Blood Royal. Vanora Bennett

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       SIX

      There was a buzz of conversation behind and in front. But in the middle of the line of pilgrims clip-clopping away from Paris – strangers, talking to the people they were travelling with, or those they’d met at the saddling-up point at the Saint-Germain gate at dawn – two were silent. Owain, behind Christine, looking at her straight, thin back without being aware of doing so, was remembering the tears sparkling on Catherine’s eyelashes yesterday.

      He was reproaching himself for not being able simply to feel concern for Catherine and her unhappiness. But he couldn’t help himself. They’d glittered like diamonds, those tears. He would treasure the memory forever. As the Poissy pilgrims passed between tree trunks, under boughs crossing high above, the broken glitters of sun and whispers of green reminded him of snatches of song drifting down from the heights: a living cathedral; the whole natural world giving praise.

      She’d touched him. She’d burrowed her face against his chest. She’d let him cradle her in his arms. He’d felt the breath rise and fall in her. She’d confided in him.

      All night he’d thought of nothing else but that moment; all evening, through supper, instead of reading; all morning. He’d woken up to the thought of Catherine. She filled his mind now.

      Owain had always thought he’d known what unhappiness was. In his mind it had looked like the war he’d known: familiar people disappearing; living, always, with fear and loneliness; knowing things you loved were gone forever, or soon would be. Knowing there was no guarantee of safety or security; that the roof could be burned from over your head, or an arrow lodge in your heart, at any moment. But yesterday, looking into Catherine’s eyes, he’d realised how naive that had been. Unhappiness could have a quite different aspect, could exist even in surroundings of the most settled luxury. Could be Catherine, choking on a sob in a palace. He could have guessed she was unhappy; that Charles was, too. The quietness Christine kept talking about – which he hadn’t seen as clearly as she had; they’d both wanted to talk to him, after all – their timid air and neglected clothes and street-urchin hunger. There’d always been something wrong, if Owain had only had eyes to see.

      Now Owain had started to see, he burned with the desire to talk to her more intimately about what her life was really like. He knew so little. He might be able to help, as he’d found ways to help himself through his own past unhappiness. If only he understood more. Were her mother and brother usually so poisonous and hateful with each other? Did they often fight in public? If so, what did other people at the French court think of the feud? Who supported whom? Why – when there were so many siblings and cousins of the blood royal – did no one take the two youngest royal children under their wing and protect them? And what did Catherine know about her father’s illness, which she and Charles were so vague about? He longed for her to tell him; he could imagine her drawing closer, as he laid a hand on hers; looking up at him from under lashes glittering with tears.

      He thought. He rode in silence. The sun rose high. They stopped to eat. The horses stamped and snorted into their buckets. The riders, having attended to them, went into the bushes to relieve themselves, or stood around chatting, or sat down and delved into their packages of bread and meat. Owain didn’t eat, or talk. He just sat quietly on the fallen tree trunk he’d chosen, beside Christine, not touching the piece of bread she put in his hand, and remembered the glitter of the tears, so close he could have kissed them away.

      He didn’t even look when one of the other pilgrims came up to him and Christine. It took him a long moment to become aware of Christine’s sudden animation at his side: the kerchief falling back, the look of horror, the rush to her feet, the panicky glances from side to side, the miserable subsiding back to her perch on the tree trunk.

      He looked up.

      Then he blinked, and blinked again. He couldn’t believe the evidence of his eyes, but every time he opened them he still saw the same thing.

      Standing before them, in a serviceable brown travelling cloak and a kerchief as plain and anonymous as Christine’s own, was Catherine.

      There was a scared, defiant smile on her face.

      Nothing happened for a long moment – just silence.

      ‘I thought you’d have noticed me before now,’ Catherine said, trying unsuccessfully to sound casual. Her eyes were fixed on Christine; but she’d had time to give Owain a look, too, and he was glowing privately at that new treasure. ‘I didn’t think you’d let me get this far.’

      Christine was slumped down on the tree trunk as though not trusting her legs to carry her if she tried to get up again.

      Her mouth opened, then shut. She stared at Catherine. Owain, keeping very quiet and still beside her, realised that, unusually, even Christine – confronted with a rebellious, runaway СКАЧАТЬ