‘If you are not ill, daughter, why were you not in church?’
Her mother’s direct question seemed to disconcert Catherine, as if this was one answer she had not prepared. ‘I – I did not feel well enough to leave my chamber, Madame. I thank you for taking the trouble to visit me.’
‘You do not look ill,’ returned the queen. ‘Come nearer, child, so that I can see you.’
Reluctantly, Catherine rose from the stool she had deliberately chosen some distance away and allowed Agnes to set it closer to the queen’s chair. ‘You seem in good spirits yourself, Madame,’ she said as she sat down again.
‘Well, of course I am in good spirits. This morning his grace of Burgundy rode off to Melun, declaring that he will return with Charles. During all the time that he has been talking and talking with the perfidious English king, he has also had ambassadors talking to Charles and soon there will be an agreement. Henry of England will be forced to flee back to his foggy little island and our beloved cousin will unite France as she has not been united for years. The Virgin be praised, it is the answer to our prayers!’
I could imagine the thoughts that were spinning in Catherine’s head. Burgundy the Peacemaker! Our beloved cousin! How could her mother mouth such adulation of the duke when only a month before she had sung the praises of King Henry as if he stood ranked with the saints?
‘You really believe that Charles will be reconciled with Burgundy?’ cried Catherine in disbelief. ‘That is madness. Charles would not trust the duke to stroke his dog, let alone kiss his hand. I fear you are sadly mistaken, Madame, but then Burgundy is very good at misleading people.’ She must have jumped up as she spoke, for I could hear her voice come and go as she paced the room in her distress.
There was a note of cold but contained anger in the queen’s response. ‘No, Catherine, it is you who is misled. I command you to sit down. We can talk about this calmly together. I know you are disappointed about the marriage to King Henry, but there will be another match. We will find you a worthy bedmate, never fear.’
I could hear the swish of Catherine’s skirts as she continued to move about, ignoring the command to sit; a deliberate solecism since it left her head higher than the queen’s. ‘My fear is that this will stir King Henry into greater belligerence,’ she persisted. ‘And can you truly imagine Charles taking counsel from Burgundy, Madame? He abhors Burgundy, or why did he flee from Paris when the duke’s forces arrived?’
‘That action was ill-advised, but he is wiser now and he understands his position. It is not easy to bridle a spirited young stallion, but Burgundy is the ablest statesman in France and Charles has at last recognised that fact and taken the bit.’
The swish of silk skirts halted. ‘And you, Madame? Will you give Charles the support he needs? Or will you cross him and differ with him at every turn as you did with Louis? Charles is sixteen now. He should be regent of France. He is no longer a boy to be ordered about by his cousin and his mother!’
Catherine must have advanced close to the queen’s chair, for I heard a sudden rustle and thump as the baroness rose to protest. ‘Princess, really! This is too much.’
‘Thank you, baroness, I will handle this,’ Queen Isabeau broke in, her voice sharp, like the cracking of ice. ‘I do not need reminding of the age of my son Catherine, nor of my duty towards him as the dauphin.’
I almost choked and revealed my presence. Suddenly Charles was her son again and she was calling him dauphin! Catherine was right; the queen’s mind was veering without a rudder, totally unable to steer a true course!
But she continued remorselessly. ‘And I will not ask again that you sit down. Now!’ There was a pause when Catherine must have obeyed. ‘Thank you. I will overlook this outburst on the grounds that you are overwrought and anxious for the future – your own petty future I would point out, rather than the future of France, which must always be my first concern.’
Catherine’s tone was deceptively sweet when she resumed her discourse. ‘And in this newly reconciled France, Madame, I take it that the man who was to have been my future is to be driven back over the Sleeve as soon as possible. Will that also be Burgundy’s first concern?’
‘Well of course,’ declared the Queen with satisfaction. ‘Burgundy and the dauphin together will hound the English back across the sea.’
‘Now that will be impressive,’ remarked the now apparently docile Catherine. ‘I must say that I despaired of ever seeing Burgundy raise the Oriflamme, but I suppose he might prepared to do so now that he will be able to hide behind Charles.’ Her voice turned suddenly icy. ‘Where do you think he will be “unavoidably delayed” this time when battle is joined?’
