by Hilda Lewis
And now, Madam they said, Madam, plucking at her sleeve, calling her from her dreams.
Small head proud beneath the crown, full white breasts a-glitter, she rose, stood while the page picked up her train, went glorious in beauty to meet the ambassadors from England, to turn with her graciousness the sting of their defeat into the sweet promise of hope.
CHAPTER IV
“Our Cousin of France pursues us with his offers!” Henry laughed, his face dark above the high jewelled collar. “And such offers! No mention of Normandy, of Anjou, of Touraine; no word of Poitou and Ponthieu. Beggarly huckstering! I say nothing of the expenses we've been put to entertaining these gentry.” He turned his sour glance towards the window at Monseigneur Guillaume Boisratier walking among the roses of my lord Bishop of Winchester's palace. Bishop Beaufort sent a sly glance at his nephew “Yon forget the princess, the lady Catherine.”
“It is not the lady Catherine,” Henry interrupted. “It's France I want. Must I keep reminding you?”
“It is not so much France you want, but to fight for France. If all your demands were met you'd be disappointed and you'd find a way to refuse. After all, the offer is not so mean. Aquitaine together with more great cities than I can name; eight hundred thousand golden crowns—and Madam Catherine.”
“One French crown is enough for me,” Henry said, his face turned still to the window. “It is mine—Catherine or no Catherine. As for their wretched dowry—my ships lie in Southampton waters. I paid Holland well for them—you might say too well. My men are ready, the indentures made. Do you think eight hundred thousand crowns would cover that! I've begged and borrowed all I can lay hands on—pawned my crown even, the great Harry Crown. What I have begged, what I have borrowed, who should know better than you, Uncle? Your purse is the lighter for it!” He swung round suddenly. “What is this tale of tennis balls?”
Henry Beaufort laughed. “They say, Sir, that the Dauphin has sent you a box of balls bidding you exercise your strength till you are grown to manhood.”
Henry's brow cleared, he laughed outright. “I doubt the little Dauphin has so much wit. Have you seen the balls?”
“Not I, nor any man. A tale. Merely a tale.”
“A pity,” the King said. “It could have served my turn.”
“A tale could serve it—tale of an insult, wanton insult to England's King.”
“Yes...yes. It could prick the people well. It might even loosen the purse strings of my Parliament.” He shot one of his disconcerting questions. “Did you put it about, Uncle?”
“You are bent on war,” Beaufort said and did not answer the question. “But all the same it would be better if you stayed at home and begot yourself an heir.” He turned and looked towards the window; Monsieur Boisratier had stopped gesticulating and was walking towards the house. “It's time, Sir, to continue conversations; we cannot, God be praised, keep the deputation here forever!” He looked at Monseigneur Boisratier walking bleakly, fierce nose out-thrust. “The man looks like an eagle...a moulting eagle, but still dangerous. You'll have to make an end, Harry. You've screwed the French well above their offer. I don't see how you can refuse them now.”
“You will find the way, Uncle.”
* * *
Henry leaned smiling against a table, his lean elegance emphasized by the shimmering cloth-of-gold; but his eye was cold, cold and wary. Beyond him his brothers stood still as gilded statues; and behind them his uncle of York, his cousin young March and the Lords in Council, waiting, all waiting. Only my lord Bishop of Winchester smiled, easy, friendly.
“We are agreed at last,” Beaufort said, very smooth. “And we are ready to sign the treaty. We shall, of course, require the Lady Catherine to be brought to us by November...”
“It is my King's daughter we speak of, not a kitchen slut,” Boisratier said, sour.
“Let us say the thirtieth then; November the thirtieth—five months.” Beaufort spoke as though he conferred extra privilege.
“We could not have her clothes made by then, no, nor collect the jewels, either. As for the money about which we have argued so long, we should not have time to coin it.”
The King waited, smiling, careless.
“And besides,” Boisratier said, sharp, “though you are to have Aquitaine, we have no orders as to how it shall be held; whether in absolute supremacy or by oath.”
