Читать книгу Blood Royal - Vanora Bennett - Страница 12

Christine knew what Owain was going to say as soon as he walked into the scriptorium the next morning.

Anastaise grinned cheerfully at him, about to make one of her jokes about students. Then she stopped. He had his own travelling clothes on, not Jean’s cast-offs. He had his pack on his arm.

Christine stepped forward. She walked Owain to the window, away from Anastaise. She stared down at the burned-out house opposite. So many things had gone wrong here; it seemed the right place to hear this.

‘Thank you for all your kindness,’ Owain said, very formally. ‘But I think after all I shouldn’t take up that place you found me at the University.’

She nodded. She’d known he would go.

She’d sensed his anger all through the silent ride back from Poissy. Never more than when, as she’d determinedly trotted her horse between his and Catherine’s to make sure there were no more possibilities for contact, she’d heard him mutter, ‘… building walls around the Rose’.

She’d thought: He’s quoting. She’d known: he was quoting from the Romance of the Rose. He’d read it, despite her hatred of it. He wanted her to know he’d defied her. He was making her out to be Jealousy, building a tower to keep him from his love – blaming her for the cruelty of life, which was none of her doing.

The look that had passed between them then – quiet, intense anger – had meant farewell. The rest had been only a question of time.

She could see why he would go. Owain must have believed, for a while, that if he came to live in Paris he could escape the burden of his own reduced status altogether. She, Christine, had perhaps been too quick to encourage him in that belief. She’d been so taken with his spirited refusal to be cast down by bad luck; by the optimism that warmed everyone around him. Now he’d suddenly seen that he could never get away altogether from what the lost Welsh war had made him. The solace he thought he’d find in Paris had vanished once he’d realised that, even here, he still wasn’t good enough for what he wanted most. Which, after all, wasn’t learning, or friends, but just the usual goal of young men at the start of their lives: a girl, a love, and the one he wanted was right out of his reach. It was natural for him to be confused and angry. He was doing the right thing. He had to go; had to grapple with his own problems, alone. She just wished her heart didn’t feel as empty as the charred shell of a home out there, over the street.

‘Where will you go?’ she asked.

‘Back to my master,’ he replied, equally shortly.

She was so sorry for him; and so sad for herself. She’d miss him. But there was no more to say.

She followed him out into the courtyard. ‘Wait,’ she said.

He stopped, warily.

She ran back to the scriptorium, took up a book from the shelf, and, trying to ignore Anastaise’s astonished eyes, ran back to give it to the tall Welshman.

She said, in a shy rush: ‘You’re an intelligent man. Make yourself a learned one too, one day.’

And the ghost of a smile came to her face.

Owain softened. ‘I will,’ he said quietly; ‘I promise.’ Then he added, in a mutter: ‘And I’m sorry. About. I didn’t mean … to abuse your trust …’

No more words would come. But she was grateful for the few she’d heard.

Her eyes were stinging as she shut the courtyard door behind him. He was a good man; a noble man.

Owain still had the book in his hand when he came to mount his horse.

He looked at it through a blinding fog.

It was one of Christine’s odd, personal love poems.

He opened it, right there in the stable, ignoring the restless pawing of the animal’s hoofs in the straw, and began to read.

… the young lover had no name; Christine called him only the Duke of True Lovers. He was still only a child when he suddenly fell deeply in love with a married lady of royal blood, whom he had seen a hundred times without feeling anything. It was love at its purest, he believed, since he was still too young to feel desire. He persuaded his parents to invite the lady to stay, which she did for a whole summer. Blonde as amber, the lady sat beside him and his mother at a tournament in a meadow beside a lake, and on the first day the company was dressed all in green, and on the next day all in white and gold. The lover was too timid to tell of his love, so he suffered in silence, relieving his feelings only by writing love poems he was too shy to deliver. At last, the lady’s husband sent for her to go home, and the boy fell into despair. It was only when his cousin took pity on him and told the lady of his love that she understood why. She was flattered and touched, and hesitantly wrote to him to tell him she loved him too.

