by Hilda Lewis
“They should be princes both,” she said as she had said before, and, as before, sighed.
“They are princes both,” Tudor reminded her again. “One day they will stand side-by-side with their brother the King and he will not blush for them.”
* * *
When November was cold with sleet and the giant sunflowers hung upon blackened stalks, she heard that the little King had left Rouen; he was on his way to Paris at last. “God grant they keep him there long enough,” she prayed and counted not upon her rosary but upon her fingers...December, January, February. Let him not come home again till March, sweet Virgin deliver me. Deliver and deliver indeed! She laughed through her fears.
She was growing thin and haggard with her fears—she who in spite of all difficulties had carried her children with joy.
It looked as though her prayers would be answered. Paris had gone mad with excitement over the child. He had been crowned in Nôtre Dame.
“Paris?” she said and beat her hands together. “But Rheims, Rheims. My son's crowning loses value.”
“My lord King makes good precedent,” Tudor told her. “Riding from his crowning, riding through Paris, the crown of France upon his head, the crown of England borne before him. And, carried high, for all to see—the sceptres of both lands. Such a thing has never been seen before.”
“Yes,” she said, “yes...my brother will be hard put to it to equal that!” And though she smiled with her mouth there was no smile in her eyes.
Now she did not receive the messengers anymore; Tudor brought her the news, carefully sifted.
There had been prayers and processions and feasts beyond the tongue of man to describe—she brightened at that. But he did not tell her of the heart-burning because the whole ceremony had been too English; nor of the anger because my lord Cardinal Beaufort had thrust himself forward; nor of the quarrelling over church dues; nor of the disgraceful arrangements for the coronation banquet when those who should have been courted—the great officers of Paris had had to fight their way across a muddy courtyard, had been left to find their own seats...already taken at a table empty of food.
He told her instead how well the little King had borne himself; and how all Paris, gentle and simple, had come to bend the knee, all Normandy flocked to do him honour.
“He is well, but tired; naturally—so little a child and so great the duties,” he told her. “They have taken him back to Rouen to rest before bringing him home.”
“Home? When will that be?” Her very voice was thin with worry. Looking at her, the bloom rubbed from her cheeks, her eyes haggard, his heart smote him. He had taken her once without love—and she had conceived. He was superstitious enough to believe no good could come of it.
CHAPTER XXXII
The King was coming home.
My lord Bedford and my lord Cardinal Beaufort were not, it seemed, of good accord. There had been differences both great and small; now the proud stomach of Monseigneur could brook no more. He was returning with the King at once.
At once! Catherine went clumsy, to the window; beneath her the garden lay locked in December frost.
The King had already left Paris. How long before he reached London? How long? It could be as soon as January. Sweet Virgin, let it not be January. March, give me until March. March would see all safe. But February, February I must have...
Cold cheek against cold glass, she took courage.
And why not? The journey from Paris to the coast could not be hurried. Everywhere the people would demand to see the new-crowned King. There would be processions, banquets, thanksgivings. Sweet Virgin, spin out the time!
January passed slow as a nightmare; but still it was passing. From day to day she allowed herself to hope.
* * *
The King had landed at Dover.
She took in her breath sharply, swayed a little; pulled herself together.
Still there was hope. He was to make a slow progress towards London; in England, too, the people wanted to see the King.
Sweet Virgin give me till March. Let it not happen again, the nightmare of shame and fear...not again. In God's Eyes lama true wife. Beseech Him, Immaculate Mother. Two months and I am safe. Six weeks; a month, even; a little, little month...
But the Virgin, it seemed, was not listening.
* * *
The King was in London.
Johanne herself brought the news, urging her retinue along glassy roads, beating the messengers by a short hour.
The King had commanded his dearest mother to the court.
And in the park the tops of elm-trees were not yet even faintly flushed. How could they be? Mid February.
Catherine's world span, revolved darkly. She felt Johanne's fingers bite into her shoulders. The world stood still.
