Catherine: One Love is Enough (Catherine Series Book 1) (39 page)

Saint-Rémy bowed to Catherine with all the signs of keen admiration, while his knowing eye rapidly took in all the details of her gown and headdress.

‘It is impossible to set eyes on madame without a positive frisson of pleasure,’ he cried enthusiastically. ‘What could be more elegant than the happy contrast of the studied simplicity of your gown with the opulence of those superb amethysts! Since I arrived here today I have had eyes for you alone, madame, and if you will allow me to say so, I am quite enraptured! Yes, that is the word, enraptured!’

That day Catherine was wearing the set of amethysts Garin had given her when they had become betrothed. With a view to concentrating attention on the magnificent jewels, her dress was plainly styled of white satin with mauve shadows in it. But it was a superb supple satin that moulded the contours of her body down to the hips as clingingly as if it had been soaking wet. Her headdress was of the same satin, but covered with a layer of delicate lace that floated cloudily round the young woman’s bare shoulders. She had dressed herself for the occasion with unusual care and a sort of desperate urgency. She wanted to look more beautiful than ever when she came and watched Arnaud risk his life. She wanted him to be able to see her and pick her out from among all the other spectators.

She had arrived early with Ermengarde so as to find good seats in the stands reserved for the Princesses’ household. During the past few minutes, the frail, colourful structure had been rapidly filling up with throngs of noble spectators. There were young girls and ladies, all brilliantly attired, young noblemen chattering excitedly among themselves, grave councillors of state, and even a few elderly knights who had come to revive old memories by watching the feats of others. Catherine noticed Marie de Vaugrigneuse arriving, and observed the young woman’s pursed lips when she found that the Dame de Brazey was sat in the front row. Meanwhile, Jean de Saint-Rémy had taken his seat beside them and was chatting away incessantly, commenting good-humouredly on this or that outfit, and pointing out various of the new arrivals with a malicious but lively wit. Ermengarde, seated on Catherine’s other side, replied to his sallies, and the conversation between them helped to assuage Catherine’s anxiety a little. But she could not resist asking:

‘You say you have seen Messire de Montsalvy on the battlefield, Sire de Saint-Rémy? Are you also of the opinion, like so many here, that he has got no chance against the Bastard of Vendôme?’

Ermengarde gave vent to a long sigh, at once understanding and exasperated. But Saint-Rémy stretched out his long legs and laughed cheerfully. Then he leant confidentially toward his neighbour:

‘Don’t repeat what I say to a soul or I shall find myself ostracised, but my own view is that the Bastard will be hard put to dispatch young Messire Arnaud. Lionel has the advantage of being as strong as a bull, but on the other hand Montsalvy holds his ground, and he has the ugliest temper in the whole of France, so they say. He will take good care not to be killed unless he is absolutely driven to it. For no other reason but to annoy his adversary.’

He started to laugh, carelessly and a little fatuously, in such a way as to completely belie his true intelligence. Catherine, feeling suddenly enormously relieved and encouraged, joined in. She felt as if a great weight had been lifted off her chest, and her confidence seemed to be returning little by little. But to her great disappointment she was unable to pursue the conversation further, because the Duke and the other princes were just entering their large box in the middle of the stands, which was entirely hung with crimson velvet fringed with gold. They were greeted by a long ovation. Philippe was dressed in his customary black with a large hood over his head and a diamond necklace, each stone the size of a hazelnut, around his neck. He was pale but impassive. Catherine noticed that he looked briefly in the direction of the lists where the ordinary people, penned up behind wooden barriers, were cheering enthusiastically. But he remained unsmiling. The two betrothed couples stood beside him: Bedford, wooden-faced and alarmingly English, solemnly led Anne forward by the hand; then came Richemont and Marguerite, smiling and happily absorbed in each other. The Duke of Brittany took his place between the two couples, and the noble spectators then sat in the chairs decorated with their own coats-of-arms that stood waiting for them. In the shadows, behind Philippe’s chair, Catherine caught sight of her husband and Nicolas Rollin. The two men were arguing together and neither of them seemed to be looking at the lists.

