The Agincourt Bride

by Joanna Hickson

  On the nights when she returned from the great hall hard-eyed and grim faced, I would explain to Alys that the princess was entertaining privately and we would help her to disrobe, then take ourselves off to the attic wardrobe where, working by candlelight on her sumptuous robes, I tried not to imagine the dreadful wrongs being inflicted on the one who wore them. I had suggested that perhaps she would prefer it if we no longer slept in her chamber, since the reason for our being there, to give her protection from just such a predatory intrusion, was sadly redundant, but she would not hear of it.

  ‘No please do not abandon me, Mette,’ she begged. ‘I need your comforting presence now more than ever. I will put a lamp outside my door when he is gone. Come to me as soon as it is safe.’

  He never stayed long. Whatever sordid gratification the duke found must have come entirely from asserting his dominance. There was no other interaction between them, for Catherine’s way of preserving her sanity was to withhold all communication. She spoke not a word, kept her eyes averted and responded to his orders like a puppet-doll, as if by refusing to acknowledge his presence he did not exist to her and therefore the abuse inflicted on her was not happening. I know all this because I was her release valve. Somehow while the devil was with her, she managed to keep control but, afterwards, anguish flowed from her like wine from a split barrel.

  ‘I say nothing to him but he speaks all the time he is there – filthy words to go with his filthy actions. He maintains that he is satisfying my secret needs, Mette! Can you believe such diabolical arrogance? When he touches me, I want to shriek like my father that I am made of glass and I will shatter. But I do not, I refuse to give him that satisfaction. As soon as he leaves, I am physically sick. I try to purge myself of him but I cannot. He is constantly there in my head, poisoning my mind. Even my body is no longer my own. I pray and pray to the Virgin to show me a way to be rid of him but She gives me no answer.’

  ‘If Alys and Agnes and I were to leave your service, he would no longer have a hold on you,’ I suggested tentatively, but her reaction was one of horror.

  ‘No, no, no! I could not bear it! I need you all, Mette. They took me away from you once when I was too young to fight, but I am determined that nothing shall separate us again.’

  She spoke so resolutely that I said no more about it, but I felt a terrible guilt that I was Burgundy’s prime lever of coercion. My only comfort was that had it not been through me, Burgundy would have found some other way to control Catherine.

  21

  In early October a welcome change in the weather brought cool autumn winds. The afflicted king recovered from his terrible glass phobia and emerged from his padded chamber to play again in the fresh air and enjoy his favourite pastime – hunting. Royal hunts took place three or four times a week and Luc was kept so busy that Alys and I hardly saw him. However, I was asked to attend a meeting with the surly-looking head huntsman who had glared at me on the day of Luc’s arrival, to discover that my son was being offered an apprenticeship, which I as his parent would have to approve. I had no opportunity to ask Luc whether or not he wished to become tied to the royal hunt for the next five years, but he nodded enthusiastically enough when he was quizzed formally in my presence by the master so I gave my consent. He was issued with livery consisting of a boiled leather jerkin, a distinctive green huntsman’s hood and tunic and some strong leather bottins and I was extremely relieved to see that the badge on his shoulder was the royal fleur-de-lis and not a Burgundian saltire. Seeing Luc in his new garb for the first time brought a proud lump to my throat and I wished that Jean-Michel could have seen him too. Our little knobbly-kneed boy had developed into a sturdy and capable lad and his handling of hounds and hawks was a joy to behold. I only had Alys’ word that he wanted to defect to the dauphin’s cause, and he himself had no opportunity to make mention of it as the hunting season went into full cry.

  Eventually the intensive hunting took its toll on the supply of game and, with the granaries and gardens of Pontoise almost totally depleted, the Duke of Burgundy at last gave the order for the court to move on.

  Christmas was spent at the bishop’s palace in Beauvais and we welcomed the Christ child in the breathtaking surroundings of the cathedral of St Peter, where the nave soared up to the highest ceiling vault in Christendom. Catherine spent long hours on her knees in this awe-inspiring church and believed that it was the answer to her prayers that the duke’s unholy visitations ceased. Personally I put it down to the fact that there were no secret passages in the bishop’s palace. However, Beauvais did supply an answer to my own prayers.

  One damp day when low, swirling fog prevented hunting, Luc brought one of the bishop’s dog handlers to meet me outside the stables and introduced him as Hugh.

  ‘The bishop hunts far and wide in this area, Ma, and Hugh found something in the forest that I think you should see,’ said Luc. I could tell from the look in his eyes that he was seriously troubled and my heart started to beat a little faster.

  The huntsman was a big man with brawny shoulders and hands like hams. He wore the boiled leather jacket common to most outdoor retainers and the badge on his shoulder was the bishop’s red lion rampant. But he also carried another leather jacket over his arm and when he shook it out to show me, I felt a jolt of recognition.

  ‘It’s Pa’s, I am sure it is!’ cried Luc. ‘You recognise it, don’t you, Ma?’

