A moment later, Owain realized that Christine's sigh signified something quite different from fatigue, or embarrassment that Jean had talked disrespectfully of poetry. She had something on her mind. She wanted to ask him a favor.
Fiddling with a bit of gristle on her platter, and looking down, almost nervously, she cleared her throat and asked if Owain would make a two-day trip out of Paris with her, to visit her daughter Marie, who was a nun at the monastery of Poissy. "Usually Jean takes me; but I can't ask him now; he can't spare the time," she said, and when she looked up he saw her eyes glisten.
Owain had read in one of Christine's books that she had a daughter in a monastery. In her first months of widowhood, he knew, Christine had discovered that the dowry she thought had been put aside by her dead husband for this daughter had been stolen; and, without a bride price, Christine's girl-child could never marry. Marie de Castel's future had been saved by the King of France. When his own daughter, also called Marie, had entered the convent for royal women at Poissy, he'd found Christine's daughter a place at her side, and paid the dowry the nuns demanded out of his own purse. Christine had written about her gratitude for the King's goodness.
But Owain had never heard Marie's name mentioned in her mother's voice. Now, looking at Christine's imploring eyes, which--although he knew she was much too self-possessed to weep--he could swear were soft with unshed tears, he could guess why. It was simple. She missed her daughter.
"I'm allowed to visit her once a year; at the feast of Saint John...I don't want to miss it," she was saying, looking down again, and he could hear the pain in her voice now, so clear that he was touched by the bravery with which she'd lived her hard, odd life. When he put a hand on hers, she took comfort from it. She didn't shake it off. Saint John, he calculated: midsummer; in the next few days. "Of course," he said gently. "It will be my pleasure."
She looked up now, blinking; and the smile that came to her face was both relieved and triumphant. She wanted to lighten the atmosphere, he could see; she knew she'd looked vulnerable, and she didn't like to be pitiful. "Thank you," she murmured; then, in more conversational tones: "You'll enjoy it, I think. It's the most beautiful place, Poissy...tranquil...serene..." She laughed, without amusement. "So beautiful that sometimes I think I should go and end my own days there, with my Marie." She blinked again and smiled; Owain saw that, despite her efforts, her eyes were watery again. She'd never have her family all together under one roof again; she'd never be completely happy with her choice, whether it was to be with her son or her daughter; there'd always be regrets.
"...But not now, of course," Christine went briskly on. She got up from the table. She gestured with her veiny hands at the familiar room, full of the leftovers of dinner and her grandchildren's clutter and the paraphernalia of family life. "There's too much holding me here."
Owain could see her biting her lip as she headed for the door. He sat on at the table, thinking.
He didn't especially want to go to Poissy, not for himself. Owain could think of nothing but staying in Paris; nothing beyond the next few weeks and months here, in this perfect, frenzied, breathless moment, feeling young and full of joy with his confidence growing that every pleasure in life still lay ahead. There was something of the same feeling, he sensed, in Catherine's endless questions about England, which kept coming even though there'd been no further word from the English court about the possible royal marriage. Whenever Christine wasn't listening, Catherine would be whispering another request for information, about the King, jousting, London, the length of royal processions, Parliament, horses, fashions, the royal homes strung along the Thames Valley...Owain couldn't permit himself to examine the combination of hope and unease that this day-by-day interrogation aroused in him, but it hovered on the edge of his mind anyway, like a brilliant sunburst, too bright to look at. It was as if each of them were striving toward the place on the map that they sensed was natural for the other.
Still, if Christine wanted him to travel out of Paris with her, he would do her bidding. Of course he would. Even if it meant leaving the city where the sun always seemed to shine and happiness was within such easy reach, it was the least he could do for the woman who'd opened the door to it all.
The storm broke the next day. Over the ruins of a picnic in the gardens, they all heard the sound of hooves in the heat of the afternoon. Half a dozen horses broke the silence; too close; too fast; only reining in a hasty gallop at the gate long enough for a thin, angry male voice to hiss, "Get out of the way, you bloody fool; don't you see who I am?" and for a whip to crack; and then more jingling and neighing as the skittering horses were urged on again, up to the Queen's house, over the flagstones just behind the nearest bushes.
