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‘That may be so, but I do not have to be pestered,’ Catherine retorted. ‘The queen relies on you to help me, Mademoiselle, and I think she would not be pleased to hear that you left me alone with all those men, however worthy you consider them.’
Bonne had no alternative but to look contrite and murmur another apology, but the most galling thing for her was probably not the reprimand but the fact that it was delivered in my presence.
Of course there were times when Bonne came into her own. Catherine was summoned daily by the queen to attend a meal or an entertainment or be presented to a visiting dignitary. Mademoiselle of Armagnac was an expert on protocols and pedigrees and before each visit was able to relay snippets of useful information picked up from her court-wise father. These coaching sessions intensified as the grand tournament approached, a day Catherine was dreading.
‘Oh the tournament, the tournament! The queen never stops talking about it,’ she complained one morning, fidgeting fretfully as a gesticulating tailor issued quick-fire instructions to Alys, who was kneeling before Catherine, pinning final adjustments to the magnificent gown ordered for the princess’ first grand public appearance. A high-waisted, sweep-skirted style known as the houppelande was the new height of fashion at the French court and Queen Isabeau had insisted that this vitally important example of it should be tailored from cloth-of-gold, which would clearly demonstrate Catherine’s high value in the marriage market. I was no expert on fashion but I thought the heavy gold gown threatened to overwhelm her fair, translucent beauty.
‘The queen keeps reminding me that the English envoys will be reporting every detail of my appearance and behaviour back to King Henry and that I have the honour of France to uphold. It makes me so nervous that I will probably fall over or come out in spots.’
I overheard this comment whilst busy tidying behind the guarderobe curtain and I immediately wanted to rush out and tell her that there was not a princess in the whole of Christendom more brilliant and beautiful than she, but with Mademoiselle Bonne supervising the fitting I let discretion rule me.
She took a less reassuring line. ‘I’m sure the queen only wishes to remind you of how much is at stake, Madame,’ I heard her say. ‘If there is no marriage there will be no treaty with the English and war will inevitably follow. My father tells me that the treaty talks are at a crucial stage and Cardinal Langley is a very slippery customer.’
‘I cannot think why King Henry sent a cardinal to do his wooing,’ Catherine grumbled. ‘What does a celibate know about marriage?’
I smiled to myself, hearing the schoolgirl speaking. One day someone would tell her of the many former convent pupils ensconced as the paramours of primates.
Mademoiselle of Armagnac was not put off her stride. ‘Cardinal Langley is a diplomat first and a priest second, Madame. When it comes to a royal marriage, the bride is always part of an extended negotiation.’ It occurred to me that Bonne might have been describing her own marriage. ‘In such circumstances birth and pedigree are of paramount importance.’
‘So why does the queen lay so much store by my appearance?’ retorted Catherine. ‘I am the King’s daughter – that is all they need to know.’
Bonne shook her head. ‘A queen who charms her lord and husband can influence his actions. The cardinal may not take this into account but the queen certainly does. This marriage is not just to seal a peace between France and England. She wants you to seduce King Henry into making your enemies his enemies.’
Bonne’s shrewd analysis of the machinations of diplomacy did not surprise me for she was born to it. Although neither prince nor duke, the Count of Armagnac had nevertheless manipulated himself onto the Royal Council and won his daughter a marriage to the king’s nephew. Bonne had clearly observed and absorbed her father’s serpentine skills.
However, Catherine’s response equally clearly demonstrated that her lady-in-waiting had not cornered the market in clear thinking. ‘Yes, I can see how that would benefit the queen,’ she mused, ‘as long as my enemies are her enemies.’
I could not see Bonne’s expression, but her silence was eloquent. I wondered how long it would be before this remark reached the queen’s ears.
The Grand Tournament brought Paris out en fête. It was held on Shrove Tuesday, the last permitted day before the onset of Lent brought a temporary halt to such war games. Even the palace servants were encouraged to go and watch, so Alys and I joined the throng jamming the streets leading to the royal tourney-ground beside the Seine.