“There's no order needed.” Anger broke through the King's smiling. “The land is mine. I hold it by right—King of France. The crown is mine and I will have it.”
It was completely unexpected, this old nonsense of Henry's claim; only Beaufort, knowing his man, was not surprised. To Boisratier, proud prelate, it was cold water, dirty water, flung full in the face. His quick temper rose. He bent his eagle's face towards the King; he had no fear of this young man carelessly lounging; he had reduced the Dauphin to tears before now!
“The crown of France? Why you have no right to the crown of England! It is with the true heir we should treat.” His bold eyes fixed themselves upon young March.
“Yet I have the one and I shall have the other!” Suddenly Henry's anger broke. “It's war you want—and you shall have it, too! Go back and tell your master so. Trouble me no more.”
* * *
From the deck of the Royal Trinity Beaufort looked at the King's ships spread out upon Southampton water.
“So it's war,” he said.
“What else?” Henry's brow darkened. He had done exactly what he had meant to do—broken off negotiations beyond all mending; yet the Frenchman's insolence rankled still. “The bold proud priest!” he said. “It was not clever of France to send such a one to treat with us.”
“He played your game,” Beaufort reminded him. He looked again at the massed ships, the great square sails spread like patchwork upon the green water of the harbour. No wonder Henry had not meant to be baulked of his fighting! But—that last meeting with the embassy! In spite of himself he had to smile. The King turned a sour, unsmiling face.
“It was before I took them your final No” Beaufort said. “I thought Boisratier would burst with fury. Do you think my master has offered his daughter with such vast territories, he said—and every word sharp as a gunstone—for fear of your King? I nearly answered No, for love of Harry's pretty face! It was as much as I could do not to laugh in his own!”
“It's well that you controlled yourself.” Henry was sour still. “The man's no courtier; but he's a good churchman—better than you, Uncle.”
“Better chancellor than churchman, I admit it. I reverse the order of the sainted Becket.”
“You'll never lose your life for a principle.” Henry was cold, his deeply religious sense affronted by the frivolity. But he let it pass; Beaufort was useful, a skilled diplomat.
“The lady Catherine...” Beaufort began.
“We are not interested.”
“You liked her picture well enough and no wonder. She's handsomer than any of her sisters. And yet you would have taken Madam Isabella without a penny—and no mention of lands, either, if I remember aright.”
“You remember too much. Mind how you prick me, Uncle. You may yet find yourself in Becket's place and no heavenly crown.”
Watching Beaufort bow himself out, Henry had the swift, the short compunction. Beaufort was the King's man. But Beaufort presumed sometimes. He was apt to forget that his pupil must be tutored no longer.
Walking the deck not best pleased with himself or with the King, Beaufort came upon his nephew Clarence staring upon the bright water, fascinated by the gay pattern of sail and banner, pennant and shield.
“A great sight,” Thomas of Clarence said.
Beaufort shrugged. “The King should beget an heir first. It's his duty.”
“A pleasant duty one would think!” Thomas laughed. “But Harry hasn't touched a woman since his crowning. Those games don't come easy to him now.”
“He'll learn them again quickly enough. The lady Catherine is hot for him so I
hear.” Beaufort smiled his sly, dissolute smile.
“It'll need more than that to melt his coldness. More than beauty, more than wit. And even then—he'll still find no bed so sweet as the soldier's mattress.”
“Odd!” Beaufort shrugged elegant shoulders. “Henry is twenty-seven—a full man, as many a Cheapside wench has reason to know. And yet for two years, two whole years—no mistress; no strumpet, even. And here is the lady Catherine fresh as a rose—and he's cold as ice. You're right. He has no lust for women now; his whole lust is for war.”
* * *
It was hot in Paris. Even in the garden of St. Pol a sudden turn of the wind would bring the stench of gutters. Catherine was used to that; she hardly noticed it, where she walked thoughtful, gown trailing.
