The Queen's Lover: A Novel

by Vanora Bennett

  By his side, Tanneguy de Chastel was twitching his own big red barrel of a body, so the ax at his belt thudded against his leg, demanding permission to break the silence. Tanneguy was a brave man and a good fighter. He took wise precautions before taking risks; today, for instance, he'd insisted they come an hour early to the meeting. But Tanneguy had to take those wise precautions, because he was so prone to exploding with uncontrollable rage. I shouldn't have brought him here, Charles thought with sudden foreboding; and that thought made him move his eyes sideways, to see that Tanneguy was, indeed, on the brink of a towering fury, and inadvertently gave his aide a chance to talk.

  "He's late," Tanneguy said--a mutter, but full of blazing intensity.

  But we were early, Charles thought. He's on time.

  He looked away; muttered back: "Calm yourself."

  "The murdering bastard came late," Tanneguy repeated, a little louder; as if he hadn't heard Charles' command. Charles knew Tanneguy was doing what he was trying not to do himself: conjuring up the terror of their nighttime escape from the streets of a Paris packed with howling Burgundian killers.

  "Be quiet," Charles said.

  Tanneguy's voice dropped. But he didn't shut up at once. He said, in a monotone: "No--bloody--respect." Then he stared down, over the side of the bridge at the choppy white water below. Tanneguy went so quiet that all you could hear were the birds cawing and Burgundy's footsteps coming closer; but Charles could almost feel him seething.

  Tanneguy didn't speak through the opening formalities. Nor did he look up when Burgundy, bowing his bare head as soon as he got within speaking distance, said, with his eyes unmovingly on Charles, "My lord; I am grateful that you offer me this chance to combine with you against our ancient enemies, the English." His voice had always been that hard monotone, Charles remembered, but the sound of it now grated infuriatingly on Charles' ears.

  Charles had Tanneguy at his side, and three men behind.

  He couldn't stop himself. Bitterly, he cried out: "Ancient enemies? The English? They haven't been your ancient enemies for long, have they?" But when Burgundy just went on looking at him with that calm snake gaze, he realized his outburst had sounded petulant. Childish. The very things he hadn't wanted to be. He bit his lip, saw Tanneguy look up and catch the hot blush on his face; and hated Burgundy, and the correctness in which his ambitions were cloaked, more than ever before.

  The snake eyes blinked. With spare, economical grace, the Duke of Burgundy went down on his knees, and as he went he tucked his sword out of the way behind him.

  What Charles always remembered afterward was how, at that moment, he was watching that elegant gesture with almost unbearable loathing and resentment, and thinking that here was a man who would never put a foot wrong.

  He remembered it because, at that moment, Burgundy did, at last, put a foot wrong.

  The Duke, not young anymore, wobbled on his bony knees.

  Burgundy wasn't a man to make himself ridiculous by falling over in front of these young fighters. With dignity, he moved to steady himself. He reached out his right hand for support. He put it on the hilt of his sword.

  Charles had been wrong to think Tanneguy would start the trouble. It was Robert de Loir who drew in breath so fast and loud they all startled--their nerves were jangling anyway--then screeched: "What! Get your sword out in the presence of the Prince?"

  But it was Tanneguy who rushed into the quiet space of everyone's indrawn breath after that screech, pulling his ax from his belt and whirling it above his head, and yelling: "It's time!"

  The ax fell. Very slowly, Burgundy staggered and began to collapse. Everything went red. Charles could see Burgundy, down on one buttock, pulling at his sword, trying to get it out. But it was too late. He was slipping in the blood pouring out of the wound in his head; and they were on him, all the strong young men Charles had brought to the bridge. He was old, Charles saw, with bright adult understanding, too old to move as fast as his enemies; and, under the flash of steel, Robert de Loir was hissing, "Kill!"

  Charles was frozen a few feet from the fight, watching, surprised at the coherent thoughts still coming through his head. Charles thought judiciously: He must have known this would happen one day. Ever since he killed my uncle of Orleans and got off unpunished, he must have been waiting for someone to take vengeance. There've been too many crimes.

