by Hilda Lewis
“And the lady?” the Queen asked.
“Looked sad, as I thought.”
“She shall have good reason.”
“As soon as he had set foot in the castle, my lord Duke posted his men. He was, it could be seen, not at ease. He was still posting them when in came du Chastel—the Judas. My lord Dauphin is waiting, he said. So the Duke left his work and rode out. There was a handful of friends with him and myself—my pens well-sharpened.”
“And those friends?” Isabeau was missing nothing.
“My lord Charles de Bourbon, Sir Peter de Giac...”
“The easy husband! It is well seen the pleasure he might get from this! But, the Duke—surely he was armed?”
“His sword, Madam—no more. It was the lord Dauphin's wish. When we got to the bridge my lord Dauphin's men saluted us. On the bridge we found a barrier as we'd been told; a barrier stretching from edge to edge and a little door in the middle.”
“Was your master not warned even then—the barrier before his eyes?”
“Who should doubt the word of the lord Dauphin?”
“Who could trust it? Princes have played false before now; and kings, too.” But not this poor fool whose wits are gone. She cast a sideways glance at Charles who sucked his thumb.
“My lord passed through the barrier—I heard the click of the lock behind us. Shut off from his men! He looked troubled. But there was du Chastel walking with him, du Chastel, false friend. Judas put his arm about my lord's neck and so linked they walked on.”
“And my lord Dauphin?”
“Safe beyond the barrier—he was armed, hand and foot.”
Isabeau nodded—that was how it would be.
“My lord Duke went upon his knees but the Dauphin gave him no sign to rise. Then one of the Dauphin's men caught the Duke by the arm. Rise, he said and he laughed. You are too great a man to kneel long! And I saw how he pressed my master to the ground. The Duke, kneeling still, put out his hand to straighten his sword—it had got twisted behind him. Then someone cried out, ‘Do you put your hand to your sword in the presence of our lord the Dauphin?’
“That was the signal. Du Chastel cried out, It is time, and he struck at the Duke with a battle-axe...” He covered his face.
“Come man, you are not so nice that you sicken at the sight of blood.”
“He was my lord, Madam. And he was kneeling and he was unarmed. The butchers thrust at him with their swords—God save us, part of his chin cut away. And he, dying, and defending himself still, defending himself there upon the ground...and everywhere the blood...”
“And our son?” It was the King who spoke; the vacant look had left his eyes, they were clouded with horror.
“Leant upon the barrier till all was done.”
“So it would be, so...so...” Charles was mumbling in his beard.
“You may go, fellow,” Isabeau said. She turned to the King, speaking, not to him, but rather thinking aloud. “Our son...all France will hate him for this bloody deed. Dauphin he may be; but never the King. I know this people...”
“Madam!” Catherine cried out, “my father!”
This, this, too! Was ever, Isabeau wondered, woman so cursed?
When they had taken him away she cast a cool look upon her daughter. “You are too gay,” she said. “Go find a sober dress. But soon...soon you shall change it for a wedding-gown.”
“Yes, Madam.” But her heart stood still. She was to marry—whom? Her mother must seek a new ally; in that case she herself might be part of the bargain. Burgundy alive had robbed her of her crown. Would Burgundy dead, rob her still?
Isabeau's amused eyes took the question. “You shall have your King,” she said. “And you shall have your two crowns. Listen, girl. All France is sick with our son's deed...for the moment. It is for us to use that moment. Philip—and he is Burgundy now, the little Philip—is not one to lose time. He will not sit quiet under this murder, not though it pushes him into a dukedom. If we are wise, and if we are quick, our son will lose his throne for this. And who shall sit in his place?”
“But, Madam...” Even while heart exulted, head rejected the thought. “You are angry with my brother, but, put another on the throne—your son, your own son!”
“Is he more my flesh-and-blood than my daughter, my own daughter? And who should benefit by it but my daughter...and my daughter's husband?”
