22
Walking the streets of Troyes was like going back to the Paris of old, before the ‘Terrors’ had rendered it mean and vicious. For in many ways Troyes was a smaller version of its downstream sister-city, but without the domineering guilds and rival gangs. Unlike the sprawl of Paris over both banks of the Seine, Troyes neatly occupied one loop of a meander on the west bank of the river, its protective stone curtain studded with gates leading to trade routes in all directions. Ingeniously, some of the fast-flowing water had been diverted into a series of canals which pierced the curtain wall under portcullises and wound through the town, enabling heavy goods to be carried in and out by barge. One of the first things I noticed was that the main hazards to pedestrians were horses and hand-carts, not the huge ox-wagons which had daily claimed lives and limbs in Paris. The canals also carried away waste, causing some of the backwaters to smell like latrines. However, the April downpours, which had frequently drenched the royal progress, had also washed away most of the winter filth and refreshed the canals.
This was a blessing because the palace of the old counts of Champagne where we were to stay was located on a canal at the centre of the town. It was built to an old-fashioned plan, consisting of a long great hall with royal apartments at one end, reached by a curving stone staircase. I had become quite used to adapting Catherine’s furnishings to a variety of apartments that were cramped or difficult of access, but I was pleasantly surprised by the large and comfortable quarters she was given in the great gothic palace. Once again her ladies were to be housed in a separate building but, to her intense relief, we learned that the Duke of Burgundy had a mansion of his own in Troyes and would not be lodging with the royal family.
‘What is more, he will not be alone,’ Catherine announced with an air of triumph. ‘His duchess has travelled from Dijon to act as hostess to the English embassy. The blessed Virgin has answered my prayers again.’
As a result of all this, the tension in our little household eased considerably. Catherine recovered her appetite and with it some of her zest for life. But Lenten meals were meagre, consisting of pottage, vegetables, bread and a little fish, designed to chasten the body rather than build its strength. So, anxious to put some flesh on her bones, I went daily to market, looking for tasty tit-bits to tempt her with. Basket on arm, I watched the town shake off its winter hibernation. With the great Easter festival approaching, amulet-sellers had set up stalls in the cathedral square offering everything from icons and relics to potions and pardons. Peddlers roamed the streets crying their wares in loud, musical calls which echoed among the timber-framed, step-gabled houses. These crazily-overhanging gables were brightly painted or decorated with tiles and pargeting and the wooden shutters which secured the ground-floor shops at night were lowered by day to form tables laid out with colourful arrays of food and household necessities. This alone was something to marvel at, for in thief-ridden Paris such tempting goods would have been snatched in the blink of an eye.
Although the Duke of Burgundy had sent the Earl of Warwick a letter of free-passage for his journey to Troyes, it only gave protection in royal and Burgundian territory and when the cavalcade of two hundred English knights and men-at-arms strayed uncomfortably close to Prince Charles’ new garrison in Melun, an eager troop of dauphinists galloped out to ambush them. They were easily driven off however, and during the banquet held by the Duke and Duchess of Burgundy to welcome him to Troyes, the Earl of Warwick gleefully regaled the high table with a description of the incident. Seated at the earl’s right hand, Catherine was well placed to absorb every detail of his amusing account and returned full of indignation which, to my surprise, was directed more at Prince Charles’ supporters than at Warwick.
They were laughing at Charles at dinner and it is not a pretty sound to my ears,’ she said angrily to Agnes and me, as I helped her take off her headdress. ‘I think he cannot be at Melun after all, because he would never have agreed to such an ill-advised attack on an English troop as was launched from there two days ago, not if he has Tanneguy du Chastel by his side. The attack was a fiasco! To send out only fifty against two hundred does seem foolish, to put it politely. The earl was full of glee as he described how he sent his rearguard to take the little troop of dauphinists from behind before they could even draw swords. I imagine Charles can ill-afford to lose the ten men who fell before the rest fled.’
