Wife to Henry V: A Novel Page 2

  “And why should it be no?” Catherine was cool beneath her anger.

  “Because this new house of Lancaster doesn't sit too easy on the throne. There are plenty who prefer the true line.”

  “Henry will sit easy enough. He's handsome and he's clever and he's brave and...”

  “Take a lesson from your own sister. He wanted Isabella when her husband Richard died. Nothing would induce her to take him. And can you wonder? Marry the son of the man who murdered your husband!” Michelle made a little mouth of disgust.

  “And yet your father in-law is not so nice!” Catherine said, quick. “He'll marry one of his daughters—if he can—to Uncle Louis' son; son of the man he murdered.”

  “Watch your tongue, must I tell you again? My father-in-law is out of favour...for the moment. But the wheel turns; watch the wheel, Catherine. As for this hero of yours, this usurper of England—he's been refused. So much for your choosing!”

  “And still I shall choose!” Catherine said, obstinate. “And when I'm Queen of England...”

  “…if you are Queen of England! Then you will be wife to a trumped-up king; and I shall be Duchess of Burgundy, wife to the first peer in France.”

  “Don't count on dead men's shoes! Your father-in-law may outlive you...or your little Philip tire of you.”

  She saw the colour die in her sister's face—everyone had heard rumours about Michelle's young husband. “It's you that's the fool Michelle.”

  Michelle said, yellow, “A princess of the blood—and your tongue would shame a gutter-wench!” She picked up the tail of her gown and walked slowly away.

  * * *

  A princess of the blood. Catherine knew very well what that meant. As a child she had thought it meant living in a house so vast it was hard not to lose yourself; a house where enormous passages stretched fearfully, and many, many steps to climb before she reached the small rooms, not very clean, where she slept and played with Michelle. A cold house; in winter every bone rattled.

  A princess of the blood. It meant wearing Michelle's cast-offs, too short, too tight—she was taller than Michelle—the velvet soiled the fur moulting. It meant being hungry quite often and creeping down the backstairs into the kitchens where it was heavenly warm and where one of the cooks might slip her a meaty bone or a cook-maid cut a piece off her own trencher—lovely thick bread, soft and fat with gravy.

  A princess of the blood. It meant other things, too. Her head might be tangled—and worse; but still she must learn to hold it correctly; must learn the hundred-and-one rules of behaviour that govern a royal court. She must play prettily upon lute and harp—and her fingers stiff with chilblains; she must learn the English tongue, and the Latin, too, though she tripped still upon her own. “Who knows where your fortune may lie?” her Uncle of Orléans had said. “Your mother here! They brought her from Bavaria, a little girl. And there she stood, the pretty poppet—dumb!”

  She had thought, being small, three perhaps or four, that she would rather not be a princess; she would rather be a cook-maid!

  She had not understood, until she was older, that a princess could become a quite glorious person. She had come one day into her mother's room; as usual, her Uncle of Orléans had been there. She must have been going on for six—it was just before he died.

  They were playing chess, those two; and she stood in the doorway feeling the warmth of their beauty reach out to her—her mother was lovely and her uncle the handsomest man in France.

  He looked up and smiled; and she saw her mother slyly nudge a pawn into the next square. And, “My move,” her mother cried and moved the pawn again. “Queen!” she said.

  Her uncle looked lazily over the board. “One watches the kings and the queens and the bishops and the knights,” he said, “and all the time the sly pawn creeps. Mark that, my child. A nothing becomes a queen!” He stretched out a lazy hand to draw her near. His gay face darkened. “Faugh!” he said and pushed her away. And then, while she stood, her heart ready to break, he said more gently, “A little princess is like a pawn; she must be ready to move into the Queen's place. Go bid your nurse scour you well and comb your hair; and, when you are clean, I will send you the prettiest gown in Christendom.” And, as she left the room, she heard him say, “It's a shame and a scandal to neglect her so and I will not endure it!”

