Crown in Candlelight

by Rosemary Hawley Jarman

  ‘In God’s name, where shall we sleep?’ The Duke of Orléans looked hopelessly at the foul straw. Isabeau smiled at him through the steam from her garments, like something beautiful risen from Hell.

  ‘Together?’ she mocked. His heart raced. A splitting roar of thunder bombarded the inn, the pots danced on the table. He looked at the children, crouched together on a bench beneath the line of drowsy hens. All three were soaked from crossing from the carriage to the inn. Katherine’s face was scarlet. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing was agony. Again surprised at himself, he rose and picked her up; she lay inert against him. Carefully he mounted the ladder to the loft where, in straw, the inn-keeper’s brood nestled wide-eyed. He laid her down. To one of the boys he said:

  ‘Give me something to wrap her sacking? It will do. Look after her. I fear she’s very ill.’

  He descended to meet Isabeau’s twisted smile.

  ‘So, my lord, you play wetnurse now.’

  ‘Someone must care for them.’ He frowned.

  ‘They’re hardy, like me. In Milan, dear Louis, I shall want swords, not lilies. Do you take after Mad Charles, your brother?’

  ‘Compassion isn’t weakness.’ He flushed.

  ‘You will serve me in Milan.’ Her eyes held him, full of half-promises, taunting love. A prescience of doom struck him. As if one day she might, even unwittingly, encompass his ruin.

  ‘Dear God, I’m cold!’ He stripped off his sodden cloak and chaperon. The piglets squealed as their throats were cut. Katherine’s tortured breath went on and on.

  Isabeau dealt a final hand of cards swiftly on to the table. He watched her, his desire and unease tempered with dislike. Getting up, he said quietly:

  ‘If Katherine dies, there will be one less pawn for you to move on England. The Prince cannot marry a corpse.’

  ‘Sit down, my lord.’

  He left the table and mounted the loft-ladder. From the straw the inn-keeper’s son looked nervously at him. Dark eyes, olive face, handsome, very thin. Louis felt a stir; once, long ago he had loved a boy like this.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘I don’t know, seigneur.’

  He smiled at the boy, from whose clothing a stench of dung and garlic emanated.

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  He lowered himself down and took Katherine on his lap. Years since he had handled an infant. Oddly she reminded him of his own son, Charles, as a baby, Charles who now, fifteen, composed songs to Isabelle, widow of King Richard, sister to this wretched waif. He decided in that moment: Isabelle and Charles should marry, and safeguard the interests of Orléans against Burgundy. Katherine opened her eyes. They were full of torment.

  ‘Is she better, seigneur?’

  ‘I think she’s dying.’ Orléans put out his free hand and patted the boy’s slim neck. The straw was gleaming as dawn entered through the loft’s broken walls. The storm had gone. There was the sweet rotten smell of autumn washed by rain. He leaned to listen to Katherine’s faint heart, her hoarse, ragged breath. More light surged in through the open inn door. The henchmen were standing to attention. Isabeau stood brushing at her gown. Colard de Leon gnawed a cob of bread. Louis of Bavaria was listening to the patois of the inn-keeper who, with great temerity, was demanding payment for the piglets. Laughing, the Queen’s brother scattered gold pieces, enough to keep the family for a year, and the man’s truculence changed to fawning gratitude.

  Isabeau came to stand beneath the loft, eyes bright and unwearied. The henchmen were shepherding Michelle and Louis out through the door.

  ‘Come, my lord!’

  Under his hands, Orléans felt Katherine’s dry firey face.

  ‘We must be off,’ said the Queen. She peered up through the bars. ‘Are you sleeping? Come, we’ve delayed too long.’ He did not answer.

  ‘My lord?’ The voice sharpened.

  ‘The princess cannot stand,’ he heard himself reply. ‘She can scarcely breathe. She needs a physician.’

  ‘You disobey me?’

  He sat, cradling Katherine. To the inn-keeper’s son he said softly: ‘Go, run into town and bring a doctor,’ and the boy slid from the loft on quick bare feet, and, skirting the Queen warily, ran from the inn.

  ‘You’ll anger me, my lord.’ She laughed uneasily. Louis of Bavaria came to stand beside her.

  ‘We appear to have a brave man in our company,’ he said.

  Orléans knew himself anything but brave, but a new man, full of strange morality, had got inside his skin.

  ‘I’ll punish you, never fear,’ said Isabeau.

