The Tudor Bride (23 page)

‘Even from among the crowds I noticed the change in him. What do his doctors say?’

‘That he will mend with rest and a plain diet and they prescribe some foul potion for him.’ Agnes smiled. ‘He does not take it willingly, or as often as he should probably.’

‘And I do not suppose he rests at all,’ I remarked dryly. ‘I do not think he ever could. What does Catherine do about it?’

Agnes shrugged. ‘What can she do, except pester him to rest and try to make him take his medicine? Apparently he does not sleep well and she has suggested that he should call Owen Tudor back from his troop to play for him. Do you remember Owen, the archer musician who used to play for them before they left for England?’

‘Of course I remember him. His music was sublime. And will the king summon him?’

‘He has promised to make a request to the captain of his troop, Sir Walter Hungerford, who is due in Paris soon, I believe.’

At this point I decided to take the plunge and ask her if she had spoken with the queen on the subject of my return.

‘Yes I did,’ Agnes said hesitantly. ‘The queen says she does not wish to come between you and your family, so she will not ask you.’

I peered at Agnes under beetled brows. ‘You are sure it is my family she is concerned about and not the opinion of the Duchess of Hainault?’

Agnes lowered her voice, as if fearful of being overheard. ‘The duchess remains in England, fearful of being abducted by the Duke of Burgundy if she crossed the Sleeve. At least now the rest of us no longer have to suffer the scheming of the ambitious Eleanor. However, I know that her grace of Hainault made it clear to Catherine more than once that she did not approve of you having a court position. She managed to persuade her that, in his absence, her court should represent the king’s power and her own royal status.’

I sighed. ‘Appearances matter to Catherine. She is trying to act like a queen and her grace of Hainault has become her adviser.’

Despite my best efforts to conceal them, tears must have glistened on my eyelashes. Agnes laid a consoling hand on my arm. ‘I certainly miss you and I truly believe she misses you too. But, Mette, has it not crossed your mind that you deserve a pension? Why do you not come to the Louvre and put it to her?’

‘You mean approach her as a petitioner? Uninvited? Oh no, I could not do that. It would seem like begging and there is never any point in begging for friendship, even from a queen. If she needs me, she will call and I will come, whether the Duchess of Hainault likes it or not.’

Agnes did not stay long after that and when she left I found myself envying her return to the bustle and activity of the court. Greatly though I loved my family, I had to admit that living and working in a royal household had satisfied a craving for being at the centre of things, existing on a rather grander scale than that of bourgeois Paris.

Agnes came again to visit towards the end of July, but brought no summons to the queen’s side. She did not immediately reveal the purpose of her visit, but talked of events at court she knew I would appreciate.

The good news was that the Welsh archer Owen Tudor had arrived in the train of Sir Walter Hungerford and was appointed to play his harp whenever King Henry summoned him.

‘He comes every evening when the king retires and, let me tell you, he has caused quite a stir among the Joannas. I had forgotten how handsome he is. He draws female glances like a lodestone.’

‘Yours included?’ I enquired, tongue in cheek. I had never known pious Agnes to cast a glance at any man.

She gave me a reproachful look. ‘No, but his playing is of great comfort to King Henry. No other harpist has been able to relieve the king’s stress the way Owen’s music does,’ Agnes told me. ‘Catherine is delighted with the improvement in his grace’s health, but she is not so pleased when he talks of returning to the fray. Apparently taking advantage of King Henry’s illness, the dauphin’s forces have laid siege to the town of Cône, which is on the upper Loire, right on Burgundy’s doorstep. The garrison there is small and badly supplied and the captain sent word that it could not hold out beyond the middle of August. Catherine urged his grace to let Duke Philippe handle it, but the king told her that the duke is too far away in Flanders and that by leading a force to Cône himself he will show the Pretender that reports of his illness are exaggerated. At the same time he has ordered Catherine to accompany her parents to Senlis, where it will be cooler and better for her father’s malady. King Charles has never fared well in the heat, as you know.’

‘I do not suppose Catherine is happy about that,’ I observed dryly.

