Blood Royal. Vanora Bennett

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      Eventually, Christine muttered: ‘For the love of God …’ and then, with her face darkening into the beginning of a muted fury, ‘… what are you doing here?’

      Catherine just shrugged; almost a wriggle. She wasn’t cowed. She said, still defiantly: ‘I took a horse. Why not? Why should I stay when I know what’s going to be happening there?’

      Christine stifled a sigh. Owain knew, from their own conversation last night, that Christine and Jean were also afraid of what might happen next now open conflict seemed to be breaking out again between the Prince and his mother. They’d all looked so scared – pale and miserable even in the yellow flickers of night light, seeming smaller than usual with their flinching, hunching shoulders, making him realise, uncomfortably, that the Paris they lived in wasn’t the sunlit, calm place he’d imagined. They’d talked for hours about it, worrying away at the possibility that the quarrel might be Louis’ pretext to call Burgundy back to Paris with his army, to keep the Queen under control. And if Queen Isabeau’s worst enemy came near Paris with ten thousand men, how would she respond?

      Still. There were so many things Christine could choose to be angry about, Owain thought. The danger of riding off into the woods (though she’d known he would be there, with his sword; she hadn’t really put herself at risk). The disobedience, and the panic she’d cause at the palace – though, he realised, now he’d spent so much time there himself, it was unlikely anyone would notice she’d gone; the two children ran wild and didn’t seem to have a single servant to tend to them.

      ‘Because of Charles,’ Christine said, in her most terrible voice, with ice-cold eyes, picking the one argument that, Owain realised, would be certain to make Catherine feel guilty. ‘You’ve left Charles alone in the middle of one of these … upheavals. A child. And a child who has nightmares. He’ll be worried about where you are. And he’ll be terrified to be facing … all that … on his own.’

      Catherine looked uncertain, but only for a moment. Then she stuck out her chin and stared back at Christine. ‘He’ll be all right,’ she said, with a brave attempt at carelessness. ‘I couldn’t tell him because he’d only have wanted to come too … but I told the Saracen to tell him I was with you.’

      If she thought she’d get praise for that, she was mistaken. The Saracen was one of the Queen’s most outlandish ladies-in-waiting, a hostage from the Crusades, gifted to the Queen long ago, so silent and empty-eyed, padding round the palace corridors, that the children hardly knew whether she understood French, or even knew how to talk. Catherine went on, faltering a little: ‘So he’ll know I’m not lost.’

      The battle of eyes went on: Christine’s full of accusation. ‘Well,’ Catherine finished, finally dropping her gaze, scuffing at her toes, ‘I don’t care. I had to get away.’

      She glanced at Owain. Perhaps she saw sympathy on his face. She flashed a grateful half-smile his way.

      Owain saw Christine catch that flash of warmth. Then he saw a tiny, surprised frown pull at the older woman’s forehead, as if the first hint of suspicion was dawning that Owain’s presence might have been part of the reason Catherine had wanted … Christine looked searchingly at Owain for a moment herself. He kept his face still and surprised. He was relieved when, with a little shake of the head, as if she was putting aside an unworthy thought, she turned her full furious attention back to the girl digging her toes uncomfortably into the carpet of dead leaves underfoot.

      ‘We should all turn around now, and go back to Paris,’ she said icily. She added, in a different voice, full of a misery even she couldn’t quite hide: ‘I can come back and see my daughter next year.’

      Owain remembered the softness of her eyes when she’d asked him to come to Poissy with her. The pity of it caught at his heart. He couldn’t let her miss this visit.

      ‘We can’t do that,’ he said, putting his hand on his sword hilt, feeling a man. ‘It wouldn’t be safe for just three of us to strike off back through the forest. If Catherine has left word in Paris of where she is, it would be much more sensible to stick with the group; come back tomorrow as we planned.’

      For different reasons, both pairs of eyes now fixed on him were full of quiet relief. The trip need not be cancelled. He’d given a plausible rationale for riding on. He nodded reassuringly at them both, thanking God that neither of them knew how absurdly excited he felt at the adventure opening up before him – the prospect of hours in the woods, on horseback, with Catherine; and a pilgrim’s supper at an inn, later; and another long ride back to Paris tomorrow, following his lady.

      Christine didn’t wait for any more discussion of whether they should cancel their journey. She just moved swiftly on to considering what should be said about the trip once they were back in Paris. She said: ‘I suppose we should say you just took it into your head to come to Poissy to visit your sister.’

      There was no anger in Christine’s voice any more. She’d accepted Catherine’s presence. She was making the best of it. So there was no reason for Catherine to demur. Yet, at those words, the Princess frowned and fidgeted, and shook her head, and said sulkily: ‘Why? I’ve never even met my sister.’

      Owain stared at her in wild surmise. Catherine clearly hadn’t the least wish to meet an unknown sister at the end of this journey. But what had she expected to be doing at Poissy, if not going into the women-only confines of the nunnery with Christine? Not … He blinked, feeling as blinded by the possibility dawning on him as if he’d stared straight at the sun … Not staying outside all day … sitting at some travellers’ inn … with him?

      Christine’s patience, always limited, was at an end. ‘Well, you’re about to meet her now,’ she snapped. ‘Unless you want to tell your mother you just ran off to get away from her.’ And, standing up, she flicked crumbs off her skirts and called, in her most imperious voice: ‘Owain! Come; put away the food and get the horses untied. And bring Catherine’s up. We’ll be off in a minute.’

      The abbey was inside a great wall that stretched for miles in every direction, in a landscape that seemed almost impossibly green and alive with birdsong and happiness.

      The light was golden. There were deer between the trees on this side of the wall, and fishponds. Owain could see clusters of houses that must belong to the nuns’ male confessors and spiritual advisers, the doctors, the financial counsellors, the overseers, the cooks, the bakers, and the servants. Through the gate, he glimpsed more rooftops and the tall towers of a church inside the enclosure. He could hear the buzzing of bees. He knew he’d never see more. Men weren’t allowed inside the wall. His journey, and that of the other men who’d ridden with the women, ended here.

      One by one, the men pulled up, dismounted, chatted to the gatehouse keepers. A couple of them, who knew the ways of this place, carried on down the lane that must lead to the town and the inn.

      The women hardly seemed to notice. Their minds were on their meetings; on beloved faces hidden behind the walls. Their yearning eyes were fixed ahead. Their horses were almost trotting. They processed through the gate without looking back.

      Owain stayed where he was, very still, shading his eyes to watch the women’s receding backs. He didn’t dismount until after one small head, with its cloak hood up, had turned briefly round from the gatehouse to look his way.

      The women heard Mass.

      Christine had forgotten the anger that had consumed her when she’d caught sight of Catherine. She couldn’t imagine feeling angry any СКАЧАТЬ