Wife to Henry V: A Novel

by Hilda Lewis

  Soon now...soon.

  Her hands flew upwards upon the young, white breasts. Now why had she done that? Isabeau wondered. Modesty—the ninny? The gown was cut low.

  Catherine herself was unaware of the movement. She knew, only, that at long last her eyes would see him again.

  She heard the welcome swell to to a roar, saw the children throwing flowers. And now...Her fingers tightened upon her breast. Now!

  The sun was breaking upon his armour in spears of light, the embroidered surcoat was a rainbow of colour; he rode in a blaze of colour and light, encompassed with glory.

  Henry of England.

  When her senses undazzled, she saw riding next to him, Michelle's husband, young Burgundy all in sober black. Isabeau spoke her resentment for her. “It's a wedding, not a funeral train.”

  “He does well,” Michelle said, “to remind this Henry of the oath they have sworn together—to punish a most wicked murder. The bridegroom would appear to have forgotten!” The sallow face turned towards her husband was glowing as a girl's.

  * * *

  “You blossom like a rose,” Isabeau said and handed Catherine the mirror. Gazing, she caught sight of Michelle standing behind her; Michelle's yellow look enhanced her own sweet colour. She felt her breasts swell in the low gown; her slenderness took on new voluptuousness. I blossom...I blossom like a rose.

  She thought, with the hardness of the young, as she moved to her place on the dais, that her father spoiled all. His sickness was on him so that he stared with vacant eyes, his fingers plucking upon the velvet of his gown. Why had they not shut him away in pity for himself...for her?

  She made her reverence, moved to her place on the left hand of the King. Her heart leaped to the sudden shout of trumpets. Advancing, with the great and glittering train of his escort, Henry of England walked alone. Beneath her eyes, downcast, she saw how he outshone them all—England and France—with his magnificence; saw again the lean elegance she had dreamed of, the beauty of head and brow; saw the almost gay grace with which he uncovered, walked proudly the length of the great hall.

  Her father made no sign; he went on plucking at his gown. Henry of England came nearer, nearer...and still no sign, no sign at all. She felt herself sick with shame. She saw her mother sitting upright; knew that the Queen watched the moment.

  There was no need. The Conqueror of France was bending the knee; was speaking gently, humbly, almost, to the sick man.

  Charles peered forward, screwing up his weak eyes as though the young man's magnificence hurt them. “Oh,” he said, “it's you!” A flicker of sanity lightened his face. “You are welcome...since it must be so!” A deep sigh shook his frail body. “Here,” he waved a vague hand, “here are the ladies!”

  The effort made, his eyes clouded again; he turned once more to his plucking.

  She saw the gentleness with which he turned from her father, noted how he saluted her mother before ever his eyes sought her own; saw Isabeau bend with the beauty of movement that could still shake the heart. “Dear and beloved son,” the Queen said and kissed him upon both cheeks.

  And now he was lifting his eyes to her, Catherine; now he was bending towards her. His kiss was full upon her lips.

  * * *

  The treaty was signed. With his own hand King Charles had signed it; signed away his son's rights and the dear land of France.

  He paced the small chamber.

  ...They thought he didn't understand; but he understood, he understood everything. Even now, in the Cathedral, they were betrothing his daughter to the fox from England, the thieving fox, the cruel fox; the fox, the fox that killed. He would stop it, he would stop it now. He would go to the Cathedral before it was too late; he would tell them all...all...tell them Isabeau had forced him, and young Burgundy had forced him and the fox of England had forced him. He would take his child away from the fox...away...

  He sidled, sly, to the door.

  Locked.

  The sunlight mocked him with a cruel shaft.

  ...It clove, clove through the head.

  His hand went to his head. There was no blood, no blood...

  He stumbled to the safety of a corner, a kind dark corner.

  ...Now he couldn't save his daughter, not any more. He had betrayed them both, daughter and son. And he was being punished. The light, the blinding light was God's sword; it reached even into the dark corner; it rose and fell, cutting through the hair and through the flesh to the bleeding bone...

  Crouched in his corner, he screamed and screamed again.

