Catherine gave a snort of disbelief. ‘He has been allowed to cross the Somme? This is supposed to be war not a tournament! Surely if we had the advantage we should have attacked them as they crossed.’
‘Oh we have the advantage all right,’ chuckled Jean-Michel, all deference banished in a haze of wine. ‘King Henry has only five hundred knights. Most of his men are common archers. They do not even have boots. That is why we call them apes, because they fight barefoot and their only armour is a leather jacket. They will be dog meat after our first cavalry charge. A massacre; that is what it will be. The plains of Picardy will be soaked in English blood.’
This was all getting a bit gory in my opinion, so at this point I thought it politic to remind Jean Michel of his early start the next day. After only a short battle of wills, he reluctantly bowed himself out and let me push him up the stair to bed.
I returned to find a buzz of excited chatter in the salon and stole a quick glance at the wine flagon, for Catherine’s cheeks were quite pink but it was as I had left it. However, Jean-Michel’s blood-thirsty predictions had obviously stirred a warlike streak in the princess.
‘I
wish
we could
see
the battle!’ she exclaimed. ‘It will be such a spectacle! Imagine – our French chivalry lined up row on row with their armour glinting and horses prancing and the heralds galloping to and fro between the captains and above it all the Oriflamme streaming in the wind.’
She was a girl, with all a girl’s romantic fantasies and no concept of the realities of war. In truth, I knew little of it either, aside from the effect it had on prices. However, I had no faith in Catherine’s bloodless vision of prancing steeds and streaming banners, so after my husband left my side at cock’s crow next morning, I went to light a candle to St Christopher, to reinforce the power of Jean-Michel’s medal and pray for his safe return. Travelling on the king’s business, he constantly risked ambush and accident but never before had he driven off to a battle.
F
or many years, the last days of October had hung heavy with me. Inevitably, on the anniversary of my first son’s birth and death, I would find myself mourning him, and Catherine’s absence on each birthday while she was at Poissy with the nuns would plunge me further into dejection. On the day she turned fourteen, I cherished the joy of being able to celebrate with her.
Looking back on the events of that memorable day, it seems extraordinary that she was only fourteen. I recalled myself at the same age, when I had thought I was so grown up and ready for all the thrill and romance my racing blood demanded. Now, of course, I realised that I had been almost a child when I satisfied the call of my youthful lust by returning Jean-Michel’s burning kisses and urgent embraces. By contrast, Catherine had until recently lived under the scrutiny of virgin nuns, and now she suffered all the restrictions and expectations of the life of a princess, with the entire royal court watching her every action. Ever since returning to St Pol, she had been so much at the centre of state schemes and crises that she had not really had much chance to be either the child she still was or the blossoming nymph she promised to be. At this time there were no young lords or squires for her to flirt with because they had all answered the
arrière-ban
, but nevertheless I hoped that this birthday would be an opportunity for Catherine to enjoy some light-hearted fun.
A feast was held in the great hall of the Queen’s House, decorated for the occasion with coloured ribbons and garlands of autumn leaves. Of course Queen Isabeau had been invited, but Catherine was neither surprised nor disappointed when she sent word to say that she could not make the journey. And word was all she sent. No gift to mark her daughter’s birthday.
‘She is displeased with me,’ Catherine shrugged. ‘I have not rushed to be with her at Melun so she believes I have sided with Louis. I doubt if he has told her that he will not allow me to leave Paris.’ She did not admit relief at avoiding the queen, but I sensed this to be the case and that she believed Louis’ tales that linked their mother to Burgundy’s cause.
Most of the palace cooks and supplies had been commandeered to feed the army so the menu for the feast had to be relatively simple. However, nobody noticed that there was one less strutting peacock in the queen’s pleasure garden and, roasted and re-feathered, it made a magnificent centre-piece for Catherine’s birthday banquet. Since no feast could be considered complete without it, I had prevailed upon one of my father’s old guild-fellows to create a marchpane subtlety especially for her, while a minstrel had been commissioned to compose and perform a lay in her honour. It told of a young princess whose beauty and purity were renowned and who rejected a dozen noble suitors for love of a humble squire, who naturally turned out to be a prince in disguise. Catherine was thrilled with the story and the song and rewarded the handsome young singer with a well-filled purse, exchanging sidelong glances with her ladies and hiding girlish giggles behind her hand as he bowed low and flashed his brilliant white teeth in gratitude.
