Blood Royal

by Vanora Bennett

  She smiled fondly down at his miserable face, rewarding his effort. ‘Poissy,’ Christine replied, and, even in the gloom of this moment, the name filled her heart with light. Poissy, a place apart from worldly troubles; Poissy, as close as you could get to Paradise on earth …

  ‘To see your Marie?’ Catherine asked, falling into step beside Owain. She was trying to make her voice matter-of-fact, as Christine would want. But she couldn’t help sounding left out.

  ‘So it will be just us here,’ she went on, and Owain could hear wistfulness in her voice, and perhaps fear.

  ‘For a couple of days,’ Christine replied briskly. However disturbing the scene they’d just witnessed, nothing was going to stop her going to Poissy.

  Her answer didn’t reassure Catherine. Turning to her younger brother, and jerking her head back in the direction of the voices, the Princess continued her thought as if Christine hadn’t spoken. She added, with a grimace: ‘On our own … with them.’

  SIX

  There was a buzz of conversation behind and in front. But in the middle of the line of pilgrims clip-clopping away from Paris – strangers, talking to the people they were travelling with, or those they’d met at the saddling-up point at the Saint-Germain gate at dawn – two were silent. Owain, behind Christine, looking at her straight, thin back without being aware of doing so, was remembering the tears sparkling on Catherine’s eyelashes yesterday.

  He was reproaching himself for not being able simply to feel concern for Catherine and her unhappiness. But he couldn’t help himself. They’d glittered like diamonds, those tears. He would treasure the memory forever. As the Poissy pilgrims passed between tree trunks, under boughs crossing high above, the broken glitters of sun and whispers of green reminded him of snatches of song drifting down from the heights: a living cathedral; the whole natural world giving praise.

  She’d touched him. She’d burrowed her face against his chest. She’d let him cradle her in his arms. He’d felt the breath rise and fall in her. She’d confided in him.

  All night he’d thought of nothing else but that moment; all evening, through supper, instead of reading; all morning. He’d woken up to the thought of Catherine. She filled his mind now.

  Owain had always thought he’d known what unhappiness was. In his mind it had looked like the war he’d known: familiar people disappearing; living, always, with fear and loneliness; knowing things you loved were gone forever, or soon would be. Knowing there was no guarantee of safety or security; that the roof could be burned from over your head, or an arrow lodge in your heart, at any moment. But yesterday, looking into Catherine’s eyes, he’d realised how naive that had been. Unhappiness could have a quite different aspect, could exist even in surroundings of the most settled luxury. Could be Catherine, choking on a sob in a palace. He could have guessed she was unhappy; that Charles was, too. The quietness Christine kept talking about – which he hadn’t seen as clearly as she had; they’d both wanted to talk to him, after all – their timid air and neglected clothes and street-urchin hunger. There’d always been something wrong, if Owain had only had eyes to see.

  Now Owain had started to see, he burned with the desire to talk to her more intimately about what her life was really like. He knew so little. He might be able to help, as he’d found ways to help himself through his own past unhappiness. If only he understood more. Were her mother and brother usually so poisonous and hateful with each other? Did they often fight in public? If so, what did other people at the French court think of the feud? Who supported whom? Why – when there were so many siblings and cousins of the blood royal – did no one take the two youngest royal children under their wing and protect them? And what did Catherine know about her father’s illness, which she and Charles were so vague about? He longed for her to tell him; he could imagine her drawing closer, as he laid a hand on hers; looking up at him from under lashes glittering with tears.

  He thought. He rode in silence. The sun rose high. They stopped to eat. The horses stamped and snorted into their buckets. The riders, having attended to them, went into the bushes to relieve themselves, or stood around chatting, or sat down and delved into their packages of bread and meat. Owain didn’t eat, or talk. He just sat quietly on the fallen tree trunk he’d chosen, beside Christine, not touching the piece of bread she put in his hand, and remembered the glitter of the tears, so close he could have kissed them away.

