The Last Plantagenets (41 page)

One story has it that Owen found his way to Herefordshire disguised as a shepherd and reached the home of one of his married daughters at Monnington and remained there quietly, even secretly, until his death.

The story most often believed is that the rebel chief disappeared from the sight of all who had followed him or had known him and was never heard of again.

T
HE reign of Henry V was one of the shortest in English history—nine years, filled with great military achievements and both colored and dignified by a display of justice, moderation, and fairness in all respects. As a man Henry was deeply religious, chaste, and honorable, which set him apart from most kings. He was free of the besetting sin of the Plantagenets, extravagance. In fact, there was a frugality in everything he did, and it was only in the equipment and maintenance of armies in the field that he was ready to draw heavily on parliamentary support. The wildness he had exhibited as a prince, which was due in no small degree to his lack of money (Henry IV was always poor and his son was supposed to draw his income from a Wales in arms which paid not a shilling in tribute), fell from him like an outworn cloak.

As a general he must be ranked above the great Plantagenets who had preceded him: Richard of the Lion-Heart, Edward I, Edward III, and the Black Prince. There was brilliant strategy in the Agincourt campaign and in the conquest of Normandy which followed.

Everything about him seems admirable. As a negotiator he was direct and in no sense devious. He did not hide behind subterfuges or resort to vague half promises. It was said that he would listen in silence to the reasoning of those about him and finally say either, “It is impossible,” or “It shall be done.” When he had taken a stand, he remained firm and resolute in it.

It is unfortunate that he was so obsessed with the need to recover all the ground lost halfway in the Hundred Years War. This left him with little time to tend the legislative and administrative fields at home.
If he had given himself instead to peace-time pursuits, what straight and enduring furrows he would have plowed!

Had he lived longer he would undoubtedly have been acclaimed the greatest of English kings. Many historians so rank him. All agree that he was the best loved.

These nine brilliant, incisive years, these years so full of accomplishments and so free of chivalrous nonsense and wasteful ceremony, are chiefly remembered for two things: the remarkable victory at Agincourt which left France prostrate at Henry’s feet and the king’s romance with a daughter of the French king, who is called in history the Fair Kate. There is a temptation to write about Agincourt, because it was fought so boldly and aggressively and because there was better strategic planning back of it than in any of the earlier English victories. But even allowing for Henry’s boldness and his cool foresight it was a case of the French losing the battle rather than the English winning it. For thirty years the single-minded nobles of France had been restrained from offering battle and it is probable that, if Henry had been disposed to load his army back on his ships and depart, they would have been ready enough to see him go. But Henry had crossed the Sleeve to fight, and so, after much marching and countermarching along the fords of the Somme, they came face to face at last on ground well suited to battle within sight of the castle walls of Agincourt.

The French had learned something from their defeats at Crécy and Poictiers, but not enough. They took up their stations along the field the night before, at least 50,000 of them as against the English 8000 to 10,000, and they were supremely confident. But they still believed in the mounted knight and there was so much cavalry around the castle that the ground was reduced to pulp by the hoofs of the horses. It is even true that many of the young knights sat all night in their saddles so their shining armor would not have a fleck of mud when the time came to ride into battle; and the next day their weary steeds floundered and went down or turned and bolted in mad panic into the thick ranks behind. In contrast Henry ordered his knights to dismount and fight on foot, a demeaning innovation in the eyes of the Gallic foe. He even arranged his thin line so his foot soldiers would provide some guard for the all-essential archers. The French still lacked archers to compete with the stout English longbow men.

The French died by the thousands, the English by the hundreds, and again it was a great English victory. But all this is familiar ground to readers of the Plantagenet story. And so—better to choose the romance of Henry of England and Katherine of France.

King Henry
: Now fie upon my false French! By mine honor, in true English, I love thee, Kate; by which honor I dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the poor and untempering effect of my visage. Now, beshrew my father’s ambition! He was thinking of civil wars when he got me; wherefore was I created with a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that when I come to woo ladies, I fright them. But, in faith, Kate, the elder I wax the better I shall appear; my comfort is that old age, that ill layer-up of beauty, can do no more spoil upon my face: thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better. And therefore tell me, most fair Katherine, will you have me? Put off your maiden blushes; avouch the thoughts of your heart with the looks of an empress; take me by the hand and say,—Harry of England, I am thine: which word thou shalt no sooner bless mine ear withal but I will tell thee aloud, England is thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Henry Plantagenet is thine—Come, your answer in broken music—for thy voice is music, thy English broken; therefore, queen of all, Katherine, break thy mind to me in broken English—wilt thou have me? Katherine: Dat is as it sall please de
roi mon pere
.

Thus, in
King Henry V
, Shakespeare describes the wooing of the Fair Kate by the forthright English king.

But the story begins much earlier, dating back to the day when Prince Henry first saw Isabella of France. It was soon after the deposition and death of Richard, and the twelve-year-old girl, who had thus become a widow before being a wife, was in the depths of despair. In spite of her grief, it was apparent that she was becoming a slender, graceful, and delightful-looking girl. The prince was an impressionable youth of thirteen and he stood tongue-tied in the presence of the little queen. Later he informed his father that he wanted to marry Isabella as soon as they were old enough.

It happened that this was completely in accord with the ideas of the new king, who was anxious to make a lasting peace with France. The French government was agreeable to the union, because Charles VI was falling with greater frequency into his spells of insanity and the country was torn by the struggles between two political parties, the Burgundians and the Armagnacs. But they failed to reckon with the firm spirit of the girl widow of the dead English king. Isabella had acquired a real affection for her handsome spouse. His defeat and death had broken her heart (or so she believed), but without breaking her spirit. She hated the new king who had been responsible for Richard’s death and she would
have nothing to do with any member of the Lancastrian family. The roses mounted in her cheeks, her eyes flashed angrily, and she gave her answer with one word—No!

