Читать книгу The Wounded Hawk - Sara Douglass - Страница 15

Vigil of the Feast of St Michael

In the first year of the reign of Richard II

(Wednesday 28th September 1379)

The Black Prince’s victory at Poitiers had crippled French pride and determination. Not only had the cursed English ground French pride into the mud, but King John had been captured, and the flower of French nobility had been lost to either the arrows of English longbowmen or the ransom demands of English nobles.

And then, out of all of this calamity, God in His boundless goodness sent hope to the virtuous French in the sweet form of the miraculous virgin, Joan, and judgement to the vile English in the simultaneous deaths of both Edward III and his warrior son, the Black Prince.

At the darkest day, when the French were stricken with defeat, God had opened the door for a Gallic triumph.

Now, Isabeau de Bavière was determined to slam it shut in His face.

“And so, my darling boy,” Isabeau said, enjoying every moment, “I did so sign away your heritage and your throne. It was but truth, and I was bound to speak it some day. Here,” and she held out the copy of the Treaty of Westminster to Charles, who stared at it pallid-faced and tormented.

Isabeau stood there with her arm extended just long enough to make the moment intensely uncomfortable, then she let the treaty flutter to the floor.

“Well,” she said, “no matter.”

She stepped past her son and smiled maliciously at the gathering standing behind Charles in the hall of la Roche-Guyon. “Why the surprise over all your faces? Have you not called me the harlot and whore behind my back for decades? Well, now I confess it.” Isabeau threw apart her arms in a dramatic gesture. “I am so the whore and harlot! ‘Twas indeed the Master of Hawks—oh, how I wish I could remember his name!—who put Charles inside me with his peasantish vigour and odious onion breath. And … see!”

Isabeau clasped her hands together before her face, and turned back to Charles as if enthralled by the very sight of him. “Has my son not inherited his father’s penchant for the stables? I swear before God he’d be far more comfortable atop a dung heap than standing in this grand hall. And … see!”

Now Isabeau whipped about and stared at the girl, Joan, standing thick and dark in men’s clothing to one side.

“Has he not also inherited his father’s taste for peasant company? His companion betrays him, for my son prefers the stench of peasants to the sweet spice of nobility.”

Charles’ face was now so white that he looked as if he might faint. In contrast to bloodless cheeks, his pale blue eyes were brilliant, brimming with tears of mortification.

His mother, his hateful mother, had never so publicly, nor so successfully, humiliated him. All those whispered rumours now being flung into his face with a devastating, ruthless candour.

He was the son of a peasant—how could anyone now gainsay it?

His eyes jerked to the treaty lying on the floor. All France—and England!—must be laughing at him. He trembled, and started to wring his hands. Every argument Joan had used to sustain his courage was lying on the floor along with that treaty … lying on the floor with his whore-dam’s laughter washing over it!

“Madam,” Joan said, glancing at Charles as she stepped forth. Her face was serene, but her demeanour was that of the stern judge. “It is you, not your noble son, who produces the stench in this hall. You lie for profit, and to further your own ambitions. Before God, you know it was Louis who fathered Charles on you. Admit it, or damn your soul.”

Isabeau’s haughty expression froze on her face. Her eyes widened, her mouth pinched, and her hands clenched at her sides.

She tried to stare Joan down, but the girl’s serene, confident gaze did not waver, and eventually it was Isabeau who looked away.

She saw that Charles was gazing at Joan with an expression almost of fear.

Useless, hopeless man, Isabeau thought. He wants nothing less than to believe me, not Joan. To believe Joan would mean he might actually have to do something about regaining his realm. No doubt he thought it would never go this far.

“Look at him,” said Isabeau softly. “How can anyone here believe he was sired by a noble father? He is the very image of wretchedness. How can you want him as your king?”

Having regained some of her courage, Isabeau looked back to Joan, who she saw was still wrapped in her damned self-righteous serenity.

“I swear to God, Joan,” Isabeau said, “that he must give you good satisfaction in your bedsport, for I cannot imagine why else you champion the cause of such a dullard.”

Joan smiled very slightly, very derisively, but it was Charles who finally found some voice.

“I have not touched her, madam!” he said, his voice horribly shrill. “Her flesh is sacred … I … I would not dare to touch her.”

“Are you telling me you haven’t slept with her?” Isabeau said, arching one of her eyebrows. “What ails you, boy?”

Charles’s hitherto wan cheeks now mottled with colour, his flush deepening as he saw every eye in the hall upon him.

His mother’s mouth curled mockingly.

