Disconcertingly, she fixed them on my face and studied me in silence. ‘You are younger than I expected,’ she observed at length. ‘You can have been little more than a child yourself when you entered the royal nursery.’
I licked my lips. Under her Medusa-like gaze my mouth had gone so dry that I found myself unable to form words but Catherine spoke for me. ‘She was fifteen, Madame, and had just buried her stillborn son. Her sad loss was my undoubted gain.’
‘And her own, I would say,’ remarked the queen dryly. ‘However, I remember hearing good reports of you from the Duchess of Bourbon, after Catherine left for the convent.’ She leaned forward in her throne, signalling me to rise and move nearer and when she next spoke her voice had dropped to a level not intended for other ears. ‘She said you had shown skill and devotion beyond your station in bringing Catherine through her early years. At the time I paid little heed to her opinion, but perhaps that was unwise . . .’ She paused, her guttural tone curiously unsuited to muttered confidences. Then, her voice rising again, she made another of her disconcerting subject swerves. ‘I gather that you went with my daughter to see the dauphin recently, Madame Lanière. Pray tell us – tell the dauphiness, who is very concerned about her husband’s health – what is your opinion of his condition?’
I gulped and flashed a look at Marguerite of Burgundy sitting prim and silent, her expression void of any evidence of her feelings. What should I say to the abandoned dauphiness about her husband? What could I tell the Queen of France about her son? That he was either being poisoned or was a fat glutton who was eating and drinking himself to death at not quite nineteen years of age? And how did Queen Isabeau know that Catherine and I had visited Louis? Surely Tanneguy du Chastel would not have told her? Her spies must be everywhere. My mind raced, searching for a reply that would not see me leaving the hall under arrest.
I opted for the way I had answered Tanneguy. ‘I was a children’s nurse, your grace. I have little experience of treating adult ailments, but the dauphin does seem extremely distressed by the events of recent weeks.’
Obviously this did not impress the queen, who frowned deeply, but her dissatisfaction turned out to be with Louis rather than with me. She spread her heavily ringed hands and almost trumpeted with indignation, ‘Well! We are
all
distressed, but we must think of France at this time. We should not allow our personal feelings to rule us.’
I bowed my head, unable to suppress memories of the queen’s lavish Christmas celebrations with Louis of Orleans, while her children went hungry and the king languished in his ‘oubliette’. Whose ‘personal feelings’ ruled then? I wondered, hiding such treacherous thoughts behind lowered lids.
‘You cared for Prince Charles too, when you were in the nursery, did you not?’ enquired the queen. ‘So you may be interested to know that we have persuaded the Duke of Anjou to lend us his wise counsel. He is bringing his household to Paris, which of course includes our son Charles.’
I was filled with such profound relief that I had not so far been accused of gross insolence or even treason that this announcement scarcely seemed to register, but there was no mistaking the thrill in Catherine’s voice as she greeted the news. Until now, her persistent loyalty to the dauphin had somewhat eclipsed the deep affection she clearly still felt for their younger brother, the lisping companion of her infancy.
‘Charles is coming to Paris?’ she echoed excitedly. ‘That is marvellous, is it not, your grace?’
Plainly the queen did not share Catherine’s elation. ‘I am surprised that you remember him, Catherine. You were both so young when you parted,’ was all she said before turning to me with pursed lips. ‘I understand that he did not speak very clearly as an infant. Was that so, Madame Lanière?’
This jerked me into thinking that I may have felt relief too soon. Was I now to be blamed for Prince Charles’ lisp? ‘Er – yes, Madame, he did have a slight speech impediment, but I am sure it was a childish thing, which he will have grown out of long ago.’ Out of sight up my sleeve, I crossed my fingers.
‘Well, let us hope so.’ The queen made it abruptly clear with a shooing movement of her hand, that I was dismissed. As I backed gratefully away, I noted that she was calling for a stool for Catherine. Perhaps my princess was back in favour.
I never really understood why Catherine loved her younger brother. I suppose she felt protective of him; certainly in the nursery she had always taken his part against the merciless teasing of his older brothers. Prince Charles had been a timid, tetchy infant and although at the time I had felt sorry for him, as I had for all the neglected royal children, now that he was almost twelve, I discovered that he’d developed into a tricky youth, irritable and suspicious, hard to please and quick to take offence, yet Catherine hardly seemed to notice this.
