The Agincourt Bride Read online

  Meanwhile, Catherine began to discover the frustration of being powerless. ‘If the queen and the dauphin would only stop arguing with each other, they might be able to exert their royal prerogative,’ she exclaimed one afternoon, returning from a fruitless visit to her brother’s apartment. ‘They’ve had yet another row and Louis has stormed off to Melun, calling on all the other princes of the blood to meet him there. This pointedly excludes the queen, so of course she is furious and to get back at him she is bringing Marguerite back to court and expects me to be nice to her. But if I am nice to her, Louis will accuse me of treachery, so there’s only one thing for it, Mette – get out the physic bottles; it’s time to feign illness again.’

  I think if Catherine had been able to leave court, she would have followed Louis to Melun but, without the Queen’s permission, she could not so much as commandeer a horse. So, as good as her word, she retired to her bedchamber, refusing admission even to her confessor and insisting that only I attend her.

  Word obviously reached the queen because the next day a black-robed doctor arrived and announced himself as Maître Herselly, an appointed royal physician. Catherine was half-minded to refuse him entry, but she was eventually persuaded to accept a liberal dusting of white-lead face-powder and to lie back looking ashen and weak in her curtained bed while the doctor attended. Fortunately, having assiduously tasted and sniffed a sample of the patient’s urine and questioned her briefly from a safe distance, he went away declaring that she had a bad attack of the flux, probably brought about by eating green fruit. For such an august man of science he seemed woefully ignorant of the fact that it would be some weeks before the spring blossom yielded any sort of fruit, but at least his report won Catherine a few days’ absence from court.

  Suddenly the queen announced her intention of joining the dauphin at Melun and insisted that the dauphiness go with her. Queen Isabeau may have hoped to bring about a reconciliation, but Louis was having none of it. Minutes after his mother’s barge was sighted approaching the river gate at Melun, he and his knights galloped out of the main gatehouse riding headlong towards Paris. Catherine, having made a surprise ‘recovery’ in her mother’s absence, was startled by her brother’s precipitous arrival, spattered with mud and in a towering rage.

  ‘Give me wine!’ the dauphin exclaimed, striding into the salon, scattering us all into corners and making the room seem suddenly small. Picking up a silver flagon from a side table, he took a huge gulp from it before spitting it out in a great shower. ‘Ugh! That is horse piss! Bring me good Rennish wine, and something to eat. I have been riding for hours.’

  Catherine signalled me to obey the order for refreshment and I left as Louis was flinging off his riding heuque and gauntlets and bawling at her flustered ladies, ‘Leave us! I want to be alone with my sister.’

  By the time I had collected a flagon of the requested Rennish wine from the queen’s cellar and a heaped platter of spiced cakes from the kitchen, I returned to find Catherine standing patiently by the fire, while the dauphin held forth at full volume, pacing the floor. When I entered, as unobtrusively as I could, he came to an abrupt halt, glaring at me.

  ‘Do not worry about Mette,’ Catherine told him hurriedly. ‘She is my oldest and most trusted friend – and yours too. Perhaps you recognise her, Louis.’

  Snatching the flagon from my hand, the dauphin endeavoured to take a deep draught of the wine while keeping his porcine gaze fixed on my face. Remembering the correct deference, I sank to my knees, glad to avert my eyes as the ruby liquid dribbled down his numerous chins. At length he smacked his lips and flicked the wine carelessly off his jowls with the back of his hand. ‘We had a nursemaid once called Mette,’ he remarked, lowering the flagon.

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Catherine. ‘This is she.’

  But Louis’ attention was distracted by the platter I held before me. ‘Ah, food! I am famished!’ Grabbing the dish, he flung himself down in Catherine’s canopied chair and I winced inwardly as he splashed wine carelessly over the delicate silk cushions. His great thighs in their tautly stretched hose were heavily mired from his hectic ride, further sullying the brocade. I smothered a rueful sigh and rose to move a table within his reach. As he put the platter of cakes down on it and selected one, I inadvertently caught his eye and ducked my head again, my colour rising.

