Catherine leaned forward, looking intently at Jean-Michel. ‘If only some think that, what do the others think?’
My husband licked his lips anxiously. For several moments he seemed uncertain whether to answer her truthfully and then committed himself in a rush. ‘They think he is more fearful of Burgundy’s ruthless ambition and actually hopes to make an alliance with King Henry to cut the duke out. You may not know this, but some pretty important people left court this week – the king’s secretary and his confessor, the Archbishop of Bourges – not the sort to leave their posts without good reason. I helped to harness their baggage train. They were bound for England.’
‘You are right. I was not aware of that.’ Catherine’s gaze swung from Jean-Michel to me, her brow knitted. ‘No wonder the dauphin insists that I remain in Paris. It is no good sealing an alliance with a marriage if you are not in possession of the bride.’ She took a sip of ale and lifted her chin defiantly. ‘Well, all I can say is, if I am essential to my brother’s plans, the least he could do is get out of his bed to give me dinner!’
Had it not been for Jean-Michel’s stable-gossip, Catherine would never have known that she had once again been used as diplomatic bait in treaty negotiations. Nothing seemed to come of it however; a few weeks later the secret embassy came back as quietly as it had left, marked for us only by Jean-Michel’s report of the return of the horses to the stables.
Paris began to sizzle in the summer heat, but beyond the walls the uneasy truce between the two main rivals paid dividends. Freed from armies of Orleanists and Burgundians constantly skirmishing and foraging over the Île de France, the peasants were able to tend the crops unmolested and Jean-Michel came back from his supply runs describing fields golden with grain and orchards groaning with fruit. For once I did not feel the need to fret over his safety while he was gone.
Then, just as the harvest was in and the barns were full, we heard that King Henry had embarked in his new fleet of ships and sailed across the Sleeve with twelve thousand men, landing at the mouth of the Seine and surrounding the fortress port of Harfleur with guns and siege engines. Dining in the dauphin’s hall, Catherine heard the herald’s report and watched aghast as, instead of issuing a call-to-arms as she expected, the dauphin called for another barrel of eau de vie and applauded loudly as his fool sang a satirical ditty about ‘a motley band of English apes’.
‘Louis says that Harfleur is well-armed and well-supplied and will easily withstand any assault,’ she told me as I helped her to bed. ‘He is treating the siege as an entertainment and declares he will give twenty crowns to the knight who brings back the most amusing account of it. He refuses to see the need for a counter-attack, declaring that the English are led by a decadent baboon who will soon give up and go home.’ She stamped her foot in anger. ‘That “decadent baboon”, as my dear brother now calls him, is the same King Henry to whom, only a few weeks ago, he sent an archbishop to make peace and broke a marriage with me!’
September brought a violent change in the weather and it poured with rain for days on end. Contrary to the dauphin’s sanguine boasts, the English took Harfleur.
‘Eau de Vie!’ cried Catherine in despair. ‘It should be re-named Eau de Folie.’ Constantly under its influence, Louis had ignored warnings that a bloody flux, which ravaged the English army, had also decimated the defenders of the beleaguered port. Starving, sick and discouraged by lack of royal support, the garrison had surrendered.
Paris slammed shut again as rumours began to spread that the English were sailing up the Seine. Suddenly heralds and messengers were galloping in all directions carrying the king’s arrière-ban, his summons-to-arms, to all his scattered vassals. Meanwhile Paris was in uproar as weapons were distributed to civilian militias and the dauphin and Constable d’Albrêt led a hastily assembled force out of the city towards Picardy where the lieges were to muster. I found myself in a constant state of anxiety about Jean-Michel because every available charettier was employed supplying this army, driving to and from Paris with loads of arms and provisions through territories where the latest reports suggested that the English king was now leading his men on what the soldiers called a chevauchée – a ‘sack and burn’ march to wreak havoc and gather plunder.
