Root of the Tudor Rose (3 page)

‘Isn't this sinful, Maman?'

‘Sinful? Why should it be sinful?'

‘Well, the mirror. We had no mirrors at Poissy …'

The Queen snorted her derision. ‘God's knees, child! Mirrors are not sinful, though nuns will have you believe that if you look into one you'll see the devil's backside. No, it is not sinful to make the most of every advantage you have in this life. Surely those old hens taught you the Gospel according to St Matthew?'

‘Yes, yes, of course.' Catherine was shocked at her mother's blasphemy.

‘Then remember the parable of the talents, Catherine. “To him that hath shall be given
.
” So let's see what talents you have. Well, your hair is pretty enough but it will certainly benefit from a good wash. Did you ever comb it in that convent? It doesn't look like it. And this dress! Dear God! It's no wonder that women who wear clothes like this end up as virgins.'

‘They're nuns, Maman.'

Queen Isabeau grimaced. ‘Exactly,' she said. ‘And to think that your sister Marie has chosen to become one. Poor misguided child! Thank God I still have you.'

The tuneful little musical phrase went round and round in Catherine's head. She'd first heard the rebec player practising it to perfection in the great hall during the afternoon and, joined now by the shawm and the rhythm of the tambour, it had proved the most popular dance of the evening. Catherine watched from the royal dais as some thirty men and women wove colourful patterns around the big room to the rhythms of popular dance tunes which she was hearing for the first time. She was enchanted by the music and elated at the changes which the expert ministrations of her mother and the maid, Guillemote, had wrought in her own appearance. Her gleaming hair tumbled to her shoulders under a delicate veil held in place by a circlet of gold. She had been laced into her mother's gown of green watered silk and loved the way it shimmered in the candlelight when she moved. Fifteen years of convent-bred inhibitions were beginning to drop away from Catherine like a discarded cloak.

Of course, she had not danced at all; that was certainly not something she had been taught by the nuns and her mother's restraining hand on her left arm ensured that she was not tempted to exhibit her lack of dancing skills in front of the English King's envoy. Sitting to her right on the royal dais, Sir Robert Waterton, too, seemed keen to touch Catherine's arm at any excuse. A square-jawed man with a slight cast in his eye, he leaned towards her conspiratorially, his foetid breath hot in her ear.

‘You are even more beautiful than the miniature portrait which my sovereign lord, King Henry, has of you,' he whispered. ‘He gazes upon it often and says he thinks you must be very lovely.'

‘King Henry has a portrait of me?' Catherine's eyes opened wide in disbelief.

‘Yes, of course he has,' said Queen Isabeau. ‘I sent him that miniature I commissioned last year. The artist came to the convent. Surely you remember?'

Catherine did remember but had assumed that the portrait was for her parents. Apparently not. And now that she thought about it, no portrait had been painted of her sister Marie, though that hadn't struck her as particularly odd at the time. She began listening to the conversation on either side of her in mounting concern.

‘Of course, Catherine's beauty is the envy of every maiden in France,' Queen Isabeau was pointing out. ‘She takes after me.' That was certainly true. Catherine had, indeed, inherited her mother's high forehead and fine cheekbones. Thankfully, she had not inherited her mother's imperious attitude and fiery temper. ‘In fact,' the Queen went on, ‘it is generally accepted that she is the most comely princess in the whole of Europe. Her hand in marriage would be a great prize for any man.'

‘Indeed, my Lady,' Sir Robert replied. ‘There can be few men on God's earth who could resist your daughter's charms. Of course, I am not acquainted with
all
the princesses in Europe but I have met several of them. The Princess Catherine is certainly a great deal lovelier than the Princess Marie of Anjou, whom I met some time ago.'

‘And what was so displeasing about her? You must admit that her bloodline is impeccable.'

‘Indeed, yes. But there was nothing much to be gained from it. Besides, she was too dark, too swarthy-looking.'

Queen Isabeau nodded. ‘And have you met the Countess Jacqueline of Holland, my Lord?'

