The Agincourt Bride (20 page)

Bonne lifted her veil to dab at her eyes with the kerchief. ‘That is the problem, Madame,’ she sniffed delicately. ‘We do not have time. I must confide to you that I am
enceinte
and expect the child in early summer. If you do not help me, I fear the heir of Orleans may never see his father.’

I thought her bold assumption that her child would be a son and heir was typical of Bonne, who would naturally expect fate to bend to her will in such a matter.

Catherine beamed at her visitor, ignoring her final remark. ‘Congratulations! How fortunate to have the consolation of a child to soften the hardship of your separation. God has swiftly blessed your marriage.’

‘Yes, but you see how urgently I need your help!’ A note of irritation crept into Bonne’s voice, which I had an inkling would not assist her suit. ‘I am certain that a plea from you on my behalf will move Monmouth to change his mind. After all, he faced the might of France to claim you as his bride.’

Her final point did not go down well with Catherine, whose smile faded. ‘If that is the case, then why has he not done so? To the victor the spoils, is that not how it goes?’ She sat back in her chair and paused to arrange her hands neatly in her lap. ‘Instead, King Henry has returned to England, presumably to gather reinforcements for another invasion. Which implies that our French territories are rather more important to him than marriage to me, do you not think?’

In the blink of an eye the body language of both young ladies had changed from companionable to combative.

Bonne did not immediately respond, but her previously restless hands became clenched and still. ‘Nevertheless, the world knows that he covets you as his bride,’ she said at length, with a forced smile. ‘I am certain that if you were to make a plea for my lord’s release, Henry of England would be sure to grant it.’

There was a prolonged silence while we waited for Catherine’s response. ‘I suspect you may be wrong about that,’ she said slowly, ‘but I am afraid we will never know. Only queens can beg indulgences of kings. The dauphin has made very clear his trenchant opposition to any territorial claim by the English on French lands and therefore there is no question of my making any plea to King Henry. I am sorry, Bonne.’

Shocked by such an outright refusal, Bonne launched herself from her stool to her knees, snatching so violently at the hem of Catherine’s gown that her kerchief fell and lodged in a fold of the skirt. ‘But we are friends Catherine!’ the duchess cried, her voice rising. ‘I helped you when you first came to court. In common humanity, how can you refuse me this small favour in return?’

Catherine’s reply was delivered in a calm even voice. ‘Because it is not a small favour, Bonne. Even if your father’s agents could carry a letter containing such a request to England, I would not write it. France and England are at war. I would be treating with the enemy. It would be disloyal to my father, the king, and to my brother, the dauphin, and it would undermine his cause, which is to preserve the crown and territories of France at all costs.’

Bonne released her hold abruptly and sat back on her heels, but Catherine went on in a firm voice. ‘I am sorry if you are angry. I would help you if I could, but this is not a personal matter, it is a matter of state.’

Seeing Bonne struggle to rise, Catherine leaned forward to help her and, catching sight of the abandoned kerchief, scooped it up and held it out. ‘I am truly pleased for you about the coming child, Bonne. I hope news of it may reach the duke and give him cheer. Let us pray that King Henry is more chivalrous than at present appears and will release your lord before too long.’

Bonne snatched the kerchief and jerked herself upright, rejecting Catherine’s assistance. ‘Do not forget that your ancestor, King Jean, remained a prisoner of the English for many years,’ she snapped, all evidence of weeping vanished. ‘My son could be a grown man before he sees his father. I hope you do not live to regret your decision, Madame.’ Somehow she achieved a curtsey, stiff with repressed anger.

As Bonne turned for the door, her glance briefly registered my presence, retired among the billowing black mourning drapes. ‘I see you still keep a common servant among your intimate companions, Madame. Does the queen know of this, I wonder?’ The question was delivered over her shoulder, but it made its mark.

Catherine caught my eye and gave me a rueful shrug, of little reassurance to one who in the past had only narrowly escaped the consequences of Bonne’s wrath. Now that the princess no longer basked in the queen’s approval, how easy might it be for Bonne to achieve my dismissal in revenge for Catherine’s rejection of her plea?