  * * *

  Catherine sat quiet, bemused. Behind her Michelle and Jacqueline chattered. Michelle in her thin and righteous voice was belittling Henry, as though every fault she found in him was an extra virtue in her husband; Jacqueline, gay as a lark—she had come to a wedding, she had left her dolt of a husband behind—defended him.

  “Oh it's all honey with him now,” Michelle said, “he's victorious and everyone's bowing before him. But when he isn't victorious, how will Catherine fare then?”

  “He'll always be victorious,” Jacqueline told her. “God's Soldier.”

  “No more than Johanne's a witch!” Michelle said quickly. “Think of Johanne.” She caught at her sister's shoulder. “I said, think of Johanne.”

  “I heard you!” Catherine pulled herself away. “A witch—why not? It's in her blood. Besides, witch or not, she was a fool to displease him.”

  “And how if you aren't always clever enough to please him?”

  “She'll please him!” Jacqueline's laugh held Isabeau's lewd note.

  “I envy you, Cat. I envy you with all my heart. When I think of my own bedfellow I am sick.” She paused. “Your Henry is well enough, Cat; but give me Gloucester every time. I saw him once at my father's court; I was a child; but I never forgot him, handsome, handsome Gloucester!”

  “You had best keep your mind off Gloucester,” Michelle advised. “You're a wife—wedded and bedded.”

  “I'm not likely to forget it in the bed of my half-man. You and I have not fared so well, Cousin Michelle. I find it hard to forget I am bedded; you, no doubt, to remember it. For myself, I welcome any strumpet he takes to his bed, so long as I lie alone. But you—you aren't so accommodating, my dear. And who is happier, you, or I?”

  “You have a loose tongue,” Michelle said. “Take care it doesn't get you into trouble!” She turned her back on Jacqueline. “I don't envy you your man, Catherine. Yesterday he kissed your lips as though he couldn't drag his own away. But—before he kissed, he bargained like a huckster. And for all his kissing he will not release France from the smallest part of the bargain; no, not to the value of a hair. Oh he may dote upon you, red lips and all, but you won't find him the easier for that! Mark me well, Catherine—a man of stone.”

  “She won't find him stone when she's in bed with him!” Again Jacqueline's laughter held its lewd note. Catherine was suddenly sorry for her. Isabeau must have been like this once—pretty and ardent and gay; and disappointed. If Jacque wasn't careful she would find herself following Isabeau—one scandal after another! But Jacque wasn't tough; and she wasn't shrewd, either. Isabeau could stand up to scandal; Jacque, never.

  She looked from Jacqueline to Michelle. She was sorry for them both; but not too sorry. They had got what they deserved because they had taken what was given. But she—she had set her heart; she had taken no less than her full desire.

  * * *

  Twelve days before the wedding; twelve days of festival, and Isabeau in command, King and Queen in one; Isabeau leading the masque in the torchlight, leading the dance in the radiance of a thousand wax candles, Isabeau magnificent with power, with life. And in the dark cell the madman howled, beat his head against the wall of stone because he had given his daughter to the Fox; because he had signed his son's inheritance away...both his children betrayed, both...

  Catherine walked proudly alone with her thoughts. Once, an ignorant child thumbing her lute, she had sung of the
princess all crowned with gold and her lusty lover. She was to have both—the crown and the lover; and now, for all her joy, she was a little frightened. It was her mother's fault and Jacqueline's; both of them nidding and nodding and laughing together. And Michelle's fault, too; Michelle dark with foreboding.

  “A girl in a dream,” Jacqueline said.

  “She will wake fast enough!” Michelle was tart.

  “Yes,” Isabeau nodded and smiled, “she will wake fast enough!” She sighed a little remembering her own dreaming, her own awakening.

  * * *

  Trinity Sunday. And a soft breeze and a bright June sun for a royal wedding.

  “The King of England, so they say,” Jacqueline chattered, “looks like the King of all the world today. But Catherine—” she knelt to stroke the wedding-gown over the bride's hips, “Catherine looks like the Queen of Heaven.”

