Wife to Henry V: A Novel (54 page)

“The last will of me, Catherine...”

“...made unto her sovereign lord,”
the Abbess wrote, well-taught in form and etiquette.

“...unto my son,” Catherine said, “before I die.” And Goodbye, Harry, goodbye. The words are said, the farewell taken. “To him...to Harry...everything.”

The Abbess stopped writing. “There are others, my daughter...”

“I have not forgotten.” The small, mischievous smile just touched her lips. “Do you think I could forget? Yet still it is all for Harry—save for a little I have put aside to pay my debts; they are not many, I think; and a kindness here and there to be remembered...dear Guillemote and the others. I have set them down. The rest—for Harry. So it will be safe. The world waits to rob the helpless, but who dare rob the King?”

She lay back upon the pillow. The holy mother dipped a cloth in wine-and-water, wiped the sick woman's hands and forehead.

“Bid him remember...his promise...the children,” Catherine said. “Tell him, in all the world, I trust him only.”

The Abbess wrote upon the parchment.

“Read,” Catherine said, “read.”

“...you, in whom alone, in all the world I trust to carry out my testament...”

“The children,” Catherine said, “you do not name the children. “Patience, a little,” the Abbess said and dipped the quill once more.

'The children,” Catherine said again, “the children...and his promise. Set it down. Remind him, oh remind him.”

“What the King has promised he will remember.” “Yet set it down. Why do you not set it down?” she asked piteous, stretched a wasted hand to take her pen, let it drop.

“It is not always a time to speak, my child. Set down the promise clear-and he may find it hard to perform. The King is not his own master yet. But he has promised. It is enough.”

“You are wise, reverend mother,” Catherine nodded. Yet write...finish...while there is time.”

“And I believe with all my heart that you will carry out my will...”
The Abbess wrote.

“Read,” the dying woman said, “read...”

“…to fulfil my intent...”
the Abbess read slowly.

“Tenderly and kindly...my son's words,” Catherine said very softly. “Write them...oh write.”

The quill scratched softly upon the paper.

“...to fulfil my intent, tenderly and kindly,”
the Abbess read.

The sick woman's lips just shaped the words. “It is well said.” The small smile flitted across her lips. “The hidden promise stands clear. My son will understand.”

* * *

Her will was written, her confession made.

Christmas went slowly by. She felt the peace, the holiness of the season, here in the convent; drew it deep into her soul. For the first time in her thirty-five years she was truly at peace.

The King had ridden over as he had promised but she would not see him, nor did she ask to see her other children, nor did she speak of Tudor. Seeing one of those beloved faces, she could not, she knew, endure to die, but must beseech God for a little longer in which to be happy since her son had been kind and there was no more danger.

New Year's Day brought a present from the King. The lady Abbess held up a crucifix of pearls set upon a tablet of gold.

“It is over-late for such jewels,” Catherine touched it with her finger-tip. “And yet it is the blessed cross; and yet it is from my son,” she said and bade them put it where her eyes might see it.

She spoke little after that; she lay silent, her mind moving about the past as though she could no longer endure the present where Owen was not, nor any of her children. She thought of Michelle who had been good to her long ago...she would like to see Michelle again. And Jacque. They had not been over-virtuous, she and Jacque, but they had known much sorrow and little happiness...there might be a corner of Heaven where they might walk and talk together. For John she had no fears. He had carried the burden upon his faithful shoulders to the last; surely he must stand near the throne of God.

Of Henry she did not think. It was as though his memory had been wiped clean away.

* * *

The snow was crisp and clean and dry beneath Johanne's feet as she stepped from the litter. Her face looked thin and wrinkled and dark against the dazzle of snow.

“She cannot last long,” the Abbess said. “Do not be deceived...a last flicker before the fire dies.”

In spite of the warning Johanne could not but believe Catherine better. Her eyes were bright, her colour high. Bare of the coif the still-bright hair curled upon her shoulders.

“God bless you, Johanne, for your faithfulness,” she said and her voice, though weak, was clear. “If your face is the last my eyes shall see, why then I am content.” She paused, sighed. “How can I lie in the face of my Maker Whom I am soon to meet? Oh God if I might see my dear love again! Tell him when the King makes all right, to come to my grave. Tell him I shall know where I He buried beneath the earth and my dead heart beat again. God, God that I might see him again before I die. Yet, as God wills so He wills! Were Owen here I could not die, I think, but must fight...fight to live. I am not afraid to die, Johanne...unwilling, a little, but not afraid, God has spoken. Christ is merciful...He will pardon me…”

She stopped; took in her breath. Johanne heard it shallow, difficult.

“I have not lived, perhaps, too well; and yet not so ill, neither. I have borne a King and two brothers to stand by his side. I have given a son to God—may it be remembered to me for good—though goodness was not in me when I gave him. And my little child is in Heaven. God, I think, will not disdain her prayers.”

She was silent. Then, she said, on a tiny burble of laughter-Catherine to the last, “When my father died, my brother wept, all in black. But the next day there he was in vermilion—vermilion and gold. So much for his tears! Will Harry wear vermilion, do you think?”