It lay on flat land in the shadow of the Louvre, the ancient fortress of the old kings of France, whose towering battlements and fearsome, impregnable donjon still guarded the royal exchequer. Gaily decked pavilions had been erected along the curtain wall, ready for royal and court spectators and before them stretched the lists, two sandy gallops the width of a field-strip, divided by a stout jousting rail, while beyond the arena a series of railed-off enclosures waited to receive the common herd, and beyond these ran the river Seine with flotillas of boats and barges moored as viewing platforms for extra spectators. At one end of the ground stood the Heralds’ Gate, a painted wooden barbican fluttering with flags and banners that marked the entrance from the knights’ encampment, a field full of gaudy tents displaying the colours and devices of hundreds of participating knights who had ridden in from every corner of Europe, eager for a chance to win prize money and display their combat skills.
The day was cold and bright and under a clear blue sky the air seemed to vibrate with the sound of neighing horses, whistling grooms, rattling harness and ringing anvils. It was a number of years since Paris had hosted a spectacle of this magnitude and, except for the great festivals of the church, I had never seen such a massive gathering of people. Hawkers manned every vantage point, crying their wares; spiced ale and wine, hot pies, pardons, cures and tawdry trinkets. Bands of musicians played on street corners, their instruments screeching out of tune as each battled to be heard above the next. Hordes of students and apprentices, granted a day off to join the fun, brought their rowdy rivalries out into the squares and fights sprang up without warning. Alys and I held hands tightly so as not to lose each other as we elbowed our way through to the arena reserved for royal servants where we squeezed onto a bench which gave us a clear view both of the lists and of the royal pavilion.
In due course a loud fanfare of trumpets announced the grand entry of the royal party, which processed slowly down a covered wooden stairway, specially erected to give access from the soaring walls of the castle. One by one the king, queen and their eminent guests acknowledged the crowd and then seated themselves on cushioned thrones and benches set under an emblazoned canopy. Heraldic banners fluttered from the pavilion’s roof, depicting the personal crests of every seated celebrity and somehow lilies had been grown in mid-winter, which nodded their noble heads solemnly along the parapet. From our lowly viewpoint the royal family and their guests resembled a row of gorgeous dolls, clad in brilliant hues, sable-lined against the cold and so laden with precious stones that they glinted blindingly in the flat February sun.
It was no easy task for Catherine to stand out amongst this muster of peacocks, but in the end her beauty and simple elegance paid off. The fabulous gold gown, flowing and pearl-trimmed, glowed serenely against the scintillating glitter of her parents’ showy magnificence, and her gleaming pale gold hair, falling loosely from a pearl-studded circlet, rippled down her back like a silk oriflamme. (And so it should. God knows I had brushed it hard enough!) It was the custom on formal occasions at the French court for unmarried girls to leave their hair loose and uncovered, which meant that beside the queen and the other royal ladies with their elaborately veiled and jewelled headdresses, Catherine looked fresh and nubile and, to put it bluntly, eloquently marriageable. I have to confess that while my heart swelled with pride at the sight of her beauty, my stomach churned at her vulnerability.
‘If this king does not get her, then the next one will,’ I whispered to myself, brushing a sudden tear from my eye.
‘She looks like an angel!’ cried Alys, her sweet round face flushed with adoration. ‘There can be no lady in the world more beautiful than Princess Catherine!’
‘Let us hope the fat cardinal thinks so then,’ growled a voice from the row behind. ‘Otherwise the English excrement will be sailing up the Seine come September.’
I turned to look at the speaker. He wore the blue and gold livery of a royal chamberlain and was bleary-eyed and stubble-chinned, with a sharp, foxy face and probably a bald head beneath his draped black hat. ‘It will not be Princess Catherine’s fault if they do,’ I countered, adding a smile on the grounds that I had few enough chances to glean palace gossip and did not want to kill the conversation stone dead.
He responded with a meaningful wink. ‘Aye, she is a beauty all right. Any man would like to get her maidenhead! … What?’ He stopped abruptly, warned by my fierce frown and head-jerk in Alys’ direction.
Anxious to steer him onto a less prurient topic, I pointed to the red-faced cleric seated on Catherine’s left, whose crimson soutane was stretched tightly over his substantial belly. ‘I take it that is Cardinal Langley,’ I said, ‘and they are the king and queen on her other side. We work for the princess but we do not get a chance to see the other royals at all.’
