‘I didn’t want to hear about Rouen,’ she said faintly. ‘I heard what was done with the babies.’
He was silent for a few moments. Then he said: ‘Put it from your mind. You will have babies of your own, God willing. So think no more, Katherine, of sieges and leaguers. They are not your concern.’
‘And there is peace in England, where I may go with you. Soon?’
‘As soon as possible. But I have campaigns to finish and the crucial part is yet to come. And then—my life’s ambition, my work for God—to drive back the Infidel …’
Pain, unexpected as a night assassin, speared his bowels. I should not have taken the fruit. Down, damned pain, cursed legacy of Harfleur! I thought I had you outmatched long ago. Die, intruder on my wedding-day! He closed his eyes and broke into a pallid sweat. Katherine was afraid. She glanced towards her mother, who lolled, cup in hand, against the shoulder of Philip of Burgundy, to his obvious embarrassment. Was her protector already brought low? She said softly, ‘Harry …’ in uncertain accents, stressing the last syllable. He drew a deep breath and opened his eyes. The sight of her anxious face stirred him sweetly even in pain.
‘Be easy, Madame,’ he said. ‘All’s well, dear wife.’
Thomas, Duke of Clarence leaned across.
‘I’ve arranged jousting as part of the festival. I trust this will please the Queen’s Grace.’
Henry shook his head. ‘No time, Thomas,’ he said, each word an unguessed-at effort. ‘There’ll be jousting in earnest. At Montereau, at Sens.’
At Sens lies my debt to the Archbishop. Thus he thought as later, Henri de Choisy, stammering-pale, came with a score of priests and noblemen to bless the bed where Henry and Katherine lay naked, the stiff brocade drawn to their chins, their bodies straightly moulded as if in effigy. Her long dark hair lay outside the coverlet like some rich reposing beast. Her breathing was swift and soft; he heard it through the long ritual prayers. The sacred wine and soup was brought and they sipped from it, token gestures, Henry fearing sickness and Katherine already sated. ‘Benedicat Deus corpora vestra et animas vestras.’ Incense swirled and lodged in the bed-hangings. Three times the holy water fell, dampening the bed like rain while they lay stiffly together. He called me slender! Katherine thought, feeling the sharp hip-bone against her under the mounded clothes. I must make him eat, cherish him. He is all I have.
Musicians were playing softly outside the antechamber. There was the harp-note again and the voice with the wild, barely controlled merriment that had cheered her in a dark moment, now coiling about a psalm. Jacques, her father’s comforter …
‘You have given me my bride, Monseigneur Archevesque,’ said Henry as de Choisy snuffed candles and prepared to withdraw. ‘Soon I will restore yours – the diocese of Sens – the Church!’
Darkness covered the chamber. The faint music ceased. After a while she said: ‘Is all well, Henry?’
As he did not move or speak she felt for his hand. He caught hold of her quite roughly, grazing her face on his cheekbone, holding her close, still silent.
‘Is all well?’ Hers was the loneliest, the last voice alive in the world. ‘Harry?’
Then he said: ‘All’s very well, dear Katherine.’ She lay waiting, knowing yet not knowing what to expect. She had heard vaguely of discomforts and ecstasies, neither of which occurred now. His extreme thinness worried her. She liked his kisses and returned them ardently, all the time thinking: Freedom. I am a Queen. Unassailable. The thoughts so redeemed her that there was no room for disappointment. She drifted to a light doze, and after some time heard him say:
‘When I have done, there will be no Infidel left to conquer!’
And she, who had been followirg her own half-dream, said: ‘To think you might have married my sister!’ But Belle should not hang sorrowing above this marriage-bed: She said candidly: ‘She had no good word for you … because of Richard. She was wrong, Harry.’
Sainte Vierge! he is ill. From head to foot he was filmed with sweat. An intermittent rigor shook him. She leaned on her elbow, wishing for a light. She touched her lips to his eyes and tasted salt.
‘It was not my fault,’ he said, his words dragged out. ‘Don’t speak of Richard or my father, or of Courtenay who died for me, or Oldcastle and Badby whom I put to the flame. If you love me, Katherine, do not speak of the past. All my life I’ve fought with ghosts. Give me your hand … such a strong hand. If there is any mercy owing to me, be my comforter.’