The sellers of pardons, relics and amulets were doing a roaring trade ahead of what was seen as inevitable war with the English. On a rare trip into the centre of Paris, Alys and I visited one of their stalls and bought a St Christopher medal for Jean-Michel, hoping that the patron saint of travellers and wayfarers would guard him in his dangerous work. It was not made of precious metal, but we chose it because there was a slight fault in the casting which made the saint look like he was smiling. When Luc saw it at dinner time he even said he thought it looked like Jean-Michel himself. I decided that a glimpse of it on a chain around his neck might be a temptation to snatch-thieves, so during one of his brief overnight rests I sewed it into the padded lining of his boiled leather jacket, next to the heart.
‘Surely now we must attack,’ fretted Catherine. ‘Louis cannot let the English ravage Normandy without retaliation. We are certain to hear of some action soon.’
We were all frustrated by the lack of news for there was no one left in the palace to whom a herald might bring tidings. The queen was still at Melun and at the beginning of October even the king was led away on his pony to lend the stamp of regal authority to a council of war in Rouen. In Catherine’s salon the talk was all of knights and battle, and any royal retainer who set foot in the palace was asked for news of the gathering chivalry, even my Jean-Michel, who staggered off the wall-walk into our tower chamber one October night, utterly weary and soaking wet. He hardly had time to change into dry clothes before news of his arrival had filtered down to Catherine, who sent Agnes de Blagny hurrying upstairs.
‘The princess says she has a fire and food and would dearly like to hear your news,’ she begged Jean-Michel, ‘as would we all.’
The very idea of a common groom entering Catherine’s private salon would have sent Duchess Bonne into apoplexy, but Bonne was in Blois and Catherine was happy to turn a blind eye to protocol. Jean-Michel however, had a more conventional attitude and had to be persuaded to accept the invitation. When he did descend to the salon, his eyes grew wide at the opulence of the furnishings. I hid a smile as I saw him self-consciously trying to polish the scuffed toes of his bottins against his hose while he squirmed, awkward and tongue-tied, on the stool placed for him near the fire. Wisely, Catherine bade me pour him a large cup of wine and by the time he had halved its contents and consumed most of a venison pie, his confidence was sufficiently bolstered to set him off.
‘I have been sent back to fetch a new consignment of royal banners,’ he confided. ‘The dauphin is worried that men who have so recently been fighting each other will be confused about who is friend and who is foe. He wants every French captain to add the fleur-de-lis to his standard.’
‘Will there definitely be a battle then?’ asked Catherine eagerly. ‘What size of force has the dauphin managed to raise?’
Jean-Michel scratched his head. ‘I could not say, Madame. I drive between different camps but I do not see them all. And there is another thing. While I was delivering a load of crossbow bolts to Count d’Albrêt’s camp, Artois Herald rode in to warn the constable that if he moved troops any nearer to the Flemish border, the Duke of Burgundy would regard it as an act of aggression against his domains and respond accordingly. The duke’s army is poised between the dauphin and the English and you could toss a coin as to which side he will join.’
‘Burgundy will serve Burgundy as always,’ observed Catherine acidly. She, like me, still came up in goose bumps at the mere mention of that name, although fortunately the devil duke had not set foot in Paris for over seven years. ‘What about the English army, Jean-Michel? How big is that?’
‘Well, they left a garrison at Harfleur and sent a few thousand sick and injured back to England, so now they reckon King Henry
has maybe eight thousand men,’ replied Jean-Michel upending his cup. ‘Not nearly enough to withstand the might of France.’
‘Perhaps Henry reckoned the dauphin wouldn’t be able to rally the might of France,’ said Catherine. ‘Heaven knows, we all wondered about that!’
‘They say the English hoped to make a quick dash for Calais, gathering what plunder they could, but they were caught short after the constable cut all the Somme River crossings. Now, unless Burgundy takes England’s part, they say King Henry is caught like a rat in a trap. Around the camp fires our men are laying wagers that he will either be dead or a prisoner by Crispinmas.’
Catherine was intrigued by this forecast. ‘King Henry a prisoner …’ she mused. ‘Perhaps they might bring him to Paris and we will all get a look at him. Just think, he might have been my husband. They say he is handsome but stern. I wonder if he ever smiles? Do pour Jean-Michel more wine, Mette.’ She waved me forward with the flagon, adding, ‘When will the dauphin attack, do you suppose?’
