The Lady of the Rivers

by Gregory, Philippa

  I can see her lips moving, she is still looking at the upheld cross, I see that she is saying ‘Jesus, Jesus’, over and over, and for a moment I think that perhaps there will be a miracle, a storm to drown the fire, a lightning raid from the Armagnac forces. But there is nothing. Just the swirling thick smoke, and her white face, and her lips moving.

  The fire is slow to catch, the crowd jeer the soldiers for laying a poor bonfire, my toes are cramped in my best shoes. The great bell starts to ring, slowly and solemnly, and though I can hardly see Joan through the thickening cloud of smoke, I recognise the turn of her head under the great paper mitre as she listens and I wonder if she is hearing her angels through the tolling of the bell, and what they are saying to her now.

  The wood shifts a little and the flames start to lick. The inside of the pile is drier – they built it weeks ago for her – and now with a crackle and a blaze it is starting to brighten. Tlight makes the ramshackle buildings of the square jump and loom, the smoke swirls more quickly, the brightness of the fire throws a flickering glow on Joan and I see her look up, clearly I see her form the word ‘Jesus’, and then like a child going to sleep her head droops and she is quiet.

  Childishly, I think for a moment perhaps she has gone to sleep, perhaps this is the miracle sent by God, then there is a sudden blaze as the long white robe catches fire and a tongue of flame flickers up her back and the paper mitre starts to brown and curl. She is still, silent as a little stone angel, and the pyre shifts and the bright sparks fly up.

  I grit my teeth, and I find my aunt’s hand clutching mine. ‘Don’t faint,’ she hisses. ‘You have to stand up.’ We stand hand-clasped, our faces quite blank, as if this were not a nightmare that tells me, as clearly as if it were written in letters of fire, what ending a girl may expect if she defies the rules of men and thinks she can make her own destiny. I am here not only to witness what happens to a heretic. I am here to witness what happens to a woman who thinks she knows more than men.

  I look through the haze of the fire to our window in the castle, and I see the maid, Elizabeth, looking down. She sees me look up at her and our eyes meet, blank with horror. Slowly, she stretches out her hand and makes the sign that Joan showed us that day by the moat in the hot sunshine. Elizabeth draws a circle in the air with her forefinger, the sign for the wheel of fortune, which can throw a woman so high in the world that she can command a king, or pull her down to this: a dishonoured agonising death.

  CASTLE OF ST POL, ARTOIS, SPRING 1433

  After a few more months with my uncle John, and then a year-long visit to our Brienne kinsfolk, my mother regards me as sufficiently polished to return home while they plan my marriage, and so I am living at our castle in St Pol when we hear the news that Anne Duchess of Bedford has died and the duke is lost without her. Then a letter comes from my uncle Louis, the duke’s chancellor.

  ‘Jacquetta, this concerns you.’ My mother summons me to her rooms where I find her seated, my father standing behind her chair. They both look at me sternly and I make a rapid review of my day’s doings. I have not completed the many tasks that I am supposed to do, and I skipped attendance at church this morning, my room is untidy and I am behind with my sewing, but surely my father would not come to my mother’s apartment to reprimand me for this?

  ‘Yes, Lady Mother?’

  My mother hesitates, glances up at my father and then presses on. ‘Of course your father and I have been considering a husband for you and we have been looking at who might be suitable – we hoped that . . . but it does not matter, for you are lucky, we have had a most advantageous offer. In short, your uncle Louis has suggested you as a wife for the Duke of Bedford.’

  I am so surprised that I say nothing.

  ‘A great honour,’ my father says shortly. ‘A great position for you. You will be an English duchess, the first lady after the king’s mother in England, the first lady bar none in France. You should go down on your knees and thank God for this oportunity.’

  ‘What?’

  My mother nods, confirming this. They both stare at me, expecting a response.

  ‘But his wife has only just died,’ I say weakly.

  ‘Yes indeed, your uncle Louis has done very well for you, to get your name put forwards this early.’

