by Hilda Lewis
Catherine did not understand that. Michelle? Michelle was but twenty three. How could she die?
It was as though Death put his hand on Catherine's own shoulder, grinned through empty sockets into her eyes.
How should Michelle be dead?
A fever; a flux. Duke Philip did not know. How should he? Michelle had died in Ghent. A soldier had no time to indulge in speculation. Or in grief. A wife lost hardly mattered; but a town...a town lost was another thing.
“Poison,” Isabeau said; and she said it as though it was not a guess.
Catherine's eyes went dark in her head. “Poison? What harm did Michelle ever do?”
“The harm of being alive. Men and women die; some because God wills it, others because man wills it. In Michelle's case—a woman. I'd stake my hope of heaven it was the de Viefville woman.”
“No...no.” Catherine's voice came out in a whisper. “Michelle loved her dearer than a sister.”
“And how dear do sisters love? What a ninny it is! When will you learn to look deeper than the surface? The creature had her reasons—Philip's latest mistress! Everyone knew it.”
“Michelle?”
“Michelle!”
“And she kept- the creature as her friend?”
“What else? Nothing to do—short of poisoning; and that wasn't Michelle's way. And if it had been—” Isabeau shrugged, “plenty to take de Viefville's place.”
“But...” Catherine was battling with a new horror. Michelle not only dead, but murdered; murdered by her own familiar friend. Her hands went out as though to thrust the horror from her. “No...no.” She tried to reassure herself. “The creature wouldn't dare.”
“She's fool enough to dare anything for a chance to step into the shoes of Madam the Duchess.”
“She's married already.”
“A husband's easily accounted for—the same little dose that finished Michelle. But my good son-in-law will never marry her; he'll fly for higher game. Besides, he'd have to reckon with his own people. They're disgusted enough already. They arrested the creature on suspicion and Philip sent orders to set her free. No evidence, he said. In Ghent they're bitter; they loved my poor girl.”
A good thing, Catherine thought, pitiful, someone had loved Michelle. Her father was so frail now, his envelope of flesh hardly hid his sick soul; and in his mind there was little memory. He did not seem to grasp what had happened; it was as though he had forgotten Michelle altogether. Her mother was sorry enough—when she had time; like Michelle's husband, Michelle's mother was too full of affairs to grieve overmuch. As for Philip, he paid his wife the compliment of a black sash upon his arm; he had paid his father the tribute of the complete suit. No doubt, Catherine thought, his mind was already turning to a new wife. Well, no woman need fear his chastity. As for herself she could not forget that she had once taunted Michelle with growing into an ugly old woman...Michelle would never be an old woman now. Odd how that childish prick turned backwards wounding her own heart. Yet, it was strange, she thought. Grief and regret brought her sharpened delight in the summer sunshine; in the light wind upon her cheeks and in the heavy scent of beans in flower.
Like Michelle's mother, like Michelle's husband, Michelle's sister had not time to think overmuch of the dead girl. That was the pity of Michelle, Catherine thought, guilty, one had no time for her.
She was disturbed about Henry. Day by day weariness carved an uglier pattern on his face; etched more deeply lines about his mouth, drove the eyes further within their sockets. Master John Swanforth, Bachelor of Medicine, had come from England and was now in attendance. “Nothing to disturb Madam the Queen,” he told Catherine more than once. “A slight disorder of the stomach...”
She was ashamed to go on asking; his physician should know! But all the same she believed he would never get strong again in France. The voice of England, the will of England would make him whole again.
But Henry had no time to listen to the voice of England. He had dealt with Paris. Now he was for Compiègne to take the surrender; and then north to deal with Harcourt, the archtraitor.
* * *
From her high window Catherine saw him riding back.
Why had he changed his careful plans? What had happened? Could it be ill news from the south?
When she saw him she thought the ill news must be within himself. He looked wretchedly ill. Surely he had come to rest!