The lack of noble guests meant there was room at the feast for Catherine’s servants, albeit well down the board. But I was perfectly content to sit with my own children and study from afar the child of my breast, caught in beguiling transience like a dewdrop in a cobweb, not yet quite a woman but luminous with promise. Troubadours still sang of how at the same age her mother, then an obscure German princess, had so enraptured the seventeen-year-old King of France that he had insisted on marrying her within a week of their meeting. Looking at Catherine, it was easy to imagine history repeating itself.
For her celebration she wore a gown of pale azure and silver and on her head one of the frivolous gauzy cones that had become so fashionable among the court damsels. Sewn with tiny crystal stars, its veil sparkled like sea-spray in sunlight and I proudly nursed the secret that only the day before I had plucked her hairline back to emphasise the smooth expanse of her brow and accentuate the high planes of her cheeks. As applause died for the minstrel’s lay, a team of liveried pages too young to be at war began to parade the marvellously crafted subtlety which depicted a Catherine wheel – what else? – standing proud in a sea of marchpane ‘flames’.
However, before this masterpiece could complete its circuit of the hall, there was a disturbance at the main entrance and the buzz of conversation died as a royal herald stumbled through the great carved arch, his embroidered tabard hanging tattered over a mud-stained hauberk. With the rolling gait of the saddle-weary, he approached the high table, sank to his knees and waited for the company to fall completely silent. When he spoke, the high-flown language of heraldry sounded at odds with the hoarseness of exhaustion in his voice.
‘His Grace the Prince Louis, Dauphin of Viennois and Duke of Guienne sends greetings to his beloved sister Catherine, Princess Royal of France. He commands me to inform you that two days ago, on the feast of St Crispin and St Crispianin, the lieges of France engaged in battle with the English at a place called Agincourt.’
I saw the colour leave Catherine’s face and her clasped hands sprang to her breast but she did not speak as the herald waited for the inevitable hubbub to subside before continuing. ‘I regret to report that France has suffered a calamitous defeat. Many noble lords are dead and injured. You must prepare for great mourning and tribulation.’ The herald’s voice quavered with emotion and he fell silent, shaking his bowed head.
Catherine rose slowly to her feet, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the board for support. She gazed down at the messenger. ‘You are Montjoy Herald, are you not, sir? Your tunic is so dreadfully torn I was not certain. Thank you for performing your terrible duty. Can you give us any more details? We must give thanks to God that the dauphin’s life has been spared, but who is numbered among the dead?’
The herald shook his head. ‘Regrettably I do not know, Madame. The list is being prepared but it will take many days. There has been much carnage …’ His voice broke on these words and he hung his head, physically and emotionally drained.
‘You are exhausted, sir, I can see.’ Catherine beckoned stewards to his side. ‘Help him to refreshment and rest. When you are recovered, sir, I would hear more of these terrible events.’
She watched as he nodded wordlessly and was helped to his feet. All around the hall there were murmurs of distress and dis-belief, but silence quickly fell as Catherine cleared her throat to address the assembly, all joy and merriment wiped from her face.
‘There can be no more celebration. This feast is over. We must pray for France and for the fallen. God have mercy on us all.’
I found myself clutching Alys and Luc tightly to me as we watched her disappear through the privy door, her birthday gown with its silver bells and baubles suddenly appearing tragically frivolous. ‘What about Pa?’ Luc asked, his dark eyes wide. ‘Do you think he was involved in the battle?’
His question echoed what had been my own instant dread. ‘How can we know?’ I responded faintly, unable to offer reassurance. ‘As the princess said, we can only pray.’
Exchanging muttered comments, the diners abandoned their meal and began pushing towards the great door. Wedged among this morose crowd, I was taken by surprise when a liveried page suddenly appeared at my elbow.
‘The princess is asking for you,’ he said, edging close to make himself heard. ‘I am to take you to her.’