  “The Queen of Heaven.” Isabeau laughed her neighing laugh. “Hers is a miracle not to be repeated. Two are needed for that game and so I have told her!” She glanced curiously at her daughter. No quickening of colour! The girl hadn't even heard. A little paint on those pale cheeks? Better leave it. A pale bride is piquante, intriguing...and her cheeks would be red enough soon!

  She was a girl in a dream when she stepped into the charette. She was not that Catherine—her father mad, her brother bad, her country bought and sold. She was a lady in a faraway tale, riding in her coach with its eight snow-white horses—her lover's gift; her musicians with flute and sackbut marching before, her minstrels singing the marriage songs.

  The narrow church was filled with the high nobility of France, of England, of Flanders. The rainbow of their silks, their gold, their jewels glittered, glimmered, shimmered...only Philip of Burgundy supplying the dramatic touch. In dead black, unrelieved by any jewel, by any ribbon, even, he drew the eye; drew it from the bridegroom blazing in cloth-of-gold, from the jewelled doublet and jewelled chain; drew it from the crown itself.

  It brought her from her childish dreaming. She was no longer a lady in an old tale. She was something far more splendid; beyond everything in the world, splendid. Today, England's Queen; tomorrow, Queen of France...and here was Michelle's husband spoiling all with his crow's black!

  Kneeling obedient to Monseigneur the Archbishop of Sens, she tried to forget Philip; but what she forgot was her offering, until she heard Isabeau, fierce in her ear, found the three gold pieces, placed them upon the prayer-book Monseigneur held. She saw her bridegroom do the same; saw him lay more gold upon the book, more still, more and more...hundreds of gold nobles covering the book, lying, a mound of gold upon the book. She heard the long breath intaken at his munificence.

  But still all the time her anger was pricked against Burgundy who had shamed her wedding with his rusty black.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER XIV

  The air was heavy with wine, with food, with perfumes, with sweat drawn out from the heat of bodies beneath the silks, the velvets, the furs.

  Isabeau sent her secret glance about the high table; at Catherine sitting there pale, as becomes a bride. She envied the girl, feeling within herself the shaking excitement; the fear that was pleasure and the pleasure that was fear.

  Between them the King of France stared and dribbled. And yet, tonight there was less madness than sadness in his face. She knew, without pity, that sorrow not sickness would kill him. He was a fool to grieve! Better his daughter's son wear the crown and keep it, than his own son let it slip. Yet here he sat breaking his heart because not one of his sons would ever wear the crown. But not one had been fit; not Louis with his luting and his wenching and his blood-spitting; not John, husband of this bold, strong Jacqueline, John had been gentle and weak—weak in mind and body alike. And certainly not Charles, weak too; but wilful and wicked with it—though she could not enough thank him for the murder at Montereau—Charles skulking in Touraine with his anger and his shame. Better for France this way; and for herself far, far better. Soon her new son-in-law would go home and she would rule France.

  But not with Burgundy!

  He was young enough and vain enough and greedy enough, she thought, for her purpose. She fancied she knew how to handle him. A bonne-bouche here and there—and all France hers for the taking!

  Her head reared itself in its consort's crown; her fingers itched to be at the money bags.

  At her right hand, Henry of England caught her eye, smiled.

  ...A hard man, they said, cold. Well, he looked hot enough now; his eyes were veiled over with desire. The girl was a simpleton, well, she would learn!

  Her glance travelled over Burgundy in his ridiculous black, came to rest on Michelle. The girl looked thirty or more. Hard to believe she was only twenty-one with that thin, sallow face and that resigned look. There was a fool of another sort! Michelle should have made a fight for her happiness. She had been prettier than Catherine, cleverer, too. But she hadn't Catherine's hard will; no, nor for all that sharp tongue, Catherine's hard heart. Michelle loved her husband more than Catherine would ever love anyone. But Philip, lecherous little Philip! Michelle always pretended she didn't know about her husband's bastards, pretended that there were no living children to make her heart ache. And now this latest strumpet of his—even from Ghent the scandal had spread—the German woman, Michelle's friend. How did Michelle feel watching her friend's belly swell with the fruit of her husband's seed? Between them they might have spared her that!

