The Agincourt Bride

by Joanna Hickson

  Catherine raised an admonishing hand. ‘Nevertheless, it is only right that they have the choice. I will send a page first thing tomorrow morning to fetch their answer and to discover the time and place of the baptism. And now we will call Agnes to mull the wine and drink the baby’s health.’

  Next morning I carried the baby, carefully wrapped against the biting cold, to the church of St Jean au Marché, with Jacques walking proudly by my side receiving the blessings and congratu-lations of his neighbours and fellow tailors. Behind us, Grizelde carried the traditional christening cap, a tiny cream silk helmet which Alys had embroidered with Christian symbols, and beside her strode Jacques’ apprentice, who would be the child’s godfather. Alys, of course, was not allowed to take part in religious activity or prepare and serve food to others until she had been ‘churched’ in a week or so. Although she protested against this ruling, I thought it sensible that she should concentrate on her own recovery and on her baby and to leave the domestic chores to others, which in this case would be me.

  Although the market was not yet busy, a substantial crowd had gathered around the church door, attracted by the glamorous group waiting under the portal; Catherine in full court regalia accompanied by Agnes and several royal guards carrying pikes and wearing the distinctive fleur-de-lis livery. As I had predicted, Alys and Jacques had been overwhelmed by the princess’ offer to be godmother for the baby. For the occasion Catherine had abandoned deep mourning and wore a beautiful white velvet gown and jewelled headdress. A formal crimson mantle trimmed with ermine clearly demonstrated her regal status. It would be only a matter of hours before every burgess of Troyes knew that royalty had stood at the font for Jacques and Alys’ baby.

  The priest was ready, but he was only a junior member of the clergy and he was so overawed by the magnificence of Catherine and her train that he tripped clumsily on his soutane and almost fell flat on the floor as he bent his knee before her.

  ‘Y-you do our church m-much honour, your grace,’ he stammered, staring fixedly at the hem of Catherine’s gown, too abashed to raise his eyes further.

  ‘It is a beautiful church, Father,’ she said graciously. ‘Please rise and let us proceed with the ceremony. I am anxious about the baby in this cold weather. Is the Holy water warmed?’

  The priest clambered awkwardly to his feet and put a hand on the side of the large ewer that stood beside the font. ‘I asked the housekeeper to put it by the fire, Madame, and it is indeed warm.’

  Steam rose from the font as he poured the warm Holy water into the cold stone bowl and I quickly unbound the baby’s blanket and swaddling and passed her to Catherine. Wriggling and screaming at shock of being suddenly naked in the chill air, the little infant also sprayed urine over the princess’ beautiful velvet gown but Catherine was unperturbed.

  ‘I am sure that is a sign of good fortune for us both,’ she said, smiling and handing the baby gently to the priest. ‘I have been baptised again.’

  Blushing, the priest plunged the protesting baby into the water, gabbling the Latin words of the baptismal service, barely audible over the sound of the infant’s vexed cries. ‘Who names this child?’ he shouted finally and, without hesitation, the princess announced loudly and clearly, ‘I do. Catherine. Her name is Catherine.’

  PART FOUR

  From Troyes to Paris

  The Fateful Year

  1420–21

  31

  Towards the end of March, the outline of a peace treaty between Burgundy and England had been agreed and the Duke of Burgundy brought it to King Charles for ratification, riding to Troyes with a retinue a thousand strong to demonstrate his paramount status as regent of France. Six months of mourning for Jean the Fearless’ death was officially over and, despite Lenten restrictions, the French court was to be en fête to greet the young Duke’s arrival.

  The prospect of grand events stirred the queen out of her prolonged depression. She sent a hundred royal knights with heralds and trumpeters to accompany Michele out of Troyes to meet her husband at the Seine Bridge and escort the ducal couple through the town to the palace. Along the route damsels strewed armfuls of scented spring flowers before their horses and an elaborate welcome feast had been prepared in the king’s great hall.