  I felt my knees begin to tremble. The jacket did indeed look like the one Jean-Michel had received when he was promoted to the job of charettier at the palace and there on the shoulder was the royal fleur-de-lis, very frayed and faded but unmistakable. Instinctively I reached out, but I could not quite bring myself to touch it.

  ‘How did you come by the jacket, Monsieur?’ I asked faintly.

  Hugh flushed bright red and mumbled something.

  ‘I heard you tell the others you got it off a dead man,’ Luc said ominously.

  Hugh growled, ‘All right, it is true. The jacket was on the body of a man who had been dead for some time. We were hunting boar and one of the hounds found him under bushes in a thicket, as if he had crawled there and then not been able to get up again. Wild animals had taken any flesh that was exposed. It was really a skeleton with clothes on … a skull with hair, brown hair.’ When he saw me blanch he shrugged apologetically. ‘I am sorry, Madame.’

  There was a mounting block outside the stable entrance and I stumbled over to it and sat down. My mouth had gone dry and I swallowed on what felt like a stone in my throat, but after a minute I managed to croak.

  ‘Did you find anything in the jacket? Anything at all?’

  Hugh shook his head. ‘The pockets were empty. I think he must have been set upon and the thief or thieves took anything he had.’

  ‘But surely a thief would have taken the jacket,’ Luc protested, adding accusingly, ‘You took it.’

  The huntsman bristled. ‘I took it because of the royal badge. Perhaps the thieves were disturbed or even injured in the fight. There was another man with me who will confirm that we treated the body with respect. We did not strip him, but took only his jacket and boots. Then we buried him and said a prayer. You said you thought you knew whose jacket it was, but if neither of you can identify him I will take it to the royal hunt master. Sometimes there is a reward.’ He made to go but I put out my hand to stop him.

  ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘There might be something. I gave him a St Christopher medal for protection and I sewed it into the lining. Let me look.’

  The leather was mouldy and water-marked, but the padded lining was still intact. I felt around the left armpit area, nearest the heart and my own heart missed a beat when I felt a small, hard lump.

  ‘Have you a knife?’ I demanded shakily.

  It was Luc who produced his hunting knife, his face solemn and his bottom lip clenched between his teeth.

  I could see where my stitches had repaired the original slit and I cut them. The medal popped out easily, still bright a
nd shiny. I peered at it.

  ‘See, there is the fault in the mould that made the saint appear to be smiling.’ I held it out and Luc gave a choking sob. ‘It is definitely Jean-Michel’s. He has been missing for two years. He was injured after Agincourt and spent several months with the monks at Abbeville. I heard that he left there alone, heading for Rouen. Where exactly did you find him?’

  The huntsman crossed himself and regarded me sorrowfully. ‘In the forest of Neufchâtel, Madame, on the road from Abbeville to Rouen.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said with a nod. ‘I am glad to know the truth at last. I shall see to it that there is a reward.’

  ‘I want to go there – to where you buried him!’ cried Luc, grabbing the jacket from my lap. ‘And I want to keep this.’

  ‘I will take you there if we get a chance,’ Hugh agreed. ‘And the jacket is yours by right. But first we must take it to the Hunt Master and register the death with the royal household.’

  I gave the gruff huntsman a rueful smile. ‘At last we can pray for Jean-Michel’s soul to find heaven. You have done us a good turn with a sad truth, Monsieur.’

  Then I hugged Luc to me briefly before he wrenched himself away and turned to hide his tears as boys will do.

  Before we left Beauvais, Luc did have a chance to visit the place where Jean-Michel was buried and he dug the St Christopher medal into the disturbed earth of the grave. ‘It is in a beautiful place,’ he told Alys and me on his return. ‘You would both have liked it I think. Right under a great big oak tree and no animals have been near it so they must have dug really deep. I said a prayer like you told me, Ma, but I did not know any Latin ones.’

  I smiled at that. His face was so solemn and earnest and I felt a great tug of love for my gangling young son. ‘That is good, Luc. At least your father would understand your prayer and he would be proud of you. He may not be in consecrated ground, but he is in a place he would have liked himself. It is well done.’

  In mid January came the devastating news that the English had taken Rouen. Having endured six months of siege without relief from either the dauphin or Burgundy, the crumbling and disease-ridden town had finally surrendered, effectively handing Normandy to England. There were reports of desperate refugees straggling into Pontoise, fleeing the raping and looting of the victorious English soldiers. Then we learned that King Henry had left a garrison at Rouen and moved the rest of his army up the Seine, receiving the capitulation of successive towns and castles en route. He was reported to have made his headquarters at Mantes, less than a day’s march from Pontoise and only two days from Paris.

  ‘By all that’s holy, I despair!’ stormed Catherine, letting off steam to me as she always did as soon as the bedchamber door closed. ‘Will Burgundy march to confront Henry and prevent him laying siege to Paris? No he will not! Instead he says the king must avoid the threat from the English and move to Troyes, where he can be properly protected.’ She paced angrily, slapping her palm against her fist in frustration. ‘So pack the chests, Mette, we are running away. How far is it to Troyes? Remind me to consult a map. God save us! If somebody does not confront Henry soon, he will be crowning himself in Paris before Easter.’

