After one particularly lively afternoon gathering, the princess sprang a surprise when Agnes and I were preparing her for bed. She opened a small silver-bound trinket box which lay on the toilet table before her and took out a folded paper.
‘I have been presented with an ode to my swan-like throat,’ she said coyly. ‘It is not exactly the
Roman de la Rose
but then the author is more a man of the sword than the word. He must be quite in thrall though, do you not think, to have chewed his quill for me?’
I exchanged glances with Agnes, who took the paper from Catherine and unfolded it to reveal a page of beautifully presented script.
‘He must have had a clerk copy it,’ Agnes remarked, smirking as she perused the lines of verse. ‘Where are all the blotches and scratches of the truly lovelorn?’
‘Yes, perhaps it smacks more of strategy than impulse,’ agreed Catherine reluctantly. ‘But then he is a military man, given to precise planning. Does that make his feelings less genuine?’
I completed unlacing her gown and stood back. A glimpse of the verse over Agnes’ shoulder had showed me a series of flowery phrases in high-flown language, linked by a few clever rhymes.
‘I would want more than a few lines of doggerel before I trusted such a man,’ I said briskly, ‘especially a Burgundian. You should be careful how much you confide in him, Mademoiselle.’
Catherine took offence at what she obviously considered my over-protective attitude. ‘Oh, Mette! Credit me with a little intelligence. I would not trust him with a tinker’s sou. Nor do I think he believes I am a naïve schoolgirl. Yet it is the dream of every ambitious young squire, is it not – to win the love of a princess?’
‘That might be every young squire’s castles-in-the-air dream, Mademoiselle,’ I said. ‘But I doubt if they ever expect to live it.’
‘Hah!’ Catherine scoffed. ‘That is all you know! I can tell you there are several young men about the court who think they have the looks and wit to do just that. Guy de Mussy at least has the grace to realise that our dallying is for the moment only for amusement.’
‘Or for the Duke of Burgundy,’ I muttered darkly but not loud enough for her to hear as I gathered up the voluminous gown and took it to hang in the garderobe.
Catherine took back the poem from Agnes and refolded it, changing the subject and speaking loudly over her shoulder at me. ‘Guy tells me that when supplies run out here, the duke intends to move the court to Beauvais, but first the king will hunt in the forest of the Vexin, so his hounds will be coming to Pontoise shortly. I imagine that means your son Luc will come with them, Mette.’
‘That is welcome news, Mademoiselle, and Alys will be very happy to see her brother,’ I beamed, returning to her side.
Catherine sighed. ‘As I would be to see mine,’ she observed, her brow knitting in a frown. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I will ever see him again.’
At least Catherine’s confidences about her relationship with Guy de Mussy had lessened my worries; it was an amusement; a romance of the mind but not of the heart. However, it turned out that my insouciance was not shared by everyone.
There had been a distinct shift in the relationship between Catherine and her mother. In all the years that the princess had inhabited the tower behind the Queen’s House at the Hôtel de St Pol, her mother had never once set foot there, for it was her entrenched belief that, as Queen of France, people came to her and not the other way around. But Queen Isabeau’s life was very different now that Burgundy was in charge. No longer did she have a dozen or so personally chosen ladies constantly around her, ready to indulge her every whim and fancy, for the duke abhorred such large groups of women, declaring them to be spendthrift and licentious. Instead, with the exception of one faithful German companion who had been with her for years, the queen had to make do with a small group of rather straight-laced and sober Flemish and Burgundian noblewomen selected from among the wives of the duke’s retainers. I imagine it must have irked her to hear sounds of mirth and music coming from Catherine’s apartment, so the day came when she simply turned up there without warning, causing me to duck off into a doorway at the bottom of the stair as I returned from fetching wine and sweetmeats for the afternoon salon.
I had not seen the queen at close quarters for some time, and I was surprised at the change in her. It was not that she was grossly fat like her son Louis had been, but her body had become padded in a soft, bolstered way. As she ascended the stair, dressed in a full-skirted cream silk houppelande gown, she resembled a ship in full sail; or perhaps a treasure-laden pirate galleon would be more accurate, for her head, hands and breast were laden with gold and gems. When her page threw the door open and she found Catherine with only a small group of ladies gathered about her, she looked disappointed.