As if to make amends for his vulgarity, the chamberlain became quite voluble. ‘There is no mistaking the queen – see all the jewels she wears, three times more than anyone else – and the king beside her, poor devil. He looks all right from here but he is as simple as a six year old. I know this because I empty his bath and he has a fleet of wooden ships that he plays with.’ Registering my incredulous expression, he nodded vigorously. ‘It is God’s truth. The lady beside him is the dauphiness. I am surprised she is here. The dauphin cannot stand her and usually keeps her locked up in a nunnery. He only lets her out when he absolutely has to.’
I stared at the lady in question – Marguerite of Burgundy, a thin, whey-faced creature who looked older than I knew her to be, which was about twenty. She was richly dressed in ruby velvet liberally embroidered with dolphins and daisies. The dauphin might not want her as his wife, but she was defiantly declaring her status by linking his heraldic dolphin device with her own marguerites.
‘Is she not the Duke of Burgundy’s daughter?’ I asked, keen to prompt more information. Fox-face had a wine skin clamped between his thighs, from which, by the looseness of his tongue, he had been drinking freely.
‘Yes, that is the trouble. The dauphin hates her father’s guts so he wants nothing to do with her. Perhaps she prefers being locked up in a nunnery to being married to him, but it is my bet she prays for the day the Duke of Burgundy comes back to Paris!’
I chose my next words carefully. ‘I hear that he still has many followers in the city.’
A grin split the chamberlain’s narrow face and he nodded vigorously. ‘So he does and they say that he is wooing the English as well, offering his own daughter, Catherine, as bait. Hey, look – the fun is about to start!’
Another loud blast of trumpets announced the first joust, a contest between the dauphin and the Earl of Dorset, the English king’s uncle who was leading the embassy. The two contenders cantered up to the royal pavilion to make their salute. It was the first time I had clapped eyes on Prince Louis since he had quit the palace garden as a nine year old boy and frankly I was shocked.
Now eighteen, he could only be described as fat. No – he was obese! I had been expecting an older, taller version of the lanky boy who had dropped the caterpillar down my bodice. It hadn’t occurred to me that the deprivations of his youth might have turned him into a glutton. Only a half-blind sycophant could have called him handsome, for his features were blurred by puffy jowls and multiple chins, his eyes appeared mean and small, sunk into the flesh of his cheeks and his hair was shaved high up the back of his head in the mode currently favoured by young men-about-court, exposing thick rolls of fat on the back of his neck. Only his aquiline Valois nose remained distinctive, unmistakably declaring his lineage. In his huge suit of armour his body was a vast metal hulk covered with a blue and gold surcôte and squashed into a high-cantled jousting saddle. Somehow a horse had been found strong enough to bear his weight, but getting him onto its back must have required substantial lifting-gear. Even from afar he did not look well. If he had still been in my charge I would have prescribed a strong purge and a prolonged diet of bread and water.
Although in boyhood Louis had been the brighter of the two princes, it was Jean who had excelled with the sword and, now that he was a man, Louis still showed little skill at knightly pursuits. To the disappointment of the crowd, he was trounced by the considerably older Earl of Dorset whose lance scored a direct hit on the first pass, such as would have lifted a normal man out of the saddle but which barely nudged the elephantine heir of France. My garrulous neighbour informed me that the rules of chivalry stipulated that the loser in a joust must forfeit the price of his armour, which in the dauphin’s case must have been a considerable sum, so it was hardly surprising that Prince Louis was puce with anger when he joined his family in the royal pavilion to watch the rest of the tournament.
Over the next few hours the cream of French and English chivalry rode against each other in a blur of colours, dust and glinting steel. It was a brutal spectacle and more than once I regretted bringing Alys along. Numerous armoured men had to be dragged from the ground on hurdles, their helmets so badly dented that their skulls must have burst within them, and right in front of us a magnificent horse suffered a crashing fall, snapping its foreleg. The poor beast screamed and thrashed for many agonising minutes before it could be bludgeoned out of its misery and hauled away across the sand. During this incident Alys hid her face against my shoulder and I looked anxiously across at Catherine expecting to see a similar reaction on her part, but her expression remained rigidly schooled, as if such stomach-churning sights had been a daily occurrence at Poissy Abbey!
