The knight left his horse behind with his comrades, and followed her tracks on foot through the forest, a burning torch held before him, calling her name; calling her name over and over. The forest was unearthly at night; once he caught a glimpse of bright dark eyes and stepped back with an oath and then saw the pale rump of a deer slide away into the shadows. As the moon came up he thought he would see better without the torch, doused it on the ground in the thick leaf mould, and went on, straining his eyes in the silvery half-light. Bushes and trees loomed up at him, darker in the gloom, and without the yellow torchlight he felt he did not want to shout out loudly for her, but instead walked in silence, looking around him all the time, a fear gripping at his heart that he had failed to teach her how to ride, that he had failed to train the horse, that he had failed to tell her what to do in just these circumstances, that he had failed to predict that such a thing might happen: that he had utterly and comprehensively failed her.
At this thougt, so awful to him since he had sworn privately that he would serve and protect her to death, he stopped still and put his hand to a tree trunk to support himself, and bowed his head in shame. She was his lady, he was her knight, and at this, the very first test, he had failed; and now she was somewhere lost in the darkness and he could not find her.
He raised his head, and what he saw made him blink his eyes, what he saw made him rub his eyes, to see without a doubt, without a shadow of a doubt, the glimmering white light of an enchantment, a chimera, and at the heart of it, gleaming, a little white horse, alone in the forest. But as it turned its head and he could see its profile, he saw the silvery horn of a unicorn. The white beast looked at him with its dark gaze, and then slowly walked away, glancing over its shoulder, walking slowly enough for him to follow. Entranced, he stepped quietly behind it, guided by the flickering silvery light, and seeing the little hoof prints that shone in the dead leaves with a white fire, and then faded as he walked by.
He had a sense that he should not try to catch the unicorn; he remembered that all the legends warned that it would turn on him, and attack him if he came too close. Only one being in this world can catch a unicorn, and he had seen the capture in half a dozen tapestries and in a dozen woodcuts in story books, since his youngest boyhood.
The little animal turned off the path and now he could hear the splashing sound of water as they came upon a clearing. He bit his tongue on an exclamation as he saw her, asleep like a nymph, as if she were growing in the wood herself, at the foot of the tree as if she were a bank of flowers, her green velvet dress outspread, her brown bonnet like a pillow under her golden hair, her face as peaceful in sleep as a blossom. He stood waiting, uncertain what he should do, and as he watched, the unicorn went forwards, lay down beside her and placed its long head with the silver horn gently in the lap of the sleeping maid, just as all the legends had always said that it would.
The sound of a footstep wakes me. I know at once that I am lost in the wood in danger and that I have foolishly slept. I wake in a panic, in darkness, and I jump up, and Merry, who has been sleeping, head bowed beside me, wheels around to stare, ears pricked, as the two of us see the figure of a man, a dark outline in the shifting twilight. ‘Who’s there?’ I say, my hand clenching on my whip. ‘Beware! I have a sword!’
‘It’s me: Woodville,’ the squire says and steps closer so I can see him. He looks pale, as if he is as afraid as me. ‘Are you all right, my lady?’
‘My God, my God, Woodville! I am so pleased to see you!’ I run forwards with my hands outstretched and he falls to his knees, takes my hands, and kisses them passionately.
‘My lady,’ he whispers. ‘My lady. Thank God I find you safe! Are you unhurt?’
‘Yes, yes, I was just resting, I fell asleep, I had been walking for so long, trying to find my way back to the road, but then I was so foolish – I sat down and I fell asleep . . . ’
He stumbles to his feet. ‘It’s not far, I have been looking for you all evening, but it’s not far.’
‘Is it late now?’
‘No more than eleven. We’all looking for you. The duke is mad with worry. I was trying to follow your tracks . . . but I would never have found you but for . . . ’
‘And is my lord duke safe? Was it an ambush?’
He shakes his head. ‘Some fool of a peasant felling a tree brought down another across the road. No-one hurt; just bad luck that we were there at the time. We were all only afraid for you. Did you fall?’
‘No, she ran off with me, but she didn’t throw me. She’s a good horse, she only ran because she was afraid and then she stopped.’
He hesitates. ‘She led me to you,’ he says. ‘It is quite a miracle. I saw her in the woods and she brought me to you.’
I hold up the reins I had tied to my wrist. ‘I didn’t let her go.’
‘You had her tethered?’
He gazes around the little clearing, at the silver moonlight on the water, at the shadowy darkness of the trees, as if he is looking for something.
‘Yes, of course. But I took her saddle off as you showed me.’
‘I saw her,’ he says flatly. ‘She was loose in the woods.’
‘She has been here all the time. I held her reins.’
He shakes his head as if to clear his bewilderment. ‘That was well done. I will put her saddle on her, and I can lead you to the road.’ He picks up the beautifully worked saddle and slides it on Merry’s back. He tightens the girth then he turns to lift me up. For a moment he hesitates, with his hands on my waist. It is as if our bodies have come together, almost without our volition: my head to his shoulder, his hands on my waist. It is as if we are drawn, one to another, like the planets on their wires in my lord’s library. Slowly, I realise that I am filled with an emotion I have never felt before, slowly I realise that this is a longing. I turn my face up towards him, and his darkened eyes look down at me, his hands warm, his face almost puzzled as he feels the desire which is slowly pulsing in me. We stand like that together, for a long time. Then, without a word, he lifts me up into the saddle, brushes down my gown, hands me my hat, and leads Merry through the wood towards the road.