In spite of exultation Catherine was chilled. She was frightening, this mother of hers. It was as though, at any moment, one might see a forked tongue hissing from that red mouth.
CHAPTER XII
Henry was restless, irritable with frustration.
“Conqueror of France—and I have no money. Castles and towns and great cities fallen to my hand—and I have no money. Fate herself smiles upon me; Burgundy the blusterer is dead and the Dauphin covered with shame in the face of Christendom. The crown of France is all but mine—and it slips from me. For lack of money it slips from me.”
“The crown shall be yours,” Beaufort promised, “and the money, too.”
“How?” the King asked bitter. “And when?”
“Parliament meets next month, Sir.”
“Parliament!” Henry's laughter lacked mirth. “My people love their hero—but not enough to pay for their love. Oh I know, I know. I've been through all this before. Parliament will grant me a tenth; and, if I'm lucky, a fifteenth also. Convocation will vote me a twentieth on all benefices and...”
“That should see you quite a long way,” Beaufort said.
“You talk as though you were not the rich bishop with every monkish trick at your fingers' ends. There's not a religious house that won't plead remittance for this and that. The Chapter of York is already pleading grace because their house is a-building. And how many will follow them?” Quite suddenly he lost his temper. “Let no man teach me my duty to God and His Church. But must we build in England while France slips from us? Let me win France and you will see how I shall build to the Glory of God! Oh but it isn't only a question of building. It's all the houses great and small making their excuses as they've done time and time again. God visits His Houses, it would seem, with the plagues of Egypt—and then more. If it isn't the drought then it's murrains; and if it isn't murrains then it's raids from Brittany...anything, anything. They will not be able to pay so much as a silver penny, you will see, Uncle, you will see.”
“Yet you may lay your hand upon money and plenty of it,” Beaufort smiled.
“I cannot squeeze out one mark more, not a little mark—except from you, rich Uncle. I have nothing left to pawn; the Harry crown is still unredeemed. And who should know that better than you?”
“But still you may put your hand upon money enough to make all smooth.”
“I am tired of your jesting, Uncle.”
“This is no jesting, Nephew.”
“Then it smacks of witchcraft.” Henry was sour.
“Certainly it smacks of witchcraft.” Beaufort watched the King's face. “You may seize your witch and fill the pockets of God's Soldier.”
Henry stared. What did Beaufort mean?
Smiling Beaufort told him.
* * *
“Burgundy is dead.” Queen Johanne knitted her brows over the letter. “What now, Mapledon? How will this serve my lord King? Will it help him to his desire; or will it be the end?”
“Nothing will help the King...unless he has money. Without money he must come to the end.”
She shrugged. “It's a thing we all need. Without money everything comes to an end.”
“Yes, Madam,” he agreed. “Without money everything comes to an end.” She caught, she fancied, a warning note. But why? He was her chancellor and steward. He knew, none better, she had given over and over to the King. Lending, Henry called it; but she would never see a penny of it again.
“Without money everything comes to an end,” he said again. “Life...even...maybe.”
Again she caught the warning note.
Wh
en he had gone taking his accounts with him, she found herself strangely disturbed. Backwards and forwards she paced, the long sweep of her gown mirrored in the polished stone of the floor.
Had Mapledon meant anything? What could he mean? Nothing...nothing. The old man was devoted to her service; but old men are prone to fears. She had given enough. Without doubt she would be forced to give again. And again. Until there was nothing left for further giving, nothing...
But for all that she was not satisfied. Her second husband had called her wise; wise beyond women, he used to say. A witch? she had asked him once, laughing; but laughter had died at his look. A dangerous word, he had said—and it was as though he bit upon stone—dangerous, even for a Queen; and, more than all, dangerous for you!
No need to ask what he meant; she had known well enough. Her father. The Bad they had called him, openly accusing him of witchcraft. Her father had been strong enough to laugh at the fearful accusation. But she? These English disliked her, hated her foreign ways, her foreign household. But for her husband's protection then, but for her stepson's now—what safety?
