The Agincourt Bride Read online

  After the king left her to enter his house, Catherine came over to me, almost skipping with excitement. ‘Did you see, Mette? My father spoke to me!’ She was pink with excitement, her eyes wide and shining. ‘He asked me where I lived and if I played ball games and told me he liked my brooch.’ In her beaver hat she was wearing a pin shaped like a shield with an enamelled fleur-de-lis in the centre. As she spoke, a frown creased her brow. ‘He did not know my name and when I told him, he ignored what I said and called me Odette, which was strange.’

  I drew a sharp breath as I knelt to fasten the wooden pattens over her soft slippers. The name may have been strange to her, but to almost everyone else in the palace it would have been instantly familiar as that of the king’s mistress, Odette Champdivers, who for the last eight years had remained commendably faithful and discreet throughout her lover’s mercurial alterations of mind and character and, rumour had it, even borne him a daughter. So far Catherine had been spared knowledge of this relationship and, fortunately, at that moment a royal page appeared carrying a folded note bearing the queen’s seal and addressed to Catherine, which she immediately opened and read. When I heard its content I almost fell off the iron hoops of my own pattens.

  ‘I am required to attend the queen after she has dined,’ Catherine revealed, refolding the parchment. ‘And she also requests me to bring my nurse. You are to meet the queen at last, Mette.’

  Only days before, I had been hoping there would be just such a summons to relieve Catherine’s depression, but now I was terrified by the instruction that I, too, should attend the queen’s court. Count Bernard had established himself in such a position of power that, however much she might secretly favour Burgundy’s cause, Queen Isabeau was bound to heed any complaint made by Armagnac’s daughter.

  ‘I – I am honoured, Mademoiselle,’ I managed to stutter. ‘Was any reason given for this – er – privilege?’ I rose, pressing my hands together to stop them shaking.

  ‘No, none at all,’ she replied, glancing around at courtiers still leaving the chapel and passing within earshot. ‘Perhaps she thinks it is time she met the woman who nursed her youngest daughter – and there is no doubt that it is.’ She laid a hand on my arm, fingering the sleeve of my plain-spun bodice. ‘It is unfortunate that household servants were not issued with black clothes after Agincourt,’ she observed. ‘It would not be wise to go to court clad as you are. You had better see if you can find some mourning garb in the wardrobe to fit you.’ Ten months at her mother’s court had taught her that appearance counted for everything.

  Given the difference in our sizes, what she suggested was not an easy task and by the time I had selected the loosest and plainest of her black gowns and got Alys to make a few necessary adjustments to the seams, I was almost sick with nervous panic. The one item of mourning that had been issued to servants was a black coif and mine covered my head and neck. When I had donned a clean white linen wimple and buckled on my belt with its heavy iron chatelaine, I must have looked more like a Dominican nun than a nurse. Nun – nurse – whatever I looked like, I felt like death, for I knew that just one word from the queen could mean banishment from her daughter’s side. The agonising prospect of that merely added to the burden of anxiety I already felt for Jean-Michel.

  From Catherine’s tower it was a short walk to the Queen’s House via a cloister and a rear turret stair. No clumsy pattens were necessary and by this route we were able to enter the great hall behind the dais, saving us, God be thanked, a public parade down the length of the room to reach the throne. The meal was over and the boards had been removed, so a few dozen courtiers were standing in groups – nobles and their ladies and a sprinkling of clerics – talking quietly together. In the background subdued music wafted from a band of minstrels hidden in the gallery above the screen. At this time of deep sorrow there was none of the noise and bustle of entertainment for which Queen Isabeau’s court had always been famous, so the arrival of Madame of France provided a welcome diversion. Muted conversations ceased abruptly and then rapidly resumed, our presence providing a new talking-point. As we sank to our knees I hid at the back of the small group of her ladies while the princess moved forward to make her obeisance to her mother.

