by Hilda Lewis
Of course Johanne had heard! They were telling the story everywhere. But since Catherine meant to tell it again, she resigned herself to listen.
“We were at Staines for the night—it's a long journey for a child. The town was crowded, everyone pushing to get a glimpse of the King. They didn't see much; it was far too cold. I had him well wrapped up; daren't even bring him to the window—all that wind! Of course those who came to pay their respects did see him. Harry behaved beautifully. There he sat in my lap laughing and gracious and winning all hearts.”
“His father's way—when he was young. Clarence's way, too. And Gloucester's. The Lancaster way...when they choose. Except Bedford. John's cut to a different pattern; less charm but a true heart—the pick of them all!”
“Maybe.” Catherine was not interested. “Well, next morning bright and early, there I was in the charette all ready to be off and waiting for them to bring the King. And then! The most dreadful roaring as though all the lions in the Tower had broken loose. And there was my lord screaming like any common child; he was stiff as a rod and purple with rage. And there was Astley standing over him and threatening the whip. But for all that, towards the charette he would not suffer them to carry him, no, not an inch.”
“A pin? Or, if one may say it of a king...wet, perhaps?”
“Not the one nor the other! I made them carry him back to the house to see. And the look I got from Madam Nurse when she thought my back was turned! That woman is over-quick with her whippings. What need has he of whipping, the little saint; for he is a saint, because—are you listening, Johanne?—it's as true as my Saviour hears me! At the first step towards the house the shrieking stopped. Quiet. A lamb. Lamb of God. When they brought him once more towards me he screamed again and would not stop until he was within doors again. We tried time after time, and always the same thing. And then, suddenly, I understood. Do you know why he cried?”
“He did not relish the cold.”
Catherine made a gesture of impatience. “It was the Lord's Day—I realized that afterwards. He would not travel upon the Lord's Day.”
Johanne's plucked brows ail-but disappeared beneath the great head-dress.
“But it is so,” Catherine said. “For when we set out next day—and it was colder still you remember—he smiled and crowed like a small angel.”
“A saint, indeed!” Johanne said, her voice dry as ever.
* * *
Catherine was satisfied...up to a point. Her widow's dower had been confirmed by Parliament; with her father's jointure she had an income of over six thousand pounds; and, in addition, with their lands and revenues, all the Queen's houses in England and Wales, except Havering and Langley; they were Johanne's. She was rich now, very rich. And she had her child—my lord the King's Governor had been generous; but not entire control. Exeter himself had chosen the King's governess. And there lay Catherine's dissatisfaction. “It's for me to choose, I should have thought,” she told Johanne. “Still, she's a pleasant creature this Butler, not a bitter thorn like Astley. And—the Privy Council must be at a loss for something to do—they've actually written a letter in Harry's name beseeching his nurses and governors to chastise him as they think fit. Did you ever hear such nonsense? Astley doesn't need much urging. But Butler! Chastise the King—that little saint! she keeps saying.
“All this talk about saints!” Johanne threw up her hands. “It's a good thing you have Astley. You and Butler between you would ruin the child.”
* * *
Her annoyance, for the moment, was nothing; blown on the wind. How could one think of rubs when everywhere the little King's armies were victorious? Day by day the messengers rode in with the glorious news. And Burgundy, it seemed, had simmered down over the Jacqueline-Gloucester affair. He had sworn a fresh alliance—a brother's alliance—with Bedford and with Arthur of Brittany.
“God be praised,” Catherine said. “Burgundy and Brittany fresh-sworn to our side. Now the French crown is ours.”
“Once swearing is enough for honest men,” Johanne told her. “I hate to damp your joy, Catherine, but the only one of the three you can trust is Bedford. My son Arthur takes his orders from his eldest brother; and their first thought, naturally, is for Brittany. It's been blow-hot, blow-cold with them right from the beginning—yes, even as far back as Agincourt. I know my sons and I'm warning you. As for Burgundy—do I need to tell you Philip will break the alliance the minute he thinks fit?”
“It's different now—John's to marry his sister; Anne's the fifth girl, I think.”
