Wife to Henry V: A Novel (39 page)

“In my mother's house,” she told him, “the slut would have paid for her wantonness with her life.” And so betrayed herself. Isabeau set no store on chastity, the whole of Christendom knew it; she would punish no wantonness unless it clashed with her own.

He looked at her, his proud Queen, all bitter beneath the pain of love.

* * *

Between them no word. There needed none. The air between them was filled with trumpets. Tormented by desire, she shut her heart to the sound. A word, the breath of a word—and disgrace; Gloucester watched; watched and waited. She had carried herself, so far, with circumspection; but he was not without hope and she knew it. That once she had stood his friend in the game of love would not count. She had shown friendship to the Beauforts and for that she should pay. She had used plain speaking about the Cobham and for that she should pay—the dark witch would see to it. Let the Queen's foot slip ever so little and he would disgrace her in the eyes of Christendom...in the eyes of her young son.

The Queen disgraced and her lover hanged.

Her heart shrivelled to a pea...His head, his noble head, the hazel eyes quick-glancing, changing with every sweet mood—gentleness and pity and a man's true pride; the sensuous curve of lips that made her faint with longing; the strong jaw that had won her unwilling—her how unwilling!—respect. If, for love of her, his beauties were given to the crow and raven, what did she care for her own disgrace?

But...disgrace. Disgrace for Catherine that had been wife to Henry of England, that was mother to the King.
Isabeau’s daughter
they would say, smearing her with their laughter.

And suddenly she remembered a thing she had thought forgotten; how one of Isabeau's lovers had died—the young de Bourdon. Her mother had not cared at all, except that so humble a name had been linked with her own. She had laughed at him for a fool when she heard of his bitter death in the Seine water. She had not—she faced it now—her mother's iron strength. If through loving her, Tudor came to his death, then she must desire death, too. And yet, was that the truth? Disgrace is hateful but it does not last forever. Death, violent, shameful death is more hateful still...and death lasts forever.

She carried her love and her fear within her own heart; it was heavy with the burden. There was no-one to whom she could speak. Johanne was wise; but this wild love she would not understand. Always with Johanne head governed heart. Even as a girl she would never have mingled the proud blood of Navarre with blood less proud.

More than once she dreamed of Michelle, Michelle who had thought the Lancaster marriage not good enough for the house of Valois, not though she had seen the world on its knees before the bride of Henry of England. In her dream Michelle cried out, A low fellow. Will you mix your blood, the royal blood of Trance with his?

No, she would tell Michelle, No. And she would lie weeping till dawn.

These days she did not see Tudor at all; and the loss of her companion was as heavy as the loss of her love. She never sent for him and he never came. It was a clerk, instead, pale with respect for Madam the Queen, who brought the news from London, from France; who came to tell her of the woollen cloth arrived from Flanders or the silks from France. As for cloth-of-gold or jewels she rarely thought of them now—there was no-one to care how she looked; she was lost and alone.

* * *

It was dusk in the Queen's chamber when, unbidden still, he stood before her at last. He had lost some of his handsome flesh; he looked like a man hag-ridden. But for all that there was no bending, no beseeching. He spoke as a man speaks to a woman, a man who acknowledges no woman his equal.

“You may have me hanged or you must let me go. I care not which,” he said. “For this I cannot and will not endure.”

She did not pretend to misunderstand, though there had been not one word of love between them.

“What am I to do?” she said and held her hands a little before her as though entreating his help. He saw she no longer wore the great ring of her betrothal. Even in that moment he wondered, like the faithful steward he was, whether it was in safe keeping.

“Send me away,” he said again. “Or hang me. And that, I think, is the kinder death. For away from the sight of your face I must die...a long and bitter dying.”

She spoke no word at that; but her face was a tell-tale.

“There can be nothing between us,” he told her, “neither marrying nor the simple taking of love.”

“Because I am a Queen?” she said. “Because you...?” and could not, for very love, finish.