  ‘I would have thought he would have wanted to wait a little while.’

  ‘Didn’t the duke see you at Rouen?’ my mother asks. ‘And then again in Paris?’

  ‘Yes, but he was married,’ I say foolishly. ‘He saw me . . . ’ I remember that dark predatory look, when I was little more than a girl, and my stepping behind my aunt to hide from it. I remember the shadowy hall and the man who whispered in my ear and then went out to order the burning of the Maid. ‘And the duchess was there. I knew her too. We saw her far more than we saw him.’

  My father shrugs. ‘At any rate, he liked the look of you and your uncle has put your name in his ear and you are to be his wife.’

  ‘He’s very old,’ I say quietly, directing this at my mother.

  ‘Not very. A little over forty,’ she says.

  ‘And I thought you told me he was ill,’ I say to my father.

  ‘All the better for you,’ my mother says. Clearly she means that an elderly husband may be less demanding than a young one, and if he dies then I shall be a dowager duchess at seventeen, which would be the only thing better than being a duchess at seventeen.

  ‘I had not looked for such an honour,’ I say feebly to them both. ‘May I be excused? I fear I am not worthy.’

  ‘We are of the greatest family in Christendom,’ my father says grandly. ‘Kin to the Holy Roman Emperor. How would you not be worthy?’

  ‘You cannot be excused,’ my mother says. ‘Indeed, you would be a fool to be anything but delighted. Any girl in France and England would give her right hand for such a match.’ She pauses and clears her throat. ‘He is the greatest man in France and England after the King of England. And if the king were to die . . . ’

  ‘Which God forbid,’ my father says hastily.

  ‘God forbid indeed; but if the king were to die then the duke would be heir to the throne of England and you would be Queen of England. What d’you think of that?’

  ‘I had not thought of marriage to such a man as the duke.’

  ‘Think now then,’ my father says briskly. ‘For he is coming here in April, to marry you.’

  My uncle Louis, who is Bishop of Therouanne as well as the duke’s chancellor, is both host and priest at this wedding of his own making. He entertains us in his episcopal palace and John Duke of Bedford rides in with his guard in the English livery of red and white, as I stand at the doorway of the palace in a gown of palest yellow with a veil of tissue of gold fting from my high headdress.

  His page runs forwards to hold his horse’s head, and another kneels on the ground alongside and then drops to his hands and knees to form a human mounting block. The duke climbs down heavily, from the stirrup onto the man’s back, and then steps down to the ground. Nobody remarks on this. The duke is such a great man that his pages take it as an honour for him to stand on them. His squire takes his helmet and his metalled gauntlets, and steps aside.

  ‘My lord.’ My uncle the bishop greets his master with obvious affection and then bows to kiss his hand. The duke claps him on the back and then turns to my father, and my mother. Only when the courtesies with them are complete does he turn to me, and he steps forwards, takes both of my hands, pulls me towards him, and kisses me on the mouth.

  His chin is rough with stubble, his breath tainted; it is like being licked by a hound. His face seems very big as it comes down towards me, and very big as he moves away. He does not pause to look at me, or to smile, just that one aggressive kiss, then he turns to my uncle and says, ‘Do you have no wine?’ and they laugh for it is a private joke, based on their years of friendship, and my uncle leads the way inside and my mother and father follow them, and I am left for a moment, looking after the older people, with
the squire at my side.

  ‘My lady,’ he says. He has passed the duke’s armour to another, and now he bows to me and doffs his hat. His dark hair is cut straight in a fringe above his brows, his eyes are grey as slate, perhaps blue. He has a funny twist in his smile as if something is amusing him. He is stunningly handsome, I can hear the ladies in waiting behind me give a little murmur. He makes a bow and offers me his arm to take me inside. I put my hand on his and feel the warmth of his hand through the soft leather of his glove. At once, he pulls off the glove so his fingers are holding mine. I feel as if I would like him to take my hand in his, to put his warm palm against mine. I feel I would like him to take hold of my shoulders, to grip me at the waist.