Looking at this whey-faced Catherine great with child, Johanne felt the moment's exasperation. Catherine was old enough at thirty to behave with more sense. This third pregnancy was madness.
But seeing the children she was silenced. Catherine was made to bear beautiful babies. Carrying them she had bloomed like a rose. It was all wrong now that she should be pinched with fear. She had been born to lie in a King's bed, to carry her children with triumphant joy. If life conspired to make her carry them in secrecy and in fear, was it her fault? And one might respect her for taking love and bearing its fruit; but what wisdom to keep such delicious fruit so near the tree? She'd been lucky so far; but it looked, now, as though her luck had turned.
“Harry expects you—looks for you every day,” Johanne said.
“He doesn't look to see me like this!” Catherine cried out, her mouth wry. The old terror was clawing again. For my son—what scandal? For myself—what shame? For my love—what death?
“You were not at his crowning; it's a thing he can't forget. Oh Catherine, Catherine, it's idle to chide; and when I see your children God knows I cannot chide—there is not a woman in the world but would envy you them. But what will you do? When the King commands, even the King's mother must obey.” She felt the child move within her.
...A few little weeks; three; two, perhaps, and she could go proudly before them all. Mary help her for the sake of her Sweet Son!
“Harry counts the days,” Johanne said pitying her. “And it's a new Harry you must reckon with. He's come back a little defiant, a little swollen in his own regard; very much the little King. And can you wonder? But my lord Warwick will not stomach it, natural though it is—a little boy and two crownings! My lord has complained to Parliament, did you know? And Parliament has dealt firmly with Harry. They've admonished him to obey his Governor. Oh, but they've sweetened the pill! No prince in Christendom ever equalled him in wit and understanding, so they told him. But he's a little boy still—they made that clear—and he must submit himself.”
Such wit, such understanding! Catherine, forgetting for the moment her own trouble, sighed over her slow and backward little boy. Her heart bled for him. The glories of his crownings; and then public rebuke.
“Warwick!” she said. “I could whip him for this with my own hands.”
“It's hardly the time for such exercise,” Johanne said drily. “But I warn you again—Harry is not easy. Even a saint's head may be turned, sometimes; especially when it is such a little saint. And there's always been that obstinate streak without which there can be no saint. He wants you; and he's determined to have you. Madam Eleanor has been at his ear. She finds it very odd you were not at Dover to welcome the King. But that you should not be in London, passes all belief! I'd almost say she'd had some sort of hint—except that she's always been suspicious about you.”
Catherine shrugged Eleanor away. “My lord Governor?” she clung to her last hope.
“Permits it, of course. Warwick knows very well it's natural for a child to see his mother—so long an absence! Severe he is, but not unnatural.”
“What must I do? Johanne, what must I do?'
“What can you do—but go? You cannot fall sick of a f
ever every time. Courage, girl. The thing is bad; but not so bad. This isn't a public occasion, it's a private visit to your son. You could keep your room...your bed, even. We shall think of something, never fear. Besides—” she cast a brisk eye over Catherine, “it may be that Heaven will settle the matter first.”
Now day and night was a nightmare; in sleep her fears returned threefold. She would awake sick from her dreaming; it was always the same dream and she could dream it several times during the night.
She was at Westminster before the whole court. She walked the length of the great hall, her belly thrust out before her. She heard them titter behind their hands. She moved towards the throne. As she made her reverence the birth pangs took her. She heard the cruel laugh, the beastly laugh of Eleanor, the dark witch. She saw contempt freeze upon the face of her son—her young son and her King. She cried out in anguish; she who had never cried out in travail, weeping because of the contempt in the face of a child.
And she would awake, the tears on her cheeks, the terror in her heart. Nor could she be comforted for all her love's arms about her.
And in the daytime it was worse; she bore her double burden—the reality; and the memory of her dreaming.
