The Queen's Lover: A Novel

by Vanora Bennett

  Catherine put her hand on the girl's trembling shoulder and let her arm lie warm on Jehanne's back. Jehanne was a bag of sharp bones. She was still shaking her head. "They'll devour me," she was muttering. "Tear me limb from limb." But Catherine just made low, soothing noises and stroked those jutting protuberances with gentle, heavy hands until she felt the shaking stop.

  "I'm lost," Jehanne whispered. Then she stood so motionless that there was no sound even from the chains; just the disgusting skittering and squeakings all around; the unclean things waiting.

  "You're not lost," Catherine replied, almost as quietly, into the silence, hoping it was true. "But you have to submit. Put on the clothes. You'll be safe if you do."

  Then, since she didn't seem to have managed to convince Jehanne she wasn't Saint Catherine, she embraced the saintly role she hadn't expected to play, and added with all the conviction she could muster: "It's the will of God. Put on the clothes."

  At last there was an answering movement. A chink of metal. The eyes focused on her again, faintly puzzled. Jehanne was taking in what she said, now Catherine was talking more like a saint should. She flexed her hands, dropped the clothes Catherine had brought, and lifted her fingers to her waist.

  Catherine hadn't been aware of what the girl was wearing until she saw the stiff fingers start fumbling to untie the first cords. Jehanne's doublet of sturdy leather was attached to the ragged brown hosen on her legs by strong leather laces. Catherine stared. So many laces. Dozens of them--many more than Catherine had ever seen on such a garment--and each one tied into two strong eyelets on the hosen, and another eyelet on the doublet. Jehanne's fingers knew how to untie them without her looking, but even with those practiced fingers going at speed it was a slow business. It seemed hours before there was a fringe of maybe twenty bent strips of leather hanging all around the peasant girl's middle, allowing her finally to step out of the hosen and then unlace the doublet's side laces so she could pull it away from around her tethered arm.

  It would be almost impossible to rape someone tied up in all these laces. It must also have been almost impossible for Jehanne to undo herself even to relieve herself; even walking must have been uncomfortable with all those knots and strings chafing against her waist. Jehanne must be living in mortal terror of violation, Catherine thought.

  That wasn't all Jehanne had on. Underneath that layer was another doublet, of wool this time; and more woollen hosen, again with the two legs sewn firmly together at the gusset. There were another twenty or thirty leather strips binding these inner layers together. Another agonizing eternity of fumbling fingers.

  These rough, monstrously inconvenient garments touched Catherine to the quick, more than any words could have done. They could only have been made for one purpose: to keep Jehanne's virtue safe. Jehanne's incomprehensible bravery had seemed miracle enough, even before. But Catherine hadn't understood until now how frightened the girl must always have been of the men who surrounded her.

  Jehanne wasn't frightened anymore, at least. She dropped the inner hosen down over the outer ones and stood naked, painfully thin and flat-chested, with her head bowed trustingly before Catherine, waiting for her saint to solve the next problem.

  Looking at the chain, Catherine realized what the problem was. It was going to be impossible to dress Jehanne in the women's clothes she'd brought without unfastening her from the wall. But, she realized, it was equally impossible to call back the guard to fiddle with keys and manacles while Jehanne, who was so fearful of soldiers' violence, was naked.

  She had to find the answer. Jehanne depended on her saint. Catherine had to be the saint. With a little prayer of her own to the real Saint Catherine, she picked up the kirtle. The answer came out of her hands rather than her mind. She ripped the shoulder seam open on one side, all the way along the top of the sleeve, and dropped the under dress on the floor by Jehanne. Jehanne, apparently understanding what she needed to do, stepped into it and pulled it up over her unchained arm. One side of her body was now adequately covered. The cloth on the other side still hung down, needing sewing up along the ripped sleeve. Catherine was thinking of taking a few of the leather cords from the discarded hosen, and tying the sleeve together with them, when, with a flash of gratitude and memory, she looked down at her own sleeve. Saint Catherine might have answered her prayers--the needle she'd been using that morning when she put down her sewing was still flashing on her forearm. Catherine tacked the sleeve together until the kirtle hung securely and modestly on the girl's emaciated frame.

