Root of the Tudor Rose (2 page)

Within the hour the captain of the guard, a sullen-looking man dressed in the livery of King Charles VI of France, had his men assembled in the quadrangle, adjusting their saddles and making ready for the journey. Horses tossed their heads and snorted, harnesses jingling, clouds of their warm breath white on the cold air of early morning. In the north cloister, Catherine was taking her leave of the nuns who had been her family for so long when Mother Superior came to a sudden decision. Striding out into the quadrangle, she began to berate the captain. Why had a chaperone not been sent to accompany the Princess Catherine? Surely she was not expected to travel with an entirely male escort party!

Catherine held her breath in a moment of pure panic. What if Mother Superior refused to let her go? She would be as trapped as a hen in a coop. She watched as the captain produced the royal warrant yet again, waving it imperiously under Mother Superior's nose, jabbing his finger at it to make his point. Illiterate, he could not read Queen Isabeau's signature, though he swaggered with the authority vested in him by the royal seal.

Mother Superior knew when she was beaten. Her shoulders slumped, she walked back to the cloister and made Catherine give her solemn word that, during the course of the journey, she would remember everything she had been taught about seemly behaviour. On tenterhooks to get away, Catherine would have promised anything.

Then she caught a glimpse of Marie in her postulant's robe, standing next to Sister Supplice, her fist bunched up hard against her mouth in an effort to control her feelings. Her sister's anxious face made Catherine suddenly aware that this parting could be for a very long time.

‘God go with you,' Marie whispered, embracing her, ‘and kiss dear
Papa
for me. Oh, and kiss
Maman
, too, of course.' Catherine bit her lip to control its trembling while Sister Supplice wept like a mother bereaved.

As the journey began, mounted on a sturdy, docile little palfrey and with her heart very full, Catherine turned and looked back over her shoulder. A lone, bent figure stood at the convent gate, leaning on a stick and waving farewell.

Their route to Meulan took them north-west along the banks of the Seine and the pleasure of riding beside the sparkling waters of the river did much to lift Catherine's spirits. Freed from the constraints of convent behaviour, she occasionally leaned over in the saddle and stretched out her hand to pick some late berries from the hedgerows, savouring their sweetness as they burst in her mouth, relishing the liberty of being able to do so without fear of being chastised or corrected. The captain of the guard addressed her deferentially as ‘Your Highness' and she straightened up and held her head erect as she remembered that, of course, he was a servant. He was riding alongside to defend her, not to tell her how to behave.

At mid-morning, the captain chose a sunny spot on the river bank where they could stop and rest. Slaking their thirst with small beer, they made a modest meal of the bread and cheese which the nuns had packed into their saddle bags. The horses, tethered in the shade of the willow trees at the water's edge, cropped the sweet, damp grass and swished their tails at the flies. After finishing her meal, Catherine made a decorous excuse and retreated behind a thicket of young hawthorn to relieve herself. Mother Superior would have approved of her seemly behaviour, she thought wryly, smoothing down her skirt before rejoining her protective entourage.

There was no one to meet the travellers or bid them welcome to Meulan at journey's end in the afternoon. The captain of the guard escorted Catherine into the great hall of the castle, its high stone walls hung with dusty tapestries. Smoke drifted up from a great pile of apple wood logs in the hearth where a young boy was trying to get a fire going with a pair of leather bellows nearly as big as himself. From the minstrels' gallery came the sound of a rebec as a musician repeated a rhythmic phrase over and over again in an effort to master it. Since there appeared to be nowhere to sit, Catherine hung back and stood near the door as servants scurried in and out, carrying benches and setting up trestle tables. The captain stopped a passing footman, commandeered a bench for Catherine, and had it placed against the wall. Then he sent the man off to inform the Queen that her daughter had arrived. Catherine eased herself gingerly down onto the seat, the muscles in her buttocks and her back stiff and painful after the long, unaccustomed ride from Poissy. Fascinated, she watched the controlled activity going on around her.

‘What do you know of this, Captain?' she asked.

He shrugged. ‘It seems that a banquet is being prepared, Your Highness, and my guess is that it will have something to do with the English King.'

‘King Henry?'

