The Agincourt Bride
Page 22
There had been a distinct shift in the relationship between Catherine and her mother. In all the years that the princess had inhabited the tower behind the Queen’s House at the Hôtel de St Pol, her mother had never once set foot there, for it was her entrenched belief that, as Queen of France, people came to her and not the other way around. But Queen Isabeau’s life was very different now that Burgundy was in charge. No longer did she have a dozen or so personally chosen ladies constantly around her, ready to indulge her every whim and fancy, for the duke abhorred such large groups of women, declaring them to be spendthrift and licentious. Instead, with the exception of one faithful German companion who had been with her for years, the queen had to make do with a small group of rather straight-laced and sober Flemish and Burgundian noblewomen selected from among the wives of the duke’s retainers. I imagine it must have irked her to hear sounds of mirth and music coming from Catherine’s apartment, so the day came when she simply turned up there without warning, causing me to duck off into a doorway at the bottom of the stair as I returned from fetching wine and sweetmeats for the afternoon salon.
I had not seen the queen at close quarters for some time, and I was surprised at the change in her. It was not that she was grossly fat like her son Louis had been, but her body had become padded in a soft, bolstered way. As she ascended the stair, dressed in a full-skirted cream silk houppelande gown, she resembled a ship in full sail; or perhaps a treasure-laden pirate galleon would be more accurate, for her head, hands and breast were laden with gold and gems. When her page threw the door open and she found Catherine with only a small group of ladies gathered about her, she looked disappointed.
‘Ah, I had thought to find you entertaining, daughter,’ Queen Isabeau said, puffing heavily from her climb.
The little company rose hurriedly and dropped to their knees, flustered by this unheralded visit. Catherine instantly offered her canopied chair to her mother. ‘You are very welcome, your grace. I thought you were deeply involved in affairs of state.’ She watched the queen lower herself gratefully onto the cushions adding, ‘I understood you would not hold court today.’
Queen Isabeau fanned herself energetically. ‘I let it be known that I was busy on purpose,’ she announced, a smug smile hovering around her painted lips. ‘I was told of the merriment to be heard coming from your chamber on council afternoons and I thought I would discover its cause. Am I to be disappointed?’
I had followed the royal personage unobtrusively into the salon and placed the wine and wafers quietly down on a table before slipping away to the garderobe to fetch the gold hanaps from Catherine’s strongbox. The queen could not be expected to drink out of cups made from base metal!
‘We do occasionally enjoy the company of some of the duke’s retainers, Madame,’ Catherine agreed hesitantly. ‘We discuss literature of mutual interest and we read poetry and sing a little. I have been told that you and the king used to enjoy such entertainment in the early years of your marriage. A Court of Love, I believe it was called.’
‘You foolish girl!’ I heard the queen exclaim. ‘You have made your point without understanding it. The difference is that we were married, Catherine. You are not – nor ever will be if you insist on ruining your reputation by flirting in an unseemly fashion with a squire!’ She made the word sound like a blasphemy, enunciating it as if it left a nasty taste in her mouth. ‘Such a lowborn creature is clearly unaware that the Court of Love was an entirely innocent pastime,’ she added vehemently. ‘Courtly love is platonic love. It does not involve furtive fumbles on staircases and grubby verses laced with innuendo.’
Catherine gasped and swayed, as if she might topple in shock, and I understood why. How on earth did the queen know of the snatched kisses with Guy de Mussy or the flowery poem to Catherine’s snow-white throat? I glanced at Agnes, whom I had thought was the only other person privy to these details, and saw that she looked as astounded as I felt. Had someone else seen the kiss or read the poem? It did not seem possible. And then I remembered that one person in particular was party to both – Guy de Mussy himself! Did he report even such intimate details to the Duke of Burgundy? And did the duke whisper them in moments of equal intimacy to the queen? If thoughts of this nature were rushing through Catherine’s mind, as they were through mine, it was no wonder she had gasped with shock.