‘Oh, indeed. She is one of the more attractive ones. There was once some suggestion that she might make a suitable wife for the King's younger brother, the Duke of Bedford.'

‘Ah, but she was already betrothed to my son, John. They would still be married if he had lived. God rest his soul,' Isabeau said, crossing herself briefly. ‘But yes, you're right, she is quite attractive. Of course, she is our kinswoman,' she said, to prove her point.

Sir Robert Waterton leered again at Catherine. ‘Sadly, the beauty of the bride is not the only thing to be taken into consideration in negotiating a royal marriage. There is the matter of the marriage settlement. His Highness King Henry would not agree to any dowry which does not include Normandy and Aquitaine. And eight hundred thousand crowns,' he added, as an afterthought.

Catherine's cheeks blazed. She was being bartered. Her mother and this deeply unpleasant man were haggling over her bride price like farmers at market, both hoping to turn a profit on the mating of a highly prized animal. And the chosen stud was to be the Beast of Agincourt.

Sister Supplice had been right after all.

That first night at Meulan, Catherine's bedchamber seemed awash with weeping. Hot tears of betrayal and bewilderment coursed down her cheeks and shuddering sobs shook her whole body. Queen Isabeau, turning with an impatient swish of her skirts before sweeping out of the room, had told her to pull herself together and be grateful that she had the prospect of a glittering future as Queen of England.

Full of compassion, Guillemote made her mistress a posset of hot milk laced with wine and spices and sat beside her while she drank it, holding a cloth under her trembling chin, stroking her shoulder and making little crooning, soothing sounds to comfort her in her obvious distress.

To her new maid Catherine seemed very young, yet they were probably around the same age. But surely, Guillemote thought, a princess must know how things are done: for all her convent upbringing, the concept of an advantageous marriage arranged by her parents can't have been anything new to her. Still, being forced to marry the Beast of Agincourt was asking a great deal of her, the poor thing.

Guillemote, born and brought up in the service of the Valois family, was well aware of the Queen's dynastic scheming for all her children. But now, still with her arm around the sobbing Catherine, she saw the pain and confusion these tactical transactions could cause; she also knew that they did not always work out for the best. Many years ago, Catherine's oldest sister, the Princess Isabelle, had returned home to France, a widow at the age of eleven after an unconsummated marriage to the English King Richard II. Then, nine years ago, the Princess Michelle had been married to her cousin Philip of Burgundy but these days, having failed to produce an heir to the Burgundian title, she wore a face that could curdle milk.

The Valois sons were two sickly boys and both dead before the age of twenty. This meant that the next in line to the throne of France was now Catherine's younger brother Charles, a sly fifteen-year-old with a bulbous nose and pustular skin, the Queen's last child and the runt of her litter. Guillemote had loathed the Dauphin Charles ever since the day, six months ago, when he pushed her roughly against a wall outside the palace kitchens, fastened his slobbering mouth over hers, pulled up her skirts, and tried to shove his hand between her legs. After a desperate struggle, she had managed to fight him off but the sound of his crowing, high-pitched laughter still rang in her ears.

One day, Charles would become king of France. Recalling her revulsion at the sensation of his tongue probing her mouth, Guillemote thought him entirely unsuited for the highest office in the land – but she was only a servant so how could she possibly judge? That sort of thing was for others to decide. All she could do was try to bring some comfort to her poor young mistress.

Chapter Two

France, May 1419

It felt chilly on the river despite the spring sunshine and Catherine pulled her woollen cloak closer about her shoulders. The sumptuous barge which her mother had insisted upon hiring for this important occasion was making slow, stately progress north-west from Paris along the River Oise. Queen Isabeau was determined to create an impression at the meeting which had finally been arranged between the French and English kings with their advisers. They were to meet at Pontoise at three o'clock, to discuss the terms of a possible treaty which, if agreed upon, would include a marriage between the French Princess Catherine de Valois and the English King Henry V. Over the last few months, the reluctant prospective bride had finally been persuaded of the desirability of the union and had been made very aware that she represented the last hope of a royal marriage as the foundation of a strong alliance between the two countries. It had been drummed into her that the alliance would be of great benefit to France: but she was still filled with trepidation at the thought of what was to come.