  There was nothing she could do about the gown. It was old, but the gray broadcloth stuff was too stout and well-made to rip without a knife. Still, she held it out for Jehanne, guided her free arm through the first sleeve, then wrapped the loose side round the girl's shoulders, over the chain. At least it would keep Jehanne warm until she was moved next, when the chain would be undone; when she'd be able to put her other arm in.

  She was gathering up the boys' clothes, not dissatisfied with her handiwork, when, in that small, expressionless voice, Jehanne said: "I've always obeyed you. I always will. You'll keep me safe. I pray, dear Saint Catherine, that you'll always keep me safe."

  Catherine had wanted to stay and talk to Jehanne, but not like this. It would have been so strange and false to accept Jehanne's prayers to Saint Catherine. So she straightened up, putting the stinking bundle under her arm, then she bent her head and kissed the top of Jehanne's head. She needed to think of something in farewell that sounded virtuous, but not as though she were actually imitating a saint. After a moment's thought, she said: "Let us never be afraid."

  Then she went to the door without looking back, and banged loudly to be let out.

  She felt relieved, almost shriven, until she gave the bundle of clothes to the head of the guard outside. The men snickered when they saw the white Saint Michael crosses sewn on the discarded inside shirt. As Catherine turned away, trying not to see the ugly grins, she heard one of them mutter, "So much for Saint Michael. He hasn't been helping her much lately, has he?"

  There was a full moon, and the evening star, and a soft breeze. Owain was beside her in the window seat with his arm round her, whispering in he rear, "You comforted her...it doesn't matter how confused she was...you did a good deed. She's safe now."

  None of it helped. Catherine couldn't take her eyes off the tower, or the restless men. "They were so--smug," she whispered back, knowing she was repeating herself. "As if they meant mischief. As if they knew something."

  Both of them were still watching when a new man came out of the keep and walked across the flickering courtyard to join the crowd outside the tower. Catherine could only see long bony legs under a flowing houppelande; a dark cap on the head. It could have been any of the dozens of lords at Rouen. It was only when he stopped at the brazier where the guards were warming themselves to talk to the head guard--when he rubbed his hands together at the fire and turned around to take the bundle the head guard was offering him--that Catherine saw his face.

  Owain said, and there was foreboding in his voice: "That's my lord Warwick."

  "What's he doing out there?" Catherine asked, feeling suddenly cold. A pointless question, she knew. There was no answer Owain could give. But by then one of the guards was already unlocking the door to the tower and letting Warwick in.

  The men had got a flagon from somewhere. They started passing it around as soon as Warwick was inside the tower, swigging and swaggering. Within minutes they were capering around their fire, singing and whooping like lunatics. They'd never normally be allowed to carry on like that unpunished, especially with Warwick so close. But no one came to stop them.

  Catherine tightened her hold on Owain's hand.

  The moon had gone before Warwick came out. Instead of disciplining the unruly soldiers, he just went up and stood by the fire again, watching them; tapping his foot to their lewd songs. When one of the rowdies danced up to him and pushed the flagon in his face, he took it, clapped the man on
the back, and swigged at it himself.

  They could see his silhouette against the flames. He was dabbing at his face with a big piece of cloth that he was pulling out from under his arm.

  "What's he got there?" Owain muttered, more to himself than to her.

  Catherine wished she didn't know the answer. "The sleeve of the gray robe I took Jehanne," she said harshly. "He's taken it. He's gone in there and torn the woman's clothes off her back."

  She shut her eyes. She didn't want to imagine that scene. She was sure Jehanne wouldn't have submitted without a struggle. But how could you struggle against a big man like Warwick, if you were chained up and a girl?

  And Warwick had taken a bundle inside with him. She didn't want to imagine what it had contained, but the image of Jehanne's discarded men's clothes, the ones Catherine had taken out, came too readily to mind to avoid. Warwick would have brought back the men's clothes for Jehanne to put on again.