He had been betrothed to nine-year-old Marie of Anjou, two years before, a match arranged by the dauphin to counteract the marriage ties which the Duke of Burgundy had forced on himself, his sister Michele and his brother Jean. I knew that Louis saw his own union with Marguerite of Burgundy as the blight of his life. He had once confessed to Catherine that he would never father an heir because he could not bear to lie with Burgundy’s daughter or stomach the notion of his arch-enemy’s descendents on the throne of France.
‘There is such animosity between Louis and the Duke that I suspect there is more to it than an unhappy marriage,’ Catherine had observed at the time. ‘He has never spoken of the two years he was confined in the Louvre under Burgundy’s governorship. I often wonder what forms of discipline Louis’ tutors were instructed to use.’
Certainly fate had dealt Charles a better hand than Louis in the marriage stakes. It had been a stipulation of his betrothal that he should leave the stifling care of his elderly godfather the Duke of Berry and travel to Angers, there to share his life and education with his future wife and her brothers, a lively and intelligent family, well nurtured by their powerful mother, Yolande of Aragon
The day after he arrived back in Paris, Prince Charles attended Mass in the king’s chapel. The December weather was cold and blustery, but to his credit he had felt an immediate duty to bend the knee to his sick father, even though he was treated to a frightened whimper and instant recoil for his pains. Afterwards, having reassured Charles that this was the king’s usual reaction to strangers and that things would improve in time, Catherine invited her brother back to her apartment to share her breakfast.
‘Mette will serve us, Charles,’ she told him as I took their fur-lined mantles, ‘just as she did when this room was our nursery, do you remember?’
‘No I do not,’ he said brusquely, ignoring me entirely as he took his seat at the place I had hurriedly prepared for him. ‘Nor do I care to. My only recollection of those years is bare walls and constant hunger.’
At least they had not turned Charles into a glutton like his brother. The first thing that struck me was that he bore very little resemblance to either Catherine or Louis. He was puny and diffident and had neither Catherine’s grace nor Louis’ swagger, but being only twelve I suppose he had time to grow in stature and bearing. Fortunately his baby lisp had disappeared, but he still pronounced his Rs like Ws and doubtless always would. He was a wary individual who seemed to trust animals more than humans and had insisted on bringing with him into Catherine’s salon, his two huge white deer-hounds, Clovis and Cloud. They were well-trained dogs, which was fortunate considering they stood shoulder high to their master, but the fact that they gathered mud freely on their shaggy coats and shed white hairs all over the black hangings did not endear them to me.
Conversation at the meal began somewhat stiffly, which was hardly surprising between siblings separated since infancy.
‘How was your journey from Angers?’ Catherine asked as I held a bowl of warm water for Charles to wash his hands. ‘I hear that bands of outlaws lurk in every wood.’
‘If they do we saw nothing of them,’ he replied. ‘But they would steer well clear of a procession like ours, with an escort of a hundred men-at-arms. All I can tell you is that we were on the road for over a week and it grew quite tedious.’ He wiped his hands on the napkin I offered. ‘I am much more interested in what has been happening here in Paris. Have you seen Louis? I hear he is ill.’
I moved around Catherine’s chair with the bowl and napkin and she nodded as she dipped her fingers. ‘Yes he is. I saw him a few days ago. He says he is cursed because of Agincourt and that demons are gnawing his stomach, but I think it is too much strong drink.’
I placed cold meats on the table before them and began to offer wine.
‘Or else it is poison,’ said Charles matter-of-factly.
‘Oh no, I do not think it can be,’ his sister retorted and turned to me. ‘Tell Charles what Maître Tanneguy said when we went to see the dauphin, Mette,’ she urged. ‘That all his food and drink was being tasted. He did say that, did he not?’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle,’ I agreed, ‘and because of that he did not see how poison could be administered without detection.’
‘There you are, Charles!’ exclaimed Catherine. ‘It cannot be poison.’
‘Poison does not have to be contained in food or drink,’ insisted her brother. ‘It could be put on his clothes or his bed-sheets or even burned on the fire to produce poisonous smoke.’
‘Have you been reading too much Pliny, Charles?’ Catherine asked teasingly, causing an indignant flush to spread over her brother’s face. ‘Louis drinks vast amounts of
eau de vie
, which is a horrible fiery spirit from Normandy. His guts cannot take it. That is all.’
