Wife to Henry V: A Novel (15 page)

“Our son has twenty thousand fighting men at his heels,” she reminded him.

“What then?”

She said, suddenly, “Don't go.”

He gave her a long, dark look. “You have some reason? Is there something you know?”

She spread her hands. “I know nothing, I take God to witness. What is there to know?”

He held her still with his dark look.

“But for all that I'm afraid. Something warns me...here.” She laid enamelled claws upon the white, high breast.

Almost he could have laughed in her face. He knew her well! She hated this new alliance because she hated her son; she would do all she could to break it. Clever she might be; but for all that she was a woman—she could not forget old injuries. It made her dangerous. The Council Chamber was no place for women; bower and bed was the place for them, though she was somewhat long in the tooth for that last!

He said, “Then I shall go. Have you a letter for my lord Dauphin, some message perhaps?”

“No,” she said. And then, “I have no part in this.”

“Then, Madam, adieu.” He bowed stiffly to the Queen; ignored the wondering girl, strode from the room.

Isabeau looked after him. “Goodbye, my lord, goodbye.”

* * *

Isabeau's black gown became her—one almost forgot it was mourning; the glitter in her eyes outshone the jewels on her uncovered breasts. Beside her, Charles the King plucked at his hair, his beard, twisted the great rings upon his finger, understood nothing. From her place by the Queen, Catherine found herself wondering; again wondering. Had her mother guessed—known even—that Burgundy was going to his death? Had the smell of death been in the room with them that day when she herself had thought,
Oh that he would die!

“Have a care, Master Secretary,” the Queen said. “Depart but one word from the truth and this tale of death will end in yet another death—your own.”

The man's mouth came open, shut again.

“Consider before you speak,” Isabeau advised. “One hairbreadth from the truth, and it's the sack and the river for you; but first the torment.”

“I am a priest, Madam.”

She laughed aloud at that, beneath her show of mourning, triumphant.

“My lord Duke was at Bray with his household as Madam the Queen knows. On Sunday, God save us, so few days ago and it seems a hundred years...”

“Spare us your babbling, fellow. We are waiting.”

“Last Sunday then, the Duke heard mass and we rode out. Early morning it was and the sun hardly risen; there was a heat mist already over the fields. My lord Duke rode with his priests and his Council, with his bowmen and his men-at-arms—several hundred altogether, I should say. It was about three of the clock when we got near the castle at Montereau—we could see it against the sky. Some knights came spurring up, friends of my lord's. They told him of new barriers thrown across the bridge—the bridge where he was to meet the lord Dauphin. They begged him to turn back, for why the barriers? But my lord Duke like the brave gentleman he was, rose in his stirrups and cried out, If I turn now, all France will suffer for it. I put my trust in God.”

“He could always make a speech,” Isabeau said and looked at the King. How much did he understand, sitting there like a baby about to cry?

“When we came to the castle where we were to lodge, first the Duke dismounted, and then the lady...”

“The lady?” Isabeau took in her breath.

“Madam de Giac. She was at Bray; she went with my lord when Madam the Queen gave her leave of absence—surely Madam the Queen knew that! Madam de Giac has been riding backwards and forwards of late between my lord Duke and my lord Dauphin—but Madam the Queen knows that, too.”

“We shall remember it,” Isabeau said.

“My lord took from his pouch a little sack and put it into her hands. Then he called his man—Philip Josquin it was—and said, Guard these jewels and my lady who is the jewel of them all. Then he kissed her and made a hand for her to mount again and Josquin mounted, too. And they rode away both of them. My lord stood watching them and then he turned and went into the castle.”

“And the lady?” the Queen asked.

“Looked sad, as I thought.”

“She shall have good reason.”

“As soon as he had set foot in the castle, my lord Duke posted his men. He was, it could be seen, not at ease. He was still posting them when in came du Chastel—the Judas. My lord Dauphin is waiting, he said. So the Duke left his work and rode out. There was a handful of friends with him and myself—my pens well-sharpened.”

“And those friends?” Isabeau was missing nothing.

“My lord Charles de Bourbon, Sir Peter de Giac...”

“The easy husband! It is well seen the pleasure he might get from this! But, the Duke—surely he was armed?”

