The Agincourt Bride (48 page)

I was aware that Catherine found her meetings with the queen hard to bear, but my heart sank when she asked me to accompany her on a private visit to her mother’s chamber. It was usually Agnes’ role to carry her train, for the queen expected all who paid court to wear formal dress, even if they were only coming from the next room.

‘Are you sure you want me, Mademoiselle?’ I asked, hoping she would see my reluctance and change her mind. ‘I am clumsy with trains. I may trip you.’

‘I do not want you for your lightness of touch, Mette,’ she smiled. ‘I want the queen to see you in your courtier’s role, and also there is invariably a hidden agenda to my mother’s summons. A shrewd witness is always useful.’

Despite my misgivings, I must confess that it was a memorable experience simply to enter the queen’s chamber for, to my great surprise, it was alive with birdsong and the flutter of wings. As was to be expected, it was a large room containing a fabulously draped bed in one corner, the usual array of chairs and stools scattered about and a series of tables set against the panelled walls, upon which stood a dozen or more beautifully wrought cages containing birds of various colours and types, most of which were singing their little hearts out. I had heard of the queen’s passion for songbirds, but I had thought it only extended to one or two pet finches. In fact, her chamber could more accurately be described as an aviary containing scores of birds, some of which had never before been seen out of Africa.

Michele, Duchess of Burgundy, was present, sitting in a deep cushioned chair beside her mother’s throne-like seat. Both royal ladies were magnificently attired, as brightly clad as the feathered creatures in the cages around them, and all their glitter and the frenetic singing and fluttering of the birds combined to create an atmosphere of nervous intensity. Even the ladies-in-waiting, supposedly relaxing with their embroidery, sat in watchful silence. Having made her curtsy, Catherine took the chair on the other side of the queen and I arranged her train carefully at her feet.

‘Your birds are in fine voice this evening, your grace,’ Catherine remarked, raising her own voice above the avian chorus. ‘Have you some new recruits?’

‘No. They sing loudly to repel interlopers,’ replied the queen, staring pointedly at me as I retired backwards to the benches by the door, where Michele’s lady in waiting perched placidly. ‘Why have you brought your nurse, Catherine? Are you ill?’

‘No, Madame,’ Catherine responded, flashing an apologetic smile at me. ‘You may remember that I am eighteen now and no longer need a nurse. I have appointed Madame Lanière my keeper of robes.’

‘Keeper of robes!’ echoed the Queen in a scathing tone. ‘What on earth is that, pray? It sounds like a garderobe!’

‘Keeper of the garderobe!’ cried Michele derisively, ‘how appropriate.’

The queen gave one of her hearty laughs. ‘Ha, ha! Extraordinary! Next you will be appointing a Guardian of the Latrine! Ha, ha!’

Catherine frowned. ‘Is our conversation to remain at this level, your grace, or is there some other reason for this summons?’ she enquired in a sweet and sour tone.

The queen grew serious, leaned forwards and gave her a searching look. ‘As your mother, I want to be certain that you are properly prepared for your marriage, Catherine, because King Henry is on his way. He left Rouen last week and has joined up with two of his brothers to come to Troyes to sign the treaty. So if you have any questions, you should take advantage of this tête-à-tête to ask them. There will not be many opportunities for raising delicate topics in private.’

Catherine’s eyes swept the chamber. I knew what she was thinking. There were two pages tending the bird-cages with bags of seed and water-jugs, another was pouring wine into goblets and there were at least eight ladies-in-waiting arranged about the room. The situation was hardly tête-à-tête.

‘How kind of you to offer your motherly advice, Madame,’ she said earnestly, her gaze returning to engage the queen’s. ‘What questions would you suggest I might ask in the “privacy” of your chamber?’

‘My goodness, Catherine!’ exclaimed her mother impatiently, apparently unaware of the underlying note of irony in her daughter’s enquiry. ‘Can you not think for yourself? Are you familiar with the obligations of marriage, for example?

‘I discussed that very subject only recently with Michele,’ Catherine answered blithely, turning her smile on her sister. ‘Did she not tell you? We have been much together and have had plenty of chance to talk, have we not, sister?’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Michele with a slight frown. ‘And I have expressed concern to the queen that you are too frivolous in your approach to this marriage.’