  ‘No, my liege,’ answered the strange new man. ‘You need my loyalty. You need your daughter—alive. I’ll serve you in Milan, but I’ll not ride there with a dead child. Not for all my estate or your esteem.’

  ‘One hour, then.’ She stalked back to the table. The doctor entered, a tall cloaked Jew, and ascended to the loft, bringing out almanac and herbs and vials, sending the landlord’s son for water and cloths.

  ‘One hour!’ the Queen repeated viciously. She sat, they all waited, the henchmen in the doorway, yawning but vigilant of the jewels and the paniers of gold, the small Louis and Michelle asleep again on a bench. The doctor examined Katherine. The evil humours were strong in the ascendancy, he said, shaking his head. The sobbing rasping breath continued. In the town a church bell sounded and Isabeau said: ‘Your time is nearly up, my lord of Orléans.’

  He raised his head to reply and heard the first trumpet. An acrid bray muted by the trees, but near; lilting as if sounded by someone riding hard, and the sound of many horses, the noise of harness and wheels. The orchestration of swift approach grew and voices drifted, shouts breathless with intent. One of the men-at-arms ran out of the door and scanned the dawn-lit trees. And the Dauphin, awakened, ran out to the edge of the glade to peer down the tree-lined slope. He saw the cavalcade, the mud-soaked finery, the carriages, the arms and colours of the leaders. With a shriek of glee, he bounded back into the inn.

  ‘Burgundy!’ he cried. ‘It’s my uncle of Burgundy!’

  Isabelle whirled and drove an evil look at Orléans. Your accursed dalliance had brought us to this, what I most dreaded. Outside the sounds of hoof and wheel merged with the slither of steel. There were more shouts, as the Queen’s horse was recognized. And then the inn was filled with man and arms. In the centre, cynically smiling and splendidly clad in a habit of fleurs-de-lys, stood Jean sans Peur.

  He was a strong stoutish man with a merry eye. Beneath a tall fur hat the cumbrous Valois nose swooped powerfully. He had owned the dukedom of Burgundy for little more than a year since his father Philip had died, but it sat on him like a treasure. He was amused by the whole denouement, at apprehending Isabeau like this. He crooked his knee and kissed her rigid knuckles, appraising her decadent beauty, her dismay.

  ‘God greet you, Madame. Are you going far?’ rising to kiss her on both cheeks. ‘To think I might have missed your company!’

  Her eyes slid past him to the grim figure of Odette, at whom the Duke turned to smile.

  ‘This lady,’ he said, ‘is very loyal to the crown of France. So. God rest him, was her brother. A swift rider, Gaspard, eh, Demoiselle Odette?’

  ‘He accomplished his duty.’ Odette’s eyes moved upon the Queen, speaking of murder.

  At sight of the jewels and gold, Jean sans Peur’s little smile spread. Over Louis of Bavaria his glance passed without a sign. To Colard de Laon he nodded; he was an artist, immune. The he saw Michelle and the Dauphin, bursting to be noticed, and went swiftly towards them.

  ‘My lord prince; princess.’ He was the fatigue, stress, hunger in them. His smile grew tight. I have not come before my time; these children are shamefully used. He kissed the Dauphin’s hand.

  ‘Where are you bound, my prince?’

  ‘My mother is taking us to Milan.’

  ‘Against your wish?’ Jean sans Peur said softly. ‘Would you return to Paris, to your father?’

  ‘My
father’s sick.’

  ‘No, he’s well, he’s very well,’ said Odette, and the Duke of Burgundy nodded.

  ‘Then it is my royal wish to return to my father in Paris,’ Louis said grandly, and burst into tears.

  ‘Zut!’ said Burgundy, abashed. ‘So you shall. Where is Madame? Her coach was not far behind …’

  ‘Madame is here,’ said a voice in the doorway.

  Isabelle of Valois delicately lifted the hem of her gown and stepped into the inn. Tall and fair, she wore blue velvet embossed with pearl roses. Her features, unlike those of the other Valois children, were perfect, and now anger made them shimmer. This was widowed Isabelle of England and France, Isabelle who at eight years old had told the Earl Marshal: ‘Sir, if it please my God and my lord and father that I be Queen of England I shall be well pleased, for I have been told that I shall be a great lady.’ Now, ten years later, this is what she looked, and what she was.

  Michelle ran and flung her arms about the velvet waist. The Dauphin’s face shone.