“Who can keep count of Burgundy's sisters?” Johanne laughed. “Don't forget he keeps the balance equal between his allies. Arthur is to have the eldest girl.”
“My brother's widow—not enough virgins to go round it seems. Your poor son! Margaret was deadly dull, Louis couldn't endure her. Like having old Burgundy in his bed he used to say.”
“Pleasant for Arthur! Still, pleasant or not, that's a marriage you should watch. When three are in partnership, one had best look out—especially if one of the three includes Burgundy. He'll be plotting and planning to detach Arthur from the alliance. It'll take a subtler man than my son to withstand Burgundy's nattering, Burgundy's promises. I tell you John had best look out.”
“John knows Philip as well as you do; he's no fool.”
“He has the misfortune to be honest,” Johanne said, dry. “And I'll tell you another thing—the success of that alliance depends largely upon Humphrey. If he and his Jacqueline behave themselves all may go well. But if they really mean that nonsense about seeking rights in Hainault, there'll be trouble.”
“You're always looking for trouble!” Catherine laughed. “Jacque and Humphrey have promised Parliament to wait. Why can't you sit back and enjoy yourself when things are going well? Just think of our victories—so many I can't remember all the names. But Cravant—no-one could ever forget that! As for Vermeuil—there go my brother's chances for ever, or so my mother writes.” She sighed a little. “I wish I were in France, again. I'd give my soul to hear the drums and the trumpets and the fifes.”
“And the splitting of cannon stones and the shrieks of the dying! I thought you'd had enough of that.”
“Yes...yes. But the men marching and the music playing. You've forgotten, Johanne—all these years in England! But I don't forget—ever. It's in my blood.” She lifted a glowing face. “John takes the field in a surcoat of blue velvet, my mother says. And he displays two crosses—red upon white—sign of England's double sovereignty.”
“Very pretty! He'd remember, you would think, his brother Clarence and the crown upon his helmet; a target for all eyes and the crown and the helmet and the head beneath them all hacked to pieces. When will they learn, these Lancasters?”
“Nothing could happen to John. A man like a rock.”
* * *
It was mid-March and cold. Catherine was at Havering, Johanne's guest. Her pretty face was wearing a faintly sullen look. She had the wanton blood of her parents running in her veins; and her short loveless marriage had brought little satisfaction. And now her life seemed emptier than ever. True she had her child. But he was so hedged about with his tutors and his governesses that sometimes he seemed hardly her child at all. If she was to be kept from all real part in her child as well as from public affairs, why wouldn't Gloucester let her marry again? There had been more than one suitable offer but he had refused them all. Well, she must be patient. She knew—none better—the vagaries of fate. Between the scrappings of Beaufort and Gloucester she might yet snatch the bone. That the size of the bone was beyond the size of her mouth she did not, in spite of Johanne's warnings, believe. Let her but get the bone! Meanwhile—she shrugged. In France she would have taken a lover already—and no particular need of discretion. But here in England—!
She shrugged again.
* * *
“There'll be trouble over Madam Jacque,” Johanne said and held swollen fingers to the warmth; since her imprisonment she ha
d kept her braziers bright in all weathers against the pain of aching joints. “Now she is truly for the Low Countries, she and her Humphrey. And for all their promises nothing will stop them; not Bedford's advice nor Parliament's displeasure, nor Burgundy's fury. And the scandal is the greater because no-one knows whether those two are truly married.”
“We may take it that they are; she's been accepted by everyone, even the Beauforts.”
“Catherine, Catherine, where are your wits? They play their own game, the Beauforts—to get Master Humphrey out of the country. If he carves a kingdom for himself in the Lowlands—good; it'll keep him quiet. If he fails and disgraces himself—also good. But that doesn't make them truly married—and so they will find—until the Pope speaks.”
“And meanwhile,” Catherine sighed, “Philip rages. Whoever fights against Brabant fights Burgundy—that's the latest. And John stuffs him with sweets to keep him quiet.”
“Sweets that belong to Harry. A fine godmother you chose for him! Auxerre and Macon, and the lordship of Bar; Roye and Peronne and heaven knows how much more besides. All, all in Philip's hands and there they will stay. Madam Jacque will cost us dear. Philip is not a man to satisfy his hunger with sweets; this business will nibble at our possessions in France until nothing's left.”
