by Hilda Lewis
But for all his desire he was disturbed. She looked eager as a wanton.
The ghost of the white child, her sister, rose to mock him; or perhaps it was his own cold chastity. “Draw the sheet to your chin, Sweetheart,” he said and laughed.
She felt the words, the laughter, an insult.
Her pride so pricked, she lay beneath the sheet. Under downcast lids she saw them come into the room, their lewdness checked for the moment by my lord Archbishop. Next to him her mother stood, beneath her pious air impatient for the fun. Her father was not there; not her father, thank God. She did not want horror of her begetter to spoil her own conceiving. A priest carried the holy water; another the wafers and wine; her mother's page held a bowl of steaming soup. Behind them Michelle stood with her husband, she all sad and hungry eyes, he excited by the rites to long for bed...another woman's bed. He sent Jacqueline a wanton look.
Jacqueline didn't even see it; but her own eyes were wanton.
Lying there cold beneath the sheet, she saw the archbishop take the stoup of holy water, heard the words clear, impersonal as the water. Benedic, Domine, thalamum istum...et in amore tuo vivant et senescan’t et multiplicentur...
And all the time she was aware of Michelle with her sad and hungry eyes, of Jacqueline with her bold and hungry eyes.
...custodi famulos tuos in hoc lecte quiescentes ab omnibus fantasmaticus illusionibus...
She felt the holy water cool upon her forehead; saw the stern face of Monseigneur the Archbishop, and the fine hand with the great ring hold out the wine, the wafer.
She was suddenly quietened, knowing that in spite of Isabeau and Jacqueline and Burgundy, in spite of them all waiting to begin the horseplay, the blessing sanctified. Her fears—fantasies of the demon—had been exorcised.
Monseigneur bowed and departed.
It was the signal.
She saw the page step forward holding the bowl, saw Henry, impatient, wave it away. “He sups on love!” she heard Jacqueline say. “And is eager to lick out the dish!” Isabeau shook with her mirth.
And now the ribald jokes, the bawdy advice, the unseemly gestures were no longer hateful but delightful, making the blood run hot through her body, making her body tender and yielding.
* * *
He could just make out the oval of her face, the long bright hair flowing across the pillow, the red young lips.
She was a pretty piece. And she knew all the tricks, eager, and then, suddenly withholding. Well, if she knew how to whet a man's appetite, he knew how to slake it!
Innocent; a child you might think. But what did he know of her, this Catherine, except that she was the last item in the sealing of the bond? Across her body he had reached to the crown of France.
But had he not done better to take the crown by force—and a wife elsewhere? Was she truly innocent? Or was she her mother's daughter—wanton?
The dying torch flickered, sent a shadow wavering across the pretty face, gave the nose an odd, a slanting look.
She was her father's daughter, too. Born of a wanton and a lunatic—what woman had he taken to breed upon?
He stared down moody, troubled. She opened sleepy eyes, rubbed them childishly with her fists; was asleep again.
A child after all—a child's innocence, a child's eagerness...omnibus fantasmaticus demonum illusionibus...But it was not evil beneath the face of innocence he had to fear; it was that more subtle thing—innocence wearing the mask of the devil. If he had won an innocent girl, lusty and loving, so much the luckier, he! But all the same—omnibus fantasmaticus...he was murmuring the words as he took her again.
* * *
She was a woman now, the dreaming princess sent to rightabout. But she was a woman confused. She had enjoyed the marriage bed; but, satisfied, her smarting pride rejected him. The arrow of his laughter had reached her heart.
Isabeau's sly glance followed the girl.
She burned for the man, it was clear. But she hadn't the look of a woman satisfied, the sleek look. Did the girl fear him? Fear should add spice to love-making; it was an ingredient she herself had never tasted. His long continence—had it made him demanding? or reluctant? Had she the clue she might instruct the girl.
But all the time the clue escaped her—the half-forgotten wildness of his youth rising obscurely to trouble his conscience; the harsh chastity of the man wounding the girl's innocence. Innocence. She had long forgotten there was such a thing.
