Wife to Henry V: A Novel (43 page)

“If Orléans falls, the way to the south lies open,” Tudor told her. “And the English—” and again she noticed the way he pointed his apartness as a Welshman, “will live off the country; and they will ruin it as they've already ruined the north. But...if Orléans stands firm—Orléans the stronghold of the enemy—what a victory for your brother!”

“If Orléans stands!” She laughed at the idea. “But it will not stand because it cannot stand. Orléans must fall...it must fall!”

In the seeming lull her old fears returned with doubled intensity. By day Eleanor's slitted eyes peered from tapestry and picture, bright with wicked laughter. And at night she had no sooner closed her eyes than she saw her lover hanging. And it was no fancy picture; she had seen men dangle before this!

If only she could run with Owen from England where no-one wanted her, not even her son, not even Harry. But whither would they run? Not to France. John would see eye-to-eye with Humphrey in this; and if he so much as hesitated in his slow, kind way, then her mother would act. Isabeau knew well how to get rid of a humble lover.

For the first time she began to think of Wales, that strange far country. Strange and far...and safe. Owen's country. Her mind ran upon the names of her Welsh houses—Builth and Hawarden and Talybolion. Talybolion. It had an almost French sound. She would go to Talybolion.

When she told Tudor of her decision she saw the light leap to his eyes. She had not known how, after the years of English exile, he longed for his own land. For that, alone, she would have been willing to venture the long, hard journey.

And long it was, and hard. But it was all a romance, an adventure, a fairy-tale. For she rode free, with her love; and the child Edmund rode with them. Sometimes she would bend over him as he slept in the litter; sometimes her heart would seem to break with purest joy as she listened to his prattle where he sat before his father in the saddle. Riding cross-country where no roads were; riding fearfully through the wild woods, eye and ear alert for boar or bear; splashing through rivers where, often enough, the horses had to swim for it; climbing steep hills leading the horses, the stones slipping from beneath their riding-boots, she lifted her eyes at last to the Welsh hills.

Here she need fear no more, neither for herself nor for her love. Between them, and Humphrey with his witch, lay forest and river and hill. No need to frighten herself with thoughts of men marching to take Owen. His countrymen would not allow a finger to be laid upon him. Here in this wild and rainy land he was safe. “I think I shall stay here forever,” she said. “You are still my lord King's mother,” he reminded her. Here in the quiet of the Welsh countryside she was inclined to forget it. Here Tudor—though he served her—was King; and he walked like a king. She, his wife, was honoured for his sake. Though by the English conquerors her marriage did not count, in the eyes of the Welsh it was a perfect marriage. Here she was truly married to her love.

But, if in the eyes of the Welsh her marriage counted, how would it count in the eyes of her English son? And if in the Eye of the King of Heaven her marriage was good, would it appear equally good in the eye of the King of England? Sometimes the question arose to trouble her sweet peace, but she thrust it aside. If the need arose she would put her case to the King himself...when he was older, just a little older. For what power had he, a little boy, not even crowned? She would wait; she would tell him the day of his crowning—no-one could refuse the first request of a crowned king. Her little saint could be trusted to recognize God's Law above man’s.

In Talybolion they were King and Queen—a king and queen of older, simpler times. He rose early busy about the work of house and estate, she lived the quiet life of a country lady. And the child bound them ever closer. It was known she was the Queen; it could not be otherwise. The house was the Queen's house and her French tongue betrayed her. And then she must receive the messengers; the house was too remote for any but casual news and Tudor had arranged for a regular service. That she was the Queen was not a thing to be hidden.

But she did not admit the child hers—the hand of punishment could yet reach to Wales from England. His mother had been a lady of France and friend to Madam the Queen; his father a gentleman killed in the French wars. Dead, both of them. That was the tale she put about and the Welsh accepted it with courtesy. Nothing strange in that! Madam the Queen was a lonely lady; no children except the little English King and him they had taken from her, A child is more Christian company than a monkey or even a dog! The two-year-old ran freely about the house and garden. Tudor carried him at his saddle. Nothing strange in that either! Master Tudor, like all good Welshman, was a lover of children. And, indeed, everyone in the great house was drawn to him—a beautiful child, quick and merry.

