He did not reply.
‘Think of eternity!’ Katherine said. ‘In the merciful bowels of Christ, think of eternity!’
‘Not your words,’ he said, soft and savage. ‘The conqueror’s words to your father. You are his mammet, Kéti.’
‘I am his dear companion,’ she said.
Still looking through the window, he said: ‘I was glad to learn that your brother murdered Jean sans Peur. He who struck down my father in the dark of Paris!’
‘Your father! My uncle!’ cried Katherine. ‘Charles, let’s not quarrel. The past is gone. When I return to Paris I’ll have Masses said at Belle’s tomb in the Célestins for you.’
He turned, his face radiant under the tear-tracks.
‘You promise?’ To l’Astisan: ‘Give her Grace money, much money. And a great choir to sing for her? Kéti, make it soon!’
‘As soon as my baby is born and I can go to France,’ she said. ‘I promise. Now show me your poems before I leave you.’
One was so lovely it brought tears despite her new tranquillity.
The torch is set of piteous sighs
Which was with sorrow set aflame,
The tomb is made also the same—
Of careful cry depicted all with tears,
This which is richly writ about,
That here, lo! lieth without doubt,
The whole treasure of worldly bliss …
She kissed him, and gave him her blessing. Then, thoughtfully, she descended to her own apartments. What a heritage of love was in that poem! If Belle were not dead, one could envy her … She found herself longing for Henry’s presence, after the near-frenzy of Orléans. Little sounds from the lodgings of others blew down the cold halls of Pontefract: Jacqueline laughing, someone scolding a servant, someone singing. Sounds that touched her ears and were cut off like dreams at daybreak by stone pillars or a labyrinth of galleries. The scolding and the laughter faded but the singing followed in her mind. She retraced her steps to its source. That same gay, wild, tenor-bell of a voice, but with all its gaiety gone, replaced by an anguish like that of Orléans’s poems. Through an open door she looked where the singer sat with a lute across his knees. He sang on, moving her to think: never did I know that Jacques could sing like that! He did not see her. His eyes stared ahead. Whatever sunlight there was in the grey chamber had rushed to gather about his head, in the gold hair curling at his temples and brow and touching the tanned face and the blue, blind-looking eyes with gold.
The chatelaine at her waist swung as she halted and. its keys made a sound. He was on his knees as if poleaxed. She said: ‘You have a pleasing voice, Jacques. One day you shall sing for me.’
Grief, rage, and longing filled him. Annwyl Crist! I knew I was nothing, but not that I was invisible! I have sung for you night after night, morning after morning, at your door and the great ceremonies that crown your life! I have brushed your gowns and guarded your furs, I have practised in pursuit of your pleasure until my throat was raw and my fingers half-crippled. I have thought of nothing but you. I can’t remember a time when I did not think of you. Once you sent me away because my melodies made you sad, but you do not know that all my songs come from a dead heart. That because of you I am no longer a man! When I tried to lie with Jeanne again it was a frightening failure. When I tried to pretend that she was you, it was an unspeakable sacrilege. For my dream is you, and I would sleep for ever. Last night I had a dream, Cathryn (for that’s your name, your only name, in my tongue, the best tongue, the language of the gods)—that you and I stood together on a mountain and you rested your face, chilled by the Welsh wind, upon my heart, and you were mine, and Duw annwyl! I wish I were dead.
He looked up fearlessly into her eyes. Part of the essence of his look broke through her innocence. Sainte Vierge! she thought. Comme il est féroce! She turned away, saying: ‘I’ve disturbed your good music, I am sorry. Continue, Jacques,’ and left, a little disturbed herself. He looked as if he hated me.
From her apartments she had a view of the bailey and the main gate of the castle; outside tall trees were struggling into leaf. She felt a slight queasiness, and touched her belly wonderingly, it was so slender and tight, hard to imagine a tiny manikin stood there, with Henry’s eyes and close-cropped hair. She caressed the place where its heart might be. She smiled in ignorant bliss. A movement on the hill-brow behind the trees caught her eye. Riders, coming fast. King’s men! He could not have returned so soon. What pleasure if he had! She waited, hands still clasped on her belly. The coloured banners floated down the hill in the wake of the galloping horses. They were tired, they wavered and strained for home as the gate was raised. John of Bedford was out in the bailey talking to the dismounting men. Henry was not with them.
