eye, he leaned towards her conspiratorially, his foetid breath hot in her ear.

  ‘You are even more beautiful than the miniature portrait which my sovereign lord, King Henry, has of you,’ he whispered. ‘He gazes upon it often and says he thinks you must be very lovely.’

  ‘King Henry has a portrait of me?’ Catherine’s eyes opened wide in disbelief.

  ‘Yes, of course he has,’ said Queen Isabeau. ‘I sent him that miniature I commissioned last year. The artist came to the convent. Surely you remember?’

  Catherine did remember but had assumed that the portrait was for her parents. Apparently not. And now that she thought about it, no portrait had been painted of her sister Marie, though that hadn’t struck her as particularly odd at the time. She began listening to the conversation on either side of her in mounting concern.

  ‘Of course, Catherine’s beauty is the envy of every maiden in France,’ Queen Isabeau was pointing out. ‘She takes after me.’ That was certainly true. Catherine had, indeed, inherited her mother’s high forehead and fine cheekbones. Thankfully, she had not inherited her mother’s imperious attitude and fiery temper. ‘In fact,’ the Queen went on, ‘it is generally accepted that she is the most comely princess in the whole of Europe. Her hand in marriage would be a great prize for any man.’

  ‘Indeed, my Lady,’ Sir Robert replied. ‘There can be few men on God’s earth who could resist your daughter’s charms. Of course, I am not acquainted with all the princesses in Europe but I have met several of them. The Princess Catherine is certainly a great deal lovelier than the Princess Marie of Anjou, whom I met some time ago.’

  ‘And what was so displeasing about her? You must admit that her bloodline is impeccable.’

  ‘Indeed, yes. But there was nothing much to be gained from it. Besides, she was too dark, too swarthy-looking.’

  Queen Isabeau nodded. ‘And have you met the Countess Jacqueline of Holland, my Lord?’

  ‘Oh, indeed. She is one of the more attractive ones. There was once some suggestion that she might make a suitable wife for the King’s younger brother, the Duke of Bedford.’

  ‘Ah, but she was already betrothed to my son, John. They would still be married if he had lived. God rest his soul,’ Isabeau said, crossing herself briefly. ‘But yes, you’re right, she is quite attractive. Of course, she is our kinswoman,’ she said, to prove her point.

  Sir Robert Waterton leered again at Catherine. ‘Sadly, the beauty of the bride is not the only thing to be taken into consideration in negotiating a royal marriage. There is the matter of the marriage settlement. His Highness King Henry would not agree to any dowry which does not include Normandy and Aquitaine. And eight hundred thousand crowns,’ he added, as an afterthought.

  Catherine’s cheeks blazed. She was being bartered. Her mother and this deeply unpleasant man were haggling over her bride price like farmers at market, both hoping to turn a profit on the mating of a highly prized animal. And the chosen stud was to be the Beast of Agincourt.

  Sister Supplice had been right after all.

  That first night at Meulan, Catherine’s bedchamber seemed awash with weeping. Hot tears of betrayal and bewilderment coursed down her cheeks and shuddering sobs shook her whole body. Queen Isabeau, turning with an impatient swish of her skirts before sweeping out of the room, had told her to pull herself together and be grateful that she had the prospect of a glittering future as Queen of England.

  Full of compassion, Guillemote made her mistress a posset of hot milk laced with wine and spices and sat beside her while she drank it, holding a cloth under her trembling chin, stroking her shoulder and making little crooning, soothing sounds to comfort her in her obvious distress.

  To her new maid Catherine seemed very young, yet they were probably around the same age. But surely, Guillemote thought, a princess must know how things are done: for all her convent upbringing, the concept of an advantageous marriage arranged by her parents can’t have been anything new to her. Still, being forced to marry the Beast of Agincourt was asking a great deal of her, the poor thing.

  Guillemote, born and brought up in the service of the Valois family, was well aware of the Queen’s dynastic scheming for all her children. But now, still with her arm around the sobbing Catherine, she saw the pain and confusion these tactical transactions could cause; she also knew that they did not always work out for the best. Many years ago, Catherine’s oldest sister, the Princess Isabelle, had returned home to France, a widow at the age of eleven after an unconsummated marriage to the English King Richard II. Then, nine years ago, the Princess Michelle had been married to her cousin Philip of Burgundy but these days, having failed to produce an heir to the Burgundian title, she wore a face that could curdle milk.

  The Valois sons were two sickly boys and both dead before the age of twenty. This meant that the next in line to the throne of France was now Catherine’s younger brother Charles, a sly fifteen-year-old with a bulbous nose and pustular skin, the Queen’s last child and the runt of her litter. Guillemote had loathed the Dauphin Charles ever since the day, six months ago, when he pushed her roughly against a wall outside the palace kitchens,
fastened his slobbering mouth over hers, pulled up her skirts, and tried to shove his hand between her legs. After a desperate struggle, she had managed to fight him off but the sound of his crowing, high-pitched laughter still rang in her ears.

  One day, Charles would become king of France. Recalling her revulsion at the sensation of his tongue probing her mouth, Guillemote thought him entirely unsuited for the highest office in the land – but she was only a servant so how could she possibly judge? That sort of thing was for others to decide. All she could do was try to bring some comfort to her poor young mistress.

  Chapter Two

  France, May 1419

  It felt chilly on the river despite the spring sunshine and Catherine pulled her woollen cloak closer about her shoulders. The sumptuous barge which her mother had insisted upon hiring for this important occasion was making slow, stately progress north-west from Paris along the River Oise. Queen Isabeau was determined to create an impression at the meeting which had finally been arranged between the French and English kings with their advisers. They were to meet at Pontoise at three o’clock, to discuss the terms of a possible treaty which, if agreed upon, would include a marriage between the French Princess Catherine de Valois and the English King Henry V. Over the last few months, the reluctant prospective bride had finally been persuaded of the desirability of the union and had been made very aware that she represented the last hope of a royal marriage as the foundation of a strong alliance between the two countries. It had been drummed into her that the alliance would be of great benefit to France: but she was still filled with trepidation at the thought of what was to come.

  On the river bank, an unnecessarily large contingent of men-at-arms rode alongside the barge as it continued majestically on its way. On board, His Royal Highness King Charles VI of France, his crown slightly askew, lay slumped against opulent cushions of crimson velvet. He was snoring open-mouthed after two glasses of the excellent red wine which had been a gift from his cousin, John the Fearless, the Duke of Burgundy, who accompanied them. Sitting between her parents, Catherine watched as the barge rounded a bend in the River Oise and the landing stage came into view. She felt a twinge of nervousness and wondered yet again what the afternoon held in store for her. Her mother had spoken highly of King Henry and described him in glowing terms; but she found it difficult to imagine him.