Wife to Henry V: A Novel (12 page)

Catherine's own eyes flew open. “But he's very handsome—so they say.”

“Handsome is as handsome does.” There was touch of lewdness in Jacqueline's laugh. “He's impotent, my dear, and all Christendom knows it.”

“Then why did they let you marry him? Your Uncle of Burgundy pressed the match!”

“He did, indeed!” Jacqueline said drily. Suddenly she lost her temper. “Burgundy, Burgundy! I'm sick to the soul of the sound of his name. He's ruined my life with this loathsome marriage.”

“He couldn't have known...about your husband. How could he have known?”

“He knew well enough; could hardly fail to—all Christendom knows. You're too innocent, my child. Uncle of Burgundy fancies himself as my husband's heir; and if presents and honeyed words can do the trick, so he will be. And, if not himself—then his dear son, Cousin Philip; Brabant's a poor thing at the best! Liable to go out like a candle. Everything I have goes to my husband—husband God save us! So in the end dear Uncle—or dear Cousin Philip—gets everything. Hainault and Holland—they march well with Uncle's possessions in Flanders. Now do you see?”

Catherine saw and, for very sickness, could say nothing.

“And that isn't the whole of it. If this new husband of mine were amusing, or pleasant, even, I might put up with it. But he isn't. He's got the meanness that goes with impotence, a spite against the whole world—and against me in particular; because I'm easy and people like me—especially men. He's a boor, ignorant as dirt. Knows nothing; can't hold an idea for two minutes together. He's got less conversation than—than my spaniel.”

“Oh Jacque, Jacque!”

“You may well say
Jacque, Jacque!
But I shan't stay with him. I'll run away.”

“You'll have to stay with him—he's your husband. Besides, where will you run?”

“To you, darling Cat...when you are Queen of England.” She laughed a little. “I make a jest of it, but it is death-in-life. Cat, stand my friend—I think I shall need one.”

“What can I do? Shelter a runaway wife—from Burgundy? That's what it would come to. And who knows where that might end? Besides, how can I speak for my husband...if ever I get one?”

“One has to be clever with husbands; it's quite easy, though...when you're in bed...”

“It's you that are clever, too clever, perhaps!” Catherine said, surprised at the sharpness in her voice. “As for me, I know nothing; ignorant, as you say. You'll manage very well!” She hadn't meant to be hard; but she found herself both shocked and excited by Jacque.

“You don't understand—how should you? You
are
ignorant—though I didn't say so, ignorant as a nun; more ignorant than most nuns, if tales be true! Well, heigho! Back to the marriage bed. I wish you better luck in your own!” The echo of her little, lewd laugh came softly behind her.

* * *

It was wonderful in Paris; even though Armagnac blood still flowed like a river from prison walls into the Seine—as they said. Possibly it was true. You could catch the stink of corruption when the wind changed. But Catherine shrugged the thought away—fortune of war! God, she was sure, was keeping a special eye upon her affairs. Nor could one altogether blame her for thinking so. The Dauphin had run away to Anjou and his wife had been sent after him. The Queen kept the court gay; even Burgundy was in good humour because he had forced Jacqueline to marry where it could do him most good.

And, best of all, messengers were riding backwards and forwards between Paris and Henry at his headquarters just outside Rouen. Isabeau, the sly boots, had sent Catherine's latest picture and Henry was head over heels in love with it—so they said. Had it at bed and board where his eye could light upon it. But he was as clever as Isabeau. Admire the picture he did; but that didn't prevent him from bargaining. And why not? Catherine asked herself. The better the bargain, the more she would be pleased. She was not her mother's daughter for nothing!

* * *

Rouen was heroic; even in his anger Henry was forced to admit it. Short already of water and of food, still they held on; and no thought of treating with the enemy. Help was coming; Burgundy was on the march...so they thought. But they would wait long, and long enough, for him! Burgundy was playing his own secret game with England.

All France, so it seemed, was set to play a double game. On the one hand the Dauphin, graceless boy, with his futile messengers; on the other the Queen and Burgundy chaffering, haggling, bidding, bating. Each party sending secret messages to Henry, messages heavy with promises, each trying to outbid the other; and each dangling the carrot before his nose—the lady Catherine.