Young Henry was so obsessed with her delicate beauty that he begged his father to persist. Isabella was approached several times, but her answer never varied. No, no! Finally she was allowed to return to France, without her dowry or even her personal jewelry, and later married a prince of the Orléans line for whom she felt a deep affection. She died within a year in childbirth. It is doubtful if the prince ever outgrew his infatuation for her. It was a day of great sadness for him when he learned of her death.

But there were three younger sisters in the French royal family, Michelle, Marie, and Katherine, and he decided that one of them might fill this vacant place in his heart. Michelle, first, but she was promised to the son of the Duke of Burgundy. Marie, then; but Marie was taking the vows in a convent. Well, it must be the youngest of them, Katherine. He received reports about her and even had a portrait sent to him. She was an attractive girl, even though she seemed to him not as beautiful as his first love, Isabella; but she had charms of her own.

When he had been crowned King of England, Henry entered suit for the hand of Katherine. His demands seemed to the French wildly exorbitant. He was demanding that they give him Normandy, all the territories which Eleanor of Aquitaine brought with her when she married Henry II of England, and a dowry of 2,000,000 crowns. France wanted peace, but what grounds had this young and untried king, the son of a usurper, moreover, to make such demands? Once again Henry suffered the mortification of having his suit rejected.

It is doubtful if Henry knew of the conditions under which the three daughters were being raised. The princess who had been sent to France on approval was now serving as a queen on sufferance. As the king was in the grip of his malady most of the time, Isabeau gave full rein to her lascivious tendencies. She saw to it that the three children were raised in the Hôtel de St. Pol, where their father was kept during his mad spells. The royal finances were always low, so Queen Isabeau found it difficult to maintain herself in the full splendor she desired. Little of the royal revenue was used for the unhappy household at the St. Pol. The servants, who were not under any suitable form of supervision,
saw to it that they themselves had plenty of food, even when there was not enough for the children. One dress had to be used in turn by all three, which was particularly hard for Katherine, who received it after a second alteration. It is even said that they had no changes of linen. The insane king was in worse stead. Kept in a dark and closely shuttered room, he attacked with maniacal fury any servants or doctors who attempted to enter. He was left alone and so went for months at a time without any change of clothing or a bath. The apartments of the royal children were some distance from this chamber of horrors but they could hear his wailing and screaming and his bickering with the hostile visitors he fancied about him.

On one occasion he regained his senses unexpectedly and was stricken with horror at his own condition, and even more so when he saw the misery of the princesses. Wine had been brought him in a gold goblet and he ordered that it should be sold to buy suitable clothes for his daughters.

Perhaps unaware of the true state of affairs at St. Pol, or unconcerned about it, Queen Isabeau continued on terms of more or less open intimacy with the Duke of Orléans, who was said to be the most handsome man in all France and the greatest philanderer. One night in Paris, after supping with the queen, he was returning at a late hour. It was a dark night and, as always, dangers lurked in the unlighted streets. The duke was accompanied by two squires only and had sent a handful of servants ahead on foot to light the way with torches. Suddenly a party of armed men emerged from concealment behind a house known as
Image de Notre-Dame
and surrounded him.

“Death! Death!” they cried.

“I am the Duke of Orléans!” he protested.

The servants had dropped their torches and fled for safety. In the small light thus left, the assassins dragged the debonair duke from his saddle and hacked him to death on the cobbled street.

Queen Isabeau fled from Paris, knowing that her affair with the duke had been one reason for his murder. She remained at Melun four months and then returned with an escort of 3000 men, taking up her residence at the Louvre. The tragic consequences of her open dalliance with Orléans had not served as a curb on her licentious conduct. She had been scandalously open in the favors she had shown a nobleman of Auvergne, one Louis de Bosredon. The latter had begun to swagger and even to boast publicly. The king regained his reason quite unexpectedly and was informed of what was going on. He acted promptly. Bosredon was taken into custody and put to the torture. He confessed abjectly
and, on the king’s orders, was sewn in a leather sack and thrown into the Seine. On the outside of the sack the words had been printed:
Let the King’s justice run its course
.

Between the time that Louis de Bosredon went down with the tide in his leather sack and the momentous days when the English threat loomed upon the horizon again, Queen Isabeau experienced a change of heart. The poor mad Charles was never going to recover and the sons she had borne him had the stamp of the Valois on them—in other words, they were spindling specimens with the Valois nose jutting out from pale and hollowed faces. The two older ones had died early, and the third, now called the dauphin, was deeply immersed in the political quarrels, with a genius for getting on the wrong side. A hand was needed at the helm and she decided that her own was the only one available. It was, in fact, a beautifully white and slender hand despite the fact that the years were broadening her to an effect almost of obesity. To compensate for the passing of her period of pulchritude, the queen had actually begun to develop a sense of statecraft—to divide her interests, at least, between counterpane and chancellery. With the princess Michelle already married to the heir of Burgundy, and quite unhappy in the relationship, and with Marie taking her vows, there was only Katherine left to serve as a pawn in her mother’s hands. She was whisked out of her squalid obscurity. Instead of wearing dresses cut down and stitched up by clumsy fingers, made of sleazy materials or soiled velvet, the last daughter was now attired in the silks and satins which befitted her rank.

Mother and daughter became attached to one another. There was some trace of affinity between them which both recognized. Certainly they had one objective in common. Katherine must marry Henry of England.