Wife to Henry V: A Novel (4 page)

They had scrubbed her and brushed her and combed her and painted her; they had laced her into somebody's best gown. And there she had stood, smiling in her place, murmuring the words of welcome her mother had told her to say.

Well, much water had flowed beneath the bridge since then. She must, she supposed, have looked well enough, for Henry of England had sent again. No secret mission this time, but princes of the Church and princes of the Realm together with six hundred knights. As for his demands—this time he had added to them, added provinces and great cities stretching north and south and east and west. He'll be demanding the crown next, Louis had said, white with rage and shame and fear. She herself had been shocked by the very notion...at first. How could anyone wear the crown after her father but Louis? But then,
Catherine by the Grace of God, Queen of England and of France
. Why not?

The second time they had gone taking
No
for their answer, she had not wept. This Henry of England was a man who knew what he wanted and meant to get it...as she did, as she did.

And now they were here again. And this time—and Louis had been right—this time it
was
the crown!

The crown.

Catherine by Grace of God...

She walked to and fro practising the lifted head of majesty, trying out the gracious smile, the nod; backwards and forwards she swept, the train of her gown obediently following.

She stopped suddenly. The mirror showed Michelle standing there, standing and watching and looking down her long nose. A pity Michelle couldn't stay in her own town of Ghent; or, if she must come trailing after her husband who didn't want her, why couldn't she stay in her own house in Paris and not at St. Pol?

“You can stop peacocking,” Michelle said. “The answer is
No
. And the sooner they go with their knights and servants eating us out of house and home—as if food were not scarce enough already—the better!”

Catherine lifted a blank face.

“Anyone in his senses would have guessed it,” Michelle said with that know-all air of hers. “Even you couldn't suppose our father would give a daughter of the blood to that man, that upstart.”

“But...peace!” Catherine could hardly speak for disappointment, “it could bring peace.”

“Peace—and that man's demands! The crown! Did you really think our father would disinherit Louis, or that our mother would allow him to do so? There would be no end to the bloodshed.”

“When has there been anything but bloodshed?” Catherine demanded quickly. “As long as I can remember, blood and blood and blood. And your father-in-law is the top and bottom of it! He murdered our uncle, thinking—the fool—to make himself the real power in the land. But he didn't reckon with my lord of Armagnac taking up the quarrel and egging on Louis to avenge that piece of wickedness. Oh Louis isn't much, I grant you, but he is Dauphin. So there we are! Burgundy and Armagnac each pretending he isn't fighting for his own hand, and each with his cut-throats at his heels.

And the whole lot of them pretending it's for France. For France! And each side watching our father shift this way and that as our mother tells him; and each one watching Louis, one minute hand-in-glove with Burgundy, and the next with Armagnac—whichever suits his book. No-one knows from one minute to the next whose blood will flow. And your father-in-law's the worst offender. He doesn't care if all France runs with blood—as long as it isn't his own.”

“You talk too much,” Michelle said. “You may kill yourself with words as surely as with poison.”

“Go tell your father-in-law of me and much good may it do you! He's out of favour now. Finished.”

“Out of favour—for the moment. But finished? By no means!”

“Then go tell him of me—if you can find where he skulks. Do you hear me? Go!” She was beside herself with disappointment.

“No need to tell anyone; your voice can be heard from one end of St. Pol to the other! Catherine, be sensible. You can't blame my father-in-law for today's refusal. No-one would give you to Henry of England, crown or no crown; not a soul in France who cares for France. What kind of man is this Henry? He knows how we are torn with our troubles and he makes it his chance to raid our coasts and burn our towns; yes, and to burn our convents, too, he, the Soldier of God.”

“You're a fool, Michelle, even though you are older and married. You should know a soldier is no gold-faced angel. He fights when he can; takes what he can, when and where he can. That's the way of soldiers. Surely your father-in-law has taught you that!”

“Is there no pity in you for France?”

“France—what is France? Is it the ragged Gascon whose language we can't even understand? Or the Provencal, brutal and violent and turning like the weathervane? Or is it the bitter men from the Cevennes, or the filthy Bretons with wild and streaming hair? Or, if none of these, could it be the foreigners in Burgundy's armies—the soldiers from Brabant or the mercenaries from Flanders? Ask your father-in-law about these before you talk to me of pity for France.”