‘With all my heart,’ she said steadily, ‘I give you my love, Harry. We will do well together.’
The pain had him again, it was so fierce she could almost feel it in her own nerves. Carefully she drew his head on to her breast, and with her soft toes began to rub his horny, freezing feet. He lay, teeth clenched, willing the pain away. In the pitch darkness red flashes danced, each flash a pain. I cannot be ill. With Montereau and Sens and Paris ahead I have no time to be ill. The porcupine emblem of the Armagnacs danced redly on the black, quilled with agony. Katherine whispered: ‘Your physicians …’ and he said as violently as the pain permitted: ‘No! For God’s love, it’s nothing … don’t take your arm away, it helps me.’
She was coughing, a little dry cough, and he thought: poor Katherine! what a travesty of a wedding-night! What demon sent this plague just now? It shall be close between us. She will not tell; God willing, I may trust her. One word to the Armagnacs of this weakness and I am lost … or Philip … he should not know, he might think it a diplomatic illness and lose faith …
‘Pain is good for the soul,’ he said, as it ebbed a little and he lay cautiously still. ‘I shall fast tomorrow. Then, sweet wife, I’ll do more justice to your beauty …’
‘Sleep, Harry,’ she said. Her arm was numb, but she held him closer. The cough had parched her throat. There was wine on the night-table but nothing would move her from his comfort. This was not the loving she had witnessed between Jacqueline and Gloucester, but suddenly she was glad, proud to hold with tenderness rather than be held in such a storm. Jacqueline was mad with love … her two husbands had both been very young. Humphrey, like Henry, aged by comparison … fascinating … Jacqueline had undressed her tonight, whispering, don’t forget! Madame, ask if I may go with you to England … sleep was forming a circle about her. Within it, Jacqueline’s face shimmered and pleaded, she pushed it away, there was no time. Later, she’d ask him … the face returned and she stroked the soft hair reassuringly.
In his fevered sleep, Henry felt the caress. It drew him down and away to a place he had not visited for years. The great warrior was a child again, in the arms of Mary de Bohun, his dead mother.
Two days later, in a litter drawn by eight white horses, one of Henry’s wedding gifts, she accompanied him and his army to Sens. The horses were not perfectly matched, and, paradoxically, this enhanced their perfection. One was dappled like a pearl, one white as a snowbird, one had a freckling of black on its quarters and one was whiter than whiteness, with pale blue eyes where the others’ were dark, sad and generous between long lashes. Between an armed escort, the horses bore her charrette smoothly along. She looked out on the pale moving river of their grace, and adored them.
She had prayed that he would not leave her behind. Last night she had lain alone while he, somewhere unknown, conferred with his ministers. Then word had come for her to make ready. She understood his preoccupation with affairs. Yet she obeyed with joy, glad to be travelling through fair weather past terraces of vines, only sorry he was not nearer. She had come this way before, in a false life, a nightmare now powerless to alarm. Ahead she could see his standards, the blue and gold of France and England quarterly, with France Ancient borne by a pursuivant as a mark of respect to King Charles, who, drugged with music and poppy-juice, rode in a closed litter far behind. Isabeau too was travelling in an equipage far less glorious than her daughter’s. Her suggestion: that Charles should come to Sens. Henry had agreed. There was always the danger that the Dauphin might attempt h
is father’s abduction. The French royal household was on the move.
Some of the ladies had never been far from the court. They treated this expedition as a holiday. The presence of so many strong men had gone to their heads. Giggling mingled with the hoarse shouts of the commanders and the soldiers’ oaths. Pages ran alongside with packs of small Italian greyhounds, and falconers bore peregrines and hawks on ribboned rods. Katherine knew without doubt that this would annoy Henry. His own party, jogging urgently ahead of the long cavalcade, seemed segregated from frivolity by a wall of steel-clad men. She knew that this enterprise was important to him. The Archbishop of Sens, with his priestly attendants, rode near him, where she longed to be. Instead, she had for company Jacqueline, weeping or laughing, beside herself with excitement and private frustrations.
‘There goes the Pig!’ she cried, as young Brabant galloped by.
