Blood Royal. Vanora Bennett

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СКАЧАТЬ Christine’s friend, Jean de Gerson, the elderly chancellor of the University of Paris (and, in the old days, her great ally in the quarrel of the Romance of the Rose), offered Owain a place to study as soon as Christine recommended him. Gerson, Owain knew, was a wise man; Gerson had thought at once of the brilliant, devious former chancellor of free Wales, Owain Glynd?r’s man, Gruffydd Young – who was now in exile in Paris – and suggested Young might be the man to vouch for Owain Tudor’s good character. Now all Owain was waiting for was for Gerson to suggest to the other canons of Notre Dame Cathedral that a bursary be found too. ‘Once you know about that,’ Christine said, leaning forward so her eyes shone in the trembling candle flame, making her voice resonate darkly and persuasively, ‘you can write to your Duke, or King, and ask to be relieved of your service for a couple of years.’

      Whenever Owain remembered the confused, dizzy happiness of the next few weeks, what came first to his mind was the heat: a scorching June, with the flagstones burning underfoot as he came out from the royal library. He was usually alone for a couple of hours in those cool rooms. Charles seemed to have been right; Catherine didn’t often want to be in the library. Later, with Catherine (and Charles, though Charles he noticed only with the kindly indifference of a grown-up man for a child) he recalled laughing breathlessly and seeking out shade and water for their picnics; and ignoring Christine’s remonstrations, and running barefoot to the fountains, dipping their toes in.

      ‘Have you ever seen someone kill someone?’ Owain heard, as he stared up at the ribbons of cloud and smelled the crushed grass under his back.

      It was Charles’ voice: thin and small and careful.

      Owain’s voice was also small and careful as – trying not to let any actual memories enter his head – he replied: ‘Yes.’

      Charles was lying beside him. The boy had quietly put himself there, in Owain’s shadow, like a smaller animal looking for protection. Catherine was sitting curled up round her knees, just behind them, plaiting grasses. Christine was picking grasses for her.

      ‘My brother tried to kill a man,’ Charles said. ‘A man in a brown leather tunic. He was one of the men who broke in last year. He ran into the ballroom where Louis was holding a ball and started shouting at him that he was a disgrace and that he shouldn’t be allowed to be king.’

      ‘Just what Maman is always saying …’ Catherine added, still braiding. They were both talking quietly, as if in a dream.

      ‘And Louis got a look on his face,’ Charles went on. ‘A horrible look. And he got out his dagger. He stabbed him three times. But the man kept shouting. He wouldn’t die, however often Louis stabbed him. The blade just got stuck in the leather. Then everyone started shouting and running around. And all the other men ran in; they were breaking windows to get at us.’

      ‘You saw all that?’ Owain said, raising himself on an elbow and looking at the boy.

      ‘I was behind the arras. We often go and watch when there’s a ball. There’s a tear in the tapestry. Sometimes the servants let us take some food there. Catherine wasn’t there that night. They let her dress up and go to the ball. So it was just me. I thought they’d kill everyone. Then find me.’

      ‘How did it end?’ Owain asked.

      ‘Our cousin of Burgundy came in. He had his own men-at-arms. He had the ones who were shouting sent out. But after he’d gone, with all his men and all the intruders, everyone who was left, the guests, were saying it was all really his fault – that he must have been behind it all – otherwise how could he have known to turn up at that moment with soldiers?’

      He shivered. So did Catherine. ‘Our cousin of Burgundy is always behind everything,’ she whispered.

      ‘You must have been scared,’ Owain murmured, keeping compassionate eyes on Charles.

      Charles shook his head and coloured up. He shrilled: ‘Princes are never afraid.’

      Owain said gently: ‘I grew up in a war. I was often scared. I was just a boy; I was helpless. Sometimes the things I saw came back to me in my dreams.’

      ‘You were scared?’ Charles said. He looked thoughtful. Then: ‘I have bad dreams.’

      Owain shook his head sympathetically. ‘Mine stayed with me for years,’ he said. ‘But give them time. They pass.’

      Charles nodded. He sat up too, a little closer to Owain. Christine, who’d said nothing during this conversation, smiled to herself and passed Catherine another piece of grass.

      There was a silence.

      ‘This is the happiest summer I can remember,’ Catherine murmured contentedly, lying down on the grass in the shade of a tree full of green apples and stretching herself out. ‘Even Maman and Louis aren’t quarrelling as much as usual …’

      Charles pulled himself up on his elbows, dazed and sated. He had smears of cheese around his mouth and grass in his hair. ‘Only because Maman agreed to send Marguerite away …’ he objected, but he sounded cheerful too; as if he were enjoying the argument. ‘And Papa’s still away too … ill …’

      They both looked very serious at that. They nodded solemnly at each other, like much younger children. ‘Poor Papa,’ Catherine said piously.

      Owain could feel Christine’s eyes warningly on him. He had the feeling these two didn’t know what was the matter with their father. Christine might be worried that he’d say something tactless. He kept reassuringly still. But Christine changed the subject anyway. She said, tartly: ‘And, of course, the Duke of Burgundy has called up ten thousand men, and he’s sitting in Dijon, just waiting for your mother and Louis to fall out … you shouldn’t get so carried away by a few days of hot weather that you forget that …’

      She gave them a chiding look from under the white headdress that, despite the heat, she wouldn’t take off.

      But it was too hot and light and safe here in the walled garden to care about ten thousand men in Dijon. Catherine only giggled, just a little nervously, and reached for another strawberry.

      ‘When I get married, it will be a golden day like this,’ the Princess said, biting into the fruit, looking at it. She was careful not to say whom she planned to marry. She didn’t want to annoy Christine. Owain stared at her mouth; at the glistening fruit. She knew he was looking at her. Taking another strawberry, she went on, dreamily, childishly: ‘And I’ll make Maman let me have a dress of cloth of gold, so I’ll glitter like the sun. And you’ll all be there, watching me, all three of you,’ and she flashed a beseeching look at Owain, and smiled at the soft glance she got back. ‘Won’t you?’ She ate the second strawberry. ‘And we’ll all be as happy as we are today, for ever and ever.’

      ‘They trust you,’ Christine said. ‘Charles has never talked about that before. I’m glad he did.’

      Modestly, Owain lowered his head. He was leading her mule. They were walking west, along Saint Anthony Street, homeward, into the sunset, dazzled by the thick honey light. It was easy enough to look down. He knew both Charles and Catherine were coming to trust him – just as, he supposed, their father Charles and their uncle Louis of Orleans must have, long ago, as children, come to trust Christine, their own non-royal playmate in the gardens of the Hotel Saint-Paul. There was a pleasure in the continuity of that tradition started a generation ago by Christine, as well as the personal pleasure Owain felt at his own deepening friendship with this generation of royal children.

      Owain СКАЧАТЬ