‘You are right. I accompanied her when she visited Queen Isabeau recently at the Hôtel de St Pol and her mother did not stop complaining that she was poorly attended and not afforded the respect due to the Queen of France. It is true she was rather dishevelled compared with the old days, but she wanted to talk of nothing else. Catherine wanted to visit her father, but when she made the request Queen Isabeau only said she had not seen King Charles for weeks. Catherine became very angry and was told her father was unwell and not receiving visitors and that was the end of it. Catherine has little time for her mother these days.’

‘I am surprised she has agreed to go to Senlis with her.’

Agnes shrugged. ‘She does not want to defy King Henry in his present state of health. She has begged him not to go to Cône and he has refused. There is really nothing more she can do.’

As usual Paris sizzled in the high summer and I fully understood why the royals had retreated from its heat and stench. In La Ruelle du Louvre, the narrow street of shops where Alys and Jacques lived, the air seemed barely breathable. At first we all worried about the health of baby Louise, but as long as she could lie in the shady garden in the minimum of clothes, like her older sister Catrine, she seemed unaffected by the temperature. As for myself, I sweated and fretted and tried to hide it from Alys.

Then, in late August, a courier in royal livery appeared unexpectedly at the workshop door asking for me. The letter he carried bore Catherine’s royal seal but was not addressed in her own writing. When I opened it, concealed inside the official-looking paper was a brief note scratched roughly in her hand.

‘Mette, I need you. In the name of Our Blessed Lady, come! Catherine.’

When I had absorbed the content of the note, the courier said, ‘I was ordered to bring an extra horse, Madame. I think you are expected to ride back with me.’

I stood and stared at the man for several seconds. ‘Wait here,’ I said and turned to walk back through the house without speaking to Jacques or Alys who were stitching busily inside. In the garden I scanned the brief note over and over, trying to interpret the meaning behind its terse message. In one way it read like a desperate cry for help; one that surely could not be ignored. Alternatively it could be seen as a peremptory summons from a disciple of the Duchess of Hainault; one which was expected to be obeyed without question. Anyone who had a heart would respond instantly to the first; anyone with any pride would resent the second. I had to decide whether to listen to my heart or my pride.

W
hen it came to Catherine, I had always let my heart rule my head.

We rode as fast as I could manage on a somewhat capricious mare, but it was dusk before we clattered under the portcullis of the royal castle at Senlis, an ancient and sturdy fortress with many battlemented towers and, within its curtain wall, a palace of more recent construction with elegant mullioned windows and steep slate roofs. From one of its turrets flew the French and English royal standards, and at the foot of the stair leading to the main entrance a groom took the reins of my horse and helped me to dismount. Stamping the stiffness from my legs, I asked him to have my saddlebags delivered to Queen Catherine’s apartments and wearily climbed the steps.

When she came to collect me at the guardroom, Agnes’s expression was a mixture of relief and bafflement. ‘I am delighted you are here,’ she said, ‘but what made you come?’

When I told her about Catherine’s ambiguous note, she frowned fiercely. ‘I did not know she had sent it. She is very restless at present and her mood changes every minute.’

‘Has she heard from the king since he left?’ I asked as we climbed an interior stairway.

‘Once or twice – but nothing for several days. She is obviously very anxious and hardly eats a thing. Then yesterday a letter came from Sir Walter Hungerford. It must be that which caused her to send for you. She did not show it to me, but she has been up and down from her prie dieu ever since.’

We passed down a panelled passageway unchallenged by two sets of guards, then Agnes nodded at the liveried chamberlains who opened the doors to the queen’s apartment. On entering I began to sink into a deep curtsey, but was forestalled by Catherine, who flew to embrace me.

‘Oh, Mette, I am so glad you have come!’ The small coterie of ladies-in-waiting had risen in surprise at the queen’s impulsive greeting. Glancing at them, Catherine said, ‘Please leave us, all of you. I want to talk to Madame Lanière alone.’ When Agnes showed signs of hesitation she added, ‘You too please, Agnes. I will call you in a short while.’