Owain shook himself and raised his head. He didn't know what was habitual here and what was not; he was only responding to the heightening of tension in the others. Charles was sitting straight up. Catherine's head had jerked round to follow the sounds. They were both watching the bushes for any glimpse of the passing horses. Christine was getting to her feet; brushing grass off her skirts.
"Louis," Charles said. His voice was hushed. He sounded scared.
"Trouble," Catherine said, also in a tone of foreboding, following Christine to her feet. Charles scrambled up too.
No one needed to say more. It seemed entirely natural to start off, at a hasty pace somewhere between a walk and a run, in the direction the horses had taken. Breathlessly, Owain followed, heading for trouble too.
The royal Hotel Saint-Paul was a compound of separate houses set within the gardens. They watched from under a tree in front of the Queen's house. In the heat and softness and grass, it felt unreal to Owain. None of the men on horseback, now reined in and waiting, seemed aware of the four extra sets of footsteps running up, then stopping; of their quick breath. No one turned when Catherine quietly, protectively, put an arm round Charles' trembling shoulder.
"How dare you? How dare you?" Crown Prince Louis was screaming. He'd dismounted. He was waving his whip, but not at the horse, which had its suddenly placid head down in a tub of flowers. His face, whiter than ever, was all huge, black-rimmed, furious eyes. They were locked on the Queen, who, fat and carapaced in green silk, was gleaming like a poison beetle as she looked down at him from the shade of the colonnade. There were some smaller, bright-colored forms behind her; was the whole court watching? Even from here, Owain could see the Queen was smiling.
"Set them free at once. You had no right!" Louis howled, on and on, beside himself, advancing menacingly up the stairs, never shifting his gaze. The Queen ignored his screechings. She stood her ground, and went on smirking and flashing her eyes hypnotically at him as he got closer; as he moved out of the sunlight and into the shadows. It wasn't a nice smile. Owain thought, with a mixture of fascination and repulsion: She's enjoying this.
There was a fast-moving blur in the shadows. Disbelievingly, Owain thought he could distinguish a raised arm; then the crack of leather on flesh.
The Queen stepped forward into the sunlight. Slowly, deliberately, she raised one hand to cup her injured cheek. Louis had struck her with his whip. Even from this distance, Owain could see the red welt on her face. Even from this distance, he could see the triumph in her eye.
There was a strange little whinny of laughter from some where very close. He glanced at his three companions. It must have been one of them. But they were straight-faced; concentrating; so somber that he wondered, for an instant, whether it hadn't been he who'd let that terrified laugh escape.
There was a terrible pause before the Queen spoke. Her voice was quiet but carrying; as taut as a whiplash. "You're making a fool of yourself, Louis," she said. Owain could hear the taunt in it. "This isn't how princes of chivalry are supposed to behave to the mothers who raised them, you know."
Louis flinched, and put down the whip.
"But then, what do you care about that? You just do whatever you want, whenever you want; don't let anything get in the way of
your satisfaction, whatever it is, however depraved. Don't you?" The female voice was rising now, enough to instill fear, though not quite enough to sound hysterical. "You're still a spoiled child; you think of nothing but 'want, want, want,'" she went on, carefully nursing her welt and her grudge; keeping her rhythm. "And then you're surprised when things don't work out the way you want them to. You're surprised when people start saying someone who can do all the self-willed, degenerate, dreadful things you do, without any hesitation, without the least guilt, is going the way your father's gone"--Owain was aware of the hush deepening--"and should be kept from the throne."
She stuck her face out toward him; making sure to stay in the sunlight so all the watchers could see.
"No wonder there are riots and rebellions in Paris," she intoned, gloatingly; "no wonder people say the harsh things about you that I so often hear. You shouldn't be surprised, Louis. You shouldn't be surprised."
She took another step toward him.