But her indignation did not last long for she was bubbling with excitement about Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick. From her description he was a knight of the kind that the Troubadour of Troyes must have pictured when he wrote his poems of Camelot and the Court of King Arthur – tall and russet-blond, a true Norman, broad-shouldered and straight-backed, with muscular arms and legs and eyes like a hawk.
‘And he dances!’ Catherine added breathlessly. ‘Well, enough not to step on my toes. But I think his best asset is his conversation. He is fluent in Latin and Greek as well as English and French, as is King Henry, apparently. So, of course, I had to ask him what King Henry is like and he told me that he is an übermensch. I asked him what that meant and he said it was German for a super-man. So he speaks German as well! When I asked if his king is good-looking, he laughed and said he could not be a judge of that, but I should rather ask if he was a good leader. So I did and he replied: “A good leader creates followers, a great leader creates leaders. Henry is a great leader.”
‘I think I am becoming a little frightened of Henry of England, but then I think Richard of Warwick intends that I should be; that we all should be. It is a good tactic, is it not? And I would rather be frightened of a great leader than of a disciple of the devil like Jean of Burgundy.’
At this, Agnes put a finger to her lips as a sign of caution, and the subject reverted to the entertainments the evening had provided …
Easter came and the streets of Troyes were decked with green boughs and crowded with people following the statues of patron saints and their relics as they were carried out of their churches and paraded through the town. In their wake, young men and girls paired off to sing and dance in the squares. With a lump in my throat I watched Alys set off to meet her new beau, a tailor named Jacques, whom I knew by sight having secretly been witness to Alys’ first meeting with the young man when we went marketing together one day. Though she still had not admitted to any assignation, the care with which she fashioned a rosette of lace and coloured ribbons and pinned it to the bodice of her Sunday gown, told me all I needed to know. She left the palace with a group of fellow servants, but I suspected she would slip away from them at the first opportunity and I whispered a little prayer to St Agnes, asking the patron of young girls to protect my little daughter and give her a happy day.
After High Mass in the cathedral, the royal family was due to attend an Easter feast at the Hôtel de Ville and, once more, the Earl of Warwick would be there. I wondered what the earl would tell his king about the girl who was being offered as his wife. Despite Alys’ hasty alterations, Catherine’s pretty green and red houppelande gown still hung loosely on her too-delicate figure and although in my eyes she could never be anything but beautiful, having become so thin, she hardly looked the ideal fecund consort for a king who must be anxious to sire an heir for his ever-expanding empire. However, there was no mistaking Catherine’s opinion of the earl, for she was once again full of him when she returned from the banquet in high spirits.
‘I danced with the Earl of Warwick again today, Mette!’ she crowed, twirling around me with exaggerated grace. ‘I have decided that he is the most accomplished man I have ever met! He even described the fashions at the English court and confessed that they tend to follow the French styles, only several years later. The men have not yet started wearing folly bells, although the earl himself has acquired some while he has been in France and was wearing them tonight. He is the first man I have seen who does not look silly in them!’
‘And did you only dance with the Earl of Warwick?’ I enquired with a raised eyebrow
.
‘No, of course not. That would set the tongues wagging, would it not?’ Catherine frowned. ‘I was forced to dance a salterello with the Duke of Burgundy and then the treacherous Guy de Mussy had the cheek to ask me to dance a ballade. As if I would dance anything with him – least of all a ballade!’
A ballade, I assumed, had some connection with love or romance. Clearly there was no forgiveness for Monsieur Guy!
At this point Catherine abruptly changed the subject.
‘Are you going into the town again tomorrow, Mette?’ On hearing that I was, she declared her intention to accompany me. ‘I will not be recognised in Troyes as I would in Paris and if I borrow a maid’s dress from Alys, I am sure no one will know me. We could go shopping together. What fun that would be!’
‘I would be very happy to have your company, Mademoiselle,’ I responded readily, ‘but I cannot imagine the queen approving of such an expedition.’
