The Agincourt Bride

by Joanna Hickson

  As the procession approached the wharf, the Meadow of the Cat presented a magnificent display of welcome. At a blast from a line of trumpeters drawn up on the battlements of the timber gatehouse, rows of weighted silk banners in blue and red broke open in unison and avalanched down the side of the stockade to undulate gently in the warm breeze, revealing the heraldic badges of France, Burgundy and Valois embroidered in threads of azure and argent, gules, vert and or. The other landing stage was hidden from our sight but an answering call of trumpets indicated that King Henry’s barge was approaching simultaneously at the other side of the island and banners showing the lions of England and the swans of Lancaster were performing a similar stately gavotte on the playful wind. On the river banks multi-coloured lines of billowing standards identified the knights of the English and French encampments, gathered in their hundreds and cheering lustily as the two royal parties arrived. I recalled the Rules of Behaviour, stipulating that any unruly conduct would be punishable by instant imprisonment and concluded that they must be grateful to be able to let off a bit of steam. Compared with waging war, making peace was a dull process.

  After disembarkation the crush of retainers in the French pavilion rendered the atmosphere suffocating, but a small ante room had been partitioned off for the ladies, with doors opening onto a patch of meadow, screened from prying eyes by a copse of willows. There we were served cold drinks and honeyed cakes and I helped Catherine make the final adjustments to her appearance for this all-important meeting with her potential lord and husband. As I adjusted her headdress, I noticed to my consternation that she was pale and shaking and I led her hastily to the open door and fanned her with my veil. My instinct was to give her a reassuring hug, but my disguise as a Flemish noblewoman held me back and, anyway, I judged that now was not the time for tears and sympathy.

  ‘Pinch your cheeks, Mademoiselle,’ I urged her in a whisper. ‘This is the moment you were born for. The lieges may have lost at Agincourt, but you can conquer their conqueror. Go and retrieve the pride of France.’

  Surprised by my fierce expression and rallying tone, Catherine stared at me wide-eyed, then straightened her back, raised both hands to her face and pinched her cheeks. In that flash of time she changed from a trembling girl into the heart-stopping beauty of every knight’s dreams.

  ‘Sweet Jesu, Mette, you should have been a general!’ she exclaimed wryly and turned to take her place in the procession to the main pavilion.

  Catherine of France faced Henry of England for the first time across a wide expanse of priceless Persian carpet. In its central medallion a crouching golden lion confronted a kneeling white unicorn, a design worked into the rug by the skilled weavers of Esfahan. Heralds sounded a fanfare; Henry advanced to the lion, supported by his brothers, Thomas of Clarence and Humphrey of Gloucester; Catherine glided serenely to the unicorn, her mother and the Duke of Burgundy at her side.

  ‘I have the honour to present her grace Queen Isabeau of France and her daughter Catherine, the Princess Royal,’ intoned the whiplash voice of Burgundy as I watched Catherine sink into a deep obeisance, skirts billowing, head lowered, eyes modestly downcast. At the sight of her I felt my stomach knot with suppressed pride.

  Braided into nets of gold filigree the bright hair I had brushed so vigorously shone like polished silk, encircled by a jewelled coronet. Sunlight streaming through the open sides of the pavilion reflected off the gleaming folds of her gown, while behind her stretched the purple mantle displaying her dynastic pedigree; the fleur-de-lis of France, the crusader’s cross of St Louis and the three toads of Clovis. At this pivotal moment I could not help wondering what the English king would do if he knew that this beautiful and noble princess, offered to him in all her magnificent and costly finery, was the victim of the vile abuse of the man at her elbow and the daughter of a promiscuous queen and a king who thought he was made of glass?

  King Henry bowed punctiliously over Queen Isabeau’s hand, kissed her whitened cheek briefly and then turned to raise Catherine from her curtsey. My mind jittered with jumbled questions. Surely no red-blooded male could fail to be stirred by the sight of her, but how would she react to him? Would she be impressed with his tall, athletic figure arrayed in a sable-trimmed doublet that blatantly trumpeted his claim to the French throne – the lions of England quartered with the lilies of France – or captivated by the noble outline of his profile and the proud set of his cropped head under its heavy gold crown? Or would she be devastated by the mangled scar which almost obliterated his right cheek?