I poured a little more wine with some trepidation. The cup was a large one and it was stronger drink than Jean-Michel was used to. His cheeks were already flushed and his speech a little slurred. ‘Not before I return with the royal banners anyway,’ he declared grandly, taking another large gulp. ‘A squire I met on the road told me that by the rules of chivalry, King Henry has been allowed to cross the Somme so that the two sides can face each other on dry ground in Picardy. Not that anywhere is truly dry after all this rain.’
Catherine gave a snort of disbelief. ‘He has been allowed to cross the Somme? This is supposed to be war not a tournament! Surely if we had the advantage we should have attacked them as they crossed.’
‘Oh we have the advantage all right,’ chuckled Jean-Michel, all deference banished in a haze of wine. ‘King Henry has only five hundred knights. Most of his men are common archers. They do not even have boots. That is why we call them apes, because they fight barefoot and their only armour is a leather jacket. They will be dog meat after our first cavalry charge. A massacre; that is what it will be. The plains of Picardy will be soaked in English blood.’
This was all getting a bit gory in my opinion, so at this point I thought it politic to remind Jean Michel of his early start the next day. After only a short battle of wills, he reluctantly bowed himself out and let me push him up the stair to bed.
I returned to find a buzz of excited chatter in the salon and stole a quick glance at the wine flagon, for Catherine’s cheeks were quite pink but it was as I had left it. However, Jean-Michel’s blood-thirsty predictions had obviously stirred a warlike streak in the princess.
‘I wish we could see the battle!’ she exclaimed. ‘It will be such a spectacle! Imagine – our French chivalry lined up row on row with their armour glinting and horses prancing and the heralds galloping to and fro between the captains and above it all the Oriflamme streaming in the wind.’
She was a girl, with all a girl’s romantic fantasies and no concept of the realities of war. In truth, I knew little of it either, aside from the effect it had on prices. However, I had no faith in Catherine’s bloodless vision of prancing steeds and streaming banners, so after my husband left my side at cock’s crow next morning, I went to light a candle to St Christopher, to reinforce the power of Jean-Michel’s medal and pray for his safe return. Travelling on the king’s business, he constantly risked ambush and accident but never before had he driven off to a battle.
11
For many years, the last days of October had hung heavy with me. Inevitably, on the anniversary of my first son’s birth and death, I would find myself mourning him, and Catherine’s absence on each birthday while she was at Poissy with the nuns would plunge me further into dejection. On the day she turned fourteen, I cherished the joy of being able to celebrate with her.
Looking back on the events of that memorable day, it seems extraordinary that she was only fourteen. I recalled myself at the same age, when I had thought I was so grown up and ready for all the thrill and romance my racing blood demanded. Now, of course, I realised that I had been almost a child when I satisfied the call of my youthful lust by returning Jean-Michel’s burning kisses and urgent embraces. By contrast, Catherine had until recently lived under the scrutiny of virgin nuns, and now she suffered all the restrictions and expectations of the life of a princess, with the entire royal court watching her every action. Ever since returning to St Pol, she had been so much at the centre of state schemes and crises that she had not really had much chance to be either the child she still was or the blossoming nymph she promised to be. At this time there were no young lords or squires for her to flirt with because they had all answered the arrière-ban, but nevertheless I hoped that this birthday would be an opportunity for Catherine to enjoy some light-hearted fun.
A feast was held in the great hall of the Queen’s House, decorated for the occasion with coloured ribbons and garlands of autumn leaves. Of course Queen Isabeau had been invited, but Catherine was neither surprised nor disappointed when she sent word to say that she could not make the journey. And word was all she sent. No gift to mark her daughter’s birthday.
‘She is displeased with me,’ Catherine shrugged. ‘I have not rushed to be with her at Melun so she believes I have sided with Louis. I doubt if he has told her that he will not allow me to leave Paris.’ She did not admit relief at avoiding the queen, but I sensed this to be the case and that she believed Louis’ tales that linked their mother to Burgundy’s cause.