  Now that I had an official court post, I was among the courtiers who gathered in the royal ante-room waiting for the royal party to come and warm themselves and take refreshment before beginning the long ceremonial of a public banquet, at which I was also entitled to a place.

  Duchess Michele wore as flamboyant a display of wealth and status as her ultra-fashionable husband, managing to eclipse both her mother and sister in the magnificence of her appearance. Requiring the assistance of three ladies-in-waiting to manage her train, she moved majestically into the room gowned in gold-figured scarlet beneath a sable mantle so voluminous it must have touched the ground as she rode her palfrey. Her chestnut hair was held in a neat cap of gold filigree studded with glittering jewels and framed by a veil of crystal-scattered silk-gossamer, cunningly folded and wired into points. Such sumptuous and sophisticated attire outshone anything seen since the French court had left Paris and I could almost hear the queen’s teeth grinding. Michele’s facial features were not as fine as Catherine’s, but her shrewd sea-green eyes were piercing and the exaggerated shaving of her hairline heightened her brow and emphasised the nobility of her long Valois nose. Collaring Catherine at the hearth, she immediately launched into the topic that was uppermost in her mind.

  ‘Are you aware of the terms of this treaty, sister?’ she enquired over the head of an attendant who knelt to brush mud off the hem of her gown.

  ‘No, not in detail; I do not have the advantage of being married to one of the chief negotiators,’ Catherine responded, matching Michele’s businesslike tone.

  ‘But my lord has written to you concerning the marriage contract, has he not?’ Impatiently Michele tugged her skirt from the grip of the kneeling attendant. ‘Take care not to pull me over, Madame!’ she snapped. ‘Enough.’

  The lady with the brush rose and backed away, murmuring an apology, but I noticed that she had left a dark smear of mud to mar the costly sheen of the fabulous gold-figured fabric. Catching her eye, I fielded a conspiratorial twitch of the mouth which told me this neglect was not entirely accidental. Serving royalty was not without its little moments of triumph.

  ‘I know that King Henry specifically insisted that the treaty be sealed with our marriage,’ agreed Catherine. ‘But that is all I know. Why do you ask? Is there something you wish to acquaint me with particularly?’

  Michele glanced about her as if suddenly aware that this conversation was not private. ‘We cannot talk of such matters here. We will discuss it later.’

  Catherine shrugged, making it obvious that the prospect did not exactly thrill her. ‘As you wish, sister. However, I would prefer that you had not aroused my curiosity if you do not feel inclined to satisfy it here and now.’

  In view of this frosty exchange it was perhaps fortunate that at the ensuing banquet Catherine’s high-table place was some distance from her sister’s, on the other side of the king and queen, so she was able to converse instead with the Archbishop of Sens, an unusually good-looking prelate whom I knew she found pleasant company.

  ‘He is such a charming man,’ she had told me after first meeting him a few days before, ‘not at all like a priest!’

  I had not the heart to tell her that one consequence of his grace’s handsome worldliness, was that he maintained a mistress in Troyes and it had been during an extended visit to her a few weeks previously that he had left his city and cathedral of Sens inadequately defended, allowing the dauphin’s forces to overrun it. Now he was an archbishop without a See, but evidently he still had his charm.

  When the tables had been cleared and the sweetmeats set out, the great hall was silenced by a fanfare for Montjoy Herald, who began a public reading of the draft treaty, which the king was due to approve the following d
ay. Since it was in Latin I did not understand it, so I watched Catherine’s reactions closely. After only a few sentences I saw her flush angrily and cast a black look down the table at Philippe of Burgundy. From that moment on, the treaty’s content appeared to infuriate her more and more. When another flourish of trumpets marked the conclusion of the reading and a wave of animated conversation filled the hall, I saw her immediately treat the archbishop to a whispered tirade, while he made futile attempts to pacify her.

  My attention was diverted by the arrival of the stewards, who wanted to clear the lower trestles for dancing, so I moved from my bench and when I glanced back to the high table I saw Catherine push back her chair angrily and make a whirlwind exit through the privy door. The queen and the duchess turned to glare disapprovingly, but this was unlikely to cut any ice with Catherine. Clearly my princess was in no mood for dancing.