How little the bridegroom was inclined to dally with love Isabeau was soon to see.
A day given over to the marriage feast, one day only; and then to horse!
She exclaimed aloud. The tourneys had been prepared; the guests would be insulted.
“No need to play at fighting,” Henry told her. “There will be feats of arms and to spare. As for our guests—no time for them to be insulted; they ride with me.”
“But why?” she urged. “Why this haste so soon after your wedding? Even the enemy will not expect you.”
“That is why.” He stopped smiling.
She hid her anger, matched his smile with her own. She knew, as well as any, the value of the unexpected assault. But—two days after a wedding. It was an open slight upon her daughter!
She was angered by his stubbornness; Catherine paid for it.
“So you were not clever last night!” Isabeau was all smiling contempt. “That is well seen. He has no appetite for you or your bed.”
“I go with him.” Catherine's head was up.
“Follow the camp like any strumpet!” It was no longer Yes Madam, No Madam. Isabeau was angered further by the unexpected independence.
“As the Queen, Madam. I do not follow; I lead.” Catherine turned away.
Isabeau stopped her with a sharp reminder. “Your reverence, girl. You may be Queen of England but this is France...and I am still your mother.”
Catherine's face was cold as she made her curtsey.
* * *
To the minute, as Henry had planned, the army rode out. When the troops and horses and wagons were well out of the way, the litters and palfreys followed. Catherine was aggrieved; at Henry's request her mother and father were to accompany her. It exacerbated her bitter disappointment over the tourneys. She had, beyond words, longed for them; she had seen enough of war, had lived within the sight and smell of blood as long as she could remember. Now she longed for the graciousness of make-believe, the beauty and order of the tournament; and she, the centre of all eyes, bestowing the prizes—Queen of England, Queen of Beauty. And why not! On feast days it was usual to call a halt in the fighting; Henry himself had done it at Rouen. It did not need Isabeau to point out the slight.
But how could one remain hurt this sweet June day? Riding ahead she almost forgot her parents, back there, in the dark of the litter. The easy swing of the horse beneath her, the richness of the procession—pennants waving, gay tabards, jewels and furs and rich bright silks—winding along the road made it hard to believe they were not, after all, riding to the tourney.
Long before they reached Sens she knew it was no make-believe. A hanged man told her so; and the crows too intent upon gorging to fly up at the sound of their horses. The burnt bridges told her so and the burnt houses; but more than anything the burnt fields told her so, the burnt orchards. The smell of burning went with them all the way to Sens.
* * *
The walls of Sens frowned before them; already the besieging engines were in place, the men posted. Everywhere order, purpose.
The burnt stubble pierced through the soft leather of Catherine's shoes as she walked with Isabeau between the tents in the ruined fields, tore at the fine, trailing silk. And everywhere, everywhere, the smell of burning.
“A nice place for a bride-bed,” Isabeau mocked. “But if you have your man in it you will not mind. How the just Henry can keep women from the camp now he has his own woman, I don't know.” She turned and went quickly away—it was her custom when she had planted her dart; she was not one to end
ure argument. Catherine stood still, watching the voluptuous body swinging across the stubble.
“You're a fool,” Michelle said, “if you let our mother come between you and your husband.” She had walked with them so quietly, Catherine had ail-but forgotten she was there. There was a withdrawal in Michelle these days, a quietness; and her tongue was gentler. “Besides, he's in the right of it! Why should he play at fighting when there's a war to be won? And would you be happy with the crown of Beauty in place of the crown of France—your crown, Catherine, for which you have so longed?”
The constant boom of cannon stones, the scream of their splitting, the groans of the dying; the inescapable stink of burning—less innocent than that of field and farm—the stink of burnt human flesh, touched her little; she was used to it. But it did pique her; her mother, she thought, was right. He should have found a pleasanter place for their wedding journey. And the quiet of the night only emphasized the clamour of the day; the smell of burning stayed with her as she watched the campfires redden the walls of the tent where she lay with her husband. It exacerbated her hurt pride, made her in spite of her desire for him, difficult, unwilling.
