The Agincourt Bride Read online

  ‘His grace is indeed indisposed, Madame,’ Maître Tanneguy ventured politely. ‘He is in his bed …’

  ‘In that case we can help,’ insisted Catherine. ‘My nurse here is skilled at healing.’

  I hid my astonishment at hearing myself thus described and bowed my head solemnly in tacit acknowledgement of the lie.

  ‘Very well, Madame,’ du Chastel acquiesced and it occurred to me that he might possibly be grateful to share responsibility for the dauphin’s condition with another member of the royal family, however young and powerless. ‘I will take you to him but I warn you that if you mention the queen or the dauphiness, he will order you to leave. Please follow me.’

  We followed him into a panelled lobby and up two flights of an impressive stone stairway. Towards the top we began to smell the dank, sour aroma of sickness.

  ‘I did warn you that my lord is ill …’ murmured Maître Tanneguy, noticing Catherine lifting the sleeve of her gown protectively to her nose as we arrived at the door of a chamber. Several guards were slouching against the wall, but sprang to attention when we appeared.

  ‘The princess royal is here to see my lord dauphin,’ du Chastel told the squire of the chamber who had risen from a stool placed nearby.

  ‘Please tell his grace at once that I am here,’ Catherine demanded, her voice muffled by the fabric of her sleeve. ‘Is there someone looking after him?’

  ‘Oh yes, Princesse. In a manner of speaking,’ replied the secretary.

  I noticed Maître Tanneguy’s eyebrow twitch on this remark and the unspoken comment was explained when, within a few seconds of him entering, a young woman emerged, flustered and dishevelled and wrapped in a crumpled chamber-robe. She made a sketchy bob in Catherine’s direction, murmured a few indecipherable words and disappeared down a nearby passage. Catherine flashed a glance at me and I wrinkled my brow in return. That Louis had a mistress was no great secret, but she had not previously revealed herself in person to his sister.

  Presently Maître Tanneguy re-emerged, bowed punctiliously to Catherine and said, ‘His grace will see you now, Princesse.’

  We soon discovered that there was nothing gracious about the dauphin’s state. He lay among rumpled and stained covers on a large, crimson-curtained and canopied bed and beside it there knelt a boot-faced squire holding a silver bowl, the contents of which were undoubtedly the source of the stench. A platter of half-eaten meats was flung carelessly among the bedclothes and alongside Louis an indentation in the mattress indicated the recent presence of a second occupant of the bed. It occurred to me that if his mistress was of noble blood she did not have very fastidious habits or indeed any concept of nursing the sick. Louis himself was propped on pillows wearing a stained linen chemise and an expression that was a blend of irritation and discomfort. Compared with the last time I had seen him he looked bloated rather than fat and his complexion was an alarming shade of yellow.

  ‘I am not well, sister,’ he complained in a hoarse voice. ‘I hope your business is important.’

  ‘The most important thing is your health, Louis,’ responded Catherine with genuine concern. ‘What is wrong with you? Has your physician diagnosed any particular malady?’

  ‘Bah! Physicians! I would rather consult a soothsayer,’ replied her brother. ‘It is obvious what is wrong with me – Agincourt.’ He heaved himself further upright, noticed the brimming bowl as if for the first time and waved the kneeling squire away. ‘Remove that disgusting thing, you fool! The princess does not want to see that.’

  The retainer backed off and scurried away, a look of intense relief on his face. I caught sight of what was in the bowl and was horrified to see clear signs of blood among the vomit. I was not the healer Catherine boasted of, but I knew enough to realise that Louis was suffering from something more serious than a hangover.

  ‘I do not think Agincourt would make you vomit blood,’ remarked Catherine, as sharp-eyed as myself. ‘Perhaps a good deal less of that – what do you call it? – eau de vie – would help,’ she added daringly.

  Louis gave a weak laugh. ‘On the contrary, sister, it is my cure.’ He clutched at the sheets covering his stomach. ‘It deadens the pain I have here, where the demons gnaw me. But you did not come to discuss my problems. I am curious. What made you come? Let me guess – it is something to do with our mother – our glorious queen!’ His lip curled as his tone hardened into sarcasm.