  Hurrying to her chamber, Agnes and I found her pacing up and down, pounding her clenched fists together and muttering, ‘Treachery! Treachery! Holy Mother of God, I have been utterly betrayed!’

  Seeing us, she stopped and spread her hands in desperate indignation. ‘How can they do this to me? Philippe, Michele, my mother – they have all betrayed me! The treaty is impossible – poisonous!’

  ‘Agnes, you understand it. How can I possibly agree to its terms?’

  She blinked back tears and her voice hardened into sarcasm. ‘Oh, but my consent is not necessary! Agreement has already been reached. All I have to do is marry the enemy, betray my brother and defy the will of God!’ Shaking with fury and frustration, she threw herself into her chair and sat staring into the banked-up fire, biting her knuckles, stopping only to add, ‘I was prepared for the marriage – even welcomed it, but to force me into treason and heresy and total betrayal of my brother is inexcusable – unbearable! I will not – cannot – do it!’

  Agnes tried placatory words. ‘France is to make peace with the English and you are to marry King Henry. Is that not what was always intended?’

  ‘No!’ Catherine exclaimed. ‘You have not understood. This is not a peace treaty between France and England; it is Philippe’s revenge on the dauphin for the death of his father. It creates a triple alliance between France, England and Burgundy, the sole purpose of which is to destroy Charles and revoke his claim to the throne. It is an evil and pernicious document which, after our marriage, will make Henry the Heir of France, to rule in my father’s stead until he dies when, if you please, the French crown is to pass to King Henry of England and to HIS HEIRS!’

  Her voice rose hysterically as she yelled the last two words. Then she continued in a calmer but icier tone, ‘The treaty is illegal and immoral, but that is not the worst of it. It is also against the divine will of God, which the Church has ruled to be that, when the king dies, the French crown passes to the next male heir in line, who is not Henry or any son that he and I might have. It is Charles. He is the king’s son, recognised by him from the moment of his birth, whatever rumour otherwise may have been spread at the time. This heinous treaty contracts me to marry a man who is to be rewarded for destroying my brother with the very crown that should be his. And I am required to provide the usurper with a son who will inherit the throne which Charles’ son should inherit. Now do you understand?’

  ‘But the queen and Burgundy have both agreed to this,’ Agnes reminded her. ‘They must have good reason.’

  Catherine rose, brushed past the kneeling Agnes and started to pace the floor once more. Her anger seemed to have been replaced by bafflement. ‘You are right. They have their reasons, but they are not good ones. Philippe wants the men who killed his father brought to justice and King Henry will help him do that. In return he gets the throne of France, if he can drive Charles from the southern half of it. Obviously this is to Burgundy’s advantage, for it means that the English will concentrate on uniting France and stay away from Philippe’s Flemish border. As for the queen – what can be her reason?’ She seemed to be thinking aloud now. ‘I believe she is frightened. She fears Charles because she knows he hates her – with good cause! She is afraid of what will happen to her if he becomes king, and she thinks that if she supports Henry’s claim to the throne, she will retain the regency in his inevitable absences.’

  Suddenly there was an unexpected interruption.

  ‘Why have you dishonoured my lord by walking out of his welcome feast?’ Michele had entered Catherine’s chamber unannounced and unobserved.

  Catherine stared balefully at her sister for several seconds before dropping to one knee. ‘Madame of Burgundy! You are not welcome in my chamber and your lord is not welcome to my home. Nevertheless, I bow the knee to you because that is your due – for the time being.’ This sharp reminder that their positions were soon to be reversed was accompanied by a falsely sweet smile.

  Head high, Michele stalked past Catherine and pointedly sat down in her sister’s canopied chair. ‘You may not welcome me, sister, but I should have thought you would welcome my husband with open arms, for it is he who has negotiated a marriage for you that will bring you not one crown but two. You should kiss his feet,’ she added with bitter emphasis. ‘His efforts have ensured that your children will sit on the throne of France when, by the law of primogeniture, it should be mine.’

