Blood Royal. Vanora Bennett

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      The royal Hotel Saint-Paul was a compound of separate houses set within the gardens. They watched from under a tree in front of the Queen’s house. In the heat and softness and grass, it felt unreal to Owain. None of the men on horseback, now reined in and waiting, seemed aware of the four extra sets of footsteps running up then stopping; of their quick breath. No one turned when Catherine quietly, protectively, put an arm round Charles’ trembling shoulder.

      ‘How dare you? How dare you?’ Crown Prince Louis was screaming. He’d dismounted. He was waving his whip, but not at the horse which had its suddenly placid head down in a tub of flowers. His face, whiter than ever, was all huge, black-rimmed, furious eyes. They were locked on the Queen, who, fat and carapaced in green silk, was gleaming like a poison beetle as she looked down at him from the shade of the colonnade. There were some smaller, bright-coloured forms behind her; was the whole court watching? Even from here, Owain could see the Queen was smiling.

      ‘Set them free at once. You had no right!’ Louis howled, on and on, beside himself, advancing menacingly up the stairs, never shifting his gaze. The Queen ignored his screechings. She stood her ground, and went on smirking and flashing her eyes hypnotically at him as he got closer; as he moved out of the sunlight and into the shadows. It wasn’t a nice smile. Owain thought, with a mixture of fascination and repulsion: She’s enjoying this.

      There was a fast-moving blur in the shadows. Disbelievingly, Owain thought he could distinguish a raised arm; then the crack of leather on flesh.

      The Queen stepped forward into the sunlight. Slowly, deliberately, she raised one hand to cup her injured cheek. Louis had struck her with his whip. Even from this distance, Owain could see the red welt on her face. Even from this distance, he could see the triumph in her eye.

      There was a strange little whinny of laughter from somewhere very close. He glanced at his three companions. It must have been one of them. But they were straight-faced; concentrating; so sombre that he wondered, for an instant, whether it hadn’t been him who’d let that terrified laugh escape.

      There was a terrible pause before the Queen spoke. Her voice was quiet but carrying; as taut as a whiplash. ‘You’re making a fool of yourself, Louis,’ she said. Owain could hear the taunt in it. ‘This isn’t how princes of chivalry are supposed to behave to the mothers who raised them, you know.’

      Louis flinched, and put down the whip.

      ‘But then, what do you care about that? You just do whatever you want, whenever you want; don’t let anything get in the way of your satisfaction, whatever it is, however depraved. Don’t you?’ The female voice was rising now, enough to instil fear, though not quite enough to sound hysterical. ‘You’re still a spoiled child; you think of nothing but “want, want, want”,’ she went on, carefully nursing her welt and her grudge; keeping her rhythm. ‘And then you’re surprised when things don’t work out the way you want them to. You’re surprised when people start saying someone who can do all the self-willed, degenerate, dreadful things you do, without any hesitation, without the least guilt, is going the way your father’s gone,’ – Owain was aware of the hush deepening – ‘and should be kept from the throne.’

      She stuck her face out towards him; making sure to stay in the sunlight so all the watchers could see.

      ‘No wonder there are riots and rebellions in Paris,’ she intoned, gloatingly; ‘no wonder people say the harsh things about you that I so often hear. You shouldn’t be surprised, Louis. You shouldn’t be surprised.’

      She took another step towards him.

      ‘Are you proud of striking your mother?’ she asked, as if this taunting, hateful conversation was a ritual they often observed – which, Owain could see from the looks of dread on the two children’s faces, it must indeed be. ‘Are you? Do you think behaviour like this is worthy of a future king?’

      Louis’ head drooped. He shifted ground; stepped back, further into the shadows. ‘You overstepped the mark. You had no right to do what you did,’ he muttered, still angry, sounding truculent but also, already, defeated. She’d got behind his defences.

      Owain had no idea what this quarrel was about, or how to find out. But he could see that those more familiar with appalling, frightening spectacles like this had ways of finding out. He watched as Catherine let go of Charles’ shoulder and stepped, as lightly and daintily as a ghost, across the grass to the nearest horseman. ‘What happened?’ she whispered up at him; half whisper, half hiss; a command for information.

      The man – an esquire of some sort – looked down at her with fear and blankness and resignation mingled in his face. ‘She came to the Louvre this morning while he was out hunting. In a litter. With a lady-in-waiting: his wife, Marguerite of Burgundy,’ he muttered, jerking his finger towards the colonnade. Since Louis so loathed the wife the Queen insisted on harbouring, the whole court knew that in itself to be an act of hostility. ‘They brought troops. And they arrested four of his counsellors. Including my lord Jean de Croy.’

      Catherine gave him another look through narrow eyes. ‘Why?’ she asked again.

      The man looked still more miserable. He just shrugged. It was clear there was no reason, except spite.

      ‘Where did they take them?’ Catherine hissed.

      The man shook his head and looked as though he wanted the earth to swallow him up. She shook hers too, and, without thanking the man, moved soundlessly back towards Charles and Christine and Owain. Of course they’d all been straining to catch each whispered word. Owain was aware of the raised-eyebrow look that passed between the two royal children: he thought it was a look of helplessness, but also of deep, shared shame.

      Then, suddenly, Catherine ran off, alone, back through the bushes, towards peace. And before he realised he was doing it, Owain was running too, past the others, away from the fighting, after her.

      Her shoulders were shaking when he caught her up. She was leaning against a tree, with her head cradled in her arms.

      He put an arm on her shoulder and pulled her against his chest. She was smaller and softer than he’d realised; she scarcely came up to his shoulder. She smelled of crushed grass as well as rose oil. Her skin, under the raggedy cloth, was soft. She was trembling. She buried her face in his doublet.

      He murmured, as softly as if he were calming a horse, ‘Don’t cry … don’t cry.’ He was trembling too. He let his lips brush the top of her head. His blood was racing. There was nothing he wanted more than for her to raise her face to him, so he could look into her eyes … so he could …

      But when she did look up, her eyes, behind their tears, were full of what they’d just seen. She burst out, bitterly: ‘I wish, I wish, I could go to England … and get away from them all … everyone hating each other … and the fights … so many fights … and us, being scared … hiding behind things … no one telling us anything … we’re always so scared …’

      She burrowed back into his chest, holding him very tight – for comfort, he realised uncomfortably; his mind feeling relieved beyond measure that he hadn’t followed the overwhelming instinct of a moment before to put his lips to hers, however much his own rebellious body still wanted him to. Now the sobs that came out of her were fierce and angry, racking her whole body. He heard more indistinct words. He thought he heard: ‘… I don’t want to be!’ and ‘… just sitting and waiting all the time …’ and ‘… helpless!’

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