  ‘I was at Poissy when the message came.’ She looked steadily at the Queen. ‘I was praying for my father. It seems God has been moved to succour him.’

  Inwardly she sighed, for a permanent sorrow weighed her and now mingled with fresh griefs at sight of her brother and sister. She knew they were the tools of frantic power, in a situation all too familiar to herself, fresh from the tragic ravaged throne of England. She thought: Michelle is but a little younger than I was at the start of my griefs, after that small poignant joy. She shall not suffer thus, nor Marie, now with the good nuns, nor Joanna with her own Breton court. Nor … Suddenly alarmed, she cried: ‘Where’s Katherine?’

  From the loft came a rustle and Orléans’s head appeared, clownishly festooned with straw. Jean sans Peur gave a savage guffaw at the sight. Isabelle quickly went and placed her foot on the ladder. The Duke’s face hung in a gold-lit cloud of fleas and dust.

  ‘Madame!’ he said. Isabelle half-angrily guessed his part in this affair, but there were old debts owed him and she smiled. He was relieved. She was not vexed with him. His furious letters to Henry of England, demanding her return to France, had not been in vain. If only he could have secured her dowry-jewels also! Had it not been for him, she might still be imprisoned at Havering-atte-Bower, or Sunning Hill, or murdered like her husband Richard. He deluded himself; Henry Bolingbroke had returned her out of free will, being at no time intimidated by the histrionics of Orléans.

  ‘Your beauty still excels,’ he said foolishly. ‘How fine you are!’ He tried to rise without disturbing Katherine, who was in a heavy, trembling sleep.

  Isabelle said, with a twisted smile: ‘This is the one good gown I was able to save. Most of my chattels have gone to the murderer’s son … to Mad Harry, who doubtless adorns his catamites with them at Cheylesmore.’

  Somewhere in the depths of fever Katherine heard her voice and gave a mewing cry.

  ‘Sainte Vierge!’ said Isabelle. ‘Is that my sister?’

  She mounted swiftly, careless of the rich gown. She pushed aside the doctor and knelt, kissing Katherine’s burning face, whispering to her like a south wind, and the strong breeze of love made itself known, pushing back pain, terror, the seductive beckoning of death.

  ‘Kéti, Katherine. Open your eyes.’

  ‘Madame, I tried to care for her,’ said Louis of Orléans. The brave inner man had departed and. he feared everyone. He could see Jean sans Peur with his terrible knowing smile, epitomizing retribution. Burgundy! again the feeling of unknown doom touched him.

  ‘Your son Charles told me that you would do your best,’ said Isabelle. ‘Open your eyes, my little one.’ The child’s lashes quivered; a deep cough rattled in her chest.

  ‘Again!’ said Isabelle. ‘Look at me!’

  Katherine’s fingers feebly touched the miniver fur on Isabelle’s sleeve. She said clearly: ‘Beppo.’

  ‘No, Beppo’s gone, my sweet! I have another dog for you at home, one who will love you even better. Open your eyes, little sister.’

  Lucent with fever, the great black eyes were revealed.

  ‘Belle.’

  ‘Yes. Belle has you now.’

  A thick dew began to appear on Katherine’s brow and limbs. The doctor exclaimed in pleasure.

  ‘The evil humours are discharged!’

  They carried her from the inn and placed her in Isabelle’s charrette. Odette came with them on the long steady ride back to Paris, then to the convent of Poissy with its sacred relics; the heart of Philip the Fair and the great jewelled Cross of the Templars; and its kind, skilled community of Dominican nuns. And because at four years old tomorrow was a year away and six months a lifetime, Katherine felt safe for ever. Belle had assured her, many times on the journey:

  ‘I shall never leave you again, little one. Not while life lasts.’

  ‘She looks so well,’ said Odette in her soft flat voice. ‘Madame has wrought wonders.’

  Isabelle glanced down at Katherine, riding a pony She gripped. the reins firmly, spurning the protective arms of an attendant groom. Across her saddle-bow was balanced a fluffy white dog.

  ‘The nuns saved her, really,’ Isabelle said. ‘They watch her carefully for lung-fever. She must stay at Poissy until she is grown.’

  ‘How old is grown?’ Odette smoothed her robette over the side-saddle. ‘Eight years? Ten?’

  Odette was happy since the King’s recovery. He had made fresh provision for her. She was glad to keep gifts and messages flowing to Poissy when Isabelle herself could not visit there, although she did this as often as she could, bringing the irreplacable gift of herself.