So she and Owen and the child lived their simple life. Had she thought herself happy the day she had married the English King? Or the day they had crowned her? Or the day her first child was born? She had never known happiness until now.

* * *

The quiet winter passed, there were intimations of spring; small rivers swollen with melted snows rushed over pebbled brooks.

Orléans held out still. But the defenders were tired men and food was scarce. Soon there would be none at all except what could be smuggled into the city—a dangerous and bloody business.

It was not until the middle of February that news came to Talybolion of the last disaster to the stricken city. Convoys with food for starving Orléans—herring and other lenten fare guarded like crown jewels—had fallen into English hands.

“Now the Orléanais must give way or starve to death,” Catherine said. “Now, now it is the end.”

“There's more to a man than filling his own belly,” Tudor told her but she would not have it. Isabeau had written that the cause of the Dauphin was lost, utterly lost; now all fear from Philip was over. She showed Tudor the letter.

...my dutiful son is trying for peace-at-any-price with Philip; and Philip, we all know, is not one to ally himself with the losing side. Save for a miracle—and why should heaven work one for him?—Charles will have to fly. Scotland, as I hear, is the one spot left. My dear son in Scotland! I wish the Scots joy of him...

England's cause swung high, high. News from France lost some of its urgency for her; she had intimations of more urgent news of her own. By the end of March she suspected she was pregnant. She was filled with pleasure that she might be bearing her love a second child. And this time there would be nothing to fear. She was safe in this kind country; she would keep her child. If she were truly pregnant she would regard it as a sign that Heaven recognized her marriage and blessed it.

Strange stories were coming from France; but it was not until mid-April that they reached Talybolion. They were everywhere, seeding themselves like thistles, springing into monstrous growths that would shut out the heavens themselves—if you let them, Catherine said. She did not intend to let them!

A girl—a lunatic. And dressed as a man, full armour, no less; and offering to lead the armies of France; and promising victory to Charles, Charles even now packing bag and baggage for Scotland!

Isabeau had written pouring out her coarse abuse.

...an ignorant slut from the country marching with the men, shameless in armour that but points the way to her woman's body, which, no doubt, she knows well enough to use...

Johanne had written, too.

...whether the girl be saint or plain mad, who knows? But in France the time is ripe for such a saint; and she will serve...

Walking the April garden Catherine was inclined to take the matter at Isabeau's valuation; but Tudor, with Welsh mysticism, could not shut out the possibility that the girl was a saint. How else had she won over the Captain of Vaucouleurs, a man with a head as hard as gunstone; not at all a man to risk making a laughing-stock of himself? Surely, that in itself, was a little miracle?

“Not if the wench is shameless enough and handsome enough!”

“A shameless wench might get more out of a man than she looks for—but never men-at-arms for her protection. As for her looks, the girl's no beauty, I hear. No, it's something quite other. Divine simplicity or devil's subtlety. Or perhaps something as rare as either—plain common sense. Who knows? The captain asks her what would be her first move, supposing he helped her in this extraordinary affair. And what does she answer?
To relieve Orléans
. And then—Orléans relieved—what is her next step? She will take her King, her wretched
King of Bourges
skulking now in Chinon and crown him in Rheims.”

She went so white at that he feared she might fall. His arm went round her; but, petulant, she thrust him away.

“To get my brother out of Chinon, that would certainly be a miracle! To get him within danger-shot of Orléans, an even greater miracle. As for Rheims—to get him there would be the greatest miracle of all. No, my friend, I'll tell you what will happen—it needs no miracle to prophesy. She will make herself the laughing-stock of Christendom. And she will go back to her village wherever it is and—if she's lucky—be teased as a mad thing for the rest of her days. But—if she is not lucky! Let a cow dry up or a child dwindle, let her but cherish her cat—and her end will be less pleasant.”