  ‘I remember you, Mette!’ he cried, spitting crumbs. ‘You used to bring us pies and pastries from your father’s bake house. They were the only things that kept us from starving. So now you are my sister’s trusted maidservant. Good. Even so, I would rather you were not here. Leave us.’

  Behind the dauphin’s back Catherine jerked her head in the direction of the guarderobe arch, which was covered with a heavy curtain. She made a downward motion with her hand and her eyes rolled upwards and I understood from this dumb show that she wanted me to stay close by, wary perhaps of her brother’s unpredictable temper. Behind the curtain I hugged the inner wall inside the arch and strained to listen, trying not to think what the dauphin might do to me should I be caught eavesdropping.

  ‘I cannot stay long, Louis,’ I heard Catherine say. ‘I am due to attend Mass with the king.’

  ‘Why have you not gone with the queen to Melun?’ he asked.

  ‘I have not been well. She took your wife with her for company.’

  ‘Bah!’ I heard Louis spit loudly and hoped he was not expelling food but expressing an opinion. ‘They deserve each other, my wife and my mother, for both serve the same cause.’

  ‘What cause is that?’ asked Catherine.

  ‘Why Burgundy’s of course,’ growled Louis. ‘Surely you have been at court long enough now to realise that our mother is a two-faced Janus who is diverting royal funds to Burgundy’s agents in the city. I have sent men to seize treasure and coin she has hidden in various houses around Paris, waiting for Burgundy’s arrival. She plots to bring him back because she thinks he will share power with her and block me out. She is wrong, of course, because he is even more treacherous than she is. Anyway, she will find it is all to no avail because I have decided to pre-empt them both – and all the scheming princes of the blood. While they are at Melun, I intend to disband the Council and declare my sole regency. Edicts will go out in the king’s name ordering all the princes to retire to their estates. The queen I shall order to remain at Melun and I shall escort my wife back to her nunnery at St Germain-en-Laye. If I split them all up it will bring an end to their tiresome conspiracies and let me get on with ruling the country.’

  After these momentous announcements there was a prolonged silence. My heart skipped a beat as the dauphin’s heavy tread creaked on the wooden boards close to my hiding place, then faded away as he prowled back across the room.

  ‘Why do you say nothing, Catherine?’ he demanded. ‘Do you doubt my motives or my powers?’

  ‘Neither,’ she assured him. ‘But will the princes do as you say? Why should Anjou and Berry and Bourbon not join forces and advance on Paris?’

  ‘Because they know I have the right!’ Louis’ voice grew strident. ‘I am the dauphin. Besides, those posturing princes cannot agree with each other long enough to raise a flag, let alone an army. Constable D’Albrêt commands the royal guard and he is loyal to the throne and therefore to me. From now on, none of our vassals will enter Paris or approach the king without his or my permission. Let them go to their neglected estates and order their affairs there. Come – do you not agree with me, Catherine?’

  ‘You know you have my total support,’ responded Catherine faintly.

  As if she had any other choice, I thought, cowering behind my curtain. Did her brother forget that at her age he was still in the schoolroom?

  ‘That gives me great satisfaction,’ declared Louis approvingly. ‘And you are to remain here with me in Paris, not go to the queen, even if she asks for you.’

  In the guarderobe I put my hands to my head in despair. Poor Catherine! Less than three months out of the convent she had become a ha
pless pawn in the power-struggle between her brother, her mother, her uncles and her cousins. It would not have surprised me if she had fled back to Poissy in despair but then, thinking about it, how could she even do that?

  For once, the squabbling princes did as they were told. Perhaps they were tired of all the arguments; I know I would have been. Burgundy, of course, was already in Flanders, but the Duke of Orleans took his new duchess and her parents to his castle at Blois, the Duke of Berry went to Bourges, the Duke of Bourbon to Bourbon and the Duke of Anjou to Angers. Many lesser nobles followed their overlords’ example and with them went their families, baggage, servants and retainers. Jean-Michel reported that driving the regular supply-train back from the royal estates had been a nightmare because all the roads out of Paris were jammed with long columns of horsemen, carts and litters going in the opposite direction.