That gave her pause for thought, but she did not hesitate long. ‘You are right. So I will plead a headache. The queen must know I have my monthly course at present?’
She regarded me meaningfully and I found myself blushing. Until then I had not been aware that Catherine knew I obeyed her mother’s instructions to provide evidence whenever her daughter suffered the ‘curse of Eve’. I did not like doing it, but I had no choice. During the process of the treaty under negotiation, reports had to be made of Catherine’s regularity in this matter, as a guide to her fertility.
She smiled wryly. ‘It is all right, Mette, I know you are obliged to do it and it gives me an excuse to say that I am keeping to my chamber. But instead, you and I will slip down the servants’ stair and take to the streets. Agnes can keep the other ladies occupied so they do not suspect anything.’
Even in Alys’ serviceable brown wool and unbleached linen, it was still hard to believe that Catherine was a servant girl until she put on the coif with its plain turned-back front, when she immediately lost her air of sophisticated nobility and became a simple maid.
We did not go arm in arm as Alys and I had done but, otherwise, we might have been mistaken for the same mother and daughter who had walked to market the week before. As we crossed the canal behind the palace and headed towards the labyrinth of shops and stalls around the main market place, Catherine was delighted to find herself totally anonymous among the passers-by. A number of people offered neighbourly nods and smiles and she smiled and nodded back, one of the crowd yet lost in it.
We dallied in the Rue du Chaperon, looking at all manner of hats and headdresses. In the Rue des Orfèvres we watched a goldsmith and his apprentice hammer out a sheet of gold-leaf so thin you would think it might blow away.
For nostalgic reasons the Rue des Pains was my favourite place because the sight and smell of freshly-baked bread transported me back to the days of my childhood, when my parents had fed their Paris neighbours in peace and harmony. I told the princess this, and we lingered there thoughtfully for a few moments.
As we entered the main market square, we came upon a wedding party on the steps of the church of St Jean. A solemn-faced young couple stood before the priest in the portal surrounded by their families, while hangers-on added to the crowd in the square; beggars expecting alms from the newlyweds, musicians ready and waiting beside the grooms who were holding horses festooned with ribbons and plumes in readiness for the wedding procession.
Passing the shop on the Rue de l’Aiguille where Jacques was a tailor, I pointed out Alys’ new beau to the princess. He was sewing black silk edging on a brown velvet sleeve, and Catherine was as impressed as Alys had been by the speed and neatness of his stitching.
‘He looks very earnest. Not one to wear his heart on his sleeve!’ She chuckled briefly at her own joke. ‘Would you not like to meet him, Mette?’
She wanted to go into his shop and order something, forgetting that she was dressed as a servant who could not afford even half a yard of that brown velvet.
So it was that next day that Jacques was summoned to the palace to take a commission for the princess, and a sumptuous new gown was soon in progress with Jacques stitching industriously by daylight and lamplight in the house on the Rue de l’Aiguille. Unsurprisingly it was Alys who volunteered to attend fittings and run errands to the tailor. No mention was made of love or even friendship between them and she confided nothing about his character or circumstances, but I had never seen my daughter look happier or more comely. Her eyes had a deep, warm glow and she seemed to be constantly on the verge of smiling. The princess too had a spring sparkle in her eye and her cheeks and shoulders had lost their bony sharpness – early signs of a resurgence of her natural beauty.
As if to celebrate this new blooming, a costly and fragile Venetian mirror arrived, a gift from King Henry, and was presented after dinner in the great hall by the Earl of Warwick. Not being one to hold back on the charm, he soon had Catherine blushing prettily as he played proxy for his king.
‘If his grace King Henry were here himself I know exactly how he would feel in the presence of such beauty as yours, highness,’ the earl began, gallantly casting himself down on one knee before the princess. ‘His heart would beat faster and the royal blood would throb in his veins at the enticing prospect of calling you his queen.’
