Wife to Henry V: A Novel

by Hilda Lewis

  He turned to Clarence. “No cover for a dog!” he said.

  Tom shrugged. “No food either—except what we brought with us.”

  “It will be enough.” Suddenly Henry's bitterness broke through. “To keep the city from me, Rouen, capital of my dukedom—it's an insult to me. But to burn the good land—that's an insult to God. And for both insults the Rouennais shall pay, all of them, when the city falls.”

  Clarence nodded. “Warwick should be here any day—we can do with him. And Humphrey should be close on his heels.”

  “Glory for Warwick at Domfront. Glory for our brother at Cherbourg. And we; we sit here and look at St. Catherine.” Henry stared at the great abbey fortress. From its steep hill it stared back. How could one get near it, even? Between the fortress and his armies lay a mile or more of marsh; and above the marsh, a raised causeway, ten feet high at least—the only road.

  Without St. Catherine he couldn't hope to blockade the east wall; and from the east—if from anywhere—help would come to the city; such help as the two-faced Laggard of Burgundy might be man enough to send. As long as the Catherine Fortress guarded the Paris road, so long would Rouen resist.

  “I must have it!” It was to God he spoke rather than to Clarence.

  “We shall take it.” Tom nodded. “Listen!” Even where they stood at the western gate they could hear the noise of the assault far away beyond the east wall.

  Henry shrugged. “Noise—it's nothing new.”

  “I think it is.” Clarence stood intent, “It sounds stronger, wilder...different.”

  Henry snapped impatient fingers; horse and squire came at the trot. Clarence saluted and went back to his post.

  Henry dug his spurs. At the Bouvreuil Gate the fighting was thick but Norfolk had it well in hand. At the Beauvoisine Gate his Uncle of Exeter waved a friendly hand. He was already more cheerful when he reached the Hilary Gate; here, at his own fighting station the men raised a cheer. His heart lifted further. Above the din of the battle he could hear his battle cry, A Henry, à St. George!

  He would have liked to stay a little, to show himself to the men; but he must push on. At the Martainville Gate the fighting was thickest of all. On his left, looming so near in the summer air that he was tempted to throw a stone at it, the towers of St. Catherine rose mocking.

  He found himself despondent again. Would the great fortress never fall? Did the Lord of Hosts protect it because it was holy ground? He brushed the thought away. Wherever God's Soldier treads, there is holy ground.

  Sitting there, holding in his horse, he heard a fresh wave of sound rise, deepen, boom, break into a thousand brittle splinters. Hurrah...hurrah. He rose in his stirrups.

  Salisbury came staggering a little towards his King; knelt in the dust. “St. Catherine,” he said, and waved towards the fortress; through the caked grime joy shone clear.

  “God be praised,” the King said, rigid upon the horse. “Salisbury, dear friend!” and could say no more. He swung a leg, grasped Salisbury's hand, and heavy with armour lowered himself to the ground. “Rouen is ours,” he said half in wonder. “For who will help it now? Who send relief? What fighting men? What food, even? The town is locked within itself and we hold the key.”

  “We are likely to go short ourselves,” Salisbury reminded him. “Oh there is enough at present; but soon we shall be into autumn; and then comes winter.” He stared at the blackened countryside.

  “We'll ship it from home. Land it at Harfleur; send it up the river.”

  “I doubt we should get it here,” Salisbury frowned. “There's Caudebec. The river's so narrow a man could straddle it. Our men would never get by, they'd be caught in a trap and the food with them.”

  “Then we'll take Caudebec, and take it now!”

  “Take Caudebec—the strongest of castles! We have no-one to send, no-one!”

  “There's Warwick; I expect him any hour. And Talbot perhaps. And yes, there's myself.”

  Salisbury stared. “Leave Rouen, Sir? You? The men will lose heart!”

  “Lose heart—and St. Catherine taken? Have no fear, friend. God will not desert His Soldier.”

  He unbuckled his helmet, went, stiff in his armour, upon his knees.

  * * *

  “God smiles upon this Henry,” Isabeau said.

  “Then we must smile, too.” Burgundy was short.