Bedford came to her in a few minutes. His face was quite grey. Something has happened to Henry. I cannot support it. I can. I must. I am his wife, a queen.
John of Bedford said: ‘The news is very grave, ma reine. The King is on his way from York. We are all to go south immediately.’
He looked so devastated that she had to ask: ‘For God’s love, my lord, what’s happened? Is the King well?’
‘He is well. But our brother of Clarence has been killed in France. The Dauphin was triumphant at a great battle near Baugé. And now all that Harry conquered stands in jeopardy.’
Letters. Letters. He dictated more than two score letters to a frantic scribble of clerks; instructions to all his captains who still held the French possessions so dearly gained. She sat quietly, listening to his rapid words which illustrated his diplomacy and grasp, his memory for detail, his skilled discrimination and judgement of approach. A soft letter to a pliant, easily-flattered castellan. A letter which threatened death to one who understood severity. But always the same message. Keep my conquests safe. Guard them with every arm you possess, with every strategy within your power. A team of fast couriers, every hour upon the hour, departed to take ship at Dover or Southampton. If he could have thrown his heart across the Channel he would have done it. After hours of vital deliberation and instruction he turned to Humphrey of Gloucester, to Bedford, and to Katherine. She knew that this meant France for him again, sooner than had been anticipated, and that she would be parted from him for some time. The coming child meant too much to him to risk her health on the journey. And parts of Upper Anjou, deemed his securest possession, were, if rumour ran correctly, once more awash with blood.
When the last courier had gone, he dismissed his counsellors and went with her to privacy. She took his face in her hands. He kissed her.
‘My dear companion,’ she said.
‘The knight I mourn most is Sir Gilbert Umfraville.’ He looked wan and sad. ‘There was a knight, Katherine! He fought so mightily on Artois plain, the archers loved him. That fool brother of mine. God rest his soul, thought he could dispense with the archers at Baugé! The Armagnacs cut my best fighting force to shreds, captured my noble Sir John Holland and Somerset, killed Umfraville …’ He sat down heavily, staring grimly ahead.
‘Clarence was envious of your prowess,’ she said softly.
‘Yes, jealous. As, I fear, is Gloucester. Bedford is the most loyal of all my brothers. Katherine. When I’m in France, stay close by John of Bedford. He will look after you.’
She said: ‘I think Humphrey …’ and bit back the words. Ridiculous to say I think he’d do me harm, even to Harry. He looked at her keenly, his tired eyes narrowing.
‘What of him? Has he displeased you? He shall hear from me…’
‘No, no,’ she said hastily. ‘He upsets only Bishop Beaufort. He will be more settled when he’s married.’
‘That’s more or less arranged,’ Henry said impatiently. ‘And praise God, Philip seems unperturbed. Perhaps Brabant is glad to be rid of the Hainault wench after all. And she will bring money into England from her estates. God knows I need money in face of this new catastrophe.’
‘And his Holiness?’
‘His Holiness Pope Martin owes me a favour,�
�� Henry said grimly. ‘He will agree to the annulment. Although he has ceased to love me, it seems. He remarked after Baugé that the Scots are the antidote to the English! appearing pleased. There were many Scottish lords fighting under Armagnac—Archibald of Wigtown, Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and they had archers! Clarence’s cavalry were stunned by the hail of fire. He rode across the bridge wearing a gold crown, as I once did. He died, as I did not. Had it not been for Salisbury’s counter-charge into Maine, I should have lost more lands. As it is I have lost much, and must ride to regain it.’
She had summoned servants with food and wine for Henry and now dismissed them, kneeling beside his chair to serve him herself. He protested. ‘No, Katherine. You are my queen, not my servitor.’
‘I am your dear love,’ she said, with a fluttering dark secret look. She set a brace of little birds roasted in honey before him. ‘Can you eat? Has the pain returned?’ She had not dared ask before.
‘No, I feel strong, despite everything. And you?’ His gaze swept her ardently, tired though he was. ‘When will my son be born?’ He gnawed hungrily at the little fowl.
