Blood Royal

by Vanora Bennett

  ‘Eat up,’ she said, suddenly purposeful, and he let himself be drawn to his feet. ‘Let’s go.’

  It was late when they came back from the University. But Owain’s eyes were still shining.

  She said: ‘I’ll put another book out for you. For when you’ve finished this one. It’s one of my early ones, something I wrote when Jean was going to go away to England. Advice to a young man; on how to learn to learn. I thought it might appeal.’

  His face lightened even more; then suddenly darkened with memory. He said: ‘But I’ll have to go …’

  She said: ‘How long can you stay?’

  He fell silent. He scuffed one toe against the other foot. She could see him remembering his pointless existence; waiting in palace corridors; being left out by English pageboys and aides with a proper claim to their lords’ time. ‘My lord of Clarence will be off in a day or two,’ he said eventually. He eyed her for a moment, as if thinking.

  What Owain was fumbling towards articulating was that he wanted to find a way to stay on after Clarence left. These Parisians – fearful as they all seemed, with the memory of their conflict so recent on them that you could practically smell the blood on them, so fresh that they didn’t yet have words to talk about it – were, at the same time, full of a joy he didn’t know: the pleasure of being here, where they were, doing what they did. They knew something that made it almost irrelevant if the great men of the day destroyed each other over their heads. They might tremble at the profound crisis they were caught up in, and mourn the passing of the established order of the world they knew. But they believed in something universal that couldn’t be destroyed. They were putting their hope in beauty. Owain had never had a day when so many enticing futures opened up before him. He didn’t know whether he wanted to go and enrol at the University, or just stay in this house with these warm, kindly people and read himself into the life they lived. But he wanted to be here.

  ‘Did Anastaise tell you?’ she asked, as if she were changing the subject. ‘She took a poultice this morning to an old woman with sores under her arms that Anastaise said looked like plague sores.’

  She saw the flicker on his face; she didn’t think it was fear. ‘I’m wondering,’ she went on. ‘Perhaps I should tell my lord of Clarence you’ve been exposed to the miasma, out here in the town. Perhaps I should suggest you stay on until a doctor gives you the all-clear.’ She poured him a cup of wine. ‘You could rejoin them at Calais later,’ she murmured; the voice of temptation. Then, realising that the Duke of Clarence might well be heading straight back to Normandy to go on making war, she added, with asperity, ‘or wherever the Duke prefers.’ She put the jug down. There was a hint of mischievous laughter in her voice when she said: ‘After all, it would be a service to him to make sure his men didn’t get ill.’ She could take Owain to meet a friend or two from the University in the next few days; set wheels in motion.

  ‘But,’ Owain said, hesitating naively, ‘there wouldn’t be a risk of illness. I haven’t really been exposed to any miasma, have I?’ Hastily, he added: ‘Though I would love to stay …’

  She caught his eye – a challenge. She raised her eyebrows. Cheerfully, she said: ‘Well, then – lie! It would be in a good cause. I can’t imagine God would mind.’ And when she saw the disbelieving grin spread over his face, she knew he would.

  FIVE

  The English hunted for a day with the Queen. The next day, they invited Catherine and her ladies to hunt with them. Queen Isabeau said no. Perhaps she didn’t want to goad Louis any more. Perhaps she just didn’t want to be reminded that her daughter had no ladies to speak of – that the two youngest royal children, more or less forgotten on the edge of the court, lived the peculiar, twilight, scrounging existence they did. So the English left by dusk that night, in the purposeful flurry of green and brown that seemed to be their way. And, a day later, everything was back to normal – at least, back to the upside-down normal of the times of the King’s illnesses.

  Catherine and Charles sat idly in the garden together. It was too hot to be inside. Their mother’s door was shut. The servants weren’t there. There was no food. As usual, there was nothing to do.

  Charles threw a pebble into the fountain, trying to make it skim and bounce. It went straight down. But he was whistling. She could see he was glad the English had gone, with their marriage proposal.