  “It is not we...it is our daughter.”

  “The girl is not fine enough.”

  Isabeau shrugged. “Our sweet son has stripped me; and the treasury...” she opened her empty hands, spread them palm upwards.

  He scowled. “In God's name, must the fortunes of France wait upon a few paltry crowns?”

  “And—if we have no crowns?”

  “You must pawn, beg or borrow,” he said.

  “Will you lend me some, Cousin?” she was half-mocking, knowing his wealth and his meanness.

  “Before we talk of weddings,” he said and changed the conversation, “there is Rouen. What of Rouen? What help shall we send?”

  “All the help in the world—if we could. As it is “ she shrugged.

  He looked at her half in dislike, half in admiration. God knew he was not renowned for his softness of heart; but even now his soul shook when he remembered the messengers that had got through from Rouen, ragged scarecrows beseeching help for the city in the name of Christ. And he had promised. He had promised, knowing full well it was an oath he would not keep.

  He would never forget their gratitude; his flesh crawled still from the kiss of their lips upon his hand. They had dragged themselves away, back through the burnt, enemy-ridden countryside, back with the news of help that would never come.

  He said, “We must make, at least, a show of sending or what will men say of us?” And they would blame him for this, mocking him with the new and shameful name. They would not know that his heart was broken within him because it was not expedient to send help. But she, this Isabeau; she would leave them to starve as she would leave rats in a trap—and think little more about it.

  “What will men say of us?” he asked again. “And what can we expect from our own men if we lift no finger to help those who fight for us? Help; we must send help, any sort of help.”

  She nodded careless, knowing that he would send no help; because the cost would be too great, the reward too little. Let him talk, windbag that he was!

  * * *

  Catherine walked in the garden with her sister-in-law; they had sworn eternal friendship. They had scarcely met until now; Jacqueline's mother—Burgundy's sister—had kept the girl safe in the Lowlands, and her young husband with her, away both of them from Armagnac influence. Rotting under a Burgundian sun, Isabeau used to say, bitter with this rape of a mother's authority.

  And now John was dead, and Jacqueline married again; pretty, plump Jacque, come to pay a visit. Anything to get away from this new husband of mine, she had said, throwing up her hands. Though Jacqueline was Catherine's own age, she was, in Catherine's opinion, a very experienced person. One couldn't help envying her. She'd been allowed to sleep with the first John when she was fourteen. It wasn't very exciting, she said. But he'd been a nice boy; gentle, easy to manage. But this second John, this John of Brabant!

  “The very thought of him makes me sick,” she said; and, indeed, there was a sick look in her eyes.

  Catherine's own eyes flew open. “But he's very handsome—so they say.”

  “Handsome is as handsome does.” There was touch of lewdness in Jacqueline's laugh. “He's impotent, my dear, and all Christendom knows it.”

  “Then why did they let you marry him? Your Uncle of Burgundy pressed the match!”

  “He did, indeed!” Jacqueline said drily. Suddenly she lost her temper. “Burgundy, Burgundy! I'm sick to the soul of the sound of his name. He's ruined my life with this loathsome marriage.”

  “He couldn't have known...about your husband. How could he have known?”

  “He knew well enough; could hardl
y fail to—all Christendom knows. You're too innocent, my child. Uncle of Burgundy fancies himself as my husband's heir; and if presents and honeyed words can do the trick, so he will be. And, if not himself—then his dear son, Cousin Philip; Brabant's a poor thing at the best! Liable to go out like a candle. Everything I have goes to my husband—husband God save us! So in the end dear Uncle—or dear Cousin Philip—gets everything. Hainault and Holland—they march well with Uncle's possessions in Flanders. Now do you see?”

  Catherine saw and, for very sickness, could say nothing.

  “And that isn't the whole of it. If this new husband of mine were amusing, or pleasant, even, I might put up with it. But he isn't. He's got the meanness that goes with impotence, a spite against the whole world—and against me in particular; because I'm easy and people like me—especially men. He's a boor, ignorant as dirt. Knows nothing; can't hold an idea for two minutes together. He's got less conversation than—than my spaniel.”