“Because you are a Queen,” he said. “But not because I am your servant. I am the son of Kings, the ancient Kings. Cadwallader, High King of Britain, was my forbear; Owen Glendower, Prince of Wales, is my cousin. My blood is as good as your own. A man of Wales may be your servant today and beget princes tomorrow.”

The blood came flying into her face at that, desire ran naked in her eyes.

“But servant or prince, it is all one,” he said, “and you must let me go.”

She leaned against the wall for weakness. “We will talk of this again,” she said.

“Time cannot alter it. Now or later, it is all one.”

She said, and her head was low, the proud head that had worn a crown, “Now...is now.”

No more than she, did he pretend to misunderstand. Had she offered herself lightly, or even with pride, he would have taken her. But the bent head lent her an innocent air and he could not take her with that virginal look. And though his blood cried out so that in that moment he would have died if he might first slake his need, still he could not take her.

“For you it could be prison; death perhaps,” he said, and was gone.

* * *

Had he sought deliberately to ensnare her with refusal, to exacerbate her passion and her pride, he could have done no better. She was wretched and tormented; and there was no way out.

He was right. There could be no talk of marriage between them. Humphrey would see her dead first. As for herself, in less passionate moments, she could not but agree with her brother-in-law; she could not consent thus to disgrace herself. So great a lady stoop to so poor a gentleman. Let him claim the blood of long-dead kings, he was still a servant and she a Valois.

For a husband she could not, would not take him. But, for a lover? Handsome and brave, schooled to every courtesy; a strong arm and a gentle heart—what more could the proudest lady in the land look for in a lover?

She made herself beautiful for him. She wore white, white only, that he might think of her virginal, untouched. When she sent for him to her chamber she removed the great headdress, set the chestnut locks free so that she looked a maid.

He did not seem to notice. Grave, respectful, he was her humble servant; no more.

But her women noticed; noticed the strange excitement in the brilliant eyes, the grey darkening to tell-tale purple; noticed the whiteness of her cheeks so that the mouth showed softer, redder, fuller. She looked both fine-drawn and voluptuous; she had an exalted yet tormented look.

She knew they gossiped about her, asking each other their stupid questions. Did the Queen take the lack of her child too hard? Did she miss the life of the court where she had been shown, only too plainly, there was little place for her? Was some marriage being arranged that she could not endure? Was the Queen...in love?

They were asking that last question everywhere, Guillemote said, standing with downcast eyes lest her own misgiving be read. Catherine laughed aloud; but for all her laughter, Guillemote had her answer in the deepened colour of the Queen's cheeks.

Catherine would stay no longer at Windsor where she must betray herself at every glance; where gossip might suddenly leap to the truth.

But London was no better. She was restless and fearful; and she missed Tudor unbearably. She dared not, as yet, face Johanne; those keen eyes would pierce to the heart of the trouble. To the heart, indeed, Catherine thought and smiled wryly.

My lord of Exeter raising no objection, she rode over to Eltham. Harry seemed pleased to see her. He still had the pale-angel look that caught at her heart. He answered her questions gravely and with care; as always, he needed to be wooed.

…Yes, he ate quite enough, thank you, he wasn't a greedy sort of person. God did not like boys to be greedy—though the palace boys didn't seem to care about that! It was easy for him, though, because he didn't like meat much. No, he couldn't eat what he chose; a person who had to rule others had first to rule himself. Yes, old Astley still kept the whip handy; she didn't use it much now, only when my lord Governor said to. No he didn't mind...not very much...

But the shrinking of the thin shoulders told a different tale.

Of course, he was not whipped when he was good, he told her. And he did try to be good; and not only because of the whipping.

And now he was chatting freely.

When he was good and very quiet, St. Dunstan came and spoke with him; and St. Edmund, too. Sometimes in church he could see God, very little, sitting on the priest's hand. He liked God best when He was little. And, sometimes, if he sat very still and closed his eyes and let himself go empty, he could send the soul out of his body, send it flying like a bird right up to God.

Drawing him close, her poor little saint, her hand met the knotted cord about his waist. She was horrified; would have lifted his doublet, removed that hateful thing, but he pulled himself away. “I do it to myself. I do it because I'm sure to see God in the priest's hands.”

