The Agincourt Bride

‘You are a little shrew, are you not, Mademoiselle?’ he hissed, eyes glinting with anger.

‘Do not hurt her!’ I screamed in desperation. ‘She is only a child.’

The duke shot me a look of cold venom. ‘When the hawk swoops, it does not ask the age of its prey,’ he snapped. His eyes drilled into Catherine’s, his hooked beak almost touching her nose. ‘Now, little shrew, you tell me where your brother is. I take it you are the dauphin’s sister?’

Catherine stuck out her chin, her mouth clamped shut. His cruel treatment had brought out her stubborn streak and I feared the result. ‘She is not yet four, my lord,’ I protested. ‘How can she know anything? These two are only babes.’

The duke sneered. ‘I have children and I know that they understand a great deal more than you think.’ He shook Catherine so that her head wobbled alarmingly. ‘Is that not so, little shrew? You know where they have gone.’

‘Chartres!’ Charles’ high lisping treble rendered the word almost indecipherable, but it diverted the duke’s attention and he dropped Catherine in a heap on the floor beside me. I clutched her to me, sobbing.

Now the ducal gaze focused on Charles whose thumb, as always in times of stress, had gone to his mouth. The duke bent and wrenched it out, gripping the small wrist so fiercely that Charles let out a wail of anguish. ‘Silence!’ roared Burgundy, pushing the little boy towards his armoured companion. ‘Did he say Chartres, Deet? Make him say the word again.’

‘No!’ I screamed as the man pulled Charles towards him. ‘He did say Chartres. The queen said they were going to Chartres! That’s all we know.’

With sudden and vicious momentum, the duke swung round and swiped my cheek with the back of his hand in its studded gauntlet. Stars exploded in my head and I fell back against the bed, gasping with shock. ‘You stupid slut!’ I heard him shout through the ringing in my ears. ‘Why didn’t you tell us that straight away?’ He began to issue orders to the man he had called Deet. ‘Get the men mounted immediately. We can be sure that the queen will not hurry. She will have rested overnight at Melun. But they must not reach Chartres. We will cut them off at Étampes. Go, man! I will join you very soon.’

My head was still spinning but I managed to haul myself to my feet as Charles was abruptly released and ran to my arms. My cheek was burning and the unfamiliar taste of blood was in my mouth where my teeth had cut the inner flesh.

Behind his hawk-like beak, Jean of Burgundy’s grey eyes glittered, fixed not on my face but on my unlaced chemise and my breasts, scarcely covered by the thin cloth. I felt blood dribble from my cheek and mingle with the sweat running cold between them.

‘Let that be a lesson to you, slut,’ he sneered, moving towards me.

His gaze was like an obscene caress and my skin crawled. Slowly, he removed the gauntlet from the hand which had struck me and from its bristling surface he flicked a scrap of what I assumed was my own torn flesh. Without the glove I could see that his hand was white and soft and I cringed, thinking he was going to grope me. The thick, sweet smell of him was nauseating.

‘Name, slut?’ The repetition of the insult was effective in reducing me to an object, without free will.

I heard myself say in a croaky whisper, ‘Guillaumette,’ and immediately regretted it. Why had I told him the truth? The unusual name marked me out. Why hadn’t I said Jeanne or Marie and been lost in the crowd?

His let his hand hover over me and a cruel smile twisted his lips as he relished my mounting terror and disgust. Then, instead of reaching downwards to grope my breasts as I feared he would, he let his fingers linger briefly on my battered cheek. When he withdrew them, they were red with my blood. My gorge rose as I watched him push them one by one into his mouth and suck them clean. His action struck me as so revolting that it was all I could do not to vomit over his steel-clad feet.

‘Not noble blood but sweet enough,’ he conceded, smacking his lips. ‘Unfortunately I have no time to savour it now but I will remember – Guillaumette, the slut …’

He slipped the gauntlet back on and his mood immediately became businesslike. ‘There will be changes here. The king’s affairs must be put in order. I will leave a guard on these royal children. See that they do not venture out.’ Then he turned on his heel and was gone. His threat echoed in my head, ‘I will remember – Guillaumette …’

Catherine stared after him, her pretty little face twisted into an expression of loathing. ‘Who is that man, Mette?’ she asked in a thin, fierce voice.