"Are you proud of striking your mother?" she asked, as if this taunting, hateful conversation was a ritual they often observed--which, Owain could see from the looks of dread on the two children's faces, it must indeed be. "Are you? Do you think behavior like this is worthy of a future king?"
Louis' head drooped. He shifted ground; stepped back, further in to the shadows. "You overstepped the mark. You had no right to do what you did," he muttered, still angry, sounding truculent but also, already, defeated. She'd got behind his defenses.
Owain had no idea what this quarrel was about, or how to find out. But he could see that those more familiar with appalling, frightening spectacles like this had ways of finding out. He watched as Catherine let go of Charles' shoulder and stepped, as lightly and daintily as a ghost, across the grass to the nearest horseman. "What happened?" she whispered up at him; half whisper, half hiss; a command for information.
The man--an esquire of some sort--looked down at her with fear and blankness and resignation mingled in his face. "She came to the Louvre this morning while he was out hunting. In a litter. With a lady-in-waiting: his wife, Marguerite of Burgundy," he muttered, jerking his finger toward the colonnade. Since Louis so loathed the wife the Queen insisted on harboring, the whole court knew that in itself to be an act of hostility. "They brought troops. And they arrested four of his counselors. Including my lord Jean de Croy."
Catherine gave him another look through narrow eyes. "Why?" she asked again.
The man looked still more miserable. He just shrugged. It was clear there was no reason, except spite.
"Where did they take them?" Catherine hissed.
The man shook his head and looked as though he wanted the earth to swallow him up. She shook hers too, and, without thanking the man, moved soundlessly back toward Charles and Christine and Owain. Of course they'd all been straining to catch each whispered word. Owain was aware of the raised-eyebrow look that passed between the two royal children: he thought it was a look of helplessness, but also of deep, shared shame.
Then, suddenly, Catherine ran off, alone, back through the bushes, toward peace. And before he realized he was doing it, Owain was running too, past the others, away from the fighting, after her.
Her shoulders were shaking when he caught her up. She was leaning against a tree, with her head cradled in her arms.
He put an arm on her shoulder and pulled her against his chest. She was smaller and softer than he'd realized; she scarcely came up to his shoulder. She smelled of crushed grass as well as rose oil. Her skin, under the raggedy cloth, was soft. She was trembling. She buried her face in his doublet.
He murmured, as softly as if he were calming a horse, "Don't cry...don't cry." He was trembling too. He let his lips brush the top of her head. His blood was racing. There was nothing he wanted more than for her to raise her face to him, so he could look into her eyes...so he could...
But when she did look up, her eyes, behind their tears, were full of what they'd just seen. She burst out, bitterly: "I wish, I wish, I could go to England...and get away from the mall...everyone hating each other...and the fights...so many fights...and us, being scared...hiding behind things...no one telling us anything...we're always so scared..."
She burrowed back into his chest, holding him very tight--for comfort, he realized uncomfortably; his mind feeling relieved beyond measure that he hadn't followed the overwhelming instinct of a moment before to put his lips to hers, however much his own rebellious body still wanted him to. Now the sobs that came out of her were fierce and angry, racking her whole body. He heard more indistinct words. He thought he heard: "...I don't want to be!" and "...just sitting and waiting all the time..." and "...helpless!"
Full of appalled pity, he thought: I didn't know...didn't know at all...I just thought we were all happy here...
Gently, trying not to betray how hard it felt to separate the length of his body from hers, he removed her arms from around his chest and stepped back.
There was a rustling behind them. Catherine snuffled bravely. It wouldn't do to be crying when Christine stepped out of those bushes. But her wet green eyes were still on his. He held her gaze. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and gave him a heartrending smile; "I shouldn't have..." She gulped. "But it's so unbearable; knowing that Louis will take his revenge; and then she'll take hers...it never ends..." She stopped herself. She tried to smile again. She muttered, "Thank you."
By the time Christine pushed through into their clearing, followed by Charles, Catherine was dabbing at her face with her sleeve, composing herself; and Owain was standing helplessly two paces away, watching, seeing her misery, wondering how he could have believed they were all so happy.