I hesitated, loyalties painfully divided. My overwhelming desire was to pray with my stricken children for the safety of their father, but as ever in my life Catherine’s call took precedence. I nodded reluctantly. ‘One minute,’ I said and pulling Alys and Luc away from the tide of moving bodies, I took their hands and pressed them together. ‘Look after each other. Go to the church and pray for your father, then wait for me in our chamber. I will come as soon as I can.’
Against the flow of the crowd the page struggled to clear a path to the dais, behind which imposing double doors led to the queen’s private apartments. As we approached, two liveried guards threw them open but, before entering, the page paused, a perplexed frown creasing his brow. ‘The princess said you would advise me what to fetch,’ he murmured. ‘She said the dauphin needed comfort and you would know what that meant.’
I did not hesitate. The message could only mean that Prince Louis was in the palace, unable or unwilling to appear in public but, as at all times of stress, thirsty and hungry. ‘Fetch pastries and any meats from the feast. And some Rennish wine from the queen’s cellar. And do not stint. Where is he?’
‘With the princess. Come.’
We passed down a short passage to reach a carved door and faintly through its timbers came the dauphin’s voice, keening what sounded like some ritual chant, over and over again in a high, wailing monotone, ‘I should have been there. Dear God, I should have been there!’
‘Fetch the refreshments immediately,’ I urged the page. ‘Go – quickly! And make sure the wine is from Anjou – he will not drink anything from the Duke of Burgundy’s estates. Go!’
A huddle of Catherine’s ladies was gathered nearby, wringing their hands and whispering together. ‘The dauphin made us leave,’ Agnes de Blagny told me anxiously. ‘Princess Catherine is alone with him and he is very troubled. What shall we do?’
‘Nothing,’ I said flatly. ‘If the dauphin has dismissed you, there is nothing you can do. When the food and wine come, I will take them in.’
There was a pause in Louis’ chant long enough for Catherine to interject, but I had to strain to hear her soft voice through the thick planking of the door. ‘Why were you not there, Louis? You are the Captain-General of France. Who was leading the army?’
‘The constable!’ responded her brother vehemently. ‘He said it would be a rout. There were only a few thousand English in the field – too insignificant a skirmish to honour with my presence. Hah!’
‘And what does the constable say now? How does he explain the defeat of so many by so few?’ Even muffled, I could hear the scorn in Catherine’s voice.
‘He says nothing for he is dead!’ cried the dauphin in an anguished screech. ‘Dead in the first charge – smothered in a sea of mud along with thousands more of our greatest nobles and knights. I galloped to the field as soon as the news came. It was a sight to make the angels weep!’ I could feel the floor shake as Louis stamped out the level of his distress.
Catherine tried to calm him. ‘Will you not sit, Louis? You must be exhausted. You should rest.’
‘How can I rest when the flower of France lies rotting in a ploughed field?’ The dauphin’s pacing grew more frenetic. ‘The whole dynasty of Bar is wiped out – the duke and both his sons – Alençon is dead and Brabant and Nevers …’
‘Burgundy’s brothers!’ Catherine interjected. ‘My God, so they were there. And what of Burgundy himself?’
‘Burgundy never came,’ replied Louis dully. ‘He was only a few miles away and he kept saying he would but he never did.’
‘What a surprise! So much for Jean the
Fearless
!’ exclaimed his sister with biting sarcasm. ‘Charles of Orleans – what of him?’
‘Taken prisoner, along with Bourbon and many others, but at least they are alive to be ransomed, unlike half the French prisoners who were put to the sword on the order of English Henry, against the laws of chivalry! Why did he do that when we had let him cross the Somme? He is a monster! Jesu – so many are dead. I wish I was one of them!’ I heard in this cry the voice of the cowed and terrified little boy who had emerged from the nursery punishment chest in the despot days of Madame la Bonne. Life had treated Louis harshly. The frightened child was never far from the surface.
‘Thank God you are not!’ I heard Catherine exclaim. ‘France needs you now more than ever.’
I missed the dauphin’s response to this, for the page arrived with the wine and a dish of remnants from the abandoned banquet. He looked grateful when I relieved him of them. ‘I will go in,’ I said, determined to do my best to protect Catherine against her unpredictable brother if it should prove necessary. ‘Open the door.’