  He didn’t even look when one of the other pilgrims came up to him and Christine. It took him a long moment to become aware of Christine’s sudden animation at his side: the kerchief falling back, the look of horror, the rush to her feet, the panicky glances from side to side, the miserable subsiding back to her perch on the tree trunk.

  He looked up.

  Then he blinked, and blinked again. He couldn’t believe the evidence of his eyes, but every time he opened them he still saw the same thing.

  Standing before them, in a serviceable brown travelling cloak and a kerchief as plain and anonymous as Christine’s own, was Catherine.

  There was a scared, defiant smile on her face.

  Nothing happened for a long moment – just silence.

  ‘I thought you’d have noticed me before now,’ Catherine said, trying unsuccessfully to sound casual. Her eyes were fixed on Christine; but she’d had time to give Owain a look, too, and he was glowing privately at that new treasure. ‘I didn’t think you’d let me get this far.’

  Christine was slumped down on the tree trunk as though not trusting her legs to carry her if she tried to get up again.

  Her mouth opened, then shut. She stared at Catherine. Owain, keeping very quiet and still beside her, realised that, unusually, even Christine – confronted with a rebellious, runaway princess of the blood, dressed like a shepherdess, wandering unescorted through the wildwood – was lost for words. He felt for her. She’d be right to be angry. It wouldn’t help anyone if she realised how indescribably happy the sight of Catherine was making him.

  Eventually, Christine muttered: ‘For the love of God …’ and then, with her face darkening into the beginning of a muted fury, ‘… what are you doing here?’

  Catherine just shrugged; almost a wriggle. She wasn’t cowed. She said, still defiantly: ‘I took a horse. Why not? Why should I stay when I know what’s going to be happening there?’

  Christine stifled a sigh. Owain knew, from their own conversation last night, that Christine and Jean were also afraid of what might happen next now open conflict seemed to be breaking out again between the Prince and his mother. They’d all looked so scared – pale and miserable even in the yellow flickers of night light, seeming smaller than usual with their flinching, hunching shoulders, making him realise, uncomfortably, that the Paris they lived in wasn’t the sunlit, calm place he’d imagined. They’d talked for hours about it, worrying away at the possibility that the quarrel might be Louis’ pretext to call Burgundy back to Paris with his army, to keep the Queen under control. And if Queen Isabeau’s worst enemy came near Paris with ten thousand men, how would she respond?

  Still. There were so many things Christine could choose to be angry about, Owain thought. The danger of riding off into the woods (though she’d known he would be there, with his sword; she hadn’t really put herself at risk). The disobedience, and the panic she’d cause at the palace – though, he realised, now he’d spent so much time there himself, it was unlikely anyone would notice she’d gone; the two children ran wild and didn’t seem to have a single servant to tend to them.

  ‘Because of Charles,’ Christine said, in her most terrible voice, with ice-cold eyes, picking the one argument that, Owain realised, would be certain to make Catherine feel guilty. ‘You’ve left Charles alone in the middle of one of these … upheavals. A child. And a child who has nightmares. He’ll be worried about where you are. And he’ll be terrified to be facing … all that … on his own.’

  Catherine looked uncertain, but only for a moment. Then she stuck out her chin and stared b
ack at Christine. ‘He’ll be all right,’ she said, with a brave attempt at carelessness. ‘I couldn’t tell him because he’d only have wanted to come too … but I told the Saracen to tell him I was with you.’

  If she thought she’d get praise for that, she was mistaken. The Saracen was one of the Queen’s most outlandish ladies-in-waiting, a hostage from the Crusades, gifted to the Queen long ago, so silent and empty-eyed, padding round the palace corridors, that the children hardly knew whether she understood French, or even knew how to talk. Catherine went on, faltering a little: ‘So he’ll know I’m not lost.’

  The battle of eyes went on: Christine’s full of accusation. ‘Well,’ Catherine finished, finally dropping her gaze, scuffing at her toes, ‘I don’t care. I had to get away.’

  She glanced at Owain. Perhaps she saw sympathy on his face. She flashed a grateful half-smile his way.