“You shall not go,” Tudor said. “Let what come, come.”
“Go or stay it's all one,” she said. “As for what may come—it will be Harry himself and Madam Eleanor with him, she's forever whispering in his ear. No, go I must and bear my shame as best I may.”
“There is no shame,” he said. “What are the laws of man? The priest married us and all men shall know it.”
“It would be your death-warrant,” she said. “And how could I live having brought you to your death?”
He was obstinate as she had never known him—the Queen's honour came first.
“It's your death-warrant,” she said over and over again and could not be comforted. “Your death-warrant. And still you are Welsh and still our children are bastards and I brought to shame. Oh,” she said, “the gods may well laugh! We are wed by God's Law and not by man's. But if man acknowledges God's Law in this, then you are doomed.” She began to laugh. “Through Gloucester you will die, die for the sin of marrying me—through Gloucester who brought Jacque to misery and ruin; and then put her aside to marry his harlot. Yes, the gods may well laugh and we with them.”
There was no stopping her laughter. The wild, high sound that brought Johanne hurrying. Nor did the laughter cease until he had sworn to keep silent. Then, indeed, the laughter stopped and the tears fell.
* * *
The litter swayed and dipped along the rutted road. Catherine sat very still and quiet, leaving all to God. Tudor had done his part; she had been well-screened when wrapped in a wide fur cloak against the bitter cold, she had stepped into the litter. She had moved, obedient, quiet as a man about to be hanged whom they have drugged against fear and hope.
The litter slipped and skidded over the ice. Sweat poured down her cheeks; she could feel, in spite of her furs, wet patches between her shoulder blades and beneath her arms. Tudor had wanted her to ride in the great charette; Johanne had insisted upon the litter and Johanne had been wise.
Now the pains were beginning. Soon they would come faster, stronger...
The winter trees moved past them; eternal black upon eternal white.
The pains took her, wrenched her apart. Guillemote wiped the Queen's face.
Johanne ordered the litter to stop.
In a lambing-hut Catherine of France, Queen to great Henry, bore her child.
* * *
She was exhausted when she reached Windsor where she was to lodge; but the next day they took the road again. The great charette went more smoothly than the litter and she slept most of the time. She looked weary, pale and smudged with fatigue; but, Johanne thought, only as much as might be on a long winter journey. There was little else to mark her labour—she had always borne her children easily.
Catherine lay content between sleeping and waking. Her dear love was safe and she no more exposed to scorn. The new born at her breast, was a drowsy pleasure until, nearing Westminster, Tudor came to take the child away. Then, fully awake, she clutched at her baby, pressing the tiny head to the fullness of her breasts. “This at least he shall have of his mother. Oh,” she cried out, “so small a thing, so small...” They could not know whether it was of the child she spoke, shaking her pitiful head, or of the milk she gave. Forgive, forgive she besought the unconscious child.
She went on talking to it after they had taken him away.
What can I do? Destroy a man for no greater sin than being our father? For your begetting he could hang. A little while, yet a little and we shall fetch you again...
But she knew they should never fetch him again; that being given, unnamed, a foundling to the monks as Westminster he would never live free in the sweet world again.
Did she then do the child so great a wrong, giving him over to the service of God? She knew well that she did. She gave him not for love of God but for love of her lover and for love of herself.
She could not quiet her conscience nor her fears.
* * *
Harry the King came down from his throne, ran to his mother. He looked at her sweetly, crying out that she was wearied with travelling, blaming himself for his eagerness to see her. He was so lovely, this young son of hers, so gentle and so kind; but dearer than the royal child, than all her children, was the child she had abandoned.
Harry treated her royally. She lay in the Queen's chamber her bed heaped high with soft woollen coverings; and the King had brought from his own bed a rug of white fur. The great fire leaped in the wide hearth; the candles flung a golden light. The women had brought her wine and wastel bread and chicken; now, rested from the rigours of her journey, she lay back upon the pillows and the King sat upon a stool at her side.