Charles obviously thought little of this argument. ‘Men
do
drink a lot, Catherine,’ he said witheringly, taking a large gulp from his own cup as if to illustrate his point. As he put it down he cast me a sharp glance, which told me he knew immediately that the wine had been watered. Then he went on, ‘I have seen my uncle of Berry sink three flagons of strong wine at a sitting and he has survived to a ripe old age. No, I do not believe it is drink that is making Louis ill.’
‘All right, so who is poisoning him and why, in Heaven’s name?’ demanded Catherine.
Charles answered her with a question. ‘Did I hear you mention a Maître Tanneguy?’
‘Yes. He is Louis’ new secretary who came back from Picardy with him after Agincourt. His proper name is Tanneguy du Chastel.’
Charles’ face assumed an irritatingly smug expression. ‘No, I think you will find his proper name is Tanneguy, the
Seigneur
du Chastel – a man of some nobility, however humble a secretary you might think him. And he is a sworn vassal of Orleans. My uncle of Anjou held a big council last spring and I saw your Maître Tanneguy there in the retinue of the Duke of Orleans. He was constantly at the duke’s side. I remember him particularly because he looks like a crow – always in black and with that big beak!’
Catherine’s brow furrowed. ‘Noble or not, are you saying that Tanneguy is the one who is poisoning the dauphin?’
‘No, but I am saying that he reports everything Louis does to the Hôtel de St Antoine. And if a spy for Orleans can be so intimate with the dauphin, then a Burgundian agent might be just as close. One of his chamber squires for instance, or even his mistress. I hear he has one.’
Catherine leaned back in her chair and gazed at her brother curiously. ‘I must say, you seem to know an awful lot about what goes on in Paris, Charles, considering you have only just arrived!’
Charles shrugged. ‘I learn from the Duchess of Anjou. She is the cleverest person I know. She understands about spies because she has armies of them herself. If the Count of Armagnac was sensible, he would take counsel from her rather than from her husband. You should meet her, Catherine, then you would see what I mean.’
‘I would like to. I learn only from dull priests and greasy dance masters. Oh, and the queen of course. You wait till you see
her
!’
Charles made a face. ‘We are commanded to honour our mother
and
father, but Duchess Yolande has no such qualms. I know
exactly
what she thinks of the queen and I share her opinion.’
Catherine was not immediately to learn what that was however, because a page suddenly burst through the door looking flustered. Clovis and Cloud instantly woke from their slumbers and crouched growling, ready to spring, but a word from Charles stayed them.
‘The Seigneur du Chastel is here, Madame,’ the page said and had hardly got the name out when the man himself shouldered him out of the way, entered and made a sketchy bow. Bundling the page outside, he firmly closed the door before speaking in a hushed and urgent tone. ‘Highnesses, I fear I bring bad news – his grace the dauphin is dead.’
‘Dear God!’ Catherine’s hand flew into the sign of the cross and I saw the blood drain from her face. Hastily I picked up her wine cup and placed it in her hand. She sipped from it, trembling.
Charles seemed comparatively unmoved. ‘Dead of what, Monseigneur?’ he asked steadily.
Du Chastel shook his head. ‘Who knows, Highness. He has been ailing for weeks.’
‘So I heard. But you would know if it was poison, would you not?’
Maître Tanneguy shook his head. ‘No, not without the word of a physician.’
‘Has no physician been called?’ demanded Catherine, her voice shrill with distress. ‘Why not?’
‘Because as soon as I found him dead I sealed the room and came straight here, Madame,’ explained the secretary. ‘I was told by the captain of the palace guard that his highness Prince Charles had been to Mass and was visiting the princess royal. I particularly wanted to inform you both of your brother’s death before it became official knowledge. It will give you time to prepare.’
‘Prepare?’ echoed Catherine, puzzled. ‘Prepare what?’
‘Yourselves, Madame.’ Tanneguy approached the table. ‘Have I your permission to sit down?’ At Catherine’s perplexed nod, I pulled a stool to the table and poured him a cup of wine from which he sipped neatly. ‘Whatever the cause, the death of your brother has profoundly changed the balance of power. Young though you are, you must realise this and make the necessary adjustments. You must know who to trust, for people will try to use you for their own ends.’