‘Aye, he spends much of his time in France these days. No doubt he's come to pick over our bones.'

‘He's not expected to come here tonight, is he?'

‘No, my Lady, probably not, or we'd have heard about it in the guard room. But he does spend a deal too much time hereabouts. Him or his damned lackeys.'

He spat out the words and Catherine, taken slightly aback, felt a worm of apprehension begin to gnaw at her stomach. Why
had
she been brought here? The Queen would hardly have summoned her to court for the pleasure of her company. After all, she had done without that pleasure for fifteen years, apart from a few fleeting visits to the convent. Catherine remembered the upheaval those rare royal visits would cause, with Mother Superior seeming to relinquish all her authority as she fawned over the Queen. The nuns would be tripping over each other in their excitement, even Sister Supplice, who was usually so calm except when anyone mentioned the English invaders. And now the captain, too, was clearly agitated by the mention of the enemy.

‘Did you fight at Agincourt, Captain?'

‘I did, Your Highness, and lost three good fingers to an English hatchet on the battlefield.' He pulled the leather mitten off his mutilated left hand and Catherine recoiled at the sight of it. ‘Still, I got out alive which is more than most men did. Six thousand French dead and many more maimed, nobles and commoners alike.'

‘Was it really as bad as everyone says?'

‘Oh, yes, and a good deal worse. It was as if the gates of Hell itself had opened, men and animals drowning in pools of blood and filth, screaming in pain.' He warmed to his subject. ‘And King Henry takes no prisoners: the poor bastards were herded up in the mud and killed where they stood. He is a brute, a beast, the very spawn of the Devil. Begging your pardon, Your Highness,' he added. He had gone too far but, by God's bones, he'd been honest.

Catherine's eyes were wide with dismay at the captain's account of the battle and she felt real revulsion at the sight of his hand.

‘Excuse me, Your Highness.'

She turned at the sound of a voice, glad of an interruption. A dark-haired young woman of about her own age was curtseying deeply to her.

‘Yes, what is it?'

The young woman straightened up. ‘The Queen wishes to see you immediately, my Lady. I am to take you to her.'

Catherine had been summoned to her mother's presence. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

‘Very well, er … what is your name?'

‘Guillemote, my Lady. I am to be your personal maid.'

A personal maid! How different her life was about to become. She rose from the bench and inclined her head in dignified dismissal of the captain. Then she followed the girl called Guillemote towards a heavy oak door behind the dais at the far end of the great hall. A liveried footman held open the door and a small brown dog scampered around them, yapping noisily as they crossed the threshold.

‘Catherine! There you are, child! Why are you so late arriving? Did that nincompoop of a captain lose his way?'

Catherine was caught up in the whirlwind which was her mother, Her Highness Queen Isabeau of France. She had forgotten how things happened around the Queen, how servants rushed hither and thither to do her bidding, how she barked commands and demanded immediate obedience. She was wearing a tall, conical headdress of intricate design which made her appear to tower above everyone around her, and her high forehead and plucked eyebrows gave her a look of haughty superiority.

‘Come,' the Queen fussed, slapping at the dust on Catherine's cloak, ‘we must clean you up before our visitor arrives.' She seized Catherine's arm and began propelling her towards the stone staircase which led to the upper floor.

‘Visitor?' Alarmed, Catherine tried to pull back. ‘Is King Henry coming here tonight?'

‘King Henry? Good heavens, child, no. What on earth made you think that?'

‘But the captain of the guard said …'

The Queen tightened her grip on Catherine's arm. ‘Don't listen to servants' idle tittle-tattle, Catherine, they never get anything right. No, the King is not expected but his special envoy is. Sir Robert Waterton. Come along. We need to impress him.'

Still Catherine hung back. ‘But why? Why, my Lady?'

‘Because it is our business to make the English realise that France and the French are not just here for the taking. We must put a price on ourselves.'

Catherine felt a sense of relief. What her mother had said made perfect sense. ‘Oh, I see. Yes, of course, I understand. The King of England is a monster, isn't he? Everyone says so. The captain said he killed all his prisoners at Agincourt in cold blood. And … and … Sister Supplice says he probably has a tail!'