“You must surely be weary after your journey,” Charles stammered, desperate to get her out of his presence. “Perhaps you should rest before our evening meal. Philip!”

Philip, King of Navarre, stepped forth from the huddle of nobles who had stood and watched open-mouthed through the entire scene. His dark, handsome face was reflective, but he smiled and bowed before Isabeau with the utmost courtesy.

“Perhaps you could provide my mother with escort to her chamber,” Charles said, and Philip smiled, and offered Isabeau his arm.

“Gladly,” he said.

As they left the hall Joan turned to Charles. “My very good lord,” she whispered urgently, “you must not believe what she says.”

“I am the get of a peasant,” he mumbled miserably, then looked around. “See? They all believe it!”

“The Lord our God says that you are the get of kings!” Joan said, exasperated with the witless man.

“I am worthless … worthless …”

Joan laid her hand on his arm—an unheard of familiarity, and not missed by some who watched—and leaned close. “You are the man who will lead France to victory against the cursed English,” she said, her tone low and compelling. “Believe it.”

Charles sniffed, staring at her, then looked about the hall.

One of the nobles stepped forth—Gilles de Noyes. “You are our very dear lord,” he said, and made a sweeping bow, “and we will follow you wherever you go. We know that your mother lies, for does not the saint by your side tell us so?”

One by one the others stepped forward and made similar assurances, and Charles finally managed to regain some little composure.

Joan smiled again at him, relaxing a little herself, and nodded her thanks to de Noyes.

De Noyes had, by now, thoroughly warmed to his theme. “My sweet prince,” he said, “you will be the one to lead us through fields of blood and pain and into victory!”

Fields of blood and pain? Charles swallowed, and then started as Joan leaned down, seized the Treaty of Westminster, and tore it to shreds.

Weary and sad at heart, Isabeau lay upon her bed and tried to dull her thoughts so that she could, indeed, sleep.

But this afternoon’s events kept sleep a long, long way distant.

Isabeau had thought that Charles would quiver and wail when presented with the treaty which formally bastardised him. Then, having seized the proffered escape, Charles would scurry away to whatever hidey-hole he found comfortable in order to avoid the laughter of his fellow Frenchmen.

True, Charles had quivered and quavered and flushed and wailed at the sight of the treaty and the sound of his mother’s derision … but he had not scurried away. And why not? Because that damned saintly whore had not allowed him to escape! He danced to her tune now … and that made Isabeau almost incandescent with rage.

How dare that peasant bitch control her son!

If it hadn’t been for Joan’s presence, Isabeau knew she could have persuaded Charles to stand aside from his pathetic fumble for the throne.

But, no, that damned saintly whore had shoved her Godly righteousness so far up his spine that Charles had actually managed to remain on his feet …

Sweet Christ Saviour. If Joan hadn’t been there, Isabeau knew Charles would have bolted for the door.

Whore! Isabeau had a great deal to lose if this treaty did not bring Richard the French throne, and she had the feeling that Richard would prove the most appalling of enemies should he be crossed.

And what of Philip? In the short while she had had to speak with him, Philip had appeared almost as seduced by the whore’s aura of saintliness as Charles was. But was that merely Philip’s wiliness, or was it true awe? Isabeau had known Philip a very long time, knew how he lusted for the throne of France as much as did the English king, and knew him for the conniving, treacherous bastard that he was.

Isabeau de Bavière had always liked Philip.

She sighed and then turned over, angry with herself that she could not sleep.

How could she convince Charles that he was, indeed, the son of a Master of Hawks? How could she undo him, and further her own cause?

Suddenly, all thoughts of Charles and Joan flew from her mind as, panicked, she lurched into a sitting position.

Someone had entered the room.

Isabeau squinted, damning the maid for closing the shutters against the afternoon light, and cursing her thudding heart for fearing the entrance of an assassin.

“Madam?”

Isabeau rocked with relief. “Catherine.”

Catherine walked into the chamber, and Isabeau slid from the bed, tying a woollen wrap about her linen shift. There was a fire burning in the hearth, and Isabeau indicated that they should sit on a chest placed to one side of its warmth.

For a minute or so she sat and studied her enigmatic daughter, knowing that Catherine was also using the time to study her.

Catherine. Isabeau had never quite known what to make of her … especially given the unusual circumstances of her conception. Catherine was not a beautiful woman in the same manner that Isabeau was, but she was striking nevertheless with her pale skin, dark hair and the blue eyes she’d inherited from her mother, and she had a form that most men would be more than happy to caress.

But, form and face aside, Catherine was an enigma, although Isabeau suspected her daughter had the same depths of ambition and strength that she had.