  I shake my head to clear my mind of such ridiculous thoughts and I say, abruptly, like an awkward girl: ‘I’ll go in alone, thank you,’ and I drop his hand, and follow them inside.

  The three men are seated, wineglasses in their hands, my mother is in a window embrasure, watching the servants bring little cakes and top up their glasses. I go to her side with her ladies in waiting, and my two little sisters who are dressed in their best and trusted to stand with the adults on this most important day. I wish that I was eight years old like Isabelle, and could look at John, Duke of Bedford, and marvel at his greatness and know that he would say nothing to me, that he would not even see me. But I am not a little girl any more, and as I look across at him, he does see me, he looks at me with a sort of avid curiosity, and this time there is nowhere for me to hide.

  My mother comes to my room the night before my wedding. She brings the gown for the next day and lays it carefully in the chest at the foot of my bed. The tall headdress and veil are mounted on a stand, safely out of the way of candles or dust.

  My maid is brushing my fair hair before the beaten silver mirror, but as my mother comes in I say, ‘You can stop now, Margarethe,’ and she twists the long fall o a loose plait, ties it with a ribbon, and goes from the room.

  Mother sits awkwardly on the bed. ‘I need to speak to you about marriage,’ she starts. ‘About what your duties will be as a married woman. I suppose you should know.’

  I turn on my stool and wait, saying nothing.

  ‘This is a marriage of great advantage to you,’ she says. ‘We are of Luxembourg, of course, but to gain the position of an English duchess is a great thing.’

  I nod. I wonder if she is going to say anything about what happens on the wedding night. I am afraid of the great duke and I am dreading the thought of spending the night with him. The last wedding I went to they put the couple in bed together and in the morning they fetched them out with music and singing and laughing, and then the mother went in and brought out the sheets and they were red with blood. Nobody would tell me what had happened, if there had been some sort of accident. Everyone behaved as if everything was quite wonderful, as if they were pleased at the sight of blood on the linen. Indeed, they were laughing and congratulating the bridegroom. I wonder if my mother is going to explain now.

  ‘But for him, it is not a marriage of advantage,’ she says. ‘It may cost him very dear.’

  ‘The jointure?’ I ask, thinking that it must cost him money to pay me my allowance.

  ‘His allies,’ she says. ‘He has been in alliance with the Dukes of Burgundy to fight against the Armagnacs. England could not have fought such a war without their support. His wife was Anne of Burgundy – the present duke was her brother – and she made it her business to keep her brother and her husband in good friendship. Now she has died, there is no-one to keep the friendship, no-one to help them resolve their disagreements.’

  ‘Well, I can’t,’ I say, thinking of the Duke of Burgundy whom I have seen half a dozen times in my whole life, while certainly he has never noticed me at all.

  ‘You will have to try,’ my mother says. ‘It will be your duty, as an English duchess, to hold Burgundy in alliance with England. Your husband will expect you to entertain his allies and to be charming.’

  ‘Charming?’

  ‘Yes. But there is a difficulty. Because my lord John of Bedford is marrying you so soon after the death of his wife, the Duke of Burgundy is offended at the insult to his dead sister. He has taken it badly.’

  ‘Then why are we marrying so quickly?’ I ask. ‘If it upsets the Duke of Burgundy? Surely we should leave it a year and not displease him? He is our kinsman, as well as the Duke of Bedford’s ally. Surely we should not offend him?’

  My mother smiles faintly. ‘It makes you a duchess,’ she reminds me. ‘A greater title even than mine.’

  ‘I could be a duchess next year.’ The thought of escaping this marriage, even for a year, fills me with hope. ‘We could just be betrothed.’

  ‘Lord John won’t wait,’ she says flatly. ‘So don’t hope for that. I just want to warn you that he may lose his ally by marrying you. You must do all that you can to retain the friendship of the Duke of Burgundy, aremind them both that you are a kinswoman of Burgundy and his vassal. Speak to the Duke of Burgundy privately and promise him that you remember your kinship to the Burgundians. Do all you can to keep the friendship between the two of them, Jacquetta.’

