Free Wife to Henry V: A Novel by Hilda Lewis Page A

awaiting that glorious day, she had no-one to talk to; she could almost wish Michelle back from Ghent. But patience, a little patience! They had thrust her mother into prison—but they would be hard put to it to keep her there. Her will was stronger than bolt or bar; she would find her way.
    There was a flap of feet outside her door—Guillemote, her woman.
    “Madam, madam,” Guillemote, breathless, wrung plump hands and could say no more.
    Catherine was hard put to it not to shake the words out of the silly creature standing there awkward and slow and frightened.
    “Leave wringing your hands, girl,” she said, though Guillemote was thirty if a day. “Now what's the matter?”
    “The English.” Guillemote choked upon the word. “Landed!”
    Catherine felt how her heart all but missed its beat. To desire Henry's victory—if she might share it—was one thing; English armies trampling French soil, another. To whom could she turn? To her useless father? her imprisoned mother? or to sly Charles? She knew the moment's panic. She would run away—to Vincennes, to Tours...anywhere, anywhere.
    “We are lost,” Guillemote said, weeping.
    “Lost? We haven't begun yet. Leave your tears, girl.” Her own words, her own smile steadied her.
    “Lost, lost,” Guillemote wailed. “These English! There's no telling with them; there's neither rhyme nor reason. Casting anchor at Touques. Who could expect them there? Ships—English ships—land at Calais, land at Harfleur. But Touques! It isn't right, it isn't fair, it's against the rules. No-one makes war like that.”
    “It seems they do. Maybe the English King doesn't care about rules; maybe he thinks war isn't a game.” She shrugged.
    Guillemote stared. She could never understand the lady Catherine. “No game for us,” she said at last. “Bonneval. The English have taken Bonneval.”
    “Nonsense!” But for all her smiling Catherine's hand went to her heart. “You've been listening to a tale.”
    “But naturally, Madam. The messengers have just brought it. It's all over St. Pol by now.”
    “Kitchen talk. Bonneval. It's untakeable.”
    “So we thought. But the English walked in . „ . because our garrison walked out. Frightened to death at the sound of the English King's name. But that isn't the whole of it, neither. This Henry, so they say Madam, has sent a letter saying unless the crown is given to him at once he will send our own King packing and my lord Dauphin with him; and then he will take it himself.”
    “Will he indeed?” Catherine laughed a little. And, Why not? Why not? My crowns...my two crowns. “That's a tale we've heard before. Where do you keep your wits, girl?”
    * * *
    It was hot even for August in the dark shadow of the woods. And quiet. You could not believe France to be at war. There might be no mailed feet trampling the land, no bitter smell of burnt fields and orchards. But all the same it was true. And worse. For what by God's mercy the English overlooked, Burgundian and Armagnac destroyed between them. The people were hungry, Guillemote said. Long before winter came they would be hungrier still...
    Catherine picked up her lute.
    ...a pity, a great pity. But hunger never killed anyone! She'd gone hungry herself. Besides, the people were used to it.
    She began to sing, plucking upon the lute. King Henry was a good musician, so they said. But it was dull singing to one's self; and no-one to watch white fingers picking upon the strings. In Paris it had been gay with masques and music. One must keep cheerful in spite of everything, it's one's duty, her mother had said. Well, no doubt it was dull enough in Paris, too, now that her mother was no longer there. For still the Queen languished in Tours; for all her cleverness she had not escaped. Young Charles did not mean her to escape!
    Charles. It was time for another “surprise” visit from him. He would appear suddenly, unannounced, riding over, he said, to the cool of the woods. But it was