  “Oh Jacque, Jacque!”

  “You may well say Jacque, Jacque! But I shan't stay with him. I'll run away.”

  “You'll have to stay with him—he's your husband. Besides, where will you run?”

  “To you, darling Cat...when you are Queen of England.” She laughed a little. “I make a jest of it, but it is death-in-life. Cat, stand my friend—I think I shall need one.”

  “What can I do? Shelter a runaway wife—from Burgundy? That's what it would come to. And who knows where that might end? Besides, how can I speak for my husband...if ever I get one?”

  “One has to be clever with husbands; it's quite easy, though...when you're in bed...”

  “It's you that are clever, too clever, perhaps!” Catherine said, surprised at the sharpness in her voice. “As for me, I know nothing; ignorant, as you say. You'll manage very well!” She hadn't meant to be hard; but she found herself both shocked and excited by Jacque.

  “You don't understand—how should you? You are ignorant—though I didn't say so, ignorant as a nun; more ignorant than most nuns, if tales be true! Well, heigho! Back to the marriage bed. I wish you better luck in your own!” The echo of her little, lewd laugh came softly behind her.

  * * *

  It was wonderful in Paris; even though Armagnac blood still flowed like a river from prison walls into the Seine—as they said. Possibly it was true. You could catch the stink of corruption when the wind changed. But Catherine shrugged the thought away—fortune of war! God, she was sure, was keeping a special eye upon her affairs. Nor could one altogether blame her for thinking so. The Dauphin had run away to Anjou and his wife had been sent after him. The Queen kept the court gay; even Burgundy was in good humour because he had forced Jacqueline to marry where it could do him most good.

  And, best of all, messengers were riding backwards and forwards between Paris and Henry at his headquarters just outside Rouen. Isabeau, the sly boots, had sent Catherine's latest picture and Henry was head over heels in love with it—so they said. Had it at bed and board where his eye could light upon it. But he was as clever as Isabeau. Admire the picture he did; but that didn't prevent him from bargaining. And why not? Catherine asked herself. The better the bargain, the more she would be pleased. She was not her mother's daughter for nothing!

  * * *

  Rouen was heroic; even in his anger Henry was forced to admit it. Short already of water and of food, still they held on; and no thought of treating with the enemy. Help was coming; Burgundy was on the march...so they thought. But they would wait long, and long enough, for him! Burgundy was playing his own secret game with England.

  All France, so it seemed, was set to play a double game. On the one hand the Dauphin, graceless boy, with his futile messengers; on the other the Queen and Burgundy chaffering, haggling, bidding, bating. Each party sending secret messages to Henry, messages heavy with promises, each trying to outbid the other; and each dangling the carrot before his nose—the lady Catherine.

  Well, Catherine he meant to have; and all the other carrots in the basket, too!

  Meanwhile he would sit snug while both sides pursued him with offers. He was in no hurry. Now, with Caudebec taken, there was food for his armies; fires for their warmth; shelter against the autumn winds already coldly blowing; and, among his troops, the most iron discipline. Henry of England was feared these days; and not only by his enemies.

  He rose stretching himself, stamped one foot against the stone of the floor. In spite of the brazier already burning, this Charterhouse was cold; it was warmer down in his fighting quarters.

  He paused to glance at the map upon the wall; the red circles of his conquests grew larger every day. His captains were doing well for him!

  Through the window he caught sight of Clarence and called out to him. Tom thrust his moody face into the room. He chafed at the long sitting-down before Rouen, Henry knew. For Tom, the swift assault, the hand-to-hand, the pursuit; his hot blood chilled with waiting.

  “Patience,” Henry said. “A little patience. Our greatest ally hasn't joined us yet.”

  Tom looked his question.

  “Famine.” Henry was cheerful over the terrible word. “Famine will open the gates to us; you will see.”

  * * *

  By mid-autumn England's ally had entered the game. Famine stalked the city. There was no meat; there was little water and less bread. Had a man a cat to sell or a rat, it was a transaction better not carried out in public; for, ten-to-one, some famine-crazed wretch would snatch at it, to let it go only with his life. The bread was of bran and it made the people sick; yet, a virgin, so they said, would sleep with any man who paid her with a slice as big as her own palm.