  No wonder she had loved him and thought he must be her father; and prayed that he might be her father. It was quite a long time before she had really understood about pawns and queens. But it was a lesson she had learned well. Now they treated her like a pawn. But she would be a Queen yet. She would be a Queen.

  CHAPTER II

  He was King now, King Henry the Fifth. Death had taken a hand and there was no more need to lie, to cheat, to conspire for the crown.

  The mare splashed through the ford at Westminster, picked her careful way through the water-logged flats on the other side. The March wind lifted his cloak; impatient of the chaperon snug about his head, he tugged at it, threw it behind him to his page. The wind stirring in his hair added to his pleasure, for he was going to see his stepmother, Queen Johanne. A visit to her was seldom wasted. Shrewd, she kept a finger on the pulse of affairs; intuitive, she had the wit to interpret what that finger felt.

  The easy motion of his horse set his thoughts in train; his mind moved amongst his difficulties, sorted them out, dealt with them.

  Being a King, he had thought once, was an easy thing, glorious. He had actually believed that, in spite of his father dying by inches before his eyes, dying worn out with constant rebellion, eaten by his disease. Now—his father dead a year—he knew that being a King was pretty much like being a soldier, captain of forces. One planned the campaign, no single point forgotten, each step meticulously performed.

  But the scale was greater, greater the burden. One carried it alone. No sharing. No-one he could truly trust. Certainly not his Uncle Beaufort of Winchester, the rich bishop with eyes turned always to his own advantage. Useful enough when one's advantage touched his own. The King's man...up to a point.

  Brothers then? A man's shield and his armour, his father used to say.

  He considered them.

  Thomas. Tower of strength—so one might think. But rash, rash. He could be a danger to others; and to himself. But not for his own advantage; never for that. With Tom all was open, unselfish. Humphrey now; there was a horse of a different colour. His youngest brother was able, but unstable. Able but unstable—Humphrey in a nutshell; he would need watching. But he was young; he would learn...perhaps.

  John then—his middle brother? As honest as Tom, as good a soldier, a better statesman. A true man. But he couldn't win hearts like Tom and Humphrey. With John it was always the slow way, the hard way.

  Three brothers—a man's armour. Well, certainly there were chinks in this armour!

  The mare stumbled; still deep in his thoughts, he put an hand upon her neck to steady her.

  Yes, he was King. No-one had disputed his King's right...openly. But there had been whispers. Usurper. Ugly word! And yet there was something in it. The Lancasters had no real claim: his father, dying, had admitted it. No real claim—except the will of the people. Well, it was a will he must keep warm towards himself, warm and constant.

  One thing he had done. A daring thing, wise or mad—it depended how you looked at it. It had worked out well; given him a name for generosity. Johanne had advised him; his stepmother, for all her golden beauty wise as a witch. “But I am a witch,” she had said once, “like my father. But I am a good witch.”

  “Witch. That is not a word to be said lightly, even in a Queen,” his father had said; and he had looked at her, his leprous face lightened from its pain. Well, a witch, maybe, cozening men with her soft voice and her hard head. His father had always asked her advice and found it good.

  And so he had found himself; though he had not first believed his ears when she advised him to rebury Richard of Bordeaux.

  “Your father was worn beyond
human endurance,” she had reminded him. “Constant rumours about Richard, constant revolts. Tales here, there and everywhere. He is not dead. He has come in living flesh to lead us again. That was bad enough. But the other tales! He is come from his grave to take back what was stolen. And now it begins again—here a word, there a whisper. A man may fight a man; may fight ten men. A man cannot fight a ghost. So your father found; so you may find, too.”

  “What can a man do?” he had asked troubled by the truth in what she had said.

  “A man must lay the ghost.”

  He had stared at her, trying to pluck the meaning from those smiling eyes.

  “You must dig up Cousin Richard.” And she had looked a witch sitting there smiling with her red, red mouth; he could not be sure she had meant it. And then, recovered from the shock, he had seen that it was pure common sense. Show the people that Richard was truly dead; that he gave honour to Richard whose spirit might rest in peace; show them, above all, that the new King feared neither flesh nor devil.

