Root of the Tudor Rose

by Mari Griffith

  Dic y Peipar,

  Joli cwt bach’

  Catherine recognised one word in the jumble of unintelligible ones.

  ‘Ah, jolie!’ she said, laughing. ‘We have this word in French.’

  Henry smiled at her, still holding her hand. ‘It’s not so difficult. They are just babies’ names for their fingers. This is Auntie Thumb, and here’s your porridge finger, the one you use to get at the last scrap of oats in your porringer.’ He held up her index finger and, teasing, made as though to lick it. Laughing again, she tried to pull away as he went on. ‘The long one in the middle is the trickster, then here’s Dic the Piper, and the little tail. You would find it easy to teach that to your children.’ He paused and gave her a quizzical look before going on. ‘To our children, perhaps?’

  Catherine lowered her eyes, embarrassed, and his smile faded abruptly.

  ‘But then,’ he said letting go her hand, ‘why should you teach our children any of that nonsense? There are plenty of children’s rhymes in French and in English, come to that. Welsh will benefit them nothing. Damned country. My principality, my burden. So near to England and yet so very different.’

  ‘Indeed, my Lord? How so?’

  Henry sighed. ‘In many, many ways,’ he replied. ‘Some years ago when I was younger, I was often in Wales for months at a time, campaigning long and hard against the rebel armies of Owain Glyndŵr, who called himself Prince of Wales, though he had no right to. That was my title, before I became king. The heir to the English throne is always known as the Prince of Wales; it’s a long-established tradition. Anyway, that was when I really picked up the language. And this scar,’ he added, fingering his right cheek. ‘I have a Welsh archer to thank for this disfigurement.’

  ‘Oh no, my Lord, it is barely noticeable!’ Catherine was pleased to take refuge in the sweet inaccuracies of courtly conversation. Queen Isabeau, she thought, would be proud of her.

  ‘Perhaps not. But, come, Catherine, you haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘My Lord, you have asked me so many!’ She was trying to keep a light tone in her voice, just as her mother would have wanted her to.

  ‘Only one question is important, Catherine. And that is – could you learn to love me, do you think?’

  Faced with that one question, Catherine had to reply. And she found the reply unexpectedly easy. ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ she said, measuring her words with care. ‘Yes, I think I could.’

  ‘Thank you, Catherine.’ Henry reached for her hand again, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. ‘Thank you. Now that I know your heart, I feel I can continue to press my suit for you and to negotiate for the French lands which are rightfully mine. The prize is magnificent and well worth fighting for. And I am a fighter, a soldier, first and last.’

  It was a grim-faced Queen Isabeau who led the way back to the barge, after the talks had broken up with no resolution. She was already working out her tactics for the next meeting with Henry.

  ‘Tell me, Catherine,’ she said, ‘exactly what did you and the King talk about?’

  ‘Nursery rhymes, Maman.’

  ‘Nursery rhymes?’

  Catherine allowed herself a secret smile. ‘Yes, my Lady. And then he asked me if I could find it in my heart to love him.’

  ‘Oh, he did, did he? And what did you say in reply, child?’

  ‘I said I thought I could, my Lady.’

  ‘Good,’ said the Queen with a self-satisfied smirk. ‘That will give us something to work on.’

  Chapter Three

  Montereau, France, September 1419

  John the Fearless pulled on his boots and stood up to adjust his belt. He was getting too old for this business of negotiation; his fiftieth birthday was on the horizon and he had long been of the opinion that life would be a lot easier if only the Burgundy branch of the House of Valois ruled France, rather than the Orléans branch, the mad ones.

  He tugged at his tunic to make sure it lay straight under his belt. No use turning up at Montereau looking like a country bumpkin, not for a meeting with that little bastard Charles, anyway. At least the sixteen-year-old had grown an inch or two and seemed to have less pimples than he’d had a year ago, but the more he grew up, the more he began to look like his uncle, his father’s brother, the late Duke of Orléans. It might have been a family resemblance, of course, but John well knew what a slut Isabeau could be and he was quite certain that the rumours about an affair with her brother-in-law had been true.