  It felt a long time after that that Charles realized, I don't want this to be happening. He looked round, half hoping for help. Burgundy's men were rushing to the barrier on their side of the bridge. But it was locked, and their master was already still and heavy under his attackers' legs.

  Burgundy's men came back without even the body. L'Isle Adam didn't exactly tell Catherine that his troop had panicked and fled. But it was obvious.

  Perhaps that was why the King didn't understand. The King only rolled his eyes at Burgundy's dusty, stuttering lieutenant, and said cunningly, "Ah, the darkness got him. It's waiting for us all." Then he added, with sudden alarm in his voice, "Don't look at me. I'm not here. I'm in the darkness too."

  And Charles VI was off: tearing his hair; tearing his clothes; running to the corners of the room; hiding behind tapestries.

  Catherine watched him run. For what felt like a long time, she didn't move. She felt remote from the scene in this room too: from the soldiers and the bleak faces and the panic and the lengthening shadows. There'd been a lifetime of madness: not just her father's, but the madness that was on all of them; each of them surprising the others by the new depths to which they might stoop; and all always doomed to failure.

  She'd hoped, herself, for these talks to fail. But she hadn't expected even Charles to murder their cousin, a man so advanced in years, a man who'd come in peace. How could she have foreseen that baseness?

  "Was it actually my brother?" she asked l'Isle Adam, who was beyond diplomatic tact, who was staring in open, horrified fascination at the King's caperings. "My brother who...killed?"

  It took an effort for l'Isle Adam to bring his eyes back to hers. He stared at her so blankly that she didn't know whether he had even understood. But when he spoke he sounded very certain. "Yes," he said. "I saw. The Dauphin Charles said, 'Kill.' He stabbed my Duke through the heart. There was nothing we could do."

  Catherine turned away, remembering Charles torturing Bosredon; the fury in him.

  "Thank you," she said. Quickly, l'Isle Adam left.

  Catherine felt sick. There wasn't an honorable man in all of France. Wearily, she nodded to the soldiers waiting for her signal to remove the King. She couldn't charm her father into coming voluntarily to his white shelter today. She was too tired. Whatever Papa thought, he wasn't made of black glass; the reality was that they wouldn't break him, however much they touched him. He'd just have to live with his fears. They all would. There was no escape for any of them. She let them close in and drag him off screaming.

  There were riots in the town as night fell. The people had wanted peace among the French; their disappointment was taking violent form. Soldiers were sent out to calm them down. But the yells and flames and clash of weapons continued through the night; the windows never quite got dark.

  Burgundy's closest family (except his son Philip, who would be here tomorrow) sat all night in the chapel, letting their eyes lose their focus in the candle flames; listening to the unearthly purity of the singing; thinking their private thoughts as they stared toward where the dead Duke's still, beaky nose should have lain, in a more orderly world, under a neat white shroud.

  Catherine's muddle of thoughts flashed between her agonizing mental picture of Charles hitting the guardsman to Charles making daisy chains by the lion's cage with pudgy child's fingers. She saw Burgundy's cold eyes on her brother Louis while the butchers of Paris broke screaming onto the dance floor; Charles waking up whimpering from a nightmare; her father screaming at his window. There was no hope of happiness for any of them. No Roses, no Moons, no Lovers: their destiny was different. The foreign Ki
ng she'd thought would save her had instead just taken her virtue, or what was left of it, and walked away without a backward glance. This was the destiny her royal blood brought, perhaps forever: the sounds of mutiny at the window; the endless treachery of her kin; death at every turn; smoke on the air. She couldn't imagine anymore that there would be a way out.

  She was aware of Isabeau watching her, from behind a separate candle, in her own pale nimbus. Isabeau wasn't praying, or even pretending to. The Queen was nodding grimly, as if she'd made her mind up about something, and she was muttering words under her breath that definitely had nothing to do with God.

  "No son of mine," Isabeau was muttering venomously when Catherine caught up with her in the corridor after Mass, as dawn broke and they headed toward their rooms. "That murderer is no son of mine."

