Wife to Henry V: A Novel

by Hilda Lewis

  John gave a farewell banquet at Westminster. He looked tired; great hulk of a man, he had lost his rosy colour. Fighting in France was less tiring, it seemed, than the constant quarrelling in England. Humphrey was pale, too—he had been unwell; pale and interesting and debonair and untrustworthy. Beneath his charm he was not friendly—he was not one to forgive an insult; and, besides, the figure of betrayed Jacqueline stood between them.

  But all the same they swore eternal friendship, all three. And Humphrey must needs gild the lily; he swore to play a brother's part by Catherine. Remembering her own brother she felt the vow ill-judged; she sat smiling between John and Humphrey and felt anxious.

  The Cobham was not at table; it was not to be thought of. But after supper, on her way to bed, Catherine passed a hooded figure on the stairs. And there was dark Eleanor staring from spiteful eyes. Couldn't Humphrey sleep without her for one night that he must drag her into Westminster Palace itself? A witch indeed!

  It did not take from her anxiety.

  She was even more anxious when she said Goodbye to Johanne next day.

  “The Cobham wouldn't dare set foot in Westminster-Humphrey wouldn't allow it—unless John showed himself not unwilling,” Johanne said.

  “John encourage that slut!”

  “Humphrey's mad about her. In her arms he forgets Jacqueline. Playing the Cobham's game, John spoils Jacqueline's.”

  “Is there no-one to stand Jacque's friend?”

  “No. And that should suit you well enough—if you value your son's French crown. Besides—” she stopped; she said, slowly, “Waste no pity on your friend. You may need all of it for yourself.”

  Catherine's eyes darkened in her head.

  “You had a woman...Agnes. She's waiting upon the Cobham now—Madam Eleanor has taken unto herself the state of a duchess! You may be quite sure there's nothing Agnes knows that Madam doesn't know.”

  “And what does Agnes know? There was nothing to know.”

  “There is now. What was Madam Eleanor doing at Westminster? Be sure those eyes of hers were on your belly! You were not clever with Agnes, my dear. Besides—a spiteful woman needs to know nothing. A word here, a word there—true or not—and the mischief's done. Humphrey's not your friend. And now with John going and Exeter dead...”

  “Exeter...dead?” She had expected it. But still she had hoped, she had hoped.

  Johanne nodded. “And Henry Beaufort's going too.”

  “Beaufort...going? Leave the game to Humphrey? Impossible!” And now she was white and white indeed.

  “All the same he's going. John has seen to it. An end must be put to this quarrelling.”

  “But he'll come back. Johanne, he must come back.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. And if he does—” Johanne shrugged, “it'll be complete with Cardinal's hat. Henry always said No to that. Now John says Yes.”

  “That hat at last!” Catherine brightened. “That should double his power.”

  “You don't know these English, that's clear. It halves his power—the Pope's man. And strengthens Humphrey. Now Humphrey will make himself England's champion against Rome—a new St. George. He's got nothing to gain from the Pope and everything to lose. Oh yes, I know His Holiness hasn't spoken yet on the marriage question. No need to speak—the long delay speaks for itself.”

  “What does it matter now? Humphrey's forgotten Jacque.”

  “But not her inheritance. He wants the heiress for wife and the witch for mistress. No, my girl! With John going overseas and both Beauforts out of the way, you're best from London. Keep away until your business is over.”

  “Yes,” Catherine said. “Yes...but what of Harry? They will choose a new governor; I must wait for that. I must know in whose hands I leave my son. God send it's not Humphrey!”

  “The Council love Humphrey no better than you do. My own guess is for Warwick. I've thought so this long while—and said so. Henry named him guardian so they say, when he lay dying.”

  “A bad choice.” Catherine was bitter with the old bitterness. “A hard man, Warwick. Overquick with the rod. He'll drive Harry too far. However I think you're wrong. Warwick's too good a captain. They can't spare him in France.”

  “They will spare him. He's a good man just and true. And, if he's stern, well, one can't have everything. Were the King's governor a saint of God, still you wouldn't be satisfied.”