  Of course, that kind of behaviour would have been tolerated, even admired, in a man but never in a woman. Not that this would worry Isabeau, who had a very clever head on her shoulders and scant morals when it came to getting what she wanted. She would have made a good ruler, he thought, though she was a really dreadful mother. When she was younger, she had children every year or so with little more apparent effort than shelling peas, but she couldn’t be bothered to look after any of them. And yet she managed to produce several sons in her years of child-bearing.

  His own wife had done just the opposite. Margaret had given birth to six daughters and only one son among the seven children who lived. But young Philip was a healthy lad and had shown promise from childhood. Now, at the age of twenty-three, he was a man in his prime and a son to be proud of. There had been wisdom in arranging a marriage between Philip and the King’s older daughter, Michelle, cementing a relationship between the two quarrelsome branches of the ruling House of Valois. With luck, perhaps the pair would soon manage to produce a son and then the Burgundian accession to the throne of France would be as good as assured. The Dauphin was the only obstacle to the Duke’s ambition and it shouldn’t be difficult to discredit that pimply little weasel in some way. John the Fearless had nothing but contempt for his nephew.

  A valet brushed a few flecks of dust off the Duke’s shoulders then helped him buckle a scabbard onto his belt. With great care, John slid his sword into it, checking that he could reach the handle easily. The scabbard seemed a trifle long but that didn’t matter: he wasn’t planning a sword-fight. This was just another diplomatic meeting designed to bring about a reconciliation between the dissenting factions of the royal House of Valois. And, if he was to be on time, he had better set off. He opened the door and went out to join the group of advisers who awaited him.

  The Dauphin Charles had stolen from his mother, Queen Isabeau, a long-handled Nuremberg mirror in an ornate ivory frame. He had no conscience at all about this, even though the mirror was very valuable. Now he took it from its hiding place at the back of a cupboard and propped it up on a table near the window, where the light was good. He picked up a comb and ran it through his lank hair then, moving his head from side to side, studied his profile, proud that he really had got the ‘Orléans nose’, as his mother always said he had. He bent closer to the mirror and squeezed the yellow pus from an angry-looking red spot in the crease of his nostril.

  He was not looking forward to this meeting with his father’s cousin, John the Fearless. Fearless? Not according to what he’d heard. The Duke of Burgundy hadn’t even fought at Agincourt. John the Shameless was more like it, thought Charles, though John-the-Entirely-Without-Scruples would have suited him even better. It was well known that he had ordered the murder of Charles’s own uncle, the Duke of Orléans, in the most vile way, by having the poor man stabbed mercilessly and his hands chopped off. Unable to defend himself, he was left screaming in agony, helpless, and bleeding to death in the street. That infamous incident had caused a public outcry and Queen Isabeau had absented herself from court for several weeks, distraught with grief at the cold-blooded murder of her husband’s brother. But John the Fearless had never been called to account for the crime. In fact, he had been granted an official pardon by his cousin the King and that was an end to it, even though it was common knowledge that the King was mad.

  Twelve years had passed since then and, by now, it was far too late to do anything about it so they might as well try to patch things up. For Charles, one
of the most distressing aspects of the whole situation was that John the Fearless appeared to favour the English. He couldn’t understand that, any more than he could understand why his mother was so keen to see his sister Catherine married to the English King. The whole situation was a stinking, sorry mess.

  Checking his appearance once more, Charles brushed a cloud of dandruff off his shoulders before carefully returning the stolen mirror to its hiding place at the back of the cupboard.

  The two parties were to meet on the bridge over the River Seine at Montereau, in order to attempt to reach a truce. There was a pressing need to discuss ways of tackling the problem of the overbearing English presence in France. English soldiers were living off the land, stealing the chickens, screwing the women, guzzling the wine. It had to stop but it never would as long as France was divided, with the two warring factions of the royal family refusing to agree about anything.

  At the stroke of five o’clock, Charles approached the bridge, flanked on either side by a group of close advisers and guards. John the Fearless, with his men, stepped on to the bridge from the other side. They advanced at a snail’s pace towards the fenced-in area at the apex of the bridge.