‘That is the Duke of Burgundy,’ I told her, struggling to control my voice.

‘He is a bad man,’ she responded, her voice rising in passion. ‘I hate him, hate him, hate him!’

Young though she was, I often wondered if Catherine had a premonition about the Duke of Burgundy. It was many years before she was to encounter him again, but his image was to haunt her dreams as vividly as mine.

To my surprise, most of the palace servants saw Burgundy’s arrival as a boon and it must be said that he did impose some much-needed order. The sight of the Burgundian cross of St Andrew fluttering on every tower and gatehouse alongside the royal lilies made me feel distinctly uneasy, but it held no sinister overtones for the mass of scullions, chamberlains and varlets, who were only too happy to start pocketing regular wages for a change. In the nursery we even received a visit from a household clerk enquiring after our needs and, amazingly, within hours the children received new clothes, two tire-women arrived to scrub the floors and stairways and decent food and hot water were brought to us regularly. Several luxury items were also brought to the children, including a beautiful miniature harp which had apparently been sent to Charles months ago by his godfather, the Duke of Berry. It seemed that Burgundy’s agents must have caught up with la Bonne and le Clerc and recovered the goods they had looted. Having felt the violence of the duke’s anger myself, I shuddered to think what punishment had been meted out to that thieving pair.

The children liked the new clothes and the better food and didn’t associate them with the terrifying encounter in the governess’ chamber. They hardly noticed that there was now a double guard on the nursery tower and that armed soldiers shadowed us whenever we ventured out for fresh air, but I certainly noticed these things, for I became a virtual prisoner, unable to visit Jean-Michel or my parents. Consequently, it was some time before I discovered what had been going on in the outside world.

Had I known that the three older royal children had never reached Chartres, but had been abducted from their mother’s procession and forced into Burgundian marriages, I might have been more prepared for what was to come. In the event, perhaps ignorance was bliss, because when she asked about her sister and brothers I wasn’t able to tell Catherine that Louis had been forced into a binding betrothal with Burgundy’s daughter Marguerite and had since been confined in the Louvre with Burgundian tutors, while his sister and brother had been whisked away to live with the children to whom Burgundy had matched them; Michele in Artois with the duke’s only son Philippe, and Jean in Hainault with Burgundy’s niece, Jacqueline, his sister’s daughter. However, I also heard that, far from considering themselves beaten, the queen and the Duke of Orleans had raised an army to confront Burgundy outside Paris. The king remained mad and confined, and the spectre of civil war stalked the land.

For the next three weeks I lived on tenterhooks, happy to have sole charge of Catherine and her little brother, but daily expecting a new governess to arrive and take over in the nursery. One September morning I believed that moment had arrived.

Little Charles had never been much of an eater. Who could blame him, given the awful slops he had been offered during most of his short life? I was encouraging him to finish his breakfast bowl of fresh curds sweetened with honey – a new and delectable treat – when there was a commotion on the tower stair. The door of the day nursery flew open to admit a richly dressed lady shadowed by a large female servant in apron and coif, not unlike my own. I sprang to my feet and hovered protectively over the children, who looked up in fright.

‘I am Marie, Duchess of Bourbon,’ the newcomer announced, without smile or greeting and only the merest glance to show that her words were addressed to me.

I backed away and dropped to my knees, my apprehension rising rapidly as she continued speaking. ‘His grace of Burgundy has requested me to make arrangements for the care of the king’s children.’

The mention of Burgundy rang loud alarm bells in my head. ‘Y-yes, Madame,’ I stuttered.

Catherine heard the name Burgundy and the tremor in my voice and her gaze swivelled in panic from me to the grand visitor. ‘No!’ she cried, instinctively sensing danger. ‘No, Mette. Make them go away.’

Marie of Bourbon glided forward and knelt by Catherine’s stool. With a smile and a touch she tried to reassure the trembling child. ‘Do not be frightened, my little one,’ she cooed. ‘There is nothing to fear. Your name is Catherine, is it not? Well, Catherine, you are a very lucky girl. You are going to a beautiful abbey where kind nuns will look after you and you will be safe. You will like that, will you not?’

Catherine was not fooled by a soft voice and a tender touch. ‘No! No, I want to stay with Mette.’ Like a whirlwind, she jumped off her stool and ran to my side, closely followed by little Charles, curds dribbling down his chin.