He laughed in her face when she asked him that. The little Dauphin thought so, too. Henry of England tied by the leg! The enemy had taken advantage of the rumour to march against Nevers.
Let them march, Catherine said. They had to march somewhere—why not to Nevers?
With a careful patience he told her why. If Nevers fell, communication would be cut off between Paris and Dijon—Burgundy's capital.
“But of course, of course!” Isabeau interrupted with impatience. She could not see him go fast enough.
“Then let Philip deal with it—it's his business,” Catherine said stubborn, worried.
She saw how her husband and her mother exchanged looks at her foolishness; Henry went on explaining with the same dreary patience. “Burgundy lacks infantry. You cannot lay siege without infantry.” She thought this unnatural patience of his more revealing, more frightening than honest anger.
The Dauphin kept them all guessing.
They had expected him at Nevers; instead his armies lay before Cosne.
Is this a master-stroke or a clumsy stumbling upon luck? Burgundy wrote, irritable, worried. Had he the men he would deal faithfully with Monsieur the Dauphin. The infantry—when would Henry send the infantry?
No master-stroke but a clumsy stumbling upon good luck, Henry wrote in reply. As for the infantry, he would do more than send. He would lead it in person.
* * *
He was not well, Catherine thought watching him ride out. He was for Bois de Vincennes to gather his forces; he could not endure, he said, the heat, the smells of Paris. How long would he sit his horse? she wondered sadly. Why did he not, at least, travel by litter? The King of England rides where all may see, the Heir of France gives the lie to his sickness. She knew her answer. But...suppose the King of England could not ride where all might see him, could not give the lie?
She thrust down her fear. Who was she to set her opinion against that of the physicians?
These days at Senlis there was little for her to do; she prayed but without much conviction; she walked in the garden but without much pleasure; she plucked upon the lute—but never the song of the lusty lover. Fate had cheated there!
The University of Paris prayed publicly for the health of the King of England. Was he so ill? She turned puzzled eyes upon Isabeau.
“We are never the worse for a few prayers,” Isabeau said.
Isabeau, it seemed, was right. The prayers had been efficacious. Henry had ridden out with the infantry to join Philip before Cosne.
“Now he is well again,” Catherine said, “praise be to God.”
Isabeau looked at her curiously. There was something like pity upon that red and greedy mouth.
Catherine did not notice it.
CHAPTER XXII
Henry was dead.
Catherine stared. It didn't make sense. He hadn't been well, she knew—a touch of dysentery, fatigue from the long marches. She had been worried, of course. And then there had been the prayers of Paris University and he had got better. He had ridden out to the relief of Cosne.
How could he be dead—a man of iron, a hero, a god?
How could he be dead—and she not there, and she not knowing?
She went on dumbly staring, the eyes dark in her head; the nose sharpened, lengthened in her face. So she would look, her brother-in-law thought, when she was quite old. He pitied her standing there so young...and looking so old...so old.
John of Bedford took her by the hand, led her to a chair. And all the time he thought, Henry is dead. That should stamp sorrow in her face; but not the dreadful bitterness. H
e thought he knew what had set the bitterness there.
He said, “Madam, sweet sister, they could not send...there was so little time.”
“Yet there was time,” she said cold and quiet. “Time for you to come from Troyes—and eleven days to spare.”
He tried again. “Dear Catherine, he was so ill, so wasted. He was ashamed, I think, you should see him so.”
She only said, “How did he die? Did he...?” She could not finish the question.
“He died as he lived—steadfast.” He could not answer the half-asked question, tell her that Henry had said no word of her. “He set out for Cosne, as you know...”
“As all the world knows!” She was bitter.
“But the flesh was weak. He couldn't sit his horse; they had to carry him by litter to Corbeil.”
Corbeil. And the little house. And the musicians. And I holding court. And he riding over from Melun and I hoping for his kindness, and hoping...but I never won it, never...