Next day she had further cause for anger.
Without consulting her wishes Henry had made arrangements for her household—her officials, English all; not one French heart among them.
“He treats you like a fool and no wonder!” Isabeau said.
“It shows his care for me.” Catherine was rigid against the effort not to cry. “Johanne filled her household with Bretons and the English never forgave her.”
“Not an altogether happy example of Henry's loving care!” Isabeau said dry. “Where's your spirit, girl; and what wits have you got under that new crown of yours? I have no more patience with you; God Himself could not expect it. Two crowns for your wearing! There is no woman in Christendom can boast it. What I might have done, I...!” There was passion in her voice. “Listen, girl, This Henry needs more than a woman in his bed; he needs a mate. Don't play the gentle fool, Catherine. Be worthy of your crowns.”
She stood dark against the opening of the tent. With her going sunlight streamed in again.
* * *
She rode into Sens next to her King. Michelle was right! Henry had been wise to waste no time in mock battles. Sens had not expected him so soon after his wedding; within a week the town had sent envoys for peace. She had been there in the tent when they knelt, streaming hair, streaming beard.
“Wild beasts?” Henry had asked seemingly amused. “Or tame, perhaps? Send them away to clip their pelts; maybe we shall hear better what they have to say.”
Said with a smile; but for all that he was offended. She had known it by the tight-lipped smile, the smile she was beginning to know. Her own smile had frozen. He was a King, a conqueror; and they simple folk on their knees before him. That meanness they spoke of—this was it!
But she forgot that now. He was glorious; he lifted her beside him in glory. She was his Queen. But she was no longer his lover. A week since her marriage; and yet joy in him was poisoned by resentment. He wasted no time love-making—a man with affairs on his hands. And, no sooner sated than asleep, leaving her angry, humiliated, unsatisfied. She still knew desire for his lean, hard beauty; but it died before the end of even that snatched love-making.
Her disappointment, her resentment she might hide from all except her mother. Isabeau did not make things easier with undue delicacy.
Riding now, she saw Henry turn to the lord Archbishop of Sens driven by her brother from his own city. “Monseigneur,” she heard him say, pointing to the city, “I give you back your bride since you have given me mine.”
A lover's speech, so you might think...if you did not know him! It did not touch his bride's heart; but it lifted her pride still higher. And when they rode through the gates and she saw them all—captains and citizens—kneeling before him, she forgot her disappointment in love; the wings of her pride lifted her to heaven.
Henry was merciful, she had to admit it. He might taunt the vanquished when they flicked his pride, but he spared them all—except those who had helped in the murder at Montereau; and that he had sworn to avenge. But she disliked the sight of the hangings. Men must hang...but why not out of sight where they couldn't offend the eye?
Isabeau told her why. “It is not enough for a man to hang; he must go on hanging—an example for all to see...and to smell!” She held her own nose with jewelled-laden fingers indifferently clean. “Oh your Henry is just; and yet, these hangings smack to me of hypocrisy. Were it not for that same murder he would not now be heir of France, no, nor you his wife, neither.”
Nothing could have stopped him nor me. Not you. Not old Burgundy. Nothing, nothing in Christendom...Her heart was sure of it; but her eyes dropped before Isabeau's amused look.
“You must learn to outstare the whole world now you are a Queen,” Isabeau said. “Yes, even myself!” The jewelled claw shot out, twisted the girl's ear, half-tender, half-spiteful.
* * *
A strange wedding-journey certainly; but more glorious than any tourney. Her husband was victor of the world; and it was not make-believe. Men bowed the head as he went by—and it was not only because he wore a crown; it was because of the power within him. And all women envied her—except Michelle who asked for nothing but her husband's kindness; yes, even Isabeau. “I am past child-bearing,” she said and laughed, “but I could get myself with child by such a man.”
