Epitaph for Three Women (44 page)

He was in a quandary. The place was of no great strategic value but the English could not afford another defeat.

He made up his mind with a speed which was characteristic of him. He would have to go to Lagni-sur-Marne in person.

By God’s Holy Writ, he thought, I will attack these French so fiercely that they will think twice before they put up such a resistance against us in future.

In a few days he was at Lagni. He went through the camp. There was something wrong, he knew. The English had lost the certainty that no one could beat them. The siege of Orléans had been demoralising and so had the French victories which had led to the crowning of Charles at Rheims. If only Henry had lived; he would have known how to deal with this strange influence which had affected both sides. He, Bedford, knew that he was a good soldier, he was a great general; he served his country with devoted loyalty, always had and always would; but there were times when a special genius was needed, and such genius did not appear in every generation. If only Henry had lived! Everything would have been satisfactorily settled. He would have known from the beginning how to deal with Joan of Arc. Bedford had made few mistakes in his military career but there were two vital ones, he saw now. He should have let the Orléannese surrender to Burgundy. Burgundy would never forgive him for refusing to do so. Thus he had given the Maid her chance to save that important town for the French. That was the first mistake. An even greater one had been to burn Joan. That act had made her live forever. And for the rest of his life he would be haunted by it.

It seemed as though she had laid a curse on all the English, for fiercely as they fought they could not break the siege of Lagni. And then … the shame of it … French reinforcements – cannon and cavalry – came to relieve the town.

Where were the bowmen of England? They had lost heart. They believed that Joan of Arc was possessed of some Divine power and that in burning her they had burned God’s elect. Heaven was against them. Many of the soldiers had been present in the square at Rouen on that day. They would never forget.

They retreated before the French and Bedford had the mortification of seeing his troops defeated.

He was even more discomfited when he learned that the victorious French were on their way to Paris.

He rode there with all speed and as he came through the Porte Saint Antoine the people were sullen. He was their master at this time they knew, but in their hearts they did not believe he would be so for long.

There was one consolation. Anne was in Paris. He went straight to her and even there horror awaited him. She could not disguise from him now the fact that she was very ill indeed.

‘Anne,’ he cried, ‘Anne, my love. What is it? Why was I not told?’

She smiled at him wanly. ‘You did not want to hear of my petty ailments,’ she answered. ‘It is nothing. I have had a bad day.’

He was desolate. God has indeed turned against me, he thought.

He spent a great deal of time with her. He tried to forget the dismal state of affairs. We are going from bad to worse, he thought, but he could really give his attention to nothing but Anne.

When he heard that some of the nuns of St Antoine, including the Abbess, had been in communication with Charles and were working to bring him to Paris, he was angry and ordered them to be imprisoned. He knew that the Parisians would turn against him to a man when and if the time was ripe to do so.

He could not speak to Anne of these matters. She lay still in her bed, her eyes closed, her fingers twined about his. He had married her for expediency but that did not mean that his love was any the less.

It did occur to him that if she died – and he greatly feared she would – his alliance with Burgundy would have suffered a great blow. Only he and she knew how very much she had worked to keep that friendship alive. It was an unnatural friendship – a Duke of Burgundy, member of the Royal House of France, to be an ally of the English conquerors! But for Burgundy’s intense hatred for the murderer of his father it could never have come about.

But it must be kept green, that friendship. It was the pivot on which success revolved. Henry had known it. He had mentioned it on his death bed. ‘Do anything … almost anything … to keep Burgundy on our side.’

He had tried, as he had endeavoured to carry out every wish of the late King. He had always known that his dead brother was the great architect of success in France, and he greatly feared that without his skill in keeping it the firmly built victory would collapse into defeat.

November was a dreary month. He would hate Novembers forever more, for on the thirteenth of that month, Anne died.

She looked at him sorrowingly as though begging his pardon for dying. She knew how important her brother’s friendship was to her husband and she knew that ruthless, brilliant and shrewd as Philip of Burgundy was, he would be ready to break that friendship at the first opportunity if it suited him to do so; it was her influence which had kept it alive.

‘John,’ she said, ‘be happy. Tell my brother that it was my dearest wish for you to remain friends. I am sorry I must leave you.’

He could not speak. He was too overcome with emotion.

She was buried as she had wished to be in the Church of the Celestins. The people turned out in their hundreds to mourn her. She had been noted for her goodness and her beauty and being but twenty-eight years of age, she was young to die.

They even warmed to the Regent Bedford when they witnessed his grief.

He seemed much older, bowed down with sorrow and anxiety. He had no wish to stay in Paris. He left at once for Rouen.

How he missed her! Although it had been impossible for them to be together a great deal, he realised that she had always been in his thoughts. During his dilemmas which had been frequent of late he had often said to himself: ‘I will ask Anne that’, or ‘I will tell her that’ or ‘I wonder what Anne would think of that?’

So there was a great gap in his life. People thought him cold and aloof, but he was human after all; he was more than soldier, more than Regent. He had been, though briefly, a devoted husband.

Now of all times he needed her. Everything was going badly and he longed to talk to her, ask her advice, to get her to speak to her brother. He knew he could never forget her.