  Catherine pulled Agnes’ lawyer’s letter from the sleeve of her gown, shaking her head. ‘No. I have not seen the queen.’

  ‘Good. I am glad,’ said Louis with satisfaction. ‘The less we all see of her, the better. So, what is your business with me?’

  ‘It is this.’ Catherine handed over the letter. ‘Not every victim of Agincourt is a man, Louis.’

  The room was dim and the dauphin held the parchment up to catch the light from a hanging lantern. The letter was not long and he read it quickly, then he rolled over, his face contorting, thrusting the letter at Tanneguy du Chastel and groaning, ‘Ahh, the demons! Tanneguy this is one for you. Now leave me. And call my chamber-squire quickly!’

  Maître Tanneguy grabbed the letter and chivvied us out of the room, barking an instruction at the squire who was hovering outside the door holding a fresh basin. ‘See to his grace – go!’

  ‘Poor Louis,’ fretted Catherine. ‘He looks so ill. What do you think ails him, Mette?’

  ‘Yes, let us have the opinion of your wise woman, Princesse,’ broke in Maître Tanneguy, stepping up close behind us. ‘What are your thoughts, goodwife?’

  I hesitated. Being called goodwife was one thing, but the tag of ‘wise woman’ was a two-edged sword. Some people admired the skills of a healer, but many condemned them as sorcery.

  ‘The dauphin is right,’ I replied cautiously. ‘Something is gnawing at his guts but it is not demons. He has too much black humour; it is poisoning him. Perhaps the eau de vie is causing it,’ I added without conviction.

  ‘What else could it be?’ queried Maître Tanneguy. ‘His food and drink are all tasted before he consumes them.’

  ‘You think someone may be trying to poison him?’ Catherine’s interjection was shrill with dismay and she paused at the top of the stair, looking back at the secretary. ‘Who would want to do that?’

  ‘I’m afraid there are always people who wish harm to great men,’ observed du Chastel. He turned to me. ‘Do you know of any remedy we might try, goodwife?’

  I paused again to consider my words, distinctly uneasy at finding myself asked to pronounce on the health of the dauphin.

  ‘I was a children’s nurse, Monsieur,’ I prevaricated. ‘I know only about childish ailments. When a child has too much bile we withdraw all red and green foods and feed only white until the yellow colour leaves his skin. Also, that which his grace calls his “cure” definitely is not, I would say.’

  Maître Tanneguy gave a resigned sigh. ‘Mm. It is one thing to withdraw certain food from a child and quite another to deny it to a man, especially a prince. However, I will tell the dauphin what you say. I know he respects your opinion.’

  My expression then must have been a picture. I could hardly believe my ears. The boy who had dropped a caterpillar down my bodice had grown up to respect my opinion! I found it hard to believe.

  ‘Now, please consider the letter, Monsieur, which was sent to my lady of the chamber, Mademoiselle de Blagny,’ Catherine reminded the secretary, stopping at the top of the stair. ‘You are a lawyer, I believe. Is the information in the letter correct?’

  Maître Tanneguy perused the contents of the letter swiftly before folding it neatly and handing it back. ‘The information conveyed to the lady is legally correct, Madame. Land can never be inherited by a female, although sometimes it can pass through her to her son if there is no direct male heir. But here obviously there is. As far as a dowry is concerned, if the amount of money bequeathed to a daughter in dower has already been paid, for instance to a religious house as would seem
to be the case in this instance, then no more is due. Perhaps the abbey in question will receive the lady back when her service with you is completed. That is the best she can hope for. It might have been better if she had never left.’

  Catherine fixed Maître Tanneguy with a royal glare. ‘If that is the law, then the law is unjust. What do you think, Monsieur?’

  ‘I am afraid that whatever I think will not change it, Madame,’ Tanneguy bowed apologetically, ‘I do not recommend it, but if your lady in waiting wishes to fight this case then I would be happy to suggest an advocate. At present my own chief concern is the health of your brother, the dauphin.’