It was Christine who broke the little group's silence. "Come," she said, touching Catherine's arm, "let's go down to the river, all of us."
Charles nodded too. The look on that odd, pinched little face--as desolate as any feeling Owain remembered--brought a lump to the older boy's throat. "Let's show Owain the embankments your wise grandfather built," Christine said in a soothing voice: an invitation to forget. "And I'll tell you about the trip Owain's coming on with me, tomorrow."
It was a frail enough thread to hang a new mood on. But they grasped at it; trying to lift themselves up on it. "Where to?" Charles said, falling into step beside Christine.
She smiled fondly down at his miserable face, rewarding his effort. "Poissy," Christine replied, and, even in the gloom of this moment, the name filled her heart with light. Poissy, a place apart from worldly troubles; Poissy, as close as you could get to Paradiseon Earth...
"To see your Marie?" Catherine asked, falling into step beside Owain. She was trying to make her voice matter-of-fact, as Christine would want. But she couldn't help sounding left out.
"So it will be just us here," she went on, and Owain could hear wistfulness in her voice, and perhaps fear.
"For a couple of days," Christine replied briskly. However disturbing the scene they'd just witnessed, nothing was going to stop her going to Poissy.
Her answer didn't reassure Catherine. Turning to her younger brother, and jerking her head back in the direction of the voices, the Princess continued her thought as if Christine hadn't spoken. She added, with a grimace: "On our own...with them."
SIX
There was a buzz of conversation behind and in front. But in the middle of the line of pilgrims clip-clopping away from Paris--strangers, talking to the people they were traveling with, or those they'd met at the saddling-up point at the Saint-Germain gate at dawn--two were silent. Owain, behind Christine, looking at her straight, thin back without being aware of doing so, was remembering the tears sparkling on Catherine's eyelashes yesterday.
He was reproaching himself for not being able simply to feel concern for Catherine and her unhappiness. But he couldn't help himself. They'd glittered like diamonds, those tears. He would treasure the memory forever. As the Poissy pilgrims passed between tree trunks, under boughs crossing high above, the broken glitters of sun and whis
pers of green reminded him of snatches of song drifting down from the heights: a living cathedral; the whole natural world giving praise.
She'd touched him. She'd burrowed her face against his chest. She'd let him cradle her in his arms. He'd felt the breath rise and fall in her. She'd confided in him.
All night he'd thought of nothing else but that moment; all evening, through supper, instead of reading; all morning. He'd woken up to the thought of Catherine. She filled his mind now.
Owain had always thought he'd known what unhappiness was. In his mind it had looked like the war he'd known: familiar people disappearing; living, always, with fear and loneliness; knowing things you loved were gone forever, or soon would be. Knowing there was no guarantee of safety or security; that the roof could be burned from over your head, or an arrow lodge in your heart, at any moment. But yesterday, looking into Catherine's eyes, he'd realized how naive that had been. Unhappiness could have a quite different aspect, could exist even in surroundings of the most settled luxury. Could be Catherine, choking on a sob in a palace. He could have guessed she was unhappy; that Charles was, too. The quietness Christine kept talking about--which he hadn't seen as clearly as she had; they'd both wanted to talk to him, after all--their timid air and neglected clothes and street-urchin hunger. There'd always been something wrong, if Owain had only had eyes to see.
Now Owain had started to see, he burned with the desire to talk to her more intimately about what her life was really like. He knew so little. He might be able to help, as he'd found ways to help himself through his own past unhappiness. If only he understood more. Were her mother and brother usually so poisonous and hateful with each other? Did they often fight in public? If so, what did other people at the French court think of the feud? Who supported whom? Why--when there were so many siblings and cousins of the blood royal--did no one take the two youngest royal children under their wing and protect them? And what did Catherine know about her father's illness, which she and Charles were so vague about? He longed for her to tell him; he could imagine her drawing closer, as he laid a hand on hers; looking up at him from under lashes glittering with tears.
The Queen's Lover: A Novel Page 8