He had more assurance, she thought, chatting away of his journey into France; but sometimes he would stop, looking about him as though my lord of Warwick stood there threatening him because his tongue wagged too free, even though it was but with love for his mother.
She asked him whether he had seen his grandmother and her cousin of Burgundy.
Our Cousin of Burgundy had been away with the armies; but our grandmother he had seen. She had stood, like any stranger, curtseying to him from a window at St. Pol and he had asked to visit her. “But I didn't like her. I couldn't help it, even if she is our grandmother. She didn't look a nice person. And she's ugly. Her eyes were watering like the eyes of old people; the water was running down the paint on her cheeks like little rivers. She kissed my hand and left her mouth all over it—sticky and red. She's very ugly...”
She sighed, thinking of Isabeau's famous beauty. “We must be sorry for those who are old. We all grow old,” she said.
“You are old,” he said with his child's simplicity. “But you aren't ugly. Kind people can't be ugly Father Netter says; goodness shines in their faces. But she...she looked hard. Like stone...like a greedy stone.”
“You are not very kind yourself,” she said. “You must pray for a better heart.”
“Yes I will...but it would take a miracle, I think, to change my heart about her. And now, don't you want to hear about my crowning?” He dismissed Isabeau. “I tried to remember everything for you. That's why I wanted you to come quickly, before I forgot. Can I tell you now?”
She nodded smiling, settled back on her pillows to listen.
“Well, we left St. Denys in the morning—about nine o'clock it was. Such a procession! Hundreds of knights riding in the very front—all the cloaks and tabards and lances and pennants. It was lovely. And after them, the peers of both my realms.” She had to smile at his charming childish pride. “And archbishops and bishops—” he threw out his hand. “So many I can't remember them all. No-one could. And all the people were standing each side of the road to see me go by and they were roosting in the trees like great fat birds; and they were all cheering like mad. They
liked me, I think. It sounded as though they liked me. Well, when we got to Chapelle—that's halfway to Paris...”
“I know,” she said softly, “I know...”
“Oh yes, I forgot. All the burghers of Paris came out to meet me; and they all wore doublets of rose red silk and hoods of corncockle blue. And after them rode nine knights—the nine worthies they were called. There was Samson and Alexander and...I forget the rest. Oh yes, there was Charlemagne…”
“You shouldn't forget Charlemagne.”
“No. And I didn't forget, did I? Well, after the nine worthies came the Lords of the Parlement; and after the Parlement Lords there were hundreds and thousands of important people and they were all bowing.”
“But the people,” she said, “the common people.” And remembered suddenly how this child's father had courted them when it had paid him to. “Those who weren't wearing silks of crimson and blue. They can be important too...though sometimes we forget them.”
“I didn't forget them. I couldn't. Because they smell. They all shouted Noël and they cheered and I waved my hand and I didn't mind the smell. Then we got to St. Denys and there was a most wonderful thing. There was a great shield over the gate much taller than the tallest man, because—guess why?”
He didn't give her time to guess but chattered on; she could not but be surprised at her silent little son.
“There were real men inside it, real live men—inside the shield! One man stood for the burghers of Paris and one for the Church and one for the University and...I can't remember the rest. And they stood and they didn't blink an eye and it was very excitement-making.
“Well, when we got through the gate and into Paris, was the nicest thing of all. Three girls gave me three crimson hearts; they were pretty girls.
“The first heart was a little box and I opened it; there were two doves inside and they flew away. The second heart had a lot of little birds inside—larks, I think. And I set them free, too, and they flew away singing. The third heart was best of all. It was full of roses and violets. I was surprised; because you don't expect roses and violets in cold winter, do you? And I shook them out of the heart and they fell over me and over my Uncle of Bedford and over my Uncle the Cardinal and over my lord Duke of York and we all smelled like the saints in Heaven.”