Blood Royal. Vanora Bennett

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       TWO

      Catherine was at Mass with her parents when the messenger came.

      There was a scuffle at the door. Then a dozen heads were pushed inside. ‘Sire,’ the voices said. The priest looked up through the incense at the expectant eyes. The King looked away. Catherine could feel how much her father, who was still frail and slow-moving as he convalesced from his bout of illness, didn’t want to be interrupted. ‘Sire,’ the voices said, insistently.

      It was clear to all of them that it must be bad news. Catherine could feel her heart quicken. Catherine’s mother wheezed and heaved herself up. She put a hand out to the King, who was staring at his hands. ‘Afterwards? Surely?’ he said piteously, indicating the priest and the chalice; but she only said impatiently, ‘Come,’ and began tugging at his arm.

      When they told him, he did nothing. It was the Queen who rushed out of the room, with big tears pouring down her face, yelling, ‘Call the council!’ and ‘Send word to Prince Louis to come!’ and ‘Why weren’t we informed earlier?’ and ‘Condolences to the widows! A list of ransoms! Mass at Notre Dame! Full mourning for the court!’ The messenger and the courtiers rushed after her, remonstrating or agreeing or making busy suggestions; a wind of noise and importance. But King Charles just sat, with empty eyes, on his bench.

      Timidly, Catherine reached out her hand and put it on his trembling liver-splodged one. Her head was spinning. She’d danced with Charles of Orleans only last week. He’d told her about his war horse. Pegasus, he’d said easily: the closest thing to a winged horse on this earth. He’d smite the King of England to the ground with his hoofs alone. ‘It’s my dream to bring him down myself in the thick of battle, with a single blow of my sword’. Catherine had admired the ambition. Charles of Orleans had been wearing blue velvet sewn with pearls. Now she was trying to imagine him in chains, being marched through the mud to Calais and roughly embarked on an English ship, but found that her imagination failed her. This couldn’t be real. There must be a mistake.

      Her father twitched his head and said nothing.

      ‘It’s hard to believe,’ Catherine murmured; stroking his papery skin; remembering how just a few years ago her father had lifted her into the tree she could see through the window, roaring with laughter. How strong he’d been then. How young. He seemed like an old man today. He didn’t seem to be listening.

      ‘It will be all right, Father; you mustn’t worry …’ she ventured. He was shocked, she thought. How hard it must be to bear the burden of all this on your own shoulders; how heart-breaking to be a king in times of trouble. ‘We’ll raise the ransoms. We’ll get everyone back. Henry of England isn’t a bad man. He knows the law of war. Even if it takes time …’

      Quietly, her father said: ‘Not Henry of England.’ But it wasn’t really an answer. She had a feeling he was thinking of something quite different. He gave her a knowing look. He grinned. ‘George.’

      ‘George?’

      He grinned again. ‘Me.’

      She stared. Had she misheard? He burst out laughing. Then he looked cunning. Then surprised. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know,’ he said, and winked at her. ‘I am Saint George of England.’

      She didn’t know what to do.

      She didn’t understand what he was saying.

      She just knew she needed help. Father needed help. He wasn’t himself.

      She edged back, looking for a man-at-arms to signal to.

      But before she could catch any eyes of the men in the doorways, her father looked down at the doublet he was wearing, which was decorated with woven fleurs-de-lys.

      She saw the look of terror on his face; a terror so intense she nearly screamed with it. His face contorted. His eyes popped. ‘Spiders! Spiders!’ he yelled, beginning to scrabble at them, getting a grip on one flap of the cloth and ripping it away from his body with hands that weren’t, after all, so frail and old.

      Now men-at-arms did start to appear, clustering near him, looking alarmed. ‘Spiders! Get them off me!’ he was squealing in horror.

      ‘They’re not spiders, Father,’ she said faintly, but he was down on the ground now, snarling and grabbing the material with his teeth, saliva pouring from his mouth, worrying at the cloth like a dog chasing its tail. ‘They’re French lilies. Your emblem.’

      What she was most aware of, apart from the strange, unreal quality of everything that was happening this morning, was that although the men-at-arms were frightened, they weren’t surprised at the way her father was behaving.

      They were grouping themselves around him; ready to pick him up. They didn’t, though. No one dared touch the King’s person. They were waiting for an order. With a slow buildup of horror, she realised they were waiting for an order from her.

      ‘Filthy French spider lilies!’ she heard as she turned away. She could feel tears welling up inside her. She couldn’t cry. She swallowed. Seeing the captain of the СКАЧАТЬ