  But it had been horrible.

  He had seen death in a hundred guises from boyhood. But...Richard's mouldering corpse! He had wanted to cry out to Richard's rotted flesh, Forgive me. Remembering the blue eyes, the golden hair, remembering how Richard had been good to the boy Henry, time and time again, he had wanted to weep. And all the time, walking in his place, walking behind that travesty of kingship, of human dignity, he had felt a finger cold upon his spine, as though, God forbid, Richard was up to his tricks I

  Certainly Johanne had been right. No more murmuring about a living Richard, no more murmuring about risen ghosts. Now Richard slept in Westminster in the tomb he had made for Anne he had so loved.

  Richard had been blessed in his wives; both had adored him—young Bohemian Anne and the French child Isabella.

  Isabella. For all his kingship, for all he had won and might win, one thing had slipped from his grasp—that pale child, Isabella who had been in her grave these three years. He had loved her with a boy's passion; but she had not listened. Richard stood between them, Richard whom his father had killed, Richard whom she had loved. He saw her now—small and white and still, sitting there; and his father unable to move her, his father who had set his iron will on the marriage. But she, the gentle child, had neither bent nor broken. No, she had said. No and no.

  The day she had gone back to France he had shut up all the windows in his Cheapside house to keep out the farewells of the people as she rode her last journey through London. After that, he had gone out and got drunk; ended up in bed with a slut.

  Well, that was all one, now. He was King and she was dead.

  The pain of it was past now, Isabella no more than a dream.

  He sighed, shaking himself of his mournful thoughts. Kings do not waste the bright morning of their lives dreaming. Work. Work to be done. Work in France. But to do that work he needed money. And then, still money. Parliament wouldn't give him any unless he stirred it somehow, moved its imagination.

  Parliament's imagination! He could laugh at that.

  What had happened to Englishmen? In Richard's day they had been agog for war with France—Richard had lost his crown because he had wanted peace.

  Well, he must win Parliament with promise of glory, of great possessions, of gold to fatten the lean exchequer. Of his heart's hope—the crown of France—he must not speak, not yet. But it was not only Parliament he must win. It was the people, the common people to swell his armies. No promises of glory for them; but promises of ransom and plunder. Parliament and the people. Even those were not enough. He must have the blessing of the Church. Her coffers were deepest of all—and he was her obedient son. Had he not given her heretics to burn, more than any King? And he would give yet more, more.

  He was humming under his breath. He was going to see Johanne; she would find the way to stir dull wits.

  * * *

  Johanne of Navarre who had been wife to the old Duke of Brittany and then Queen to the fourth Henry sat upright in the great chair. The King saw her now—head delicate and bright against the cushion, arms white against the dark of the chair. She despised the long tight sleeve of fashion; and well she might! She had the most beautiful arms in Christendom!

  She rose now with that slow grace of hers. She had no intention of doing him reverence; but she was subtle enough to give him time to stop her. He came to her quickly; before she had more than bent her head, he had led her again to the chair. Lips against her cheeks, he thought that of all the beauties he had seen, two only, had stirred his blood; the child Isabella in her simplicity and this subtle Johanne; both out of his reach.

  Already she had sent the servants running for a cup of wine; for anchovies soaked in oil and spread upon a wafer, of which he was inordinately fond; for a dish of cherries all of marchpane.

  He took the bouquet of his wine. “Better than they serve to me!” And he was only half-joking.

  “John de Moine brought it last journey,” she told him. “Yes, it's good; I keep it for my most honoured guest—for you, dearest son. The duties are so high!” She sighed.

  He frowned. Wisdom, wit and beauty; yet she marred all—a cheese-paring skinflint. She was very rich, his father had seen to it; but she hoarded like a peasant. Her alms were a disgrace, her gifts laughable. Then, remembering the poverty of her youth, “You shall have your wine free of tax,” he promised. “I will have the collectors directed.”