… The pair began, secretly and blissfully, to meet and talk…. but finally, feeling her honour compromised, the lady told the lover to leave her. The lover fainted on getting her letter and was as distraught as she. He was ready to go and die overseas if she wished; but stop loving her he never could. He set off abroad … but their love would never change …

There was a great tenderness in Owain’s heart as he closed the little book. He wound a cloth carefully round it and slipped it into the saddlebag. Perhaps, after all, Christine hadn’t condemned him utterly for falling victim to an impossible love. Perhaps she’d understood him better, all along, than he’d realised.

He’d never know. He wouldn’t see her again, or know the illusory happiness of these past weeks. The answers he thought he’d found here were too easy.

There was only sorrow ahead. He couldn’t bear to think of Catherine. Not yet. Not till he’d got away.

But at least he wanted to believe this gift was a gesture of forgiveness.

The Queen looked at Catherine, standing in the church, trying not to cry as her red-eyed brother was betrothed to Marie of Anjou. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you stopped seeing so much of that disagreeable Madame de Pizan,’ Isabeau whispered, too loudly. It wasn’t really a question. When the litters reached the Hotel Saint-Paul, Catherine saw her possessions were being moved into her mother’s house. The days of picnics with Christine were over. She’d stopped being a child.

Catherine knew that moving in with her mother meant there’d be less escape than ever before from the Queen’s simmering hostilities with Louis (though, since Isabeau had forced Louis to retract his written request for the Duke of Burgundy to bring an army to liberate Paris from his mother, and in return had let him cut off his allowance to his wife Marguerite, whom he’d sent to live in poverty at Saint-Germain, the heat had gone out of that hatred – at least for now). Still, Catherine wasn’t altogether sorry for the change.

She’d been mortified by her last conversation with Christine. She knew Christine had meant to be as subtle and sensitive as one of the clever attendants in her love poems when she’d sidled up to Catherine just before the betrothal ceremony and begun, in roundabout fashion, to give her a little talk about blood and what it meant to be royal. Charles’ marriage was good, because a royal union, in spite of all his fears and tears. Catherine, one day soon, could also look forward to a royal union, a marriage of equals. Royal blood was a compact with God. Princes were the finest of the fine. Their blood was not to be diluted; tainted; made impure by contact with lesser mortals, or God would be angered. Catherine had heard it before. She didn’t want to hear it now.

So she could think of nothing to say back. She just shook her head and nodded, over and over, until the nods and shakes got muddled and her eyes screwed up with the effort of politeness. When Christine didn’t stop, Catherine had eventually just walked away. ‘I have to go to Charles,’ she’d muttered.

Whatever had possessed her, to think that any wilful action on her part could change her fate? Dashing off into the forest; discussing the possibility of the English marriage with her sister; talking so much with Owain; letting Owain … letting herself … the heat of that embrace …

It was too painful to dwell on. She knew better now; knowledge was branded humiliatingly on her. There was nothing she would ever be able to do to change her circumstances. She wasn’t a Christine, or an Owain, whose lives could be altered by determined acts of will or thought. She shouldn’t try. She was nothing but a receptacle for her royal blood. Her duty as a princess was decorously to do nothing. It was a bitter lesson. Now she needed time to make her peace with herself. And time on her own was the only thing that being a nearly forgotten part of her mother’s eccentric household would guarantee her.

Christine’s Jean, who (God willing) had found a permanent professional home with Chancellor Henri de Marle, was put to work on negotiating the English marriage. The stories he came home with, as the summer of 1414 curdled into a miserable winter, horrified his family, especially Christine.

The new King of England’s negotiating style was a ruthless mixture of threat and promise. As Christine had feared, he was turning the negotiations into the pretext for full-scale war on France.

