Crown in Candlelight

by Rosemary Hawley Jarman

  ‘Guillemot, why are you called Guillemot?’ The voice was teasing. ‘It’s a bird’s name.’

  ‘My father’s name,’ whispered the little maid, ‘was Guillaume.’

  ‘No,’ said Katherine. ‘You’re a seabird. My little seabird. Come here, and tell me how much you love me.’

  Guillemot crept over to the bed. Only a tiny nightlight burned. She could see the Queen-Dowager’s eyes shining. ‘Now,’ said Katherine, ‘are we friends, you and I?’ Guillemot nodded her black head vigorously.

  ‘Can I trust you?’ The voice teased no longer.

  ‘Madame … I’d die rather than betray you.’

  ‘No need to die,’ said Katherine. ‘All I wish for is a friend. Is that your cloak, hanging there?’

  Again, the nod. Katherine slid from bed, pushing back her long heavy hair.

  ‘Why do you love me?’

  ‘You’re so kind.’ A whisper. ‘So kind, your Grace.’

  ‘I wasn’t kind tonight, Guillemot. I lost my temper!’

  With the Duchesses, serve them right, thought Guillemot. Yet Katherine’s voice had still been soft, as it was when she asked whether Guillemot were tired or cold, or if she had enough to eat …

  ‘Will you lend me your cloak?’

  Wordlessly Guillemot brought it. It had a big hood like a friar’s cowl. It was rather too short for Katherine, she laughed as she put it on. But the hood almost concealed her face; her eyes gleamed from its darkness.

  She had sent the Duchesses away, bidding them attend the little King, whose chamber was already full of guards under Sire Louis de Robsart. Philippa of York had begun the nearest thing to a quarrel Katherine had ever had with her ladies. It had started immediately they retired.

  ‘In all the courts I have attended, your Grace, never have I seen such barbarism. Were you harmed by that wretch?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ said Katherine smoothly. ‘But I fear he may have hurt himself.’ She’d seen him limping slightly as he went with his kinsmen from the hall.

  ‘Such a common man, your Grace. Like all the pagan Welsh. No wonder they’re allowed no privileges—with respect, I marvel that he should have been employed to entertain—’

  Margaret of Clarence said quickly: ‘I thought the dance was wonderful. I was enchanted.’

  ‘You were lucky to find him,’ said the Countess of Kent, taking sides.

  ‘Harry found him,’ said Katherine.

  ‘But,’ the Duchess of York said, ‘those minstrels! So uncouth! When they were presented to your Grace, I was appalled. Speaking no French! They were scarcely better than dumb creatures!’

  That was when her anger had started. She couldn’t remember ever being really angry before. It was refreshing. She said, very slow and soft: ‘Then, Madame, they were the nicest dumb creatures I ever saw!’

  But Philippa, in full spate, was riding her hobby. ‘The trouble is, one gives encouragement to these people and liberties are taken, lordlings aped. Your Grace should have punished his rudeness. Common men have their place and should be confined to it.’

  The anger grew, taking vigour from her restraint. She had liked very much having him lying across her lap. He had been quite light, cleverly taking his weight from her, but she had felt his strength, had smelled the fresh sweat on him—a pleasant healthy scent. She had liked having his face against her breast. She had liked it inordinately.

  ‘I do not know what our late sovereign lord would have said, I am sure!’ said Philippa of York.

  The anger clawed free. Katherine said in a voice like frozen rain (remembering kind Bet at the tavern, remembering even the bastard stableman, Gaspard, who had hanged to help her father all those years ago)

  ‘My lady. Madame. Your Grace. Our late lord and sovereign, my dear husband, thought much of common men. Before battle he toured the lines giving cheer to them. Common men fought and died for him in love and gratitude. Speak not to me of common men, Madame! Harry loved them.’ Her voice began to shake, but not to rise. ‘The most ragged, the most uncouth and unlettered, were cherished by him for their loyal and faithful hearts. And what better example should we follow than of that great soul?’

  Philippa had wriggled about, beginning to apologize, but was cut off short.

  ‘Leave me, all of you. I will sleep alone. My maid here shall attend my wants. She is of no great family and knows when to hold her tongue. So look to my son if you would serve me!’