‘Ah, I had thought to find you entertaining, daughter,’ Queen Isabeau said, puffing heavily from her climb.
The little company rose hurriedly and dropped to their knees, flustered by this unheralded visit. Catherine instantly offered her canopied chair to her mother. ‘You are very welcome, your grace. I thought you were deeply involved in affairs of state.’ She watched the queen lower herself gratefully onto the cushions adding, ‘I understood you would not hold court today.’
Queen Isabeau fanned herself energetically. ‘I let it be known that I was busy on purpose,’ she announced, a smug smile hovering around her painted lips. ‘I was told of the merriment to be heard coming from your chamber on council afternoons and I thought I would discover its cause. Am I to be disappointed?’
I had followed the royal personage unobtrusively into the salon and placed the wine and wafers quietly down on a table before slipping away to the garderobe to fetch the gold hanaps from Catherine’s strongbox. The queen could not be expected to drink out of cups made from base metal!
‘We do occasionally enjoy the company of some of the duke’s retainers, Madame,’ Catherine agreed hesitantly. ‘We discuss literature of mutual interest and we read poetry and sing a little. I have been told that you and the king used to enjoy such entertainment in the early years of your marriage. A Court of Love, I believe it was called.’
‘You foolish girl!’ I heard the queen exclaim. ‘You have made your point without understanding it. The difference is that we were
married
, Catherine. You are not – nor ever will be if you insist on ruining your reputation by flirting in an unseemly fashion with a
squire
!’ She made the word sound like a blasphemy, enunciating it as if it left a nasty taste in her mouth. ‘Such a lowborn creature is clearly unaware that the Court of Love was an entirely innocent pastime,’ she added vehemently. ‘Courtly love is platonic love. It does not involve furtive fumbles on staircases and grubby verses laced with innuendo.’
Catherine gasped and swayed, as if she might topple in shock, and I understood why. How on earth did the queen know of the snatched kisses with Guy de Mussy or the flowery poem to Catherine’s snow-white throat? I glanced at Agnes, whom I had thought was the only other person privy to these details, and saw that she looked as astounded as I felt. Had someone else seen the kiss or read the poem? It did not seem possible. And then I remembered that one person in particular was party to both – Guy de Mussy himself! Did he report even such intimate details to the Duke of Burgundy? And did the duke whisper them in moments of equal intimacy to the queen? If thoughts of this nature were rushing through Catherine’s mind, as they were through mine, it was no wonder she had gasped with shock.
‘I think you had better sit, Catherine,’ observed the queen, indicating the nearest stool. ‘You look as if you might fall down otherwise.’
As her daughter found her way to a seat, I hastily poured wine into the two jewelled cups I had fetched and edged my way towards the queen’s chair. Queen Isabeau lifted one from the proffered tray. Her previously sour expression had altered to one of pleasant anticipation. ‘I hope this is some of that pale-green wine my lord of Burgundy has delivered from his vineyards in the high Loire,’ she remarked conversationally. ‘It is so light and delicious.’
Catherine rallied her forces, took the second cup and said faintly, ‘We drink whatever the cellarer has to offer, Madame. Mette has some spring water to add if you prefer that. I know I do.’
‘Well, I would not dream of watering his grace’s wine, but yes, on this occasion perhaps I will,’ Queen Isabeau conceded, correctly concluding that the wine was not from a Burgundian vineyard.
I caught myself staring at her in disbelief, astonished that she could be so malevolent one minute and so benign the next. Then I hastily dropped my gaze to the water-jug on the tray, pouring some of its contents into her cup. At the same time I offered honeyed wafers and she took one. In the tense silence I saw Catherine roll her eyes briefly at Agnes, sitting close at hand in silent support.
‘I hear you go out riding, Catherine,’ her mother remarked. ‘Is the countryside well-tended here?’
As I distributed refreshments among the other ladies, Catherine obliged her with a description of the woods and pastures along the banks of the Oise.
‘You might take an excursion in your barge, Madame,’ she suggested, ‘and see for yourself.’
