Crown in Candlelight (49 page)

From crown to soles he was soaked with sweat as if he had stood in a river. For the first time during the long dance he felt a pang, no more than a bee-sting, in his wounded thigh. One of the Boar’s tusks had speared him. He began to whirl faster and faster to confuse the beast. It came for him, snorting, and his eyes slitted, so that the watchers gasped at this dervish-man who sang of a monster and briefly looked like one. And at that moment they were all believers and his enchanted slaves, and when Culhwch, pure as a singing mountain, snatched the comb and scissors from between the ears of the Boar, the gasps changed to the fluttering laughter of relief. And Ysbaddaden died, shorn by the magic tools, with groans to shake the hall …

The sweat was drying cold upon him as Olwen came. She had never been lovelier, in legend or in life. He heard the harp-note change to the haunting minor key that was the Princess, with the gown of fire-coloured silk about her and the heavy golden torque about her neck, her head more yellow than the broom-blossom and her skin whiter than the bog-cotton where it grows beside a river. He danced and sang, sang of perfection.

.. and her eyes! their look

Was lovelier than the thrice-mewed hawk

And her breast was softer than the sun!

Where she trod, four white clover flowers

Grew behind her feet …

Nearer to the dais, to the dream. The last adventure of all—to be man and woman in one, potent yet yielding, gracious and virile, to deliver the chant in time, to look where the holy blossoms sprang … to know that Olwen was Culhwch’s at last … most difficult of all—to sing her name.

All were longing-filled when they beheld her …

Nearer, still nearer to the dream. The lily, the rose, the honey, the scent of her joy in his meagre gift of perfection.

And therefore she was called …

He was Culhwch of stainless valour, with whom King Harry had sought identity in the dark tents of Harfleur.

He could see the eyes of the beloved dream, intent, entranced. They met his without reserve. And then the pain left by the Boar’s tusk seized him, crippling his thigh, and all strength left him. I’ll never dance this dance again, he thought, and he fell, right across the low chair where she sat.

Her silken lap took most of his sweat-soaked weight. Rather than risk injuring the little King he reeled sideways and let himself rest on her, snatching the child into his arms. Henry’s small velvet-clad body hampered him entirely. They both lay helplessly across Katherine. Owen felt the blood leaving his head, and faintness gripped him. Then he heard the laughter beginning, fuzzing his ear, drowning the shocked whispers of the courtiers. The King’s little face was crushed against his cheek, he was laughing like a jay, delighted at the antics of this man who lay across his mother, his head on her breast. The soft breast moved warmly under him, he jerked, found his hair entangled in her necklace. The breast rose and fell in wave after wave of shuddering laughter that burst and mingled with the glee of the child. He tried to claw his way free. The silk of her dress was like a glass mountain and Henry’s weight pinned him down.
Duw annwyl!
this is how men died at Agincourt!

‘Madame,’ he whispered, ‘if you could only remove the King’s Grace!’ She was laughing too much, she laughed and laughed, beautiful, rich gay laughter, and only when the Duchess of York swooped to lift Henry away could Owen extricate himself. He slid to his knees. She was wiping away tears, her face was pink. He looked then at the breast on which he had lain. Its memory burned his cheek, his mind kissed it, and something of the dance’s mystic power must have remained, for she sobered a little, looking down at her own flesh as if for the mark of his lips.

Yet again his eyes drew hers back. They hung on one another’s face, learning, knowing, recognizing that there was nothing to learn, for all was known already. She said, her voice trembling:

‘And the Princess … what was she called? You left it unfinished …’

Over his choking beating heart he answered steadily: ‘Cathryn. She was called Cathryn.’

He could see her heart heating too, it moved the fawn silk like a wind-tapped leaf. He held the hem of her gown tight between his fingers. He looked at her; his eyes said: ‘
It is unfinished
…’

‘Do you love me, Guillemot?’ she asked softly.

It was the wrong thing to say. Guillemot burst into sobs. To Guillemot, Katherine was kin to the angels and always had been. But Guillemot lacked the wit to express herself and moreover did not dare. Katherine was the one person who had been invariably kind to her during the bewildering four years in the royal service. Unlike Jacqueline of Hainault, who slapped Guillemot when she was herself unhappy, or the Duchesses who bullied her; or Lady Cobham, whom she feared most of all. Love? Love can make you cry, thought Guillemot. Worse than fear.

‘Don’t weep, you silly infant. Answer my question.’

‘More than life,’ muttered Guillemot.

