The Agincourt Bride. Joanna Hickson

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       10

      Bonne’s marriage to Charles of Orleans was the social event of the spring season, taking place immediately after Easter. Lacking the charisma of his dead father, the young bridegroom was said to be sensitive and serious, much taken with poetry and music. On the other hand, the Count of Armagnac was ambitious, dynamic, politically able and willing to lead the Orleanist faction. So when the Duke of Orleans installed his new duchess in the Hôtel de St Antoine, her parents came too and the four of them proceeded to set up a showy and magnificent court, which swiftly began to draw aspiring nobles away from the Hôtel de St Pol.

      Meanwhile, Catherine began to discover the frustration of being powerless. ‘If the queen and the dauphin would only stop arguing with each other, they might be able to exert their royal prerogative,’ she exclaimed one afternoon, returning from a fruitless visit to her brother’s apartment. ‘They’ve had yet another row and Louis has stormed off to Melun, calling on all the other princes of the blood to meet him there. This pointedly excludes the queen, so of course she is furious and to get back at him she is bringing Marguerite back to court and expects me to be nice to her. But if I am nice to her, Louis will accuse me of treachery, so there’s only one thing for it, Mette – get out the physic bottles; it’s time to feign illness again.’

      I think if Catherine had been able to leave court, she would have followed Louis to Melun but, without the Queen’s permission, she could not so much as commandeer a horse. So, as good as her word, she retired to her bedchamber, refusing admission even to her confessor and insisting that only I attend her.

      Word obviously reached the queen because the next day a black-robed doctor arrived and announced himself as Maître Herselly, an appointed royal physician. Catherine was half-minded to refuse him entry, but she was eventually persuaded to accept a liberal dusting of white-lead face-powder and to lie back looking ashen and weak in her curtained bed while the doctor attended. Fortunately, having assiduously tasted and sniffed a sample of the patient’s urine and questioned her briefly from a safe distance, he went away declaring that she had a bad attack of the flux, probably brought about by eating green fruit. For such an august man of science he seemed woefully ignorant of the fact that it would be some weeks before the spring blossom yielded any sort of fruit, but at least his report won Catherine a few days’ absence from court.

      Suddenly the queen announced her intention of joining the dauphin at Melun and insisted that the dauphiness go with her. Queen Isabeau may have hoped to bring about a reconciliation, but Louis was having none of it. Minutes after his mother’s barge was sighted approaching the river gate at Melun, he and his knights galloped out of the main gatehouse riding headlong towards Paris. Catherine, having made a surprise ‘recovery’ in her mother’s absence, was startled by her brother’s precipitous arrival, spattered with mud and in a towering rage.

      ‘Give me wine!’ the dauphin exclaimed, striding into the salon, scattering us all into corners and making the room seem suddenly small. Picking up a silver flagon from a side table, he took a huge gulp from it before spitting it out in a great shower. ‘Ugh! That is horse piss! Bring me good Rennish wine, and something to eat. I have been riding for hours.’

      Catherine signalled me to obey the order for refreshment and I left as Louis was flinging off his riding heuque and gauntlets and bawling at her flustered ladies, ‘Leave us! I want to be alone with my sister.’

      By the time I had collected a flagon of the requested Rennish wine from the queen’s cellar and a heaped platter of spiced cakes from the kitchen, I returned to find Catherine standing patiently by the fire, while the dauphin held forth at full volume, pacing the floor. When I entered, as unobtrusively as I could, he came to an abrupt halt, glaring at me.

      ‘Do not worry about Mette,’ Catherine told him hurriedly. ‘She is my oldest and most trusted friend – and yours too. Perhaps you recognise her, Louis.’

      Snatching the flagon from my hand, the dauphin endeavoured to take a deep draught of the wine while keeping his porcine gaze fixed on my face. Remembering the correct deference, I sank to my knees, glad to avert my eyes as the ruby liquid dribbled down his numerous chins. At length he smacked his lips and flicked the wine carelessly off his jowls with the back of his hand. ‘We had a nursemaid once called Mette,’ he remarked, lowering the flagon.

      ‘Yes,’ nodded Catherine. ‘This is she.’

      But Louis’ attention was distracted by the platter I held before me. ‘Ah, food! I am famished!’ Grabbing the dish, he flung himself down in Catherine’s canopied chair and I winced inwardly as he splashed wine carelessly over the delicate silk cushions. His great thighs in their tautly stretched hose were heavily mired from his hectic ride, further sullying the brocade. I smothered a rueful sigh and rose to move a table within his reach. As he put the platter of cakes down on it and selected one, I inadvertently caught his eye and ducked my head again, my colour rising.

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