by Hilda Lewis
Wife to Henry V
Hilda Lewis
Copyright © 1954 by Hilda Lewis
All rights reserved.
G. P. Putnam’s Sons: New York
First American Edition 1957
Manufactured in the United States of America
ISBN: 9780091118709
* * *
She was Catherine of Valois, youngest daughter of that pathetic pair, Charles the Mad of France and Isabeau of Bavaria, most beautiful, most powerful and reputedly, most wanton woman of her time. He was Henry of England, that bright, shining star flashing through the heavens as victor at Agincourt and conqueror of France. Their troth was plighted while they were leagues apart, before one had ever seen the other, but to win his bride Henry had to fight his way through the massed chivalry of the greatest military power on earth.
And yet, was it Catherine he wanted, or the crown he could claim through her, so he might rule two thrones where no one man had ever ruled before? For did not his own uncle, the Bishop of Winchester, who knew Henry as did few men, say, “He has no lust for women; his whole lust is for war.”
So, Catherine, with her background of poverty amidst fantastic luxury, of blood and cruelty, of masques and triumphs, of true religious faith and spiritual fervor, went to the marriage bed to find Henry had little time or inclination for a wife. Always before his eyes was England, his “rights,” his lands—and his claim to France.
Contents
THE PRINCIPAL PERSONS
ROYAL GENEALOGY
TUDOR PEDIGREE
FOREWORD
MAP OF FRANCE: At Peace of Brétigny
PART ONE CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
PART TWO CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
PART THREE CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY
THE PRINCIPAL PERSONS
ENGLAND
Henry V, King of England
His Brothers:
Thomas, Duke of Clarence
John, Duke of Bedford
Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester
Henry VI, his young son
His Bastard Half-Uncles:
Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester and sometime Chancellor of England
Thomas Beaufort, Duke of Exeter, Governor to little Henry VI
Johanne, second wife to Henry IV and stepmother to Henry V
Jacqueline of Bavaria, Countess of Hainault
FRANCE
Charles VI, the mad King of France
Isabeau of Bavaria, his wife, Queen of France
Louis, his eldest son
Charles, his youngest son, afterwards Charles VII
Catherine (of Valois), his youngest daughter, wife to Henry V
Michelle, her sister
John, Duke of Burgundy, cousin of Charles VI
Phillip, son of John of Burgundy, afterwards Duke of Burgundy, husband to Michelle
ROYAL GENEALOGY
The Thrones of England and of France During the Late 13th, 14th and 15th Centuries.
TUDOR PEDIGREE
Names in Capitals are those of Kings and Queens of England
FOREWORD
The scene is set in England and in France. The story begins in 1413.
In England, Henry V has just ascended the throne. Young, untried, and of the usurping house of Lancaster, he has yet to win his people's love; the glory of Agincourt is yet to come.
In France, six years have passed since Louis of Orléans was murdered by John of Burgundy. The Count of Armagnac has taken upon himself the Orléans quarrel and the old hatred springs more deadly than before. The country is torn between Armagnac and Burgundian. No man knows loyalty save to himself and perhaps to his party. The mad King Charles VI turns first to this side and then to that. The wanton Queen Isabeau, hating both parties, watches with shrewd eyes to make herself mistress of France.
Into this torn and troubled land comes the demand of Henry V first for the vast territories ceded to his great-grandfather Edward III by the Treaty of Brétigny, and then—for the crown itself.
MAP OF FRANCE: At Peace of Brétigny
PART ONE
CHAPTER I
Catherine, youngest daughter of the house of Valois, walked in the gardens of Chateau St. Pol. Save for the set of the head, the carriage of the thin shoulders with their promise of beauty, you might have wondered what slut walked in the royal gardens dressed in cast-offs descended from her betters—the velvet so rubbed, so soiled, the places clear where the faded stuff had been let out at seams and hem; and where some prudent but impatient hand had removed the fur.
Catherine did not give her appearance a thought. In all her twelve years there had been no money except for her mother's pleasures. She accepted that as right and proper. Her mother was the Queen and she was beautiful. And the Treasury was in its usual state of emptiness. Catherine understood perfectly what that meant. Indeed there was no misunderstanding it. The University of Pans had presented a memorandum to the King—the King's most humble and devoted daughter it had styled itself. “I should know what to do with so humble and devoted a daughter,” Queen Isabeau had said and her laugh had not been pleasant. But then the memorandum had not been pleasant either. It had censured the shocking waste of money by thieving officials and greedy favourites; and it had laid special stress on the extravagance of the Queen.
But nothing had been done. Her father was so often ill, and sometimes they had to shut him up in the dark; and her mother went on in the same old way while Burgundians and Armagnacs tore France to pieces with their quarrels.
Well it had always been so—at least as long as she could remember. She shrugged her shoulders, bit greedily into the drumstick she had snatched from the kitchen as the scullion went by. When you want a thing—grab it! No other way!