  My first glimpse of the assembled court made me deeply grateful to Catherine for lending me the mourning gown, for I realised that the horror of Agincourt had plunged everyone into black, even the stewards and pages who, in normal circumstances, would be in gaudy liveries of royal blue and gold. However, amongst all this crow-like drabness the queen was transcendent, seated high on her throne under a silver-tasselled black canopy, her breast glittering with diamonds and jet and her headdress a startling gold-horned contraption veiled in shimmering black gauze. I noticed that she did not offer Catherine a seat, although a lady wearing lesser-horned headgear and only slightly more discreet jewellery, whom I took to be Marguerite of Burgundy, occupied a stool close beside her.

  ‘We have been too long without your company, Catherine.’ Queen Isabeau’s voice rang clear into the rafters, loud enough for the entire assembled company to hear. Despite thirty years at the French court, she still spoke the language with a pronounced German accent. ‘Illness and tragedy has kept us apart, but families should support each other in times of trial, as our dear daughter the dauphiness has so loyally demonstrated.’ At this point a look of complicity passed between the two horned ladies, which spoke more about the present direction of the queen’s favour than any words.

  Catherine bowed her head. ‘Indeed, your grace. It is good to see you back at the Hôtel de St Pol. I hope your health is improved.’

  ‘A little thank you, but I suffer,’ declared the queen mournfully. ‘I suffer for France and for all our bereaved families and I pray for them.’ Hands clasped in demonstration of this piety, she continued with a swift and disconcerting change of subject. ‘Yesterday I received the Duchess of Orleans as, I believe, did you.’

  ‘Yes, Madame,’ nodded Catherine, still standing below the dais and having to raise her voice to be heard. ‘I found her naturally distraught at the imprisonment of her husband, but she gave me the happy news that she is with child, which I am sure will bring much-needed joy to the house of Orleans.’

  ‘And she asked if you would intercede with the King of England for the release of the duke, did she not? – Your ladies may rise, by the way.’

  As we got to our feet, the queen swept us with her gaze and I felt her sharp scrutiny like the prick of a dagger.

  ‘She did ask me to intercede, your grace, but I was unable to agree.’ Catherine’s chin jutted as if she was expecting censure and she was clearly surprised at the queen’s positive response.

  ‘So I heard and I am glad. France cannot be seen to beg anything from England. However, I am bound to observe that King Henry’s denial of a ransom to our nephew of Orleans shows a sad lack of royal dignity. He would do well to remember that he may have won a battle, but he is far from achieving the prizes he sought to gain by war.’

  All were aware that the queen intended Catherine to recognise herself as one of those unredeemed prizes. ‘Indeed, Madame,’ she agreed. ‘Naturally I sympathised with the duchess, for she is very unhappy, but I fear my refusal also made her very angry.’

  ‘Yes, it did and we have all heard about it!’ exclaimed her mother grimly. ‘Did you bring your nurse with you as I asked?’

  Only Catherine and I knew that this question was less out of joint than it sounded.

  ‘Yes, Madame. Have I your permission to present her?’

  At the queen’s brief nod, Catherine turned and beckoned me forward with an encouraging smile. Offering a silent prayer, I stepped up to the dais and I felt a jolt of surprise as Catherine used a name I had never before heard on her lips.

  ‘Your grace, may I present to you Madame Guillaumette Lanière.’

  Bless her, I thought. God bless her for making me sound grander than the bourgeois baker’s daughter I really am.

  I h
id my work-worn hands in my sleeves as I knelt before the throne. My back was to the room, but I could hear a wave of murmurings from the crowd of curious onlookers. Close up, I could see that the queen’s cheeks were smoothed alabaster white with paint, bringing into stark contrast the eyes which had scarcely faded from the vivid turquoise I had found so remarkable in the old rose garden ten years ago.

  Disconcertingly, she fixed them on my face and studied me in silence. ‘You are younger than I expected,’ she observed at length. ‘You can have been little more than a child yourself when you entered the royal nursery.’

  I licked my lips. Under her Medusa-like gaze my mouth had gone so dry that I found myself unable to form words but Catherine spoke for me. ‘She was fifteen, Madame, and had just buried her stillborn son. Her sad loss was my undoubted gain.’