  ‘Maturity comes too soon,’ said Isabelle. Again she saw herself, her head almost level with the Earl Marshal of England’s sword-hilt, promising to marry the English king.

  ‘They thought I was too young to love him!’ she said aloud.

  ‘Madame?’ Odette’s question went unanswered.

  They rode on together over the cobbles. The sun made a cobweb of Isabelle’s white horned coif. Spring with its scents had come to Paris; green vegetables and fresh meat from the Champeaux market at Les Halles; drifting down narrow alleys knit together by the towers and spires, of churches. St Eustache, St Germain l’Auxerrois in the north and, towering further north in the city, St Martin-des-Champs. At the west inner wall stood St Honoré and by the Seine the Louvre with its delicate towers from which the King’s standard now flew serenely. The river was white and blue with reflected sky, burnished in places by the influx of spring tides. Upon the south bank was the Petit Châtelet, and over the river the Grand Châtelet, prison and treasure-house. On the Île Notre Dame stood the cathedral and the crenellations of the Hôtel Dieu.

  Paris was a heart of piety whose cobbled veins were set with leaning houses. Yet cuddled together on the Grand Pont were dwellings haunted by the assassin and the whore, the usurer and the thief. It was a city of holiness and intrigue, of paradox, of secrets. The morning sun shone on the river, while bells struck the hour in sweet cracked sounds and sombre notes, out-tongued always by Notre Dame. Paris quickened with the morning, the boatmen plying up and down to La Grève with wood and charcoal; in the little streets between the Palais and the cathedral apothecaries and booksellers, drapers and furriers and goldsmiths widened their shutters and looked for trade. There was the scent of flax and dye, fuller’s earth and tanning hide. From the north-east quarter came the hammer of armourers, and cheese-hawkers cried in the streets of fine Brie and Champagne. In the Cité, the artists and illuminators and parchment-sellers went about laden with rainbow scrolls.

  So Paris came to life in its three divisions the food markets of La Ville to the north; the artists and scholars in the Cité mingling with lords and dukes; and in the south, L’Université. Some students were in the street where Isabelle rode and gazed at her admiringly, dispersing under the warning looks of. her escort. She rode on, greeting people, courteous and correct.

  To a priest she bow
ed. ‘Dieu vous gart.’

  To a workman struggling with a ladder in her path: ‘Dieu vous ait, mon amy.’

  And to the young Charles of Orléans, who came on her as if by chance:

  ‘Dieu vous donne bone matin et bonne aventure!’

  ‘May I accompany you?’ His eyes drank her up, from her cobweb coif to her little shoes of Cordovan morocco. He was tall and fair like his father, but without Louis’s vacillating eyes; his own were steady and clear. In his pocket he carried yet another excellent poem to ‘Madame’.

  ‘Not this day, my lord.’ She shook her horse’s belled bridle. ‘We go to the Sainte-Chapelle to pray, my sister and I.’

  She smiled, leaving him; she knew him to be kind and unspoiled at fifteen years old, and how ardently he desired her. She recognized that his father was in thrall to Isabeau, but she remembered that while she, Isabelle, was a hostage in England, Louis had offered to meet the English king in single combat for her sake. And on her return three years earlier he had loaded her with presents, just as Jean sans Peur had ordered great celebrations which she, bereft and heartsick, could not enjoy. She trusted neither Burgundy nor Orléans. Her father she thought of with uneasy affection and pity, her mother with loathing. The one she could both love and trust was gone, his starved body smashed by Bolingbroke’s assassins in the dark of Pontefract, then lapped in lead so that his wounds were hidden, his heart rotting in England’s earth.

  Now, dismounted, they were entering the Palais precincts under delicate ribbed arches, crossing the court to where the twin chapels of the Sainte-Chapelle rose one above the other like a stone flower stretching to heaven. The great upper window was dark, and gave no intimation of the beauty within. She thought: so is a soul concealed under flesh. Only when the flesh is shattered can the soul be seen. Dead, he must have been fairer even than in life.

  Into her mind, clear as ever, came the face of King Richard of England, seen for the last time in the precinct of Windsor before his departure for Ireland. He was tall and, sitting on the roan Barbary, his head seemed to touch the sky. He had turned his face to her with a threefold look of love, father and priest and lover in one. They had made their farewells yet he had dismounted, like some royal and gentle bird, and come back to her, lifting her small figure against his breast.