  He had couched it in gentle terms, but there was no denying that this was a blunt dismissal of the matter. Catherine turned abruptly away and recommenced her descent of the stair, but her face was flushed and I could sense her bitter frustration. She was royal, a princess and the daughter of a king, yet it seemed she was as powerless to help Agnes as I was to help Jean-Michel.

  I do not deny that the injustice of Agnes’ situation made my female hackles rise. Women have to be careful not to rail against the precedence of men because the Church calls it heresy, but frankly this was a piece of God’s will that passed my understanding. The fact that a girl like Agnes could be robbed of her inheritance because of a baby brother she had never met or even knew existed and that the boy’s mother could legally deny her the dowry that might have bought her some security was an outrage. At least I was getting rent from my father’s bakery, even if I could not bake the bread.

  On our return to Catherine’s tower we were informed that the Duchess of Orleans had sent a message asking if she might visit the princess royal that afternoon. I would have preferred to avoid an encounter with the former Bonne of Armagnac, but Catherine begged me to be present.

  ‘You know her, Mette, and you always supported me in her presence before. Agnes is too upset to be there. You cannot leave me friendless now.’

  So I took a seat well in the shadows of the shrouded salon, hoping that Bonne would have business that was more pressing than the settling of old scores. She arrived swathed in mourning veils and entirely focused on Catherine at whose feet she threw herself, neglecting the formality of greeting.

  ‘Princesse – dear Madame – only you can save my lord!’ she cried, hands clasped beseechingly before her. ‘I beg you to help me.’ The young duchess’ fair beauty was obscured by the veil, but the shrill timbre of her voice still had the power to set my pulses fluttering in alarm.

  ‘Of course I will help you if I can,’ Catherine responded. ‘You have no need to beg. Please rise, Madame. Sit. Tell me what I can do.’

  In a rustle of black silk, Bonne arranged herself on a cushioned stool placed ready for her. ‘You must be aware that my lord is a prisoner of the English,’ she ventured. ‘A victim of the dreadful events of Saint Crispin’s Day.’

  ‘Of course I am aware!’ Catherine cut in. ‘I am as devastated as anyone at the terrible toll of Agincourt, but I understand that at least the duke is in good health.’

  Bonne made the sign of the cross, her slim white hand flickering from forehead to breast before returning to twist at the silk kerchief she held in her other hand. ‘God be thanked he suffered only minor injuries, but he is not of a robust constitution. There is no knowing how his health will stand up to his present living conditions. He is held in the Tower of London, did you know that? A dreadful fortress, where many have died incarcerated.’

  ‘But I believe the tower is also a royal palace,’ remarked Catherine gently, ‘where the King of England often resides. Is there any indication that the duke, your husband, is not being held in circumstances befitting his high rank?’

  Through her shadowy veil it was just possible to see an angry flush suffuse Bonne’s pale cheeks. ‘There is every indication, Madame! Ransom negotiations are underway for all other prisoners of rank, but our envoys from Blois have been repeatedly turned away unheard. Henry of Monmouth has declared that he will never ransom Orleans while France refuses to cede Guienne and Normandy to England.’

  Catherine looked troubled at this revelation. ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ she said. ‘Your husband is a very important prisoner of course. Perhaps King Henry’s attitude will soften in time.’

  Bonne lifted her veil to dab at her eyes with the kerchief. ‘That is the problem, Madame,’ she sniffed delicately. ‘We do not have time. I must confide to you that I am enceinte and expect the child in early summer. If you do not help me, I fear the heir of Orleans may never see his father.’

  I thought her bold assumption that her child would be a son and heir was typical of Bonne, who would naturally expect fate to bend to her will in such a matter.

  Catherine beamed at her visitor, ignoring her final remark. ‘Congratulations! How fortunate to have the consolation of a child to soften the hardship of your separation. God has swiftly blessed your marriage.’

  ‘Yes, but you see how urgently I need your help!’ A note of irritation crept into Bonne’s voice, which I had an inkling would not assist her suit. ‘I am certain that a plea from you on my behalf will move Monmouth to change his mind. After all, he faced the might of France to claim you as his bride.’