On the river bank, an unnecessarily large contingent of men-at-arms rode alongside the barge as it continued majestically on its way. On board, His Royal Highness King Charles VI of France, his crown slightly askew, lay slumped against opulent cushions of crimson velvet. He was snoring open-mouthed after two glasses of the excellent red wine which had been a gift from his cousin, John the Fearless, the Duke of Burgundy, who accompanied them. Sitting between her parents, Catherine watched as the barge rounded a bend in the River Oise and the landing stage came into view. She felt a twinge of nervousness and wondered yet again what the afternoon held in store for her. Her mother had spoken highly of King Henry and described him in glowing terms; but she found it difficult to imagine him.

‘What does King Henry look like, my Lady? Did you think him handsome when you met him?'

‘I have told you, Catherine, more than once. He is a fine-looking man, a man's man, a warrior king. I'll wager he can make a woman feel like a woman in every sense of the word …' She threw a scornful look at her husband and added, ‘which is more than can be said for some.'

Queen Isabeau was clearly nervous about the meeting. Now and then she would get up from her seat to pace up and down the deck, from prow to stern and then back again. She was at her most elegant today, her forehead smooth and high with finely plucked eyebrows emphasising the shape of her large, blue-grey eyes. A delicate veil in the palest shade of lilac drifted down from the tip of her pointed headdress and heavily jewelled sleeves protruded from slits in the seams of her purple, ermine-lined cloak. A small lap dog with ridiculously short legs and a sharp, shrill bark did its best to keep up with her pacing but succeeded only in waking the King.

‘Dear God!' he squealed, ‘keep that animal away from me!'

Catherine put an arm around his shoulders, soothing him. ‘Hush, Papa. It is only Maman's little dog, Cherie. She won't harm you.'

‘Where are we? Where are we going? What are we doing in the middle of this river? We'll drown! We'll surely drown! Who will save us?' The King of France was rocking to and fro like a child.

‘We are going, my Lord,' Queen Isabeau silenced him, ‘to meet King Henry of England with a view to negotiating a marriage contract between him and our daughter Catherine. She will become Queen of England as soon as a reasonable dowry can be arranged.'

‘Two hundred thousand crowns!' quavered the King, jabbing the air with his forefinger. ‘That's what I said last time and I'm not going to offer any more than that. Two hundred thousand crowns. He's very lucky to have her! Two hundred thousand. That's my last offer …'

‘Oh, do be quiet, Charles,' said Queen Isabeau irritably as she sat down next to him, ‘you're not at a cattle market. Besides, he is demanding eight hundred thousand. God only knows where we will find such a sum of money.'

‘It is unreasonably high,' agreed the Duke of Burgundy, ‘but it will be interesting to see whether, having met the Princess Catherine, King Henry will lower his price.'

The Queen stood up again, suddenly tense, her fists clenched at her sides. ‘I can't go on with this. Not under these circumstances.'

‘What, Maman? What do you mean?'

‘I really don't think that your father can contribute anything at all to this dialogue. He'll loll around in a chair, babbling and farting like a big baby. His behaviour is hardly likely to impress the King of England!'

She clapped her hands loudly. ‘Take him away,' she said through clenched teeth as two of the King's body servants moved swiftly into position on either side of him. They took most of his weight between them and manoeuvred him towards the rear of the barge. Docile as a lamb, he smiled affably at them both. ‘And make damned sure,' added the Queen, ‘that nobody sees him!'

Catherine watched as her father was taken away. She had spent a great deal of time with him in the eight months since they had both returned to court, she from the convent at Poissy and he from his enforced confinement in St Pol. His behaviour often swung between elation and depression but, on the days when he was at his best, she took great delight in his company; she fretted about him on the days when he was locked in his room.

On his good days, they would walk in the palace garden together, talking at length. The King would confide in her his hopes for the future and for the marriage which would unite France and England, bringing an end to decades of battle and bloodshed between the two countries. Partly out of affection for her father, Catherine had slowly begun to accept the idea of marriage to the King of England.