* * *
Johanne was right. Those two had sailed and no listening to anyone! Catherine heard with anger, Johanne without surprise, that in spite of all Bedford's sweetmeats Burgundy had made a truce with the Dauphin. He had withdrawn his men. No help from Philip for seven months at least. But all the same the patient John, the prudent John was feasting him in Paris in hopes of winning him again.
“All John's sweetening is no use,” Johanne said. “Philip has no intention of seeing Humphrey lay hands on his 'inheritance'. Oh yes, his! He and his father plotted and planned for it.”
“And Jacque was the sacrifice.” Catherine was obstinate with loyalty to her friend.
“And Jacque was the sacrifice—and a willing one at the time. It's over-late for her to object now.”
“Seemingly it isn't. But I think you're making too much of the matter. Oh, I admit I thought so myself once; I thought the Humphrey-Jacque business might send Harry's French crown toppling. But not now; not with Philip's sister married to John.”
Johanne sent Catherine a narrow look. Did Catherine really think the Bedford-Burgundy marriage would keep Philip true? Burgundy was her own cousin, her own brother-in-law...but that hadn't kept him true. Didn't Catherine know that nothing keeps a faithless man faithful but his own interests? And this was the pretty feather-pate who aspired to power!
News came fitfully to England. Hainault, protesting, had received those two—Jacqueline was its Lady, what could it do? But Brabant would have none of them. Their Duke—for whom it did not care a pin—had been insulted. His wife was living in sin with the licentious Englishman. Brabant closed its gates.
Gloucester lost his temper. He harried the town with fire and sword.
“Now he will pay for it,” Johanne said. “And Harry will pay for it, too. Philip is on the march.”
“They should be fighting for us in France, both. And they destroy themselves—and us—instead. Oh fools, fools! They should be sewn in a sack together and dropped into the sea.” Catherine was roused at last.
“The best place for them!” Johanne agreed. “It isn't enough for Philip to have sworn a truce with the Dauphin; he must needs throw out feelers for peace. For peace! And—” she spoke slowly, “Catherine...I must tell you myself, though I hate the telling. My son Arthur. Your brother has made him Constable of France. There go our two allies. What did I tell you?”
* * *
“There's no end to the foolishness of men,” Johanne said. “Here's Philip and Humphrey publicly insulting each other like a couple of bad-tempered women.”
“They're to fight it out—single combat. So my mother writes.”
“Single combat. Never in this world! Philip will fight with his armies till he gets Madam Jacque into his hands. However, that's all to the good. In my opinion Philip's armies are best where they are! Who knows what use he might make of them in France? He's found yet another sister—no doubt your mother has written—and married her off to the Bourbon.”
Catherine nodded, pale.
“Bourbon—your brother's staunchest supporter! Master Philip makes himself all too clear. Still, let us not worry overmuch. We have a stronger ally than Philip—Charles' own foolishness. He may well ruin everything himself.”
“Pray God!” Catherine sighed.
* * *
Humphrey the firebrand was back in London. And without Jacqueline. She had wanted to stay behind, he said. Catherine knew better. Events might have forced her to stay, but Jacque loved her charmer more than she loved her country. As for leaving her behind, Humphrey, evidently, had not been unwilling.
The reason was clear; he had brought it back with him—Jacqueline's lady-in-waiting, that slant-eyed beauty Eleanor Cobham.
The last straw, as far as Catherine was concerned. When Humphrey came to pay his respects, louting and touting with that gallant air of his, she let fly. “You left Jacque behind because you were glad to leave her, glad to bring back the slant-eyed witch in her place!” And it might have been Isabeau herself, raging. “You've made Jacque the laughing-stock and the shame of Christendom. For you she has let her honour be blown upon; for you she may lose her inheritance, yes and her freedom, too. And you! You've tired of her already—as you tire of all your women. And you haven't the decency to hide it. What kind of man are you to insult her with your whore?”