  It was the only answer that made sense. Warwick needed to convict Jehanne of heresy. But for heresy to be a capital offense, it needed to be a repeat offense. If Jehanne's sin were to be punishable by death, he had to make her re-offend. He'd needed someone to bring her women's clothes after the trial ended, but only so he could strip them off her again later, then condemn her. Catherine, by volunteering clothing, had made herself the two men's unwitting accomplice. But anyone would have done for the women's clothes stage of the proceedings; if it hadn't been her, there'd have been some nun or housewife somewhere who'd have served for this stage, who'd have provided the same kind of garments Catherine had.

  Warwick and Bishop Beauvais must have been planning this ending all along. With a wave of nauseous anger, she realized: Bishop Beauvais knew; of course he knew; he as good as announced in advance that this would happen.

  There was no trial scheduled for the next day, but the clerics who'd been so reluctantly taking part before now began turning up in the courtyard anyway. A dozen extra guests trooped into the hall with the English household at midday. There were places set for them all.

  Catherine had slept badly, slumping down on the bed when Owain persuaded her to, but curling up on herself once there, pulling at her crucifix, praying, startling awake, furious with herself for her weakness of purpose, getting up and pacing up and down the floor, moving her lips.

  "You need to sleep," Owain had said, watching her from the bed, lying fully clothed with his hands behind his head.

  "I'm praying for Jehanne," she'd replied fiercely.

  "You can't do anything," Owain had said softly, sadly. "It's too late." And, once or twice, with surprise in his eyes, "I've never seen you like this."

  She kept feeling her eyes staring wildly from their sockets. She tried to unclench her jaw and her fists, but a moment later she'd find them like that again. "You didn't see how small she was...how pitiful...how scared," she said stubbornly. She didn't tell Owain how flimsy the dress had been compared with all those stout cords the girl had protected herself with until then; how hastily she'd sewn the kirtle into place over that frail little arm and shoulder; how the solid gray robe had just been wrapped over one shoulder; how easy it would have been to yank it away. She didn't say: "That girl thought her saint was telling her to submit. She was always strong; I made her weak." But the thought beat through her body like a heartbeat; a rhythmic strum of horror at the cruel, cosmic injustice of it: I made her weak. And they've tricked her.

  In the small of the morning, when Owain's eyes had closed and even the capering men outside had slumped like corpses over their dying fire, she thought she heard the sound of sobbing. But she couldn't be sure. It might have been the wind, or a bird.

  She'd woken in a chair, frowsty and aching, to find Owain gone from the bed and a new guard outside kicking the night men awake. It had taken a moment to remember why she was there; that the sinking blackness inside her wasn't just the memory of a nightmare.

  She'd told Dame Butler to let her rest; to keep even Harry away from her room. But she'd dressed in fresh clothes and gone into dinner at midday. Of course she had. She couldn't believe it, even now. She needed to look Warwick in the eye.

  Warwick's pale eyes glittered. Or one of them did. The other was swollen half shut; blue and tender. His face was a criss cross of violent red and yellow streaks: gouges and scratches. But she could feel his triumph.

  "The prisoner has reverted to wearing men's clothes," he announced with grim satisfaction.

  There was a murmur: "The prisoner has reverted to wearing men's clothes." The clerics further along the table kept their heads down.

  From beside the Earl, the Bishop of Beauvais said loudly and piously, "An abomination. A heresy."

  Viciously, the Earl of Stafford added: "She deserves to burn."

  There was another murmur.

  Catherine felt the shout well up inside her: "What did you do to her?" But her voice echoed round her head and didn't come out.

  Jehanne had fought, at least. She could see that from Warwick's battered face. The thought of Jehanne fighting back was like a reproach. As Catherine left the hall, after the meal was over, she slipped up to Warwick.

  "What did you say to her?" she said quietly. "To Jehanne. I saw you go to the tower in the night."

  She'd got Warwick's full attention for once. His head turned toward her. His one good eye narrowed. He was trying to terrify her into dropping her gaze. She stared boldly back.

