With a look of regret from those cloudy eyes, Anastaise said: "Yes, she was excited, so excited, for a while. I went to see her last year, at Saint John's Eve. I brought the poem out myself. She'd just written it. The dawn of hope, she kept saying. We all thought that, back then."
Owain found his eyes were checking Anastaise's dirty old linen shirt for white Saint Michael's crosses. He couldn't see any. Perhaps it was the muddy reddish light.
"It worried Catherine, all that..." he muttered cautiously. "Even she's been thinking perhaps Charles should have been King, after all, if Jehanne...because Jehanne," but he stopped. He probably shouldn't say this sort of thing, even to this old friend. Doubts were dangerous. Even whispers.
He needn't have worried. Anastaise puffed herself up as if she still had a big barrel chest, looking furious at the very mention of Charles of Bourges. "What, him?" she said, so loudly and indignantly that Harry looked up for a startled moment before hunching down again over his book, determined not to look scared. Anastaise made a visible effort to contain herself. She lowered her voice, but she couldn't stop the words bursting out of her, as if the stopper had come out of a bottle and what was inside had to spill over. "Him, King? When a miracle was sent to him and he trampled all over it? When he let that girl sacrifice herself for him and didn't lift a finger to save her? No ransom, no negotiations, no nothing? I should say not. Nor would Christine have, if she'd seen the shameful way he cut her off...left her to be shamed and burned. After all that girl did for Charles, and for France." She shook her head with her hands on her hips. "No. He deserves everything he gets, that one."
Owain nearly laughed; mostly out of sheer relief that not all the French stayed up at night fretting about the color of the blood royal.
Anastaise looked abashed when she saw his smile. Then she lowered her hands from her hips and nodded. "Mustn't get too cross about it," she muttered ruefully. "I know." Looking down at the little boy with his nose in the pages of the book, she shook her head. "Though what that one's got to do with France, either, only God knows. Still; not my place to know who's the one for us and who isn't. Leave it to God to work out, eh?"
They looked fondly at each other. Anastaise gestured around. "I just wish He'd hurry up and decide. The Almighty. Because...just look at all this. Everything in ruins." She let her eyes turn again to the child staring at her miniatures. "I miss all that," she said wistfully. "The pictures. I'd have enjoyed working on that poem." She looked at her work-roughened hands. The time of beauty had passed for her, all right. Owain could imagine what Anastaise's life had become, in this forgotten place of sick old people, nursing the Queen.
Sympathetically, he said: "Whatever God sends."
A bell rang. A distant contralto voice shouted, "Hall-o-o-o-o!"
Anastaise looked up. "That'll be them," she said. "Come on. Let's go up." Giving Harry her biggest gap-toothed grin, she gathered up the book and put it carefully back on its shelf.
"What's that girl doing worrying about old history anyway?" Anastaise muttered to Owain as they set off up the stairs. "She needs a bit of happiness in her life, that's what she needs. A husband; more children. That's what Christine would have told her, if she'd been alive. Christine was all for families. More children--that would keep her too busy for fretting about her brother. Isn't it time one of those Englishmen thought of that?" She shook her head, looking comically astonished by the shortsightedness of the English.
"Well, it's difficult," Owain muttered.
She shook her head again.
They reached the top of the stairs. They set out along the top corridor. There was a door open up ahead. Catherine was looking out. Harry raced toward her.
"And you--you're not cut out for the Church, whatever you say," Anastaise added. She gave Owain a penetrating look with a hint of a smile. "Time you stopped all that nonsense and settled down too. Found yourself a good woman; if you haven't already."
He blushed. He said: "All that...not for me." But he could see she wasn't convinced.
"You always were a deep one," she said, and went on shaking her head.
Catherine had blurted it out almost as soon as she'd got into the hot dark fug of rose oil and old body; right after they'd hugged and told each other how little they'd changed, and Catherine had said she'd come with Harry and he'd be up shortly, and why didn't they tidy Isabeau up a bit first. Catherine had pulled her mother's inert, slack weight up into a sitting position, and found her a new, clean night gown. She'd helped her into it and done up the buttons over the withered flesh, holding the arms of the silken gown. She'd patted her cushions into place and straightened up the covers on the bed. It was easier, in a way, to ask the question on her mind while her body was so busy.