“His sword, Madam—no more. It was the lord Dauphin's wish. When we got to the bridge my lord Dauphin's men saluted us. On the bridge we found a barrier as we'd been told; a barrier stretching from edge to edge and a little door in the middle.”

“Was your master not warned even then—the barrier before his eyes?”

“Who should doubt the word of the lord Dauphin?”

“Who could trust it? Princes have played false before now; and kings, too.”
But not this poor fool whose wits are gone.
She cast a sideways glance at Charles who sucked his thumb.

“My lord passed through the barrier—I heard the click of the lock behind us. Shut off from his men! He looked troubled. But there was du Chastel walking with him, du Chastel, false friend. Judas put his arm about my lord's neck and so linked they walked on.”

“And my lord Dauphin?”

“Safe beyond the barrier—he was armed, hand and foot.”

Isabeau nodded—that was how it would be.

“My lord Duke went upon his knees but the Dauphin gave him no sign to rise. Then one of the Dauphin's men caught the Duke by the arm. Rise, he said and he laughed. You are too great a man to kneel long! And I saw how he pressed my master to the ground. The Duke, kneeling still, put out his hand to straighten his sword—it had got twisted behind him. Then someone cried out, ‘Do you put your hand to your sword in the presence of our lord the Dauphin?’

“That was the signal. Du Chastel cried out,
It is time
, and he struck at the Duke with a battle-axe...” He covered his face.

“Come man, you are not so nice that you sicken at the sight of blood.”

“He was my lord, Madam. And he was kneeling and he was unarmed. The butchers thrust at him with their swords—God save us, part of his chin cut away. And he, dying, and defending himself still, defending himself there upon the ground...and everywhere the blood...”

“And our son?” It was the King who spoke; the vacant look had left his eyes, they were clouded with horror.

“Leant upon the barrier till all was done.”

“So it would be, so...so...” Charles was mumbling in his beard.

“You may go, fellow,” Isabeau said. She turned to the King, speaking, not to him, but rather thinking aloud. “Our son...all France will hate him for this bloody deed. Dauphin he may be; but never the King. I know this people...”

“Madam!” Catherine cried out, “my father!”

This, this, too! Was ever, Isabeau wondered, woman so cursed?

When they had taken him away she cast a cool look upon her daughter. “You are too gay,” she said. “Go find a sober dress. But soon...soon you shall change it for a wedding-gown.”

“Yes, Madam.” But her heart stood still. She was to marry—whom? Her mother must seek a new ally; in that case she herself might be part of the bargain. Burgundy alive had robbed her of her crown. Would Burgundy dead, rob her still?

Isabeau's amused eyes took the question. “You shall have your King,” she said. “And you shall have your two crowns. Listen, girl. All France is sick with our son's deed...for the moment. It is for us to use that moment. Philip—and he is Burgundy now, the little Philip—is not one to lose time. He will not sit quiet under this murder, not though it pushes him into a dukedom. If we are wise, and if we are quick, our son will lose his throne for this. And who shall sit in his place?”

“But, Madam...” Even while heart exulted, head rejected the thought. “You are angry with my brother, but, put another on the throne—your son, your own son!”

“Is he more my flesh-and-blood than my daughter, my own daughter? And who should benefit by it but my daughter...and my daughter's husband?”

In spite of exultation Catherine was chilled. She was frightening, this mother of hers. It was as though, at any moment, one might see a forked tongue hissing from that red mouth.

Henry was restless, irritable with frustration.

“Conqueror of France—and I have no money. Castles and towns and great cities fallen to my hand—and I have no money. Fate herself smiles upon me; Burgundy the blusterer is dead and the Dauphin covered with shame in the face of Christendom. The crown of France is all but mine—and it slips from me. For lack of money it slips from me.”

“The crown shall be yours,” Beaufort promised, “and the money, too.”

“How?” the King asked bitter. “And when?”

“Parliament meets next month, Sir.”

“Parliament!” Henry's laughter lacked mirth. “My people love their hero—but not enough to pay for their love. Oh I know, I know. I've been through all this before. Parliament will grant me a tenth; and, if I'm lucky, a fifteenth also. Convocation will vote me a twentieth on all benefices and...”