Queen Isabeau’s patience all but snapped. ‘Mother of God, Catherine, you tread very dangerously! Burgundy has never hidden behind anyone. He is the mainstay of France. If it were not for him, we would be at sea without a sail.’
From her confidences of the previous night I knew that Catherine would not stop now and the anger in her voice intensified as she pursued her theme. ‘If he is the mainstay of France, it is only because so many others more worthy were killed or imprisoned at Agincourt. Burgundy is unchallenged now because he failed to fight then. I shall never forgive him for that. And what makes you think that Charles will ever forgive you and Burgundy for declaring him a bastard and stripping him of the dauphincy? Are you conveniently forgetting that? Do you not see that Burgundy duped you into signing an edict which publicly made you a traitor and an adulterer, just as he will attempt to dupe Charles into a truce which he, Burgundy, has no intention of keeping. It is a trap! Madame, I beg you to consider the precious life of your only remaining son. Support him and cease to put your faith in Burgundy!’
When she stopped speaking, a hush descended on the room, as if no one dared to breathe. Then Queen Isabeau’s voice snapped out, vibrating with fury.
‘Enough! You speak treason, Catherine, nothing less! I should have you arrested but you are deranged by the failure of your marriage treaty, so I will be lenient. However, you clearly need some time to reflect on your duty and your position. Baroness, I think a spell with the nuns at Poissy will curb the princess’ wayward spirit. See to it for me, would you? And it is to be no cushioned retreat. This is an opportunity for a sadly misguided girl to learn the error of her ways. I will ask your sister, Abbess Marie, to devise a regime of prayer and chastisement that will bring you to true penitence, Catherine. There will be no communication with the outside world, no visitors and no books. Prayer, hard work and silence are the cure for disobedience. You will not leave this room until arrangements have been made. Guards will be set and you should thank God that they do not come to remove you to a prison cell.’
No one spoke but there was much shoving of stools as the occupants of the room fell to their knees once more and a rustling of silk as the queen and her companion made their exit. I emerged cautiously from my retreat to see Catherine rise and sink into the cushions of the chair her mother had just vacated, a satisfied smile tilting the corners of her mouth.
She caught my eye and gave me a conspiratorial little wink. ‘Well, Mette, I wonder what Burgundy will say when he hears I am sent to a nunnery?’
I frowned. ‘Sadly your guess was right, Mademoiselle. Now that there is finally to be no marriage to King Henry, the queen has no more use for you.’
‘I am a thorn in her flesh,’ nodded Catherine. ‘She wants me out of her sight, as she does everyone who dares to defy her. At least I am to be sent to a convent and not to my grave! How will you like life in a convent, Mette?’
I drew a deep breath and knelt down beside her chair. ‘I fear that I will not be coming with you, Mademoiselle,’ I said softly. ‘Agnes must be your companion, and she is more familiar with Poissy anyway.’ A glance behind me at Agnes’ gentle face told how glad she would be to go, but Catherine’s lip was trembling. She had become desperately vulnerable since the vile actions of the duke and I felt my heart lurch. ‘I never wish to leav
e you, Mademoiselle. And it is not for ever but only for a short time. Firstly, my own family has need of me …’
‘Why, what has happened to Luc, or is it Alys?’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle, it is Alys. She needs me now as she has never needed me before and, as a mother, I cannot desert her. She is pregnant.’
‘Oh!’ Catherine’s hand flew to her mouth in surprise and I could see a succession of thoughts register on her face before she spoke further. ‘Is it Jacques’?’
I nodded. ‘Of course it is Jacques’. We conspired to foster their friendship and we succeeded beyond our expectations.’
Her eyes widened, her expression settling into one of resigned comprehension. ‘We did, did we not? And what does she want to do?’
‘She wants to go back to Troyes and tell Jacques. I have promised that I will go with her. So you see, I cannot come with you to Poissy.’