The grand finale of the day was to be a mêlée, when the jousting rails were removed and the French and English knights staged a mock battle in the open arena, challenging each other at random until the heralds judged which side had won. I wanted to take Alys away from what I feared might be another bloody spectacle but, just as we were about to leave, the Earl of Dorset rode up to the royal stand. ‘If the beautiful daughter of France will grant me a favour for the coming trial I will carry it on behalf of my nephew King Henry,’ he declared gallantly.
The crowd roared its approval of a gesture made in the true spirit of chivalry. I could see Catherine glance at the queen who nodded indulgently but, as she leaned over to pluck a lily from the floral display, the dauphin moved to restrain her.
‘No favours for the English!’ he bellowed, rising to his feet. ‘Not while they plot to snatch France from its rightful heirs!’ He had a voice to match his bulk and his words echoed clearly around the lists. ‘Go back to your nephew, Dorset, and tell him that his dream of possessing my sister founders on his daydream of stealing my father’s lands. You may have won in the lists, my lord, but I vow before God and St Denis that that is the last victory England shall have over France!’
Dorset’s reply was lost in the general hubbub that followed, and some of the French and English knights, who had been swapping rude gestures and insults ahead of the mêlée, decided to forego ceremony and clash swords before the trumpet sounded; instantly a war developed which the heralds had no chance of controlling.
In the palace viewing arena many of the male servants began to join in the fun, standing on their seats and shouting encouragement with wine-fuelled gusto, among them the foxy-faced chamberlain. ‘There goes your lady’s marriage!’ he yelled at me as I pulled Alys away. ‘If English Henry wants her, he will have to come and get her!’
9 (#ulink_45bab5da-8ca9-50a4-b3d2-426573a6ff7b)
‘This is the last straw!’ exclaimed Bonne, furiously pressing all her weight against the door of Catherine’s bedchamber. ‘Either you admit me to the princess’ presence instantly or I will go straight to the queen and demand that you be removed from her highness’ service immediately.’
I am a sturdy body and had no difficulty keeping hold of the door, but I cannot pretend that her words did not send cold shivers down my spine. I reckoned that, influential though her family was, Bonne did not have the clout to actually demand such a thing of the queen, but a sly remark, dropped at the right moment, would have the same effect. By thus barring her entrance, it was possible I could find myself in the Châtelet by evening, or at the very least expelled from the palace. Nevertheless, I held firm.
‘Believe me, Mademoiselle, it is for your own safety that I respectfully suggest that you do not enter,’ I insisted in a far from respectful tone of voice. Bonne had managed to wedge her foot in the door and our conversation was conducted through the narrow gap. ‘The princess has a fever and until we know the exact nature of the illness she gave orders that no one else is to come near her. The physician has been sent for, but meanwhile she asks that you and her ladies pray that it is not serious or infectious.’
For a moment the sliver of Bonne’s face that was visible to me expressed doubt, swiftly replaced by firm resolve. ‘This state of affairs has been allowed to go too far,’ she said with cold finality. ‘It should not be some ignorant, jumped-up tire-woman who decides whether or not the princess has a fever and who takes it upon herself to send for the physician, it should be the queen’s appointed lady-in-waiting. I shall remain here until the physician comes, and then I shall accompany him to her highness’ bedside and inform the queen of his conclusions. I shall also inform her of the dangerous position of influence a common creature from the back streets has been allowed to assume over her daughter.’
‘You must do as you think fit, Mademoiselle,’ I responded, suddenly pushing the door hard against her foot in its soft leather slipper. There was a squeal of pain as she jerked it back and I closed the door with relief, inserting the peg which locked it against further entry. I had fulfilled my promise to Catherine not to let anyone in, but at what cost? This time I feared serious repercussions.