  "I had to see for myself that she was truly committing heresy again," he said coldly after a long pause. "Justice must be done."

  She stalked along the corridors in a blue crackle of energy. She rushed to the Cardinal's rooms to tell him that Jehanne had been condemned to burn at the stake. She was certain her old friend, who'd had doubts of his own about the legitimacy of the trial, would be as outraged as she was at this travesty of justice.

  She burst in unannounced. The Cardinal was sitting in the window seat, looking out, with a fur over his knees and a wistful look on his face. He was lost in an old man's nostalgia. He looks tired, she thought.

  "Ah, my dear girl," he said, gesturing at the light summery sky; the wisps of cloud, "I was just thinking how very English that sky looks. It will be good to get home after all this."

  She brushed that aside and started to talk. But the Cardinal wasn't as horrified as she'd hoped when he finally made sense of her breathless rush of words. He wasn't horrified at all. He just shook his head and stroked his chin. "So Warwick's found a way, then," was all he said. Catherine thought he almost looked relieved.

  After a moment, he added: "Of course, now she's committed heresy for a second time, the Pope will have to agree that she's guilty..." He began nodding his head.

  "Is that all you have to say?" Catherine asked indignantly. "When it's so obvious what he's up to...forcing her into this! He attacked her! He must have ripped those clothes off her and forced the other ones back on! She's done nothing to deserve this death...It's a wicked, cynical trick!"

  The Cardinal laid a hand on her arm. She couldn't see any answering flicker of indignation in his eyes. "Dear girl," he said mildly but a little reprovingly, "you're not yourself. Don't take it so to heart. After all...she does have to die. This is just what we need."

  "We?" she said blankly. The Cardinal wasn't the honest ally she'd taken him for, after all.

  "England," he answered. "Harry."

  She stared. Wasn't there a single Englishman anywhere with a shred of honor?

  Gulping, she stammered: "I must tell Owain..." And she was off again, running.

  She'd stopped caring about discretion. She asked Dame Butler, who said Owain was with Harry. But Harry wasn't in his room. He was out in a corner of the courtyard, in the sunlight, playing knucklebones with Owain. She could see Owain's black hair under the green cap.

  Harry smiled up when he saw her coming. "I'm winning," he said.

  She patted his head; ignored his words. "We must do something," she said to Owain. "About Jeh--" Remembering Ha
rry, she stopped herself and nodded up at the tower. Before Owain had even begun shaking his head, she said, "I must do something."

  "What?" Owain asked. He sounded strangely cold. He didn't seem to understand the wickedness that was going on under their noses either.

  There was a silence. She didn't want to admit that there was nothing she could do, or believe it.

  "Do you want to play?" Harry asked, tugging at her skirts.

  She said distractedly, "In a minute," and brushed off his hand, and went on looking at Owain.

  In the end, Owain scrambled up. He put an arm through hers, and--leaving Harry looking disconsolately after them, squatting there with the knucklebones still in his little hand--walked her a few steps away. Then he said warningly, in a voice pitched too low for Harry to hear: "Choose your battles."

  "I have," she said.

  "Well, choose again," he snapped. "This isn't the time or place to make an enemy of Warwick."

  "That bully; that brute. He's committing murder. It's wrong, what he's doing."

  Owain shrugged. He said: "So what if it is?"

  They looked at each other in anger.

  Owain continued: "Listen to me, Catherine. You can't save Jehanne. You shouldn't even want to. Your only concern should be your son. Jehanne is Harry's enemy as much as your brother Charles is." He put his hands on her shoulders. He looked down with hard eyes. "So let her burn," he said. "Play Warwick's game. He tricked her. He probably raped her. He's a cruel man. He enjoys fear. But he's ours. He's doing what we need doing--what Harry needs. And what's Jehanne to you?"

  She stared back. "Play his game? You're as bad as the Cardinal. Worse. At least he just sounded relieved. But you actually want to help that man get away with it..." She stepped away, out of reach of his hands. "You're all the same, you English. Christine was right all along. You don't have any idea of honor or chivalry or virtue, do you? You just get rid of anyone who gets in your way."