The Agincourt Bride. Joanna Hickson

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       9

      ‘This is the last straw!’ exclaimed Bonne, furiously pressing all her weight against the door of Catherine’s bedchamber. ‘Either you admit me to the princess’ presence instantly or I will go straight to the queen and demand that you be removed from her highness’ service immediately.’

      I am a sturdy body and had no difficulty keeping hold of the door, but I cannot pretend that her words did not send cold shivers down my spine. I reckoned that, influential though her family was, Bonne did not have the clout to actually demand such a thing of the queen, but a sly remark, dropped at the right moment, would have the same effect. By thus barring her entrance, it was possible I could find myself in the Châtelet by evening, or at the very least expelled from the palace. Nevertheless, I held firm.

      ‘Believe me, Mademoiselle, it is for your own safety that I respectfully suggest that you do not enter,’ I insisted in a far from respectful tone of voice. Bonne had managed to wedge her foot in the door and our conversation was conducted through the narrow gap. ‘The princess has a fever and until we know the exact nature of the illness she gave orders that no one else is to come near her. The physician has been sent for, but meanwhile she asks that you and her ladies pray that it is not serious or infectious.’

      For a moment the sliver of Bonne’s face that was visible to me expressed doubt, swiftly replaced by firm resolve. ‘This state of affairs has been allowed to go too far,’ she said with cold finality. ‘It should not be some ignorant, jumped-up tire-woman who decides whether or not the princess has a fever and who takes it upon herself to send for the physician, it should be the queen’s appointed lady-in-waiting. I shall remain here until the physician comes, and then I shall accompany him to her highness’ bedside and inform the queen of his conclusions. I shall also inform her of the dangerous position of influence a common creature from the back streets has been allowed to assume over her daughter.’

      ‘You must do as you think fit, Mademoiselle,’ I responded, suddenly pushing the door hard against her foot in its soft leather slipper. There was a squeal of pain as she jerked it back and I closed the door with relief, inserting the peg which locked it against further entry. I had fulfilled my promise to Catherine not to let anyone in, but at what cost? This time I feared serious repercussions.

      It was two days since the tournament. Immediately after its ignominious ending, Catherine had been witness to a terrible row between the queen and the dauphin over his high-handed and very public sabotage of the Anglo-French treaty. Queen Isabeau had accused Louis of ruining France’s prospects of peace and prosperity out of mere pique at being bettered in the lists, and Louis had countered by calling her faith in King Henry’s goodwill naive and foolish.

      ‘Henry is a bully, Madame,’ the dauphin had thundered, ‘who will stop at nothing to grab lands, titles and treasure in order to build himself an empire. How you can even contemplate giving Catherine in marriage to such a greedy, ignoble creature is beyond me. All he wants her for is to get his foot on the steps of the French throne. You want to kiss the cheek of a man who would lock my father away, humiliate my sister and disinherit me. I have not ruined any chance of peace. I have thrown down the gauntlet to a glory-seeker and told him that peace is not for sale. We will not buy off his aggression with vast tracts of land, a pair of blue eyes and a two million crown dowry. If he fancies himself as Emperor of the World he will have to fight and, God willing, die for it!’

      Queen Isabeau had retorted, ‘It is you who is naive, Louis. King Henry is not a bully, he is a warrior. He will not retreat from your bombast as you hope, he will pick up your gauntlet and march against France and we cannot rely on our lieges to defend us. You have not taken control of your destiny, you have thrown it to the wolves!’

      It was a thoughtful and distracted Catherine who had described this confrontation to me in detail as I helped her out of the gold gown. Then she sat and regarded me for so long without speaking that I feared she was about to reproach me for something. It was, however, the very opposite.

      ‘I can absolutely trust you, can I not, Mette? In fact, I think you are the only person I can trust.’ She said this so gravely and sorrowfully that I sank to my knees beside her, took her hand and kissed it.

      ‘I would give my life for you,’ I said softly. ‘But even more dreadfully, I would live my life without you if that would serve you better.’

      ‘God forbid that,’ she breathed. ‘Not again. He could not be so cruel.’

      Despite her apparent maturity she still possessed youth’s need for reassurance and the instinctive optimism of a child. With cynicism born of bitter experience, I was far from certain of the Almighty’s benevolence in this matter.

      She stood, took my hand and pulled me to my feet, steering me towards the hearth where her canopied chair was set. ‘You sit there, Mette,’ she said, pushing me gently into the chair and perching herself on a nearby stool. ‘I will tell you my thoughts and you can tell me afterwards what you think.’

      Feeling distinctly awkward with our positions reversed in this way, I found myself wondering what Bonne would say if she could see my common backside sullying the royal cushions. However, all such petty thoughts were soon banished as Catherine broached her subject.

      ‘What I am going to tell you must never go beyond these walls,’ she began cautiously, ‘for some might call it treason. But the longer I am at court, the less I find myself able to trust my mother.’

      My involuntary exclamation made her raise her hand to cut off any protest. ‘Please do not say all the things I would hear from others, Mette. I know I am young and I may not fully understand what she says and does but I am not a simpleton. I could give you many examples of her dishonesty, but it is only necessary to give you one. She professes to loathe the Duke of Burgundy for his involvement in the murder of Orleans, but that is just words. In fact, she hates the Count of Armagnac, whom she professes to admire. Whenever they are together it is easy to detect the animosity between them. Nor is there any love between her and Louis, as you know. Publicly she embraces the Orleanist cause, but in fact she schemes with Burgundy.

      ‘This would not matter so much if she was loyal to the king, but she is not. She sits beside him at formal occasions but otherwise she shuns him. СКАЧАТЬ