“Harry will do right in all things. And when he weeps, God Himself will stoop to wipe his tears.”

“He is a saint,” she said; but she did not say it with joy. “Too good, too humble for this world. I fear for him, Johanne, I am very much afraid.”

“You forget the Lancaster strain,” Johanne said, grim. “For all his gentleness they haven't broken it yet.”

“He is not to be broken with rods nor with harsh words, but with gentleness he may be broken,” Catherine said. “And that is what I fear.”

She lay back quiet once more. After a while she spoke. “Do you remember when my son was born?”

“I remember. They brought the prisoner an extra cup of wine; an extra log for her fire.”

Catherine's hand stirred, touched Johanne's. “How good you are!” she said again. “You bear me no bitterness, nor ever have.”

“I am too old for that,” Johanne said. “I look to meet my friends in Heaven.”

“You are hopeful—for your friends,” Catherine said and again it came, the small laughter.

“How shall we live, not hoping?” Johanne said. “How shall we die—not hoping? And yet, how may I be forgiven? I did great wrong when I disobeyed my lord. The day my son was born all the bells in England pealed. Never such joy they said, for any princely child. And I was happy; happy as the Queen of Heaven, forgetting my disobedience. And for that my son shall weep; and England shall weep; and though I sit at God's feet—which is not likely—my lute across my knees, still I shall weep also...because I disobeyed my lord. Had I borne my son at Westminster everything had been different...my husband not angered against me nor I tormented...and Harry himself, different, perhaps too stronger, harder. There had been no Henry of Windsor to make an old sad prophecy come true; for what is foreseen must surely shape our course—our life and our character alike. No Henry of Windsor then, but Henry of Westminster...his father's son.”

“And yet you love your saint as you never loved your soldier.” “I could die happier knowing him less a saint.” “Stop your torment. Windsor or Westminster or where you will—it's all one. A man is born what he is; he cannot go against his nature.”

“But the thing that is foretold—a man's fate, a man's star!”

“God alone rules fate as He rules the stars.”

“But still He leaves us to play our little part. But for my disobedience there would have been no Henry of Windsor—and no fear of an old prophecy. You remember it?”

“I remember an old nonsense.”

“Would God it might prove so! But Harry himself. Twice he has spoken.
My brother shall wear the crown...”

“It was the Heavenly Crown he meant, counting all men his brothers.”

“Maybe...maybe. And yet, Johanne, there is a dream I have...always the same dream. I am walking in the garden...at Windsor and my sons are there; two, only—the King and one other, Edmund or Jasper, I know not which; the faces are hidden. And I cannot tell which is the King—he wears no crown. And in my dream I say,
How shall we know the King without his crown?
And then one of them lifts up his hand and the crown is in it. And then he lifts his face. And it is Owen's son; Owen's son and not Henry's. And he turns and holds out the crown—but not to Henry's son. And then the garden is full of men and all of them with the face of Owen. And they are all crowned. But Henry's son stands alone...and his head is bare And I cry out,
You are princes all; but there is one King and one alone. Where is the crown of Lancaster?
And then they laugh and I am awake and weeping and afraid.”

“Dreams. Dreams and prophecies!”

“God speaks in dreams and prophecies.”

“What then? You think He will punish the King for your disobedience—so great a punishment, so small a disobeying—you who believe in the Compassion of God.”

“I believe in the Compassion of God, but it is a Compassion hard to understand. A girl was burnt in Rouen...a good young girl. And I approved and all Christendom approved. But be very sure God did not approve—Owen said that. And He—He let it happen.

“To prove the truth by her Passion; she said that herself.”

“But the blood bubbled, the flesh burnt. And my father. He lived like a beast of the forest...and like a wild beast, died.”

“So he was cleansed of his lust and came simple and clean to the Pity of God.”

“Yes “ Catherine said, “yes…but lowing him crouched naked in the dark, howling and savage and frightened God's Compassion was not always so clear.”

“God will make all things clear,” Johanne said.

* * *

When she came to Bermondsey two days later she needed no words to speak the news of death. Catherine's nose, the grotesque Valois nose jutted sideways in her face, the fingers plucked.

She lay muttering and did not know Johanne.

“ The King.” She turned her head, restless on the pillow. No crown...no crown. Henry of Windsor...of Windsor...Who speaks?” Her voice came out in a wailing sound, “I cannot see...I cannot
see
.” Her head wove from left to right. “Is it you, my son Owen's son? You are grown so tall I do not know you. Why do your hands hold the crown? No, no. Edmund, Edmund do not so. God makes the King, not men. Give back the crown...”

She sat bolt upright, her fingers left their plucking; her blind eyes stared upon her vision. She said, very clear, “The Tudors…crowned?” Her head shook as though she made no sense of it at all.

After that she spoke but once. “Dear husband...dear love.” And then, “Owen.” Her head fell forward.

The eyes of the dying are blind but they see clear beyond this world…

Johanne closed the eyes. She took the cold hands and folded them across the breast.
But...the Tudors crowned. How may that be?

Lips against the cold forehead she took her last farewell. She turned to call the Abbess.

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