Queen Isabeau nodded complacently. ‘There you are, Catherine. It is no light matter to become the bride of a king and I should know. You are chosen to be the pure and loyal mother of his children and his comfort and confidante, which means that much is expected of you. We – your sister and I – worry that you are not ready for these great expectations.’

I could almost hear the cogs slotting into place in Catherine’s mind, as they did in mine. Now we knew the reason for this unusual summons. The queen was worried that Catherine would jeopardise the final and crucial stage of treaty by not presenting the image of the biddable, compliant virgin that they thought King Henry required.

There was no mistaking the sharp edge of anger in the princess’ voice as she responded. ‘Believe me, your grace, I have taken this marriage seriously for five years; ever since you brought me out of the convent as a girl of thirteen to dangle before the English king. I have met numerous English envoys, sat for successive tedious portraits and been paraded before King Henry as if our betrothal were already accomplished, only to be disappointed and humiliated time and again as negotiations faltered and failed. I think it could be said that my reputation, my integrity, my whole future rides on the success of this treaty and its resolution with my marriage, as I am only too aware; so I do not understand how anyone could believe that I find the matter frivolous. Actually, the fact that I still laugh at all is almost entirely due to Madame Lanière and my group of merry ladies, who keep me from becoming too despondent at the length of time I have spent in the hurly-burly of the marriage market.’

With her breast heaving, the queen burst into speech as soon as Catherine finished. ‘I hope you are not accusing
me
of being dilatory in my pursuit of the marriage!’ she exclaimed. ‘I have done more than could be expected of any mother to bring you the best match in Europe. Am I to be met with gross ingratitude for my pains?’

At this outburst I clenched my fists so anxiously that my nails dug into my palms, but Catherine had long ago got the measure of her mother’s ability to manipulate a situation. ‘Have I ever expressed one iota of ingratitude, Madame?’ she enquired, valiantly withholding all anger from her voice. ‘I am intensely aware of the importance of this treaty and its significance for the future of France and I fully intend to be the perfect bride for the victor of Agincourt and to be his loyal consort and the successful mother of his children, if God wills.’ With a flicker of her hand she crossed herself, reinforcing the seriousness of her declaration, and then clasped her hands together in her lap. ‘Now, may I hear more about the arrangements for my wedding? Has a date yet been set?’

The following day Catherine asked me to meet her after Mass and bring her a plain cloak and one of my old servant’s coifs. ‘I want to visit my god-daughter,’ she said.

Among the townsfolk Catherine’s celebrity was now sky-high but, with a basket over her arm, the coif pulled down over her brow and an enveloping cloak, she could visit the Rue de l’Aiguille without being recognised. Her namesake was screaming when they arrived, but Catherine quickly crooned the baby to sleep, and seeing the young mother was very tired, insisted that Jacques hire a servant or a wet nurse. ‘And you should do it now,’ she said, removing a purse she had carried in her basket. ‘There is gold here for my god-daughter’s dower. I believe I will soon be leaving Troyes and I want to ensure that she is well provided for. Please use some to hire the help you need.’ She placed the purse on the tailor’s table.

Jacques bent his knee beside her chair. ‘Thank you, Highness,’ he said warmly. ‘I will do as you say. I have been at fault, concentrating on completing all these orders and not noticing how tired Alys has been getting.’ Catherine smiled indulgently at Jacques’ fervent gratitude, but then she said thoughtfully, ‘Actually, do not hire a servant, Jacques. I have an even better idea. Why do all three of you not come and stay at the palace for a while? I would be delighted if you would design and construct my bridal gown and all the necessary finery that a new queen might need.’

She suddenly laughed, as if amazed at her own cleverness. ‘It is the perfect solution to all our problems!’

I
n the cathedral of St Pierre and St Pol, sunbeams pierced the clerestory, throwing shafts of light across the sanctuary and illuminating the seven people who stood before the high altar; the Archbishop of Sens in his gold-edged cope, King Henry of England supported by his two brothers, John, Duke of Bedford, and Thomas, Duke of Clarence, and Catherine, supported by her mother Queen Isabeau and Philippe, Duke of Burgundy. Gathered in the choir was a mixed group of courtiers and retainers, lesser clergy, lawyers and clerks, who had all just witnessed the final signing of the historic peace accord that would thereafter be known as the Treaty of Troyes. After the signing Henry and Catherine had moved into position facing each other at the altar, their faces solemn, their eyes locked, waiting to begin the betrothal ceremony. It was the second time they had met.

