Wife to Henry V: A Novel (47 page)

“It is not all,” Tudor told her slowly.

“Then what?” she cried out sharply. “What?”

“Burgundy...swearing friendship with your brother.”

She cried out at that. “I would burn them both—false brother, false friend.”

She was beautiful in her anger he must admit. She was all aflame—eyes and cheeks and red, red lips.

Suddenly she laughed. “It's an old story about Philip; my son's crown is safe...and it's June and summer and we are young.” She looked at him with eyes of clear desire.

But in this moment he could not love her. It seemed to him that the dark agony of the girl fed her desire; and the fire that had burned Jehanne cast a brighter light upon her joy in being alive. She might not know it; but so it was and it alienated him.

But she was beautiful and she desired him. And he was a man.

He followed her from the sunlit garden. For the first time he took her without love.

* * *

August bloomed about them. And Catherine bloomed with the summer—rose in her cheeks, cherry on her mouth, languor in her eyes. Tudor knew without telling that she was pregnant again. This time she seemed heedless of danger; she had lived with it too long; and, indeed, what danger was there? she asked. She should stay in the country. No need to journey to London. Harry was in Rouen still. He had not been allowed to make a single step towards Paris; and there was no talk of his crowning. She could not, she said, have chosen a better time.

She removed from Windsor to her manor of Nettlebed; Oxfordshire was a safe distance from London and the house was remote amongst its woods. Besides, the name amused her. For never, she said, had woman so soft a bed, so sweet a lover.

She had both children with her now; it was as though she snapped her fingers at fate. Edmund ran about the house as though he owned it, an imperious lordling. He had a straight eye and a strong hand for so little a child. He loved to be put up on his father's great horse, to sit there alone and himself hold the reins. A handsome boy and no fear in him. Jasper, not yet a year old, was a lovely child. Small wonder that Madam Queen Catherine had taken them both—the dead lady, their mother, Master Tudor said, had been the Queen's friend. But were they, she wondered, anxious, a little too much like their father—the same quick-glancing eyes of hazel, the broad brow? It was over-early yet to be certain; but, at any 'rate, neither of them had the Valois features to stamp them hers; and for that, morning and night she thanked her God.

“They should be princes both,” she said as she had said before, and, as before, sighed.

“They are princes both,” Tudor reminded her again. “One day they will stand side-by-side with their brother the King and he will not blush for them.”

* * *

When November was cold with sleet and the giant sunflowers hung upon blackened stalks, she heard that the little King had left Rouen; he was on his way to Paris at last. “God grant they keep him there long enough,” she prayed and counted not upon her rosary but upon her fingers...
December, January, February. Let him not come home again till March, sweet Virgin deliver me. Deliver and deliver indeed!
She laughed through her fears.

She was growing thin and haggard with her fears—she who in spite of all difficulties had carried her children with joy.

It looked as though her prayers would be answered. Paris had gone mad with excitement over the child. He had been crowned in Nôtre Dame.

“Paris?” she said and beat her hands together. “But Rheims,
Rheims
. My son's crowning loses value.”

“My lord King makes good precedent,” Tudor told her. “Riding from his crowning, riding through Paris, the crown of France upon his head, the crown of England borne before him. And, carried high, for all to see—the sceptres of both lands. Such a thing has never been seen before.”

“Yes,” she said, “yes...my brother will be hard put to it to equal that!” And though she smiled with her mouth there was no smile in her eyes.

Now she did not receive the messengers anymore; Tudor brought her the news, carefully sifted.

There had been prayers and processions and feasts beyond the tongue of man to describe—she brightened at that. But he did not tell her of the heart-burning because the whole ceremony had been too English; nor of the anger because my lord Cardinal Beaufort had thrust himself forward; nor of the quarrelling over church dues; nor of the disgraceful arrangements for the coronation banquet when those who should have been courted—the great officers of Paris had had to fight their way across a muddy courtyard, had been left to find their own seats...already taken at a table empty of food.

He told her instead how well the little King had borne himself; and how all Paris, gentle and simple, had come to bend the knee, all Normandy flocked to do him honour.