They were alone together. It was nearly midnight. Katherine was lying on her bed, in her long linen shift. She felt very hot. Her heart was beating fast. She had drunk no wine tonight, but her head was spinning.

‘Guillemot, why are you called Guillemot?’ The voice was teasing. ‘It’s a bird’s name.’

‘My father’s name,’ whispered the little maid, ‘was Guillaume.’

‘No,’ said Katherine. ‘You’re a seabird. My little seabird. Come here, and tell me how much you love me.’

Guillemot crept over to the bed. Only a tiny nightlight burned. She could see the Queen-Dowager’s eyes shining. ‘Now,’ said Katherine, ‘are we friends, you and I?’ Guillemot nodded her black head vigorously.

‘Can I trust you?’ The voice teased no longer.

‘Madame … I’d die rather than betray you.’

‘No need to die,’ said Katherine. ‘All I wish for is a friend. Is that your cloak, hanging there?’

Again, the nod. Katherine slid from bed, pushing back her long heavy hair.

‘Why do you love me?’

‘You’re so kind.’ A whisper. ‘So kind, your Grace.’

‘I wasn’t kind tonight, Guillemot. I lost my temper!’

With the Duchesses, serve them right, thought Guillemot. Yet Katherine’s voice had still been soft, as it was when she asked whether Guillemot were tired or cold, or if she had enough to eat …

‘Will you lend me your cloak?’

Wordlessly Guillemot brought it. It had a big hood like a friar’s cowl. It was rather too short for Katherine, she laughed as she put it on. But the hood almost concealed her face; her eyes gleamed from its darkness.

She had sent the Duchesses away, bidding them attend the little King, whose chamber was already full of guards under Sire Louis de Robsart. Philippa of York had begun the nearest thing to a quarrel Katherine had ever had with her ladies. It had started immediately they retired.

‘In all the courts I have attended, your Grace, never have I seen such barbarism. Were you harmed by that wretch?’

‘Not in the least,’ said Katherine smoothly. ‘But I fear he may have hurt himself.’ She’d seen him limping slightly as he went with his kinsmen from the hall.

‘Such a common man, your Grace. Like all the pagan Welsh. No wonder they’re allowed no privileges—with respect, I marvel that he should have been employed to entertain—’

Margaret of Clarence said quickly: ‘I thought the dance was wonderful. I was enchanted.’

‘You were lucky to find him,’ said the Countess of Kent, taking sides.

‘Harry found him,’ said Katherine.

‘But,’ the Duchess of York said, ‘those minstrels! So uncouth! When they were presented to your Grace, I was appalled. Speaking no French! They were scarcely better than dumb creatures!’

That was when her anger had started. She couldn’t remember ever being really angry before. It was refreshing. She said, very slow and soft: ‘Then, Madame, they were the nicest dumb creatures I ever saw!’

But Philippa, in full spate, was riding her hobby. ‘The trouble is, one gives encouragement to these people and liberties are taken, lordlings aped. Your Grace should have punished his rudeness. Common men have their place and should be confined to it.’

The anger grew, taking vigour from her restraint. She had liked very much having him lying across her lap. He had been quite light, cleverly taking his weight from her, but she had felt his strength, had smelled the fresh sweat on him—a pleasant healthy scent. She had liked having his face against her breast. She had liked it inordinately.

‘I do not know what our late sovereign lord would have said, I am sure!’ said Philippa of York.

The anger clawed free. Katherine said in a voice like frozen rain (remembering kind Bet at the tavern, remembering even the bastard stableman, Gaspard, who had hanged to help her father all those years ago)

‘
My lady. Madame. Your Grace
. Our late lord and sovereign, my dear husband, thought much of common men. Before battle he toured the lines giving cheer to them. Common men fought and died for him in love and gratitude. Speak not to me of common men, Madame! Harry loved them.’ Her voice began to shake, but not to rise. ‘The most ragged, the most uncouth and unlettered, were cherished by him for their loyal and faithful hearts. And what better example should we follow than of that great soul?’

Philippa had wriggled about, beginning to apologize, but was cut off short.

‘Leave me, all of you. I will sleep alone. My maid here shall attend my wants. She is of no great family and knows when to hold her tongue. So look to my son if you would serve me!’

They had gone, but at the door Philippa had loosed one more shot.

‘I still say servants should have their place, highness. And that man should be reprimanded. Even now he loiters in the Upper Ward; he is everywhere. One cannot get away from him!’ Then she had made a strange outraged noise—
Tchah!
and Katherine was left alone, with Guillemot.