  Owain saw Christine catch that flash of warmth. Then he saw a tiny, surprised frown pull at the older woman’s forehead, as if the first hint of suspicion was dawning that Owain’s presence might have been part of the reason Catherine had wanted … Christine looked searchingly at Owain for a moment herself. He kept his face still and surprised. He was relieved when, with a little shake of the head, as if she was putting aside an unworthy thought, she turned her full furious attention back to the girl digging her toes uncomfortably into the carpet of dead leaves underfoot.

  ‘We should all turn around now, and go back to Paris,’ she said icily. She added, in a different voice, full of a misery even she couldn’t quite hide: ‘I can come back and see my daughter next year.’

  Owain remembered the softness of her eyes when she’d asked him to come to Poissy with her. The pity of it caught at his heart. He couldn’t let her miss this visit.

  ‘We can’t do that,’ he said, putting his hand on his sword hilt, feeling a man. ‘It wouldn’t be safe for just three of us to strike off back through the forest. If Catherine has left word in Paris of where she is, it would be much more sensible to stick with the group; come back tomorrow as we planned.’

  For different reasons, both pairs of eyes now fixed on him were full of quiet relief. The trip need not be cancelled. He’d given a plausible rationale for riding on. He nodded reassuringly at them both, thanking God that neither of them knew how absurdly excited he felt at the adventure opening up before him – the prospect of hours in the woods, on horseback, with Catherine; and a pilgrim’s supper at an inn, later; and another long ride back to Paris tomorrow, following his lady.

  Christine didn’t wait for any more discussion of whether they should cancel their journey. She just moved swiftly on to considering what should be said about the trip once they were back in Paris. She said: ‘I suppose we should say you just took it into your head to come to Poissy to visit your sister.’

  There was no anger in Christine’s voice any more. She’d accepted Catherine’s presence. She was making the best of it. So there was no reason for Catherine to demur. Yet, at those words, the Princess frowned and fidgeted, and shook her head, and said sulkily: ‘Why? I’ve never even met my sister.’

  Owain stared at her in wild surmise. Catherine clearly hadn’t the least wish to meet an unknown sister at the end of this journey. But what had she expected to be doing at Poissy, if not going into the women-only confines of the nunnery with Christine? Not … He blinked, feeling as blinded by the possibility dawning on him as if he’d stared straight at the sun … Not staying outside all day … sitting at some travellers’ inn … with him?

  Christine’s patience, always limited, was at an end. ‘Well, you’re about to meet her now,’ she snapped. ‘Unless you want to tell your mother you just ran off to get away from her.’ And, standing up, she flicked crumbs off her skirts and called, in her most imperious voice: ‘Owain! Come; put away the food and get the horses untied. And bring Catherine’s up. We’ll be off in a minute.’

  The abbey was inside a great wall that stretched for miles in every direction, in a landscape that seemed almost impossibly green and alive with birdsong and happiness.

  The light was golden. There were deer between the trees on this side of the wall, and fishponds. Owain could see clusters of houses that must belong to the nuns’ male confessors and spiritual advisers, the doctors, the financial counsellors, the overseers, the cooks, the bakers, and the servants. Through the gate, he glimpsed more rooftops and the tall towers of a church inside the enclosure. He could hear the buzzing of bees. He knew he’d never see more. Men weren’t allowed inside the wall. His journey, and that of the other men who’d ridden with the women, ended here.

  One by one, the men pulled up, dismounted, chatted to the gatehouse keepers. A couple of them, who knew the ways of this place, carried on down the lane that must lead to the town and the inn.

  The women hardly seemed to notice. Their minds were on their meetings; on beloved faces hidden behind the walls. Their yearning eyes were fixed ahead. Their horses were almost trotting. They processed through the gate without looking back.

  Owain stayed where he was, very still, shading his eyes to watch the women’s receding backs. He didn’t dismount until after one small head, with its cloak hood up, had turned briefly round from the gatehouse to look his way.

  The women heard Mass.