She could not help but be proud of his visions; yet she was troubled, too; troubled by his look of other-worldness, troubled even more by his delicate air...four of her brothers, she could not but remember, had died young.

She asked to hear his lessons but he preferred to recite his prayers. He said them beautifully, the Latin correct and clear. He said them with all his heart; it was as though he spoke with God. But when she had, at last, persuaded him to read his lessons, he hardly knew A from B.

“When I am big I shall build schools, lots of schools,” he said, surprising her. “You see, next to prayer, learning is best. Father Netter says if we are slow ourselves to learn, then we must, if we can, help others.”

She left Eltham troubled and yet proud. A little saint. But she would have preferred him more of a child! She rode over to Greenwich to visit my lord of Exeter. She found him ailing, a little. Nothing much, he said; a little tired, he would be well again soon.

She told him about Harry and his visions. “I know,” he said, “I know. They stuff his head with saints and martyrs, those two; Netter and Gloucester—it suits my nephew's book. Yes, I know I'm the King's Governor but I can't keep him from his confessor who was also his father's; and I can't keep him from his uncle who also happens to be lord Protector. Besides—” he leaned his head against the great cushioned chair, “it's in Harry's nature; his father's piety translated not into deeds but into dreaming.”

“A child should pray,” she conceded, “but he should play, too.”

“I would rather see young Harry with a sword than with a bible. Still, as God wills...”He looked a sick man.

Once more in London she had to fight herself not to go running back to Windsor. She went to Langley instead. Johanne was pleased to see her. Johanne, too, was disturbed about Harry. “Exeter's ailing, as no doubt you've seen,” she said. “I don't think he'll last long. If you ask me Harry will have a new Governor before the year's out. No, my dear!” she answered the Queen's look of hope. “If I know anything the answer's Warwick—,and you'll find him harder to deal with than Exeter. Go back to the country—you have enough, it seems, to look after yourself. You're too thin.”

The tears darkened Catherine's eyes.

“Well, child, what have I said now, that you must play crybaby?”

“I'm tired, I think; and worried, worried about Harry. And I'm losing my looks—that doesn't make me any happier.”

“A wise woman doesn't lose her looks at twenty-five; no, nor at thirty-five, neither, with luck.”

“Luck?” Catherine was passionate. “What luck have I? Or ever had?”

“Good and bad alike, like the rest of us. But if you don't like your luck, why then change it, girl. Make your own luck. Must I speak plainer? No, I've heard no gossip—no need; I've got eyes. Take a lover if you must; but never a husband. For, if you do, there's your husband hanged from the nearest tree and you alone in your bed again—if no worse. Master Humphrey would think nothing of clapping you into gaol—it's been done before.”

Catherine raised a troubled face. “Is my sickness so plain for all to see?”

“I hope not. And I think not. As for me, I know you, Catherine. Such a father, such a mother! How can you be but what you are? But—” she was thoughtful, “where in your country paradise is Man the Serpent? There's no gentleman, as I remember, fit to love a Queen.”

Catherine said slowly, “A gentleman of low estate...but his fathers were Kings.”

“So it's the handsome Welshman! Every Welsh brat is a King's son—if you are to believe them. Would it please you to breed such a brat?” She put out her hand all swollen at the joints, the beautiful hand Henry Bolingbroke had once worshipped. “Forget what I said just now. A lover could lead to danger as surely as any husband; others, too, perhaps...innocents. All, all of you together. It was not good advice I gave you, not good at all.”

Take a lover. Johanne herself had advised her, Johanne that woman more head than heart. But the other thing Johanne had said—that it was not good advice, that it must lead to danger-Catherine forgot.

These days Tudor never came unless she sent for him. He never knew how he might find her—jewelled and robed as for state occasions and very much a Queen; or a young girl in a pale gown, hair flowing free. She might be gay, plucking upon the lute and singing the old song of the charming princess and her lusty lover; she might be sorrowful, the tears running through long fingers. Her splendour kept his desire at fever-heat; her tears strengthened his love.

But he never came unless she sent for him.