R
ain had persisted through the autumn and the paths around the palace were consistently muddy. On the morning following Bonne’s visit, I accompanied Catherine to the king’s chapel and waited outside in a cloister to help her fasten the pattens that kept her feet above the mire. Even after the queen returned to the Hôtel de St Pol, Catherine had continued to hear Mass daily with her father and, on this occasion, I was astonished to see her emerge at his side, apparently engaged in conversation with him. The king was smiling and animated and fashionably turned out in a luxurious black fur-lined houppelande, wearing a magnificent gold collar around his shoulders and a modish turban hat with an erect folded ‘comb’ at the crown. He looked suitably regal except for the cup and ball toy he carried, with which he must have been distracting himself during the service. I could not hear what passed between them, but I saw him take Catherine’s hand at one point and swing it playfully to and fro like an excited boy. I noticed a plainly dressed man hovering discreetly in the background, clearly an assiduous guardian, sharp-eyed for any change in the king’s condition.

After the king left her to enter his house, Catherine came over to me, almost skipping with excitement. ‘Did you see, Mette? My father spoke to me!’ She was pink with excitement, her eyes wide and shining. ‘He asked me where I lived and if I played ball games and told me he liked my brooch.’ In her beaver hat she was wearing a pin shaped like a shield with an enamelled fleur-de-lis in the centre. As she spoke, a frown creased her brow. ‘He did not know my name and when I told him, he ignored what I said and called me Odette, which was strange.’

I drew a sharp breath as I knelt to fasten the wooden pattens over her soft slippers. The name may have been strange to her, but to almost everyone else in the palace it would have been instantly familiar as that of the king’s mistress, Odette Champdivers, who for the last eight years had remained commendably faithful and discreet throughout her lover’s mercurial alterations of mind and character and, rumour had it, even borne him a daughter. So far Catherine had been spared knowledge of this relationship and, fortunately, at that moment a royal page appeared carrying a folded note bearing the queen’s seal and addressed to Catherine, which she immediately opened and read. When I heard its content I almost fell off the iron hoops of my own pattens.

‘I am required to attend the queen after she has dined,’ Catherine revealed, refolding the parchment. ‘And she also requests me to bring my nurse. You are to meet the queen at last, Mette.’

Only days before, I had been hoping there would be just such a summons to relieve Catherine’s depression, but now I was terrified by the instruction that I, too, should attend the queen’s court. Count Bernard had established himself in such a position of power that, however much she might secretly favour Burgundy’s cause, Queen Isabeau was bound to heed any complaint made by Armagnac’s daughter.

‘I – I am honoured, Mademoiselle,’ I managed to stutter. ‘Was any reason given for this – er – privilege?’ I rose, pressing my hands together to stop them shaking.

‘No, none at all,’ she replied, glancing around at courtiers still leaving the chapel and passing within earshot. ‘Perhaps she thinks it is time she met the woman who nursed her youngest daughter – and there is no doubt that it
is.
’ She laid a hand on my arm, fingering the sleeve of my plain-spun bodice. ‘It is unfortunate that household servants were not issued with black clothes after Agincourt,’ she observed. ‘It would not be wise to go to court clad as you are. You had better see if you can find some mourning garb in the wardrobe to fit you.’ Ten months at her mother’s court had taught her that appearance counted for everything.

Given the difference in our sizes, what she suggested was not an easy task and by the time I had selected the loosest and plainest of her black gowns and got Alys to make a few necessary adjustments to the seams, I was almost sick with nervous panic. The one item of mourning that had been issued to servants was a black coif and mine covered my head and neck. When I had donned a clean white linen wimple and buckled on my belt with its heavy iron chatelaine, I must have looked more like a Dominican nun than a nurse. Nun – nurse – whatever I looked like, I felt like death, for I knew that just one word from the queen could mean banishment from her daughter’s side. The agonising prospect of that merely added to the burden of anxiety I already felt for Jean-Michel.

