Crown in Candlelight

by Rosemary Hawley Jarman

  What a birthday gift! October 27th. I shall be twenty-three. I feel so young. Unprotected (for Beaufort isn’t really my ally, he is too self-seeking) and Bedford has yet to give me the support that Harry asked of him. Ça ne fait rien! I do very well. I am sheltered within this new pavilion of brightness.

  Owen ap Meredyth ap Tydier. He is my good luck. From the moment he knelt before me at Hertford I began to heal. They say the Welsh are magicians. Belle called Glyn Dwr ‘matchless’, yet he had a great reputation for sorcery. Benign sorcery. I am happy. She rolled the word carefully around her mind. Owen has changed my fortunes. I now recall all the times he roared singing through my life; I did not register him as the talisman he was …

  Her ladies came into her bower, to talk about dresses and discuss the menu for the birthday feast. They were relieved by her new mood. Some who were themselves widowed were jealous of her gaiety. She coaxed a tune out of one of the harps, laughing and cross when she discovered she had almost forgotten how to play. We’re going to enjoy ourselves, she told the ladies. All that day and the next, her birthday eve, attendants scampered from the Upper Ward to the pantry and buttery, to the Wardrobe and the quarters of the Revels Master. Sire Louis de Robsart was supposed to be in charge of the proceedings, but found himself overruled by a bursting tide of ladies all giving contradictory orders. So he took himself off with his escort to fetch the little King.

  ‘There’s scarcely any Bordeaux left!’ cried the Duchess of York, returning exhausted from a domestic foray.

  ‘Rest, dear Philippa,’ said Katherine. ‘Who needs wine?’

  ‘I do,’ muttered the Duchess of Clarence.

  Katherine sat before her mirror, her face smooth and beautiful. Margaret of Clarence began to comb her hair. The Countess of Kent slipped the robe from the Queen-Dowager’s shoulders; the comb moved down through the dark, endlessly shining cloud, and caught on a tangle. No one could dress her hair like Eleanor Cobham, although little Guillemot, being ordered about now by the Duchesses, was the next best. Jacqueline too was skilled, but she was gone. She had wept. Looking ill, and talking wildly. Sweet Kéti, I’m so afraid.

  ‘You must go with your husband.’

  ‘But if Philip and Brabant should take me … they’ll punish me. I feel’ (shuddering) ‘that you and I will never meet again in this life.’ Whispering, looking demented: ‘I am afraid. That black one goes with us.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Kitten Cobham,’ said Jacqueline through her teeth. Eleanor had come to bid farewell, quiet and solicitous. ‘Your Grace. I was anxious that your cough should not worsen while we are away. I have a little leech book—may I lend it to you?’

  Katherine was touched. She kissed the small pale face. ‘Keep the book safe, your Grace,’ murmured Lady Cobham. ‘There are certain nostrums that might not find favour with the Church … but the cough remedy is most effective.’

  There was nothing startling in the book save for one charm purporting to have been used by the Ancient Egyptians. Simple herbs, when combined with the phases of the moon to prevent conception. No, the Church would not approve. Smiling, she locked the book away, wondering what old Dame Alphonse would have made of it.

  ‘Which gown, your Grace?’ the Countess of Kent said. ‘I have been to the Wardrobe, but they all seem half-witted down there.’

  ‘Then bid them mount above!’ said Katherine impatiently.

  She drew on a velvet robe.

  Owen came, with two small pages. All three were laden with gowns. The ladies pored over silks and sarcenets. Philippa of York held up a green dress. ‘This is exquisite, your Grace.’

  It was one of the gowns bought by Isabeau in the campaign to woo Harry. It was almost unworn. She had never liked it. Owen was kneeling quite near. The ladies’ voices faded. Katherine said suddenly:

  ‘What’s your opinion, Master Tydier?’

  He got up slowly. Into a disapproving silence he said:

  ‘Never green, your Grace. It is the worst colour for your highness. This …’ Silk, soft-coloured as a fallow deer, starred with roses, swirled over his arm. ‘This one.’

  ‘I’ll wear it,’ she said. Owen bowed, the pages copied him jerkily, and they withdrew.