How soon before Henry of England appeared, like the god of War? And who could stop him? Her father sick and out of his mind? Or the old man his deputy, her great-uncle of Berri enjoying the summer in the country? Or Burgundy the great windbag hunting in his duchy? Or Louis her brother? Another windbag with his talk of riding to Rouen to send the invader packing...Louis always talked too much. For what had he done? Sent his wife away so that he could the better disport himself with his mistresses. Who then to stand against Henry of England, to pull together the four ragged corners of France?
She was not sure that she wanted anyone to stand against Henry, to pull together the ragged corners of France. Her own fortunes were bound up with his. She could not doubt it. In spite of his ships, in spite of his armies, he had written to her father. He preferred peace to riches, so he said; he would be more than content with his own inheritance if he might share it with his very dear Cousin, the noble Catherine.
“His own inheritance—and what does he mean by that, the hypocrite?” Michelle had said. “He means to gobble up all France and you, too. So look out for yourself, our very dear Cousin, the noble Catherine.”
Well, let Michelle mock, Michelle green with envy! She stooped to pull a rose; ran her finger upon a thorn, sucked at the tiny-wound.
They said he was a lion at the kill, a tiger, a leopard...The thought was exciting; a little frightening. She saw the bead of crimson well, drop from her finger.
She hoped there wouldn't be too much bloodshed. A little; just enough to show he was conqueror, that he had come to claim his prize. She would like to be given to him—the prize for valour...
She turned to the sound of footsteps—Michelle come to say Goodbye. Michelle was smiling. “Finished, Henry of England,” she said. “Finished with grabbing at our crown, and lucky if he can keep his own! A plot; on the point of sailing. To put his cousin on the throne, the true heir. Perhaps you could change your bridegroom and take milord March instead. But then he's married; impotent, too, they say. Or are you besotted still with the handsome Henry? Well, I'd advise you to think again. God has spoken with a clear voice.”
“It isn't God. It's men. Traitors.”
“It is God. Three of his ships are burnt in harbour.”
“Men could do that, too. Well,” she shrugged, “there are still ships enough.”
“But God has spoken,” Michelle said again, a little stupid.
“Are you God's Trumpet? Goodbye, Michelle, take care of yourself...and your husband. My greetings to Philip...if you see him.” She brushed the sallow cheeks with cold, fresh lips.
* * *
Isabeau said grim, “Your hero has sailed. The rebellion—so!” The arched foot in its long-toed shoe ground upon the floor. “The leaders hanged. He is not one to waste his time, this Henry. A flock of swans swam about his ship as it moved to open sea. He took it as an omen.”
“The swans?” Catherine took in her breath. “His own bird—bird of his device.” One might indeed say God had spoken!
“Well now, I suppose, we must look for this hero of yours at Boulogne!”
It was Isabeau who received the messengers, who wrestled with the news, fitting this and that together in her shrewd mind; she who gave the orders. For still the King was sick; and still Burgundy hunted in his duchy, while the aged Berri took the summer air, and the Dauphin sported with his lights of love.
* * *
A sweet August day; but Isabeau the Queen sat huddled over the brazier. She lifted a heavy, anxious face to Catherine rosy and fresh from the garden.
“Your hero has taken Harfleur,” the Queen said. “It needs a prophet from heaven to read his mind. We looked for him at Boulogne and where should he land but Caux? And before you could look round, there he was storming Harfleur. He'll never take it, we said. And yet he has taken it, the great strong city—and the Seine valley lies open.”
She cast her grim, shrewd look at Catherine. “The news pleases you, my girl. Oh yes it does, you can save your breath! But I'm afraid. I'm very much afraid. The man is after the crown. And your brother—what becomes of Louis?”
Catherine shrugged. “He's a fool. The tennis balls—what possessed him? So small, so stupid, so deadly an insult!”
“Who knows the truth of that? It's not unlike Louis to make bad worse with dangerous jokes. And yet it's all a tale, or so I think, put about by England. But Louis plays their game—one moment bragging of his cleverness, and the next, flat denial. Well, tennis balls or not, blood will flow for it.” She was silent, staring into the thin flames of the brazier. “But still—” and now she was brisk again. “Harfleur isn't the end. It's only the beginning. Harfleur is taken—what then? He'll never hold it. Too many dead; and more, sick. And there's no food; and they march in enemy country. Even his English, his own English, implore him to return. And what can he do but go home?”