  * * *

  She was glad to be home again; but soon she must be on her travels. Johanne was right. Wherever her face was known, there she must slam the door behind her. But, leaving Windsor, she left her heart behind.

  The steward overlooked the packing of the beds, the mattresses, the gowns, the jewels. Difficult to believe that the man, detached, respectful, was anything more than a good servant to Madam the Queen. And the Queen? Bearing her love's child, blossoming and blooming; difficult to believe her beset with fears. And, indeed, these last days in quiet Windsor she thrust fear from her mind—Johanne would help her; Johanne was her friend.

  * * *

  Maytime at Hadham; and the old Queen under its roof, Madam Queen Johanne and all her ladies. Some of them were old like herself; but not one so royal with the proud look of queens. Some of them were young and pretty—the old Queen had a liking for pretty, young creatures. They all dressed simply enough; except, as you might expect from court ladies, they wore their bellies high. One of them, indeed, wore her belly so high that the serving wenches giggled behind their hands. And, for all her rosy cheeks, she was said to be delicate; and certainly she walked slowly, as though she carried a burden.

  In June one of the Queen's ladies was indisposed—it was the one with the high stomach; she kept her chamber with a chill. Well, it was not surprising; the weather had been wet, the winds sharp. But all the same the maids whispered, a-giggle; she would be worse before she was better, they said.

  * * *

  Catherine's labour was quick and easy; beyond the chamber-door not even the breath of her whimpering came...a man's life might hang upon it—and hang indeed.

  But when Johanne had taken the child away she wept into her pillow; and nothing, not even vanity in the restored grace of her body, not relief that all was safely over, nor even joy in seeing her lover, could comfort her.

  Her breasts were heavy; her heart was heavy; but her nature was volatile. Soon she was telling herself, that, in a little, she would have her baby with her. Owen had promised. And this child would be truly her own as Harry had never been.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  She was back at Windsor; she would stay a little...a little. The truth was she could not tear herself away from the place; she had always loved it. She was so happy these July days; like the flowers of high summer she blossomed. She had borne her love a son; and she was safe.

  But there were times when she would awake in the small hours, her breasts aching with unwanted milk; and she would weep, quietly at first, and then with growing abandon, until Tudor awoke and swore again that as soon as their son was older, a little older, she should have him again. Then, smiling with salt-wet mouth, she would fall asleep against his heart.

  She put off leaving from day to day; from week to week.

  The King's new governor had been named—Warwick, as Johanne that shrewd woman had guessed. But he was still in France and no-one had intimated that she must leave Windsor. And life here was so sweet. Had she once longed for power? Now she would be satisfied to put away her pride, marry Tudor—if that were possible—live with him the simple life of a country gentlewoman. It was a good life for a woman—living with her husband and nothing to hide, nothing to fear; bearing his children with joy—and no bend sinister. And yet, what after all had she to complain of? Let her think of Jacque, poor Jacque.

  Jacque's lands were passing bit by bit into Philip's hands; his moneybags were fat with her gold. She who had been the richest heiress in Christendom had scarce enough to pay her soldiers. She had written to the little King a desperate letter, reminding him that
her arms had held him at his christening and entreating his help. And she was still sending letters to Humphrey through Catherine. She was so distracted with grief, she said, she knew not what she wrote. Would Catherine read her letters and despatch them or not as she thought fit? They were the most piteous appeals for help; but there was no longer any word of love. For all her fighting spirit her courage was down.

  * * *

  “God has spoken before the Pope!” Catherine told Tudor. “God has taken Jacque's wretched—” she corrected herself since one should not speak the unpleasant truth about the dead, “unhappy husband to Himself. Now his dilly-dally Holiness must surely declare her truly married to Humphrey—what does it matter now Brabant is dead?”