  ‘Servants,’ said Philippa of York, ‘given encouragement, become very bold.’

  ‘Well,’ said Katherine carelessly, ‘he is au fait with fashion, being in the Wardrobe service.’

  ‘I thought he was a singer,’ said Margaret of Clarence.

  She pulled a little face at the Duchess’s back.

  ‘He is,’ said Katherine. ‘And a dancer.’ I should have mentioned the dance he promised me. ‘Please fetch him back,’ she said to Philippa of York, who departed, none too pleased. Margaret took the comb again, bending close to Katherine whispering, as usual of family feuds.

  ‘She need talk of the boldness of servants! What of the vainglory of lords! Just because her husband was killed, like my poor Thomas, in Harry’s service … she forgets her brother-in-law Richard of York once tried to kill the King and was executed for it. There’s boldness! the boldness of the House of York, who pride themselves on having better claim to England than we of Lancaster!’ She talked on and on of Edmund of Langley, the female line, John of Gaunt, and caught the comb in Katherine’s hair again, hurting her. Katherine made no comment. All this was foreign yet hatefully familiar. Burganndy and Armagnac. King versus cousins.

  ‘There’ll be blood, in a few years, as a result of such vainglory,’ said Margaret darkly. ‘I was surprised to learn that the assassin York’s son is close companion to our little King.’

  ‘Richard of York is fourteen years old,’ said Katherine, taking the comb from the Duchess. ‘I don’t care who his father was. He’s kind to Henry.’

  Then Philippa of York came back, a little crowd behind her, all smiling.

  ‘I couldn’t find the esquire,’ she said breathlessly, ‘but see who I have found!’

  Katherine flung herself from the mirror and down on her knees. She held out her arms; the little King ran into them.

  He had needed no reminding. The dance was ready, perfect and polished, untapped and matured like the war-longings of his youth. He had every nuance, every transient theme, every intricate step. His flame-coloured tunic and scarlet hose had been carefully chosen. He wore his tawny cloak caught at the shoulder with a dragon buckle, and he had on elegant dancing shoes. His gold hair shone, his eyes were full of light.

  John ap Meredyth and Howell ap Llewellyn of Gwydir were to accompany him. Tough mountain men, they had come as envoys from a Welsh protectorate of the Crown; uneasy and isolated, they were longing to return home. Their appearance was a rude contrast; Meredyth in particular looked a disgrace, sporting a beard longer and dirtier than Gruffydd Llwyd’s had been. Their sweet mockery drifted about Owen. They could not help but admire him and stayed close, glad to talk in the only tongue they knew. There is a fine, dressed-up monkey, they said, and Owen warned:

  ‘One wrong note, and I’ll brain you, cousins. You do remember the awdl?’

  ‘From the cradle,’ said Howell with disgust.

  ‘Sing it in Welsh, is it?’ asked Meredyth.

  ‘No, French. For the Queen.’

  ‘French!’ they cried. ‘How shall we know when to come in, boy?’

  ‘You’ll know. Watch my eyes and my steps and hear the colour of my voice. You’ll know. Play as you’ve never played.’

  He gleamed, standing between them, and they shook their heads, a little alienated, but still loyal and loving, part of the great family that was Wales. The Revels Master was beckoning around the screen which divided entertainers from hall. The feast was over, the minstrels had finished playing French chansonettes. Owen drew a long breath, and entered. He strode up the hall, his cloak lifting behind him. A slight rustle of amusement greeted the entry of the men from Gwydir who followed with their little harps and their fierce faces, but he did not hear it. The torchlight wavered sleekly, the scores of can
dles cast shadows like moonlight. As he walked towards the dais he thought: let my performance be to the glory of God, but first, to the glory of her.

  The harpists moved left and right towards the walls, to give him space. He unclasped his cloak and flung it out of the way. His tunic took flame from the candlelight and there was another rustle, this time of admiration. He looked for her, knelt in homage. She was nearer than he had imagined, sitting on a low chair below the dais; the high table had been dismantled. The little King sat on her knee. The dream was pale and rosy and vivid. She was wearing the dress he had chosen for her. The Revels Master stamped the floor with his rod and cried: ‘Let the entertainment begin!’