‘You shouldn’t speak so of your husband.’
‘Oh, Kéti!’ She was almost the only person now who used the old pet-name. It touched Katherine, and Jacqueline knew it. ‘When true love comes, all other men are pigs. Besides, Brabant’s father killed my father, the great and good William of Holland …’
‘It’s past,’ said Katherine. (Do not speak of the past. Be my comforter.)
‘Does the English king please you?’ Jacqueline asked impertinently. ‘He looked very pale this morning. Is he well?’
A warning little cloud settled on Katherine’s features. Incapable of leaving the subject, Jacqueline said: ‘Is he a strong man?’
Katherine knew exactly what was meant. She said: ‘The strongest, the best. And I do not care that he fights against my brother. And if Madame of Hainault does not stop this insupportable probing she will not come with me to England!’
A troupe of minstrels on horseback cantered past the eight white horses, startling them. Clarions sounded; the men sang a little war-song, riding. Jacqueline leaned from the litter.
‘Look Kéti! There’s a handsome!’
‘I thought you said all other men were pigs.’ But Katherine looked where Jacqueline looked, saw bright curling hair, bright eyes, blue flecked with gold, the gold seeking supremacy, catching the sunlight almost like blind eyes. Snatched song, warring with the trumpets. Gaff, Gaff, catch him then, bring!
‘Yes,’ she said, and leaned back on her cushion, suddenly weary and wanting Henry, wondering if his pain had returned, sending up a little prayer for his easement. Ahead, his standards blew, winking at her reassuringly. He was wearing his crown about the battle-helm. Jaqueline knows nothing about love. There are no bursting stars, no angels singing. Only a sick tormented man finding solace in the arms of one who herself was the familiar of sickness and torment. Harree … she whispered, turning her face away from her companion. He has his pet-names too. For many years we shall do well together.
The bridge at Sens had been destroyed by the Dauphin’s party still in possession and several outlying dwellings burned; they smoked among blackened cornfields. The porcupine standard of the Armagnacs hung from the town walls. From the safe distance of her pavilion, ringed with armed men under de Robsart’s command, Katherine watched the little figures begin the siege, saw the cannon belching drifts of smoke as tiny and innocuous as snuffed candles. She guessed that her brother the Dauphin Charles was not there. He preferred to wage war remotely and had likely remained in his Bourges château. Patiently she waited and on the third day Henry came to her lodging where they shared a meal. She thought: he looks better, grace à Dieu! His colour was bright. He kissed her. She thought he had even put on a little flesh.
‘Does it go well?’ she asked, so softly that he had to bend close. The pavilion was filling with men, all the great generals and commanders.
‘Better than expected. Madame—have you all you need?’
She looked straight into his eyes. I need constant news of your safety. I need you here to enhance my peace. She dropped her glance and missed his tender look that said: I know.
‘The siege will soon be over.’ He turned from her to Sir John Cornwall who was saying, ‘Sire, there is an emissary outside our lines. I think he wishes to parler.’
‘The one with the torn banners and the dirty face? Bid him visit a barber and change his clothes before he comes to our presence. There are great ladies here.’
This time she caught his look of affection. He murmured: ‘I am so pleased with you, my Katherine. Be patient.’
‘Do you ever think of me?’ she whispered, and bit her lip.
‘No.’ But he smiled, the smile cancelled the hurt. ‘That way, battles are lost. I must live only upon the moment …’ Then stopped, thinking: what eyes she has! They fill her whole face with darkness and light, a mystery. She is still my mystery. Sudden anguished panic made him take de Robsart aside to say: ‘With your blood, guard her. Double her escort!’ He thought: what would become of her if I were slain?
Sens fell within the week through attrition, which was the way he liked it best. There were few casualties, and he was pleased with the way Philip had handled the deployment of his forces, despite a certain impetuousness that sometimes marred his judgement. Paler than ever, still wearing his black, Philip had been in favour of storming the walls of Sens, even when the citizens were ready to surrender the keys. He wept when they entered the gates. So did the Archbishop, passing once more into his cathedral.
‘God will reward you, grand seigneur/,’ he said. ‘Blessings on you and your bride.’