She wrapped the cloak around her. Guillemot was even more slender than herself; the cloak kept coming apart. ‘Guillemot.’

‘Yes, your Grace.’

‘Do you know who the Duchess was talking about?’

‘Yes, your Grace.’

‘Is it true?’

Guillemot worked her wits frantically, and came up with the answer.

‘Yes, highness. He is there. In the East Gallery. He spoke to me earlier.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He asked if you were well. He said something about it being a special guard duty.’

‘He’s not in the guard.’

‘No, highness.’

Katherine stood silent for a moment. She said: ‘What time is it, Guillemot?’

‘They haven’t rung Matins yet, your Grace.’

‘So it is still my birthday I can do as I please on my birthday. The flame-figure leaped singing in her mind. It shivered her skin. Just for a few minutes, she thought. And I won’t lie, not even to Guillemot. I could say I was going to see how the little King is, but it would be bad luck.

‘Listen, Guillemot.’

‘Your Grace?’

‘I am wearing your cloak, Guillemot. I am you, and you are me, for a few minutes. Do you understand?’

‘I understand, your Grace. Will you be safe?’

She didn’t answer. She stroked Guillemot’s black head; it was like the smooth poll of a bird. Guillemot turned her face to kiss the Queen-Dowager’s hand.

Only a few minutes,’ Katherine said. ‘Bolt the door. Let me in, in a few minutes.’

It was very quiet out on the gallery. She went quickly, softly. The starlight was shining through the high embrasures and it picked out her dreaming face within the deep cowl, making her more beautiful even than Isabelle of Valois had been, although, lost within herself she was cheated of this knowledge. It felt cold on the gallery. I am now one of the common people, whose pulses run, whose blood is rich and uncorrupted by the enmities of power. She reached the East Gallery. It seemed deserted. Then from behind a pillar a shadow moved, making her heart jump and pound. It stepped out into the starlight.

‘I knew you’d come,’ the shadow said. ‘
I willed it so
.’

She pushed back the cowl, and as she did so he remembered the night behind the lines before battle, when Gloucester’s Frenchwoman had kissed him on the mouth and laughed at him. He had thought she was a friar at first. That was no memory. That was a precognition.

‘Do you know me?’ she said.

‘I know you. Should I kneel?’

‘No, no.’ No more kneeling, no grovelling. Not on this common person’s birthday. ‘You must be tired. Your leg must hurt you.’

She heard him laugh very softly. ‘That’s nothing. And I’m not tired. I’ve been waiting a long time.’ And then he said, even more softly: ‘Cathryn.’

It was quite different, the way he spoke her name. Not Kat-air-een, as she was accustomed to hear it. But
Cathryn
, the last syllable slipping down quick and heavy, definite, final, as if at last she had a place in the world. She could see his face at last. He did look tired. She saw that he had changed, and washed off the sweat, and combed his hair. He was waiting for her to say something.

‘Thank you for the dance,’ she said awkwardly. ‘The King loved it all. He talks of nothing else. He will not sleep tonight.’

Neither shall I, he thought. Nor did I last night.

He said: ‘And you? Did it make you happy?’

He spoke a strangely accented French; each word curled up at the corners.

‘I was very pleased,’ she said. ‘I thank you.’

‘If your Grace was pleased, then I have my thanks.’

She gave him her hand. He took it to his lips, formally, then turned it over and kissed the palm. His mouth was warm, it breathed warmth into her, up her arm, down into her blood. There was a great chasm between them. Standing on its brink she felt dizzy. She took a step forward, then another, across the chasm of race and birthright and discovered it to be no more than a little gap, the shortest journey of all, into his arms. He was trembling.

He bent his head and began to kiss her. She would never have believed that anyone could kiss like this. The kiss went on and on. He seemed to be all heartbeat, it shook her through. Then, kissing her, he drew her body hard against him, deliberately honest, so that she should know the force of his desire. And for a moment she was afraid; that force had grown powerful and impatient in its long captivity; she too trembled. Then while he held her still within the kiss and the awful longing, he began to touch her body, with no haste or lust or greed, but more as a blind man explores an unfamiliar room. He held her warm within his arm, his free hand moving over her. She was naked beneath the shift, and now the warm lover’s hand knew it too … a small convulsion shook her. Under his mouth she made a choked sound, and he released her at once. She saw the tears in his eyes.