It was two days since the tournament. Immediately after its ignominious ending, Catherine had been witness to a terrible row between the queen and the dauphin over his high-handed and very public sabotage of the Anglo-French treaty. Queen Isabeau had accused Louis of ruining France’s prospects of peace and prosperity out of mere pique at being bettered in the lists, and Louis had countered by calling her faith in King Henry’s goodwill naive and foolish.
‘Henry is a bully, Madame,’ the dauphin had thundered, ‘who will stop at nothing to grab lands, titles and treasure in order to build himself an empire. How you can even contemplate giving Catherine in marriage to such a greedy, ignoble creature is beyond me. All he wants her for is to get his foot on the steps of the French throne. You want to kiss the cheek of a man who would lock my father away, humiliate my sister and disinherit me. I have not ruined any chance of peace. I have thrown down the gauntlet to a glory-seeker and told him that peace is not for sale. We will not buy off his aggression with vast tracts of land, a pair of blue eyes and a two million crown dowry. If he fancies himself as Emperor of the World he will have to fight and, God willing, die for it!’
Queen Isabeau had retorted, ‘It is you who is naive, Louis. King Henry is not a bully, he is a warrior. He will not retreat from your bombast as you hope, he will pick up your gauntlet and march against France and we cannot rely on our lieges to defend us. You have not taken control of your destiny, you have thrown it to the wolves!’
It was a thoughtful and distracted Catherine who had described this confrontation to me in detail as I helped her out of the gold gown. Then she sat and regarded me for so long without speaking that I feared she was about to reproach me for something. It was, however, the very opposite.
‘I can absolutely trust you, can I not, Mette? In fact, I think you are the only person I can trust.’ She said this so gravely and sorrowfully that I sank to my knees beside her, took her hand and kissed it.
‘I would give my life for you,’ I said softly. ‘But even more dreadfully, I would live my life without you if that would serve you better.’
‘God forbid that,’ she breathed. ‘Not again. He could not be so cruel.’
Despite her apparent maturity she still possessed youth’s need for reassurance and the instinctive optimism of a child. With cynicism born of bitter experience, I was far from certain of the Almighty’s benevolence in this matter.
She stood, took my hand and pulled me to my feet, steering me towards the hearth where her canopied chair was set. ‘You sit there, Mette,’ she said, pushing me gently into the chair and perching herself on a nearby stool. ‘I will tell you my thoughts and you can tell me afterwards what you think.’
Feeling distinctly awkward with our positions reversed in this way, I found myself wondering what Bonne would say if she could see my common backside sullying the royal cushions. However, all such petty thoughts were soon banished as Catherine broached her subject.
‘What I am going to tell you must never go beyond these walls,’ she began cautiously, ‘for some might call it treason. But the longer I am at court, the less I find myself able to trust my mother.’
My involuntary exclamation made her raise her hand to cut off any protest. ‘Please do not say all the things I would hear from others, Mette. I know I am young and I may not fully understand what she says and does but I am not a simpleton. I could give you many examples of her dishonesty, but it is only necessary to give you one. She professes to loathe the Duke of Burgundy for his involvement in the murder of Orleans, but that is just words. In fact, she hates the Count of Armagnac, whom she professes to admire. Whenever they are together it is easy to detect the animosity between them. Nor is there any love between her and Louis, as you know. Publicly she embraces the Orleanist cause, but in fact she schemes with Burgundy.
‘This would not matter so much if she was loyal to the king, but she is not. She sits beside him at formal occasions but otherwise she shuns him. She only wants him alive because as his queen she has the power of regency. When my father dies Louis will be king and she will be powerless, so she secretly treats with the Duke of Burgundy, paving the way for him to return to the king’s side. Why? Because Burgundy controls Jean. In alliance with him, through the son she sent into exile ten years ago, she could continue to rule France.’
‘But only if Louis were dead!’ I exclaimed.
‘Exactly.’ She leaned over to lay a finger on my lips. ‘Ssh. I only tell you all this because I want you to understand why I am going to ask you to help me. I need to speak to Louis without my mother knowing. I want you to take a message to him, Mette, asking him to come here secretly. He could come via the wall-walk and we could meet in your chamber, while we put it about that a sudden fever confines me to my room. You would have to keep my ladies at bay, for they all report to the queen in one way or another.’