Duty done by her friend, she proceeded, Isabeau's spirit inspiring her still, to deal faithfully with his jeopardizing of her son's French crown.
Gloucester said nothing. He stood bowing and smiling until he had bowed himself out.
“You've made an enemy,” Johanne said.
Catherine shrugged, exalted still with her fury.
“Two enemies. Be sure the Cobham will hear every word.”
“The Cobham!” Catherine was bitter with contempt.
“A spiteful woman,” Johanne said, “if she's subtle enough, can harm even a Queen. And it was all so useless that anger of yours. Jacque will never see her lover again. The good Philip will strip her to her shift and Humphrey won't raise a finger. Why should he? There's nothing in it for him, he sees that now. He isn't one to throw good money after bad. She's seen the last of her gallant lover; the dark-eyed witch won't let him go.”
* * *
And now it was April again and the promise of May sweet in the air. Catherine forgot her quarrel with Gloucester, her pity for Jacqueline, in the excitement of carrying the little King once more to Parliament.
“When I carry him all crowned in my lap,” she told Johanne, “I feel like the Queen of Heaven herself.”
“Then make the most of it,” Johanne said.
Catherine looked up startled.
“Next year Harry will be five. I'm surprised he's been left with you so long. And truly it's time he was with men; you know that for yourself—or would know if your head was not stuffed with dreams.”
Catherine lifted a mute and troubled face.
“My poor child!” Johanne spoke with that dry tolerance of hers. “You're no Isabeau—how many times must I tell you? You were never meant to meddle in politics, nor to have power. You were not meant for a Queen—except to sleep in a King's bed and bear his children. You've been allowed to keep Harry so long because it has pleased the Beauforts. And it has pleased the Beauforts because it has pleased the people. Mother and child—a pretty picture. Now the picture grows a little stale; soon it will lose its appeal altogether. And then—out goes the Queen; thrown out by bishop and knight. The priest Beaufort and the fighting Beaufort will tolerate you no longer.”
“And...Humphrey?”
“Protector without power; the Beauforts have seen to it. And he's lost his personal appeal with the people for the
time being, because of the Jacqueline affair. No-one's pleased with him, not even his loving Londoners. Oh yes, he'd be glad enough to get the King into his hands—a matter of prestige; but it wouldn't do you much good—you've made an enemy there. Oh Catherine, Catherine! You dream of power but you can't even add two and two.”
“King and Power; Power and King!” Catherine wrung her hands. “And meanwhile it is nothing but a little boy and his mother.”
“Who herself is not averse from power.”
“I'm his mother,” Catherine said again.
“It's because you blind yourself with sentimental talk that you'll never wield power. So if it's power you want, there'll be none, make up your mind to it. You've been allowed to see a good deal of Harry; and you'll still see a good deal of him—if you're sensible and not afflicted by the itch to meddle. The King must learn kingship; and he must learn courtliness and the rudiments of knighthood; and those things you cannot teach him. And he must not be smothered by women's petticoats; that's a thing these English will not endure. This is your last Parliament; it needs no witchcraft to know that!”
“It's wrong, wrong.” Catherine was passionate. “A little child should play, he should laugh...even though he be a King. I should have been named among his guardians. It was cruel of Henry; it was cruel and wrong.”
Johanne said dispassionate, “Henry chose his captains with a clear eye; it was part of his success and his glory. Be sure that he chose his son's governors with as much care. He knew you, Catherine. He knew you were not the one to guide the King—neither head nor heart hard enough.”
“You mean I crossed him in one small thing—the house where my son was born,” Catherine said, bitter.
“Disobeyed was the word he would have used. Disobeying Henry in anything, great or small—it was not a thing to be forgiven.”
“The pains were on me. Was it for that he robbed me of my son?”
“Let us not pretend you were taken unawares; we are women together. Wiser heads than yours warned you well in time. And this disobedience, small though you think it, was enough to show Henry how the wind blew. If I knew him—and who better?—he thought the child might inherit your softness and not his hardness. After all—forgive me if I hurt you—your father, your brothers...they were not, let us say, over-dowered with strength, body...or mind. Training, though it can't do all, can do much. Henry had to do what he thought best for his son.”