The Queen's Secret

by Виктория Холт

  The King was more or less offering an ultimatum. Unless I was given to him in marriage with a dowry of 840,000 golden crowns, fifteen towns in Aquitaine and the seneschalty of Limoges, he would have no recourse but to come over and take the crown which, after all, was his by right.

  My brother Louis laughed aloud.

  “The arrogant young pup!” he said. “To whom does he think he is talking? Does he realize that he is challenging the mighty land of France?”

  But was France mighty? For years it had been ruled by a mad king and his rapacious wife; there was fighting between the two greatest houses in the land. Was France in a position to defend itself?

  There was a hasty meeting of the Council; and the Archbishop of Bourges sent to the King of England a reply which was both moderate and adequate.

  Did the King of England really think that he could turn the King of France from his throne? he asked. He must be thinking that out of fear he had entered into negotiations for his daughter’s marriage. This was not so. It was done out of the love of peace. The French did not want war. They did not wish innocent blood to be shed. In the event of war, the French would have right on their side. They would confidently call upon God Almighty and the Blessed Virgin to aid the King’s arms and loyal subjects, and the English armies would be driven out of France and their King would meet death or capture.

  Such bold words might have deterred some, but not King Henry.

  He now made it clear that negotiations were at an end. If the French would not give him what he wanted, he had no alternative but to come and take it by force.

  It was said that he was determined on war.

  My father was in one of his lucid periods. He was horrified at the prospect of war. He wrote to the King of England saying that if he came to France he would receive him and they might enter into discussion. He added that it was a strange way of wooing his daughter—covered with the blood of her countrymen.

  Louis was boasting about what he would do to the English if they dared set foot on French soil. With a few of his friends he contrived what he thought was a joke. He had a cask of tennis balls sent from Paris to London, with a message to Henry that the balls were more fitting playthings for him than the weapons of war he was proposing to use against France.

  Knowing Henry, as I did later, I could well imagine the mood in which he received the tennis balls.

  His reply was typical of him. “These balls,” he said, “shall be struck back with such a racket as shall force open the gates of Paris.”

  It was tantamount to a declaration of war.

  On August 7 in that year 1415, Henry set sail for France.

  At that time I was nearly fourteen years of age.

  It was just a month after he had landed when Henry took Harfleur. It had cost him a great deal and there were rumors that his army was plagued by sickness.

  He marched on, however.

  The terrible events of the previous months had aroused my father from his madness. He listened to the accounts of the capture of Harfleur and declared he would place himself at the head of his army and go with it to meet the English King.

  It was his Uncle Berry, I think, who begged him to consider what he was proposing to do.

  “Remember Poitiers?” he said. “Remember Crécy? It is better that you should not be there. If we lose the battle, we cannot lose the King or the Dauphin as well.”

  My father hesitated. He must have known that his presence would be a cause for alarm rather than an inspiration. What if madness should seize him on the battlefield—which was not unlikely? What harm would that do? It was agreed that he should not go…nor the Dauphin and his brothers Jean and Charles. It was also decided that it would be unwise for Berry, Brittany and Burgundy to risk themselves either.

  When I heard this, I felt that they were preparing for defeat before the battle had begun. But although it was more than fifty years since the Battle of Poitiers had been lost, Frenchmen had never forgotten it.

  The Battle of Agincourt would be another of those which would be remembered for a long time. It was October 25 and I had now reached my fourteenth birthday. There was tension throughout the Queen’s apartments.

  All the flower of the nobility—with the exception of the very highest in the land, whom it had been decided could not risk their lives—was there.

  In trepidation we waited for the result.

  I heard more of that battle later on. Henry himself described it to me. He glowed with pride and enthusiasm when he did so, and I could not help catching it, even though it had meant such a bitter defeat for my own countrymen.

  “The French were doomed from the start,” Henry told me, “in spite of the fact that there were so many of them. We had come from Harfleur…there was sickness in our ranks, and a soldier will often fight better when he is defending his homeland. France was mine by right but these men of mine…well, they wanted victory…they wanted the spoils of victory…but home for them was England. The French were confident…too confident. Fifty thousand of them at least…all drawn up in their heavy armor. Compared with them, we were very few. Some Englishmen quailed when they compared the numbers of French with ours, and I had to remind them one Englishmen was worth ten Frenchmen.” He laughed that rather raucous laugh of his to which I had become accustomed by that time. But I never forgot his description of the battle.

  “They were so confident, your poor deluded Frenchmen. They had the numbers. There they were in their shining armor…elegant to look at but oh so heavy to wear. They spent the night before drinking, dicing, betting on how long we should last against them. A soldier should have confidence…but the right sort of confidence…which is not the foolhardy sort. There must be no vanity in that confidence. The French did not have the right kind. We spent the night in preparation. I had my scouts all over the ground. I knew where it was marshy due to the excessive rains. I knew where I wanted my men and I knew where I wanted theirs. I made sure the French were huddled together without enough space to move freely. I had them on the sodden ground. I knew that, however pretty their ornate armor was, it was too heavy for easy maneuver. And there we were, with the whole width of the field to move in, with the archers on our wings and the woods to protect our flanks. I wore a crown in my helmet so that all should know I was there among them. And at the end of the day the French had lost 10,000 men and the English…some say fourteen, but I’ll confess it might have been a little more…perhaps a hundred or two. Small, though, against 10,000. I did not know the name of the place and asked it of a peasant who said: ‘It is Agincourt, my lord.’ And I replied, ‘Henceforth this shall be known as the Battle of Agincourt.’”