Henry of England was claiming as rightfully his all the French lands that last century’s English kings had fought for, and which, after capturing old King Jean the Good, had been granted on paper – a third of France. But this Henry wanted even more than the rightful kings of England had: he was also demanding the duchy of Normandy, which once, centuries ago, had belonged to the ancestors of the English kings, and all the lands in the south and west that had ever been controlled from England – he wanted even the lands that English kings had explicitly given up claims to a hundred years ago.

Jean de Castel wrinkled his forehead as he told his mother the list of demands. Henry of England wanted the lordships of Normandy, Anjou, Touraine, Maine. He wanted the homage of Brittany and Flanders. He wanted full sovereignty over the duchy of Aquitaine, not just the little strip of Gascony that the English still actually held, along with Poitou, Quercy, the Limousin and the Agenais. In the north, he wanted to add to the English territory of Calais and its march the counties of Ponthieu, Guisnes and Montreuil. He also wanted northern lands between the Somme river and Gravelines; half the county of Provence in the south; and the castles and lordships of Beaufort and Nogent.

On top of that, he wanted eight million crowns in cash – a fantasy figure.

Once he was satisfied on all these counts, he would marry Princess Catherine and make peace.

‘Impossible,’ Christine said flatly.

‘Of course it’s impossible,’ Jean agreed. ‘He must know that. How can he expect anyone to think he’s negotiating in good faith? If we said yes, there’d be nothing left of France.’ He rested weary head in hands. ‘Still,’ he added bitterly, ‘we are supposed to say yes, somehow. The Queen’s in charge. And this is what she says she wants.’

During the winter, the King of France recovered from his illness enough to take negotiations with the English into his own hands. The eventual French counter-offer, made the next spring, was more lands in the south, bordering English holdings in Aquitaine, and 800,000 crowns, with dresses, jewels and furniture for Catherine.

‘It’s more than he deserves,’ Christine said, as ambassadors set off in both directions.

‘It still won’t work,’ Jean replied.

It didn’t. The French ambassadors were sent back from London. The English ambassadors returned from Paris without agreeing to anything.

On 7 April 1415, Henry of England wrote to the King of France to say again that he was so determined to have peace with France, and to marry Princess Catherine, that he was willing to settle for less than what justice demanded. But why, he added, all injured innocence, had the King of France sent ambassadors to London who had told him that they didn’t have full powers to agree to all England’s demands? Could the French King kindly hurry and send some proper ambassadors?

On 12 April 1415, Henry of England called a council meeting that placed England on a war footing. He set the rates of pay for soldiers in an expedition to an unnamed location in France.

On 15 April 1415, before King Charles of France could have had time to reply to his letter, Henry of England wrote again. He said he was sending a safe conduct for a new French embassy of 360 people. He demanded they come quickly, so that the peace he so desired could swiftly take shape.

Jean de Castel tried to avoid being part of the French delegation. ‘I don’t want to be humiliated,’ he said. But Christine reasoned with him. She told him he must do all he could to avoid a war. She used the word ‘hope’. She ignored the set look on her son’s face. He left with the ambassadors on 4 June.

Jean de Castel was bone tired at the back of the horse train, jiggling along from one inn to the next, through dreary English villages, over potholed roads. The French visitors had gone from Dover to London, where they’d been told the King of England had left for Winchester. The Archbishop of Bourges’ pink-and-white face had gone red at the news, but he knew his duty. They’d turned right around and followed the King south.

They’d had to wait an hour at the gate at Winchester, watched by curious, speculative eyes. There was a lot of traffic leaving the city. The gatemen were letting out cart after cart, loaded with arrows and longbows, tents and lances. They wouldn’t let the Frenchmen in until the carts were all gone. ‘Where is all that going?’ Jean de Castel had asked a gateman; his English was good enough to talk to townspeople. The man laughed roughly. ‘To Southampton,’ he said, with rude good humour; ‘like the King, once he’s done with you lot.’

The King of England was staying in the palace of his uncle, Bishop Beaufort. The leading French ambassadors were put up there too, but there was no room for the retinues; the palace was too full of men-at-arms, obviously preparing for war on France.

