by Hilda Lewis
Humphrey had been letting his tongue wag again—this time about his brother. John had been careless, he said, in his conduct of the war. Bedford came hurrying back to defend his honour and Catherine went to London to assure him of her faith in his good sense and his honesty.
It was hot in London this July. Across the garden at Kennington the breeze from the river brought the unmistakable stench of corruption in the sun...there were rumours of plague. But all the same she waited until the King in full Parliament had once more assured John of his unshaken belief in his integrity and wisdom; then she went to say Goodbye to them both before hurrying back to the safety of the country.
She had seen little of Harry, and what she had seen worried her. He was different from the eager, affectionate child who had chattered away about France. He was courteous, of course, but—or perhaps it was merely her fancy—cold, disapproving.
“He's afraid of you,” Johanne said. “You're too much of a woman. They've sicklied him over with sainthood until he daren't raise his eyes to a woman, not even his mother.”
“There's more to it than that, I fancy. I think Humphrey's been whispering.”
“He knows nothing to whisper—yet. But that's your luck rather than your credit.” And before Catherine could question her further, Johanne was sending her love to the children and suggesting that they might be safer further afield. Devon, perhaps.
“There's no plague in Berkshire,” Catherine said. “What are you trying to say?”
“If I knew I'd tell you outright. But I don't. I'm uneasy—you've been too lucky, my dear. Madam Eleanor's quietened down; but I keep telling myself she isn't one to forget a suspicion, no, nor a grievance, neither. But then…” Johanne shrugged. “I'm growing old and old people have their fancies.”
Back in Englefield with the summer all about her and her children's laughter and Tudor's love, she was inclined to remember the last part of Johanne's speech only...Johanne was growing old.
News from France was wonderful. Philip, in a rage at Charles' meanness, had broken the truce and thrown himself into battle again. He was covering himself with glory. Swing high.
* * *
Out in the November garden the children played as though there was no such thing as winter cold. From her window Catherine could see their rosy cheeks, hear their merry calling. Yes, life was good! But...what had Johanne meant about having had too much luck? Old woman's nonsense, Johanne had said so herself! She picked up her cloak. She would have a run with the children to warm her own sluggish blood and then she would bring them in for a cup of hot honeyed wine.
Cloak about her, she turned; Tudor had come into the room, “The messengers have just ridden in,” he said. “Parliament implores my lord of Bedford to stay at home. He has done his duty nobly, they say. He must no longer put himself in danger. His life is necessary to the King and to England.”
“There's something in that—Philip's doing very well without him.” She nodded. “Yes, I'm glad John's to stay; he's my very good friend; maybe he'll keep Brother Humphrey quiet.”
“Nothing can do that save the grave,” Tudor said and looked at her sadly. Didn't she understand? To keep Bedford at home-Bedford, Commander of the Forces and England's greatest captain—must mean one thing and one thing only. “It could be,” he said slowly, “that keeping him at home is Parliament's way of washing its hands of the war.”
She laughed outright at that. “Never!” she said. “And least of all now. For now we swing high, high again. But swing high or low, John is steadfast. He will never let go in France till the crown is safe; nothing will loosen his grip save death—and that, please God, is a long way off!”
But all the same she hurried to London.
She found John looking tired, his great frame sagged, the ruddy cheeks had taken a blue look. She wondered, while her heart stood still, whether he were ill again, reassured herself.
...Fatigue...he was not so young—he must be forty-five if a day. Nothing, though, that a little rest couldn't put right...
She said, “So you are not to return to France? What does that mean, John?”
“It means that I am Regent of England...while I am here.”
“And when you are not here?”
“Then I am Regent of France.”
“And you will go on fighting?”
“Till I die.”
At the gratitude in her pretty face he thought, a little sad, Henry was right. She's a fool...but a sweet fool.