Now that Sens was garrisoned they were moving north to Montereau. It would be a bloody business. Henry had sworn to avenge to the uttermost the death of Duke John for whom he had cared not a pin, whose death had brought him a second crown.
When he told Catherine she was to stay behind at Bray with her parents she was openly dismayed. No more glorious riding with her King; no more love-making. Angered she might be by his unseemly haste in the business, lie awake she did, angry and unsatisfied, still she was his wife and it was better than no love-making. Besides, she enjoyed the envious eyes of women following her into the tent. Without him she was shorn of her glory. She felt her mother's eye on her. You have played cards like a fool, that eye said.
Left behind. Left behind with her disgusting father; with her mother; with all the other useless women. Not even Jacqueline to comfort her; not even Michelle. Jacqueline had gone back to her hateful husband in Brabant; Michelle to Ghent, lonely as she had come, back to the bitter sight of her friend's womb ripening with the child that should have been her own.
Michelle had kissed her with tears, Michelle so little given to displays of affection. “Goodbye,” she said. “Catherine, be happy with your husband. That's more important than a crown.” And then she had said, and it was as though she tore the words from her throat, “More important than a child, even.”
Looking into the thin face beneath the great henin, she had the sudden unbearable thought that Michelle was dying out of life; it was unbearable because it was new. She had never thought of Michelle's death any more than she had thought of her own. Michelle was only two years older. One doesn’t die at twenty-one!
“Take care of yourself, oh take care, Michelle,” she had implored, and, tears pricking her hard young eyes, had watched her sister ride away.
Her parting with Jacqueline had been quite different.
“I will no longer endure my half-man. Half-a-body, half-a-mind. Is that a half or a quarter do you think? Cat, I shall run away...when the time is right. Speak for me to handsome Gloucester when you get to England. Tell him,” she dimpled, “I am ripe for a husband, a real husband; and an heir.”
* * *
Montereau. Certainly it looked like being a bloody business. Packed with Duke John's murderers, it was in no haste to surrender—neither town nor castle. Henry managed to ride over to Bray now and again, where, shorn of his glory, Catherine languished. She looked forward to these sudden comings, there was little else to look forward to. When he came she preened herself in envious glances, ga
ve herself unashamed, but resentful still, to his hasty lovemaking.
He was with her when the news came that the town had fallen. He was out of bed and shouting for his armour before she had time to cover her nakedness.
She did not see him again until all was over. He was elated, unmoved by the peculiar horror of the affair. And he was freer with words than she had ever known him.
“The little Philip wanted to see the place where they'd buried the old man. We were literally shoved to the spot by a crowd of women all in black and wailing—you couldn't hear yourself think! Not much to see when we did get there. No stone of course; they'd done their best with a black cloth spread over the grave and candles burning—head and foot. Of course he had the body dug up—the proper thing. A pity, though; a sight no man's son should have to look at. The old man was naked save for his drawers, slashed in a hundred places...”
He spared her none of the grisly details.
“...part of the face hacked away; a dark clot of blood where the chin ought to have been. Well now the old man's decently buried—pickled in salt and covered with Burgundian soil—we've got to finish the business. We've got the town and we'll soon have the castle too. Hang the lot, as I promised our gentle Philip. And then perhaps we may forget John-without-Fear who was the most shifty creature in Christendom.”
* * *
The army moved over to the right bank of the Yonne, the better to train the guns on the castle.
Eleven knights sallying forth were captured and brought to the King's tent. Humble men; innocent of all part in Burgundy's murder—and Henry knew it. “Make the castle surrender,” God's Soldier commanded, “or you shall hang—the lot of you!”
“Sir,” they implored, opening empty hands, “how shall we make it surrender when the King of England...”
“Hanging spurs the wits,” he interrupted them. Kneeling hopeless before the towering walls they cried aloud that nothing could stay the triumph of this terrible King. Surrender, surrender, surrender...Useless voices crying in the wind.