But, she wondered, eyes troubled beneath the jewelled headdress, why think of now?
Because she knew her dearest son; knew his desperate need of money...That last time, Henry smiling, coaxing—all charm; and she, without words, refusing; and that same smiling face suddenly hard...
She found herself wishing she had given him the money. No comfort, now, telling herself she had* given her share with the rest. She was a foreigner. Wouldn't it have been wise to give more than the rest, much, much more? Was it too late?
It was too late now, as it had been too late then; as always, always it would have been too late. Too late because her own nature would not allow her to give. She had never been an easy giver. Pretty miser, her husband used to say, Henry of Lancaster pinching her cheek with scabbed fingers, knowing well the shifts and straits of her early life. He had endowed her richly—she was richer than any dowager queen ever before—so that she should never know poverty's pinch again. But by that time the habit of carefulness had grown upon her. Carefulness? She stopped in her pacing, considered. Not carefulness, she told herself—meanness. Meanness. And I cannot help it. My husband poured riches on me to make life pleasant. How strange if these same riches should make life...unpleasant?
She stopped in her pacing to send for her confessor.
“If your heart moves you to give—then give!” John Randolf said and shrugged; he did not love the King for all his pretending. He bent his subtle glance upon her. “To give in fear, Madam, is not to give at all.”
“Is it not?” She laughed, a little. “Father, we talk not of giving to the King of Heaven but to the King of England. Gold is gold I think however given...or taken.”
“How should it be taken? The King is a son of God.”
“And knows his Father's heart—or so he thinks!” She took a restless turn about the room. “I have been called wise in my time; but how if I turn out to be a fool? How, if saving, I yet lose all?” She shivered. “Oh,” and she laughed again, still shivering. “It may be that I shall pay well for my lamps of Brittany, my anchovies and my fine sheets.”
He peered at her laughing and shivering and talking nonsense about anchovies and lamps and sheets. He said, “You are not well, Madam. I will send Master Petro...”
“This sickness,” she said and went on laughing, “not even my physician can cure.”
* * *
The physic had closed her eyes but it had not quieted her mind. She tossed and turned, aware, even in heavy sleep, of danger.
She was not greatly surprised when she opened her eyes upon her woman standing distressed by the bed. Her mind flew to ill-news; she braced herself to receive it.
“Madam,” the woman said and did not look at the Queen. “Master John Randolf...they have taken him away.”
She did not understand at first.
Randolf? Taken?
“It was the King's officers, Madam...”
And now she understood. They had taken her confessor. It was the first move.
“But, Madam, Sir John will tell you himself; he is waiting.”
So they had left her Mapledon, faithful devoted Mapledon! Then things couldn't be so bad; not bad at all. She had misunderstood about Randolf, all dazed with fear and physic as she was! Strength flowed back to her heart.
“My bedgown, quick, girl.”
She saw by Mapledon's face that she had not, after all, misunderstood; that things were bad.
“Randolf?” And her voice came out in a whisper.
She rallied her courage against the compassion in his eyes.
“Who dare seize my confessor from my own household and no word to me?”
“He was not seized, Madam. He fled and was taken.”
“On what charge?” and she made her lips smile.
“The charge is grave.” Again she saw compassion in the man. “Witchcraft. Seeking to encompass the death of the King.”
“Such nonsense,” she said and tried to laugh. “Witchcraft!” and the word stirred unwelcome memories. “The man is a priest,” she said. And again. “Such nonsense, nonsense,” and spread her shaking hands.
“Nonsense, maybe,” he said. “But who knows how such nonsense may end? How long since Outrede and Brown and Wyche, too—priests all—were tried for witchcraft; yes and found guilty. They escaped the fire, true; but soon—there will be no escape. There is too much talk these days of witches and heretics and seeking the life of the King.”