  That was Henry’s version, and I think it must have been an accurate one for he was not a man to hide the truth.

  In any case, no one could fail to admit that that was a sad day in France’s history.

  There was despondency throughout the Court. There was scarcely a family in the land which was not plunged into mourning. The Duke of Burgundy had lost his two brothers—the Duke of Brabant and the Count of Nevers. I heard he cursed himself because he had not been present. He had given orders that his son—who was the husband of my sister Michelle—should not be allowed to go, and although the young man had attempted to disobey his father’s orders, he had been restrained by the Duke’s men.

  It was a day of shame for France, and that meant England’s glory.

  The Duke of Burgundy, in a moment of despair, sent a message to Henry with his gauntlet challenging him to single combat. He wanted to avenge his brothers, he said.

  By this time I was beginning to realize that Henry was not the man I had first thought him to be. Isabelle’s account had been of that rash youth, that frequenter of taverns. This was a different man, a man of great wisdom…a king and a conqueror.

  He at once saw the folly of fighting a duel with the Duke of Burgundy. Weighty matters such as he was engaged in were not solved by such methods. He was the victor of Agincourt, but he was fu
lly aware that this was by no means the end of the struggle. Victory could easily turn sour, and he had no intention of allowing his to do so. Moreover, he knew of the strife in France; and he believed that, with a little diplomacy, because of Burgundy’s intense hatred of the Armagnacs, he might consider them a greater enemy than the English. Henry was more than a great soldier; he was a diplomatic king, always looking far ahead beyond the triumphs of the moment.

  His reply to the Duke was almost sycophantic, which amazed all, for it seemed incredible that the victor of Agincourt could write in such a humble manner. I was as surprised as any, for, of course, I did not know Henry at that time.

  He wrote back: “I will not accept the gauntlet of so powerful a prince as the Duke of Burgundy. I am of no account compared with him. If I have had a great victory at the expense of France, it is through the grace of God. The death of the Duke’s brothers has afflicted me sorely, but neither I nor my soldiers caused their deaths. Take back this gauntlet. I will prove to the Duke by the testimony of my prisoners that it was the French who accomplished his brothers’ destruction.”

  I wondered what Burgundy’s feelings were when he received that reply. He must have realized the cleverness which lay behind it. It could have been the beginning of that rapport between Burgundy and the English. The latter were not so much the Duke’s personal enemies as the hated Armagnacs.

  I remember my brother Louis’s rage when he realized the extent of the defeat at Agincourt. All his arrogance had disappeared; he was a different man from that one who had laughingly sent the tennis balls across the Channel. He looked more like the bewildered boy I had known in the Hôtel de St.-Paul.

  He trembled with rage. “What will happen now?” he shrieked. “What will happen to us all now?” He went into a sort of frenzy. I think those about him must have feared he was going to have an attack similar to those suffered by my father. Blood frothed at his lips. He was a terrifying sight and had to be hurried to bed.

  He was very ill for some days. I went to see him.

  “I shall soon be well,” he said. “It is just a fever.”

  “You must rest,” I told him.

  “So says the physician. Then I shall be well. It is the war. I should have been there, Katherine. I should not have allowed them to be so…ignobly beaten by those barbarians.”

  I looked at him sadly. Did he really believe that he could have turned the defeat at Agincourt into a victory? He seemed very like my little brother then…vulnerable…like the rest of us…constantly having to remind himself that he was the Dauphin when he was really a frightened boy.

  I was present when my mother came to him.

  “My dear, dear son,” she cried. “You are sick. Oh…but I am going to look after you.”

  “I am well looked after,” protested Louis.

  “But at such a time, my love, you need your mother. You have had a shock. Have not all of us? This terrible tragedy which has befallen our country…I know exactly what is good for you. I am going to nurse you back to health.”

  The idea of our mother in a sickroom was rather startling. Louis stared at her disbelievingly; then suddenly I saw a look of horror creep over his face. He turned to me and there was a tragic appeal in his eyes. “Katherine,” he said, “don’t go…you will stay.”

  “There is no need for Katherine to be here,” said our mother firmly. “She knows nothing of nursing.”

  Did she? I wondered.

  I said boldly: “I will stay with you, Louis, if you wish.”

  “Katherine …” He reached for my hand, and I was again reminded vividly of that little boy.

  “Now, now,” said my mother. “My poor boy. Katherine should go now. We do not want too many people in the sickroom. Poor, poor Louis. You have suffered a great shock. It is best for you to be with your mother.”

  I stood still looking at Louis.