  The harpists struck one fierce opening chord laced with weird harmonies, and Owen was no longer Owen, slender and pliant in his suit of lights, but Ysbaddaden Chief-Giant, the terrible, growing taller and broader before the watchers’ eyes, undergoing a frightening metamorphosis, his tossed head and upraised arms flinging the shadows about like baubles, his legs rousing a storm from the rushes as he roared his song of defiance to the world. Thickwaisted as the boles of twelve oak trees, he kicked mountains from the earth, his tawny-gold head became the head of twenty lions, the nest of a thousand serpents. Here was Ysbaddaden the ungovernable, who lived outside the peace, greater than God! with steel crumpling at his touch and fire quenched beneath his spittle, the ultimate challenge, seen by King Henry as France, and Glyn Dwr as England. The worthy foe, the prize, the raging splendour of the world, the deathly mirror of all greatness … Ysbaddaden’s feet stamped and he rose mightily in the air. His brassy lungs carolled of his own vigour. The harpists (at whom none laughed now) thrummed out a clamour in time with the giant wildness, and blood sprang from beneath their fingernails. Transfixed, the company sat, some with goblets halfway to their lips.

  Then under the fading storm came Culhwch with his tenor-bell voice lifted sweetly in chaste French and his prince’s face smooth and beautiful, and his body flamelike and lithe in the caress of the candles, so that more than one lady in the hall leaned to see him better and felt her flesh prickling warm and cold and forgot that this was only a barbaric dancer without land or privilege, for this was Culhwch, cousin to Arthur, with a king’s brave and noble mysteries inherent in every gracious twirl and posture, and the men of Gwydir beat out the rhythm of the shell-hooved horse curvetting in his voice and the rich flame of his dancing.

  The star-bright armour took shape from his lips and shivered in the minds of his audience. Fleeter of foot than the magic deer of Powys Fadog he pranced and spun, as he showed off the two silver spears and the sword with its jewels mined from the sacred mountain. And the spears drew blood from the air, and the serpent-headed horse reared to cry its own challenge underlined by the harpstrings and its breath sucked men in and blew them out again as it flew faster than light … while the mask of Culhwch covered the mind of the man who found an instant to think: it goes well in the French, it pleases her, and one second to look and confirm—the tight hands, the excited flush on the dream’s beloved face … and I, Culhwch meet now with Glewlwyd Mighty-Grasp whom none has ever passed alive, and the watchers cringe at the danger of my quest. And come! Cei! chief of my little army, make fire from your belly, and come! Bedwyr the One-Handed, and Cynddylig the Waymaker to find me my path. And Gwalchmei, best horseman in the world, and Gwrhyr the Translator, and Menw, who makes us all invisible …

  And they come, through my voice and my steps, and all is clear and bright with no sound save for their cries and the galloping harps. The blood flows from the fingers of my kinsmen and gathers in my own shoe where my toes split on the last leap. Pain in legend, pain in perfection, that shows all too cruelly the shortcomings of reality. And the spirits he had captured drew form from his art and came running, hermits, seers, monsters, invisible doves fluttering from his fingertips, ghost-flames starting about his head. Built of music, the stones of Ysbaddaden’s castle sprang up. The giant and Culhwch faced one another, roaring, belling, while the little harps on either side faithfully reproduced the challenge and the giant’s dreadful coiling hair sprang singing from Owen’s mind and lips and hands and feet. And, compelled, the watchers sat still, though the candles were burning down late to form the shadows that housed the last enemy, the Twrch Trwyth, the Great Boar.

  From crown to soles he was soaked with sweat as if he had stood in a river. For the first time during the long dance he felt a pang, no more than a bee-sting, in his wounded thigh. One of the Boar’s tusks had speared him. He began to whirl faster and faster to confuse the beast. It came for him, snorting, and his eyes slitted, so that the watchers gasped at this dervish-man who sang of a monster and briefly looked like one. And at that moment they were all believers and his enchanted slaves, and when Culhwch, pure as a singing mountain, snatched the comb and scissors from between the ears of the Boar, the gasps changed to the fluttering laughter of relief. And Ysbaddaden died, shorn by the magic tools, with groans to shake the hall …

  The sweat was drying cold upon him as Olwen came. She had never been lovelier, in legend or in life. He heard the harp-note change to the haunting minor key that was the Princess, with the gown of fire-coloured silk about her and the heavy golden torque about her neck, her head more yellow than the broom-blossom and her skin whiter than the bog-cotton where it grows beside a river. He danced and sang, sang of perfection.

