The Agincourt Bride (42 page)

M
id-July was not a good time of year to come to Troyes, unless you were a merchant making money. The Fair of St Jean, known as the Hot Fair, was in full swing, the largest of the six famous Champagne Fairs which attracted trade from all over the known world and turned the city into a human ant-heap. Balmy breezes on the Seine had relieved the intense summer heat as we travelled upstream from Corbeil on a river-barge, but when we walked through the town gate and into the maze of narrow streets, the turgid urban fug hit us like a rank blanket. The thoroughfares were crammed with people, horses and hand-carts, and in the stifling gloom beneath the overhanging gables the air smelt second-hand, as if it had been breathed by a multitude before us, while from the clogged central gutters of the roadways, the acrid stench of dung and garbage rose like the fumes of hell. Market stalls gathered crowds at every junction, creating frequent bottlenecks, and it was hard to push a path through the throng of shoppers, traders and scampering couriers who elbowed slower-footed pedestrians recklessly aside as they hurried samples and messages from one merchant warehouse to another.

We finally fought our way down the Rue de L’Aiguille to Jacques’ workshop, where we found the door barred and the shutters closed. Our anxious knocks were eventually answered by a dull-looking youth who raised the top shutter a few inches and poked his head out to declare that his master had forbidden him to open the door and would not be back until evening. A deflated Alys burst into tears, causing the lad’s jaw to drop in surprise, though not as much as it would have done if Alys had not changed out of her disguise as a boy while on the barge.

Throwing a comforting arm around her, I told the apprentice to inform his master that we would go to the church and return at nightfall. I did not hold out much hope that the message would be delivered, for the lad seemed to me to be a few stitches short of a seam.

Mass was underway in the church of St Jean au Marché, but despite the nave being crowded, it was much cooler among the lofty pillars, and in fragrant contrast to the foulness of the streets, pungent clouds of incense rose above the worshippers. Reaching a dark corner we flopped down on the stone floor, propping our weary backs against the tomb of some long-dead Troyan worthy and I hugged Alys to me as her shoulders continued to shake with silent sobbing. It was not like my long-suffering daughter to let her feelings overwhelm her in this way, but I knew she had been fretting for weeks that her lover might reject her, and now she was having to wait even longer to discover if her worst fears were to be realised.

However, my doubts about the reliability of the daft-looking apprentice proved unfounded. Jacques came to find us just as the Vespers bell was ringing and I was beginning to think we should seek shelter for the night. Alys had fallen asleep with her head in my lap and the church had become a shadowy cavern of dwindling twilight and flickering candles. Cowled priests and lay-servers flitted about the aisles, emptying offertory boxes and snuffing candles, occasionally stopping to ask if we needed help. I shook my head at each of them and they left us alone. So I was not greatly startled when Jacques emerged from the gloom, a finger to his lips. Without speaking he knelt down beside Alys and softly stroked her cheek.

As soon as she opened her eyes to find him there, she whispered abruptly. ‘I am pregnant. It is your child.’

Not a very subtle approach, I thought wryly, but that was her nature – I do not believe there was a coquettish notion in her head – and Jacques responded with such warmth and acceptance it was clear he loved her for it.

‘God be praised,’ he said warmly.

He was rewarded with a radiant smile from Alys and they both got a hug from me. ‘God be praised indeed and may He bless your union,’ I said, ‘preferably sooner rather than later.’

So began a new life for Alys – and for me, while my mistress was kept at Poissy. At first we were dauntingly over-crowded at the house in the Rue de l’Aiguille, for Jacques had let the two upper rooms to a Milanese thread merchant, leaving him and his apprentice to work and sleep in the tailor’s shop, amidst the bales of cloth needed to complete a bulging order-book of garments. But there was an empty cow-byre in the back yard and an outhouse kitchen that had not been used of late. Soon we had evicted the mice and spiders and had somewhere to sleep and cook.

At the beginning of August we heard that the reconciliation between Burgundy and the dauphin had so angered King Henry, that he had ordered a sudden night assault on Pontoise and the garrison had been taken completely by surprise. Bitter blow though the loss of that royal stronghold was to the French cause, as least the duke had escorted the king and queen away from the town a few days before and the retreating court arrived in Troyes a fortnight later. However, there was no sign of the dauphin coming to kiss his father’s hand. No announcement was made, but the reconciliation was dead in the water, as Tanneguy had said it would be.

Once the excitement and distraction of our journey was over and Alys was safe and happy, I found I missed my little mistress sorely. Of course I missed the activity of royal service – the physical work of running her apartment, the constant robing and disrobing and even the intrigue and machinations of the court – but, above all, it was Catherine’s presence that I missed most, though I hoped and trusted that Alys was unaware of my longing to be elsewhere.

From Catherine, Princess Royal of France to Madame Guillaumette Lanière,

Greetings to my beloved Mette,

Once again I fervently wish that you were here with me so that I might confide in you. It is only to you that I can express my true opinions and innermost hopes and fears. Perhaps if I write down my latest concerns I will be able to imagine what your wise and sensible counsel might be.