‘Oh, for pity's sake! Don't be so naïve, Catherine. And take no notice of the insane prattling of nuns. A tail? What nonsense! As it happens, I have met King Henry and he is very charming.' Queen Isabeau, who had been carrying another small, yapping dog under her arm, threw the poor creature to the floor and turned to look critically at her daughter.

‘Look at you!' she said, ‘covered in dust and smelling like a horse. Come, we have work to do.'

Queen Isabeau was as imperious as ever. It would have been pleasant, Catherine reflected as she climbed the spiral staircase behind her mother, to have been greeted with affection, perhaps even kissed. She was sure her father would have kissed her.

‘How is my dear Papa?' she asked. ‘Will I see him tonight?'

‘No,' the Queen paused on the stair for a moment and turned to look down at her daughter, her forehead creased in a frown. ‘Your father will not be joining us. He is not well. And for his own safety, I have ordered that he be kept at St Pol until this latest bout of illness passes. He has servants there to look after him.'

‘So his old malady still troubles him?'

‘Grievously,' said the Queen. ‘When I saw him last month, he kept saying he was made of glass.'

‘Glass?'

‘Yes, glass. He insisted on having iron rods sewn into his clothes to protect him and he wouldn't let anyone near him, for fear they'd break him.'

‘Not even you, Maman?'

‘Least of all me,' said the Queen, tightening her grip on the handrail before turning to climb the last few stairs to the upper solar.

Catherine had few clear memories of her early childhood before she and Marie were sent to the convent at Poissy but she retained a strong impression of her father as a big, affectionate bear of a man. She remembered laughter, warmth, and security within the safe circle of his arms while she sat on his knee and he told her stories, taught her nursery rhymes, and played little games which involved much counting of her fingers and toes. But other memories always intruded: memories of being awakened at night and clinging in terror to her sister, their hearts hammering with fear, pulling the bedclothes up over their ears to muffle the sounds of wailing and shouting from the King's room and the running footsteps of servants in the corridor outside. In her later years in the convent, her sleep sometimes disturbed by a hooting owl or a snoring nun, she had thought about those far-off, frightening nights in the nursery at St Pol and realised that her dear father lived more and more in his own dark world of madness. It saddened her to think of him so sorely troubled.

There was a discreet knock at the door.

‘Ah, Guillemote, there you are,' said the Queen, as it opened. ‘Now, go and heat up some water to wash the Princess Catherine's hair. And make sure you use good soap of Marseilles. Then rinse it in a solution of lemon juice to lighten it, braid it when it's dry, then dress her in one of my gowns. The new red one, I think, with that lovely fair hair. No, wait! Not the red, it will make her look too brazen. The green is more subtle. Yes, the green might well complement the colour of those eyes. And no, on second thoughts, don't braid her hair. There's no need to, she is not married: not yet. Besides, it has an attractive wave to it. We can take advantage of that. Get on with it, girl! We haven't got all night.'

Bobbing a hasty curtsey, Guillemote hurried away to do her bidding while the Queen pushed her daughter down on to a chair in front of a small dressing table and turned her towards a looking-glass, propped up by its handle in a holder. Meeting Catherine's startled gaze was the oval face of a fair-haired young woman with large, blue-grey eyes, fringed with dark lashes. High cheekbones counterbalanced a slightly elongated nose and the pale, translucent skin was flushed with embarrassment. For the first time in her life, she was seeing the reflection of herself as an adult. Bending forward, she examined the mirror image more closely and heartily disliked what she saw.

‘My nose is very big,' she said, pushing the mirror away.

The Queen turned her daughter's head from side to side, studying her from every angle. ‘Hmmm. Yes, you are inclined to have the Valois nose, I'm afraid, and there's not much we can do about that. But it's a long nose, not a big one. Elegant. Aristocratic. And at least there's no mistaking your blood line; the whole royal family on your father's side has the Valois nose.' Isabeau continued her minute inspection of her daughter's face. ‘Your skin is good, quite flawless, and you're lucky you have my eyes. Let me see your teeth.' Catherine winced as the Queen prised open her mouth; she might have been assessing the age of a sheep. ‘Ah, good! You still have all your teeth so your breath will be sweet and a little tincture of myrrh will sweeten it even further. That's excellent.'