From Catherine’s tower it was a short walk to the Queen’s House via a cloister and a rear turret stair. No clumsy pattens were necessary and by this route we were able to enter the great hall behind the dais, saving us, God be thanked, a public parade down the length of the room to reach the throne. The meal was over and the boards had been removed, so a few dozen courtiers were standing in groups – nobles and their ladies and a sprinkling of clerics – talking quietly together. In the background subdued music wafted from a band of minstrels hidden in the gallery above the screen. At this time of deep sorrow there was none of the noise and bustle of entertainment for which Queen Isabeau’s court had always been famous, so the arrival of Madame of France provided a welcome diversion. Muted conversations ceased abruptly and then rapidly resumed, our presence providing a new talking-point. As we sank to our knees I hid at the back of the small group of her ladies while the princess moved forward to make her obeisance to her mother.

My first glimpse of the assembled court made me deeply grateful to Catherine for lending me the mourning gown, for I realised that the horror of Agincourt had plunged everyone into black, even the stewards and pages who, in normal circumstances, would be in gaudy liveries of royal blue and gold. However, amongst all this crow-like drabness the queen was transcendent, seated high on her throne under a silver-tasselled black canopy, her breast glittering with diamonds and jet and her headdress a startling gold-horned contraption veiled in shimmering black gauze. I noticed that she did not offer Catherine a seat, although a lady wearing lesser-horned headgear and only slightly more discreet jewellery, whom I took to be Marguerite of Burgundy, occupied a stool close beside her.

‘We have been too long without your company, Catherine.’ Queen Isabeau’s voice rang clear into the rafters, loud enough for the entire assembled company to hear. Despite thirty years at the French court, she still spoke the language with a pronounced German accent. ‘Illness and tragedy has kept us apart, but families should support each other in times of trial, as our dear daughter the dauphiness has so loyally demonstrated.’ At this point a look of complicity passed between the two horned ladies, which spoke more about the present direction of the queen’s favour than any words.

Catherine bowed her head. ‘Indeed, your grace. It is good to see you back at the Hôtel de St Pol. I hope your health is improved.’

‘A little thank you, but I suffer,’ declared the queen mournfully. ‘I suffer for France and for all our bereaved families and I pray for them.’ Hands clasped in demonstration of this piety, she continued with a swift and disconcerting change of subject. ‘Yesterday I received the Duchess of Orleans as, I believe, did you.’

‘Yes, Madame,’ nodded Catherine, still standing below the dais and having to raise her voice to be heard. ‘I found her naturally distraught at the imprisonment of her husband, but she gave me the happy news that she is with child, which I am sure will bring much-needed joy to the house of Orleans.’

‘And she asked if you would intercede with the King of England for the release of the duke, did she not? – Your ladies may rise, by the way.’

As we got to our feet, the queen swept us with her gaze and I felt her sharp scrutiny like the prick of a dagger.

‘She did ask me to intercede, your grace, but I was unable to agree.’ Catherine’s chin jutted as if she was expecting censure and she was clearly surprised at the queen’s positive response.

‘So I heard and I am glad. France cannot be seen to beg anything from England. However, I am bound to observe that King Henry’s denial of a ransom to our nephew of Orleans shows a sad lack of royal dignity. He would do well to remember that he may have won a battle, but he is far from achieving the prizes he sought to gain by war.’

All were aware that the queen intended Catherine to recognise herself as one of those unredeemed prizes. ‘Indeed, Madame,’ she agreed. ‘Naturally I sympathised with the duchess, for she is very unhappy, but I fear my refusal also made her very angry.’

‘Yes, it did and we have all heard about it!’ exclaimed her mother grimly. ‘Did you bring your nurse with you as I asked?’

Only Catherine and I knew that this question was less out of joint than it sounded.

‘Yes, Madame. Have I your permission to present her?’

At the queen’s brief nod, Catherine turned and beckoned me forward with an encouraging smile. Offering a silent prayer, I stepped up to the dais and I felt a jolt of surprise as Catherine used a name I had never before heard on her lips.

‘Your grace, may I present to you Madame Guillaumette Lanière.’

Bless her, I thought. God bless her for making me sound grander than the bourgeois baker’s daughter I really am.

I hid my work-worn hands in my sleeves as I knelt before the throne. My back was to the room, but I could hear a wave of murmurings from the crowd of curious onlookers. Close up, I could see that the queen’s cheeks were smoothed alabaster white with paint, bringing into stark contrast the eyes which had scarcely faded from the vivid turquoise I had found so remarkable in the old rose garden ten years ago.