The Agincourt Bride (15 page)

She edged onto the bench, but with her thick embroidered skirts bunched up around her there was scarcely room for three, so Luc happily squatted down on the floor with his bowl and stared up at her, mesmerised by the wealth of gold and gems that gleamed at her throat and brow.

‘That smells very good,’ she remarked, sniffing the steam rising from the small cauldron hanging over the fire. ‘Do you have a spoonful to spare, Mette?’

‘Take this, Mademoiselle,’ I said immediately offering her my own bowl. ‘I have not yet tasted it.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, accepting it with both hands. ‘I would not deprive you, but I can see there is more in the pot. I must admit I am hungry.’

Taking the horn spoon, she began to eat in small, delicate mouthfuls, then paused to beg Jean-Michel and me to sit down. ‘I shall wish I had not come if you are uncomfortable,’ she pleaded. I resumed my stool, but Jean-Michel could not instantly persuade himself to sit in the presence of royalty.

Not only was I astonished by Catherine’s arrival, I wondered at the reason for it. ‘I hope you were not waiting for me to attend you, Mademoiselle,’ I ventured, pouring ale from our jug into a wooden cup and passing it to her, adding apologetically. ‘I am sorry, we do not have wine. Since you were dining with the dauphin, I presumed you would not need me for several hours.’

Catherine took the ale with a smile of thanks and shrugged. ‘I went to the dauphin’s hall at the usual time, but dinner cannot be served until he is ready and that depends on when his high and mightiness deigns to get out of bed. Today he chose not to rise until after dark and I became impatient waiting, so I left. That is why I am hungry. I feel sorry for his courtiers, who sometimes have to wait hours for their meal and then may be kept at table late into the night while course after course is served. The dauphin insists on huge banquets every day of the year and he certainly
does
have wine. He also drinks some fiery spirit made from apples in Normandy. I don’t know what it is called but it smells vile.’

‘Ahem.’ Jean-Michel cleared his throat nervously, but his urge to impart knowledge when he had it overcame his shyness. ‘They call it
l’eau de vie
your highness – the water of life. I have drunk it in the taverns in Rouen but it makes you feel like death the next day.’

‘Perhaps that is why my brother stays in bed so long,’ frowned Catherine. ‘I wish he would not drink so much of it. He says he can rule France alone, but I do not know when he attends to any business if he sleeps until dusk.’

‘Ahem.’ Jean Michel coughed again and, gathering fresh courage, decided to resume his seat at last. ‘His grace sends messengers out in the dead of night,’ he confided. ‘We have to supply horses from the stable at a moment’s notice and couriers ride in at all hours too. It is well known that letters arriving in the early hours will be received, but for a courier to come at noon is fruitless.’

Catherine nodded. ‘He turns night into day. Let us hope he can turn the country around too, as he says he will. What do your fellow drivers think to that, Jean-Michel?’

A deep flush spread over my husband’s face and neck. ‘Well, highness …’ he began.

I cut in, knowing his forthright opinions and fearful of what he might say. ‘I would not pay heed to that bunch of oafs, Mademoiselle,’ I said. ‘These days anyone who drives a cart thinks he can run the country!’

Jean-Michel glared at me resentfully and blurted out his opinion without even coughing. ‘If you want the truth, they all think that war is inevitable.’

‘War with whom?’ Catherine asked. ‘With the English?’

‘Yes Mademoi – er … Madame,’ Jean-Michel nodded vigorously. ‘Yesterday a messenger came in from Boulogne and told us that strings of new hulks were sighted being towed across the Sleeve to England. King Henry has commissioned them from the shipyards of Zeeland to build up his royal fleet and there are no prizes for guessing why.’

‘But if that is the case, why has Louis sent the princes away? Surely he will need them to raise an army?’ Catherine’s expression was so flatteringly earnest that Jean-Michel became quite loquacious.

‘Some think he is blind to the English danger. That he reckons King Henry is a usurping dog who barks a lot but has no bite and will not dare to confront the might of France. So he can ignore what he calls “the petty English threat” and it will go away.’

Catherine leaned forward, looking intently at Jean-Michel. ‘If only some think that, what do the others think?’