“Well,” and she shrugged again, “much good may it do them seizing poor Father Randolf. He can tell them nothing—there is nothing to tell.”
“They are sending him to the King in France,” he said and could not look at her. “If I know the holy father, he will confess all that...has not happened.”
“That...has not happened?” and suddenly she knew; knew by the greyness in his face, Witchcraft, That was the key. Randolph would tell all...that had not happened; the King would see to it. She saw him again, Henry, her dearest son; the look with which he had turned upon his heel that last time he had visited her; the time she had not offered yet more money. He had sailed without seeing her again. She should have known, she should have known...
She said, “The man is innocent as my dearest son knows; but he is not brave, the holy father. You are right; he will confess anything—if they hurt him enough. He will sign whatever they demand, however damnable. The Queen's confessor—key to the Queen's money-bags! Money, it seems, will buy everything these days-freedom, life, honour itself. Very well then,” she was easier now, “I will buy him back—at their own price.”
“Madam,” he was humble as though he himself were at fault. “They have taken the household books, the estate books; they have sealed up the moneys, the plate, the jewels “
She looked at him jaw-dropped; she rallied herself. “There is still my dower,” she said, “my incomes...”
“That, too,” he told her. “Castles and manors and farms—everything.”
“All but my life?” And she managed a smile. “All but that.”
She was so white he thought she would swoon. He would have sent for her physician again but she shook her head, dumbly staring. He went on his knee before her where she stood in the rich bedgown; he raised the lovely cold hand, took it to his lips. “And so, Madam, farewell. God be with you, for by His Holy Face no man ever served a sweeter lady.”
She began to shake then, knowing her desolation. He said, “Thomas Lilbourne takes my place. A hard man; but upright.” He rose, moved towards the door. The waiting-woman came forward, could not speak; dumb she made her farewell. “You, too?” Queen Johanne said. The woman nodded, mouth screwed against the tears. “Then I am, it seems, under arrest.” She nodded brightly; their grey faces frightened her. “The charge?” she said. “Mapledon, dear friend, the charge!”
“God alone knows what charge. May He be with you, Madam.”
By the
hateful quiet in the room she knew herself alone, the late September sun slanted still through her window; outside in the gardens of her own Havering, the roses bloomed, the daisies were lavender stars against the old red walls. As she stood, there came to her the first bitter scent of burning weeds.
Winter is upon me, she thought.
* * *
She was ready when they came to take her. She was too shrewd not to know that the removal of her household was the preliminary to imprisonment. Her dearest son needed her money. But it would be done in seemly order; that just and holy Soldier of God would not permit himself to rob her without an excuse. But—prison? What excuse worthy of that?
There was still no charge. But she knew by their faces it was something horrible. She did not know where they were taking her. The Tower, perhaps? Sweet God, not the Tower!
It was not the Tower. It was the dear familiar manor of Rotherhithe. Her relief was so great that she could have found it in her heart to weep; but she was no weeper, she! She walked careless-seeming under the falling leaves into the well-known hall and forgot, almost, in that first moment that this was the King's manor and not her own.
And still no charge. How then could she think upon her defence?
It was pleasant though at Rotherhithe; as pleasant as may be for a prisoner with an unknown charge hanging over her head. Within its walls she was free to come and go; free to talk to those about her—at her peril. Sometimes she found herself talking to herself, explaining, extenuating...but there was nothing to explain, nothing to extenuate.
November was not so pleasant at Rotherhithe with the damp rising from the river and shrouding the trees like ghosts. And now it was December she began to feel the damp in her very bones. Her fingers began to swell at the knuckles; the pain was not much but she grieved over the new clumsiness of her hands, the long fine hands her husband had loved.
Yes, it was winter now and winter, indeed!
She was crouching over the wood fire in her chamber when Sir John Pelham came in without permission, and without warning.
He gave her the most perfunctory of greetings.