Still on my knees, I put my arms around them, tears springing to my eyes. ‘I am sorry, Madame,’ I gulped, avoiding the lady’s gaze. ‘There has been much upheaval in their lives lately and I am all they know.’

Marie of Bourbon rose and her tone became brisk as her patience grew thin. ‘That may be, but these are no ordinary children. They have been woefully neglected and it is time they were given the training they need and deserve. I will be taking Charles with me now. He is my father’s godson and he is to live in his household and receive the proper education for a prince. You are to prepare Catherine for her journey to Poissy Abbey. She will be leaving tomorrow morning.’ She waved an imperious hand at her servant. ‘Get the boy. We are leaving.’

Before he realised what was happening, Charles was swept up in a pair of sturdy arms. He set up a shrill screech and began to kick and struggle, but the woman had been picked for her strength and his puny efforts were stolidly ignored.

‘No! Put him down!’ Catherine screamed and ran at the woman, swinging on her arm and trying unsuccessfully to dislodge her brother. With tears of fear and frustration, the little girl turned to me. ‘Mette, don’t let them take him! Help him!’

Miserably, I shook my head and wrung my hands. What could I do? Who was I against the might of Burgundy, Bourbon and Berry? Our last sight of Charles was of his agonised, curd-spattered face and his outstretched hands as his captor descended the stairs but the sound of his screams persisted, punctuated by Catherine’s sobs. Marie of Bourbon’s cheeks were flushed and her expression grim as she stood in the doorway and gave me final instructions, raising her voice above the commotion.

‘I will come for Catherine at the same time tomorrow. See that she is prepared to leave. I do not want any more scenes like this. They are vulgar and unpleasant and not good for the children.’

‘Yes, Madame.’

I had bowed my head dutifully, but my deference disguised a mind whirling with wild rebellious notions. Could I whisk Catherine off to the bake house and raise her as my own child? Could I flee with her to some remote village? Could I take her to the queen? But even as these ideas flashed through my mind, I knew that no such course of action was feasible. Catherine was the king’s daughter, a crown asset. Stealing her would be treason. We would be hunted down and I would be put to death and how would that help her, or my own family? To say nothing of myself! As for taking her to the queen – I did not even know where she was, let alone how to get there.

I suppose I should have been grateful that we had another day together, that Catherine had not also been carried instantly to a closed litter, while Burgundy’s guards turned deaf ears to her heart-rending screams. At least I had a few hours to prepare her for our separation and to try and convince her that it was for the best.

How do you persuade a little girl of not quite four that what is about to happen is not the worst thing in the world when, like her, you completely believe that it is? How was I to make my voice say things that my heart utterly denied? I had heard cows bellowing in the fields when their calves were taken from them and I could feel a thunderous bellow welling up inside me; one that, if I let it out, would surely be heard throughout the whole kingdom. But I knew that I could not – must not – if I was to help Catherine face up to her inevitable future.

At first she wept and put her hands over her ears, screwing up her eyes as she cried, ‘No, Mette, no. I won’t leave you. They c-cannot make me. I will stay here and you can f-fetch Charles back and we will be happy, like we were b-before.’

I held her tightly in my arms. She was shaking and hiccupping. Wretched though I felt, I had to deny her. ‘No, Catherine. You must understand that you cannot stay here and that you and I cannot be together any more. You have to go and learn how to be a princess.’

She broke away from me and started shouting indignantly, ‘But why? You are my nurse. You have always looked after me. I thought you loved me, Mette.’

Ah, dear God, it was soul-destroying! Loved her? I more than loved her. She was an essential part of my being. Losing her would be like losing my hands or tearing out my heart, but I had to tell her that although I loved her, I had to let her go. She was not my daughter but the king’s and she had to do what her father wished.

‘But the king is mad,’ she cried. ‘We saw him in the garden. He does not care about me. He does not even know who I am.’

Out of the mouths of babes …! It was heartbreakingly true. He and his queen may have loved Dauphin Charles, the golden boy who had died, but none of the rest of their surviving offspring could be said to have benefited from one morsel of parental concern.

‘But God cares,’ I responded, grasping at straws. ‘God loves you and you will be going to His special house where His nuns will look after you and keep you safe.’