‘Yes, I see that you cannot.’ Catherine sighed and folded her hands in her lap. ‘Will you come with me to Poissy, Agnes? It may well be bread and water and sore knees for some weeks.’
Agnes moved nearer and knelt beside me, smiling up at her old school-friend. ‘That will be heaven, compared to the hell you are escaping by going there, Catherine,’ she said simply.
Throughout this exchange we had heard the sound of heavy footsteps outside the door, where the guard was being reinforced on the queen’s orders. Proof that Catherine was officially under house arrest. It might be only a matter of hours before she was escorted to a barge and rowed away to Poissy.
‘There is a second reason I want to go to Troyes that I must discuss with you, Mademoiselle,’ I whispered hastily, conscious that we might not be left alone for much longer and that ears might already be pressed to the door. ‘Shall we pray together for your safety?’ I rolled my eyes towards her turret oratory as I said this and Catherine was quick to grasp my meaning.
‘Yes, indeed, and for little Alys as well,’ she whispered back, standing up and raising her voice for the benefit of any listeners. ‘We will go to my oratory now and prepare ourselves for the weeks ahead.’
In the little chapel there was hardly room for three of us to kneel before Catherine’s triptych of the Virgin, so we abandoned the idea of ‘prayer’ and stood together to discuss the plan I had hatched during the previous long sleepless night. At first Catherine was adamant that it was too dangerous, but I gradually managed to persuade her that it was, in fact, the best chance she had of rescue from a future which now looked bleaker than ever before.
At the end of our conversation she grasped both my hands in hers and, with tears in her eyes, bade me take the greatest possible care of myself. ‘Oh, Mette, we are to be parted again and I must be grown up and sensible about it,’ she said miserably. ‘We will not even be able to write to each other, so I will not know whether you have been successful in any of your endeavours – not until I leave the convent and who knows when that will be.’ She squeezed my hands so hard it hurt and then kissed me on both cheeks. ‘May all the saints protect you and keep you safe until we meet again, however long it may be before we do.’
26
Reconciliation! The church bells of Corbeil were ringing a joyful peal and passers-by shouted the news. ‘The king and the dauphin are reconciled! Peace is declared!’
I exchanged dismayed glances with the boy at my side before we both hastily altered our grimaces to smiles as we noticed the triumphant grin on the face of the charettier perched on the driver’s seat of the covered wagon in which we were travelling. He had turned his gaze from the road ahead to share his delight at the news.
‘Burgundy’s done it! God be praised!’ he yelled above the crunch of the wagon’s iron-bound wheels on the cobbled street and the answering rattle of its load of barrels and baskets. ‘Now Paris will eat again.’
Despite the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I managed an enthusiastic nod, grateful that the noise prevented any further conversation. The charettier was doing us a big favour by letting us ride on his wagon and we did not want to offend him.
Yves was the good-hearted fellow who, four years previously, had rescued my badly wounded husband from the carnage of Agincourt and taken him to the monks at Abbeville. He knew the whole sad story. Luc asked him and he agreed out of sympathy to take me and Alys in his wagon, which was to carry supplies after the royal hunt was summoned to meet the Duke of Burgundy at Corbeil.
We had left Pontoise almost a week ago, on the now-familiar route around the north of Paris, and every time we had passed through habitation we had taken care to hide away from prying eyes. Royal convoys were not authorised to carry passengers. When we reached our destination, we took care only to view the scene through peepholes in the cart’s canvas cover.
Corbeil was another walled town on the banks of the Seine bustling with activity centred on the castle. As we passed through the narrow thoroughfares, fights and scuffles seemed to break out every few minutes, as if no one had told the participants that peace had been declared between the two warring factions. Prudently, most of the citizens had retreated behind closed doors and the shopkeepers had put up their shutters. But the bells still rang out relentlessly.
‘What does this mean?’ breathed Alys in my ear, almost unrecognisable as the boy who was my travelling companion. ‘Will Prince Charles really put himself in Burgundy’s hands?’
‘Only God knows,’ I whispered back. ‘We must wait and see.’