  Catherine looked challengingly at her. "...And certainly no son of Papa's," she said, experimentally, capping her mother's phrase, realizing that now was the time to see if she couldn't, after all, draw Isabeau into a definitely held position that Charles was no part of their family. "I know. You've said that before."

  Catherine's voice was quiet but determined. She'd been thinking. She had to ask for what she wanted. And this was the time.

  She had Isabeau's attention. She couldn't afford to be squeamish, she thought.

  "Maman," she said, "I've been thinking. You can't love Charles...after all he's done to you, and now..." She winced, but forced herself on. No time to be squeamish. "...to our poor dear cousin John. And to France."

  Isabeau's little eyes glittered. She shook her head.

  "You'll have to respond now to what he's done," Catherine said. "To his crime...to his shedding of royal blood. You heard the riots last night...and there'll be many people elsewhere who will also think that what Charles has done is an act of blasphemy, of sacrilege...that by committing murder he's lost God's grace and the right to rule France. They'll look to you. So what happens next is really all in your hands."

  Isabeau drew in a breath so deep that all her green iridescence--flab, silk, jewels, eyelids--wobbled.

  "If you and Papa were to repudiate Charles now..." Catherine breathed. "If you told the world what you've told me..."

  She waited. After a long pause, Isabeau nodded again, looking harsher and more vengeful now.

  "...then Charles would never be King of France," Catherine said, in the voice of temptation: naming Isabeau's dearest wish, speaking it out loud, conjuring it into existence. "You could stop him."

  There was a pause.

  "We'd need to send armies south and clear up his rebellion," Catherine said, adding with contempt, "what's left of it. So there wouldn't be peace straightaway. But that would be easy enough. Because once you'd repudiated Charles, Henry of England would be back to talk peace with you straightaway. And if you had his armies at your disposal, it would take no time to deal with Charles."

  She smiled. She knew it was a hard smile. She sensed she was winning.

  "And if we had an agreement with Henry of England, there'd be a marriage. I would be his Queen..." Catherine said: her clinching argument. "And your grandson would be King of England."

  Isabeau still said nothing. The Queen was still nodding. But, suddenly, Catherine wasn't completely sure anymore that her mother was agreeing; she might just be weighing up her options.

  Catherine knew what the catch must be. However much her mother wanted to prevent Charles from taking the throne, she would be reluctant to pay the necessary price: admitting to the world that she had been an adulteress, a sinner who'd broken her marriage vows, who had taken a lover...

  Well, she thought brutally, Isabeau couldn't afford squeamishness either. The Queen would have to pay the price if she wanted the reward.

  "You know I want that marriage," Catherine finished, wondering how she was managing to be so brave, and where her old fear of her mother had gone. "Anything else would mean dishonor. I already am Henry's. You know that too. So when I think about it, what I ask myself is, what do you want most--Charles' happiness, or mine?"

  Isabeau's lips were crimped together. She'd gone opaque.

  Catherine couldn't tell at all what she was thinking.

  When her mother's lips did, finally, open, Catherine leaned breathlessly forward to catch the words.

  "Don't you worry," the Queen told her daughter. "I know exactly what to do."

  Then Isabeau disappeared, and all that was left of her were the wheezing noises going down the spiral staircase.

  Owain's horse was already saddled for the return to England when they called him to the King's tent. They were bringing his bundles out of the tent. They'd be loading them up in a minute.

  He went at once, picking his way through the mud, not even seeing the encampments and cooking fires and saddles being greased on all sides anymore; already, in his mind, on the quiet road home. He didn't worry about the summons. They knew he was off. Henry had only laughed when he'd turned down the King's offer of a knighthood after Pontoise. "I'm not a soldier," he'd told the King; "and you're already giving me the best reward I could hope for--letting me go." He was ready now to make his farewells.

  But they hadn't called him to make any farewells. The King was sitting on a rough stool, laughing with his brother John of Bedford: two big pairs of hands slapping at themselves, as if there were flies on their thighs; two sets of pop eyes popping out more than ever with merry disbelief.