Jean found a bed at an inn. There was a green outside. He watched the evening archery practice: all those undernourished yeomen deforming their skinny bodies, struggling to pull back the hundred-pound weight of the string, twisting and crunching their backs. They never healed. They lived with the pain of their bows. They had to. Archery practice was the law in England. Then he watched the men who’d been practising go marching out of town, in the direction of the coast. ‘Off to Southampton?’ he asked. They roared cheerfully back. Of course they were going to Southampton. The innkeeper wouldn’t talk to him, but after an hour sitting quietly in the inn, listening to what people were talking about all around him, Jean knew enough to be sure that six thousand men-at-arms and fifty thousand archers would be taking ships from Southampton any day.

When he rejoined his party at the palace, Jean found them as shocked as he was. They had been greeted by Henry of England’s uncle, Henry Beaufort, the Bishop of Winchester. Bishop Beaufort’s welcoming words had consisted of no more than a brusque warning: ‘You have to finish your business and leave before the end of the week.’

The French delegation was trapped in its futile peacekeeping role. The Archbishop of Bourges’ sermon that night was, ‘Peace to you and your house.’ But Henry of England – who turned out to be tall and wiry and mouse-coloured, with big girlish eyes fringed with long eyelashes set in a hard, bony frame – sat through the speech blank-faced, drumming his fingers against his book of hours.

The gathering in the council chamber the next day was no warmer.

Henry of England didn’t come. Bishop Beaufort (who also had big, odd, knobbly Lancaster features in a pinched face) presided. He strode in at the head of a bristling train of guards. He didn’t bother overmuch with pleasantries. In a voice as thin and hard as his face, he set out a new list of impossible demands. England wanted its differences with France settled by the end of the summer. That was the cut-off point for France to hand over all the lands England wanted. Princess Catherine, a treasure trove of jewels, and 600,000 crowns, were also to be delivered to Calais by Michaelmas.

Bishop Beaufort was a calm negotiator. He sat down and examined his nails when he’d finished. He pretended not to hear the murmurs of dismay from around the table. He only shook his head and let a contemptuous little smile play on his lips when Bourges tried to make the Bishop of Lisieux explain why that would be quite impossible; when Lisieux deflected the question to the Count of Vendome; when Vendome turned to the Baron of Ivry; when Ivry muttered, ‘Braquemont?’, and finally, when Gontier Col indicated Jean and wheedled, wringing his hands, ‘My lord Bishop, my colleague Jean de Castel is best placed to explain some of the technical difficulties …’

The eyes all fixed on Jean. I’m no one; why leave it to me? he thought, with a mixture of despair and panic, hating his superiors for their cowardice. Trying to stop his gut churning, he put suddenly damp hands on the table to keep them still, and stood up. It was important not to show fear.

He bowed his head, and suddenly, mercifully, was so sick of the lot of them, French and English alike, that it became easy to tell the truth. ‘My lord Bishop, Michaelmas is less than three months away,’ he said baldly. ‘The French government couldn’t hope to lay hands on enough gold to mint the coins you want, if you insist on September.’

He sat down. There was another anxious little flurry from the rest of his delegation. Hands fluttered; heads cringed. He kept his eyes fixed on his white fingers. ‘My lord Bishop,’ he heard Bourges murmur, ‘my young colleague overstates the position, I fear. Naturally we would be able … but, of course, difficulties … undeniable. Yes indeed. Difficulties.’

Bishop Beaufort bared his teeth. He got up. So did his men-at-arms. ‘My master has heard a lot about difficulties,’ he said. ‘All our talks seem to end with this word, difficulties. You can talk to him about your difficulties at council this evening, if you like. But it’s time you realised that making peace requires you to find ways to overcome your difficulties.’ He swept out.

‘You said the wrong thing,’ the Archbishop told Jean, with the glaring-eyed anger that the weak reserve for those they know to be weaker. Jean pursed his lips. So it was to be his fault now?