‘They say towards Christmastime. We’ll rejoice over him together.’
‘If I am back by then,’ he said flatly. Her heart dipped, and she turned her face away. Eight months! He rinsed his fingers and dried them on the surnape. He turned her cheek to his.
‘Be of good heart. Bear and baptise my son in the faith of the Holy Spirit. Name him after me. Let him come into this wicked world strong and just and loving God. Don’t be downcast, my Katherine.’
She rested her head on his chest. The gold collar of SS was cool and hard to her face. She felt the vital impatient beat of his heart, like an augury of the swift journey that was imminent. She clung to him, gathering the safety of Now against the emptiness ahead.
As it happened, the departure was delayed for another five weeks while they rode south through April into May, seeing spring take hold of the countryside in a flutter of blossom and green leaves. The couriers continued to stream to all points of the realm collecting the promised funds for the campaign. The money came in from lords too old to fight or infant lords bound by family loyalty; from Englishmen who, stirred by Henry’s past exploits, now shared his present anxiety. Ships were fitted out, new cannon cast, weapons forged. Nine hundred knights and three thousand bowmen prepared again for war. In early May Katherine was back at Windsor, and Henry in the Painted Chamber at Westminster where Parliament was in session. The Speaker, Thomas Chaucer, spoke eloquently of the King, and the Treaty of Troyes was ratified. Debates were accelerated under the growing tension and Henry, sparing neither himself nor his ministers, worked for days at a stretch. He signed treaties long in abeyance, ordered fleets to stand off the Scottish ports to safeguard against further defection to Armagnac, and posted border guards to that end. He dealt with lesser matters: the Commons requested that England should be given the monopoly of wool exports to Burgundy, prohibiting competition from Scotland and Spain. The Lollard problem was discussed; he set up further commissions of enquiry. Bishop Langley commended him for attributing his past conquests to God and not man, and, watching Henry doing the work often, the Chancellor wondered indeed with what secret power God had endowed the King.
And then it was June, and the ships ready to sail. The roses bloomed in the pleasaunce at Windsor. The scent of summer jasmine and honeysuckle swept through the window of Katherine’s bower. Two new harps Henry had recently purchased for them stood, as yet unplayed, in a corner. A linnet in a cage chirped dolefully for the world outside.
He came alone and stood before her, his mind full of a thousand matters overlaid by the impotence of all farewells. He thought she looked pale, attenuated, but she stood graceful and straight, her hands folded over the tiny curve at her waist. She in turn was relieved by his bright colour, his vigour. It would have been unbearable had he been ill at the start of this enterprise.
‘I am for Dover now, Madame,’ he said, as if formality could lessen pain.
‘God speed,’ she said faintly. ‘God be with you.’
He stood as if frozen, then took her into an embrace that made her gasp for breath. She fancied for an instant that the child writhed in protest, but the child was too young to move, he was a good child and would not abhor his father’s touch, and he was to be dedicated to God. She had sworn it …
She kissed his neck as he held her. He had been barbered more severely than usual and there was a white line between the weathered skin and the short hair. She kissed the scar on his face. He thrust his hand in her long hair and groaned. Over his shoulder she saw gilded strings, gold-painted wood.
‘We never used the harps,’ she said with a sobbing laugh.
‘If you need new strings,’ he said, as wildly, ‘John Bore in London is the vendor. Send Owen Tydier, he knows the kind.’
‘I know of no Owen Tydier,’ she said weeping.
‘You call him Jacques … your father called him so. A Welshman. He kissed her eyes. ‘My dear wife, it’s time.’
‘Do not think of me,’ she drew back, composed, inwardly shivering.
‘No,’ he said.
‘But write to me.’
‘Whenever possible.’
‘And in God’s mercy return soon. Or send for me.’
‘I give my word.’
She knew then she must cease clinging with outworn phrases and let him go. She foresaw the sad hard summer, the endless conversations with the unborn child. She watched from the window until the army gathered below had rolled gleaming away through the gate. On impulse she opened the linnet’s cage. The small bird stood uncertainly on one leg, then dived with a swift flick of wings into the living air outside. She thought: he shall sing my dear companion on his way.