He was not popular even in Rouen where heavy taxes were demanded of the people in order to pay for the occupation. The people were sullen. They had hoped for better times when England took France, and what had they found? They were poorer than ever.

It was necessary to inflict heavy penalties on those who defaulted and what was even more disconcerting was the fact that some of the soldiers were talking of mutiny. They wanted to go back to England. They were tired of being away from their homes.

John knew that there was only one way of dealing with such people for they could undermine a whole army, and he dealt with them in that way. The severe penalties he inflicted increased his unpopularity.

Oh, for the comfort of Anne during those dark days. One day the Bishop of Thérouanne came to Rouen and in his company was his young niece, a girl of seventeen. Bedford welcomed them warmly for the Bishop was Louis of Luxembourg, and the Luxembourg reigning family was very rich and powerful. For some time Bedford had sought to make an alliance with them for the coolness in Burgundy’s attitude since the death of Anne was becoming more and more apparent.

Moreover it was pleasant to be in the company of young Jacquetta. She was not only extremely pretty but very vivacious; she could sing charmingly and although she was young she had a certain grasp of affairs which seemed to Bedford admirable in a girl of her age.

He found that he was seeking her company a good deal and she seemed not averse to this. She took a great interest in the war and discussed the influence of the Maid, who, she was sure, was a witch.

‘People remember now,’ she said, ‘but they forget quickly, do they not?’

That seemed to him a wise comment. Moreover it was something he wished to believe himself. He thought: We are always impressed by those who speak our own thoughts.

But she was an enchantress. She soothed the aching need for Anne.

He supposed it was inevitable and he was not surprised when the Bishop approached him.

‘I have always wanted an alliance between our two countries,’ said the Bishop.

Bedford admitted that he would not be averse to such an alliance either. He needed all the friends he could get.

‘Jacquetta is a charming girl,’ said the Bishop, and Bedford could not deny that either.

‘I know that an alliance between the English Royal House and that of Luxembourg would give us great pleasure.’

And watching Jacquetta and seeking to assuage the terrible void made by the loss of Anne, he decided that to marry Jacquetta would be a good move whichever way it was looked at.

There was great rejoicing in Rouen. All citizens, even those who had grown sullen on account of too much taxation, loved a royal wedding. John sent to England for five fine bells to be made for the Cathedral. They were his gift to the town and they were meant as a thanksgiving for his newly found happiness.

So only five months after the death of Anne of Burgundy Louis, Bishop of Thérouanne, married the Duke of Bedford to Jacquetta of Luxembourg.

The Duke of Burgundy was incensed. Bedford had married within five months of Anne’s death. That was a slight on Anne and therefore on the House of Burgundy. And he had married Jacquetta of Luxembourg which meant he had formed an alliance with a rich and important ally. There was an even greater cause for anger: Jacquetta was the daughter of Pierre, Comte de St Pol and Regent of Luxembourg, who was a vassal of the Duke of Burgundy and the Duke’s permission for the marriage had not been asked.

‘By God’s eyes,’ cried the Duke of Burgundy, ‘indeed I was not asked! They knew full well that if I had been I should have refused permission for the match.’

He would make his displeasure felt by withdrawing all communication with the Duke of Bedford. If the Duke wished to convey his regrets to him he must be the first to move.

To hell with Burgundy! thought Bedford. He would marry where he would. It was no disrespect to Anne that he had married so soon after her death. It was because he had missed her so sorely that he had done so. Anne, my dearest, he thought, you gave me a taste for marriage. It was because I could not bear your loss that I sought so soon to try to fill the gap you left in my life.

Yes, Anne would understand. He could not expect Burgundy to. Burgundy could only see marriage as a political move and he naturally did not like the alliance with Luxembourg.

Perhaps he would come round, though. There had been disagreements between them before.

Cardinal Beaufort came to him and expressed his regret at the disunity between them and their important ally.

‘I know, I know,’ said Bedford. ‘But I cannot consult the Duke of Burgundy on every detail of my private life.’

‘I believe he feels this marriage to be some concern of his since the Duchess’s father is his vassal … and Burgundy’s sister was your first wife.’

Bedford put a weary hand to his head and did not speak. Watching him closely, Beaufort was alarmed. What had happened to his nephew? Bedford had always been so alert. He had done well in France. The late King would have been pleased with him. But of late he had changed. It was since the coming of Joan of Arc. No, it must be something more than that. A peasant girl could not affect great men so strangely. Perhaps Bedford was past his first youth, and he had lost a wife to whom he had been devoted. Bedford must not tire now. There was so much to be done and so much gained could be easily lost.

‘There should be a reconciliation with Burgundy,’ he said gently.

‘I have no intention of crawling humbly to him,’ retorted Bedford.

‘I did not mean for one moment that you should. There must be a rapprochement on both sides. I believe it would be a good idea for me to attempt to bring this about.’

Bedford wanted to shrug his shoulders and cry that he was tired of the whole affair. If Burgundy liked to sulk, let him. But of course Burgundy was not sulking. He was incensed as he always was when he believed there had been some attack on his dignity. He was a man obsessed by his own importance and his power; but it had to be admitted that that importance and power were very great.