Catherine: One Love is Enough (Catherine Series Book 1) (36 page)

Three men crossed the threshold. John of Lancaster, Duke of Bedford, was at their head, followed by Jean de Bretagne. The Englishman, who was 34 years old, red-headed and thin, had his fair share of the celebrated Lancastrian good looks, but there was something about his expression, a look of intense pride sharpened by a suggestion of innate cruelty, that made his features look hard and thus robbed them of any charm they might have had. He had a stony stare that masked a formidable intelligence and great administrative flair.

Beside him Jean de Bretagne, a square figure almost as broad as he was tall, looked like a peasant, despite his sumptuous ermine-lined costume and shrewd face. But the most interesting of the three men was undoubtedly the last. Also somewhat square, but athletically built and rather taller than the average, he might have been expressly designed to carry off a suit of armour. His cap of golden hair was close-cut round a dreadfully damaged face, cross-hatched by recent scars and gashed across by one terrible deep wound. But his alert, deep-set eyes were as clear and blue as a child’s, and when a smile played upon his ravaged countenance it acquired a strangely potent charm. Arthur of Brittany, Comte de Richemont, was no longer a handsome man, despite his youth – he was only thirty years old. The history of that dreadful day at Agincourt was inscribed in every scar on his face. Only a month before, he had languished in the dungeons of a London prison. But he was more than just a brave soldier. He was a kind and likeable man, and one in whom one instinctively sensed a true and loyal friend. Richemont was the Duke of Brittany’s brother, and his reasons for accepting the Englishman as a brother-in-law were first that he had fallen in love with Marguerite de Guyenne, and secondly that this marriage would set the crown on his brother’s political schemes, which were decidedly pro-Burgundy at that time.

Catherine caught herself examining the Breton Prince with considerable interest. He was one of those men whom one instantly wants as a friend, so true and staunch in their affections do they seem. She felt little interest, however, in the English Duke and his numerous retinue.

After a good deal of embracing, the three Dukes took their seats on the dais and a troupe of dancers, dressed in fanciful red and gold costumes generally supposed to resemble those worn by the Saracens, bounded forward to perform a war dance with much brandishing of scimitars and lances. At the same time, servants carried round goblets of wine and crystallised fruits that would help stave off the guests’ hunger until the time arrived for the banquet to begin.

Catherine was only half interested in the entertainment and in the other guests. She felt weary and her forehead ached dully where the black diamond hung upon it, as though the stone was digging into her flesh. She hoped she would be able to retire as soon as the Princesses arrived, which could not be long now … The Duke kept looking down at her from his throne as he talked to the Duke of Bedford, but this mark of interest annoyed rather than flattered her. She was embarrassed too by the many other stares and glances that came her way.

A new fanfare announced the arrival of the Princesses. They came in together, wearing identical silver gowns, their long trains carried by little pages in blue velvet and white satin. Behind them, scarlet-faced and beaming with satisfaction, came Dame Ermengarde. The Mistress of the Robes treated the assembled company to an Olympian stare. Then her glance lighted on Catherine and a conspiratorial smile flitted across her face, which Catherine returned. The thing that gave Dame Ermengarde the keenest pleasure at these grand functions was the dinner, and Catherine guessed that she was already imaginatively savouring the repast to come, like some enormous cat.

As soon as the Duke had presented his sisters to their future husbands, his steward stepped forward and made to begin marshalling the procession of guests toward the banqueting hall. Before he could start, however, a herald suddenly appeared on the threshold, blew a great blast on his trumpet and proclaimed, in a voice that carried to the farthest corners of the room:

‘An unknown knight, who will not give his name, demands an immediate audience of Your Grace.’

The buzz of conversation stopped. Once again silence fell on the glittering throng. Philippe le Bon’s voice rang out:

‘What does this knight want? And why does he seek me out here, in the midst of a banquet?’

‘I know not, Monseigneur. But he insists that he must speak to you, and right here, in the midst of the feast. He gives his word of honour that he is of noble birth and worthy of Your Grace’s attention.’