CASTLE OF CALA
IS, FRANCE, JUNE 1433
We are housed once more in the great castle of the garrison town of Calais, Woodville is greeted as its captain but my lord says he cannot spare him from his side yet to take up residence. I am standing on the battlement at the top of the castle, looking anxiously up at the standard on the tower above my head, which cracks and ripples in the strengthening wind.
‘Is it going to be rough?’ I ask my husband.
He glances at me. ‘You are not afraid? But water is your element.’
I bite my lip on a retort. Personally, I don’t think that having a water goddess for an ancestress is a guarantee of freedom against sea-sickness, nor, come to that, shipwreck. ‘I am a little afraid. The waves look very high, are they always big? Do they always break so high on the harbour wall? I don’t remember them being like that before.’
He glances out to sea as if to measure them for the first time. ‘It’s a little rough, perhaps. But we will leave on the next tide. It is too important for us to delay. I have to get to England. I am going to address the parliament, they have to realise that there must be funds released to pay for the campaign season in France. And I have to find some way to get my brother Humphrey to work with our uncle, Cardinal Beaufort. The young king . . . ’ He breaks off. ‘Ah well, at any rate, we have to go and I don’t think the journey will be too uncomfortable for you, and there should be no danger. Can you not calm the waters? It’s Midsummer Eve; surely you should be able to do a little magic on this of all evenings?’
I try to smile at the weak joke. ‘No, I wish that I could.’
He turns and goes into the inner rooms. I hear him shouting for his clerks, and to tell the captain that he must complete loading, for we will leave on the next tide, whatever the weather. Woodville comes up with a warm cape and puts it ar
ound my shoulders. ‘My lord is worried by events in England. His brother Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, does not give good advice, his nephew the king is young and inexperienced, and his uncle, Cardinal Beaufort, has his own plans for the kingdom. The two of them, the Duke of Gloucester and the cardinal, try to turn the young king each to their own way of thinking and he is torn between them.’
‘Is it safe to sail?’
‘Oh yes. It may be a little rough, but I shall see you are comfortable in your cabin, my lady. And Merry safe in her stall. We will sail through the night and in the morning you will wake up in your new country. And my lord will take you to see his new house.’
‘Spenhurst?’ I ask, trying the odd name in my mouth.
‘Penshurst,’ he corrects me. ‘You will like it, I promise you, it is a most beautiful house in one of the loveliest parts of England, in Kent, which is famous for its apple orchards and fruit gardens. Near to London, but far enough distant that you will not be troubled by too many people. A jewel of a house for a diamond of a duchess.’
‘And will we stay there all the time?’ I let Woodville lead me from the roof of the tower into the warmth inside the castle. A fire burns in the centre of the round room and he sets a chair for me before it.
‘I don’t think my lord will be able to rest in the country,’ he says. ‘He will have to meet with the king and persuade him to give him men and arms to continue the campaigns in France. He will have to explain the campaign to parliament to get their support. He will have to deal with his brother, Duke Humphrey, and their uncle, Cardinal Beaufort. He has much to do.’
‘And the king, Henry, will I see him? What is he like?’
He smiles. ‘A very young man still, almost a boy, he is only twelve years old. You will have a state entry into London. The duke is a very great man in England as in France, and the young king will greet you.’ He smiles again. ‘I should think you will like him, he is a charming boy, and he . . . ’ He gives a little laugh, almost as if he is embarrassed. ‘I should think he will adore you. He will never have seen anyone quite like you. You will be the most beautiful wond England as well as the greatest.’
WESTMINSTER PALACE, LO
NDON,
SUMMER 1433
The young king is a disappointment to me. I have no experience of kings since my own county of Luxembourg is not a royal one, my father is a count, our overlords are the Dukes of Burgundy (though they are richer and more powerful than anyone in France) and the last French king, who was said to be most tragically mad, died when I was only a little girl, before I could see him. So I am counting on much from the English boy-king. I hope to see a youth who is the small mirror of his heroic father. After all, my husband’s life is devoted to making this king safe in his lands in France. We are both sworn to his service. I am expecting a great being: something halfway between a boy and a god.
Not so. I first see him on our entry into London when we go through the City gates to the sound of singing choirs, and the cheering of the citizens. My husband is an old friend to the people of London, and I am a novelty they delight to see. The men bellow approval of my youth and looks and the women blow me kisses. The London merchants depend upon trade with the English lands in France and my husband is well known for holding the lands in the keeping of England. The merchants and their wives and their households turn out to greet us and show our standards from their overhanging windows. The Mayor of London has prepared poems and pageants to greet us; in one tableau there is a beautiful mermaid who promises good health, fertility, and ever-flowing waters of happiness. My lord duke holds my hand and bows to the crowd and looks proud of me as they call my name and shout blessings on me.