  “Oh my little one you'll never make a statesman!” Tudor told her. “Burgundy comes into Brabant's property—a good deal of it filched from Madam Jacqueline. And then there's all her possessions he's won for himself by the sword. He's got them; but he'd feel a good deal happier if they were his by right as well as by might. And there's pickings to come. He means to have them, every crumb. Do you think he'll allow the Pope to declare the Brabant marriage invalid and give my lord of Gloucester a claim to Madam Jacque's possessions? No, that most Christian prince Duke Philip will see to it that His Holiness does as he's told.”

  “His Holiness is in no man's pocket.”

  “Is he not?” Tudor asked, dry.

  “He may yet speak for Jacque.”

  “Had he meant to do that he would have spoken already. And my lord of Gloucester knows it. And he knows another thing, too. He knows by now he'll never do himself any good in the Lowlands.”

  “He's not doing himself much good here, either,” Catherine said quickly. “He's setting everyone against him, even his friends, even the Londoners. Not only is he living with his dark witch, he's flaunting her in the public eye. Johanne writes that the women of Stock's Market marched all the way to St. Paul's to beseech the Lords to make the duke, their good duke—their words not mine—send the witch away and bring his own true wife home again. Women interfering in Parliament. Such a thing has never been known!”

  “He's a fool,” Tudor said, “to set the common people against him—they've always loved him. His strength lies in them—not in the lords of the realm who've never trusted him and never will. Now that my lord Bishop Beaufort's away, he ought to be making his hay; and what does he do but turn everyone against him?”

  * * *

  In October she came to London for the opening of Parliament. She counted for nothing now, but still she came. She was worried about Harry; Warwick had not yet come from France and Humphrey was keeping his hand on the little King.

  “Even if I trusted him,” she told Johanne who had come to be with her, “even if we were fast friends, still he is not the right guardian for Harry—not with his household a hotbed of scandal.”

  “Sensuous with women, sensuous with God. And I don't know which is worse,” Johanne said.

  “If Warwick is to come, why doesn't he come?'

  “They keep him busy in France.”

  “Then they'll keep him busy till Doomsday!” Catherine shrugged. “There's always been fighting in France and always will be.”

  “But never so desperate as now. We must fight as never before if Harry's to keep his French crown.”

  “Swing high, swing low—that's the way of wars.” Catherine shrugged again. “Last year it was swing high; this year—swing low. But whichever way it goes, the French crown is safe. God will see to it. And John will see to it. He had the treaty proclaimed again—my wedding treaty.”

  Was Catherine so simple? Johanne wondered. Didn't she know that the treaty which must be proclaimed again and again is suspect—likely to break at any moment?

  “Don't blind yourself, my girl,” she said. “There's Warwick, our best captain, running away from Montargis and everything left behind; and Fastolfe, a good man too, driven out of Maine; and everywhere north and south, town after town falling to the enemy.”

  “We'll win it back again, all of it. I know my brother. He's got the best captains in Christendom—la Hire and my bastard cousin Dunois; but in spite of all their victories he's too foolish to take advantage of them. And he's not only foolish, he's bone idle. I tell you if an angel descended from heaven with advice, Charles would be too lazy to listen.”

  “I think we may all be wrong about Charles. I should say no-one really knows what he's capable of.”

  “I do—and that's exactly nothing. And what's more, now that the Humphrey-Jacque business seems to have gone cold, Philip's simmered down; and that means he'll take the field with us again before long. And once more my dear brother will have cousin Philip on his tail.”

  “Never count on Burgundy,” Johanne advised.

  * * *

  Catherine went back to Windsor depressed. In spite of her swing high, swing low philosophy things seemed to be settling into steady failure in France. And Harry seemed less of a child than ever. He had given her a tablet of gold set with a great ruby. It was not a child's choice; nor was it given with a child's pleasure. It was a gift from the King to the Queen Dowager—a puppet's gesture.

  And she was disappointed in herself. She wanted Jacque to be happy. But not at the risk of Philip's anger. If by lifting a finger she could save Jacque; she would not lift it. With a sensitiveness new to her she grieved that she could not grieve enough. “I wish her happy as my Saviour hears me,” she told Tudor, “but I cannot think happiness will ever come to her through Gloucester.”