“He is well, but tired; naturally—so little a child and so great the duties,” he told her. “They have taken him back to Rouen to rest before bringing him home.”

“Home? When will that be?” Her very voice was thin with worry. Looking at her, the bloom rubbed from her cheeks, her eyes haggard, his heart smote him. He had taken her once without love—and she had conceived. He was superstitious enough to believe no good could come of it.

The King was coming home.

My lord Bedford and my lord Cardinal Beaufort were not, it seemed, of good accord. There had been differences both great and small; now the proud stomach of Monseigneur could brook no more. He was returning with the King at once.

At once! Catherine went clumsy, to the window; beneath her the garden lay locked in December frost.

The King had already left Paris. How long before he reached London? How long? It could be as soon as January.
Sweet Virgin, let it not be January. March, give me until March. March would see all safe. But February, February I must have...

Cold cheek against cold glass, she took courage.

And why not? The journey from Paris to the coast could not be hurried. Everywhere the people would demand to see the new-crowned King. There would be processions, banquets, thanksgivings.
Sweet Virgin, spin out the time!

January passed slow as a nightmare; but still it was passing. From day to day she allowed herself to hope.

* * *

The King had landed at Dover.

She took in her breath sharply, swayed a little; pulled herself together.

Still there was hope. He was to make a slow progress towards London; in England, too, the people wanted to see the King.

Sweet Virgin give me till March. Let it not happen again, the nightmare of shame and fear...not again. In God's Eyes lama true wife. Beseech Him, Immaculate Mother. Two months and I am safe. Six weeks; a month, even; a little, little month...

But the Virgin, it seemed, was not listening.

* * *

The King was in London.

Johanne herself brought the news, urging her retinue along glassy roads, beating the messengers by a short hour.

The King had commanded his dearest mother to the court.

And in the park the tops of elm-trees were not yet even faintly flushed. How could they be? Mid February.

Catherine's world span, revolved darkly. She felt Johanne's fingers bite into her shoulders. The world stood still.

Looking at this whey-faced Catherine great with child, Johanne felt the moment's exasperation. Catherine was old enough at thirty to behave with more sense. This third pregnancy was madness.

But seeing the children she was silenced. Catherine was made to bear beautiful babies. Carrying them she had bloomed like a rose. It was all wrong now that she should be pinched with fear. She had been born to lie in a King's bed, to carry her children with triumphant joy. If life conspired to make her carry them in secrecy and in fear, was it her fault? And one might respect her for taking love and bearing its fruit; but what wisdom to keep such delicious fruit so near the tree? She'd been lucky so far; but it looked, now, as though her luck had turned.

“Harry expects you—looks for you every day,” Johanne said.

“He doesn't look to see me like this!” Catherine cried out, her mouth wry. The old terror was clawing again.
For my son—what scandal? For myself—what shame? For my love—what death?

“You were not at his crowning; it's a thing he can't forget. Oh Catherine, Catherine, it's idle to chide; and when I see your children God knows I cannot chide—there is not a woman in the world but would envy you them. But what will you do? When the King commands, even the King's mother must obey.” She felt the child move within her.

...A few little weeks; three; two, perhaps, and she could go proudly before them all. Mary help her for the sake of her Sweet Son!

“Harry counts the days,” Johanne said pitying her. “And it's a new Harry you must reckon with. He's come back a little defiant, a little swollen in his own regard; very much the little King. And can you wonder? But my lord Warwick will not stomach it, natural though it is—a little boy and two crownings! My lord has complained to Parliament, did you know? And Parliament has dealt firmly with Harry. They've admonished him to obey his Governor. Oh, but they've sweetened the pill! No prince in Christendom ever equalled him in wit and understanding, so they told him. But he's a little boy still—they made that clear—and he must submit himself.”

Such wit, such understanding! Catherine, forgetting for the moment her own trouble, sighed over her slow and backward little boy. Her heart bled for him. The glories of his crownings; and then public rebuke.

“Warwick!” she said. “I could whip him for this with my own hands.”