  Descriptions of King Henry had mentioned the scar, the result of a Welsh arrow which had nearly killed him at the age of sixteen while he was helping to quash a rebellion against his father, but none had ever portrayed the full extent of the damage. A whole flap of skin was missing from the right side of his face so that where there should have been a clean-shaven cheek to match the left side, there was just tight, white scar tissue stretching from his cheekbone to his jaw. Some guardian saint must have been protecting him when that arrow struck, I thought and wondered if all the damage was visible or whether the arrow had also scarred his mind. It was not easy to tell because the blemish lent the affected side of his face a gaunt immobility and gave more than a hint of the skull beneath the flesh.

  Catherine gave no outward sign of anything untoward as she rose like windblown thistledown from her low crouch. His first words to her were heavy with meaning and audible to the whole gathering. ‘I have waited a long time for this, Catherine,’ he said, then swiftly bent and kissed her lingeringly on the mouth.

  I almost felt the kiss myself; the firm, dry pressure of those hard soldier’s lips against her soft, smooth mouth and the electric silence as the assembled company froze at the audacity of it. Burgundy had his back to me but I could see his shoulders go rigid with anger. Then the pages found themselves scrambling to manoeuvre Catherine’s train as King Henry swept her imperiously across the carpet to a line of three thrones which had been placed on a flower-decked dais. Queen Isabeau was escorted to one of them by Burgundy while the English king, having seated his putative bride, took the middle one himself and waved at the heralds to start proceedings.

  I understood nothing of the ensuing debate, since it consisted of a series of long speeches given in Latin, starting with the two principle negotiators, the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Burgundy. So I spent the time watching Catherine and her royal suitor.

  For the most part King Henry’s attention remained on the speakers, but every so often I caught him stealing a sidelong glance to his right, where Catherine sat poised on her throne, chin high, hands resting quietly in her lap. I wondered if it bothered him that protocol had placed Queen Isabeau on his good side, whereas Catherine was presented with the scarred eloquence of his damaged cheek. If so, she gave him no visible cause for concern, presenting an image of calm containment. But I knew that Catherine was like the swan she so gracefully resembled; all regal serenity above the surface and frantic mental paddling beneath.

  If I could glean nothing of King Henry’s reaction to her from his own expression, that of his brother Humphrey was more revealing. The Duke of Gloucester was the youngest and, by repute, the most impetuous of Henry’s brothers. He had travelled from England for the peace conference, swapping roles with the third and most statesmanlike brother, John of Bedford, who took on the regency in England. Shorter and swarthier than Henry, Humphrey had a handsome, expressive face and was seated at the forefront of the English nobles. His appreciation of Catherine’s beauty was obvious in his unashamedly admiring gaze and I noticed him give a knowing little smile when he caught one of his brother’s sidelong glances, as if he recognised a male reaction similar to his own.

  There were two hours of speech-making, at the end of which I was intrigued to note that, as if to make a point, King Henry spoke briefly in English, a language I understood as little as the others’ Latin. Then trumpets sounded a break in proceedings and both sides retired to their respective
quarters while the central pavilion was prepared for the banquet.

  The minute the doors closed on the French pavilion, Queen Isabeau turned to Catherine excitedly.

  ‘Well, daughter, are you happy with our choice of bridegroom for you? Did you not thrill to King Henry’s splendid appearance? Those broad shoulders, his well-muscled thighs and the way he kissed you? That was so naughty of him, but so indicative of his ardour! I did not understand what he said – English is such an outlandish language! – but he was obviously very taken with you. I think all is going very well.’

  During this outburst the Duke of Burgundy hovered nearby with a sardonically curled lip, before disappearing into a huddle with his advisers. Listening from a judicious distance to protect my disguise, I marvelled at the queen’s apparent blindness to the scar, which manifestly prevented King Henry’s elevation to the Adonis status she seemed to be awarding him.