At six in the evening, they were called back into the crowded hall. The King was there this time. Henry of England still didn’t speak. He just kept drumming his fingers and staring at the French.

Archbishop Chichele of Canterbury read out a memorandum in Latin. It described Henry of England’s many attempts to negotiate. It said he’d been kept from his French heritage for too long. It accused the King of France of being unwilling to search for fair peace. It said Henry of England, ‘injured by French duplicity’, would now be ‘obliged’ to search for his rights in another way.

As soon as Chichele had finished reading, Henry of England got up and left the room, followed by his senior advisers, followed by the small fry. There were no more speculative, knowing glances between English and French. All the English were looking away. With dread, Jean de Castel realised that those averted English eyes marked the end of diplomacy and the beginning of war.

Henry of England wrote one more reproachful letter to the King of France. From Southampton, he offered King Charles 50,000 crowns off Catherine’s bride price, if the French King would only give up his unreasonable resistance to peace. Then Henry of England set sail for France, to make war.

The embassy to England was back in Paris by the time the King of France received the letter. The besieged port of Harfleur was already almost in English hands, and when it fell it would lay open a great chunk of northern France to the invader: Normandy, Rouen, and the Seine river-supply route all the way to Paris. The Archbishop of Bourges was shaking his venerable head at the letter.

‘Well, what am I to reply?’ King Charles said helplessly, and the ambassadors shook their heads and murmured. The King’s hands were shaking; the letter was fluttering, ready to drop from them.

Jean de Castel spoke up from the back. His heart was racing.

‘Don’t trust a word he says, my lord,’ he said, and the King’s eyes fixed beseechingly on him. ‘He doesn’t want to marry your daughter. He wants to conquer your country. He is not a man of peace.’

The King of France’s reply to Henry of England was as gentle as ever, agreeing on the need for peace. But Jean de Castel was pleased to see that the final draft of the letter, sent only after the distressed King had briefly fallen ill again, still contained one drop of acid he hoped his words had inspired. Where the King had addressed Henry of England’s demand for the Princess, he had written: ‘It does not appear that the means you have adopted are proper, honourable or usual in such a case.’

Catherine’s mother organised a ball to celebrate the return to court of the noblemen united under the Count of Armagnac – the Orleans faction – after their summer campaigning to contain the Duke of Burgundy. There would be no more festivities: after this one ball, the princes would be off to defend France against the English invader. So Isabeau threw herself into the evening with gusto, having more peacocks killed for the feast than had ever graced a single table before, and more musicians, jugglers, acrobats, candles and jewels gathered together too. Catherine counted as an adult now; her mother had had new dresses sewn for her. She was allowed to attend; to fan herself behind her feathers; to try her hand at worldly whispering with dance partners.

The first person she spoke to was her cousin, Charles, the younger Duke of Orleans; a fair-haired, weak-mouthed, charming young man with a gift for poetry. ‘You look beautiful … very elegant … but thin,’ he said solicitously as they left the dance floor together. He looked much older than he had before the summer’s fighting, too, she thought; but she was wiser now, so she kept her peace.

‘You must have been worried for months,’ he went on. He fixed kindly eyes on her. He was trying to reassure her, she saw. He said: ‘The English marriage will never happen, you know.’

‘I do know,’ she replied wearily, and then she suddenly felt so soiled, so humiliated by remembering her moments of past excitement at the prospect of that marriage, and everything that went with the memory of it – the other, forbidden memories, of the beauty of Owain’s face swimming down from above, and the heat of his skin on hers, and the touch of mouths and tongues – that she blushed a fierce, hot red, and burst into tears.

Charles of Orleans patted worriedly at her, dreadfully embarrassed, turning her towards a shadowy corner of the hall so no one could see her loss of control, not knowing what else to do. She took a corner of her skirts and dried her own eyes. Then she managed a watery smile, and the determinedly brave words that were what her cousin wanted to hear.

‘I never wanted it anyway,’ she said.