She was sitting on the bed behind her mother, with an ivory comb in her hand, when she began. "I've been worrying," she rushed, "about something very old. I have to ask. Was it really true what you said back then? Was Charles really a bastard, or not?" She gulped. In great fear, she added: "And am I?"
Ever since she'd let the fear out into the open, by saying it aloud to Owain, it had grown, taking ever more monstrous shapes. If Charles were legitimate, Catherine must be a sinner who'd brought destruction on France. But it could be even worse. If her mother had had all the lovers people said, perhaps it was she, Catherine, who was the bastard, cut off from the whole great glorious stretch of history she'd grown up be longing to...? Which would me an she'd tainted the blood line of England's kings, too, and that Harry...?
She'd expected many answers. Rehearsed what she thought were all the possibilities. But she hadn't expected what happened next as she sat on the greasy quilt, hardly daring to breathe. She hadn't expected laughter.
A great snuffle of it came out of the hunched shape in front of her. After a while, her mother's billowing curves stopped heaving with it enough to say, through the wheezes of mirth: "Ach, don't make me laugh. Who knows? About you, me, anyone? None of us knows the half of what's gone on; who's been in whose beds, who's been up to what mischief. Wherever you look. What does it matter now?"
She hauled herself round so Catherine could see one of her mother's beady eyes fixed on her, over a quivering shoulder. Isabeau took in the intent quiet on her daughter's face, and made an effort at control. More seriously, she went on: "It's just a game, royalty. That's the truth. We brought you up to believe kings were blessed by God; could work miracles; cure people of illness--and all because of their purple blood. But look at your poor father. No one could cure him. He couldn't even cure himself. A good king is someone who can command and be obeyed. That's all. If you ask me, you could put a peasant child in a royal nursery and bring him up to be King, and if he's got the knack of command he might do as well as a real prince; certainly better than half the kings I've seen. Your Henry was a good King, true enough; we chose well for you. His father, too, but no one was ever very sure if he had any blood right to the throne. What's blood got to do with it, when it comes to it? Who really believes that royal blood is any different from the other kind? If you had any sense you'd be hoping you were a bastard. Who'd want your father's madness running in their family?"
Matter-of-factly, she added: "Move that cushion, there's a good girl," and, when Catherine failed to move, said, more sharply, "that one there; under your hand; put it behind me, here. I can hardly see you. You're giving me neck-ache."
Once she was settled so she could look straight into Catherine's eyes, she reached out an arm packed with sagging flesh and patted her daughter's cold, unresponsive hand. "Don't look so worried," she said. "Put it out of your mind; forget all the fairy tales. You're too old for fairy tales. But not for living. That's what matters. Get on with that."
Catherine's head was spinning. "I don't understand," she said.
Isabeau looked patiently at her. "It's simple enough," she replied. "All you need to do is make sure you bring that boy of yours up right--so he's happy and strong and right-minded and honest--and so he loves you as much as
you love him--and you'll have nothing to reproach yourself with." She nodded, and the laughter went out of her. Her face settled into lines of sadness. "It's the greatest thing there is, love for your children," she added. "When it goes wrong, you never for give yourself...it's an endless sorrow."
Catherine realized, with a jolt of emotion she couldn't name, that she'd never asked what her mother had felt about being imprisoned by Charles, or hated by Louis and Jean, come to that. She'd just assumed: angry, vengeful. But why had she never asked?
"When it's right, it's a joy," Isabeau's voice went on. "You'll do anything for your child, anything. The only time I ever really fought for what I loved was over you...when I said"--she twisted her lips--"that...put aside my son...destroyed my reputation...so we could get your Henry back to the table for you." She sighed. Then she brightened. She patted Catherine's hand again. She said, in a stronger voice: "It was worth it. Sacrifices don't matter for a child you love."