  They had gone, but at the door Philippa had loosed one more shot.

  ‘I still say servants should have their place, highness. And that man should be reprimanded. Even now he loiters in the Upper Ward; he is everywhere. One cannot get away from him!’ Then she had made a strange outraged noise—Tchah! and Katherine was left alone, with Guillemot.

  She wrapped the cloak around her. Guillemot was even more slender than herself; the cloak kept coming apart. ‘Guillemot.’

  ‘Yes, your Grace.’

  ‘Do you know who the Duchess was talking about?’

  ‘Yes, your Grace.’

  ‘Is it true?’

  Guillemot worked her wits frantically, and came up with the answer.

  ‘Yes, highness. He is there. In the East Gallery. He spoke to me earlier.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He asked if you were well. He said something about it being a special guard duty.’

  ‘He’s not in the guard.’

  ‘No, highness.’

  Katherine stood silent for a moment. She said: ‘What time is it, Guillemot?’

  ‘They haven’t rung Matins yet, your Grace.’

  ‘So it is still my birthday I can do as I please on my birthday. The flame-figure leaped singing in her mind. It shivered her skin. Just for a few minutes, she thought. And I won’t lie, not even to Guillemot. I could say I was going to see how the little King is, but it would be bad luck.

  ‘Listen, Guillemot.’

  ‘Your Grace?’

  ‘I am wearing your cloak, Guillemot. I am you, and you are me, for a few minutes. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand, your Grace. Will you be safe?’

  She didn’t answer. She stroked Guillemot’s black head; it was like the smooth poll of a bird. Guillemot turned her face to kiss the Queen-Dowager’s hand.

  Only a few minutes,’ Katherine said. ‘Bolt the door. Let me in, in a few minutes.’

  It was very quiet out on the gallery. She went quickly, softly. The starlight was shining through the high embrasures and it picked out her dreaming face within the deep cowl, making her more beautiful even than Isabelle of Valois had been, although, lost within herself she was cheated of this knowledge. It felt cold on the gallery. I am now one of the common people, whose pulses run, whose blood is rich and uncorrupted by the enmities of power. She reached the East Gallery. It seemed deserted. Then from behind a pillar a shadow moved, making her heart jump and pound. It stepped out into the starlight.

  ‘I knew you’d come,’ the shadow said. ‘I willed it so.’

  She pushed back the cowl, and as she did so he remembered the night behind the lines before battle, when Gloucester’s Frenchwoman had kissed him on the mouth and laughed at him. He had thought she was a friar at first. That was no memory. That was a precognition.

  ‘Do you know me?’ she said.

  ‘I know you. Should I kneel?’

  ‘No, no.’ No more kneeling, no grovelling. Not on this common person’s birthday. ‘You must be tired. Your leg must hurt you.’

  She heard him laugh very softly. ‘That’s nothing. And I’m not tired. I’ve been waiting a long time.’ And then he said, even more softly: ‘Cathryn.’

  It was quite different, the way he spoke her name. Not Kat-air-een, as she was accustomed to hear it. But Cathryn, the last syllable slipping down quick and heavy, definite, final, as if at last she had a place in the world. She could see his face at last. He did look tired. She saw that he had changed, and washed off the sweat, and combed his hair. He
was waiting for her to say something.

  ‘Thank you for the dance,’ she said awkwardly. ‘The King loved it all. He talks of nothing else. He will not sleep tonight.’

  Neither shall I, he thought. Nor did I last night.

  He said: ‘And you? Did it make you happy?’

  He spoke a strangely accented French; each word curled up at the corners.

  ‘I was very pleased,’ she said. ‘I thank you.’

  ‘If your Grace was pleased, then I have my thanks.’

  She gave him her hand. He took it to his lips, formally, then turned it over and kissed the palm. His mouth was warm, it breathed warmth into her, up her arm, down into her blood. There was a great chasm between them. Standing on its brink she felt dizzy. She took a step forward, then another, across the chasm of race and birthright and discovered it to be no more than a little gap, the shortest journey of all, into his arms. He was trembling.