‘The Londoners love a pretty girl,’ he says to me. ‘I will have their favour forever while you keep your looks.’
The king’s servants greet us at the gate of the palace at Westminster and lead us through a maze of courts and gardens, rooms with inner rooms, galleries and courtyards, until finally we come to the king’s private rooms. One pair of double doors is flung open, another pair beyond them, then there is a room filled with people in the most beautiful clothes, and finally, like a tiny jack popping from a series of boxes, there is the young king, rising from his throne and coming forwards to greet his uncle.
He is slight and short – that is my first impression – and he is pale, pale like a scholar, though I know that they make him take exercise, ride daily, and even joust with a safety cushion on the top of his opponent’s lance. I wonder if he is ill, for there is something about the transparency of his skin and the slow pace of his walk towards us that gives me a feeling of his weariness, and suddenly, I see to my horror that in this light, for a moment, he looks to me like a being made of glass, so thin and translucent that he looks as if he might break if he were to topple on a stone floor.
I give a little gasp and my husband glances down at me, distracted for a moment, and turns to the king his nephew and bows and embraces him in one movement. ‘Oh! Take care!’ I whisper as if he might crush him, and then Woodville steps smartly across and takes my right hand on his arm, as if he is bringing me forwards to be presented.
‘What is it?’ he demands urgently in a low whisper. ‘Are you ill, my lady?’
My husband has both hands on the boy’s shoulders, he is looking into the pale face, into the light-grey eyes. I can almost feel the weight of his grip, I feel that it is too much. ‘He’s so frail,’ I whisper, then I find the true word: ‘He is fragile, like a prince of ice, of glass.’
‘Not now!’ Woodville commands, and pinches my hand hard. I am so surprised at his tone and the sudden sharp pain that I flinch and look at him, and am returned to myself to see that the men and women of the court are all around us, staring at me and my lord and the king, and that Woodville is marching me forwards to make my curtsey, with such determined briskness that I know I must not say another word.
I sink down into a deep curtsey and the king raises me up with a light touch on my arms. He is respectful since I am his aunt, for all that I am only seventeen years old to his twelve: we are both young innocents in this court of hard-faced adults. He bids me welcome to England in a thin little voice that has not yet broken into a man’s tone. He kisses my cheeks right and left; the touch of his lips is cold, like the brittle ice that I imagined when I first saw him, and his hands holding mine are thin, I can almost feel the bones of his fingers, like little icicles.
He bids us come in to dinner and turns and leads me in, at the head of all the court. A beautifully dressed woman steps back with a heavy tread, as if to make way for me, begrudgingly. I glance at the young king.
‘My other aunt, Eleanor, Duchess of Gloucester,’ he flutes in his little-boy treble. ‘Wife of my much beloved uncle, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester.’
I curtsey to her and she to me, and behind her I see the handsome face of my husband’s brother the Duke of Gloucester. He and my husband embrace, arms on each other’s shoulders, a great hug, but when my husband turns to his sister-in-law Eleanor I see that he looks sternly at her.
‘I hope we shall all live merrily together,’ the king says in his tentative piping voice. ‘I think a family should be as one. A royal family should always be as one, don’t you think? We should all love one another and live in harmony.’
‘Of course,’ I say, though if ever I saw rivalry and envy in a woman, I am seeing it now on the beautiful spoiled face of the Duchess of Gloucester. She is wearing a towering headdress that makes her seem like a giantess, the tallest woman in the court. She is wearing a gown of deep blue trimmed with ermine: the most prestigious fur in the world. Around her neck are blue sapphires and her eyes are bluer than they are. She smiles at me and her white teeth are bared but there is no warmth in her face.
The king seats me on his right-hand side and my lord duke to his left. Next to me comes the Duke of Gloucester, my husband’s brother, and his wife goes the other side of my husband. We face the great dining room as if we were their t
apestry, their entertainment: bright with the colours of our gowns and capes, sparkling with jewels. They gaze up at us as if we were a masque for their education. We look down at them as the gods might look down on mortals, and as the dishes go round the room we send out the best plates to our favourites as if to remind them that they eat at our behest.
After dinner there is dancing and the Duke of Gloucester is quick to lead me out into a dance. We take our part and then stand as the other couples dance their steps. ‘You are so charming,’ the duke says to me. ‘They tol me that John had married a heart-stealer, but I didn’t believe it. How is it that I have served my country in France over and over and yet never saw you?’
I smile and say nothing. The true answer would be that while my husband was engaged in endless warfare to keep the English lands safe in France, this worthless brother of his ran away with the Countess of Hainault, Jacqueline, and took on a war all of his own to try to win her lands for himself. He wasted his fortune and might have lost his life there, if his vagrant fancy had not wandered to her lady in waiting, this Eleanor, and then he ran away with her. In short a man driven by his desires and not by duty. A man so unlike my husband that I can hardly believe they are both sons of King Henry IV of England.
‘If I had seen you, I would never have come home to England,’ he whispers as a turn in the dance puts us together.
I don’t know what to reply to this, and I don’t like how he looks at me.
‘If I had seen you, I would never have left your side,’ he says.
The Lady of the Rivers Page 10