“It won't be easy,” he told her gently. “There's no money—except what I can find in my own pocket; and Parliament grows weary. Certainly Burgundy covers himself with glory; but the glory is for him...for him and not for us. And who can trust him from one minute to the next? And yet...” and he wanted to bring happiness back to the now clouded face, there was enough of sorrow, God knew! “...there are true hearts in France that remember my brother; and remember your brother—and the difference between them. And though Burgundy has forgotten, I do not forget my brother nor the promise I made; and here is my hand upon it.”
She lifted the hand to her cheek. “Henry,” she said and smiled, “There was a time I could not say his name without bitterness. But now that he slighted me, mistrusted me, is forgotten. That he made you Regent of France knowing your great heart and your great truth is enough.”
He thought, a little weary, that a man could be happy with this sweet fool. She had been a hard young creature; like her mother ambitious, like her brother greedy. But life had made her gentle and kind. It's a man makes her gentle and kind...his brother whispering, anxious to set his dogs on the heels of his suspicions. But he had silenced Humphrey. She had known little happiness, he said, save what she had made for herself. Let her keep it!
* * *
Bedford had spoken in Parliament imploring money for the French wars. Harry, on the one occasion Catherine saw him, could talk of nothing else. “He was wonderful and I listened...every word. I couldn't stop listening. He said that my father had paid for France with his life; yes, and countless men with him, both gentle and simple. And then he lifted his head and there were tears in his eyes—he has the truest eyes I ever saw—” And he turned his own away lest she should see what must never be seen—the King's tears. “And then he said—and he was looking straight at me—There are a few here and there in France that are tempted from their allegiance ; but the greater part, as God hears me, hold with their faith by you, Sir.” Harry was silent; then he added sadly, “They cheered him. They couldn't stop cheering...but they didn't give him any money.”
“My brother is God's Own Fool!” Gloucester broke in upon them and did not care who heard him speak. “There's no money and yet he will go on fighting. He will spend, he says, his own revenues, beggar himself—and me, since I'm his lawful heir. I'm sick to the stomach of his overdone nobility.”
Catherine said Goodbye to John. “Have no fear,” he told her once more. “I will not relinquish one jot or tittle of Harry's rights.”
“There's but one true man in this matter of France,” Johanne said, “and that's John. As for your allies—” she shrugged. “Those marriages Philip arranged—his sisters' marriages—they've begun to breed. There's a jolly little family party going on in France.”
“The cat's away! It will be different when John's back again.”
“John will not always be there. And, if he is there? Has no-one told you, Catherine? Must I be the one to speak? There's a month's truce between Burgundy and my son Arthur—and so Burgundy must lay down his arms in the north. There's a three months' truce between Bourbon and Burgundy—and Burgundy must lay down arms in the south. And John with his few men and his empty pockets is left to carry on alone. He can't do it. No man could stay the course. I'm warning you.”
“John will stay the course until he dies,” Catherine said.
Johanne said no more. John would do just that!
CHAPTER XXXIV
It was cold in Berkshire, every blade of grass a stiff
and glittering spear as though the whole of Elf land marched to battle. The children ran across the frost-bound fields, cheeks redder than the holly. Edmund walked with a swift and graceful carriage; Jasper, at five, had all the beauty of his father.
Towards the end of January Johanne came to stay at Englefield. She looked old and severe; but the children, to her hidden delight, had no fear of her. Jasper plucked at her gown, rifled her pouch for sweetmeats; Edmund served her, sweet and serious, as her page and she doted upon him as never upon the pale boy who wore the crown.
She brought with her news from France; it was disquieting news though Catherine would not believe it. There had been English successes—many of them; Catherine could not see beyond that.
“The struggle is too bitter to last,” Johanne said.
“Not more bitter than last month when the disgraceful truces were made.”
“Philip's truce with Arthur has run its course; but Philip sits feasting with Arthur, sits feasting with all his brothers-in-law except one—John's left out. And it's more than a family Christmas party, much more...your brother feasts with them. Enemies all. And, Catherine...there's a thing you should know. He...Philip,” Johanne said slow, unsmiling, “acknowledges your brother King of France.”