Catherine felt dizzy still. This was so different from what she'd expected and hoped for. And yet, she suddenly realized, it was enough. Very softly, she put both hands on her mother's shoulders, leaned forward, and kissed one crumpled cheek.
"Thank you," she whispered.
They stayed like that for a moment, one flesh again, with no more need for words. Then Isabeau said, "Which reminds me...where's my grandson? He's had long enough out looking for lions with that handsome tutor of his. I spotted you out of the window earlier on...sent Anastaise down. I wanted to see you first. But we're ready now, aren't we?" She patted her nightcap. There was a hungry look on her old face. "Bring him up."
"I didn't expect Harry to enjoy himself so much," Owain said.
"My mother loved him, didn't she?" Catherine agreed softly. The light was failing. The Louvre was coming up ahead. Harry was trotting in front of them. She'd been quiet all the way back, but Owain thought she looked happy.
Owain said: "He's so much better now Warwick's not here." He wanted to jolt her into conversation. She didn't respond. He pursued the subject. "Don't you think? He's confident. Interested in what's around him. You should tell Duke John. Or the Cardinal. He'll have noticed the change, all right. Have them ask Duke Humphrey to keep Warwick away. Keep him at the war, maybe. He'd be happy enough in France, fighting. And it would make your life easier once you get back to England. Both your lives. You'll need to protect yourself. Warwick will never be your friend. It would be easier for you both if Warwick wasn't there."
He could hear the anxious note in his voice; the tightness. But she didn't seem to respond to it. "Yes," she said absentmindedly. But he could see she wasn't really taking in what he said.
He thought: She's sinking into lethargy; it's as if nothing matters to her anymore. Tensely he added: "Fight; you'll have to fight for what you want, and it's a good moment. You just might be able to get him out of Harry's life if you try now..." But she only turned up the corners of her mouth and looked weary, as though she was done with fighting; as though it was too much effort.
For a moment, though, looking at Owain, she suddenly flickered into life. "Perhaps you could be appointed in his place..." she said, with a kind of weak hope.
Unable to keep the impatience out of his voice altogether at having to explain this again, he said: "No. That will never happen. I'm Welsh. I'm not important enough. And I'll be gone soon. You know that. Don't waste a thought on it."
Her mouth went slack again.
More gently, he added, "What did your mother say about what was troubling you--about Charles' blood and yours?"
She just shook her head. "The same as you did," she said. "That blood doesn't matter as much as love."
He waited. She was thinking; he could see she was troubled.
"I believed her," she said. But he could hear doubt coming back. Then her face puckered.
"If nothing matters, and royalty is only a game, it all seems so wasteful," she whispered, so he could hardly hear. "Why are we fighting at all? Why did Jehanne have to die? What is the point of any of the things we plan and hope for and fight for?"
Harry wasn't looking. He was a couple of lengths ahead, staring round at the city. Owain stretched out a hand, found hers; held it tight over the horses' ambling. "There's you and me in the darkness, at least," Owain said, and he felt a flicker of answering pressure in her hand. "You're everything--more important than blood or beauty. Isn't that enough?"
But whatever Owain said, he couldn't find the peace of mind he needed, to stop trying to fight for Catherine, in that future he would have no part in. Later he went to see Duke John and, explaining that he was there on behalf of the Queen Mother, requested that the Earl of Warwick be moved on from Harry's household.
"Why?" asked Duke John with interest.
Owain thought: It's better I ask him; he'll be able to be franker with me; he's better with men than with women. "Warwick was Duke Humphrey's appointment--and he's always been more interested in the war than in child-rearing," he replied promptly.
The Duke only looked skeptical, as though this wasn't enough reason to meddle with the order of things; as though it wasn't a worthy fight to choose against his brother.
What have I got to lose? Owain thought, and went on, "...and the child is terrified of the beatings."