  “Go now,” she said to me with a show of irritation. She turned to look at Louis. “We shall soon have you well. You shall have the very best attention. I shall send for my physician. He is the cleverest doctor in France.”

  She gave me a little push away from the bed. I wanted to refuse to go because I thought Louis was trying to say something to me, but we had been in awe of her too long, and I knew those purring kittenish moods could suddenly break into violent rage.

  I bowed my head and turned away. I could not bear to look at Louis.

  I heard that his health did not improve even though she had sent for her physician.

  I cannot say whether the rumors were true, but inevitably there were rumors, for everyone knew there was conflict between the Dauphin and his mother.

  When the physician came, he gave Louis what he said he thought would be an immediate cure. Louis was very ill and by the following day he was dead.

  Rumor persisted. Some said Louis had been in moderately good health. Why should he die so suddenly? Was it the shame of Agincourt which had hastened his death? He had been certain that the French could not fail to win. He had boasted of inevitable victory; and the shock of defeat had killed him.

  Others said he had been spitting blood for some months. Innumerable royal children had died from that complaint.

  But the whispers were there. It was poison. Everyone knew that the Dauphin hated and feared his mother; and everyone knew that that was something she would not endure.

  Whatever the truth was, the Dauphin Louis was dead, and my brother Jean had now stepped into his shoes.

  Jean had never been like Louis. He had always comfortably assured himself that he would never have to face that great responsibility. Now he had been proved wrong.

  Our mother lavished care on Jean, which he had never known before. He was timid; he was no braggart like his brother; all he wanted was a peaceful life.

  Like all of us children, he was afraid of our mother, and now that her attention was turned on him, he was terrified.

  The Armagnacs were always at his side. He could not escape to the peace he so desired.

  He was only just eighteen years old. I remember well the last conversation I had with him.

  “I’d rather be anywhere than here, Katherine,” he said. “I’d rather be cold and hungry at the Hôtel de St.-Paul.”

  I tried to comfort him. “Most people in your position would feel like that at first,” I said. “This has been thrust upon you. You weren’t expecting it.”

  He nodded. “And our mother…she is always there now.”

  “You must remember that you are the Dauphin,” I said. “It is you who will be the King.”

  “I know. That is what terrifies me.”

  It was April of that year 1417…a momentous one. Jean was coughing blood. He was almost pleased when the doctors said he must rest. Gratefully he kept to his bed, and a few days later he quietly died. Poor Jean. I think he was rather relieved to leave a life which had become so frightening to him.

  My younger brother, Charles, now fourteen years old, had become the Dauphin of France.

  Poor Charles, I do not think he wanted the honor any more than Jean had. He was of a melancholy nature and wept when he heard the news. His two brothers—who he had believed would protect him from high rank—had gone…and now there he was, the new Dauphin of France.

  “I shouldn’t have the title, Katherine,” he told me. “It is not mine by right.”

  “What do you mean, Charles?” I said. “You are the next in line.”

  “Ah, but I do not believe I am the King’s son.”

  “What?”

  “When I was born, our mother was having numerous lovers. One of them could be my father.”

  “You must not think like that, Charles. After all, it could apply to us all.”

  “Our mother is a wicked woman, Katherine.”

  I was silent.

  “Do you think she poisoned Louis?” he asked.

  “No…no …” I cried, although it was not strictly true.

  “And what if she decided to poison me?”


  “She will not. She would not dare.”

  “But if I am a bastard I have no right to the throne.”

  “Charles, do not think of such things. You will be all right. You must be. You are the last son. You are safe.”

  He hugged me suddenly. I was very sorry for my little brother who was so afraid of being Dauphin, and even more so when he looked to the future and saw himself King of France.

  Henry did not stay in France after Agincourt. Some less clever, less astute victors might have attempted to continue with the campaign. But his army needed rest and replenishment. Several of his men were sick, so he fortified his gains and with his sick and wounded and much depleted army he returned to England. But we all knew full well that that was not the end. He would return.

  The strife between Armagnac and Burgundy continued while each blamed the other for the defeat at Agincourt. If only my countrymen had stood together, everything might have turned out differently.

  We were in Vincennes. My mother kept me with her. She was certain that soon Henry would be demanding our union, so I was an important bargaining counter.

  “A daughter’s place is with her mother,” she said, glibly ignoring any reference to the years of my infancy when I might have needed a mother and had been neglected with my brothers and sisters. But that was her way. Truth was bent to suit her purposes of the moment.

  I think she was more indiscreet than ever in Vincennes. There were numerous lovers and she made little secret of her tendency to select presentable young men and invite them to her apartments for a cozy session.

  The favorite was still Louis de Bosredon, and he was becoming more and more insufferable.

  He had several clashes with one or two highly placed officials in the household, but when complaints were made to my mother, she shrugged her shoulders and laughed. She treated Louis de Bosredon like one of her little dogs…to be petted and scolded lightheartedly and pampered. Louis de Bosredon was clearly delighted with his success.

  I do not know how long he would have continued to please her—he had had a long run—but it was inevitable that one day he would go too far.