by Mary Lide
She said, ‘I prayed for Louis’s death and God answered me. Let the duke know I am ready. It is my right to wed with him. My brother shall make good his promise to me. And God will grant me the love that I deserve.’
CHAPTER 11
——
While Philippa and the widowed queen were shut up inside the Hotel de Cluny, their fate was debated hotly on the outside. Richard himself was perplexed. The quarrel between him and Philippa had flared so suddenly and unexpectedly he did not know what to think. He knew of Henry’s intentions; he did not understand Wolsey’s part; he would have staged a rescue on the spot had Philippa herself not prevented it. But he still knew a rescue would be necessary. Just seeing the way Wolsey’s men had behaved proved that. And in the days that followed, as he watched how they stood guard outside the palace, as if they were the king’s official representatives, he guessed they had some secret purpose in mind. Equally he was sure it involved Philippa and made them a threat to any plan of his. For he had a plan. The problem was making the duke accept it.
For one who had been so jubilant before, the duke had become strangely indecisive. True, the situation had changed since his leaving Lille, and true, he had brought few men with him, in his haste riding with only his personal guard. But their ranks had been swelled by other English who, caught in Paris by the snows, had gravitated naturally to the Suffolk faction. Among these was Richard himself and his old friend, Edmund Bryce, to whom he revealed his concern. ‘The French will never let the ladies go,’ Richard said. ‘Once Francis puts that crown on his head he’ll hold on to it, and them. He’ll make an international lottery of the queen, although with what right is beyond me. And when Henry complains, as he is bound to do, he’ll throw Mistress Philippa to him as a sop to keep the English quiet.’
Which as a guess was not far from truth. Except he still could not understand Wolsey’s part.
‘Aye.’ Edward was succinct. ‘Then we act first.’
But while Richard and he went to survey the disposition of that old building where the ladies were kept, while they examined its outposts and its battlements, noting how the guards were placed: the French above, Wolsey’s men below, the duke himself kept quiet, almost morose. In vain his younger companions tried to rouse his enthusiasm; he criticized everything they did, obviously reluctant to commit himself. Richard’s temper began to rise. He knew that once the news reached England Henry would be obliged to react. Their only hope was to take advantage of the weather and move fast. So daily as the weather worsened, shutting roads, making normal travel well nigh impossible, he found ways to have horses hired and lodgings arranged outside the city gates. And when, with Edmund’s help, all was prepared, he himself confronted the duke.
‘My lord,’ he began without preamble, ‘they say that soon, tonight perhaps, the snows will return. Our best chance will be to use the cover of that storm to try to get the ladies out.’ He did not mention Philippa explicitly, although in truth she was much on his mind, nor did he speak of what he hoped the duke would do (although in private he had already admitted to his friend that the duke’s support was essential to success). Nor did he say, ‘If need be I go without you, my lord,’ but the duke knew he meant to.
The duke heard him through, gnawing his lip. Richard’s plan had all the marks of good military strategy and its simplicity pleased him, although he did not say so. A rescue like this, at dead of night, through a storm, appealed to the duke’s romanticism. But he still quibbled, finding fault at every turn until he finally revealed what was on his mind. ‘You know of course,’ he said, ‘that what you do will set us at odds with everyone. French king, English king, councillors, all will be howling for our blood.’
‘So much the worse for them.’ Richard was adamant. ‘With or without permission I mean to leave, and when I go I take Mistress Philippa with me.’
‘Even if she’s spurned you?’ The duke was shrewd. At Richard’s look he shrugged and gnawed his lip again. ‘If only you knew . . .’ he began, ‘if only I could explain.’ At last he broke out partly exasperated, partly ashamed. ‘Henry has me fast as well. I am under oath to him.’