“It isn't as simple as that!” He took her hand, and made her sit upon a bench—she could be two months pregnant. “The girl is most shrewd, most subtle. He, the Captain of Vaucouleurs, asked her why she, untaught, and ignorant, should consider herself the Saviour of France. And what does she answer?
Because of the old prophecy. France has been ruined by a woman...”

“There is such a prophecy,” she said. Suddenly the fire was in her cheeks, “She means...she dares to mean...my mother. She will die for this, and not prettily. My mother will see to it!”

“The prophecy is not yet finished; it goes on...
And saved by a woman.”

“Meaning herself?”

“Who else? The prophecy specifies the woman. The Saviour of France will be a virgin from the hoary woods.”

“The girl is slyer, wickeder than I thought.”
And once I fancied I might be that savior, I who am nothing...nothing at all.
“She comes from a district of old, old trees. But...a virgin?” She began to laugh. “Eighteen did you say? And from the country? You would be hard put to it to find a virgin of that age in the country.”

“The girl is untouched; a council of women have satisfied themselves.”

“Yet another miracle,” Catherine laughed again. “But it will take a greater one than that to satisfy my brother.”

“She has satisfied him. She'd never seen him in his life; and yet, she went straight over and picked him from among the rest.”

“No miracle in that. Everybody knows about his great head and spindle legs. Besides, let her hesitate—and he'd help her with a nod, a wink. He's so conceited he couldn't endure not to be known at once.”

“I wish I'd been there,” Tudor said as though he had not heard. “It was a thing to see! The girl kneeling and addressing her dear and gentle Dauphin.”

“To be called Dauphin again, that must have given him quite a jolt! That
was
clever I admit—if it wasn't sheer ignorance.”

“It was not ignorance. Devil's wit or Divine guidance—which you will! I think God spoke to her, for she took him aside and whispered a secret that had been troubling him all his life.”

“A secret!” And now she laughed for the third time. “No need of God whispering what all Christendom knows—my mother was over-free with my Uncle of Orléans. I was the first to put it into Charles' head. He'd come on a visit—and his mother-in-law had been spoiling him abominably. He was quite insufferable with his whining and his sly pinching and his selfishness and his greed. And conceit—swollen with it! Son of the King of France brought up in the little court of Anjou. I couldn't help pricking the bladder. I told him he was probably a bastard. You ought to have seen his face! I had to laugh. Well, it was time he knew. Everyone had been whispering it from the day he was born—before even. And you talk of a saint knowing his secret thoughts. A saint sent by God to whisper an old scandal! It could only have worked with a fool like Charles. The girl's mad.”

“In this country of mine,” he said, “we could believe her a saint.”

“Saint!” Her pretty face had gone hard. “A saint egging on ignorant folk to break the sworn oath, the oath of Troyes; egging on my brother to snatch at what's not his to take; yes, and to spill innocent blood into the bargain. Well, let her bawl her loudest. Our brother of Bedford will deal with her. Take Charles to Rheims and crown him, the ugly fool! The people have only to set eyes on Harry to know their true King. So beautiful, so good...”

“Were he the Lord Jesus Himself still the French would not accept him. Why should they bend beneath the English yoke? It's a yoke whose bitterness I know. I am a soldier. My blood has watered the dear soil of my country. And so it is with all true men, Welsh or French.”

“But the treaty, my marriage treaty...”

“A shameful thing, that treaty, though it's treason to say so. Let us say only, dear heart, that your brother did not sign it. Let us say, too, that your father was sick when he signed away his son's rights and knew not what he did. My dear, my love, put, I beseech you, the treaty out of your mind. England cannot hold France any more than she held Scotland...or Ireland, or my own country. That is the thing you must reckon with.”

“There's but one thing we need reckon with,” she said, “and that's my brother. There's a character that does not change, He will sit in Chinon, a fainéant, playing kings to the end of time.”

* * *

Her reckoning was out.

The girl from the ancient woods had awakened the fainéant; his armies were on the march. On the point of surrender, Orléans stiffened, held on. She had roused all France, split it in two. God's Virgin some called her, flocking to her standard, her white standard, where Jesus stood among the lilies. A limb of Satan others said. She should burn, Burgundy swore it; he and Bedford shook hands upon it.