‘And upon you and yours.’ Henry thought: I have kept my word. Holy Church blesses me! A wave of thanksgiving invaded him. Henri de Choisy was bearing from the cathedral the holy relics, a piece of the True Cross, a bone from St Denis’s foot, for him to kiss. Looking about him he saw King Charles, mute, being borne on a litter which for all he knew might be set on the road to Hell. He said to the Archbishop: ‘I pray you, take them first to our dear father. It is his privilege.’
Then Henry saw the eight white horses. Their drivers had whipped them up on Katherine’s orders. They came like a stream of living pearls, their belled trappings echoing his own joy. It was not only the taking of Sens that gladdened and released him; it was her. She was leaning forward, her coiled dark hair escaping from the elaborate headdress, her eyes seeking him over the heads of the excited soldiery and courtiers. He went quickly forward, seizing the leading horses’ bridles and bearing them strongly backwards to a halt. She alighted and ran to him.
‘Is it over?’
‘For the moment.’ He kissed her, and wanted to go on kissing her, but modesty in face of the crowd inhibited him. He had sent servants ahead to make ready the best lodging in Sens. For the first time in years, his desires were channelled into something other than the gains of war …
‘Now, will you think of me?’ She was smiling, radiant. He caught her up and lifted her into the charrette.
‘Of you,’ he said. ‘Of you, Madame, and nothing else.’ To the coachman: ‘Stand down! I will drive the horses!’
The pearly river moved forward, deep into the captured town of the Armagnacs.
The honeyed time was over, and she was diminished, as by the loss of a limb. She had been raised to a height, and the abyss to which she had now been lowered was deeper than in the black times of old uncertainty. She thought of the babies at the siege of Rouen, winched up from the moat for the kiss of God, then cast back down the swifter to meet Him. For Henry had taken her, loved her, and was gone.
North he had departed, with his army, following the Yonne to Montereau. The sun had gone too, leaving a chill rain like the tears she could not shed. Louis de Robsart had broken the news that Henry thought it best that she remain in Sens. The reason he gave was that the campaign was becoming too dangerous, but she knew better. The laughing ladies, the hawks and playthings, misplaced revelries, had posed a threat to discipline. If only he had told her himself during the nights when he had bound her to himself until she was bemused by contentment! There had been no Archbishop to dew the bed
with solemnity, no malaise to sap Henry’s power. It had been her turn to lie safely in his arms, listening to his lazy voice lapping her in sweetness. The pledge never to talk of the past was honoured, but neither would he discuss the future. Only now did she realize he lived from day to hazardous day. There was also the bitter knowledge that, away from her, he put her from his mind.
When she had heard of his impending departure, all that had passed between them seemed for a moment oddly soiled and shameful. For she discovered in herself a wellspring of abandonment almost too powerful to contain. Shared with him, it was beauty and goodness; here in the abyss, she was reminded only of her mother, of the succession of paramours taken for policy or lust, all of whom had met terrible ends. God preserve me, she thought, from such an inheritance! Yet she had recognized her own carnality It couched within her, an animal, a coiled, purring need. Her shame was such that she could not voice it even to her chaplain. Terrible regrets and embarrassments assiled her. How wildly she had laughed when Harry had said, breathless with delight:
‘Forgive me, Katherine! I’ve lived like a monk of late, and now …’
‘My monk! Now the monk sheds his habit … Harry, Harry!’ She had met his passion like a soldier in close mortal combat. She had made him very happy, and in herself had lit a fire to burn forever.
When they said farewell in the courtyard at Sens, she hardly knew him. He was a steel man in a host of steel men, his face closed, his mouth set. Harry of the night was gone, locked away by another implacable being. Shining brigandines covered his frail flesh. Then there was only the spark of hooves on the cobbles, the banners diminishing to little coloured blurs, and her own tearing loss.
‘Madame has been weeping,’ said Jacqueline. She sat at Katherine’s feet, teasing a kitten with a bobbin on a thread.
‘I have not,’ said Katherine. I leave all the weeping to you. Long ago I learned that tears solve nothing. My eyes are red from sleeplessness in that great empty bed. She looked down at her own hands. They were trembling and for a moment seemed to have a strange transparency.
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