  ‘I tell you what,’ he said, a few failed skims later. ‘I heard Mother and Marguerite whispering away together earlier. Planning something. Both looking really excited.’ He did an imitation of evil busily on the loose: hunching his shoulders forward in a one-man conspiracy, jokily narrowing his eyes into devil slits, darting them furtively from side to side, smacking his lips and leering. ‘Of course they shut up when they noticed I was listening. But I bet I know what they’re up to. They’re going to get their own back on Louis for being rude to the English Duke.’

  Catherine sighed. They were both scared of their mother’s temper; and her plots.

  But there was nothing else to look forward to. ‘I wonder what they’ll do to him?’ she said, a little apprehensively. Charles didn’t reply. After a long moment’s silence, she picked up a pebble herself.

  They were lying under an apple tree in the orchard, flicking twigs up at the unripe fruit, when Christine appeared an hour later, calling for them.

  She had a basket on her arm. She had a young man with her.

  They hardly noticed him. They flew at her; two raggedy children, calling in thin, eager voices, ‘Christine! Christine!’ and ‘What’s in your basket?’ and ‘I’m starving!’ They dived at the basket and, with tremendous animation, began laying out the food she’d brought. Very ordinary food. Early strawberries. Some cheese in a cloth. Last night’s beef leftovers. A couple of eggs. A hunk of bread.

  ‘Can we eat now?’ Charles was begging, hanging on Christine’s arm. ‘Please?’ A funny little thing, Owain thought: eleven or twelve, but undersized, like a much younger boy, with a white face and a rabbit’s red eyes and a big, bulbous nose. His voice was squeaky and babyish. And why was a prince of France dressed like that? In old rags that Owain would have been ashamed of wearing; dirty, too?

  Then he turned to the little Princess, who was sitting on the long grass, unwrapping the cloth from round the cheese with the tender excitement of someone who’d never seen food before. Like her brother, she was also in plain, old, crumpled clothes, with her skirts so much too long for her that they seemed made for someone else. She’d tied a knot in one side, perhaps to let her run or climb trees without tripping up. Her hair was loose; he could see a kerchief lying on the ground not far away. It was pretty hair; long and thick. But it was all tangles with bits of grass in it. She’d looked a young woman in the royal chambers, in her finery; but now she was nothing more than a scruffy child. Owain was wondering, rather disapprovingly, how these children came to look so neglected, when Catherine absent-mindedly lifted one hand, twisted her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck, and turned to smile up at him.

  And all at once Owain was lost for breath. How slim and long her neck was, how lovely the line of it, rising from her soft shoulders.

  The sun was behind him. She was blinking a little, trying to focus her eyes on the tall shape before her; but he didn’t think she could really see him. He didn’t think she recognised him, or was remembering her own kindness in sparing his blushes at his Duke’s audience with her mother. She was only smiling that blind, vulnerable, enchanting smile out of a child’s pleasure at the presence of Christine, and the picnic, and something to do to relieve what he could see had been boredom.

  But thinking those sensible thoughts didn’t stop the soft sense of wonder stealing through him as he stood and stared back, entranced by the sight of her, feeling his heart swell with joy.

  It was Charles who broke the spell: Charles, wriggling and giggling around Christine, until she put firm arms on his skinny shoulders and said reprovingly, ‘Of course you can’t eat yet; not t
ill I’ve introduced my guest. Where are your manners?’

  That got the child’s attention all right. He turned straight to Owain, staring. Rudely, Owain thought; but then, whatever he was wearing, he was, after all, a prince of the blood, and allowed to stare at anyone he chose. He narrowed his eyes. ‘I know you!’ he cried, almost accusingly. ‘You’re the one who held the casket while the English Duke gave my sister a jewel. Aren’t you?’

  Owain nodded, and bowed. ‘The very same,’ he said easily, doing his best to charm. ‘Owain Tudor.’ He’d half-turned to face the little boy; but he was blissfully, agonisingly aware, at the same time, of the girl looking up at him from below, muttering, with pink cheeks and a prettily awkward air, ‘I remember you now, of course, it’s just that you look different, out here in the sun.’