  Catherine was noncommittal in her response. ‘It may be a little early to celebrate, Madame,’ she murmured, keeping one eye on Burgundy whose black brows were knitted in anger as he harangued his lawyers. ‘The Earl of Warwick made no mention of territorial concessions in his speech and a great deal hangs on that, as you know. May I have your permission to retire to the ante room? I am sorely in need of air.’

  At a curt grunt and a nod from her mother, Catherine managed to escape so that we could press cold napkins to her brow and remove the heavy mantle for some temporary relief from the heat and strain. Ever the practical one, I suggested that she use the close stool and took her to the far corner where I had set it up behind a privy curtain. In her elaborate apparel any call of nature was unanswerable without considerable assistance and as Agnes and I lifted her voluminous skirts, Catherine dropped her voice to whisper, ‘How did I do, Mette? I was so shocked when I first saw his face. That awful scar – the poor man!’

  ‘You gave no sign,’ I assured her. ‘Not by one twitch of a muscle. But the scar is a dominant feature. Are you very dismayed by it?’

  ‘No, no!’ she exclaimed. ‘If anything, it makes him seem less daunting – less perfect. But why was I not told? Did they think I would throw a girlish faint if I knew I was to be given to a battle-scarred warrior?’ She gave a hollow little laugh. ‘And his kiss! That was a surprise. Did I blush? The trouble with battle-scarred warriors is that they always seem able to hide their feelings.’

  ‘Then you are a warrior yourself, Mademoiselle, because I could read none of this in your face.’ I jerked my head in the direction of the main pavilion. ‘In there everyone is acting a part.’

  ‘And now I have to talk to him at table!’ she fretted. ‘Sainte Marie, what shall I talk about? For all that Louis called him a libertine, they say that now he is pious. That he reads St Augustine and St Gregory. Shall I talk to him about them or will he think that too pretentious? Does he have a sense of humour? And if I make him laugh, will he think me frivolous?’

  ‘You are not frivolous,’ Agnes protested.

  ‘Laughter is an attractive trait, surely,’ I interjected.

  ‘Not in a queen, Mette,’ observed Catherine despondently. ‘It is not for queens to be amusing, but to be discreet. Perhaps I should remember that he is the conqueror who still holds my cousin of Orleans to ransom and not be tempted to tease or flirt.’

  ‘Just be yourself, Mademoiselle,’ I advised, thinking privately that a little flirting might not do any harm. ‘Do not forget that beneath the crown there is a man.’

  ‘After that kiss, how could I forget?’ She sighed and stretched her neck uncomfortably. ‘And beneath this coronet there is only a girl. It is hideously heavy!’

  When the privy curtain was drawn back and Catherine was restored to her state of regal elegance, I could not help reflecting that King Henry’s sense of humour might be severely tested if he was ever to know on what kind of throne his character had been discussed!

  Despite her vow of restraint, during the banquet I heard the bright ring of Catherine’s laughter more than once, even from the farthest reaches of the table where Agnes and I shared a cup and trencher. To my relief it was not a place where the queen or duke deigned to glance, so I remained undetected in my Flemish masquerade but from that distance it was hard to glean any real clue as to progress between Catherine and the king. However, I thought it a good sign that they did not appear to stop conversing throughout the long meal. From a distance, King Henry’s puckered cheek was barely discernable and he looked much younger than his thirty-two years. I thought they appeared a well-matched couple. Of course the likelihood of happiness resulting from such a union was another matter entirely and one to which I was probably the only person present who gave any thought at all.

  I could see that Catherine found the return trip to Pontoise nearly as taxing as the oarsmen who pulled against the flow of the river. Sandwiched between the queen and the Duke of Burgundy, who appeared to argue long and intensely, causing the duke’s expression to turn blacker and blacker as the journey progressed, she spent the time fiddling with the rings on her fingers and casting despairing glances back at Agnes and me. Nor did she gain any respite when we reached Pontoise, for Queen Isabeau insisted that Catherine accompany her to the great hall where eager courtiers were gathered to hear an account of the day’s events. The candles had burned low when she finally stumbled up the grand staircase to her bedchamber.