‘Especially Mademoiselle Bonne,’ I murmured. ‘And it won’t be easy to fend her off. She already hates my guts.’
Catherine looked apologetic. ‘I know. She is liable to complain against you, but do not worry. If anyone threatens your removal, I will just throw a real fever and show no sign of recovery until they bring you back to me.’ I was far from convinced that this ploy would succeed, but she grasped both my hands excitedly, forestalling any objection. ‘I need to see Louis, Mette. He is so isolated, caught between our mother who wishes him ill and Armagnac who professes loyalty, but serves only his own interests and is shackled to a wife who is the daughter of his sworn enemy. I must let him know where my loyalties lie.’
I was all at sea, floundering in affairs that were way above my head. ‘What about your own interests?’ I felt bound to ask. ‘The dauphin has already ruined your chances of being Queen of England.’
She shook her head. ‘Actually, I thank him for that. The marriage would have put me in an impossible position. As I said at the start, it is a matter of trust. I must marry whoever is chosen for me, I know that. But who will do the choosing? My father is too feeble and I do not trust my mother. I would rather put myself in the hands of my brother.’
I had said I would die for her and if this scheme went wrong it looked as though I very well might, but I had to help her – how could I not?
Having barred the door against Bonne, I waited in Catherine’s bedchamber for what seemed like hours, trying to busy myself with small tasks; tidying her toilet chest, pounding Fuller’s Earth for robe cleaning and replenishing the sweet-smelling herbs on the guarderobe floor. As I worked, I pictured Louis and Catherine conversing earnestly in the chamber above, where I had placed the largest chair available by a good fire, and below me I imagined Bonne of Armagnac pacing the floor of the salon, waiting for the physician who would not arrive, for the simple reason that he had never been sent for. I constantly expected to hear a hammering on the door as Bonne grew impatient, but to my surprise none came.
Eventually Catherine descended, her forehead knitted in a frown. I was aching to know how the meeting with Louis had gone but was forced to wait.
‘I must pray, Mette,’ was all she said, going straight to her prie-dieu. ‘Please keep the door a little longer.’
I promised I would, but now that Catherine was back in her chamber I thought it safe to slip down the stair to check on Bonne, whose silence I considered more ominous than her anger. As I descended, I encountered a page wearing the Armagnac cross of Lorraine climbing the stair towards me. ‘I have a message for the Princess Catherine,’ he announced.
I held out my hand, my heart racing, certain this was the first sign of Bonne’s backlash. ‘Her highness is indisposed,’ I said. ‘I will take it to her.’
He removed a sealed letter from the purse on his belt and gave it to me before retreating down the stair. I was sorely tempted to destroy the letter there and then, but prudence prevailed for I reasoned that if Bonne was working against me the sooner Catherine knew of it the better. When I re-entered her bedchamber, she made the sign of the cross and rose from the prie-dieu. The Virgin gazed benignly down from the candlelit triptych revealing nothing, but I noticed that whatever intercession had been asked of Her, the creases had not been smoothed from Catherine’s brow.
Silently I handed her the letter and, when she broke the seal and opened it, I saw that it contained several lines of script. I waited while she read it, imagining I could already hear the stamp of the guards’ heavy boots advancing up the stair to arrest me.
When she raised her head, Catherine’s eyes were wide with surprise. ‘It is not from Bonne, it is from her father the count,’ she said, re-folding the parchment. ‘In view of the failure of the English treaty, Armagnac and Orleans have decided that the marriage between Bonne and the duke should take place immediately. The count deeply regrets that his daughter’s duty in this matter takes her away from my service, but he hopes I will understand and wish her well.’ Catherine laid a gentle hand on my arm. ‘So you can stop twitching, Mette. Mademoiselle of Armagnac is no longer a member of my household.’
My sense of relief was short-lived as I realised the news was bad as well as good. ‘But very soon she will be Duchess of Orleans,’ I pointed out, ‘more powerful and even more alarming.’
‘And much too busy and important to concern herself with us,’ Catherine reasoned. ‘Meanwhile, she is not here so let us sit together, while I tell you about my meeting with Louis.’