  You must be informal, Christine had said; just call them by their names; no bowing and scraping. In the gardens they’re just children; they’re very quiet; shy; it’s wrong to scare them with formalities; we’re old friends. All the same, he wished now he’d put on something better than the simple tunic he was wearing. For reasons he didn’t understand, he wanted to cut as elegant a figure as he could.

  Christine, also visibly keen to make the introductions go smoothly, said, in a special child-voice whose gentleness surprised Owain, ‘Owain is from a noble family of Wales – the kings of Powys Magog.’ She pronounced the Welsh words strangely, but he was surprised and flattered that she’d even tried to reproduce the unfamiliar name; flattered, too, that she was describing his lineage with such respect, when he’d got used, almost, to being all but invisible among Englishmen; to sitting below the salt; to being ignored. ‘I thought you’d enjoy showing him the gardens, and the lion.’

  Little Charles didn’t look as though he’d enjoy that at all. For someone supposedly so shy, there was a definite aggression in his expression. He was scowling. He said: ‘But the English party is supposed to have gone. They told us in the kitchens. Why are you still here?’

  Owain opened his mouth to make a soft reply. But he wasn’t sorry when Christine got there first. The truth was that he wouldn’t have been sure what to say about why he was still in Paris, or, indeed, at the Hotel Saint-Paul. Christine had suggested he come with her so he could see the famous gardens at the King’s favourite Paris home, though he’d had a feeling she really just wanted to show off her friendship with the King’s children. Not everyone was on such intimate terms with princes; and he’d begun to see that Christine, magnificent though she was, wasn’t above vanity.

  ‘Owain was only temporarily attached to the Duke of Clarence,’ Christine told the pouting little boy reassuringly. Owain could tell from the practised way she patted at him that this suspicious, feral child must often take a lot of reassuring. ‘He’s not with them any more. The rest of the English have gone, darling. I doubt they’ll be back.’ She patted again. The little boy’s eyes lost their fierce look. ‘But Owain wanted to stay on in Paris for a while to see if he’d like to study at the University. He’s my guest. And he’s reading my modest collection of books while he’s here. Racing through them. An example to all of us. An example to you!’ she finished brightly.

  Little Charles wasn’t quite satisfied yet. But he put his concerns, whatever they were, to one side; nodded briefly at Owain, and said again to Christine, even more plaintively: ‘So can we eat now?’

  Owain’s heart leapt. He saw that Catherine was still watching him from her place on the long grass, catching his eye so he’d be sure to notice her. She was shrugging slightly and casting her eyes upwards, in a quiet, friendly apology for her brother’s awkward manners.

  He smiled back at her, grateful for the thought; wondering why she had her hand clamped, as she did, across her mouth. It looked like a gag. She didn’t seem conscious of it. It was an ugly gesture. Then she forgot him. She was hungry too. And she was still a child. As Charles threw himself down beside her, ready to snatch at the food she’d set out, she moved her hand, freed her mouth, turned a teasing grin on her brother, and plucked the bit of bread he was aiming for off its cloth. ‘Too late,’ she mumbled with it in her mouth. Charles pouted; then, seeing Christine smile, he started to laugh too.

  There was a breadcrumb on the side of her lip. There was a mischievous glint in her eye. There was sun in her hair. Owain, who’d thought he was excited and happy before, seeing the world, caught up in adventure, could hardly believe the trembling intensity of the joy he now felt just watching her, as he and Christine slid down to their knees to join the picnic.

  Charles led the way to the lion cage. Food had improved his mood. So had the exchange he’d begun as soon as he had an egg inside him and a slice of beef and most of the strawberries.

  ‘Does the King of England really want to marry Catherine and take her away?’ he’d asked Owain, and his eyes had had both fierceness and a kind of mute plea in them.

  ‘Yes,’ Owain said kindly, understanding what was making the child look so glum – fear of losing his playmate if she married – and feeling sorry for him.

  ‘No,’ Christine said at the same time, with much more force. ‘He knows we’ll say no – we already said no to him as a husband for Princess Isabelle, because he’s a …’ Looking at Owain, she refrained from saying ‘usurper’, but only just. ‘In any case, he doesn’t want a marriage. He wants war. He’s already started harping on about English claims to France. He’ll just use any marriage negotiations to pick a quarrel with France. He’s looking for a grievance. It would be naive to think anything else.’