“The lion doesn't turn tail.”
“He may be taken in the net. Oh Catherine, my girl, my girl! The blood in you fights against your dearest blood. You love the man...knowing nothing of men. You pray for his success, oh yes you do, I know you well. Your happiness lies with England—or so you think, won by a pretty phrase in a letter. Well, words are cheap enough! It isn't you he wants, it's the crown; he'd take any woman who would help him to it. The crown...the Valois crown. Could you share it thinking of Louis?”
“He'd be happier without it. Let him but wench by day and sing by night!”
“You have a hard heart once it's set. Don't think to match it against this Henry. No man moves him against his will; and no woman, neither—certainly no green girl.” She looked at Catherine so young, so hard...so vulnerable. “Take care,” she said and sent the girl an almost pitying look.
* * *
Henry was on the march for Calais. He would not turn for any man's advising; not even for Arundel sick of dysentery, like many more. Arundel his captain and his friend; thirty-four and dying.
“Home, home,” Arundel kept saying. And on his fainting breath the words were a longing and a lament. “France is not for you—not this time.”
“France is for me—this and every time. How should I turn back now? What would they think of me in France which is mine? How cheap would they hold me in England...” which I have not yet won.
“So few men,” Arundel said, “so many sick. And it's cold...cold.” He shivered so that the pallet shook beneath his wasted frame.
But it was not only the sickness that shook him, Henry knew it well enough. It was winter breathing its icy breath too soon. He took the cloak from his shoulders and threw it over the sick man; bent to warm his hands over the sulky brazier.
...Winter closing down on an enemy country and I, with my sick men on the march. Am I wrong, obstinate with pride? But there is no choice...no choice; turning back I shame myself in the eyes of Christendom...
He looked again at Arundel. The face was grey, Arundel's warm and friendly face. To die in the heat of battle is an easy death, the King thought; to die slowly of this filth, another. He sent his pity for the sick man packing. Keep pity for myself. England will have his bones. But I? If I may not have France, then let France have me—bones and all! He bent over the sick man, spoke, forcing his words throug
h the indifference of death. “Calais. I will take it. I have sworn it.” And it was almost as though he made a pact with the dying man.
* * *
“This Henry!” Isabeau said tight-lipped. “Truly France will have his bones—as he has sworn. For certainly he will not get through to Calais. And don't tell me again about Harfleur! That was unexpected, how could we send relief? But Calais; Calais is different. Now we know the danger; now we have time; now we shall act together, all, all of us. Well, girl, speak! Have you lost your tongue?”
“Burgundian and Armagnac fighting side-by-side! We have yet to see it,” Catherine said.
“We shall see it. Burgundy's a sly snake but it wouldn’t pay him to bite us in the heel, not just now. No, my girl, this time we'll act together And let the Englishman look out with his handful of men and no food; with bridges broken all the way; and arrows behind each tree waiting to find their mark.” Catherine said nothing.
“You think he will get through,” Isabeau said, but you’re wrong. You pray he will get through—and you're even more wrong. How many times must I warn you against this hero of yours, this hypocrite? He walks barefoot through Harfleur to offer thanks to God- and while he prays his brothers hurry from house to house to hang those who haven't made a full declaration of their property. He prays, oh yes he prays; but does he himself heed the prayer of the helpless and the innocent?”
Catherine said, slowly, “Who would? Would Burgundy? Would my brother?”
“Your Henry is God's Soldier—so he tells us. Well, what does he do, this Soldier of God. He turns the helpless out into the open countryside.” Isabeau held her hands nearer to the comfort of the fire. “Women and children, and the old and the feeble—and nothing but the poor rags they stand up in. Just like any other soldier!”
“Not like any other soldier,” Catherine said. “They were fed on the way; bread and cheese, yes and wine, too. And no woman is to be harmed, nor any priest.”
“Oh he's a great one, a hero!” Isabeau said. “He sends a message to your brother offering to settle the matter by single combat!”