My husband licked his lips anxiously. For several moments he seemed uncertain whether to answer her truthfully and then committed himself in a rush. ‘They think he is more fearful of Burgundy’s ruthless ambition and actually hopes to make an alliance with King Henry to cut the duke out. You may not know this, but some pretty important people left court this week – the king’s secretary and his confessor, the Archbishop of Bourges – not the sort to leave their posts without good reason. I helped to harness their baggage train. They were bound for England.’

‘You are right. I was not aware of that.’ Catherine’s gaze swung from Jean-Michel to me, her brow knitted. ‘No wonder the dauphin insists that I remain in Paris. It is no good sealing an alliance with a marriage if you are not in possession of the bride.’ She took a sip of ale and lifted her chin defiantly. ‘Well, all I can say is, if I
am
essential to my brother’s plans, the least he could do is get out of his bed to give me dinner!’

Had it not been for Jean-Michel’s stable-gossip, Catherine would never have known that she had once again been used as diplomatic bait in treaty negotiations. Nothing seemed to come of it however; a few weeks later the secret embassy came back as quietly as it had left, marked for us only by Jean-Michel’s report of the return of the horses to the stables.

Paris began to sizzle in the summer heat, but beyond the walls the uneasy truce between the two main rivals paid dividends. Freed from armies of Orleanists and Burgundians constantly skirmishing and foraging over the Île de France, the peasants were able to tend the crops unmolested and Jean-Michel came back from his supply runs describing fields golden with grain and orchards groaning with fruit. For once I did not feel the need to fret over his safety while he was gone.

Then, just as the harvest was in and the barns were full, we heard that King Henry had embarked in his new fleet of ships and sailed across the Sleeve with twelve thousand men, landing at the mouth of the Seine and surrounding the fortress port of Harfleur with guns and siege engines. Dining in the dauphin’s hall, Catherine heard the herald’s report and watched aghast as, instead of issuing a call-to-arms as she expected, the dauphin called for another barrel of
eau de vie
and applauded loudly as his fool sang a satirical ditty about ‘a motley band of English apes’.

‘Louis says that Harfleur is well-armed and well-supplied and will easily withstand any assault,’ she told me as I helped her to bed. ‘He is treating the siege as an entertainment and declares he will give twenty crowns to the knight who brings back the most amusing account of it. He refuses to see the need for a counter-attack, declaring that the English are led by a decadent baboon who will soon give up and go home.’ She stamped her foot in anger. ‘That “decadent baboon”, as my dear brother now calls him, is the same King Henry to whom, only a few weeks ago, he sent an archbishop to make peace and broke a marriage with me!’

September brought a violent change in the weather and it poured with rain for days on end. Contrary to the dauphin’s sanguine boasts, the English took Harfleur.

‘
Eau de Vie!
’ cried Catherine in despair. ‘It should be re-named
Eau de Folie.’
Constantly under its influence, Louis had ignored warnings that a bloody flux, which ravaged the English army, had also decimated the defenders of the beleaguered port. Starving, sick and discouraged by lack of royal support, the garrison had surrendered.

Paris slammed shut again as rumours began to spread that the English were sailing up the Seine. Suddenly heralds and messengers were galloping in all directions carrying the king’s
arrière-ban,
his
summons-to-arms, to all his scattered vassals. Meanwhile Paris was in uproar as weapons were distributed to civilian militias and the dauphin and Constable d’Albrêt led a hastily assembled force out of the city towards Picardy where the lieges were to muster. I found myself in a constant state of anxiety about Jean-Michel because every available charettier was employed supplying this army, driving to and from Paris with loads of arms and provisions through territories where the latest reports suggested that the English king was now leading his men on what the soldiers called a
chevauchée
– a ‘sack and burn’ march to wreak havoc and gather plunder.

The sellers of pardons, relics and amulets were doing a roaring trade ahead of what was seen as inevitable war with the English. On a rare trip into the centre of Paris, Alys and I visited one of their stalls and bought a St Christopher medal for Jean-Michel, hoping that the patron saint of travellers and wayfarers would guard him in his dangerous work. It was not made of precious metal, but we chose it because there was a slight fault in the casting which made the saint look like he was smiling. When Luc saw it at dinner time he even said he thought it looked like Jean-Michel himself. I decided that a glimpse of it on a chain around his neck might be a temptation to snatch-thieves, so during one of his brief overnight rests I sewed it into the padded lining of his boiled leather jacket, next to the heart.