As soon as he had sat down, Philippe made a brief sign. Twenty trumpeters lined up before the stands, raised their instruments to their lips and sounded a great blast that re-echoed toward the heavens, now mantled over with clouds. Catherine felt her hands go icy and her face tighten, while a cold shiver ran down her spine: it was the moment for the combat to begin! Beaumont, the Burgundian Herald-at-Arms, advanced with a white stick in one hand between the tight-stretched ropes that ran the length of the lists leaving only a narrow passage between. Behind him came six Herald Pursuivants in tunics emblazoned with their personal coats-of-arms. Jean de Saint-Rémy identified them to Catherine in an undertone. There were Fusil, Germoles, Montréal, Pélerin, Talant and Noyers. The young Councillor seemed extraordinarily excited.

‘Monseigneur has promised me that when he creates the order of chivalry that he envisages as the crown of his achievements he will make me the King-at-Arms.’

‘How marvellous!’ Catherine said automatically, though she was secretly marvelling at his absurdity. Beaumont now claimed her entire attention. In the silence that had fallen after the trumpet fanfare he proclaimed the terms and clauses of the combat. Catherine knew them by heart. For the past 24 hours the heralds of both parties had been ranging the town, broadcasting them at the tops of their voices at every street corner. She mentally recited with Beaumont: ‘The weapons chosen are the lance and battleaxe. Each of the combatants will break six lances …’ Catherine heard the words but no longer thought what they meant. While the proclamation was going on, she was sending up a fervent prayer to the little Black Madonna of Dijon, Our Lady of Good Hope.

‘Protect him,’ she beseeched. ‘Protect him, sweet Mother of Christ. Don’t let any harm befall him! Let him live! Above all, let him live, even if it means that I must lose him forever! At least let me have the comfort of knowing that he is alive somewhere, under the same sky. Keep him safe for me, Blessed Lady, please keep him safe …’

Then, suddenly, her throat became dry. At the Herald’s summons, the Bastard of Vendôme, on horseback and fully kitted out, had trotted up and stationed himself before the Duke. Catherine gazed in alarm at the gigantic knight. His weapons of blue steel and his chestnut horse were almost hidden from sight under his silk tunic and crimson caparison. A rampart golden lion, his emblem, stood between two bull’s horns on his helmet. He looked like a red and grey wall! He was nightmarish! Catherine could not tear her fascinated gaze from him. But then a cry of astonishment, issuing from thousands of throats, made her jump.

‘Oh!’ cried the admiring but scandalised Saint-Rémy, ‘what audacity! Or what a signal mark of esteem!’

For once Ermengarde was speechless. As for Catherine, she watched like one in a dream as Arnaud rode fully armed out of his pavilion. The gigantic Lionel de Vendôme watched him approach with an expression of unusual respect. The knight who now drew near was not the mere knight of the sparrow-hawk of the other evening. Thanks no doubt to some unusual mark of royal esteem, as Saint-Rémy had said, Arnaud de Montsalvy wore the arms of the King of France!

He had on a tunic of blue silk embroidered with gold fleur-de-lys over his armour, matching the caparison that enveloped his horse down to its hooves. Also blue and gold was the leather mantling that hung down from his helmet and protected the back of his neck. The black sparrow-hawk and Count’s coronet that had been on his helmet before had been replaced by a tall gold fleur-de-lys that displayed a large flashing sapphire on each point. Only one thing indicated that this was not the King in person: instead of the royal crown round the helmet there was a simple blue and gold band. As Arnaud rode up in the royal colours, with his visor raised to show his expressionless features, he presented a magnificent image of chivalry and a striking feudal symbol that commanded respect.

‘He is superb!’ cried Ermengarde hoarsely at Catherine’s side. ‘He could be Michael the Archangel in person!’

But Saint-Rémy shook his head with a sceptical, uneasy expression on his face. ‘I wish that he were!’ he said. ‘The fleur-de-lys must not bite the dust or the King will be dishonoured! And see, Monseigneur has gone quite pale!’