“You've grown up since I saw you last—can it be only two years?” Michelle said. “But you have not grown kind. There's no kindness in you, I think; not for our father, nor for our brother; and none at all for me. I pity the man, yes, even that Henry, who gets you to wife.”

“Keep your pity for yourself! When I'm married I shall know enough, at least, to keep my husband faithful.”

“But still I would pity him!” The shaft had pierced through Michelle's armour, her poor armour of worldly wisdom. “You have a hard heart and a cruel tongue,” Michelle said obstinate with misery.

A child for all her talk, Catherine understood nothing of Michelle's grief. All she knew was, that from her height of two years, Michelle stood there intolerably lecturing.

“Temper is bad for the nose,” she said. “Bad for the complexion, too; you're quite yellow. Allow me, Michelle.” She sailed out of the room as though she were indeed Queen of England; and of France, too.

Stepping lightly along the narrow passage, descending the winding stairs, she was a little sorry she had spoken so to Michelle. But then Michelle had not been over-kind, either. Shrugging away the thought of Michelle, she reached the great staircase and walked quickly through room after room, where here a courtier bent to the salute, and there a lady stooped to the quick curtsey. She knocked at last upon the Queen's door. Her mother's voice gave permission to enter.

In that first moment she caught her breath in the stale air of Isabeau's room. But soon she forgot its closeness. The smells of unguents, of perfumes, of sweat, of air imprisoned, was the smell she associated with her mother, the mother she admired and understood and—like her brothers and sisters—feared.

Isabeau looked up smiling at this best-beloved child of hers. Jeanne was far away in Brittany, Marie's devotion to God she did not understand and Michelle was repellent with righteousness. Louis she despised—weak and wanton, both. John she seldom saw; he was in Hainault, married already to a child like himself—and completely under his mother-in-law's thumb, a Burgundian thumb. As for Charles, her youngest, she could have loved him dearly, in spite of the figure he cut, all big head and spindle-legs. She had wanted to keep him with her, but he'd been sent to Anjou, as was right and proper, to be brought up with his betrothed. And, when he did come home—and how foolishly she prayed for the day!—he flung back every kindness in her face. Young as he was, he had heard the rumours of his birth—child not of the King but of her dear love. Whether rumour lied or spoke true, she would never tell!

Catherine smiled back at her mother with something of the pity the young may feel towards the old. Yet Isabeau was barely in her forties. She had been a beauty once, smooth red-and-white and no need of paint. But now she had a yellow look, the lines deep-scored. And she was getting fat. And careless, flakes of powder fallen upon the rich soiled gown. But when she went below, laced and painted, she would startle them all, even those who knew her well, with the shock of her beauty.

Isabeau raised her superb head; her nod dismissed the woman. She held out a hand to Catherine, a lovely hand, not over-clean and glittering with rings. “Well?” And there was laughter, sly and good-natured, behind the heavy eyes that could still bewitch men. She could take her pick of lovers yet.

If you want a thing—fight! Catherine's motto. But against this formidable woman fighting would be vain. One must persuade, flatter, coax.

“Madam,” she said, “Madam...” And then, desperate, cried out, “The ambassadors. Michelle told me. The answer is No.”

“And why should you care? Fourteen is over-young to marry.”
Believe me, oh believe me. Fourteen when they thrust me into a man's bed; fourteen and innocent and untouched.
“You are over-young,” she said again. “And there are princes in plenty.”

“But not kings. Not this king.”

“And you—” Isabeau chose the word, pointed it with care, “
desire
this king?”

The girl took the word unflinching.

“I desire this king; he's a man. I could not wed less than a man.”

“As I did?”

Catherine forced herself to meet her mother's eyes; nodded.

“One might say your father was too much of a man...in his time,” Isabeau said, grim, remembering the satyr at sixteen, worn with his lusts at twenty; and in his middle years mad...and lusting still.

“Help me, Madam, help me.”

“What do you suppose I can do?”

“Whatever you choose, Madam.”