I stirred up the fire and we sat by the hearth, this time with her enthroned under the canopy and myself on a stool. Outside the wind howled and driving rain rattled the shutters, but the candlelight and blazing logs enfolded us in a flickering intimacy.
‘Thank you for leaving the wine and the sweetmeats in your chamber, Mette,’ Catherine began with a smile. ‘You certainly know the way to Louis’ heart.’
I shrugged. ‘I remember how he used to fall on the pastries I brought in from my father’s bake house. He was always hungry as a boy.’
‘That has not changed. He consumed everything you left.’ Catherine made a face. ‘He is so greedy!’
‘It is making him ill,’ I commented. ‘He has too much black bile.’
‘Is that so? It is a pity because he needs to be fit and healthy. France has suffered too long from an ailing monarch.’
There was a pause while she considered the dire truth of this.
‘Perhaps I should not ask, but what did you pray for when you returned?’ I probed gently. ‘You seemed so troubled.’
She shook her head as if to clear it. ‘I felt confused. Sometimes when you pray, things become a little clearer.’
‘Yes,’ I said, unable to think when prayer had done the same for me. ‘And did they?’
‘No. Not really.’ Her eyes found mine then and I saw that they were full of tears. ‘Oh, Mette! I feel so lost.’
Impulsively I took both her hands in mine, feeling the prick of tears in my own eyes. But I did not press her to confide in me. Instead I tried to be reassuring. ‘You can never be entirely lost when I am here.’
She squeezed my hands then let them drop, settling back and clearing her throat. ‘I have to make a decision, Mette. Telling you about my dilemma might make it seem less daunting.’
I nodded encouragement and gestured towards the triptych. ‘You know that I will remain as silent as the Virgin.’
Catherine’s brows lifted in mild censure. ‘I think sometimes that you are too irreverent, Mette,’ she said reproachfully.
I occurred to me to remind her that I did not have the advantage of a convent education, but instead I tried to look contrite and receptive at the same time and said nothing.
‘I was never happy at the convent,’ she observed, as if she had read my mind. ‘But I am grateful to the nuns for showing me right from wrong. It is a shame that no one did the same for my mother and brother.’
I must have looked surprised at this outburst because she went on hurriedly. ‘It is true. They are as bad as each other. At least, I think they are. I am not absolutely sure about Louis yet. I know he is not being straight with me, but I feel I should not judge him until I know why. I was praying to be shown the reason.’
A log shifted on the fire, throwing up a cloud of sparks and heralding a rush of words from Catherine.
‘He told me that he had stopped my marriage to King Henry because he did not want to see me tied to a godless libertine. Stories had reached him from England that Henry lived a debauched life and he, Louis, wanted to save me from shame and humiliation. Well, of course, I thanked him very much, but I also asked if Henry’s demands for land and money had nothing to do with it. He looked irritated and said that these had been only minor considerations. When I expressed concern that the failure of the treaty might spark an English invasion, he laughed and told me that Henry would never dare to invade France and, if he did, he would be chased back into the sea. Then he said: “England is a paltry little country and Henry is an apology for a king. His father was a usurper and he will pay the price for it. I would not give him a parcel of tennis balls, never mind my sister in marriage!”
‘I could not believe my ears, Mette. I was there when he told our mother that he sabotaged the treaty because Henry was power-crazy and only wanted to marry me in order to claim the French throne. There was no mention then of saving me from the clutches of a libertine. It was more a case of saving his own inheritance. Not that I blame him for that, but why is he not consistent?’
‘So did you tell him of your suspicions about the queen?’ I asked.
‘No, not in so many words, but I did formally pledge my allegiance to him as the heir of France, and he seemed very touched when I knelt and kissed his hand. He said he understood that as a female I was obliged to obey my mother, but to remember that he always had my best interests at heart. I think he has his own suspicions about the queen. It is clear that he does not trust her, but then he obviously does not trust anyone. What a mess! It seems that everyone is working to their own secret plan, but all of them involve me in some way or another. I feel like one of Louis’ tennis balls, being hit in all directions with no power over where I will land.’