I was obviously expected, for she led me to a seat at a table where food and wine had been placed in readiness. ‘You must have refreshment after your ride, Mette – please eat, drink.’

She took the chair opposite, poured wine into a cup, then waited in silence for the ladies to depart, her eyes disconcertingly fixed on my face. Gratefully I drank some wine, took a small piece of pie and bit into it. She was right; having ridden all day on a bread and cheese breakfast, I was thirsty and hungry. Not until the door closed did she speak, tripping over her tongue in a rush of words, her eyes fixed on my face.

‘Oh, Mette, I have realised that I cannot trust anyone but you! I am so sorry not to have replied to your letter. I know I have ignored you shamefully and I beg you to forgive me.’

Suddenly registering her bony wrists and sharp cheekbones, I felt a jolt of alarm. I had not seen her look so haggard since the dreadful days before her marriage when Jean, Duke of Burgundy, had threatened to ruin her life.

‘Mademoiselle, there is nothing to forgive,’ I hastened to assure her, abandoning the pie. ‘I have always said I would give my life for you or live it without you if that would serve you better. What is it that troubles you so much it makes you ill? For I can see that you are.’

She shook her head. ‘No, not ill but worried sick, frightened and – pregnant. Yes, pregnant, Mette, but not like the last time. This child drains all the strength from me and makes me vomit every morsel I eat. I need your advice about that, but it is not why I called you here. It concerns my lord the king.’ She clasped her hands together as if in desperate prayer, the knuckles showing white. ‘He is ill, Mette, so ill. Oh I know he has put it out that he has recovered and is fit enough to lead his army, but in truth he is not. When I first saw him in June I thought he was likely to die; especially when I discovered that the reliquary containing the Sacred Thorn I gave him at our wedding had been lost in a skirmish at Meaux and with it his protection against disease and sorcery. I feared the worst then, but his health did improve when he rested at Vincennes for a few weeks.’ She smiled; a bleak, tired smile which seemed to pierce my heart. ‘Improved enough to get me with child at least.’

‘God be praised, Mademoiselle. That is a blessing, surely?’

The wan smile came again. ‘It should be, of course, and I pray constantly for the grace to call it that but, at present, I see it only as a blight because it prevents me from going to Henry. Look.’ She reached into her sleeve and pulled a letter from a concealed pocket. ‘I received this yesterday.’

I took the letter from her and unfolded it. It was from Sir Walter Hungerford, King Henry’s most respected captain and advisor.

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To her grace the Lady Catherine of France, Queen of England,

Honoured and gracious Lady,

It is with deep concern and a troubled mind that I write to tell you that the king has been carried grievously ill to the castle of Vincennes and has summoned all available counsellors and members of his household to his side.

After leaving you at Senlis, he rode courageously and in growing discomfort at the head of his army for three days until we reached Corbeil, when he was no longer able to remain in the saddle. Seeing his pain and prostration, I and his closest friends and companions prevailed upon him to turn back and brought him to Chateau Vincennes by barge and litter.

The king has not given instructions to summon you because I think he wishes to spare you anguish, but his physicians are extremely concerned about his condition and I consider it proper that your grace should be informed. Rest assured that priests are with the doctors at the king’s side and everything possible is being done to bring him comfort both in body and in spirit.

I am, Madame, your most true and humble servant,

Walter Hungerford (Knight of the Garter)

Written this day, Monday the 27th of August 1422 at Chateau Vincennes.

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I lowered the letter, my thoughts and emotions in turmoil. King Henry was dying. When it took hold, siege fever could be a fatal malady, purging the body constantly with a bloody flux which robbed its host of all strength and dignity. The proud and magnificent victor of Agincourt and Heir of France was on his deathbed and his suffering must be exacerbated by the knowledge that his son, the heir to all his great achievements, was not even nine months old.

Tears spilled from Catherine’s bloodshot eyes. ‘Henry knows I am pregnant, that is why he does not summon me and why he made me come here to Senlis. No one else knows and I feel so unwell that I fear I may miscarry anyway. What should I do, Mette? I yearn with all my being to go to him, but is not my first duty to the child?’