The eyes went black in Catherine's head. “It isn't true. It cannot be true...we should have heard....”
“It is true. It's all informal at the moment; but it sets the pattern of things to come. And...” Johanne could not look at Catherine, “the peace preliminaries are settled.”
Catherine cried through stiff lips, “But not confirmed.”
“They will be. At Arras. There'll be no slip this time.”
“No,” Catherine said. “No. France is ours. Ours.” And rocked herself backwards and forwards. “Oh,” she cried, very sudden, “not because of the treaty, but because Henry bought it with his life, he and his men together. They watered the soil with their English blood, they made France England...John said that...” She stopped, a hand to her mouth; she said, “John's heart will be broken over this.”
Johanne put out a knotted hand. “John's a soldier; he accepts the fortunes of war. And you—you must accept them too. Enjoy life while it's sweet—and how sweet it is! A man to cherish you; and your children, your beautiful children. As for France, England cannot hold it—it's slippery with blood. Forget the crown of France.”
“You talk of my children,” she cried out, wild, “and isn't Harry my child, my child? Slippery with blood the crown may be—but it is still his; his crown. That is the thing I must not forget; and nothing in the world shall make me forget...nothing, nothing.”
* * *
She could no longer comfort herself with the old philosophy; soon the balance between England and France must settle for ever. Her eyes turned towards Arras; and with her, the eyes of all Christendom. Peace. They were to discuss peace—with the Pope's Legate and the princes of Christendom to see fair play. Fair play! And the Pope in Philip's pocket. And Philip himself murmuring King Charles' ear!
It was the end, Tudor warned her. No more hope.
She was restless again, content broken. Not Tudor with all his kindness, nor the children with all their beauty, could quiet her. Now the peace of the country was an irritant; she could endure it no longer. She wrote imploring Johanne's company at Kennington.
Throughout July the couriers came riding in; together the two women received the news, discussed the news.
...The princes of Christendom were streaming towards Arras. The English envoys had already gone with the exception of my lord Cardinal Beaufort—his dignity waited upon its time. The Papal Legate had arrived. It was the end of the month before Philip appeared—no more in the crow's black he had affected for such occasions but all glorious in cloth-of-gold. Philip of Burgundy, first peer in France gloriously riding; and behind him, superbly equipped, his allies, his vassal lords, his knights in armour. The sun, the messenger said, blazed light upon them so that they rode in glorious day while the King of France, more humbly riding, seemed to move in twilight. The humble folk, as the train rode through the countryside did not know which was the King. Noël, they cried, scattering their flowers before Burgundy. And who cared? France was mad with joy seeing old enemies ride together.
“You must expect it,” Johanne said. “And if I did not love you so much, God knows I could not think it wrong. France should be to the French. And hasn't it been ravaged enough? And Harry. What does he need with two kingdoms seeing he hasn't the governance of even one?”
August came in a blaze of heat and sun. Catherine, white and tired, could not rest in London; could rest still less in the country. She and Johanne remained at Kennington for the news.
All the discussions at Arras had come to nothing; peace seemed as far away as ever. France would listen to no proposal unless England renounced the crown; England would consider nothing that involved it. In spite of every warning, Catherine allowed herself to hope.
France, desperate for peace, offered more territories, more gold, more, more.
“We should take it while we may,” Johanne said, “or we may regret it later. It's a generous offer.”
“Generous? To rob my son of his crown and offer him Normandy which is already his? These are the terms, as I remember, offered to England before Agincourt. Did Henry die that we might come full circle?”
“That Henry refused it, is—seeing how things go—reason enough for his son to accept it.”
Catherine stood up abruptly, she was pale as ash; but beneath the whiteness Johanne could feel the flame of her anger.