  ‘And her own, I would say,’ remarked the queen dryly. ‘However, I remember hearing good reports of you from the Duchess of Bourbon, after Catherine left for the convent.’ She leaned forward in her throne, signalling me to rise and move nearer and when she next spoke her voice had dropped to a level not intended for other ears. ‘She said you had shown skill and devotion beyond your station in bringing Catherine through her early years. At the time I paid little heed to her opinion, but perhaps that was unwise . . .’ She paused, her guttural tone curiously unsuited to muttered confidences. Then, her voice rising again, she made another of her disconcerting subject swerves. ‘I gather that you went with my daughter to see the dauphin recently, Madame Lanière. Pray tell us – tell the dauphiness, who is very concerned about her husband’s health – what is your opinion of his condition?’

  I gulped and flashed a look at Marguerite of Burgundy sitting prim and silent, her expression void of any evidence of her feelings. What should I say to the abandoned dauphiness about her husband? What could I tell the Queen of France about her son? That he was either being poisoned or was a fat glutton who was eating and drinking himself to death at not quite nineteen years of age? And how did Queen Isabeau know that Catherine and I had visited Louis? Surely Tanneguy du Chastel would not have told her? Her spies must be everywhere. My mind raced, searching for a reply that would not see me leaving the hall under arrest.

  I opted for the way I had answered Tanneguy. ‘I was a children’s nurse, your grace. I have little experience of treating adult ailments, but the dauphin does seem extremely distressed by the events of recent weeks.’

  Obviously this did not impress the queen, who frowned deeply, but her dissatisfaction turned out to be with Louis rather than with me. She spread her heavily ringed hands and almost trumpeted with indignation, ‘Well! We are all distressed, but we must think of France at this time. We should not allow our personal feelings to rule us.’

  I bowed my head, unable to suppress memories of the queen’s lavish Christmas celebrations with Louis of Orleans, while her children went hungry and the king languished in his ‘oubliette’. Whose ‘personal feelings’ ruled then? I wondered, hiding such treacherous thoughts behind lowered lids.

  ‘You cared for Prince Charles too, when you were in the nursery, did you not?’ enquired the queen. ‘So you may be interested to know that we have persuaded the Duke of Anjou to lend us his wise counsel. He is bringing his household to Paris, which of course includes our son Charles.’

  I was filled with such profound relief that I had not so far been accused of gross insolence or even treason that this announcement scarcely seemed to register, but there was no mistaking the thrill in Catherine’s voice as she greeted the news. Until now, her persistent loyalty to the dauphin had somewhat eclipsed the deep affection she clearly still felt for their younger brother, the lisping companion of her infancy.

  ‘Charles is coming to Paris?’ she echoed excitedly. ‘That is marvellous, is it not, your grace?’

  Plainly the queen did not share Catherine’s elation. ‘I am surprised that you remember him, Catherine. You were both so young when you parted,’ was all she said before turning to me with pursed lips. ‘I understand that he did not speak very clearly as an infant. Was that so, Madame Lanière?’

  This jerked me into thinking that I may have felt relief too soon. Was I now to be blamed for Prince Charles’ lisp? ‘Er – yes, Madame, he did have a slight speech impediment, but I am sure it was a childish thing, which he will have grown out of long ago.’ Out of sight up my sleeve, I crossed my fingers.

  ‘Well, let us hope so.’ The queen made it abruptly clear with a shooing movement of her hand, that I was dismissed. As I backed gratefully away, I noted that she was calling for a stool for Catherine. Perhaps my princess was back in favour.

  I never really understood why Catherine loved her younger brother. I suppose she felt protective of him; certainly in the nursery she had always taken his part against the merciless teasing of his older brothers. Prince Charles had been a timid, tetchy infant and although at the time I had felt sorry for him, as I had for all the neglected royal children, now that he was almost twelve, I discovered that he’d developed into a tricky youth, irritable and suspicious, hard to please and quick to take offence, yet Catherine hardly seemed to notice this.

  He had been betrothed to nine-year-old Marie of Anjou, two years before, a match arranged by the dauphin to counteract the marriage ties which the Duke of Burgundy had forced on himself, his sister Michele and his brother Jean. I knew that Louis saw his own union with Marguerite of Burgundy as the blight of his life. He had once confessed to Catherine that he would never father an heir because he could not bear to lie with Burgundy’s daughter or stomach the notion of his arch-enemy’s descendents on the throne of France.