“That should see you quite a long way,” Beaufort said.

“You talk as though you were not the rich bishop with every monkish trick at your fingers' ends. There's not a religious house that won't plead remittance for this and that. The Chapter of York is already pleading grace because their house is a-building. And how many will follow them?” Quite suddenly he lost his temper. “Let no man teach me my duty to God and His Church. But must we build in England while France slips from us? Let me win France and you will see how I shall build to the Glory of God! Oh but it isn't only a question of building. It's all the houses great and small making their excuses as they've done time and time again. God visits His Houses, it would seem, with the plagues of Egypt—and then more. If it isn't the drought then it's murrains; and if it isn't murrains then it's raids from Brittany...anything, anything. They will not be able to pay so much as a silver penny, you will see, Uncle, you will see.”

“Yet you may lay your hand upon money and plenty of it,” Beaufort smiled.

“I cannot squeeze out one mark more, not a little mark—except from you, rich Uncle. I have nothing left to pawn; the Harry crown is still unredeemed. And who should know that better than you?”

“But still you may put your hand upon money enough to make all smooth.”

“I am tired of your jesting, Uncle.”

“This is no jesting, Nephew.”

“Then it smacks of witchcraft.” Henry was sour.

“Certainly it smacks of witchcraft.” Beaufort watched the King's face. “You may seize your witch and fill the pockets of God's Soldier.”

Henry stared. What did Beaufort mean?

Smiling Beaufort told him.

* * *

“Burgundy is dead.” Queen Johanne knitted her brows over the letter. “What now, Mapledon? How will this serve my lord King? Will it help him to his desire; or will it be the end?”

“Nothing will help the King...unless he has money. Without money he must come to the end.”

She shrugged. “It's a thing we all need. Without money everything comes to an end.”

“Yes, Madam,” he agreed. “Without money everything comes to an end.” She caught, she fancied, a warning note. But why? He was her chancellor and steward. He knew, none better, she had given over and over to the King. Lending, Henry called it; but she would never see a penny of it again.

“Without money everything comes to an end,” he said again. “Life...even...maybe.”

Again she caught the warning note.

When he had gone taking his accounts with him, she found herself strangely disturbed. Backwards and forwards she paced, the long sweep of her gown mirrored in the polished stone of the floor.

Had Mapledon meant anything? What could he mean? Nothing...nothing. The old man was devoted to her service; but old men are prone to fears. She had given enough. Without doubt she would be forced to give again. And again. Until there was nothing left for further giving, nothing...

But for all that she was not satisfied. Her second husband had called her wise; wise beyond women, he used to say. A witch? she had asked him once, laughing; but laughter had died at his look. A dangerous word, he had said—and it was as though he bit upon stone—dangerous, even for a Queen; and, more than all, dangerous for you!

No need to ask what he meant; she had known well enough. Her father.
The Bad
they had called him, openly accusing him of witchcraft. Her father had been strong enough to laugh at the fearful accusation. But she? These English disliked her, hated her foreign ways, her foreign household. But for her husband's protection then, but for her stepson's now—what safety?

But, she wondered, eyes troubled beneath the jewelled headdress, why think of now?

Because she knew her
dearest son
; knew his desperate need of money...That last time, Henry smiling, coaxing—all charm; and she, without words, refusing; and that same smiling face suddenly hard...

She found herself wishing she had given him the money. No comfort, now, telling herself she had* given her share with the rest. She was a foreigner. Wouldn't it have been wise to give more than the rest, much, much more? Was it too late?

It was too late now, as it had been too late then; as always, always it would have been too late. Too late because her own nature would not allow her to give. She had never been an easy giver. Pretty miser, her husband used to say, Henry of Lancaster pinching her cheek with scabbed fingers, knowing well the shifts and straits of her early life. He had endowed her richly—she was richer than any dowager queen ever before—so that she should never know poverty's pinch again. But by that time the habit of carefulness had grown upon her. Carefulness? She stopped in her pacing, considered. Not carefulness, she told herself—meanness. Meanness. And I cannot help it. My husband poured riches on me to make life pleasant. How strange if these same riches should make life...unpleasant?