  Christine had forgotten the anger that had consumed her when she’d caught sight of Catherine. She couldn’t imagine feeling angry any more, not now she was listening to the soaring soprano voices. There was light pouring down from the window. She was happier than she remembered being anywhere else. Her heart was full of Marie’s embrace just now, and of the joy in those cornflower-blue eyes. She could still smell the pure innocence of her daughter’s skin.

  There was a partition in the church, separating the nuns from the lay people of the town and beyond. But she was burning with the knowledge that her Marie’s shining little face, peeping out over the black habit trimmed with white fur that all the nuns wore, was just behind the barrier. Marie was probably letting her eyes rise, like Christine’s, to the ceiling, to gaze at the midnight-blue arches with their golden stars.

  They were so pretty, all those girls with roses in their cheeks, all dressed alike.

  She had to overcome her selfish sadness at only seeing her daughter once a year. Poissy was the closest you could come to Heaven on Earth. Marie was blessed. It had been right to bring her here.

  Catherine would have known her sister anywhere. There were fifteen years separating them, but the unlined face bending towards hers, with a benign stranger’s curiosity, had the same long nose, green eyes and high cheekbones Catherine saw in her own mirror every day. They were of the same blood.

  All Catherine had really hoped for from this journey was to have some time to talk to Owain. After yesterday, there was nothing else she wanted in the world but to pour out her heart to him. She wanted to tell him about Maman’s and Louis’ quarrels; about how Louis behaved to Marguerite to punish her for being her father’s daughter; about the butchers breaking in last year and how frightened she and Charles still were, especially in the night. She’d seen kindness in his eyes. He would listen.

  Yet, for a while, on the road, after Christine had ordered her to meet Marie de Valois, Catherine had also let herself start to imagine that this saintly stranger sister might approve of their mother’s notion of marrying her to the King of England. The quarrel yesterday had brought the question of escape into her head again, more urgently than ever before. She’d have been grateful for a word of encouragement.

  But now she realised that wasn’t going to happen. Her sister’s face had taken on a fastidious look as soon as Catherine had mentioned the English marriage – as if she’d smelled something bad. And she was still shaking her head.

  ‘Dishonourable,’ Marie said simply when Catherine finished. ‘A princess of the blood royal can’t marry the son of a usurper. Don’t let them bully you. Just say no.’

  They seemed to do without flowery turns of phrase i
n the nunnery, Catherine thought resentfully.

  ‘The English have already tried this trick once, with Isabelle,’ Marie said. ‘She said no. You can too.’

  Then, unexpectedly, she grinned. The lively mischief that came into her face made her look younger, and even more like Catherine. Catherine stared. She hadn’t expected a nun to look so cheeky.

  ‘Even I’ve said no to one of Maman’s mad marriage plans,’ Marie said, and she was clearly enjoying the memory. ‘Did you know?’

  That was astonishing enough to make Catherine forget her disappointment. No one stood up to their mother; and if they did, they suffered. She looked at Marie’s laughing face with new respect. ‘Tell me,’ she demanded.

  All she knew was what everyone knew – that Marie had been promised to the Church at birth, in the hope that giving a child to the nuns would please God enough to make him cure the King of his illness in exchange. God hadn’t kept his side of the bargain. But, at four, Marie had entered the nunnery anyway. And, at eight, she’d chosen to stay at Poissy forever, and had taken her vows.

  But it seemed that wasn’t the end of the story. For when Marie was twelve, the Queen had changed her mind.

  Marie said: ‘She just turned up here, one fine day, with our uncle of Orleans, and told me to leave with her. She’d decided to marry off one of her daughters to the Duke of Bar. And I was the right age, and not married. So she’d taken it into her head that the bride should be me.’

  She laughed merrily.

  Remembering the hard beds and endless prayer that must be Marie’s daily lot, Catherine thought: I’d have done it, without a second thought.

  Perhaps Marie realised what she was thinking. The deputy prioress stopped laughing and said, more seriously: ‘When I thought about going back to court, I knew there was nothing I wanted less. Everything I’d known before coming here to Poissy had been so … dirty. Once I’d come here and known the peace of God, how could I go back?’