What was she now? Eighteen? Nineteen?

“Nineteen,” said Catherine, and Isabeau jumped slightly, and smiled slightly.

“I had forgot your disconcerting habit of reading my thoughts,” she said.

“I was not reading your thoughts at all, madam, but whenever you screw up your brows in that manner I know you are trying to recall either my name or my age and, as you have already spoken my name, then you must have been wondering about my age.”

“Ah.” Isabeau was not in the slightest bit put out at the implied criticism in Catherine’s words. Then, because Isabeau had never been one to waste time on womanly gossip, she went straight to the heart of the matter. “I am wondering what you do here at la Roche-Guyon, Catherine. There must surely be more comfortable palaces to wait out the current troubles. You are, perhaps, another of this peasant girl’s sycophants?”

Catherine gave a wry smile. “I am here, madam, because I have nowhere else to go and because for the time being my fate is linked to that of Charles—”

Isabeau made an irritable gesture. “Don’t be a fool, take charge of your own fate.”

Catherine ignored the interruption. “And as to what I think of Joan …” she gave a bitter laugh. “She shall ruin all our lives should Charles let her prattle on for much longer.”

“But surely,” Isabeau said with some care, “she should be commended for her devotion to Charles’ cause?”

Catherine looked her mother directly in the eye. “You and I both know, madam, that France will be ruined if Charles ever takes the throne. He is truly his father’s son.”

Isabeau hesitated, then nodded. “Aye, he is that. I regret the day I ever let that breathing lump of insanity get him on me.”

“Ah, the truth of the matter. Not the Master of the Hawks, then?”

Isabeau waved her hand dismissively. “A subterfuge only. Over the years I have made good use of my reputation for harlotry.”

“And so you sold Charles to Richard for … how much, madam?”

“A castle here, a castle there, a stableful of lusty lads … you know the kind of bargain I drive, Catherine.”

Isabeau stood up, pacing to and fro in front of the fire before she stopped and looked at Catherine.

“My dear,” she said, in a voice so gentle Catherine could hardly believe it was her mother speaking. “You and I have never been close and we have never talked as we do now. You were always so much the child.”

“I have grown in the year since last we spoke.” Isabeau had never taken much interest in her children, and Catherine had been raised in a succession of castles and palaces far from her mother’s side.

“Oh, aye, that you have. Catherine, I have sold Charles because I want France to live. I—as you do, I suspect—want France to have a king who can lead it to glory, not some pimple-faced toad afraid of his own shadow.”

“And so you want to hand it to Richard? I have heard but poor reports of him.”

Isabeau sank down to a pile of cushions on the floor before Catherine. The firelight flickered over her face, lighting her eyes and silvering her hair.

“I have opened the door, my dear, for the right man to fight his way through to the throne,” she said very quietly. “And I do not think that man will be Richard.”

Catherine stared at her mother for what seemed a very long time.

“You have come from the English court,” she said eventually. “What news?”

Isabeau dropped her eyes and fiddled with a tassel on her wrap. “I have a message for you from a Margaret Neville,” she said.

Catherine leaned forward. “Margaret? What message?”

Isabeau raised her head and looked her daughter directly in the eye. “She told me to make certain that I passed on to you the latest gossip.”

“Yes?”

“Hal Bolingbroke is to take Mary Bohun, the flush-faced virgin heiress to the Hereford titles and lands, as his wife on … why, on Michaelmas. Tomorrow.”

Catherine reacted as if she’d been struck. She reeled back, her face paling save for two unnaturally bright spots in her cheeks. “I cannot believe it!” she whispered.

“But you must,” Isabeau said, “for I spoke with the little Mary-child myself.” She grinned. “Poor Mary. She dreads her wedding night whereas you would have lusted for it more than Bolingbroke.”

Catherine’s eyes had filled with tears, and Isabeau regarded her with suspicion. “I did not know you had lusted for him, Catherine. Why so shocked?”

“There had been talk … some time ago … of a marriage between us.”

“There is always talk and there are always negotiations that never eventuate into actuality. You know that as much as any other noble-bred girl. And, truth to tell, Bolingbroke did not fight very hard to ensure the success of the negotiations. He was somewhat indifferent. But I can see that you managed to take a fancy to him, at the least. A shame, for you shall never have him.”

Catherine’s face tightened in anger, and Isabeau smiled, well pleased.

“You shall never have him,” she said again, “unless you fight for him, and make him want you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I know the Plantagenet princes very well.” She smiled. “Very, very well. Well, at least the older generation of them. But, come what may, all the Plantagenet princes are the same—they lust for power—and for the women they cannot have. I do not think Bolingbroke any different.”