  Catherine rose gracefully from her obeisance. ‘Actually, strictly speaking, if Charles is not to be king, it should be our older sister Jeanne’s son, Francois of Brittany, but let us not quibble over laws which evidently no one takes any notice of. Anyway, your jealousy is misplaced, since neither of us has children; though I at least have the excuse that I am not yet married.’

  Michele shook her finger reprovingly. ‘Tut, tut, sister! You are unkind to mention my lack of children yet again, but do not make the mistake of assuming that God will instantly bless your union, or that he will not one day bless mine. The point is, now that it has been established that Charles is not our father’s son, our children will be in line to the throne of France.’

  Catherine paused and took a deep breath before responding. ‘Has that been established? Or has our mother perjured herself for her own ends? She is protecting her own position, just as she did when she failed to save you and Louis from your forced Burgundian marriages.’

  Michele gave a harsh laugh. ‘Ha! In all your eighteen years have you learned nothing, Catherine? A dynastic marriage is what every girl of the nobility is born for. At the age of nine I may have hated being taken away and bound to a boy I had never met, but now I thank God that I am married to Philippe of Burgundy. It has given me wealth and position and a role in life. If the marriage was made to some purpose and brought my lord’s family more power and status, so much the better. You should wake up, sister, and realise that Charles is not your concern. He is a man who must fight his own battles, and you are a woman who must save your loyalty and love for the lord and husband whom God has chosen for you.’

  I could see that Catherine was aching to answer this tirade with an enlightening lecture of her own. It was less than a year since the devil duke’s depravity and violence had defiled her. While Michele proudly professed herself the beneficiary of Burgundian power and privilege, Catherine was very much its victim. But whatever Catherine may have been thinking, her response, when it came, was a measured one.

  ‘You are to be admired for making so much of what fortune has offered you, Michele,’ she acknowledged, ‘but, like the rest of your husband’s family, you speak without insight or compassion. However, much of your advice is good and I will try to follow it, particularly the part about building dynasties. So let us return to the feast and show our royal mettle by dancing the night away!’

  And that is what they did. There had been no settlement between them but feelings had been aired, points of view established and some form of truce achieved. I thought it remarkable that both sisters showed a diplomatic ability to set personal animosity aside and present a united front, which caused observers of these momentous events to comment on the l
ove displayed between two divisions of the de Valois family. When these reports later reached the ears of the dauphin I could easily imagine his reaction.

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

  Greetings, brother,

  You will not be surprised that I am struggling to come to terms with the treaty which the Duke of Burgundy has agreed with King Henry. Part of me wants to throw it back in Philippe’s face and tell him that I cannot agree to it, although I know such an act of defiance would condemn me to the cloister, but another part of me likes the idea of a marriage to King Henry because I believe it is a perfect match. I wish I could explain this to you face to face, but simply writing it down may at least clarify my thoughts.

  I cannot rid myself of the idea that the marriage is divinely ordained. King Henry believes he is obeying God’s will when, as heir male of his great grandmother Queen Isabella, he claims to be the rightful King of France. On that basis, a son born of our marriage would be doubly God’s chosen ruler and I believe the Almighty would be bound to bless such a marriage with a son. If I confessed these divine presuppositions to Michele, she would accuse me of wild and fanciful notions but then she finds the whole idea of my becoming Queen of France very hard to swallow. You and she have that in common no doubt.

  When you read the treaty I expect you will rage against it and then you will consult your astrologers. You and I always differed about that. I still consider astrology to be an insult to God and His Saints, who steer the fortunes of us all, and I cannot deny that I feel that He and They are sanctioning this union with Henry. I have met the King of England only once, but there was a spark between us then which I believe ignited his desire for our union and lit an ember in me which has smouldered ever since. Because of this I cannot bring myself to halt the present course of events, but please believe me when I say that I do greatly regret the enmity it will create between you and me. Easter is upon us and provides an opportunity to seek divine guidance. I hope God will show me that my intuition is an indication of His will.