  In the absence of the queen, Catherine relaxed noticeably. Most of her ladies-in-waiting had retreated with their families, leaving only Agnes and a couple of low-ranked baronet’s daughters to attend her. So since she was no longer obliged to spend long, tedious hours attending court, she could occupy herself however she chose. For the first time in years, the countryside was relatively peaceful and, with the dauphin’s authority, Catherine was able to command horses and escorts to make excursions beyond the walls of Paris. She liked the exercise of riding, but on the first day of May she insisted that Alys, Luc and I should join her on a trip to the Bois de Vincennes and that Jean-Michel should drive us there in one of the royal supply wagons.

  ‘It will be a May Day holiday, Mette,’ she said excitedly. ‘You can organise a picnic for us.’

  The castle of Vincennes was a royal hunting lodge surrounded by forest outside the east wall of Paris where the king often went to pursue deer and boar when he was well enough. Hunting was one adult activity he could still enjoy; although Jean-Michel said the Master of Horse only mounted him on a pony these days, rather than one of the spirited coursers on which he had galloped after prey as a young and healthy man. For me it was like a taste of paradise to wander through groves of great oaks where bluebells carpeted the clearings and to do it in the company of all the people that I loved most in the world. It was perfect spring weather and when the sun had climbed to its highest, we gathered in the dappled shade on the bank of a stream and ate cold capon and May Day sweetmeats and afterwards Catherine and her young ladies took off their shoes and hose and ran barefoot through the lush green grass, hitching up their silken skirts like harvest-maids. When she grew breathless, Catherine ran to sit beside me on a fallen log where I was watching Alys and Luc laughing and splashing in the gravel shallows.

  ‘How did you celebrate May Day as a girl, Mette?’ she puffed.

  ‘You will stain your gown,’ I protested, seeing the folds of daffodil-coloured silk already sullied by the fresh green moss that grew on the log.

  ‘Oh never mind,’ she shrugged carelessly. ‘Tell me!’

  I relented of course. ‘We used to climb the hill of Montmartre at dawn and wash our faces in the dew. They say that if you kiss a boy with the May Day dew on your lips he will be yours for ever.’

  ‘What a shame that the sun has dried the dew or else we could have tried it!’ Catherine teased, twinkling at gawky Luc whose cheeks blushed bright scarlet. Dumbstruck by such close proximity to a flesh-and-blood princess, I do not think he managed to utter a word in her presence all day.

  Even so, that excursion marked the start of a new and dangerous closeness between Catherine and my family. Dangerous, not because in itself it was daunting or threatening – it was a joyous thing – but because of how others might have viewed such a friendship, forged across the yawning social gulf that divided us. Simply sitting beside Catherine and sharing her food was breaking strict protocol and I knew there were plenty at court whose jealous natures would seek to punish such presumption. I just hoped they were all too far away for it to come to their attention.

  A few days later, having dressed Catherine in full court finery to dine with the dauphin, I went up to tend my own fire and sent Alys to see if Jean-Michel and Luc were free for a family meal. We sometimes managed to snatch an hour or two together in this fashion and earlier I had wheedled a mess of pease and bacon from the king’s kitchen and set it to warm over the fire. The four of us were settling down to eat it, exchanging companionable banter, when the door creaked gently open and there to our intense surprise stood Catherine, her ornate robes clashing incongruously with the homespun simplicity of our tower-top chamber.

  She hovered in the doorway, a wistful look in her eye. ‘I heard your talk and laughter and I wondered if I might share your fire for a while.’

  Suppressing an oath, Jean-Michel sprang to his feet, pulled off his hood and began to shuffle awkwardly from one foot to the other, uncertain how to receive such an august visitor. I hastened to offer Catherine his vacated chair. ‘Oh no,’ she said shaking her head and smiling at Alys and Luc who had risen shyly from their bench beside the hearth, ‘I will not steal your father’s seat. I would rather sit with you, Alys, if there is room. Can you squeeze me in?’