‘I think you had better sit, Catherine,’ observed the queen, indicating the nearest stool. ‘You look as if you might fall down otherwise.’
As her daughter found her way to a seat, I hastily poured wine into the two jewelled cups I had fetched and edged my way towards the queen’s chair. Queen Isabeau lifted one from the proffered tray. Her previously sour expression had altered to one of pleasant anticipation. ‘I hope this is some of that pale-green wine my lord of Burgundy has delivered from his vineyards in the high Loire,’ she remarked conversationally. ‘It is so light and delicious.’
Catherine rallied her forces, took the second cup and said faintly, ‘We drink whatever the cellarer has to offer, Madame. Mette has some spring water to add if you prefer that. I know I do.’
‘Well, I would not dream of watering his grace’s wine, but yes, on this occasion perhaps I will,’ Queen Isabeau conceded, correctly concluding that the wine was not from a Burgundian vineyard.
I caught myself staring at her in disbelief, astonished that she could be so malevolent one minute and so benign the next. Then I hastily dropped my gaze to the water-jug on the tray, pouring some of its contents into her cup. At the same time I offered honeyed wafers and she took one. In the tense silence I saw Catherine roll her eyes briefly at Agnes, sitting close at hand in silent support.
‘I hear you go out riding, Catherine,’ her mother remarked. ‘Is the countryside well-tended here?’
As I distributed refreshments among the other ladies, Catherine obliged her with a description of the woods and pastures along the banks of the Oise.
‘You might take an excursion in your barge, Madame,’ she suggested, ‘and see for yourself.’
The queen shrugged. ‘Perhaps I will, as long as there are no ugly sights. I cannot bear to see deserted villages and untilled fields. The duke tells me that this desolation is due to outlaws and bandits and that in his territories all is neat and well-ordered. I have told him that if we must travel outside Paris, I long to go east into Champagne and he has promised that we will do so, as soon as we have welcomed Charles back into the family circle.’
This lightning bolt struck as I offered the wafers to Catherine. ‘And w-when does he expect that to happen?’ she stuttered with surprise, and at the queen’s next words the wafer she had taken snapped in her tense fingers.
‘In a week or so,’ her mother said casually. ‘Negotiations are at an advanced stage. Will it not be wonderful, Catherine, to see Charles and the duke working together to rid France of the pernicious English?’
‘Have the two of them met?’ asked Catherine, unable to conceal her incredulity. ‘I did not think the duke had left Pontoise.’
‘Oh no, he has not been conducting negotiations himself. That is not how these things are done, my dear,’ explained the queen condescendingly. ‘Envoys and lawyers from both sides have been closeted for days somewhere and they have drawn up an agreement, which has only to be signed and then Charles will come back to us.’ Queen Isabeau smiled thinly at her daughter. ‘I am sure you will be delighted to hear that this document does not make any reference to a marriage between you and that libertine Henry of Monmouth. So now we will have to start looking elsewhere for a husband for you.’
Catherine lowered her eyes, noticed the crumbs of wafer in her lap and brushed them off distractedly. ‘Do I understand, Madame, that there is no longer any question of a marriage between me and King Henry?’ she asked breathlessly.
Her mother pursed her lips. ‘Let me put it this way; the chances of you marrying Monmouth are about as high as the chances of you marrying that young squire you seem so enamoured with.’
‘There is no need to ride a high horse, Catherine,’ the queen retorted swiftly, although her tone was amused rather than angry. ‘Personally I think there is little harm in a mild flirtation at your age, without the kisses of course, but I think I should warn you that his grace is not so lenient about such matters.’
Catherine drew in her breath and paused before responding. ‘I would have thought the Duke of Burgundy had more important things to worry about than my leisure activities, especially if, as would seem to be the case, I am no longer a useful pawn in his great plan to rule France.’ She said the last few words with special emphasis.