He was pleased to see Duke John look thoughtful at that, and hear him say: "I've heard this before. About Warwick and beatings." He was also pleased that, when Warwick arrived in Paris for the coronation a couple of weeks later, Duke John didn't put him up at the Louvre with the other English guests. Tactfully, he drew Owain aside and said, "I thought Warwick--better at the palace, away from it all, until after the ceremony, eh? Wouldn't want to put the boy off his stride."
The Earl and his troop of a hundred men were given quarters at the palace with the French guests. They wouldn't even meet the King's party until after the ceremony.
THIRTY-SIX
The coronation--in the end an exact replica of the English one--took place on Harry's birthday in early December. There were gusts of snow outside on this day, too. Duke John and the Cardinal did their best to deliver loyal French lords from every corner of the land. The Frenchmen stood together, looking uncomfortable at the unfamiliar service. Being mostly from Burgundian France, they had had little to do with the court of Queen Isabeau in her heyday. Those who had been courtiers under her kept their distance too; perhaps they were embarrassed that they'd left her alone all these years in her crumbling house. The old lady, wrapped up in furs and allowed to sit through the ceremony due to her advanced age, didn't seem to care. She watched with gusto; sucking on sticky titbits she pulled up, from time to time, from the depths of her pockets.
The English group stood to one side. Warwick kept well away from Catherine. He stood somberly apart from the other English lords, too, throughout the hours of prayer and crowning, with his troop of knights behind him. He held a candle in the glittery gloom. Every now and then, Owain felt a prickling in his shoulder blades and glanced round, expecting to find the man's hard stare on him; but he never caught Warwick looking.
"This isn't traveling weather...shouldn't we stay in Paris until after Christmas?" Catherine had said the day before as she, Owain, the Cardinal, and Harry had shared a hurried last meal before going their separate ways.
The Cardinal had agreed. Catherine had thought he looked sorry for her. "No need to hurry home," he'd said kindly.
The departure date they'd set was January 7. Less than a month--weeks; days. She'd clung to Owain that night. He was visualizing the parting, ready to weep and rage at the frustration of it, but she refused to think beyond the night. She'd smiled too brightly and said, "Don't look ahead. Let's be happy now."
There was a dinner after the coronation. Harry and Catherine were permitted to leave after the lords of France and Burgundy and England had filed in fort he first course, and Harry, in his hesitant Englishman's French, had blessed them all.
The child was stumbling and fatigued and shivering by t
he time he gave the blessing: a little boy again. But an hour later, after a bath and wrapped in a nest of blankets by the fire in his rooms upstairs at the palace, eating a bowl of junket, his cheeks were pink and flushed, and he was grinning in embarrassed delight as his grandmother, from her similar nest of furred blankets by the other side of the fire, told him in her thick Germanic accent, with her ugly old face all lit up with love, "So good! Remembered all the words! That heavy crown!" and leaned forward to pat his damp hair.
That was the scene Owain saw when he entered the little parlor. Seeing Isabeau, he bowed formally and said, "The Cardinal presents his best wishes to Your Majesties. He will be up shortly to offer his congratulations to the newly anointed King of France."
"The charming tutor," Isabeau said, inaccurately but with great warmth. She gave him an arch smile. "Ach, young man, no need for all the ceremony. We've had quite enough speeches today. Come on in, do, out of that draft. Put another log on the fire; it's cold in here. And tell us what we're missing down there at the dinner. I could see the Lord of Albret was desperate for a drink; he was twitching even back in the church...Has he disgraced himself yet? How fat he's got over the years...he was such a handsome young man once, with such an eye for the ladies. Hard to believe now...though I did hear...Well, I'll tell you about that later," she cackled. "Once these little ears are in bed."
Within moments she'd organized Owain into fetching a stool by the fire for himself, next to Catherine's, who emerged looking tired, having completed her own toilette, in a houppelande of green velvet that reminded him painfully of what she'd been wearing the very first time he'd set eyes on her.
Isabeau was patting Owain on the knee, Catherine saw. The old Queen was telling him, with ferocious flirtatiousness, "You must be a comfort to my daughter; a good, strong, kind young man like you."
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