  I had shed my sweaty finery with heartfelt gratitude and I knew that Catherine must be exhausted in her heavy gold gown and weighty headdress. Her body swayed as she stood in silence while we undressed her and I rubbed unguent of camomile into the angry red chafe marks left by the heavy coronet. However, it was not until all the ladies had departed and she and I and Alys were left alone that I discovered her inertia was due not to exhaustion but to despair.

  She sank down onto a stool by the hearth, wrapping her chamber robe tightly around herself and I noticed that she was shivering violently.

  ‘Shall I light the fire, Mademoiselle,’ I asked hastily. ‘I did not do so because it was very hot today, but if you are feeling chilled …’

  She shook her head. ‘No, Mette, I am not shivering with cold, but shaking with anger. As the queen and I left the hall tonight, Burgundy bent his foul mouth to my ear and whispered. “I can see that you pant for him, but you shall not have him.” By all that is holy, how dare he?’

  It felt as if an icicle was sliding down my back. ‘Sweet Mother of God!’ I breathed as my hand flew involuntarily in the sign of the cross. ‘He is Beelzebub himself.’

  Catherine dropped her head into her hands and clutched at her hair in desperation. ‘Surely God will not allow it?’ she cried.

  ‘The duke cannot threaten you here, Mademoiselle!’ I protested. ‘There are guards and courtiers and servants everywhere and the queen is in the next chamber.’

  ‘You may be right, Mette, but do you know what he has done? He has banned me from the peace conference. He told the queen that King Henry should not be allowed to see me again until he reduces his exorbitant claims on French lands and monies. He is using me like a carrot, as if King Henry is an ass! But he is not. He will never back down. Despite all the elaborate preparations and high-flown speeches, the Pré du Chat will end in deadlock and I shall never get away from Burgundy’s evil grasp!’

  From Catherine, the Princess Royal, to Charles, Dauphin of Viennois,

  My dear and beloved brother,

  I go from hope to despair in the space of a moment. Today I finally met King Henry, for so long the object of my fears and fantasies. And, believe it or not, Charles, I liked him! I know he is the enemy of France and that you despise him as a glory-seeking warmonger, but he does not strike me like that at all. If anything, he is too thoughtful and analytical to put his faith in the sword alone. I see him as the antithesis of Jean the Fearless. Not a man who consorts with the devil, but one who puts his hand in the hand of God.

  And I believe he liked me. He does not wear his feelings on his face like his brother
Humphrey, who eyed me like a stag after a hind, but his manner was warm and his conversation lively, so I think he found me interesting. His kiss was certainly warm! Oh, he kissed me like a man putting his mouth to a fountain after a long, parched ride. I have never felt so thoroughly embraced at first meeting. And the conference seemed to go well. When we took our leave he kissed me again and I was happy that a peace treaty might come about.

  However, I foolishly forgot the interference of a third party. The Duke of Burgundy! All the way back in the royal barge I was forced to listen to the poisonous outpourings of fearless Jean and the querulous protests of the queen, whom I find it more and more painful to call my mother. By the time we reached Pontoise, my feelings of optimism had been overwhelmed by a sense of utter despondency. Burgundy refuses to allow me to attend any further sessions of the peace conference until King Henry reduces his territorial demands, which is as likely as snow in August. Jean the Fearless cannot stomach the idea that another man might achieve more by honourable conquest than he has done by pusillanimous thuggery.

  I write this at the Hour of Matins, when monks and nuns stumble sleepily from their cells to offer the first prayers of the day to the Almighty, but sleep does not come to me. My mind is overcome with fear that I am destined to live constantly under the threat of Burgundy’s evil abuse and that France is destined to wither under his insidious malevolence.

  Unless you do something about it. You are my only hope, Charles! Can you not broker a peace with Henry and rally your forces against Burgundy? That way we will all have what we want and Jean the Fearless can be left to fester and fulminate in Flanders!

  I will pray for this outcome every day as I will pray for you to stay free from harm and free from HIM.

  Your ever-loving sister Catherine,

  Written at Chateau de Pontoise in the dark hours of morning on Tuesday May 31st, 1419.