Catherine had wanted me to be there so I stood with Agnes and the maids of honour, craning my neck to see through a small gap between two buxom knight’s ladies who kept putting their heads together to whisper comments, infuriatingly blocking my view. I could hardly believe that after five long years of hopes and fears, triumphs and miseries, my princess was finally standing before her king, ready to plight her troth. I wondered how she felt. Well, no, I
knew
how she felt, yet she managed to keep a faint smile on her lips and showed no sign of a tremor when the archbishop took her hand to join it with Henry’s for the betrothal vow. As usual, the ceremony was conducted in Latin but even I understood the question ‘
Donec velit esse desponsata viro hoc?
Do you give yourself willingly to be betrothed to this man?’ And Catherine’s emphatic answer: ‘
Imo ego.
I do.’

The betrothal kiss was accompanied by a soaring psalm from singers positioned in the screen gallery and a muted murmur of approval from courtiers and clergy too polite to cheer. I watched their lips join and wondered if Catherine experienced the same surge of feeling as she had during the unexpectedly passionate kiss Henry had given her at the Pré du Chat. She would be disappointed if not.

Similar in sense and effect though the vows were, this was not a wedding, and after the ceremony was concluded the participants retreated to opposite sides of the altar. Two were not yet one. The main players on this occasion were those who had signed the treaty; so it was Queen Isabeau who paraded first down the nave, smiling archly between King Henry and Philippe of Burgundy, followed by Catherine and the archbishop and the two English dukes. I felt deflated, like someone who has come second in a race they thought they had won. It was a diplomatic event rather than a festive occasion. A banquet would follow to celebrate the treaty, but since the Church forbade weddings during Pentecost, the marriage would not take place until a fortnight’s time, on the day after Trinity Sunday. Perhaps then there would be merriment.

At the banquet Catherine sat, apparently serenely, between King Henry and his brother Thomas of Clarence, while sandwiched between King Henry and the Duke of Burgundy. Queen Isabeau was more cheerful and animated than I had seen her for years. King Charles, as usual these days, was absent. I sat beside Agnes, both of us on edge.

‘The Queen looks like the cat that got the cream,’ I remarked,
sotto voce.
‘Does she see this as her finest hour, do you think?’

Agnes pursed her lips. ‘She is seated between two handsome, powerful men in the prime of their life. Even though she is nearly fifty, that still makes her flirt like a courtesan!’

I looked at Agnes with surprise for she rarely passed adverse comment on anyone. ‘King Henry does not seem dismayed,’ I said. ‘He has hardly exchanged a word with the princess and gives all his attention to the queen and the duke. If Catherine allowed it to show, I would say she was hurt and angry and I would not blame her.’

‘The Duke of Clarence keeps her well engaged, though,’ Agnes pointed out. ‘He is said to be the most charming of the four brothers and he is working that charm on Catherine.’

I sighed and pulled a face. ‘Yes, but it is not Thomas of Clarence who stirs Catherine’s blood. I think we will have trouble boosting her spirits tonight.’

As I predicted, Catherine made her feelings about King Henry very clear at bedtime. She remained composed and gracious while her young ladies played their part in the disrobing, removing her heavy gown and mantle and carrying off the wreath of red roses she had worn on her headdress as a compliment to Henry’s Lancastrian blood, to which in my sight her betrothed had not given so much as a glance, but as soon as they departed leaving only Agnes and myself, Catherine leapt up from her dressing stool and began to pace up and down the bedchamber, giving vent to the full blast of her Valois temper.

‘What is the
matter
with that man? When I first met him at the Pré du Chat he could not have been more attentive, gazing into my eyes, asking my opinion, listening to my views. Afterwards, if you remember, he sent me the priceless Venetian mirror, presumably because he thought my appearance worthy of reflection. Now he favours me with barely a glance, turns his back on me at table and returns my smiles with frowns. Thomas of Clarence was kindness itself, trying to make up for his brother’s discourtesy, but it was he who delivered the unkindest cut of all. Henry has asked Clarence to bring his wife from Rouen to teach me how to be a queen! Oh, he did not put it exactly like that, but the intention is clear. Henry does not think I know how to behave. How dare he imply that
I
am gauche, when he has such appalling manners himself?’