This was indeed the case. Turning toward Philippe, Catherine saw that he had gone as white as a ghost. His face, between the black hood and doublet, was greyish-white tinged with green. He watched with clenched teeth as this magnificent and compelling image of the Sovereign he longed to repudiate rode toward him. His unblinking grey eyes were riveted chiefly on the fleur-de-lys on the helmet, an exact replica of the one that surmounted his own helmet when he wore armour. It was a bitter reproach to the Valois prince who had made the English welcome. But he had to keep control of himself.

With one accord, the two knights, whose horses were stood side by side with the ropes between, lowered their lances in the direction of the stands. Catherine was shaking in every limb. She clasped her hands so tightly together that she bruised them, a habitual action with her when she was deeply moved. A few places away from Philippe she saw a beautiful and magnificently-gowned young woman bend forward and fasten a pink-and-gold embroidered scarf to the Bastard’s lance, after first flashing a triumphant smile at the Duke. Jean de Rémy whispered :

‘That is the Dame de Presles! Monseigneur’s latest mistress! By giving his champion her colours to wear she indicates her hopes for her lover’s cause. She has borne Philippe a son and already sees herself as the future Duchess!’

Catherine would have given everything in the world to fasten her mousseline veil to Arnaud’s lance. But now her attention was drawn to the royal box, where something seemed to be happening. Princess Marguerite had risen to her feet and stood looking at Richemont as she asked: ‘Have I your permission, monseigneur?’

Her clear voice was heard by all present. Richemont nodded his head in assent, with an amused smile that creased his scarred face. With tears in her eyes, for she remembered the Princess’s tearful entreaties at the Hôtel de Saint-Pol, Catherine saw Marguerite lean forward and fasten her veil, which was of the same blue as the knight’s colours, to his lance with a tender, troubled smile.

‘May the Lord make you of good courage, Arnaud de Montsalvy. Your brother was my friend and your cause is a noble one! I shall pray for your success!’

Under his armour Arnaud inclined himself forward till he almost touched the horse’s neck.

‘I thank you, gracious lady! I will fight for love of you and the valiant captain who is to be your fortunate husband. I am proud of the honour and I will die rather than betray it! May God grant you a happiness as great as your own generous heart!’

Philippe of Burgundy’s face twitched nervously. In one moment he seemed to have aged ten years. Marguerite returned to her seat without looking at her brother. The two adversaries turned their backs on each other and rode off to the far ends of the lists, where their squires were preparing their lances. The lances were of ash wood and iron with sharp points, rather than the usual light wood ones used for practice. Catherine recognised de Xaintrailles’ red poll close to Arnaud’s squire. Later he would be trying a lance against the Sire de Rebecque, Vendôme’s second. The trumpets sounded again. Then, in a loud voice, the Herald Beaumont cried:

‘Cut the ropes and join battle when you will!’

The ropes fell to the ground, severed by the Pursuivants’ knives. The list was clear and the combat could now begin. With lances at the ready and shields held high, the two combatants thundered toward each other.

Catherine closed her eyes for a second. She felt as though the heavy thudding of the horses’ hooves, as they charged across the hard ground under their immense weight of armour, was thundering over her own heart. Everyone in the stands was holding his or her breath. Ermengarde placed her hand warningly over the girl’s.

‘Look! The sight is worthy of your attention. And a noblewoman must learn to look things in the face!’ Then she added, in an undertone, ‘Look now, for God’s sake! Your husband is looking straight at you!’ Catherine instantly opened her eyes.

There was a loud crash, and a great cry went up from all present. The lances had struck the shields right in the centre. The shock was violent. Both knights were thrown forward in their saddles but without, in either case, being unseated. They trotted off once more down the list to get fresh lances from their squires.

‘I think we shall see an excellent joust,’ Saint-Rémy remarked in his affected voice. ‘That was a splendid blow!’

Catherine glanced sidelong at him. Such sporting enthusiasm shocked her where men’s lives were at stake. She decided to retaliate. ‘How is it that you are not supporting the King of France, seeing that you were born in Abbeville?’ she asked him, deliberately seeking to wound him. But he refused to be drawn.

‘I did at one time,’ he replied tranquilly. ‘But Isabeau’s Court is hopelessly corrupt, and it is not certain anyway that the so-called Charles VII is the legitimate King of France. I prefer the Duke of Burgundy.’