  “You once repeated a saying—Near is my kirtle but nearer my shift. You wish Madam Jacque happy—but not at the expense of your son.”

  “It is base,” she said. “But so it is!”

  “Base? A little perhaps.” She loved him because it was not in him to flatter her with lies. “But—” he said, “between friend and child—what mother could hold the balance even?”

  “Mother!” she said. And her mouth twisted, her soft Valois mouth. “A mother that has no sons!”

  The long winter stretched ahead. Great logs in the hearth; music and games and Christmas coming. She grieved still for her children; but what woman could grieve all the time with so dear a lover? Did they whisper behind their hands, whisper about the Queen and the handsome steward? She did not know; and she did not care. Here was her home and her love.

  She had been safe so long; she was lulled in security.

  * * *

  It was early in January and the frost thick upon the windows when Tudor came in with the news.

  His Holiness had spoken. Jacque's marriage to her impotent cousin held good.

  “And what now?” Catherine sighed. “Brabant is dead and there is no barrier to the Gloucester marriage; and so it begins again—the old bitterness with Philip, the old enmities, the old angers.”

  “Nothing begins again,” Tudor told her. “Nothing so dead as dead love.”

  “What has love to do with it? Heiress and mistress—-the virtuous Humphrey would have both if he could; you said so yourself.”

  “Only if the heiress is worth having. What Madam Jacqueline could bring him now would not be worth his while. As for fighting for what she's lost, he has, God be praised, no stomach for it. So all things work to good. My lord of Gloucester does nothing more to rouse Burgundy—he's done enough already and to spare! And Madam the Countess Jacqueline is saved from an unkind husband. For, let her come to him with all her lands and all her riches, still he could not love her again. He's bound hand and foot.”

  * * *

  At Easter she went to Hertford to stay with the King and to meet Warwick arrived at last. She could not but wish they had chosen something less hard-bitten as Governor to her pale little son. The child had grown since their last meeting but he had not grown sturdier. He was thin still; and he looked more nervous than ever. When he was spoken to he seemed to shrink into himself.

  Warwick had brought him yet another sword. “My lord King is nigh on seven,” h
e said. “A sword grows as a man grows.” It was a beautiful piece of work, the hilt inlaid with a smooth pattern of gold. Harry took it; but there was no pleasure in his face. She could read Warwick's thoughts as clear as though they ran behind glass. I will make a man of this milksop yet.

  My lord Governor was perfectly respectful to Madam Queen Catherine, but it was clear, even in these few days, that she had outstayed her welcome. She had a too-softening influence upon the boy; and, at the same time, she encouraged that streak of obstinacy, Warwick thought. The Valois strain was all too clear when those two were together. My lord Governor did not like to see it.

  She took London on her way back. Johanne, spending a few days from her beloved Langley, found her in need of comfort.

  “Warwick is a great gentleman,” Johanne said. “None better to teach a King his duties. To love God—there goes a better preceptor than my lord Cardinal Beaufort; to speak the truth and serve others before himself—a better than my lord Protector. And for courtesies and all learning—whether from books or in the practice-yard, be very sure the King's new governor will not scant his duties.”

  “He will not scant the rod either!” Catherine said. “That is easily seen.”

  “That is part of a man's discipline; and, most of all, part of a king's discipline. And Harry, though he is little and gentle and sweet has a stubborn streak. In so young a child it must be disciplined.”

  Discipline, discipline! Everyone talked of discipline—Warwick and Johanne and Owen...and the pale little boy himself.

  * * *

  Gloucester had married his witch.

  “A witch, indeed!” Johanne said, grim. “No birth; no riches; and less than no virtue. Who can count the string of her bedfellows? And he makes her a royal duchess! Why does he marry her, greedy, ambitious Humphrey, when he has slept with her these many years?”

  “And he forsakes Jacque for that!”

  “He's forsaken love after love. But he will never forsake the Cobham, she has him tight-bound in spells. He is not always clever, our handsome Humphrey. Goodness knows he's lost enough goodwill over the matter already. To take her for his mistress was bad enough—but now, to marry her!”