  He bent his head and began to kiss her. She would never have believed that anyone could kiss like this. The kiss went on and on. He seemed to be all heartbeat, it shook her through. Then, kissing her, he drew her body hard against him, deliberately honest, so that she should know the force of his desire. And for a moment she was afraid; that force had grown powerful and impatient in its long captivity; she too trembled. Then while he held her still within the kiss and the awful longing, he began to touch her body, with no haste or lust or greed, but more as a blind man explores an unfamiliar room. He held her warm within his arm, his free hand moving over her. She was naked beneath the shift, and now the warm lover’s hand knew it too … a small convulsion shook her. Under his mouth she made a choked sound, and he released her at once. She saw the tears in his eyes.

  She tried to speak. It was almost impossible. They stood apart. She whispered: ‘Why do you weep?’

  ‘The dream … the dream. It’s too beautiful. I cannot contain the dream.’

  The tears distressed her. So did the gap that was between them again. She put out her hands.

  ‘Must the dream end?’ Her softest whisper.

  ‘It is for you to say …’

  But he gave her no chance, he held her more tightly this time, and, silenced, she put her arms about him, her turn to learn him now, his strong shoulders, his slenderness, his thick crisp hair, smooth cheeks under her fingers. She pressed delicately against him, and his gasp made her aware that something in him had snapped, that this guard-haunted gallery was neither the time nor the place but that in a moment it might well be. He was whispering to her now, she couldn’t understand a word—half of it might have been swearing—he was extremely strong, her toes were off the ground. There was a little blind arcade behind the pillar and somehow they were in it, she was falling, slowly, and he came down with her on one knee, his hand supporting her head so she shouldn’t hurt herself. Her hands touched the freezing floor. His face was between her breasts; he drew up her gown.

  ‘Not now,’ the words came out just in time. ‘Not here.’

  ‘When?’ He lifted his face; even in the gloom she could see how deathly pale he was. ‘Annwyl Crist! For the love of God, when can we lie together?’

  ‘Next week. Next week, when the King returns to Eltham.’

  ‘And where? In Christ’s mercy, where? I can’t come to your chamber …’

  They struggled upright, clinging to one another. He wiped his eyes.

  ‘I will arrange it,’ Her teeth were chattering.

  ‘But where? For God’s sake, tell me …’

  She choked back a sudden hysterical laugh, crushing it against the back of her wrist. An idea had come to her, mad, mischievous, devilish. A good satisfying gesture against someone who had brought her much misery. He thought in terror: this is only a light adventure to her; she came tonight to torture me. Elle s’amuse. He said wildly: ‘If this is a game, I’ll kill myself.’

  He meant it. She could tell. She said swiftly:

  ‘No, no. All will be arranged. I promise. I promise you’ll laugh too, when we … next week.’

  Next week. ‘How can I wait? How shall I know?’

  ‘I’ll send word. My maid. The time and place.’

  She started to move away. Further down the gallery a guard’s halberd chinked on the stones. Perhaps the dream was only a dream after all. He knew better than to try to stay her going, but he caught her hand and kissed it as she passed. The perfume was fading, lilies and roses and honey, but he had her secret scents within his palm. The cloaked figure became a shadow, darkness, gone. He stepped back and leaned against the pillar. He needed that pillar very much. It was a long time before he could move away from it.

  Guillemot loved her. She was herself in love with Lord Audley, a married man who didn’t know she existed. But Guillemot was a virgin. She could not really understand, but she had been to the Wardrobe. He had been alone, waiting for her, had kissed her on both cheeks, frightening her half to death, after she had given the day, time and place of delivery to be made. The Wardrobe delivery. The other maids had been sent to Eltham with the little King. Likewise the Duchesses. Philippa believed she was really out of favour. When the King was ready to leave, she had agreed to follow him, serve him with her life. Margaret of Clarence and the others, not to be outdone, had followed suit. They had left on the Thursday.

  The week would have been impossible without the leavening presence of the little King. Katherine had enjoyed him with gratitude and fervour, but part of her was away, back in an unreal, unforgettable moment. She wondered if she had been a little mad. But time and place were set. It was arranged.