I heard a little snigger beside me and kicked Luc’s ankle hard. He and Alys were sharing my allotted place at the trestle, squashed in on either side of me below the rest of Catherine’s household. Strictly speaking, Luc should have been eating with the outside servants in the under-croft, but occasionally the stewards let me bring him into the great hall. I had to vouch for his behaviour though and sniggering during the speech of an honoured royal guest, however excessively flowery the language, did not pass as good manners.
‘It is King Henry’s hope that this mirror will be acceptable to the most beautiful princess in Christendom and that every time she views her reflection she will feel the admiration of the man who gave it to her and his desire to see for himself what the mirror sees.’
At this point the earl rose to his feet, pulled off his elegant green chaperon hat and swept Catherine a deep bow before continuing to address her with an expression of smiling sincerity. ‘But not yet having had the privilege of meeting your highness, my sovereign does not know as I do that the mirror can never reflect your true beauty, which is of the mind and therefore invisible to eye or glass. When I return to his side, I shall do my humble best to describe to him the agility of your intellect, the depth of your compassion and the tenderness of your spirit, but I fear the words of a mere soldier can never do them justice.’
The high colour that stained Catherine’s cheeks as she acknowledged the handsome earl’s speech revealed her true youth and innocence. ‘You underestimate your own eloquence, my lord of Warwick,’ she remonstrated mildly. ‘Please convey to his grace, your lord and king, my grateful thanks for his generous gift. I shall treasure it and reflect upon the peace which we all pray will soon benefit our two countries. And I also thank you, Monseigneur, for your kindness in bringing me to an understanding of the love and loyalty you and your fellow barons all feel for your liege lord.’
The looking-glass was immediately set up in Catherine’s salon and became the vehicle of much excited self-inspection by her ladies and visitors. Even the queen came to view herself in it and immediately expressed a wish to acquire one for her own chamber. When, in a quiet moment, I sneaked a look at my own reflection, I was horrified by the image I saw of a sturdy, ample-bosomed goodwife, when I still remembered myself as the light-footed, pink-cheeked maid I had seen reflected in the pools of Montmartre as I teased the boys on May Day romps. I could not imagine why the queen wanted to own such a cruel reminder of passing time. Perhaps she was blind to her own physical decline.
On the last day of April, the clerks and lawyers put down their quills and a formal truce was signed by the Duke of Burgundy and the Earl of Warwick, who immediately rode away to rejoin his sovereign in Mantes. At
his leave-taking he bowed low over Catherine’s hand, murmuring as he favoured her with one of his brilliant smiles, ‘Until we meet soon again, Madame.’
23
‘I hope King Henry is as charming as his general,’ Catherine confided to me that night. ‘Even though he is old enough to be my father, I have to confess that Richard of Warwick makes my knees tremble! But it is not all good news. There is to be a peace conference to finalise the treaty and I am to be presented to Henry.’
‘But why is this not good news?’ I exclaimed. ‘You will meet him at last! You have often said that marriage to King Henry would be your only escape from Burgundy.’
She clasped her hands together anxiously. ‘Yes, but I am worried about the eventual terms of the treaty. At the peace conference Burgundy will serve Burgundy as he always does and Henry will obviously serve England, but who will serve the interests of France? What will be left of her when they have finished parcelling out her territories? And where will that leave Charles?’
‘Let Tanneguy du Chastel worry about that,’ I insisted. ‘Your brother has scores of advisers to look out for his interests, whilst you have only you.’
‘And you, Mette, I am glad to say. And we will soon be on the move again you and I, for this meeting with King Henry is to take place within a month at Meulan.’
Seeing my face she nodded ruefully. ‘Yes, Mette; we are going all the way back to very near Pontoise, where we came from.’
Remembering the aches and bruises of the outward journey, I was far from thrilled at the prospect of a return trip, but my main misgiving was for Alys. When I told her the news I thought she might at last confess to her relationship with Jacques, but she did not. Instead she went very pale and she must have slipped away from the palace at the first opportunity. She had not returned when it was time to help Catherine dress for court.
The Agincourt Bride Page 25