Well, Catherine he meant to have; and all the other carrots in the basket, too!

Meanwhile he would sit snug while both sides pursued him with offers. He was in no hurry. Now, with Caudebec taken, there was food for his armies; fires for their warmth; shelter against the autumn winds already coldly blowing; and, among his troops, the most iron discipline. Henry of England was feared these days; and not only by his enemies.

He rose stretching himself, stamped one foot against the stone of the floor. In spite of the brazier already burning, this Charterhouse was cold; it was warmer down in his fighting quarters.

He paused to glance at the map upon the wall; the red circles of his conquests grew larger every day. His captains were doing well for him!

Through the window he caught sight of Clarence and called out to him. Tom thrust his moody face into the room. He chafed at the long sitting-down before Rouen, Henry knew. For Tom, the swift assault, the hand-to-hand, the pursuit; his hot blood chilled with waiting.

“Patience,” Henry said. “A little patience. Our greatest ally hasn't joined us yet.”

Tom looked his question.

“Famine.” Henry was cheerful over the terrible word. “Famine will open the gates to us; you will see.”

* * *

By mid-autumn England's ally had entered the game. Famine stalked the city. There was no meat; there was little water and less bread. Had a man a cat to sell or a rat, it was a transaction better not carried out in public; for, ten-to-one, some famine-crazed wretch would snatch at it, to let it go only with his life. The bread was of bran and it made the people sick; yet, a virgin, so they said, would sleep with any man who paid her with a slice as big as her own palm.

Famine had entered the game against Rouen, but not yet despair; hope still beat her off. Burgundy had promised; Burgundy was on the march with three hundred thousand men. Hold out a little, yet a little! He was less than thirty miles away, less than twenty, less than ten, even. A day, a little day and they would be saved.

Help had come, come at last! Straining from the walls the Rouennais could see men marching. From all Rouen's churches the bells gave tongue, flung their triumphant sound against the encircling hills...came back in mockery, died off one by one.

The marching men had come to join the enemy, the snug men outside the city, men with their bellies full of meat and drink.

Now, in the early dusk, the citizens stole out in twos and threes holding out famine-thin hands for food.

October, November. It was no longer a question of twos and threes secretly stealing. Now the Rouennais themselves thrust out all useless mouths from a city that could feed them no longer—the too-old, the too-young, the sick and the woman far-gone with child.

Henry could do nothing for them; he could not be expected to clutter his camp with the sick and the useless—they were not his responsibility. He ordered them to be fed; and thrust them back again.

Backwards and forwards in the bitter wind, over the frozen ground. Mothers gave birth in the open ditches, handed the newborn up in baskets to be baptized, received them again, their tiny Christians, to die upon their shrunken breasts. Groans of travail, of old folk wretchedly dying, of children pitifully wailing. The ditches were a horror and a shame to Christendom.

On Christmas Day, even Henry could not kneel, remembering the living child nuzzling the dead breast; the dead child cold upon breasts still warm. The trumpets rang out. Food for the Festival for all who came!

The offer was refused. The Rouennais on their knees wept, implored their captains. The offer was refused.

“All the same they will come,” Henry told Clarence. “Then they will find me not so gentle.”

On New Year's Eve, in the dark of the night, a cry went up, beat faint upon the Barbican Gate. Young d'Umphraville on guard in the English camp heard it, could not be sure; and then, all-wondering, answered.

It was the long-awaited parley. Black garments melting into the darkness, pale faces swimming disembodied in the nickering torchlight, the men of Rouen seemed scarce human.

But they were human; they were human.

Young d'Umphraville received them gently, handed them over to the watch, flung himself upon his horse, sped from gate to gate. The darkness of the camp was pricked with light.

It was dawn when he returned. His young eyes rested with pity upon the black-clothed skeletons. He spoke with earnest kindness, “The King is in no gentle mood.”

Stumbling upon their feet they were brought to the King's tent, ordered upon their knees.

Henry was at mass. He knelt to the King of Heaven. But in the empty tent the Rouennais knelt to the King of England.

The King was at dinner, was at council; was at prayer again. And still they knelt atremble with the strain, praying God in His Mercy to soften the English King's heart.