The request was audacious to say the very least, and it transgressed every rule of protocol, but the Duke was not averse to novelty. It made an unexpected interruption to the evening’s festivities. Doubtless it would prove to be a witty ruse planned by one of his own high-ranking vassals to add to the excitement of the proceedings. And the knight’s refusal to reveal his identity was no doubt intended to make the surprise all the greater. Philippe raised his hand and commanded with a smile:

‘Let this mysterious knight be brought before us with all haste. We wager this is some merry trick imagined by one of our loyal subjects and that we, and the ladies, may expect some joyous surprise to come of it.’

A delighted murmur greeted this command. The arrival of the unknown knight had aroused a great deal of lively speculation. The guests waited expectantly for some magnificent figure to appear, sumptuously disguised perhaps as a Paladin of bygone days, and declaim some verses to his lady-love or pay the Duke some courtly compliment … But when at last the mysterious knight appeared, the cheerful hubbub in the hall instantly ceased.

He was dressed from head to foot in armour of black sable, and as he stood framed in the doorway of the hall he looked like an effigy of doom. Everything about him, from the crest of plumes that nodded with every movement of his helmet to the weapons he carried, which were unmistakably those of war and not the ceremonial ones normally worn by knights on festive occasions, was uniformly black. He stood for a moment with his visor down, a silent and sinister figure, gazing round at the glittering company. Then he handed the heavy sword he had been carrying in one hand to a guard and, amidst a stupefied silence, began slowly walking toward the throne where the Duke sat. In the hushed silence, his armoured feet clanked across the flagged floor with the solemn rhythm of a death knell. The smile had vanished from Philippe’s face, and all present held their breath.

The black knight strode on, nearer and nearer the throne, and there was something about his heavy, measured stride that suggested the implacable approach of Fate itself. He stopped at the very foot of the throne. His next move was as shocking as it was unexpected. Tearing off his right gauntlet he flung it down at Philippe’s feet. The Duke started back in surprise, his face all of a sudden ashen white. An angry mutter rose up in the crowd.

‘How dare you? And who are you? Guards, unmask this man!’ Philippe shouted, his face livid with anger.

‘Wait!’ cried the knight.

Slowly and deliberately he raised his hands to his helmet, and Catherine’s heart suddenly started thumping wildly. An icy wave of horror swept over her and a cry escaped her lips before she could clap her hands over her mouth. The knight had removed his helmet. It was Arnaud de Montsalvy.

He stood at the foot of the throne, holding his helmet with its crest of black plumes under his left arm, a tall, erect figure whose every line was eloquent of haughty contempt. His sombre gaze rose boldly to meet Philippe’s own, and stayed there unflinching. Then he spoke.

‘I, Arnaud de Montsalvy, Seigneur de la Châtaignerie and Captain in the service of King Charles VII, whom may God preserve, come before you, Duke of Burgundy, to bring you my gage of battle. I challenge you, traitor and felon, to single combat at whatever time and place you wish and with the weapons of your choice. But I demand that it shall be a fight to the death!’ So saying, he removed his gauntlet and threw it down in front of Philippe.

A roar of anger and horror greeted this challenge, which Arnaud’s resonant voice had carried to the far corners of the hall. A menacing circle closed in behind the young man. Many of the nobles present had drawn the slender daggers they wore and were brandishing them threateningly, oblivious of the fact that they would have proved quite ineffectual against a suit of armour. Catherine’s heart was frozen in terror. Then Philippe imposed silence on his courtiers with a wave of his hand. The look of fury had gradually left his face and been replaced by one of intense curiosity. He sat down again, and leant forward on his throne.

‘You are not wanting in audacity, Seigneur de Montsalvy. But why do you address me as traitor and felon? Why this challenge to combat?’

Arnaud shrugged his shoulders, arrogant as a fighting cock. ‘The answer to these questions is inscribed on the face of your guest of honour tonight, Philippe de Valois. Everywhere I look I see the red rose of Lancaster. You treat the Englishman as a brother and give him your sister in marriage. And yet you ask me to explain why you, a French prince who receives the enemy of France under his roof, are a traitor to your country.’