“It's hardly the time for such exercise,” Johanne said drily. “But I warn you again—Harry is not easy. Even a saint's head may be turned, sometimes; especially when it is such a little saint. And there's always been that obstinate streak without which there can be no saint. He wants you; and he's determined to have you. Madam Eleanor has been at his ear. She finds it very odd you were not at Dover to welcome the King. But that you should not be in London, passes all belief! I'd almost say she'd had some sort of hint—except that she's always been suspicious about you.”

Catherine shrugged Eleanor away. “My lord Governor?” she clung to her last hope.

“Permits it, of course. Warwick knows very well it's natural for a child to see his mother—so long an absence! Severe he is, but not unnatural.”

“What must I do? Johanne, what must I
do
?'

“What can you do—but go? You cannot fall sick of a fever every time. Courage, girl. The thing is bad; but not so bad. This isn't a public occasion, it's a private visit to your son. You could keep your room...your bed, even. We shall think of something, never fear. Besides—” she cast a brisk eye over Catherine, “it may be that Heaven will settle the matter first.”

Now day and night was a nightmare; in sleep her fears returned threefold. She would awake sick from her dreaming; it was always the same dream and she could dream it several times during the night.

She was at Westminster before the whole court. She walked the length of the great hall, her belly thrust out before her. She heard them titter behind their hands. She moved towards the throne. As she made her reverence the birth pangs took her. She heard the cruel laugh, the beastly laugh of Eleanor, the dark witch. She saw contempt freeze upon the face of her son—her young son and her King. She cried out in anguish; she who had never cried out in travail, weeping because of the contempt in the face of a child.

And she would awake, the tears on her cheeks, the terror in her heart. Nor could she be comforted for all her love's arms about her.

And in the daytime it was worse; she bore her double burden—the reality; and the memory of her dreaming.

“You shall not go,” Tudor said. “Let what come, come.”

“Go or stay it's all one,” she said. “As for what may come—it will be Harry himself and Madam Eleanor with him, she's forever whispering in his ear. No, go I must and bear my shame as best I may.”

“There is no shame,” he said. “What are the laws of man? The priest married us and all men shall know it.”

“It would be your death-warrant,” she said. “And how could I live having brought you to your death?”

He was obstinate as she had never known him—the Queen's honour came first.

“It's your death-warrant,” she said over and over again and could not be comforted. “Your death-warrant. And still you are Welsh and still our children are bastards and I brought to shame. Oh,” she said, “the gods may well laugh! We are wed by God's Law and not by man's. But if man acknowledges God's Law in this, then you are doomed.” She began to laugh. “Through Gloucester you will die, die for the sin of marrying me—through Gloucester who brought Jacque to misery and ruin; and then put her aside to marry his harlot. Yes, the gods may well laugh and we with them.”

There was no stopping her laughter. The wild, high sound that brought Johanne hurrying. Nor did the laughter cease until he had sworn to keep silent. Then, indeed, the laughter stopped and the tears fell.

* * *

The litter swayed and dipped along the rutted road. Catherine sat very still and quiet, leaving all to God. Tudor had done his part; she had been well-screened when wrapped in a wide fur cloak against the bitter cold, she had stepped into the litter. She had moved, obedient, quiet as a man about to be hanged whom they have drugged against fear and hope.

The litter slipped and skidded over the ice. Sweat poured down her cheeks; she could feel, in spite of her furs, wet patches between her shoulder blades and beneath her arms. Tudor had wanted her to ride in the great charette; Johanne had insisted upon the litter and Johanne had been wise.

Now the pains were beginning. Soon they would come faster, stronger...

The winter trees moved past them; eternal black upon eternal white.

The pains took her, wrenched her apart. Guillemote wiped the Queen's face.

Johanne ordered the litter to stop.

In a lambing-hut Catherine of France, Queen to great Henry, bore her child.

* * *

She was exhausted when she reached Windsor where she was to lodge; but the next day they took the road again. The great charette went more smoothly than the litter and she slept most of the time. She looked weary, pale and smudged with fatigue; but, Johanne thought, only as much as might be on a long winter journey. There was little else to mark her labour—she had always borne her children easily.