The story was a familiar one. It seemed that when the duke’s wife had died, even before his first embassy to Lille, the king had become suspicious of him. Exiling him had not allayed those fears and the events in Richmond had only strengthened them. Finally Henry had made him swear, in writing no less, never to approach Mary Tudor, or make overtures to her ‘on pain of death’, although he had used a more elegant phrase. Since Mary was married, and the duke himself had been in exile that oath had seemed of little importance and the duke had ignored it. Now it had returned to haunt him.
‘There it is, lad,’ the duke said, almost apologetically. ‘He got the better of me. As for “getting the ladies out”, simply “getting out” will not be enough. Someone’ll be after them in a flash. Nor is the queen exactly a prisoner. She may not come unless I ask. And unless she comes willingly she comes not at all.’
He did not explain what it was he might be expected to ask, but he implied it. After all there was only one thing that Mary Tudor had ever wanted from him that he had previously been unable to give. But the duke also knew Richard Montacune, and how determined he was. He knew for example that the night before Richard had again strolled down the city streets, walking in the same drunken way, singing the same drunken song, or a new version of it.
When the river freezes and the snow blows,
Trela, trela, trela,
I shall be waiting there for my lady fair,
Under the window where the candle glows,
Trela, trela, trela.
Last night there had been a fitful moon, and the river banks had been edged with ice. Rumour said that packs of wolves had begun to spill across the Seine right to the city gates, and the very air seemed glass thin. Richard’s wavering steps had matched his wavering voice and he had made no attempt to hide himself. Luck was with him again; neither the French nor Wolsey’s guards had attempted to meddle with him, a poor drunken sot, like to freeze to death before the night was out. The time was ripe then, the rescue party planned, presumably the ladies warned—‘Then I warn you,’ the duke snapped. He drew a breath. ‘I am with you to this extent. Rescue them, both of them. Use my name only if you must, as a last resort. If you are discovered or if things go amiss, then I disclaim all knowledge. But I promise to help you if I can. On one condition.’
He slapped Richard on the back in his old way to take the sting out of his words but his face showed a new cunning. ‘You have been a messenger, lad,’ he said. ‘Why, you know all about royal marriages. So who more expert than you to report the end of this one.’ He smiled, the smile of a Mary Tudor, lacking mirth. He did not have to elaborate what he meant by ‘end’, nor dwell on the risks he was asking Richard to take, in telling the king what his sister might have done. Nor did he have to add one last thing, although he did, for it was most on his mind. ‘I told you once I would claim a favour back, double fold. Now I have.’
‘The queen will need a companion for the ride,’ he continued, ‘and Mistress de Verne will do as well as anyone. But if all fails, or if you and I cannot come to terms,’ he shrugged, ‘Henry will take care of her. After all, she cannot mean so much to you, that you would risk your life a second time. There are other women in the world, boy, no point crying over spilt milk.’
Perhaps he meant this to be kind. But he also meant it as a threat, one that Richard was obliged to accept. It became a weight about his neck, similar to the one Philippa bore. And, like her, he made himself carry it, out of honour, loyalty and pride, a fatal mixture.
The next day, as predicted, the sky darkened and the wind rose. Soon snow was falling again in great gouts, turning the city into a waste land, where nothing stirred. All through the day the blizzard blew, keeping the French sentries indoors and driving Wolsey’s men under the surrounding porticoes. Richard was ready. He needed the cover of that storm, that empty sentry wal
k, those empty streets. And relying on the zeal of Edmund Bryce, who hated them, Richard planned to stage a minor disturbance to lead Wolsey’s men away. He persuaded the duke to station himself beneath that same portico, where he was to remain in the background, hidden beneath his cloak until his presence was required.
The weakness of the plan was the ladies’ approval (as the duke had pointed out) and the duke’s person would convince them, if need be. The most difficult task, that of approaching the ladies directly, Richard reserved for himself, hoping he could talk them round. It says much for his feelings that although he still did not understand, he trusted Philippa and relied on her good sense for support. And Edmund Bryce, who acted as his second-in-command, was of the same opinion.