“He stayed for a fortnight,” Bedford told her. “He was rested. They thought him well again; his spirit was such they could not but think him well again. He set out...and then...” He spread empty hands, let them drop. “They carried him back...to Vincennes. He couldn't ride so they took him by boat. But at Charenton he stopped the boat and called for his horse. He thought they were taking him to Paris; he wouldn't listen to advice. The Heir of France enters Paris riding, he said...”
John of Bedford turned away his head. Her eyes were dry; he could not answer for his own.
“But it was no use...no use.” He spoke, head turned still. “They lifted him from his horse and carried him back to Vincennes, back to his bed...”
The bed he was never to leave again. They knew, they must have known...and no-one thought of me...
“The day?” she said. “What day?”
“The thirteenth.”
“Eighteen days before he died.” There was time to send for me, time and to spare. Had he himself known he was to die? And had he asked for her? These were questions that must be asked...and could not be asked. She felt her way.
“Could he speak?”
Bedford nodded.
“Did he know what it was he said?”
He nodded again.
She was silent a long time. Then, “What was it he said?”
“It was before...the end,” Bedford told her, raked to the heart remembering. But she had the right to know. She had not been there; and it was her right.
“He was dying and he knew it. He was very cold. He sent for the physicians and he asked them how long he had to live. It is in God's Hands, they said. You may yet make a good recovery.
“His eyes were dimming then; but they were clear enough to read dissembling. How long have I left? he asked again. And, dying as he was, no man dare deceive him. At the most two hours, they said.
“He called the others to his bedside—my uncle of Exeter, and Warwick. He was peaceful and not afraid. How should he be afraid, God's Soldier?”
Catherine said nothing, cold and upright in her chair.
His mind was clear to the end; and he did not send for me.
“First,” Bedford said, and he found it hard to speak, remembering the dead man he had loved beyond all men, “he asked pardon of God for any wrong he had done in his life. I think God will not find it hard to forgive him. He thanked us all who had worked with him, fought with him. He didn't forget the humblest fellow.”
But me? Did he forget me?
“To you, brothers, and to every soldier, I give thanks, he said. And for a while was silent. Then he spoke again. It was not for greed of power, nor for glory, nor for any other cause I came into France. And his voice was steady, his mind clear. It was only that I might gain peace and my just rights. He stopped again. He was plainly sinking. You could see he was gathering his strength for his last words.
“Before I sailed into France I was told by holy men, men of good counsel that I ought to fight...that I should fight...
“He was silent again. Then he turned to me. Be gentle and loyal to my little child, he said. For the rest—it was for the ordering of his affairs,” Bedford shrugged pretending to make little of it.
“Yet he spoke of it.”
He nodded. “I am to govern Normandy until the King comes of age. He besought us never to make peace with your brother, the Dauphin, but always to seek the friendship of Burgundy...a wise council...”
She nodded, impatient.
“Burgundy is to be regent for your father. And, if he will not, then I, myself, to take it. My brother of Gloucester will act in England for the King.”
...But Gloucester, rash Gloucester? Where's the wisdom in that? Who can lean on Gloucester for counsel? I need a wiser head than his...
Bedford knew how her thoughts ran; he said nothing as to them, continued his story. “Then he signed the others to withdraw a little, but me he held fast by the hand. And he asked for his priests and his confessor, and he said with them the seven psalms of penance. It comforted him, I think. When we came to Build Thou the walls of Jerusalem he signed that they should stop...his voice was failing...”
Again Bedford turned his head aside but she looked straight ahead; no sign, even now, of tears.
“He said, Oh Lord, had it been Your Will to let me live...when I had established France in peace...I should have gone to Jerusalem; I should have rebuilt her walls and driven out Your enemies...”
Behind her face of stone her wild thoughts battered. Can such things be? A man takes leave of all he loves; remembers his child and his brothers; remembers his soldiers and his servants; remembers his politics and his policies; sets all in order. But for his wife, his wife...no thought, no word...