  Her final point did not go down well with Catherine, whose smile faded. ‘If that is the case, then why has he not done so? To the victor the spoils, is that not how it goes?’ She sat back in her chair and paused to arrange her hands neatly in her lap. ‘Instead, King Henry has returned to England, presumably to gather reinforcements for another invasion. Which implies that our French territories are rather more important to him than marriage to me, do you not think?’

  In the blink of an eye the body language of both young ladies had changed from companionable to combative.

  Bonne did not immediately respond, but her previously restless hands became clenched and still. ‘Nevertheless, the world knows that he covets you as his bride,’ she said at length, with a forced smile. ‘I am certain that if you were to make a plea for my lord’s release, Henry of England would be sure to grant it.’

  There was a prolonged silence while we waited for Catherine’s response. ‘I suspect you may be wrong about that,’ she said slowly, ‘but I am afraid we will never know. Only queens can beg indulgences of kings. The dauphin has made very clear his trenchant opposition to any territorial claim by the English on French lands and therefore there is no question of my making any plea to King Henry. I am sorry, Bonne.’

  Shocked by such an outright refusal, Bonne launched herself from her stool to her knees, snatching so violently at the hem of Catherine’s gown that her kerchief fell and lodged in a fold of the skirt. ‘But we are friends Catherine!’ the duchess cried, her voice rising. ‘I helped you when you first came to court. In common humanity, how can you refuse me this small favour in return?’

  Catherine’s reply was delivered in a calm even voice. ‘Because it is not a small favour, Bonne. Even if your father’s agents could carry a letter containing such a request to England, I would not write it. France and England are at war. I would be treating with the enemy. It would be disloyal to my father, the king, and to my brother, the dauphin, and it would undermine his cause, which is to preserve the crown and territories of France at all costs.’

  Bonne released her hold abruptly and sat back on her heels, but Catherine went on in a firm voice. ‘I am sorry if you are angry. I would help you if I could, but this is not a personal matter, it is a matter of state.’

  Seeing Bonne struggle to rise, Catherine leaned forward to help her and, catching sight of the abandoned kerchief, scooped it up and held it out. ‘I am truly pleased for you about the coming child, Bonne. I hope news of it may reach the duke and give him cheer. Let us pray that King Henry is more chivalrous than at present appears and will release your lord before too long.’

  Bonne snatched the kerchief and jerked herself upright, rejecting Catherine’s assistance. ‘Do not forget that your ancestor, King Jean, remained a pris
oner of the English for many years,’ she snapped, all evidence of weeping vanished. ‘My son could be a grown man before he sees his father. I hope you do not live to regret your decision, Madame.’ Somehow she achieved a curtsey, stiff with repressed anger.

  As Bonne turned for the door, her glance briefly registered my presence, retired among the billowing black mourning drapes. ‘I see you still keep a common servant among your intimate companions, Madame. Does the queen know of this, I wonder?’ The question was delivered over her shoulder, but it made its mark.

  Catherine caught my eye and gave me a rueful shrug, of little reassurance to one who in the past had only narrowly escaped the consequences of Bonne’s wrath. Now that the princess no longer basked in the queen’s approval, how easy might it be for Bonne to achieve my dismissal in revenge for Catherine’s rejection of her plea?

  13

  Rain had persisted through the autumn and the paths around the palace were consistently muddy. On the morning following Bonne’s visit, I accompanied Catherine to the king’s chapel and waited outside in a cloister to help her fasten the pattens that kept her feet above the mire. Even after the queen returned to the Hôtel de St Pol, Catherine had continued to hear Mass daily with her father and, on this occasion, I was astonished to see her emerge at his side, apparently engaged in conversation with him. The king was smiling and animated and fashionably turned out in a luxurious black fur-lined houppelande, wearing a magnificent gold collar around his shoulders and a modish turban hat with an erect folded ‘comb’ at the crown. He looked suitably regal except for the cup and ball toy he carried, with which he must have been distracting himself during the service. I could not hear what passed between them, but I saw him take Catherine’s hand at one point and swing it playfully to and fro like an excited boy. I noticed a plainly dressed man hovering discreetly in the background, clearly an assiduous guardian, sharp-eyed for any change in the king’s condition.