“Was it for this, for this, Henry left me a widow in a strange land and his young son fatherless?”
Johanne said gently, marvelling that even in so great a thing Catherine could not see beyond herself and her child, “Don't quarrel with me, Catherine; I speak the truth as I see it. But it's early days yet; nothing can be settled in Arras without Beaufort.”
Towards the end of August, Catherine went to Westminster to say Farewell to my lord Cardinal bound at last for Arras.
“Though the whole world stands in arms against me,” he told her, “I shall never consent. While I have strength to stand and tongue to speak, I shall never let France go.” He looked like an eagle, she thought...but an ancient eagle.
“We have no fear for France,” Harry said suddenly. He looked, she thought, fine-drawn, nervous; when he spoke it was not as a boy speaks but as a puppet put through its antics. “Why should we fear?” he said. “God looks to His Own.”
He sat there in the great chair, his head bending a little as though with the weight of the crown. He looked into space; his eyes began to take on their blind look. He began to speak in a thin voice.
“My brother will take the crown...wear the crown.” He gave a great sigh that reached up from the depths of his heart. “So be it! Lord, I ask no crown but Thy heavenly one.” And he crossed himself.
Catherine watched, white as the boy.
“They grow upon him,” the cardinal said. “Holy trances, some call them; and the words he speaks they take for prophecies. But for my part he is better without them. There are times when he would fall from his horse were not someone there to hold him. And sometimes he speaks; but afterwards he remembers nothing.”
* * *
My lord Cardinal Beaufort of Winchester had left Arras in disgust.
My lord Duke of Burgundy had made much of him, had treated him with the deepest respect...but the King of England must stop calling himself King of France. My lord duke was loud in his demand.
“May God bless my bel-uncle for this,” Catherine said. “The Beauforts have always been loyal.”
“It could be loyalty; it could be ambition. Beaufort ambition. But whichever it is, I doubt its wisdom. France raised its offer still higher you know; Harry would have got a third of France—absolute sovereignty.”
“A third? They steal our goose and throw us the giblets.”
“Giblets are not to be
despised—especially if one's hungry; not that I'd call a third of France giblets. Catherine, it's hopeless for me to speak, I know, and you won't love me for it. But think, girl, think! You're French when all's said. Ask yourself—Suppose it were not Harry; suppose it were Spain or Italy or Portugal laying hands on the crown that was your father's, wouldn't you say, The Crown of France is for the Son of France?”
“My son is the Son of France. You call yourself my friend, but where is your loyalty? At best divided—and how can you help it with your own son Arthur turned traitor?”
Johanne bit back her anger; it was with difficulty that she held back the retort—her loyalties were not divided; they were wholly with France.
It was impossible to be near this bleak and bitter Catherine and not quarrel; a few days later saw Johanne back at Langley.
Catherine stayed on at Kennington missing Johanne but keeping her anger keen. The thought of the conversations at Arras continuing without Beaufort to watch Harry's interests drove her frantic. She, who had hardly prayed in her life, prayed now that some ridiculous incident, some dire misfortune—she cared not which—would put an end to the talks forever.
But there were no incidents—Burgundy was too well stuffed with gold, with honours, with promises. But misfortune there was, dire misfortune; and it was for England.
Bedford was dead. He had been ailing since Lagny; now the proposed peace, peace eagerly accepted by Burgundy in honour bound to England, finished him. “Thank God he did not live to see this most wicked peace ratified,” she wrote to Tudor. She was hard and quiet; but in her chamber she wept and could not stay her tears, crying to God, asking Him why He had taken John, dear and faithful friend?
She, who had understood little of the griefs of others, felt now, in the bitterness of Burgundy's betrayal, the loneliness of John's last hours in Rouen. Her own soul took the anguish of his dying. All that he had planned and all that he had done, fallen about him. Did he, in the small desolate hours of that last morning, think of England and his childhood in sunlit places?