  The Duke and the Dauphin entered the restricted zone with their men at exactly the same time and it was sealed off behind them. Each was as tense as a taut bowstring. As convention demanded, John the Fearless went down on one knee before the Dauphin, the son of the King. Attempting to rise again, he cursed the long scabbard on his belt which had become entangled in his boot, restricting him. With his hand on the hilt of his sword, he attempted to free the scabbard. It was a movement open to misinterpretation.

  The polished blade of a hatchet flashed in the late afternoon sun and Charles stepped back as his uncle fell forward, a surprised look on his face and blood oozing from a deep gash in his skull. There was a moment of absolute, stunned silence which seemed to last to infinity; then complete uproar. Suddenly, the air was filled with oaths and screams and flailing knives as bodies thudded to the creaking wooden slats of the bridge.

  Death came, swift and vicious, to several men in Montereau that late summer afternoon, before the chaos subsided into an icy horror. As Charles stared, transfixed, at the dead body of John the Fearless slumped at his feet, the angelus bell began to toll its triple measure. The sonorous rhythm found a persistent echo inside Charles’s brain. ‘John the Lifeless,’ tolled the bell, ‘John the Lifeless.’

  Queen Isabeau tore up the third draft of yet another letter to King Henry then, reaching for her quill, she dipped it into the ink horn and began again:

  The Castle at Troyes,

  September 11th 1419

  Your most esteemed Highness,

  I find myself becoming daily more concerned that the business between us is still without resolution …

  She got no further. The door burst open and, startled, she knocked over the ink horn, ruining the fourth draft of the letter.

  ‘What is the meaning of this? How dare you enter this room unannounced!’

  ‘Your Highness, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry …’ Panting hard, her steward dropped to his knee, sending her little lap dog scurrying for cover beneath the escritoire. ‘I have news, Your Highness, grave news concerning the Dauphin.’

  ‘Charles? My son? What kind of grave news? He’s not … surely he’s not …’ Isabeau crossed herself.

  ‘No, my Lady, he is not dead. Pray do not distress yourself. He is not dead. He lives. He yet lives, despite the fact …’ the man hesitated.

  ‘Yes, yes. What is it, man? Spit it out! Despite what fact?’

  ‘The Duke of Burgundy, Ma’am. The Duke of Burgundy is dead. Killed on the bridge at Montereau at the hour of the angelus yesterday. Murdered.’

  ‘Murdered!’ the Queen was aghast. ‘The Duke of Burgundy? Murdered? Not by Charles, surely!’

  The man hesitated. ‘I don’t know, Ma’am. The messenger who brought the news was gabbling in his excitement and, to be honest, he couldn’t tell me exactly what had happened but he was quite certain that John the Fearless was dead. Murdered, he said. Murdered. He was quite certain of that.’

  Queen Isabeau slumped back into her chair. ‘Mon Dieu! This is terrible,’ she said in a hoarse whisper. ‘Go! Go and find out everything you can. I need to know exactly what happened. I want to know my son’s part in all this. I must know. Every detail. And I want the truth! Go, I tell you, this minute! And be sure to bring the Dauphin back with you when you return. Tell him I wish to speak to him as a matter of the utmost urgency.’

  The steward got shakily to his feet and bowed to the Queen before leaving the room. Isabeau leaned forward and put her head in her hands. It was some time before she raised it again.

  When she did, she went in search of Catherine and found her with Guillemote, both working on one of Catherine’s gowns. Guillemote was mending a tear in the hem and Catherine was embroidering a garland of tiny flowers on the bodice.

  ‘Leave that, Catherine,’ Isabeau ordered, ‘and come with me.’ The Queen turned on her heel and left the room. Alarmed by the tone of command in her mother’s voice, Catherine jabbed her needle through the fabric and pushed the garment to one side. Guillemote caught it as it fell to the floor.

  ‘What is it, Maman?’ Catherine pulled the door closed behind her. Isabeau looked around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard.