“And …”

Isabeau shrugged elegantly. “Mary will not suit him. All can see that. She has not the fire to earn his respect. One day, Catherine, he will regret very, very much not having fought for you.

“My dear,” Isabeau leaned forward and took her daughter’s hands in hers, “make him fight for you now!”

“But he will soon have a wife!”

“Ah! You tie yourself down with such pettinesses! God above, Catherine, you can bring him France!”

“But with Mary as wife—”

“A wife? Of what matter is that? Wives come and go … and I have a feeling that Mary Bohun is so vapid she will catch a chill and die with the first touch of an autumn fog. Mary can be disposed of when the time comes, but in the meantime, she will provide a good power base so that eventually Hal’s lusts and ambitions can straddle the Narrow Seas.”

Isabeau’s teeth glinted momentarily. “And while you wait, there is no reason why you can’t make him sweat … and further our own cause to dispose of this Joan.”

Catherine, who had been fighting despair and hope in equal amounts in the last minutes, now eyed her mother warily. “Explain.”

“You said that Joan will ruin all our lives should she be allowed to prattle on for much longer. But I do not think myself wrong to say that most in this castle think her a mouthpiece of God?”

Catherine made a wry face. “I think most follow her about sweeping up the discarded skin she scratches off her neck and ears to keep as holy relics. Men flock to this castle as news of its saint spreads. And of all within this house of fools, Charles is the greatest fool of them all!”

“But what of Philip?”

“What of Philip?”

“What does he think? Does he have a collection of sacred dandruff tucked away under his pillow?”

“Who knows what he thinks?”

“I think we must learn what he thinks,” Isabeau said carefully, “for he might yet prove our greatest ally. And I think you the perfect woman to secure his secrets.”

“No,” Catherine whispered, trying to pull her hands out of her mother’s grip.

But Isabeau was surprisingly strong for her seeming fragility, and she kept tight hold of Catherine. “Don’t be such a fool! I said before that you should control your own destiny. Don’t let others do it for you! Bolingbroke uses people as he wants for his own devices, Catherine. Don’t let your womanhood stop you from doing the same.”

“Philip will think to use me to gain the throne for himself.”

“Of course! I would expect no less from him. But, Catherine, don’t you see? If Philip thinks he might have a chance at the throne through you then he will turn against Joan! One day, somehow, we can use him to destroy her, and once she is gone …”

“Then Charles fails.”

“Aye. He will never have the strength to fight for his inheritance on his own.”

Catherine took a deep breath. “I would have liked to have saved myself for—”

“Oh, stop prattling on about saving yourself!” Isabeau laughed in genuine amusement. “You’ve been listening to those pious priests and dimwitted nursery maids again. Enjoy Philip, for he will be good for you and to you.”

“Are you sure this is not a task you want to take on yourself, mother?”

“I think it is time for you to take wing and fly, child. Besides, yours is the body and womb that will gift a strong man the throne of France, not mine. Not any more. I have bequeathed you that power, Catherine. Use it.”

When Catherine had gone, Isabeau sat back and let her thoughts drift.

In many ways Catherine disconcerted her, but most of all Catherine disconcerted Isabeau because she should not exist.

Catherine was conceived one winter when Isabeau was being held captive in a stronghold of the Duke of Burgundy’s—the duke had thought to ransom her back to King John until he’d realised after four months that John would not pay a single gold piece to have his daughter-in-law returned. Finally, the duke had been forced to release Isabeau with much grumbling and cursing.

Catherine was not Louis’ daughter. Indeed, everyone assumed that Isabeau had consoled herself during her capture with a guard, or perhaps a cook.

But only Isabeau knew the truth. During those four months she had bedded no man. When, some two weeks before the Duke had finally released her, Isabeau had realised she was pregnant she was beside herself with fear.

What sprite had fathered this child on her? What imp would she give birth to?

Not wanting to know the answer to either question, Isabeau had taken every potion and herb she knew of to try and rid herself of the child in her womb. But it would not be shifted. Isabeau had gone into her birthing chamber terrified, thinking the child would kill her in its release from the womb.

But the birth had been easy, surprisingly painless, and Isabeau had recovered quickly. The child, Catherine, had been as any human child, and gradually Isabeau had convinced herself that perchance she had imbibed too much wine one night and had consoled herself with a foul-smelling guard after all.

And yet sometimes, as she did this day, Isabeau felt strong enough to admit to herself the truth.

Catherine was not the child of any mortal man, and she had not been put in her womb through any mortal means.