In the darkened room, where the French kept their widowed queen, Philippa’s thoughts ran in similar lines. She might reason that Richard had every cause to abandon her; her emotions told her otherwise. Recognizing his voice, his walk, the meaning behind his song, her instincts warned her to prepare, although she did not tell the queen. For every day saw the queen grow more nervous. Twice the new French king had paid her a visit, abusing his privileges to harass her, warning her that he was still considering who to chose as her new husband. He had tried to kiss the queen passionately, fondling Philippa at the same time, setting the queen off in hysterics. These visits had put Wolsey’s men on guard, making them hound Philippa for news. But the queen meanwhile took such a dislike to all things French and screamed so loudly when anyone French appeared that the ladies Louise of Savoy had left in charge were obliged to withdraw and Philippa immediately took advantage of their absence.
Still not telling the queen what she was about she drew back the thick mourning draperies, opened the shutters and again leaned out into the cold. Down below she could hear the muffled shouts of Wolsey’s men as they fended off the ‘revellers’ who were intent on pestering them. The shouting died away to silence. Philippa put her fingers to her lips to quiet the queen. ‘Hush,’ she said. ‘Someone is coming.’
The man who came stumbling across the windowsill was so covered with snow, his cloak plastered with it, his sword encrusted with it, it was difficult to know who he was. Scattering snow like goose feathers he heaved himself upon his feet, and ran a hand across his face. He had no need to introduce himself, although had he been anyone else Philippa would have been ready for him, a sharp knife clutched in her hand. Yet if Richard saw the knife, he never mentioned it. He addressed the queen, speaking hastily but formally. ‘Lady, if it is your pleasure, then I am bid tell you the duke awaits below. Time is of importance, but if you wish to come with us we are ready to escort you.’ And to Philippa, equally brisk, ‘Can her majesty clamber down a wall; can she ride in skirts? Can you?’
His hands were cut and bleeding from where he had scaled the wall, so ice-encased that he had slid back more than once, not an easy climb at the best of times, hard in the dark with a drawn sword. But he led the queen with easy grace to the window so she could look down. For a moment she resisted him, glancing sideways from him to Philippa with her sharp Tudor eyes. ‘So,’ she said, ‘you are the gentleman I have seen before. I recognize you.’ She gave her little self-satisfied smile. ‘I rescued you last time,’ she reminded him. ‘Or my guards did. Now it is your turn.’
She looked around her once more, seeming to hesitate. That hesitation, that quick glance, seemed to say, ‘I was a princess then. Now I am a queen. Shall I relinquish all that royalty? Must I give it all up?’
Perhaps the consequence of what she now contemplated began to dawn on her; perhaps she began to weigh what she would lose or gain. Little beads of sweat darkened her upper lip and she gripped the sill with both hands. Seeing these symptoms her companions exchanged dismayed looks, aware themselves how much now depended on her; one scream from her, and all would be lost.
In the street below the duke was suddenly as anxious. He stepped out of the shadows where he had secreted himself, throwing off his nervousness as easily as he threw off the cloak that had kept him hidden. He beckoned to a page boy to light a torch, as if he meant to scorn disguise, as if he meant to show his true self. Its dripping wax guttered and spat in the wet but revealed him clearly enough, a fine figure of a man, who once had been called the most eligible bachelor in all of England. The torch light also showed him for something else, a man who, when all else was said and done, could no longer be relied upon.
He pulled a length of silk from his belt and held it up, a fine beaded scarf, stitched with pearls which glinted in the light. And seeing it, Mary Tudor leaned forward and waved back. Perhaps it was the sight of that gift which recalled old memories, perhaps it was the sight of him, but she made up her mind. She turned abruptly to Richard. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I come with you. But you must promise me something.’ She nodded from him to Philippa. ‘I take you both under my care,’ she cried. 'And when I marry, if I do, so shall you.’ If she was aware of her irony she did not show it, nor did she look at her companions again. But like the duke she thought ahead, making a condition of her compliance, like him using it to save herself if she had to, and sure enough of her companions that they would be obliged to honour it.