  ‘It’s Charles. I always knew that one day he would do something stupid enough to get us all into trouble. He has been involved in some sort of brawl.’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Oh, Charles is perfectly well, apparently. Which is more than can be said for John the Fearless, poor soul.’ She crossed herself. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Dead? My uncle of Burgundy?’ Catherine’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘So it seems. Murdered, they say. I knew that he and Charles were to meet at Montereau, it’s been arranged for some time. But it seems the situation got out of hand.’

  Catherine looked stunned. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know, Catherine, I really don’t know. My only fear is …’ Isabeau hesitated. ‘I can only pray that Charles had no part in this murder. But he can be such a stupid boy: between the two of us, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.’

  ‘I can’t believe that … that my uncle is dead.’ Deeply shocked, Catherine was pushing her clenched fist hard against her mouth, trying to stop her lips trembling.

  ‘Apparently it’s true. Of course, we’ll know more very soon. Bad news has a habit of travelling fast.’

  ‘What will happen? What will happen to the family? Aunt Margaret? The girls? Anne and little Agnès will be beside themselves with grief. Michelle, too. And what of cousin Philip?’ Catherine was beginning to appreciate the seriousness of the situation.

  ‘Philip will inherit his father’s title,’ said Isabeau abruptly, ‘of course. And as for Michelle, well, your sister is now the new Duchess of Burgundy. Get used to it, my dear, there’s going to be a new Duke of Burgundy at our negotiations with King Henry from now on.’

  ‘But Philip is young, he hasn’t the experience …’

  ‘No, he hasn’t. But we might be able to turn that to our advantage,’ Isabeau was plotting already. ‘Leave me now, Catherine. I have much to do. Go back to Guillemote and your sewing. There’s no point in upsetting yourself. Who knows, some good might come of all this, though you might not think so at the moment.’

  Isabeau went straight back to her escritoire and began another letter. John the Fearless was dead and she could lose no time in extending her deepest sympathy to the new duke and duchess in their loss. She was even more anxious, though she did not say so, to ensure that the young duke would be prepared to continue the association with the English which his father had favoured. The fragile alliance must not be threatened by the events of the previous day. She needed young Philip of Burgundy’s support for her plans.

  There was one more letter which Queen Isabeau wa
nted to write but, having thought about it, she decided against committing herself to paper. She didn’t want anyone to have proof of what she was about to do. Instead, she summoned one of her closest advisers, the Bishop of Arras, to a meeting in her private chamber and asked him to make an excuse to request an audience with King Henry. She urged him to point out to the English King in a subtle way that not only had the Dauphin Charles disgraced himself at Montereau but that there were, in any case, serious doubts about his right to the throne, doubts which could be verified if need be. Then, of course, if King Charles should happen to die – and he was, after all, gravely ill – there would be nothing to prevent Henry from claiming the throne of France for himself, especially if he was married to Catherine. But if the large dowry he was demanding could not be found, then Catherine could not become his wife. So, in the circumstances, would he not like to reconsider his demands?

  The Bishop nodded doubtfully. He had tremendous respect for Isabeau’s political acumen but was less sure of his own gifts as an actor.

  Henry, a tactical soldier, was bemused by the turn of events. It was quite obvious to him that the murder of John the Fearless had entirely changed the political landscape. John’s son Philip, the new Duke of Burgundy, was inexperienced, as was his faintly unpleasant cousin the Dauphin Charles, and neither young man was mature enough to present a serious challenge to what Henry wanted.

  And what Henry wanted was the throne of France when old King Charles died. He wanted Catherine, too, so much more now that he had met her. He wanted her the way any man wants a beautiful woman. He wanted her in his bed, whether or not she brought the throne of France to their union. The thought that he could now have them both was irresistible.

  It was time to make his move.

  Queen Isabeau had spent a considerable amount of money on dancing lessons for Catherine who, having worked hard with her dancing master for several months, was now confident of her new skills. Her favourite dance, and quite the merriest in her repertoire, was the saltarello, the latest fashionable dance from Italy, and she revelled in the ease and fluidity with which she was now able to perform all the little kicks and jumps required of the dancers. She felt well-equipped to deal with the Christmas festivities at Troyes where the French court, their religious devotions completed, would be spending the rest of their time in music, dancing, and feasting.