  She edged onto the bench, but with her thick embroidered skirts bunched up around her there was scarcely room for three, so Luc happily squatted down on the floor with his bowl and stared up at her, mesmerised by the wealth of gold and gems that gleamed at her throat and brow.

  ‘That smells very good,’ she remarked, sniffing the steam rising from the small cauldron hanging over the fire. ‘Do you have a spoonful to spare, Mette?’

  ‘Take this, Mademoiselle,’ I said immediately offering her my own bowl. ‘I have not yet tasted it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, accepting it with both hands. ‘I would not deprive you, but I can see there is more in the pot. I must admit I am hungry.’

  Taking the horn spoon, she began to eat in small, delicate mouthfuls, then paused to beg Jean-Michel and me to sit down. ‘I shall wish I had not come if you are uncomfortable,’ she pleaded. I resumed my stool, but Jean-Michel could not instantly persuade himself to sit in the presence of royalty.

  Not only was I astonished by Catherine’s arrival, I wondered at the reason for it. ‘I hope you were not waiting for me to attend you, Mademoiselle,’ I ventured, pouring ale from our jug into a wooden cup and passing it to her, adding apologetically. ‘I am sorry, we do not have wine. Since you were dining with the dauphin, I presumed you would not need me for several hours.’

  Catherine took the ale with a smile of thanks and shrugged. ‘I went to the dauphin’s hall at the usual time, but dinner cannot be served until he is ready and that depends on when his high and mightiness deigns to get out of bed. Today he chose not to rise until after dark and I became impatient waiting, so I left. That is why I am hungry. I feel sorry for his courtiers, who sometimes have to wait hours for their meal and then may be kept at table late into the night while course after course is served. The dauphin insists on huge banquets every day of the year and he certainly does have wine. He also drinks some fiery spirit made from apples in Normandy. I don’t know what it is called but it smells vile.’

  ‘Ahem.’ Jean-Michel cleared his throat nervously, but his urge to impart knowledge when he had it overcame his shyness. ‘They call it l’eau de vie your highness – the water of life. I have drunk it in the taverns in Rouen but it makes you feel like death the next day.’

  ‘Perhaps that is why my brother stays in bed so long,’ frowned Catherine. ‘I wish he would not drink so much of it. He says he can rule France alone, but I do not know when he attends to any business if he sleeps until dusk.’

  ‘Ahem.’ Jean Michel coughed again and, gathering fresh courage, decided to resume his seat at last. ‘His grace sends messengers out in the dead of night,’ he confided. ‘We have to supply horses from the stable at a moment’s notice and couriers ride in at all hours too. It is well known that letters arriving in the early hours will be received, but for a courier to come at noon is fruitless.’r />
  Catherine nodded. ‘He turns night into day. Let us hope he can turn the country around too, as he says he will. What do your fellow drivers think to that, Jean-Michel?’

  A deep flush spread over my husband’s face and neck. ‘Well, highness …’ he began.

  I cut in, knowing his forthright opinions and fearful of what he might say. ‘I would not pay heed to that bunch of oafs, Mademoiselle,’ I said. ‘These days anyone who drives a cart thinks he can run the country!’

  Jean-Michel glared at me resentfully and blurted out his opinion without even coughing. ‘If you want the truth, they all think that war is inevitable.’

  ‘War with whom?’ Catherine asked. ‘With the English?’

  ‘Yes Mademoi – er … Madame,’ Jean-Michel nodded vigorously. ‘Yesterday a messenger came in from Boulogne and told us that strings of new hulks were sighted being towed across the Sleeve to England. King Henry has commissioned them from the shipyards of Zeeland to build up his royal fleet and there are no prizes for guessing why.’

  ‘But if that is the case, why has Louis sent the princes away? Surely he will need them to raise an army?’ Catherine’s expression was so flatteringly earnest that Jean-Michel became quite loquacious.

  ‘Some think he is blind to the English danger. That he reckons King Henry is a usurping dog who barks a lot but has no bite and will not dare to confront the might of France. So he can ignore what he calls “the petty English threat” and it will go away.’