She gave her hand to Richard, never more queen-like than in the moment of relinquishing it. ‘I know you,’ she crowed at him. ‘And I know her. You deserve each other. And I shall make it so.’ And without further ado, she skipped out of the window, blithe as a bird.
Soon all three were picking their way cautiously along that deserted sentrywalk, at times having to crawl beneath other windows where lights flared and people talked and laughed. Sometimes they lost their footing on icy patches and began to slide. The wind blew the snow in gusts, blinding them, and the cold froze them through their clothes. When they rounded the last corner, where the ground rose up as on a slope (a defect that any good defence should long ago have remedied) the full force of the blizzard caught them and only Richard’s body shielded them. But that lower lie of the terrain served them well as he had meant it should.
The duke and the rest of his men were already stationed below to lower the ladies by means of ropes, attached previously when Richard had climbed up. Once on the ground the queen held back again, although they tried to lead her towards the horses tethered out of the wind. She threw up her head as if catching breath. ‘Thank God,’ she cried, in almost her old way. ‘One more night inside that place would have smothered me.’ She looked at the duke and gave her little moue. ‘Well Charles,’ she said, as confident as if she were twice his age instead of he being twice hers. ‘This is a foolish thing we do unless we are sure of it. We had better make it right so my brother Henry will not be able to undo it.’ She put her head on one side and said almost plaintively, ‘Henry gave me the right of choice. But I have little confidence in him. Shall I trust you?’ She jutted out her jaw. ‘You told me I should,’ she said, ‘long ago, when I was a child. But that was before you went to Lille.’
She watched how the duke’s colour changed from red to pale to red again. ‘If that was what Henry made you do,’ she cried, ‘you could show him what you really are and what you really want. You could marry again to please yourself. As I can.’ She smiled at him. ‘You could marry me,’ she said, ‘as you always promised you would.’ And the duke, throwing up his hands as if helplessly, laughed, as he had not laughed in months, and agreed.
A marriage ceremony had not been part of Richard’s plan, but the queen insisted. Indeed she refused to move further than the city gates (where the city guards had been bribed to let them through), unless a ceremony was performed without delay, and so perforce, it was arranged. It was a quick, furtive affair, in contrast to those other marriages, the proxy one and the real one at Abbeville, no gaping crowds, no fawning courtiers, no great lords, just a small dirty church with a frightened priest, dragged from his bed. The wedding guests were armed men, most still battle-grimed from their skirmish with Wolsey’s guard; the brides shivering with cold beneath their fur cloa
ks; the grooms accoutred for war and expecting it. Brides, grooms . . . here was a surprise for everyone, but that too the queen insisted on. ‘We owe it them,’ she persisted. ‘They owe it us. I promised them. Why not, they have waited almost as long as we have.’
Now whether the queen meant well, acting in her naive way and not caring who she embarrassed, or whether, thinking that a double ceremony would distract from the enormity of her own, she persuaded the duke to echo her. As he did, with only a momentary hesitation. ‘Two for the price of one,’ he cried. ‘Why, lad, that’s a bargain you can’t miss. And when you tell the king of my wedding you can announce your own.’ He urged the reluctant young man forward, while the queen pulled at Philippa. To say that the second bridal pair hung back would not be an exaggeration. Both were bewildered, both angered, and in secret both ashamed to be made such fools, for what man likes to marry because he is forced, and what woman would not prefer to be asked first. Both knew their quarrel unresolved, both felt the fault for it. Then too there was the weight of Wolsey’s plan for Philippa, there was the duke’s threat hanging over Richard. Although each attempted to laugh the idea aside, neither dared look at the other. The princess continued adamant, and the duke, beginning to see the advantage to him, something he too could hide behind, urged her on. So the trembling priest married both couples at the same time, the queen prompting him when he stuttered out of place, leaning on the duke’s arm in such a way that had he been obliged to draw a sword he would have cut her in twain.