  Now why had he done that? He was short of money himself. She had too much tax-free already. Well, her anchovies, at least, should cost her something! He helped himself lavishly. Yes, and she should pay for her wine, too! And for everything she had wheedled from him. He would do more! He would cut her allowance. Yes, that was the way. To pay for her concessions—axe her revenues.

  “You are so good,” she said, “so generous.” She had hoped to ask for some grace for her Jocelin cloth—her sheets were wearing thin and she coveted the fine white linen. Had she expected him she would not now be wearing the gown of Damascus silk, nor the gold chain his father had given her, the great chain set with the jewelled myosotis of his device.

  Now, seeing anger stir behind that smooth face of his, she decided to leave the Jocelin cloth, the anchovies he was enjoying now; yes, and the precious lamps of Brittany; it was hardly the moment to plead poverty. She came again from the great chair, busy about his comfort, settling the cushion at his back, smoothing the brown hair, playing mother, conscious all the time of the quite other attraction between them—a dangerous attraction that teased him so that he might be spiteful as well as kind.

  He stopped knitting his brows, allowed himself to relax, thinking as he lay back upon the cushion that he would rather lay his head upon that white bosom. And why not? She was his dearest mother. Half-conscious of the falsity of his reasoning he allowed annoyance to gather once more against her.

  “You look tired, Harry my dear. Your mind is too fixed upon this new crown of yours.”

  “Which crown?” he said at once and could have bitten his tongue. Had she guessed his hankering for the crown of France? Why he had barely, as yet, dared think it even within himself! She was a witch, seizing upon a man's thoughts before he was fully aware of them himself. Well, it was too late to cover the slip.

  “Is there more than one?” she asked at once, all innocence; and when he did not answer, said softly, “Harry, a man should be content with what is his own.”

  “That's all I ask. My own. The lands my great-grandfather held by right; and by might; and by treaty, too. I ask only for that. Yet,” he shrugged, “there's no money, so it seems; neither for honour, nor for common justice. But for all that—” his face darkened, “I will not let them go, my most dear possessions.” “Were they ever that?”

  “If they were not, then be sure I'll make them so.” Another man, she thought, would have sworn by God, called upon his Maker to witness. But not he. Never he. Yet his cool and measured speech was more impressive, more frightening, than other men's oa
ths.

  “Could you keep them so?” “What I win, I keep.”

  “But it will cost—the earth, Harry! How will you get the money?”

  “I shall get it if I have to pawn my crown!” And if now she offered her help he would spare her revenues.

  “And who is rich enough to take up the pledge?” she said and sealed her fate.

  “The Church whose loving son I am. And the rich bishops; and the merchant princes of London. And...” he gave her a long look, “my friends.”

  Mind struck against mind. Almost she could see those hands ruthless in her money bags, fingering her jewels, grasping at her lands—the dear and lovely wealth his father had given her.

  She fought down the moment's panic.

  “There's another way of course—and it's time you married. There's my kinswoman Catherine.”

  “We sent one embassy—secretly; and just as well! We were refused. We don't intend to be refused again.”

  “Catherine's a pretty girl...”

  “It's France I want, not Catherine—unless she's thrown into the bargain. I'll take one of Burgundy's girls, I don't care which; or any other girl if she brings the French crown in her pocket.”

  “A gallant speech!” Behind her laughter she thought, So it is France, nothing less than France!

  “Nothing but your true rights, you said,” she reminded him. “The French crown—is that your true right?”

  “I'll make it so.”

  “Listen,” she said. “Ask for Catherine. You won't get her, of course.”

  “Is the King of England not good enough?” His pride was pricked. “Richard got her sister.”

  “Richard didn't want France, he wanted peace. And he was no danger—as you are. Do you really think the Dauphin would let them give you his sister?”

  “The Dauphin?” His shrug dismissed the idle, dissolute young man.