‘Surely now we must attack,’ fretted Catherine. ‘Louis cannot let the English ravage Normandy without retaliation. We are certain to hear of some action soon.’

We were all frustrated by the lack of news for there was no one left in the palace to whom a herald might bring tidings. The queen was still at Melun and at the beginning of October even the king was led away on his pony to lend the stamp of regal authority to a council of war in Rouen. In Catherine’s salon the talk was all of knights and battle, and any royal retainer who set foot in the palace was asked for news of the gathering chivalry, even my Jean-Michel, who staggered off the wall-walk into our tower chamber one October night, utterly weary and soaking wet. He hardly had time to change into dry clothes before news of his arrival had filtered down to Catherine, who sent Agnes de Blagny hurrying upstairs.

‘The princess says she has a fire and food and would dearly like to hear your news,’ she begged Jean-Michel, ‘as would we all.’

The very idea of a common groom entering Catherine’s private salon would have sent Duchess Bonne into apoplexy, but Bonne was in Blois and Catherine was happy to turn a blind eye to protocol. Jean-Michel however, had a more conventional attitude and had to be persuaded to accept the invitation. When he did descend to the salon, his eyes grew wide at the opulence of the furnishings. I hid a smile as I saw him self-consciously trying to polish the scuffed toes of his bottins against his hose while he squirmed, awkward and tongue-tied, on the stool placed for him near the fire. Wisely, Catherine bade me pour him a large cup of wine and by the time he had halved its contents and consumed most of a venison pie, his confidence was sufficiently bolstered to set him off.

‘I have been sent back to fetch a new consignment of royal banners,’ he confided. ‘The dauphin is worried that men who have so recently been fighting each other will be confused about who is friend and who is foe. He wants every French captain to add the fleur-de-lis to his standard.’

‘Will there definitely be a battle then?’ asked Catherine eagerly. ‘What size of force has the dauphin managed to raise?’

Jean-Michel scratched his head. ‘I could not say, Madame. I drive between different camps but I do not see them all. And there is another thing. While I was delivering a load of crossbow bolts to Count d’Albrêt’s camp, Artois Herald rode in to warn the constable that if he moved troops any nearer to the Flemish border, the Duke of Burgundy would regard it as an act of aggression against his domains and respond accordingly. The duke’s army is poised between the dauphin and the English and you could toss a coin as to which side he will join.’

‘Burgundy will serve Burgundy as always,’ observed Catherine acidly. She, like me, still came up in goose bumps at the mere mention of that name, although fortunately the devil duke had not set foot in Paris for over seven years. ‘What about the English army, Jean-Michel? How big is that?’

‘Well, they left a garrison at Harfleur and sent a few thousand sick and injured back to England, so now they reckon King Henry has maybe eight thousand men,’ replied Jean-Michel upending his cup. ‘Not nearly enough to withstand the might of France.’

‘Perhaps Henry reckoned the dauphin wouldn’t be able to rally the might of France,’ said Catherine. ‘Heaven knows, we all wondered about that!’

‘They say the English hoped to make a quick dash for Calais, gathering what plunder they could, but they were caught short after the constable cut all the Somme River crossings. Now, unless Burgundy takes England’s part, they say King Henry is caught like a rat in a trap. Around the camp fires our men are laying wagers that he will either be dead or a prisoner by Crispinmas.’

Catherine was intrigued by this forecast. ‘King Henry a prisoner …’ she mused. ‘Perhaps they might bring him to Paris and we will all get a look at him. Just think, he might have been my husband. They say he is handsome but stern. I wonder if he ever smiles? Do pour Jean-Michel more wine, Mette.’ She waved me forward with the flagon, adding, ‘When will the dauphin attack, do you suppose?’

I poured a little more wine with some trepidation. The cup was a large one and it was stronger drink than Jean-Michel was used to. His cheeks were already flushed and his speech a little slurred. ‘Not before I return with the royal banners anyway,’ he declared grandly, taking another large gulp. ‘A squire I met on the road told me that by the rules of chivalry, King Henry has been allowed to cross the Somme so that the two sides can face each other on dry ground in Picardy. Not that anywhere is truly dry after all this rain.’