The queen frowned. ‘You mistake the duke’s intentions,’ she said sternly. ‘Burgundy’s chief aim is to bring peace to France by reconciling your brother with the king. He has said so a dozen times in council and written personally to Charles to assure him of the fact. Of course Charles is very young and does not know who to trust. So far he has put his faith in the ragged remnants of the faction which supported Armagnac but, thanks be to God, that devil now rots in hell and his grace of Burgundy will soon be in a position to advise and guide Charles how to go about ruling France, expelling the English and bringing us back to peace and prosperity.’ After this neat summing-up the queen refreshed herself by draining her cup and then closed her fan in a gesture of quiet satisfaction, while she gazed around the awed young ladies, absorbing their eager murmurs of appreciation.
‘Well, Madame,’ Catherine said with icy politeness, ‘if I am mistaken in my interpretation of his grace’s intentions, I will have to make reparation, but I must tell you that I am not willing do so until I see my brother kneel before the king and embrace both you and the Duke of Burgundy.’
The queen smiled and nodded indulgently. ‘You will not wait long, Catherine, I assure you,’ she cooed. ‘That happy day is very close.’
That night I woke with a start, convinced that someone had entered Catherine’s chamber. The room was inky black.
‘Who is there?’ I whispered, my heart racing. I sat up, reaching for my shawl and felt Alys stir on the mattress beside me. I could see nothing but I distinctly heard the sound of careful, muffled footsteps, followed by the clunk of the chamber door closing. Whoever had been in the room had left as stealthily as they had come.
‘What is wrong, Mette?’
Catherine was out of bed, standing over me, tying the girdle of her robe. I scrambled up, pulling the shawl around my shoulders.
‘I do not know, Mademoiselle,’ I whispered. ‘I could not see, but I am certain there was someone in the room.’
‘How could that be?’ Catherine responded. ‘There are guards at the door of the building.’
‘Guards can be persuaded not to see things,’ I replied. ‘But I will go and ask them if anyone entered the tower.’
‘You had better wear more than a shawl and chemise if you do.’ I heard a rustle of rich cloth as Catherine shed her robe. ‘Here, wear this and I will go back to bed.’
Naked without the robe, she plunged back under the bedclothes and I wrapped the robe around me and felt my way through the door. In the passageway a single lamp burned on a bracket, allowing me gingerly to descend the first flight of the spiral stair. At the bottom it opened out into a ground floor lobby before continuing down into the undercroft below. Another lamp burned at the main entrance, where two men-at-arms sat playing cards in a small guardroom alongside the barred door. They seemed very surprised by my arrival, but assured me that they had orders to admit no one to the princess’ apartments.
Back in the bedchamber I said, ‘I must have been mistaken, Mademoiselle,’ as I drew back the curtain to return her robe. ‘No one has been admitted. I am sorry to have woken you.’
Nevertheless, before I lay down again I moved a stool across the chamber door so that there would be a noise if it opened. I had no proof, but I was still utterly certain that someone had been there.
From the Princess Royal, Catherine of Valois, Daughter of France,
To my beloved brother Charles, Dauphin of Viennois,
Yesterday I received from the queen’s own lips that you and the Duke of Burgundy are about to sign an agreement that will bring you back to the king’s side. If this be true, I am desperately praying that you will not to do it. Do not put yourself within reach of the Duke of Burgundy. Whatever his promises and assurances, he is not to be trusted. In following the advice and counsel of Tanneguy du Chastel, you have always shown yourself to be wise beyond your years and I firmly believe he will always keep the vow he made to you on the dreadful day of our brother Louis’ death.
I now have proof that the duke has his spies closely and intimately surrounding me. It is only in my own bedchamber that I feel free of his malevolent influence and I greatly fear his ability even to invade that sanctuary. I pray daily to God’s holy Mother to keep me safe from his evil intentions, but now that he has withdrawn all embassies to the English, I realise that I no longer have any value as a virgin bride to dangle before King Henry. How long will it be before the devil duke violates every code of honour and steals that state of purity for himself, as he constantly and lewdly insinuates is his intention? And what defence do I have? I would marry Henry of England or anyone else tomorrow if it would remove me from this vile entrapment.