When at last they were admitted he lifted a face of stone. Still kneeling, the leader held out a scroll. As though the matter were too low for his greatness he nodded towards Exeter.

“Sir,” his uncle told him, “they ask only that they may speak.”

He nodded, short.

“Sir,” the leader said, “for the love of Jesus and his Sweet Mother, have mercy upon them that die in the ditches.”

“Fellow, who put them there?” Anger made brutal the King's handsome face. “Have done with whining. You have kept my city from me long enough.”

“Lord, it was not ours to give. We were charged to hold it for our King. Now we can hold it no more. Let us go and tell him what we must do. Then we shall return and give Rouen into your hands.”

“Before God,” Henry said and it was not at all an oath but the calling of God to witness, “your King knows well enough that the city is mine. There has been coming and going enough. I will have no more of it.”

“Lord, it is a fair city to win...”

“It
is
won!” Again his rage burst through. “Let those within prepare themselves, for men shall speak of me till the Day of Doom.”

“You have driven them beyond human enduring,” Clarence said when they had dragged themselves out.

The watchmen had been taken from the walls, and the men-at-arms. The Rouennais were stacking wood for firing the city, they were undermining the walls. When the English King got it, much good might it do him! As for themselves—as God willed so let it be!

Henry wanted his city; but he wanted it unspoilt, the proud, the beautiful city. Negotiations began again, day by day dragged on.

“Sir, have mercy. In all France there is not so much money. And if you take our horses how shall we plough? And if you take our weapons how shall we defend our city from the King's enemies?”

“I guard my own,” Henry said and watched them go, the broken men, back to the city.

* * *

Through the Beauvoisine Gate the English rode, banners flying, armour glittering, clarion and trumpet. My lord of Exeter, riding first, turned, cried out, “Welcome, Rouen, our King's own right.” And “Welcome,” the starving people echoed in the bright streets from which death had been hastily cleared.

Henry of England rode in upon his great horse. Before him a herald bore the proud symbol—a lance topped by a fox's brush; behind, the long black line of priests chanted.

At the west door of the cathedral he dismounted, uncovered. Walking humble, walking proud, looking neither to right nor left he entered to triumphant chanting.
Who is so great a lord?

And in the bright, clean streets, the smell of death still lingered and the sad ghosts holding out dead breasts to a dead child; and a whispering breath crying out for bread.

Who is so great a lord?

Who is so great a lord?

Now Rouen had fallen the messengers went riding with their offers—the Queen's messengers, Burgundy's, the Dauphin's—openly riding. No more secrets. Every offer, it was well known, contained, at the King of England's desire, the hand of the lady Catherine.

With whom would Henry treat? Catherine wondered; all France wondered.

“He will treat with those that hold the power,” Burgundy said. “Oh, we have our little agreement, he and I; had I not held back from Rouen it would not yet be taken. But that doesn't count. This Soldier of God has no false nonsense about keeping his word. Like the rest of us he will break it when it serves his advantage. At the moment it doesn't serve his advantage; we can offer him more. That's why he will treat with us and treat soon. War's a costly business.”

“Even to the victor,” Isabeau nodded. “He'll be hard put to it to pay for his victories. True, Rouen is his; but—can he keep it? Why, the administration, the garrison alone, will cost more than he'll ever wring out of it.”

“And you can add to that all the difficulties of fighting in hostile country; he knows them well enough by now!” Burgundy was grim.

“Would you say...hostile?” Isabeau asked slyly. “Now Normandy is his, the people can't come in quickly enough to swear the oath.”

'Who
cannot come in quickly enough?” Burgundy laughed his sour laugh. “The peasants, the poor priests; a few bourgeois perhaps. But not one man of standing and he knows it. He cannot hold what he has won without our help; and he knows that, too. Mark me, he will treat with us and treat quickly. You will see.”

* * *

“January, February, March, April.” Isabeau counted on long jewelled fingers. “You are wrong after all, my friend, this Henry is in no hurry, so it seems.”

“He's got as many twists and turns as a fox—a right emblem for his device! But now we need wait no longer, our little Dauphin has played the game for us. Only a fool like young Charles would dare to make a fool of Henry. To arrange a meeting face-to-face; to allow Henry to arrive; and then—the eyes of all Christendom fixed on the meeting-place—no Dauphin!''