  .. and her eyes! their look

  Was lovelier than the thrice-mewed hawk

  And her breast was softer than the sun!

  Where she trod, four white clover flowers

  Grew behind her feet …

  Nearer to the dais, to the dream. The last adventure of all—to be man and woman in one, potent yet yielding, gracious and virile, to deliver the chant in time, to look where the holy blossoms sprang … to know that Olwen was Culhwch’s at last … most difficult of all—to sing her name.

  All were longing-filled when they beheld her …

  Nearer, still nearer to the dream. The lily, the rose, the honey, the scent of her joy in his meagre gift of perfection.

  And therefore she was called …

  He was Culhwch of stainless valour, with whom King Harry had sought identity in the dark tents of Harfleur.

  He could see the eyes of the beloved dream, intent, entranced. They met his without reserve. And then the pain left by the Boar’s tusk seized him, crippling his thigh, and all strength left him. I’ll never dance this dance again, he thought, and he fell, right across the low chair where she sat.

  Her silken lap took most of his sweat-soaked weight. Rather than risk injuring the little King he reeled sideways and let himself rest on her, snatching the child into his arms. Henry’s small velvet-clad body hampered him entirely. They both lay helplessly across Katherine. Owen felt the blood leaving his head, and faintness gripped him. Then he heard the laughter beginning, fuzzing his ear, drowning the shocked whispers of the courtiers. The King’s little face was crushed against his cheek, he was laughing like a jay, delighted at the antics of this man who lay across his mother, his head on her breast. The soft breast moved warmly under him, he jerked, found his hair entangled in her necklace. The breast rose and fell in wave after wave of shuddering laughter that burst and mingled with the glee of the child. He tried to claw his way free. The silk of her dress was like a glass mountain and Henry’s weight pinned him down. Duw annwyl! this is how men died at Agincourt!

  ‘Madame,’ he whispered, ‘if you could only remove the King’s Grace!’ She was laughing too much, she laughed and laughed, beautiful, rich gay laughter, and only when the Duchess of York swooped to lift Henry away could Owen extricate himself. He slid to his knees. She was wiping away tears, her face was pink. He looked then at the breast on which he had lain. Its memory burned his cheek, his mind kissed it, and something of the dance’s mystic power must have remained, for she sobered a little, looking down at her own flesh as if for the mark of his lips.

  Yet again his eyes drew hers back
. They hung on one another’s face, learning, knowing, recognizing that there was nothing to learn, for all was known already. She said, her voice trembling:

  ‘And the Princess … what was she called? You left it unfinished …’

  Over his choking beating heart he answered steadily: ‘Cathryn. She was called Cathryn.’

  He could see her heart heating too, it moved the fawn silk like a wind-tapped leaf. He held the hem of her gown tight between his fingers. He looked at her; his eyes said: ‘It is unfinished …’

  ‘Do you love me, Guillemot?’ she asked softly.

  It was the wrong thing to say. Guillemot burst into sobs. To Guillemot, Katherine was kin to the angels and always had been. But Guillemot lacked the wit to express herself and moreover did not dare. Katherine was the one person who had been invariably kind to her during the bewildering four years in the royal service. Unlike Jacqueline of Hainault, who slapped Guillemot when she was herself unhappy, or the Duchesses who bullied her; or Lady Cobham, whom she feared most of all. Love? Love can make you cry, thought Guillemot. Worse than fear.

  ‘Don’t weep, you silly infant. Answer my question.’

  ‘More than life,’ muttered Guillemot.

  They were alone together. It was nearly midnight. Katherine was lying on her bed, in her long linen shift. She felt very hot. Her heart was beating fast. She had drunk no wine tonight, but her head was spinning.