Most of the palace cooks and supplies had been commandeered to feed the army so the menu for the feast had to be relatively simple. However, nobody noticed that there was one less strutting peacock in the queen’s pleasure garden and, roasted and re-feathered, it made a magnificent centre-piece for Catherine’s birthday banquet. Since no feast could be considered complete without it, I had prevailed upon one of my father’s old guild-fellows to create a marchpane subtlety especially for her, while a minstrel had been commissioned to compose and perform a lay in her honour. It told of a young princess whose beauty and purity were renowned and who rejected a dozen noble suitors for love of a humble squire, who naturally turned out to be a prince in disguise. Catherine was thrilled with the story and the song and rewarded the handsome young singer with a well-filled purse, exchanging sidelong glances with her ladies and hiding girlish giggles behind her hand as he bowed low and flashed his brilliant white teeth in gratitude.
The lack of noble guests meant there was room at the feast for Catherine’s servants, albeit well down the board. But I was perfectly content to sit with my own children and study from afar the child of my breast, caught in beguiling transience like a dewdrop in a cobweb, not yet quite a woman but luminous with promise. Troubadours still sang of how at the same age her mother, then an obscure German princess, had so enraptured the seventeen-year-old King of France that he had insisted on marrying her within a week of their meeting. Looking at Catherine, it was easy to imagine history repeating itself.
For her celebration she wore a gown of pale azure and silver and on her head one of the frivolous gauzy cones that had become so fashionable among the court damsels. Sewn with tiny crystal stars, its veil sparkled like sea-spray in sunlight and I proudly nursed the secret that only the day before I had plucked her hairline back to emphasise the smooth expanse of her brow and accentuate the high planes of her cheeks. As applause died for the minstrel’s lay, a team of liveried pages too young to be at war began to parade the marvellously crafted subtlety which depicted a Catherine wheel – what else? – standing proud in a sea of marchpane ‘flames’.
However, before this masterpiece could complete its circuit of the hall, there was a disturbance at the main entrance and the buzz of conversation died as a royal herald stumbled through the great carved arch, his embroidered tabard hanging tattered over a mud-stained hauberk. With the rolling gait of the saddle-weary, he approached the high table, sank to his knees and waited for the company to fall completely
silent. When he spoke, the high-flown language of heraldry sounded at odds with the hoarseness of exhaustion in his voice.
‘His Grace the Prince Louis, Dauphin of Viennois and Duke of Guienne sends greetings to his beloved sister Catherine, Princess Royal of France. He commands me to inform you that two days ago, on the feast of St Crispin and St Crispianin, the lieges of France engaged in battle with the English at a place called Agincourt.’
I saw the colour leave Catherine’s face and her clasped hands sprang to her breast but she did not speak as the herald waited for the inevitable hubbub to subside before continuing. ‘I regret to report that France has suffered a calamitous defeat. Many noble lords are dead and injured. You must prepare for great mourning and tribulation.’ The herald’s voice quavered with emotion and he fell silent, shaking his bowed head.
Catherine rose slowly to her feet, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the board for support. She gazed down at the messenger. ‘You are Montjoy Herald, are you not, sir? Your tunic is so dreadfully torn I was not certain. Thank you for performing your terrible duty. Can you give us any more details? We must give thanks to God that the dauphin’s life has been spared, but who is numbered among the dead?’
The herald shook his head. ‘Regrettably I do not know, Madame. The list is being prepared but it will take many days. There has been much carnage …’ His voice broke on these words and he hung his head, physically and emotionally drained.
‘You are exhausted, sir, I can see.’ Catherine beckoned stewards to his side. ‘Help him to refreshment and rest. When you are recovered, sir, I would hear more of these terrible events.’
She watched as he nodded wordlessly and was helped to his feet. All around the hall there were murmurs of distress and dis-belief, but silence quickly fell as Catherine cleared her throat to address the assembly, all joy and merriment wiped from her face.
The Agincourt Bride Page 12