Isabeau did not answer. Her mind leaped, doubled, twisted and turned. If she came out boldly for Catherine now, then the King of England would stand her friend. As for his being King of France, too, it was all nonsense and he knew it. He'd asked for the crown simply to bargain from. He knew well enough it was out of his reach. But—if Henry stood her friend! Down with the Armag-nacs, down with the Burgundians. Up Isabeau. Isabeau ruling her husband, Isabeau ruling France. Up Isabeau, up!

Yes, there were compensations in a mad husband.

“Don't fret yourself, child,” she said kindly. “England will not always have
No
for an answer.”

“Because he will not ask again.” Catherine struggled with her tears.

“Perhaps we shall do the asking. What—blubbing? If you're to be a Queen, why then you must behave like one!” She spoke with good-humoured contempt. “And you must learn to look like one, too. It isn't enough to be young and pretty; pretty young women are six to the sou in England—so they tell me! Now you, my girl. You're well enough, but you're no beauty.”

Catherine was piqued and showed it.

The Queen's shrewd eyes scanned the brow, the high cheekbones in that gothic face—good bones; considered the girl's mouth. The red upper lip thin, a little forbidding; the underlip full, inviting. A mouth that said Yes and No...a mouth to keep a man guessing!

“No, you'll never be a beauty,” Isabeau said again. “You'll never have the plump, delicious look. Still, with time and trouble you may yet pass for one...much time, much trouble. To be a beauty—do you mark me, girl?—it isn't enough to set off your best points, your complexion, your eyes, your hair. No, nor to hide, if you can, your bad ones. I wish you had my nose, poor child! You may have trouble with that nose one day. But for the present it will pass.”

She rose with heavy grace, went across to her closet, set out the pots, the paints, the powder; turned the girl towards the light.

Beneath closed eyes, Catherine felt the chalk smoothed across the bridge of that faintly over-long nose, felt it fanned out to soften the cheekbones. There came the sharp pull of the tweezers and then the brush moved across her temples.

Eyes still closed, she heard the clatter as Isabeau pushed away the pots; she opened her eyes, looked and looked again. Was this truly Catherine? And had she really thought herself pretty before? The plucked eyebrows painted upwards and outwards lent the face an eager ready-to-fly-away look. The black line beneath the lower lashes made the grey eyes appear enormous. And the nose; the nose looked delicate and short.

She took her mother's hand and kissed it.

“All the same, putting paint on your face isn't enough,” Isabeau said, still with the same good-humoured contempt. “Beauty comes from within. I don't mean beauty of soul—” she shrugged away the nonsense. “I mean
will
. You have to will yourself into beauty; you have to believe you
are
a beauty—you yourself believe it—before others believe it. Otherwise,” she shrugged again. “Pretty, yes. But only because you're young; only as long as you're young. The will, my girl, the will is all.”

“Yes,” Catherine breathed, “yes. But...help me, Madam!”

“You must help yourself; no-one can will for you.”

“Yes,” Catherine said again. “I will be like you, Madam.” She swept her curtsey and was gone.

* * *

I will be like you, Madam
. And, No, Isabeau had ail-but cried. She hoped a better life for Catherine; an easier life. Besides, beauty makes it own laws—and Catherine was no beauty. To keep her husband faithful, more or less; or a lover perhaps—that was the most the girl could hope for. But she, Isabeau! Paris had gone mad about her, the little Bavarian. Fourteen—Catherine's age—and ignorant of everything, even of her own beauty. They'd made a song about her, you'd heard it everywhere.

...Dame enclos entre fleur de lis

Estes vous pas de Paradis?

Well, wherever she'd come from, it was certainly not to Paradise they'd brought her! Even now, tough as she was, well-seasoned in the game of love, she did not like to think of those days, first days of her marriage.

...Lying defenceless in the bed waiting for him, waiting for her husband, that wild hysterical fool, that animal! She'd been terrified; physically sick with her terror. Well, one learns, one learns. But...before one learns? She had cried, frantic, cried desolate, cried despairing, to be let alone. Crying herself sick, and thinking to run away to a convent. A convent—she! And that was how it all began—Louis finding her crying her heart out and trying to comfort her, Louis her brother-in-law. She'd loved him first for his heavenly kindness, she'd swear that to God Himself. And then, could it be otherwise? Handsome Orléans whom all women loved; how could an ignorant, unhappy little girl not love him too?