I cannot trust the queen to defend my honour, for she seems totally in Burgundy’s thrall. I have no protector other than you, my brother. How I wish I could saddle a horse and ride to your side! Yet I cannot reach you and I am urging you under no circumstances to come to me. I thank God daily that you are free and pray to the Almighty to give me the freedom that you enjoy. Do not squander it!
I am, as always, your loving sister,
Catherine
Written at the Chateau Pontoise this day, Friday August 19th 1418.
19
Several days went by and there was no sign of Prince Charles coming to kiss his father’s hand. Having no other form of respite from the stifling confines of the castle, Catherine continued to ride out in the company of Guy de Mussy and his band of spies and gaolers, but there were no more Courts of Love and no more kisses on the stairs. As far as harmless flirting was concerned, the veil had been lifted from her eyes and my heart ached for her. The green leaves of youthful passion shrivelled under a blazing autumn sun.
The heat-wave took its toll on the king. Early one scorching morning, just before Mass, he ran out into the inner bailey screaming at the top of his voice that no one should come near him. Rushing down to investigate, we were greeted by the sad sight of King Charles cowering bare-headed in the centre of the courtyard, his grey hair wild and his skinny white limbs sticking out below his chemise. Several of his body squires and guardians had dashed out of the keep after him, but each time one approached he screamed more hysterically and flailed his arms to keep them off. He seemed utterly terrified of anyone touching him.
Catherine turned to me, her eyes wide. ‘Oh dear God, Mette, I remember …’ she whispered and her hands flew to her mouth to stifle a cry of horror. I knew what she remembered, even though she had only been three years old; that stifling day in the rose garden at St Pol when we had encountered her father in the throes of a similar sudden madness.
‘He believes he is made of glass,’ I nodded, speaking as steadily as I could. ‘We must not frighten him any more than he is already frightened.’
There was general air of helplessness among the royal household because all the king’s previous guardians had been replaced by Burgundians and the new men had not experienced this most extreme form of his illness. None of them seemed prepared to risk subduing him physically.
‘I thin
k we need some padding, Mademoiselle,’ I suggested. ‘Perhaps if Alys was to fetch a quilt …’
‘Yes, yes,’ nodded Catherine. ‘Please Alys, find some quilts. I will try and talk to him – see if I can get him to calm down.’
‘There are quilts in the chests in the room where you sew,’ I told Alys and she hurried off.
Catherine began carefully to approach the still-screaming king who was turning in a slow circle, glaring with bloodshot eyes at the ring of curious people gathering around him. When he saw his daughter coming nearer, he clamped his elbows to his sides and flung up his hands like claws, sticking out his chin and baring his teeth at her like a wild animal at bay. His scream became a desperate screech and I wanted to run and pull Catherine back to safety, but she just kept walking towards him, speaking slowly and softly as if he were a no more than a naughty child.
‘It is Catherine, your grace, your daughter. You know I would never harm you and I will not touch you. Please do not scream. You are frightening everyone and they do not know what to do. But I do. I know you are made of glass and will shatter if we touch you, so I will be careful not to. Can you hear me, my father? Surely you know me. It is Catherine. We go to church together nearly every day, do we not? We hear Mass and we pray. Shall we pray together now? Shall we kneel together and ask the Holy Mother to protect you so that you do not break?’
She was now only a few feet from the king and he had gradually stopped screaming to listen to what she said. Slowly and carefully she knelt before him and clasped her hands together. Then she began reciting the Ave Maria, murmuring it just loud enough for him to hear and repeating it over and over again until he too actually knelt and began to join in. It was a heart-touching sight, the wild-haired man and the veiled young lady kneeling three feet apart and reciting the words of the prayer while a growing crowd of palace inhabitants looked on. After a few minutes, one by one they all began to recite and the familiar words became a soothing chorus, resonating off the high grey walls of the castle courtyard.