  I nod. I really don’t know what she thinks I can do, a seventeen-year-old girl, to maintain an alliance of two great men old enough to be my father. But I will have to promise to do my best.

  ‘And the marriage . . . ’ I begin.

  ‘Yes?’

  I take a breath. ‘What exactly happens?’

  She shrugs, she makes a little face as if talk of it is beneath her, or embarrassing, or even worse – too disagreeable for words. ‘Oh, my dear, you just do your duty. He will tell you what he expects. He will tell you what to do. He won’t expect you to know anything, he will prefer to be your instructor.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ she says unhelpfully. ‘But not for very long. Since he is older and practised, he should do his best to see that you are not hurt too badly.’ She hesitates. ‘But if he does hurt you . . . ’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t complain of it.’

  The wedding is to be at midday and I start preparing at eight in the morning when my maid brings me bread and meat and small ale to sustain me through the long day. I giggle when I see the tray heaped with food. ‘I’m not going out hunting, you know.’

  ‘No,’ she says ominously. ‘You are to be hunted,’ and the other maids with her all cackle like a pen of hens and that is the last joke I am going to offer all day.

  I sit at the table in a sulk, and eat, while they embroider versions of the theme of me being hunted and caught and enjoying the chase, until my mother comes in, and behind her come two serving men, rolling the great wooden barrel of a bath.

  They place it before the fire in my bedroom, line it with linen and start to pour in jug after jug of hot water. The maids bustle about bringing drying sheets, and start to lay out my new undergowns, with much comment about the lace and the ribbons and how fine everything is, and how lucky I am. My mother sees my strained expression and shoos them all from the room except our old nursemaid who is to scrub my back and wash my hair and add jugs of hot water. I feel like a sacrificial lamb being cleaned and brushed before having its throat cut; and it is not a pleasant thought.

  But our nursemaid Mary is cheerful and full of her usual clucking approbation of my beautiful hair and my beautiful skin and if she had half my looks she would have run away to Paris – as ever – and when I have bathed and she has dried my hair and plaited it, I cannot help but be encouraged by the linen under-gown with the new ribbons, and by the new shoes and by the beautiful cloth-of-gold gown, and the headdress. The maids come back in to help me dress, and tie the laces of the gown and straighten my headdress and pull the veil over my shoulders and finally pronounce me ready for my wedding and as beautiful as a bride should be.

  I turn to the great looking glass that my mother ordered to be carried into my chamber, and my reflection looks back at me. The m
aids hold it before me and tip it slightly downwards so that I can first see the hem of my gown, embroidered with little red lions rampant, from the standard of our house, and my red leather slippers with the curling toes. Then they hold the mirror straight, and I can see the cloth-of-gold gown gathered at the high waist and the embroidered heavy belt of gold that is slung low over my slim hips. I gesture and they raise the mirror so I can see the expensive cream lace veiling the low-cut neck of the gown, the gold sleeves falling from my shoulders, with the white linen under-gown revealed tantalisingly through the slashings at the shoulders, and then my face. My fair hair is plaited away and tucked under the tall headdress, and my face looks solemnly at me, enhanced by the silvery reflection of the mirror. My grey eyes are wide in this light, my skin clear and pearly, the mirror makes me look like a statue of a beauty, a marble girl. I gaze at myself as if I would know who I am, and for a moment I think I see Melusina, the founder of our house, looking back at me through moonlit water.

  ‘When you are a duchess you will have a great mirror of your own,’ my mother says. ‘Everything fine. And you will have all her old clothes.’

  ‘Duchess Anne’s clothes?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, as if wearing the wardrobe of a recently dead woman should be a great treat for me. ‘Her sables are the best I have ever seen. Now they will be yours.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ I say politely. ‘Will I get my own clothes as well?’

  She laughs. ‘You will be the first lady in France, all but the first lady in England. You will be able to have whatever your husband wants to give you. And you will soon learn how to persuade him.’