“Then he received Extreme Unction; and, afterwards, I think he slept a little, for suddenly he cried out in a voice of torment—he God's Soldier—from some dark dreaming, Liar! You lie. My portion is with the Lord Jesus. It was pitiful; it was terrible. They put a crucifix into his hand and he lay quiet, the bad dream gone. On his face was peace. It will stay with me always...to be my comfort.”
But why was I not there to take my comfort also?
“So he lay and spoke no more until the end. Then, at the last, he opened his eyes and said very low, knowing clearly what it was he said. In manus tuas, Domine...and the crucifix fell from his hand; and the hand in mine dropped...
“It was near two o'clock and the night dark but warm with the day's heat when my brother entered into his rest.”
She said, stiff in her chair, “Policies and psalms. One eye on earth and the other on heaven. As he lived, so he died! Well, since, dying, he did not disdain to talk of his policies, I need not disdain them, living. I accept them all—but not our brother of Gloucester. Not Gloucester. I need a wiser, cooler head.”
He went crimson. He said, “Madam, Sister, shall we leave this till later?” And could not tell her now that Henry had cut her out from all part in the Regency—and in her son.
“One eye on earth and the other on heaven!” she said again with shocking bitterness and stiffly, skirts trailing, went from the room.
* * *
For all her youth Catherine bore herself like a great Queen. She sat there like a statue of Our Lady to receive their condolences; they could not know she was rehearsing her part—Dowager Queen of England and Co-regent.
Isabeau came leading her husband by the hand. Charles played with his cup-and-ball, shaking the cup with wide, lunging movements. He looked about him, missing someone; he opened his mouth to ask Isabeau. Catherine saw her mother pale beneath the paint so that the red-and-white stood out in patches, lead him away. She thought, Old and witless, he lives; and Henry dies. Where is the sense in that?
She did not weep; nor speak, except when she must. She was controlled with Bedford, and sensible, when he came to discuss the funeral arrangements.
Yes, she agreed, yes, yes...And is it my husband of whom they speak, Henry whom once I loved? Who loved me one night, only
, and got me with child? Henry whom I cradled on my breast when desire failed? This is some unknown man whose death touches me less than it touches others, since I knew him less than others...since he died remembering them all, all '...and forgetting me. It is a thing I can never forget...
The embalmers were at work upon the body that with hers had taken the blessing of the marriage-bed. Bedford came to consult her about the effigy for the funeral cart. “An image moulded of leather,” he said. “The likeness is wonderful...” He stopped, wanting to warn her lest she break down and weep at last, before this Henry that ail-but breathed. But seeing her calm, cold, even, he went on. “The royal robes, of course, the crown, the sceptre.”
“Yes,” she said again. “Yes, why not?” For the effigy in leather was no less a mockery than the living man dying without thought of her.
“Four horses to draw the cart,” he said. “The trappings to bear his arms—England; and France; together with England and France quartered. And, we thought, the arms of King Arthur, also, arms like his own unbeaten. Torch bearers to march either side and a company of men-at-arms—five hundred, would you say?”
She nodded.
“And each upon a black horse—the arms reversed, of course. And, behind them, Burgundy, my Uncle of Exeter, James of Scotland and myself...”
And, Yes, she said again, yes.
And all the time she thought, If he did not think of me, then I must think for myself. If I was not his love, at least I was his Queen. Remembering the tender years of her son, the spirit of Isabeau stirred. I am the Queen.
* * *
The litter followed the funeral procession at the distance of a league, as was fitting for a woman. Catherine sat back filled with a gentle melancholy induced by the beauty, the solemnity of the occasion. When she entered a town, men and women, high and low, would come to show respect, to weep with her, to comfort her with tales of the high honours they had paid to the dead King—of the canopy of silk carried above the body like the cloth borne above the Blessed Sacrament on Corpus Christi Day. And they would lead her to the church where, tapers burning at head and foot, the coffin rested for the night, and priests, without ceasing, prayed the dark hours through.