  There was a short pause. Owain, feeling shocked that he hadn’t understood how hostile some of the French might feel towards his King and, trying not to resent Christine’s sudden brusque rudeness, looked carefully away. But he saw little Charles nodding, clearly believing Christine. ‘Let’s go to the lions,’ Charles piped up, looking suddenly much more cheerful. He bounded off through the bowers and trellises and artful fountains and sprays of roses.

  Owain brought up the rear. The royal gardens were so extraordinary that he quickly forgot the sting of Christine’s tongue and was soon turning his head from side to side, admiring statues; views; flowers; nightingale cages; fountains gleaming with silver fishes. Miracles.

  Everyone stopped when they got to the great wrought-iron cage. Inside, a matted, maddened lion paced, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, over its droppings, snarling. It was menace in animal form. It was golden; it was stinking; a king humiliated. It never stopped trying to escape. Even now, in this heat, it was pulling the chain that ran from its collar to the stake in the ground as taut as it could, testing the possibilities, following its instinct, feeling for a way out.

  A silence fell on them all as they admired its powerful shoulders and the magnificent lines of its muzzle and its tawny, deadly eyes.

  ‘Has it ever got out?’ Owain asked, in a dazed voice.

  No one answered.

  Charles whispered: ‘They feed it a whole dog, or a pig, or a sheep, every day.’ He added, without expression: ‘The animals always scream before they die.’

  After a while, Catherine asked, just as quietly: ‘Does the King of England keep lions?’

  As she spoke, she glanced up towards Christine, who was standing well back from the cage. She was looking past the lion into the distance; lost in some private thought of her own, which, to judge from the tragic expression on her face, wasn’t a happy one.

  Catherine turned her steady gaze back on Owain.

  Owain had no idea if there had ever been a lion in England. And his head was too full of lion-stink and heat to be able to think straight. But there was nothing he wanted more than to feel her eyes on him. ‘There’s an elephant at the Tower of London,’ he said. He’d heard the story, even if he hadn’t seen the elephant on his few brief trips to London. And he’d seen a picture of an elephant once. It was the most impressive thing he could think of to say.

  ‘What’s an elephant like?’ Catherine asked.


  ‘Huge and grey,’ he said boldly, describing the picture he remembered, beginning to enjoy his story. ‘Like a giant dog. And instead of a nose it has an extra limb – curving up, in the shape of a horn.’

  He’d hoped to astonish her with his fabulous beast. But she just nodded, matter-of-factly, as if she saw elephants every day. Perhaps being among miracles at all times took away the edge of shock.

  Then, after another furtive glance at Christine, she added in a whisper: ‘And what’s Henry of England like?’

  She moved a little closer.

  Owain paused, trying desperately to marshal his thoughts. She smelled of roses.

  ‘Honest,’ he muttered, thinking defiantly that he could at least do something to right the damningly wrong impression Christine had given of his King. ‘Straightforward. Good-tempered … A good planner … And an excellent master: everyone who serves him loves him …’

  He glanced up at Christine himself, hoping she was still staring past the lions, thinking her thoughts and not listening to him.

  Catherine was so close now that she couldn’t help but catch the movement of his eyes and know what he was thinking. She bit her lip; but the breathless beginning of a giggle escaped anyway. She nodded conspiratorially at him. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered, ‘Christine’s not listening.’

  For a moment they stood too close, exchanging glances, not quite laughing. He was dizzy with the intimacy of it; dizzy with the bees buzzing around him. Then she went back to prompting him: ‘And the court, the English court? What’s that like?’

  Owain hardly knew anything of the court, either. He’d served at banquets – three hours of silent eating. He’d ridden behind hunts. But he didn’t know if any of that would impress her, any more than the elephant had. He let the smell of roses and warm skin drift delightfully into his nostrils. He hesitated. He wanted to make England attractive. But he wanted to tell her the truth, too.