The queen shrugged. ‘Perhaps I will, as long as there are no ugly sights. I cannot bear to see deserted villages and untilled fields. The duke tells me that this desolation is due to outlaws and bandits and that in his territories all is neat and well-ordered. I have told him that if we must travel outside Paris, I long to go east into Champagne and he has promised that we will do so, as soon as we have welcomed Charles back into the family circle.’
This lightning bolt struck as I offered the wafers to Catherine. ‘And w-when does he expect that to happen?’ she stuttered with surprise, and at the queen’s next words the wafer she had taken snapped in her tense fingers.
‘In a week or so,’ her mother said casually. ‘Negotiations are at an advanced stage. Will it not be wonderful, Catherine, to see Charles and the duke working together to rid France of the pernicious English?’
‘Have the two of them met?’ asked Catherine, unable to conceal her incredulity. ‘I did not think the duke had left Pontoise.’
‘Oh no, he has not been conducting negotiations himself. That is not how these things are done, my dear,’ explained the queen condescendingly. ‘Envoys and lawyers from both sides have been closeted for days somewhere and they have drawn up an agreement, which has only to be signed and then Charles will come back to us.’ Queen Isabeau smiled thinly at her daughter. ‘I am sure you will be delighted to hear that this document does not make any reference to a marriage between you and that libertine Henry of Monmouth. So now we will have to start looking elsewhere for a husband for you.’
Catherine lowered her eyes, noticed the crumbs of wafer in her lap and brushed them off distractedly. ‘Do I understand, Madame, that there is no longer any question of a marriage between me and King Henry?’ she asked breathlessly.
Her mother pursed her lips. ‘Let me put it this way; the chances of you marrying Monmouth are about as high as the chances of you marrying that young squire you seem so enamoured with.’
Catherine was unable to stop the blood rushing to her cheeks but at least her chin was up. ‘I would like to point out that my being so much in the company of Guy de Mussy is entirely down to the Duke of Burgundy, Madame. It was he who appointed the squire my personal protector. If you have any objection to it I suggest you broach the subject with him.’
‘There is no need to ride a high horse, Catherine,’ the queen retorted swiftly, although her tone was amused rather than angry. ‘Personally I think there is little harm in a mild flirtation at your age, without the kisses of course, but I think I should warn you that his grace is not so lenient about such matters.’
Catherine drew in her breath and paused before responding. ‘I would have thought the Duke of Burgundy had more important things to worry about than my leisure activities, especially if, as would seem to be the case, I am no longer a useful pawn in his great plan to rule France.’ She said the last few words with special emphasis.
The queen frowned. ‘You mistake the duke’s intentions,’ she said sternly. ‘Burgundy’s chief aim is to bring peace to France by reconciling your brother with the king. He has said so a dozen times in council and written personally to Charles to assure him of the fact. Of course Charles is very young and does not know who to trust. So far he has put his faith in the ragged remnants of the faction which supported Armagnac but, thanks be to God, that devil now rots in hell and his grace of Burgundy will soon be in a position to advise and guide Charles how to go about ruling France, expelling the English and bringing us back to peace and prosperity.’ After this neat summing-up the queen refreshed herself by draining her cup and then closed her fan in a gesture of quiet satisfaction, while she gazed around the awed young ladies, absorbing their eager murmurs of appreciation.
‘Well, Madame,’ Catherine said with icy politeness, ‘if I am mistaken in my interpretation of his grace’s intentions, I will have to make reparation, but I must tell you that I am not willing do so until I see my brother kneel before the king and embrace both you and the Duke of Burgundy.’
The queen smiled and nodded indulgently. ‘You will not wait long, Catherine, I assure you,’ she cooed. ‘That happy day is very close.’
That night I woke with a start, convinced that someone had entered Catherine’s chamber. The room was inky black.
‘Who is there?’ I whispered, my heart racing. I sat up, reaching for my shawl and felt Alys stir on the mattress beside me. I could see nothing but I distinctly heard the sound of careful, muffled footsteps, followed by the clunk of the chamber door closing. Whoever had been in the room had left as stealthily as they had come.
‘What is wrong, Mette?’
Catherine was out of bed, standing over me, tying the girdle of her robe. I scrambled up, pulling the shawl around my shoulders.