  Michelle, eyes steady upon nothing, felt her mother's searching look; turned her thin face with the long Valois nose, smiled across the table. Isabeau thought, surprised, Michelle has courage. If one had pity to spare it would be for Michelle.

  * * *

  It was time. Isabeau rising, told her so. Catherine rose from the table; Michelle and Jacqueline lifted the great train. She saw her mother walking beside her all high colour, all triumph, all excitement; she heard a man's voice loud with wine and a woman's laugh answer the bawdy jest.

  I am not frightened...I am not frightened...

  But all the same, walking proud, walking steady, she was frightened, remembering the harshness of which Michelle had warned her, remembering the cold, fierce chastity of which her mother had spoken...A lusty lover be hers I pray...

  She felt a little sick remembering the silly song. She was no longer a princess in an old tale; she was no longer a queen. She was a girl; and she was frightened.

  * * *

  When they undressed her, Isabeau rallied in rough kindness. “No man welcomes ice in his bed! But—” she neighed, “ice soon melts.”

  “I would change places with you!” Jacqueline giggled; she had been free with the wine.

  Michelle glanced at her with anger. Philip had cast an interested eye upon that pretty plumpness. Oh he had humiliated her again and again, humiliated her even with her dearest friend; but if he betrayed her here, under the eye of her mother, of her young sister, she could not endure it.

  “You would lie in any man's bed—as long as it was not your husband's.” Michelle spoke her heart's bitterness.

  You have no chance of any man's bed, least of all your husband's. The words Jacqueline dared not say, her eyes said for her; her laughter wrapped the stone neatly, she flung it straight at Michelle's heart.

  Michelle's yellow face went green. Isabeau pretended not to have noticed the by-play—Michelle had invited it!

  Catherine lay in the great bed and trembled. Isabeau spread the bright hair on the pillow.

  “Trembling, yet ready to be eaten!” Jacqueline giggled again.

  Isabeau stood back from the bed. “He must not touch you till after the blessing!” she lifted a warning finger.

  “If I know anything of men,” Jacqueline said, “she will have a task to keep him off! Best make haste, Madam, with my lord Archbishop.”

  “Let him not touch you until after the blessing,” Isabeau said again, from the doorway. “And remember this—a woman is no woman until she has conceived.” She
cast a look, half-pitying, half contemptuous at Michelle. “Get yourself with child as soon as you can!”

  “Nine months to a day, I'll wager my head!” Jacqueline half-envious kept up the jest. “The lord Henry will see to it. Chaste since his crowning—now he will take the reward of his virtue.”

  * * *

  She lay trembling, stiff as though her bones were all of one piece. She thought she must die before the night was through. The jesting that had been meant to fire her blood had chilled it. She was awaiting a strange man and she all naked in his bed.

  And all the world staring to see them coupled! The blessing of the bride-bed. Ever since the betrothal she had thrust the thought from her. What was it, after all, but the ending of the ceremony? She could not delude herself now. Her mother and Jacqueline had given her a foretaste of the lewd play. And she herself—how often had she been one of the laughing procession, felt her own blood hot envying the girl in the bed?

  Now she wished herself anywhere else in the world; within a convent, even. Her desire for this marriage, her long worship of the man, the glitter of two crowns—all these things fled, left her defenceless.

  * * *

  He threw off his bedgown; he was singing a little under his breath.

  Small in the great bed, dark lashes against pale cheeks, she reminded him of the young Isabella. He smiled now, remembering the pretty child who had aroused his boy's chivalry; the very sound of her name had been precious to him.

  They lay side by side as though a sword lay between them. She would hardly have known him there except for the fear in her heart and the wild beat of her pulses.

  And now she heard passing through room after room the tripping of feet, the snatches of laughter.

  Sudden anger took her. Why should she cower in mock-modesty? She was the hope of two countries. Her body would take the seed of a new line of kings—kings of England and of France.

  She sat up in the bed, the young coral-budded breasts lifted. Had she a crown she would have set it on her head. He felt desire rise, smiled that he had doubted his manhood after the years of continence.