Standing there, biting into the rich, dark meat, savouring the luscious covering of crackle, she was attractive with the grace of a young animal. It was too early as yet to know whether the delicate nose would set into the ugly Valois pattern; already it was a trifle long for prettiness. Her mother openly lamented the girl's looks—and certainly she was no plump beauty. But if the features threatened to inherit from her father, the eyes were lovely—unusual eyes of dark and brilliant grey that would, on occasion, darken to purple. And, already, in the carnation-and-white of her complexion, in the rich chestnut hair, she showed some of her mother's infamous beauty.
White teeth slid along the bone. She saw, rueful, she had picked it clean. Still, the tip of her tongue hopefully explored.
Undoubtedly finished.
She was not one to lament pleasures past, even so recently passed. About to cast the drumstick away she thought suddenly, It's like a hammer; stood there, arm upraised holding the bone. Her mind took a leap. I am Charles Martel, God's Hammer—and this is my hammer. If I were truly God's Hammer on which side
would I fight?
It was a question. She hated John of Burgundy her father's cousin; he was grasping and treacherous, mean and hard. But then—her brother the Dauphin! Louis was weak and lazy, feeble in mind and body, the tool of his so-called friends the Armagnacs. Yes, certainly it was a question.
Catching sight of small, scarlet hose among the bushes, she cried out, “Charles, if you were God, which party would you help?”
Interrupted in his pursuit of elephants, fabulous creatures made to his measurements—sufficiently small, for he was not very brave—the little boy came back, unwilling, to the dazzle of August sunshine.
“Who would you help if you were God?” she asked again.
“Myself,” he answered at once.
Well, there was something in that!
“There are some people you can't help,” she said, thoughtful. “Our brother Louis is one, and our father's another. Banners both, changing with every wind.”
“It's what banners are for,” Charles said with nine-year-old logic.
“But not kings. Kings mustn't change with every breeze that blows. The country is torn in pieces; and our father? First on one side and then on the other. Why doesn't he behave like a king?”
“Because he doesn't want to be torn in pieces, too.”
“But this chopping and changing! A few months ago, our hateful cousin of Burgundy was the favourite, everything he did was right When he shut our brother up in St. Pol—Louis, the Dauphin of France—he was right! When he led on the mob to break into our mother's apartments—the Queen's apartments—he was right. When he allowed his creatures to take away her officers and her gentlewomen—still he was right. And when he robbed the prisoners he'd taken and tortured them and murdered them so that the Seine was thick with corpses and no-one was allowed to bathe in it, what did our father do? Signed one of his famous edicts. It was done for the true honour of our crown. And now? Up with the Armagnacs, up the Dauphin! And our father signs edict after edict against that Burgundian. Who's right? Who's wrong?”
Charles shrugged narrow shoulders.
“How are we to know?” she asked insistent.
But Charles was back elephant-stalking.
She frowned. There was no sense in it, none! But the sky was blue and the sun bright; she forgot she was nearly twelve and marriage-high. She was a child resolving her question in play.
…If my hammer falls to the right then I will help my cousin of Burgundy though I hate him. If it falls to the left then I will help Louis though I despise him...
The hand lifted above her head circled, sent the bone flying.
The Hammer of God cast about for a place in which to hide. Her sister had appeared from nowhere, Michelle walking with that absurd air of hers, because she was two years older, because she was a married woman, wife to Burgundy's heir. Catherine wanted to laugh. Michelle looked even more ridiculous with the drumstick entangled in the veil of her head-dress! The Hammer of God held her breath instead. She did not relish her sister's tongue. Michelle, Catherine thought, didn't look nice when she was cross. It made her nose look too long. If she went on letting her temper get the better of her, in spite of her pretty pink-and-white complexion and her light, curly hair, she'd grow into an ugly old woman; and someone ought to tell her so!
But this was not the moment. Michelle was struggling to unwrap her veil from the bone. “Stealing from the kitchen again!” Michelle was growing exasperated. “Time, isn't it, you stopped your childish tricks?”
“Our childish tricks,” Catherine corrected. “It isn't so long since you stopped stealing, yourself.”
The bone was released with a tearing of silk. Michelle's face was so sour Catherine had to laugh. “Once you were glad enough to eat from a servant's trencher, it was good enough for a Valois,” she said. “But now you eat from Cousin Philip's dish, now you sleep in his bed...”
Michelle's prudish face was too much for her.
“Well and why not? You're married to him, aren't you?”
Michelle ignored the question. She cast a sour look upon this pretty, impudent sister of hers. Twelve years old—and the manners of a gypsy in a ditch! “It's time to forget our most unpleasant childhood,” she said.
“What's wrong with it? If there isn't much on the table there's plenty in the kitchens. And if I'm dirty, at least I know how to laugh.”
“Our mother laughs, too. From her sort of laughter, God defend us! They say that when Uncle Louis died it broke her heart. But I see no signs. She hasn't a heart to break!”