  She thought: Louis de Robsart must love me as well as Guillemot does. He was so willing when I asked for the keys of Gloucester’s apartment. Humphrey is gone, with all his servants. His chambers are shut up until his return. It was to be a jest, but somehow it does not seem so now.

  ‘My lord of Gloucester’s apartment, your Grace?’

  She had smiled at him. A long time, over two years, since he had seen that smile. The Comptroller had grumbled at him, saying this was the only set of keys. It had been worth a slightly humiliating argument just to see the smile again, when he returned triumphant.

  The Upper Ward seemed silent without the Duchesses’ chatter. It was as if she and Guillemot were the sole inhabitants. Except for the guard, strung out like beads along the corridors. But the stairway and gallery through which she would need to pass were comparatively deserted. It was Friday now. The day. The night. Waiting for the Matins bell. Only the most devout would be at that midnight service.

  The strange difficult week had brought with it distortion of emotions. She began to feel unhappy. It was worse when the King had gone, little Harry, whose face looked less pale after his holiday. She warned the Duchesses to watch him well. There had been no more opinions from Philippa of York on the common man.

  She had seen him once only during the entire week. She had been passing through to the great hall with her ladies. He was in the corridor with the valet Waterton and two other household servitors. One of the men had his arm about Owen Tydier’s neck for a murmured conversation. He had laughed, flinging back his head. Then he had murmured something in response, and thumped his companion on the back and laughed again. He had very good teeth, a rarity in someone who had been in the wars, involved in sieges. That laugh had shivered her spine. As soon as they were aware of her approach they all became sober as priests, stepped back against the wall, bowing low. She stared ahead, walked on, shielded by her ladies. Then she knew he had lifted his eyes; she felt his mind upon her, his hands, his mouth. And he had been laughing.

  He had been laughing at the tale of Thomas Harvey’s miserly grandfather, who had lately taken a very young wife, and what that wife had proposed to Harvey. He had also been laughing because he was happy.

  The November evening seemed to come down quickly. Supper went in a flash, though she loitered over it. The cup of wine she drank tasted foul. Not so foul as other tastes, in her mouth and her mind, when she
was at last alone in her chamber with Guillemot.

  Cobham’s little leech-book. If this thing was to be tonight, there was one risk she could not take. It was almost as if Eleanor had forecast the future. The Egyptian herbal, drunk in the dark of the moon. Guillemot brewed it to her instructions. It was dreadful. She thought: I do not conceive easily. But this man looks as if he could easily get someone with child … A wave of heat filled her. She sat naked and trembling while Guillemot, silent, combed her hair, sponged her body. Wash my guilt away, little seabird. Anoint me with my rosewater and lily unguents, to cover this awful scent of lust.

  I must have him. I must. I am like my mother. No, I am not. I have been chaste, despite my terrible hunger. In the moment it overwhelmed me he was there, shining and undeniable, with the right words and the music. A sorcerer. I cannot do it. I must. But I am a Queen. Another French Queen of England once took a lover, Mortimer. But Mortimer was lord and knight as well as adventurer. This is a landless esquire, a common man, a barbarian. In secret I shall rock the whole fabric of English royal protocol. That should make me happy, with my talk of equality, but it doesn’t. Pray God that dreadful potion hasn’t harmed my woman’s parts. My heart beats so fast. Guillemot’s eyes are troubled. When he touched me last week I felt the scars on his fingertips. That’s from the harp. I am like my mother. No, I am chaste. I am a woman. She stood up before the mirror, Dark hair against ivory flesh. Long thighs, long eyes and lips; dark, secret, gleaming. The hunger growing, edged by guilt. He willed this so. I pass the guilt. Sorcerer. Lend me your cloak again, Guillemot.

  A loose cream silk gown, with little hooks and eyes to the throat. Guillemot looked at her with love. Love. The only candle in this dark old world. Ah, my love. The words came unbidden, undirected. He had had tears in his eyes after kissing, touching me. He was limping when he left the hall. He was laughing when I saw him last.

  Just once, then. Just once. I’ll let it happen and then I’ll send him away. Dismiss him from the court. I wish I could stop trembling. The Matins bell sounded.