In the interests of her safety, I had persuaded my daughter to disguise herself as my son, wilfully ignoring the Church’s diktat against women wearing male clothing. Even accompanied by her mother, a young girl was vulnerable on the road in a way that a boy was not. Wearing the jacket and hose which Luc had abandoned when he received his huntsman’s livery, Alys made a convincing lad and had even managed to perfect the loose-limbed walk of a youth never hampered by skirts.
It had taken two days for the Baroness Hochfeld to obey the queen’s orders and arrange Catherine’s internment. We had wished her and Agnes a tearful farewell and they had departed for Poissy in a heavily guarded barge. Then we had begun the familiar task of packing the contents of her wardrobe and household, ready to go wherever the court went next. I had ensured that the small chest containing our own belongings was tucked away anonymously with the rest and had carefully sewn my small treasure of gold crowns into a pocket in my chemise and put the remaining deniers and sous into a purse, which I tied around my neck with a leather thong and kept hidden inside my bodice. But I hoped our greatest protection would be our insignificance. Why should any sneak thief or cutpurse imagine that a woman in drab working garb, in the company of her adolescent son, might be in possession of gold or silver?
We had reached Corbeil without incident, and Yves hauled on the reins to bring his team of oxen to a halt in the busy courtyard of the castle. ‘I am going to report to the Intendant’s office,’ he told us. ‘If you jump out now, no one will notice you. Mind the ox teams. They are clumsy at manoeuvering. I think the kennels are at the far corner of the main bailey.’
I grabbed the bundle containing the few belongings I had brought with me and eased myself over the driver’s seat. Indeed, the big cobbled courtyard was so jammed with wagons that the queen herself might not have been noticed emerging from one of them. The noise was deafening, magnified by echoes off the surrounding walls. Castle servants shouted orders, drivers yelled at their teams and tired beasts bellowed for food and water and, above it all, the bells continued pealing. I threw my bundle down to Yves and negotiated the awkward descent from the wagon. Behind me, Alys made easy work of it in her hose and boots, grinning at me cheekily from under her hood as she swung down.
‘May God bless you for your kindness, Yves,’ I said to the charettier, pressing a silver denier into his hand. ‘Drink a toast with your companions tonight.’
Yves looked a little sheepish to be taking money off a woman, but only a little. As we meandered off between the carts and oxen, I glanced i
n wonder at the boy beside me. Male dress seemed to have brought out a new side of Alys’ character, but she confessed she was still frightened of being found out.
Her fear was justified. The penalty for defying the Church’s dress code was, at best, a day in the stocks and, at worst, a public whipping, but as long as I remembered to call her ‘Alain’, the disguise seemed to me to be fairly foolproof. Under her russet hood we had even taken the precaution of cutting her long chestnut hair into a boyish bob.
Halfway across the huge bailey we passed an encampment of people whose colourful garb was in stark contrast to the drably dressed servants, soldiers and carters who made up the majority of people crowding the space. Judging by the paraphernalia of balls, stilts, costumes and instruments they were unloading from their carts, I took them to be entertainers who would not spurn an approach from strangers. I spoke to the man who was directing proceedings. He wore a bright-yellow tunic and parti-coloured green and red hose and carried a viol-bag carefully slung over his shoulder.
‘We have just arrived, Sir, and wonder why the bells are ringing. Is there a celebration of some sort?’ I asked him.
‘Indeed there is, Madame,’ he replied, favouring me with a grave nod of acknowledgement. ‘There is to be a feast tonight to celebrate the new peace treaty between the dauphin and the Duke of Burgundy. They say it was negotiated in the saddle.’
‘So are they both here then?’ I could not believe my luck in having arrived at the very place where Prince Charles was staying, if it were true.
The entertainer smiled at me patiently. ‘It would hardly be a feast without the principal guests, would it, Madame? We hope to entertain both the prince and the duke tonight. We take our chances where we can.’ He made a flourishing bow. ‘Ivo Player at your service, Madame – and yours too, young man.’ This last was directed at Alys who grinned and attempted to copy his bow, which caused a surprised smile and a raised eyebrow in return.
The Agincourt Bride Page 29