‘He has your eyes,’ said Jacqueline of Hainault, hanging dotingly over the cradle.
‘He favours my father,’ said Katherine. The baby, bound from neck to toes in a case of starched ribbing, gazed up opaquely. He had a sad, ancient look, as vulnerable as one of the monkeys in the menagerie at Windsor. On the milky pearl of his neck a chafe glowed red. Katherine slid her finger beneath the swaddling. Once again the laundress had used too much arrowroot. Jacqueline should dismiss her. Poor baby. Mon pauvre petit prince. The great eyes swam about like dark fish between the pale bald lids. The resemblance to Valois was truly unearthly, like Charles on the verge of a nerve-storm. Bébé, she said softly, and the eyes crept back towards her, seeming to look at her with sober trust.
‘He was so good at the christening,’ Jacqueline said for the hundredth time. ‘The lovely prince.’
A great crucifix swung from Jacqueline’s breast. The tiny Henry’s eyes found a target and fixed on it. Jacqueline whispered: ‘Look! already he embraces the image of Our Lord!’
Humphrey of Gloucester touched Katherine’s arm reverently.
‘He will be as devout as his parents, ma chère soeur.’ Near the crib hung his own christening gift, a solid gold wand inlaid with sapphires.
‘He will be happy,’ Katherine answered. She turned to smile at Gloucester, thinking: how we have all changed! Since Henry’s departure, she had had occasion to revise her opinion of Humphrey of Gloucester. He had become a paragon. None could have been more tender, thoughtful, or respectful. During the summer, and the winter of her lying-in, he had addressed himself to her welfare exclusively, and gradually her glacial feelings towards him had thawed. Had he been Henry he could not have ministered to her more efficiently. It was Humphrey who had found the best wetnurse in England, Humphrey who, whenever she felt dispirited, had sent Jacqueline to cheer her or come himself. Totally reformed, he had not uttered a murmur when Bishop Beaufort and John of Bedford were appointed the prince’s sponsors at the christening. In her presence, at least, he had shown civility to the Bishop, lest their enmity should cause her pain. Best of all, he had brought her the news of Henry, snatching the rolls from the couriers almost before the regent, Bedford, had had time to see them
. For that alone, she thought, I shall ever be in his debt.
We have all changed. Even Jacqueline, who looks almost matronly. At first there was a little jealousy from her, but I explained. Humphrey takes his duties seriously. It is well that he does. For John of Bedford, to whom Harry bade me cling close, is always too busy. Immured in Council, writing more letters than Harry did, desperately worried about the outcome in France and itching to be there. Well that I did not depend on him for my comfort during these months! During the summer when I became great and sick and weary, an autumn during which I thought I should burst like a pod, a winter of fulfilled joy.
She looked again at the pale, old-eyed baby. St Nicholas’s child! What better day on which to be born. His future is assured; the saint of youth shall succour him. If only his father could see him. I am nearly a year older since our leavetaking. Is this a new spring, or did time stop then? Are not those the same bright nestlings outside my window, the same puff of honeysuckle striving towards the light against the stones of Windsor? There are things that have not changed. New greenness on old towers. But in me, hélas! the same ache and waste and wanting. That love-need, that terrible, carnal need.
‘Don’t be sad, ma reine,’ said Humphrey. ‘See how the prince thrives. Is he warm enough?’ He touched the baby Henry’s brow with a ringed finger. There was a raging fire in the hearth and all the windows were tightly closed. It had been a dreadful winter, but, according to reports, nothing like so fierce as in France.
She had not heard from Harry since the christening. He had written, bidding her hear a Mass to the Trinity for the baby. Since then she had heard many Masses. There had been only three loving letters altogether since his departure. From their content she had the feeling that there should have been more, but Humphrey said they had been lost on the journey. Ships had foundered, couriers had been waylaid. She had to be content. If Humphrey said it, then it was so.
He took her arm and moved with her from the cradle where Dame Alice Boteler the nurse, and Anne of Burgundy and the Duchess of Clarence congregated. He said softly: ‘I have news of Harry.’
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