My sister Michele recently paid a visit to Poissy. I do not think there was any question of it being a chance visit because no journey in this part of the world is easy at present with King Henry’s forces now in control of the gateway to Paris. Here in the convent we heard about the extraordinary storming of Pontoise and gave thanks to God that the king and queen were safely away from there. So although she did not specifically refer to it, there was no doubt that my sister came as an unofficial ambassador, prompted either by the queen, the duke or his son, her husband Philippe.

I was summoned to Marie’s parlour to greet Michele, a rather formal meeting considering it was between three sisters. We were served with a meal (incidentally the most nourishing meal I have eaten whilst here), over which we conversed formally about the health of the king and queen, the state of the country and the prospect of Charles’ return to court. It was excruciating, Mette! There were my two older sisters, expounding the virtues of reconciliation between our brother and the Duke of Burgundy, and I could hardly prevent myself from screaming out against it.

After the meal Marie left us to attend to her duties as abbess and Michele immediately started to reproach me for my lack of gratitude towards the duke. Her father-in-law was a great man, she said, who only had the interests of France at heart, which included giving careful consideration to my future as the only unmarried daughter of a king who was incapable of fulfilling his role as a father.

How is it, Mette, that two children sprung from the same womb can have so little in common? She was born only six years before me, but she seems already old and shrivelled in her mind. There is no joy in her.

Towards the end of our meeting she asked me if I would like her to convey a message to our mother and suggested an apology and a desire to make amends. I knew that obtaining this olive branch was the whole purpose of her visit, but I said that I considered it sinful to tell lies in a House of God and therefore I could offer no such message, but that I would like her to understand that I remain a loyal and dutiful Daughter of France. To tell the truth, I was surprised at how animated she became at that. There is more spark in her than I first thought, for she looked as if she would like to slap me. However, her self-control prevailed and she merely said that she pitied me and could not think what my future might be.

What do you think, Mette? Should I have been more contrite? Would it have served my purpose better? The trouble is, I am not really sure what my future might be either. Perhaps the devil duke was almost right about one thing; I do hanker after King Henry and I wonder if he still thinks of me. After all, when I consider the possible candidates for my hand in marriage, none of them quite measures up to him and, if there is one thing I have definitely decided as a result of being here at Poissy again, it is that I do not wish to be a nun.

I pray for you, Mette, and I hope you pray for me.

Your loving daughter of the breast,

Catherine

Written secretly in my cell at the Royal Abbey of Poissy, this day Sunday August 7
^th
1419.

At the end of August the thread merchant vacated the upper floors of Jacques’ shop and departed for Milan. Now Jacques could offer Alys a proper home, he went to a priest at St Jean’s and made arrangements for their wedding, possibly anxious that they should make their public vows before Alys’ pregnancy began to show.

The banns were read and the wedding feast was prepared, much of it by me and Alys.

I also ordered a carpenter to make a new cradle for the baby but, not wishing to tempt fate, I delayed its delivery until the child should be safely born.

In early autumn sunshine, standing proudly beside the bride and groom under the imposing portal of the church of St Jean, I realised that I could not have wished for a better outcome for my daughter. But how much my life had changed in these six months! In April I had been a royal servant and friend of a princess, now, in September, I was jobless and homeless, with only my daughter’s new husband to give me a roof over my head. My store of gold coin would not last forever and the prospect of becoming dependent on Alys and Jacques did not appeal.

But, a week later, everything changed. ‘Come quick, Ma! Luc is here,’Alys called.

There, in the middle of the workshop, wearing travel-stained but anonymous clothing, Luc stood grinning sheepishly at me. ‘Hello, Ma,’ he said, allowing me to enfold him in a big hug. ‘Surprise!’

‘You certainly are!’ I exclaimed, holding both his cheeks and gazing searchingly into his eyes. ‘What has happened? Have you been sent away?’

Luc extricated himself indignantly. ‘No! The Seigneur du Chastel sent me from Melun in the train of the dauphin’s Viennois Herald. I do not have long. We must leave soon because we may not be very welcome in Troyes after the news gets out.’

‘What news? What has happened?’ Jacques asked the questions that were on all our lips, having descended from his sewing-table to greet Luc when he arrived. It was the first time the two had met.

‘The Duke of Burgundy is dead – killed.’ Luc was unable to keep a note of triumphant melodrama out of his voice as he made this announcement.

‘Praise be to God!’ I exclaimed impulsively, crossing myself then biting my lip, for I knew I should have been more restrained in my reaction. ‘But how killed, son? And where?’ I asked.

Luc made a face and felt in the leather satchel that was slung slantwise over his shoulders. ‘It is a long story and I will tell you as much as I can, but there is a letter for you before I forget.’ He handed over a well-folded paper and I saw the embossed shape of a castle on the seal. ‘It is from the seigneur.’

‘I will read it later,’ I said as I pushed the letter carefully into my sleeve and took Luc’s arm. ‘Come, we will sit in the yard and you can eat and talk at the same time. You must be hungry.’ I smiled reassuringly and beckoned Alys to follow. I wanted the details to be between us three. Later she could tell Jacques as much as she thought he needed to know.

As dusk fell over the city, the growing darkness only added to the drama of Luc’s tale.