  ‘There is such animosity between Louis and the Duke that I suspect there is more to it than an unhappy marriage,’ Catherine had observed at the time. ‘He has never spoken of the two years he was confined in the Louvre under Burgundy’s governorship. I often wonder what forms of discipline Louis’ tutors were instructed to use.’

  Certainly fate had dealt Charles a better hand than Louis in the marriage stakes. It had been a stipulation of his betrothal that he should leave the stifling care of his elderly godfather the Duke of Berry and travel to Angers, there to share his life and education with his future wife and her brothers, a lively and intelligent family, well nurtured by their powerful mother, Yolande of Aragon

  The day after he arrived back in Paris, Prince Charles attended Mass in the king’s chapel. The December weather was cold and blustery, but to his credit he had felt an immediate duty to bend the knee to his sick father, even though he was treated to a frightened whimper and instant recoil for his pains. Afterwards, having reassured Charles that this was the king’s usual reaction to strangers and that things would improve in time, Catherine invited her brother back to her apartment to share her breakfast.

  ‘Mette will serve us, Charles,’ she told him as I took their fur-lined mantles, ‘just as she did when this room was our nursery, do you remember?’

  ‘No I do not,’ he said brusquely, ignoring me entirely as he took his seat at the place I had hurriedly prepared for him. ‘Nor do I care to. My only recollection of those years is bare walls and constant hunger.’

  At least they had not turned Charles into a glutton like his brother. The first thing that struck me was that he bore very little resemblance to either Catherine or Louis. He was puny and diffident and had neither Catherine’s grace nor Louis’ swagger, but being only twelve I suppose he had time to grow in stature and bearing. Fortunately his baby lisp had disappeared, but he still pronounced his Rs like Ws and doubtless always would. He was a wary individual who seemed to trust animals more than humans and had insisted on bringing with him into Catherine’s salon, his two huge white deer-hounds, Clovis and Cloud. They were well-trained dogs, which was fortunate considering they stood shoulder high to their master, but the fact that they gathered mud freely on their shaggy coats and shed white hairs all over the black hangings did not endear them to me.

  Conversation at the me
al began somewhat stiffly, which was hardly surprising between siblings separated since infancy.

  ‘How was your journey from Angers?’ Catherine asked as I held a bowl of warm water for Charles to wash his hands. ‘I hear that bands of outlaws lurk in every wood.’

  ‘If they do we saw nothing of them,’ he replied. ‘But they would steer well clear of a procession like ours, with an escort of a hundred men-at-arms. All I can tell you is that we were on the road for over a week and it grew quite tedious.’ He wiped his hands on the napkin I offered. ‘I am much more interested in what has been happening here in Paris. Have you seen Louis? I hear he is ill.’

  I moved around Catherine’s chair with the bowl and napkin and she nodded as she dipped her fingers. ‘Yes he is. I saw him a few days ago. He says he is cursed because of Agincourt and that demons are gnawing his stomach, but I think it is too much strong drink.’

  I placed cold meats on the table before them and began to offer wine.

  ‘Or else it is poison,’ said Charles matter-of-factly.

  ‘Oh no, I do not think it can be,’ his sister retorted and turned to me. ‘Tell Charles what Maître Tanneguy said when we went to see the dauphin, Mette,’ she urged. ‘That all his food and drink was being tasted. He did say that, did he not?’

  ‘Yes, Mademoiselle,’ I agreed, ‘and because of that he did not see how poison could be administered without detection.’

  ‘There you are, Charles!’ exclaimed Catherine. ‘It cannot be poison.’

  ‘Poison does not have to be contained in food or drink,’ insisted her brother. ‘It could be put on his clothes or his bed-sheets or even burned on the fire to produce poisonous smoke.’

  ‘Have you been reading too much Pliny, Charles?’ Catherine asked teasingly, causing an indignant flush to spread over her brother’s face. ‘Louis drinks vast amounts of eau de vie, which is a horrible fiery spirit from Normandy. His guts cannot take it. That is all.’