  Catherine showed me the map she had acquired from the bishop’s library and together we traced the route we would take to the famous ‘Hot Fair’ city of Troyes, made rich from centuries of trade with the east. It looked like a mammoth journey for the winter months, skirting Paris to the north and east, staying at a series of establishments still loyal to the crown, including the royal abbey of St Denis and Charles’ birthplace, the castle of Vincennes. Then, however, we were to stay at Brie Comte Robert, the devil duke’s own fortress, in his own territory. Who could know its labyrinthine passages better?

  Catherine’s face was pinched with fear as she confessed, ‘I will not feel safe there, I know, as I do here in Beauvais, and hope to feel in the royal domains of St Denis and Vincennes …’ Then, as though to put off a rising panic, she changed the subject. ‘The queen is fuming because we cannot go to Melun – here …’ Catherine’s finger stabbed down at the point on the map where a little tower, delicately drawn, commanded a bend of the meandering middle reaches of the Seine ‘… because it has been overrun by Charles’ forces.’ I saw a tear come to her eye. ‘Charles might be there himself – so close by and yet I cannot visit him!’

  From Catherine of France to Charles, Dauphin of Viennois,

  Dearly beloved brother,

  This night we stay in the Duke of Burgundy’s castle of Brie Comte Robert, less than a day’s ride from Melun. I feel certain that you are there, so close, but I cannot come to you to beg your help.

  Surely God cannot expect me to bear this!

  He came to my chamber again, the devil duke in his most evil guise. He enters my bedchamber like a black spectre, mouthing filth, even though there should be guards at my door. How many people does he threaten and compel to look the other way? Why does my own mother not intervene? I cannot believe she knows what is happening, but still sings Burgundy’s praises and sits him at her right hand where our father should be seated.

  Nor do I know what devilish schemes are being hatched between Burgundy and the queen, although I have heard that couriers are still coming and going from Normandy, despite the English occupation. Are they dealing with King Henry again? Are you, Charles? Why do none of you raise an army and throw him out of France? Is everyone frightened of the victor of Agincourt?

  I often ponder what manner of man this Henry is. Louis said he was a libertine, but even if there is any truth in this I am certain he would spurn me if he knew what has been done to me, as any man would. But, truly, I cannot think of Henry as the enemy when my real foe is right here in our midst, using me as his whore. I struggle to find faith in God when Beelzebub has stolen my true self.

  I am forever your loving sister,

  Catherine

  Written at the castle of Brie Comte Robert at dawn this day, Wednesday February 8th 1419.

  There were three occasions while we were in Brie Comte Robert when Catherine sent me, Alys and Agnes away from her chamber after we had made her ready for bed and Alys and I shivered in the freezing attic room where the travelling chests were stored, praying for a miracle that might keep the duke away from her but knowing all the time that she was suffering the violence of his lust. After the first time I gathered that she had written another of her letters because ink had been spilled over one of the tables in her chamber, leaving an indelible stain and there were black marks on her fingers which we had to scrub to remove. However, she did not tell me what it was she wrote or to whom it was addressed. Sometimes I was tempted to offer to find a way to get these letters delivered, but I thought better of it, knowing that there was only Luc who might be trusted to smuggle them out and not wishing to put him in danger.

  Being lodged in the devil’s castle meant that we were severely restricted in the service we could obtain from the Burgundian household. More than once we were refused hot water for bathing and Catherine had to cleanse herself in freezing water, straight from the well. To my surprise she actually welcomed the discomfort.

  ‘It is like a penance, Mette,’ she confessed, ‘as if I am being tested, just as Christ was in the wilderness, and I must pray that God will release me from my suffering when He is pleased with me. If I did not believe that, I should run mad like my father.’

  As it was, instead of losing her mind, she began to lose her looks. She grew thinner by the day and her hair began to come out in handfuls when I brushed it. With every brush stroke I cursed the Duke of Burgundy. At least communications with the English, which Luc learned of through the stable grooms, began to bear fruit. Instead of laying siege to Paris, King Henry apparently wanted to parley with the king’s council and proposed sending his most trusted general, the Earl of Warwick, to Troyes for an Easter meeting. After two weeks at Brie Comte Robert, the great royal procession set out again and the queen finally got her wish to travel into th
e lush pastures and neat vineyards of Champagne.

  The undulating upper valley of the Seine could not have been more different from the river’s lower reaches, where marching feet and iron-shod hooves had trampled the life out of the land and the heart out of the people. Here an early spring sun shone down on verdant fields with well-fed peasants busy raising crops and tending flocks. From the high seat of a baggage cart, I viewed sights I had never thought to see. Prosperous villages rang with the sound of the blacksmith’s hammer and the laughter of carefree children and boasted decent little timbered cottages, well-pruned orchards and a nice clear pattern of strip-fields clustered around churches built of stone with leaded roofs. I firmly believe that Paradise must be just like that well-watered vale; a land studded with sprouting crops and well-stocked farm-yards, where the advent of spring did not signal the onset of hostilities, but marked the beginning of a season of warmth and plenty.