“That's an old story.” But for all her careless manner, Catherine felt her heart shake. She had loved her Uncle of Orléans best in the world; and, though it had happened six years ago, half her entire lifetime, the shock of his murder was still with her. “It's an old story,” she said, “And it's yet to be seen what his murderer will get out of it. I refer,” she curtseyed, “to your good father-in-law, Michelle, our noble Duke of Burgundy.”
“Keep your tongue off your betters,” Michelle advised. “As for our Uncle of Orléans, the air is sweeter for his death.”
“The word is...murder,” Catherine said; and for the moment looked the older of the two. “As for harping upon the thing you daren't say, I'll say it for you. Uncle Louis was our mother's lover.
Don't make a face as though you'd bitten on a stone! I'm old enough to know what I say. And as for you, you're married-quite old enough to understand. A woman like our mother! What should a woman like that do with our father?”
“Her duty.”
“She's done that. How many of us? Twelve? Thirteen? She began to tick them off on her fingers. “Isabella. I was sorry when she died; Queen of England at seven-think of it! She was kind to me when she came home again. And there's Jeanne in Brittany and Marie in her convent. And Louis. And John-I can't remember all the babies who died. Then there's you and me and Charles. All those children. Breeding with a madman!” She stopped; her face wore an odd unchildlike look. “I don't like our father, I don’t like him. I remember once...when he was ill. They took him away. I was frightened. I ran away. I don't know where. Just anywhere; you do when you're frightened. I got lost. All those passages! I was passing a door; it was before they'd shut it. I couldn’t see inside; it was pitch-black. But I heard him. Like an animal. But worse. A sick animal would be put down! They say he won’t let anyone near him, not even to clean him. And when the servants go into him they're blacked all over so he can't see them in the dark; and they’re quite naked; greased, too, so they can slip out of his hands. And they say—”
Michelle, hatefully fascinated, pulled herself together. “Who says?” she asked, sharp.
“Everyone. They whisper. If you walk softly you can catch them at it.”
“You ought to be ashamed...”
“Why? You listen, too; you're listening to me, now. We can’t help it. We have to listen-it's so horrible...the dark and the smell and the weeping and the wailing. I hate thinking of it; and yet I keep thinking of it. I hate seeing him even when he's well.
“You should pray for a better heart. Haven’t you any pity?
“Yes. For our mother.”
“You can save it. She knows how to console herself. She’s not particular.”
She learnt not to be. And yet, she was particular. She took the finest gentleman in France for her lover. Uncle Louis. When he was murdered I cried; and every lady in France cried with me. I couldn't stop crying.”
“A six-year-old cries for nothing.”
“It was not for nothing. You know well why I cried. It was because I thought he must be my father. I still think so. He was so kind—heavenly kind! Up on his shoulder, comfits in my hand; or putting back my hair and stroking my cheek. But it wasn't only that. He was so...so not like our father. I used to pray about it, still do; pray Our Lady to let uncle Louis be my father; Charles' father and mine.”
Michelle's fingers caught at Catherine's shoulder.
“Consider yourself whose child you please, but b
e careful how your tongue wags about Charles.”
Catherine pulled herself away; she rubbed a sore shoulder.
“You are a very ignorant girl,” Michelle said. “You would make our brother a bastard.”
“I'd rather be my uncle's bastard than my father's true-born child.”
“It may not matter whose child you are,” Michelle spoke with cold patience, “but it matters very much to Charles.”
“It doesn't matter to him, either!” Catherine shrugged.
“Youngest sons have worn the crown before now. You let your tongue wag and don't know what it wags about.”
“I know well enough! Who wouldn't choose a fine man like our uncle to a poor thing like our father?”
“You're a hateful girl,” Michelle said, “overfree with your tongue—like a gypsy.”
“I wish I were one. Gypsies are free in more than their tongues; they're free to mate where they will. But we—we're mated for convenience, Burgundy's convenience, all of us. You with his son; our brother Louis with his daughter—Margaret's the next Queen of France, God save us! Listen to me, Michelle, I'll choose my own husband.”
“Royal blood can't choose.”
“It can. I can.”
“You think you'll get Henry of England?”
“If I want him...enough.”
“You do want him enough, disgusting child that you are! But you won't get him. You'll learn that in time and not such a long time, neither. This very day England offered for you—and was refused.”
To Catherine's blank look she said, impatient, “You talk and talk! You live in a dream and don't know what's happening about you. Surely you know why Milord the Duke of York is in Paris?”
Catherine nodded. “To make peace between Burgundy and our brother Louis.”
“You're very simple! Peace in France—how would that help England? And when did England interfere but for her own advantage? No, my clever child! That's an excuse; and even our father, foolish though you think him, is not deceived. And so the answer, as you might expect, is—” she stopped; she said, very deliberate, “no.”