‘I am not here to discuss politics with anyone who pleases.’

‘Politics have nothing to do with it. This is a question of honour. You are a vassal of the King of France, as you well know. I have thrown down my gauntlet. Will you pick it up, or must I also consider you a coward?’

The young man was stooping down to pick up the gauntlet when the Duke stopped him with a curt gesture.

‘Leave it! The gauntlet is thrown down and you no longer have the right to pick it up again.’

Arnaud’s white teeth flashed for an instant in a wicked grin. But the Duke went on:

‘Nevertheless, a ruling prince cannot engage in single combat against a mere knight. Our champion will take up the gauntlet.’

A burst of mocking laughter from Arnaud interrupted him. Catherine saw Philippe’s hands tighten on the arms of his chair. He stood up.

‘Has it occurred to you that I have only to say the word for my men to seize you and cast you into the nearest dungeon?’

‘You could also send all your knights against me in the lists. But that would not be a knightly action either. On that bloody field at Agincourt, where the whole nobility, with the exception of your father and yourself, felt honour bound to fight till their lances shattered, more than one prince crossed swords with knights even humbler than me.’

Philippe’s voice, under pressure of uncontrollable fury, rose to a shrill pitch that few had ever heard in him before and that betrayed his rage more surely than his words.

‘It is common knowledge that we bitterly regret not having been able to take part in that glorious and disastrous battle.’

‘That is easily said some eight years after the event,’ Arnaud replied sarcastically. ‘I was there, my Lord Duke, and it is that, perhaps, that gives me the right to speak up so boldly here tonight. But be that as it may! If you prefer to drink, dance and fraternise with the enemy, carry on! Meanwhile I shall take up my gauntlet –’

‘I will take it up!’ A giant of a knight, dressed in an outlandish red and blue checked costume that fitted closely round a body as massive as a bear’s, stepped forward out of the crowd. He bent down with an agility unexpected in such a colossus and retrieved the gauntlet. Then he turned toward the black-clad knight.

‘You wished to take up arms against a prince, Seigneur de la Châtaignerie. Content yourself instead with the blood of Saint Louis, even though ’tis crossed with the bar sinister. I am Lionel de Bourbon, the Bastard of Vendôme, and I tell you that you are lying in your throat!’

Catherine was on the verge of collapse. Feeling herself about to swoon, she groped around instinctively for something to lean on. This she found in Dame Ermengarde’s sturdy arm, the good lady having taken up a position nearby. The Mistress of the Robes, eyes rolling and nostrils flaring, was snorting like a war-horse at the sound of the trumpet. Her attention was riveted by the scene that was taking place, and it was evident that she was enjoying it hugely. She gazed with shining eyes at the powerful black form of the Captain de Montsalvy, and her ample bosom swelled with emotion. The knight, meanwhile, stared with the utmost composure at his adversary’s gigantic figure. The sight seemed to satisfy him, for he shrugged his broad, steel-clad shoulders and replied.

‘All honour to the blood of good King Louis, though I am surprised to see it risked in such a sorry cause! I shall have the pleasure of slicing your ears off, then, my Lord Bastard, instead of your master’s. But mark this well; it is to the judgement of God that I have summoned you! You have chosen to defend the cause of Philippe of Burgundy as I have attacked it in my Royal Master’s name. But this is not a question of politely measuring lances in the ladies’ honour. We shall be fighting to the death, till one of us is killed or cries for mercy!’

At this, Catherine gave a soft moan, which Garin overheard. He flashed a quick glance at his wife but refrained from comment. Dame Ermengarde also overheard. She shrugged.

‘Don’t take it to heart so, my dear! The judgement of God is a fine thing. And I am sure God will do justice to this young knight. ’Pon my word, he is a magnificent creature! What’s his name? Montsalvy? An ancient name I believe, and worthily bestowed!’

These sympathetic words comforted Catherine a little. In the sea of hate that surrounded Arnaud, they were the only friendly ones to be heard. Then another voice spoke up for the young man. The Duke had just asked him dryly if he had a second for the combat.