  "You'll never credit this, Tudor," Bedford said. Then he stopped and hiccuped and began helplessly laughing again.

  Owain stared.

  "The Prince has murdered Burgundy!" Bedford got out, with his eyes almost out of his head. "Actually during their talks! Unbelievable! So much for peace between the French!"

  Owain thought: It must be relief that's making them laugh. They must have been scared. Henry was roaring and snuffling.

  "And now the Queen and the new Burgundy--Burgundy's son--have sent proclamations to every town in France--denouncing Charles! The Queen's own son! Saying this proves he's unfit to rule!" the King of England somehow got out.

  Bedford hugged himself. "Oh, these people!" he sighed. "If they didn't exist, we'd have to make them up!"

  Henry finished: "And there's better! We've just received a messenger who says the Queen's even starting telling all and sundry that Charles can't rule France--because"--he stopped; tried to overcome a snicker; gave way to it; went on: "because...she says...her son's a bastard!"

  Bedford snorted again. He spluttered: "She doesn't seem to care...if the whole world wonders...if Charles is a bastard...who's the father...and what does that make her?"

  "They don't need us here at all, do they?" Henry said to his brother in a moment's calm; as if he didn't mind the bewildered Owain being here, or had forgotten him altogether. "They could destroy France all by themselves, even if we weren't here...they've got a genius for self-destruction..."

  "Genius!" Bedford agreed, and the two brothers started rocking and guffawing again.

  Owain waited until their helpless laughter had subsided a little. Even with his mind already fixed on home, even with all his defenses up against beginning to imagine the distress Catherine might feel about the latest chaotic turn of events, he could see what good news this was for the English war effort. Of course they'd be pleased. They were right to be. Then, clearing his throat to draw attention to himself, he stepped forward and said, "Your Graces will remember that I'm leaving today; I've come to ask Your Majesty's permission to set off..."

  Henry stopped laughing. But there was still a smile on his face as he got up, walked to Owain's side, put an arm round his man's shoulder, and said, with his lips twitching, "Refused, Tudor. Refused."

  Owain tried not to let himself flinch visibly. But he felt as though the ground were opening up beneath his feet.

  "Can't possibly let you go now," Bedford was saying from somewhere beside him. "This is the moment we've been waiting for. Our big opportunity: take France through the hole in the Du
ke of Burgundy's skull. They're in chaos. Can't let the Prince be King now. No one else in the picture. King's as mad as a hatter. They'll say yes to anything. We'll say: Henry marries the daughter; Henry becomes King of France. And they'll say yes, no question. We've won the war; we're about to win the peace!"

  Henry added: "We've just had word from the Queen ourselves. The French are asking us for more talks. So we're off to meet her at Troyes. And so are you, Tudor. You do talks. Your kind of thing. We'll need you."

  He nodded determinedly. But he was a good enough master to remember what he was depriving Owain of. He added: "Your books will still be there in a few months. Oxford's not going anywhere..."

  He looked at his brother, and, as if they were aware of some secret signal Owain couldn't see, they both began to shake with laughter again.

  PART FOUR

  The Vision of Christine

  SEVENTEEN

  There were birds singing all around. Catherine was sitting on a chamomile bench, enjoying the scent of the crushed leaves and the little star-faced daisy flowers, as she absorbed the news.

  The English had agreed to talk again within two days of Burgundy's assassination, and within a day of Isabeau's announcements that Charles was unfit to rule and was illegitimate. They would all meet at Troyes within three days--as soon as possible.

  "No corridor-creeping now," Isabeau had grunted playfully. "I know you girls."

  Catherine had begun to say something indignant, then subsided. It would have been ungracious to remind Isabeau that she'd been the one who'd pushed her daughter into bed with the King of England. Isabeau had got the English back now, and Catherine should be showing gratitude. Isabeau had added, with triumphant cynicism: "Better he's hungry. We'll keep you in your rooms this time. Make him wait."

  This time, with her mother's help, it would surely all come right. In a moment Catherine would go inside and begin to pack. For now, with the sun on her back, she was happy to lose herself in reverie.