Free Crown in Candlelight by Rosemary Hawley Jarman Page A

throng, sat Katherine, shivering and crying like a little old woman gone mad.

    In the cloister garth at Poissy, between the troutstream and the house, a willow grew. Each autumn Katherine watched the leaves changing from silver-green to grey, and listened to the shivering branches. It was now the third autumn since that dreadful day at court, from which she had returned weeping, fevered and coughing. Dame Alphonse had nursed her back to serenity; now she was cherished and cloistered and knew little of the world outside. She was denied nothing, hence the private chamber overlooking the garden, the bounty of silver toilette appointments and fine gowns sent by Charles of Orléans, now married to Isabelle at last.
    She did not know that her father lay in the worst madness of his life nor that thirteen-year-old Dauphine Louis feebly held government under the regency of Jean sans Peur. She did not know that Louis of Orléans had been buried with honours in the royal vault at the Célestins, where, less than a year later, Violante had joined him. Neither did she know that Jean sans Peur, emboldened by his new supremacy, had sent an army to besiege, albeit abortively, the English stronghold of Calais. Henry Bolingbroke had viewed this impertinence gravely from London, sending Prince Harry, as Captain of Calais, to keep the tenure under arms.
    She sat holding the silver mirror close to her face. Outside the willow waved and mourned and Jacquot lay on the bed, watching her. She looked deeply in the polished metal; her eyes were immense, black as autumn fruit. Her dark hair fell thick and shining to her waist. But, inescapably, her nose was too long. Frowning, she smoothed and pressed it, grimaced and dropped her hand. Beside her lay the portrait of Belle. She slept with it beneath her bolster; she took it out to fix her eyes on it before she extinguished her candle. That face must be the last thing she saw before sleep, or ill-luck would come in the morning. Now she compared it with her own mirrored image, staring alternatively at Belle’s perfect features, the bright determined eyes with their essential sadness, the enchanting half-smile. She glanced at the September candle she had marked and burned in anticipation of Isabelle’s next visit. It was nearly down. A smile touched her face, completely translating its sombre curves. The unwatched mirror reflected a loveliness that far outshone the envied portrait.
    The days of sitting on Belle’s lap were over. Indeed now it would be impossible. Isabelle was near her time, rounded with a mystery that looked almost comic against her slenderness. Charles of Orléans, more worshipping an ever, had accompanied her on that last occasion. He had been kind and solicitous, but Katherine was jealous. He had not allowed Belle to stay to long, saying that she was tired and Katherine must have patience. Now surely the child was born and they would meet again; very soon, if the candle did not lie.
    ‘Princess, if you look too long in the mirror, you will see the Devil,’ said Dame Alphonse, entering with a swish and jangle.
    ‘He can’t be as ugly as I am,’ said Katherine. ‘Oh, sweet Dame! I’m very bored.’
    Two sins in one breath, thought the nun. Heresy and worse, accidie , kin of sloth and father of mischief. But I’ll not reproach the child. Dame Alphonse had her finger on the pulse of the world outside. The King’s malady was worse, and incredibly, Queen Isabeau had made a new conquest. Jean sans Peur had spent some weeks with her at Tours. What a world! thought Dame Alphonse, and blessed her own vocation.
    ‘How I wish I could see Madame!’ said Katherine. ‘Is there any news?’
    She looked at the portrait longingly and the watching nun began to tell her beads mechanically. After a moment, she said:
    ‘Don’t love so much, Princess. It is unfitting.’
    ‘Unfitting!’ Katherine looked up sharply. ‘To love my Belle, when there is none other in this world …’
    I can’t