  Famine had entered the game against Rouen, but not yet despair; hope still beat her off. Burgundy had promised; Burgundy was on the march with three hundred thousand men. Hold out a little, yet a little! He was less than thirty miles away, less than twenty, less than ten, even. A day, a little day and they would be saved.

  Help had come, come at last! Straining from the walls the Rouennais could see men marching. From all Rouen's churches the bells gave tongue, flung their triumphant sound against the encircling hills...came back in mockery, died off one by one.

  The marching men had come to join the enemy, the snug men outside the city, men with their bellies full of meat and drink.

  Now, in the early dusk, the citizens stole out in twos and threes holding out famine-thin hands for food.

  October, November. It was no longer a question of twos and threes secretly stealing. Now the Rouennais themselves thrust out all useless mouths from a city that could feed them no longer—the too-old, the too-young, the sick and the woman far-gone with child.

  Henry could do nothing for them; he could not be expected to clutter his camp with the sick and the useless—they were not his responsibility. He ordered them to be fed; and thrust them back again.

  Backwards and forwards in the bitter wind, over the frozen ground. Mothers gave birth in the open ditches, handed the newborn up in baskets to be baptized, received them again, their tiny Christians, to die upon their shrunken breasts. Groans of travail, of old folk wretchedly dying, of children pitifully wailing. The ditches were a horror and a shame to Christendom.

  On Christmas Day, even Henry could not kneel, remembering the living child nuzzling the dead breast; the dead child cold upon breasts still warm. The trumpets rang out. Food for the Festival for all who came!

  The offer was refused. The Rouennais on their knees wept, implored their captains. The offer was refused.

  “All the same they will come,” Henry told Clarence. “Then they will find me not so gentle.”

  On New Year's Eve, in the dark of the night, a cry went up, beat faint upon the Barbican Gate. Young d'Umphraville on guard in the English camp heard it, could not be sure; and then, all-wondering, answered.

  It was the long-awaited parley. Black garments melting into the darkness, pale faces swimming disembodied in the nickering torchlight, the men of Rouen seemed sc
arce human.

  But they were human; they were human.

  Young d'Umphraville received them gently, handed them over to the watch, flung himself upon his horse, sped from gate to gate. The darkness of the camp was pricked with light.

  It was dawn when he returned. His young eyes rested with pity upon the black-clothed skeletons. He spoke with earnest kindness, “The King is in no gentle mood.”

  Stumbling upon their feet they were brought to the King's tent, ordered upon their knees.

  Henry was at mass. He knelt to the King of Heaven. But in the empty tent the Rouennais knelt to the King of England.

  The King was at dinner, was at council; was at prayer again. And still they knelt atremble with the strain, praying God in His Mercy to soften the English King's heart.

  When at last they were admitted he lifted a face of stone. Still kneeling, the leader held out a scroll. As though the matter were too low for his greatness he nodded towards Exeter.

  “Sir,” his uncle told him, “they ask only that they may speak.”

  He nodded, short.

  “Sir,” the leader said, “for the love of Jesus and his Sweet Mother, have mercy upon them that die in the ditches.”

  “Fellow, who put them there?” Anger made brutal the King's handsome face. “Have done with whining. You have kept my city from me long enough.”

  “Lord, it was not ours to give. We were charged to hold it for our King. Now we can hold it no more. Let us go and tell him what we must do. Then we shall return and give Rouen into your hands.”

  “Before God,” Henry said and it was not at all an oath but the calling of God to witness, “your King knows well enough that the city is mine. There has been coming and going enough. I will have no more of it.”

  “Lord, it is a fair city to win...”

  “It is won!” Again his rage burst through. “Let those within prepare themselves, for men shall speak of me till the Day of Doom.”

  “You have driven them beyond human enduring,” Clarence said when they had dragged themselves out.

  The watchmen had been taken from the walls, and the men-at-arms. The Rouennais were stacking wood for firing the city, they were undermining the walls. When the English King got it, much good might it do him! As for themselves—as God willed so let it be!