Blood Royal

Charles shook his head and coloured up. He shrilled: ‘Princes are never afraid.’

Owain said gently: ‘I grew up in a war. I was often scared. I was just a boy; I was helpless. Sometimes the things I saw came back to me in my dreams.’

‘You were scared?’ Charles said. He looked thoughtful. Then: ‘I have bad dreams.’

Owain shook his head sympathetically. ‘Mine stayed with me for years,’ he said. ‘But give them time. They pass.’

Charles nodded. He sat up too, a little closer to Owain. Christine, who’d said nothing during this conversation, smiled to herself and passed Catherine another piece of grass.

There was a silence.

‘This is the happiest summer I can remember,’ Catherine murmured contentedly, lying down on the grass in the shade of a tree full of green apples and stretching herself out. ‘Even Maman and Louis aren’t quarrelling as much as usual …’

Charles pulled himself up on his elbows, dazed and sated. He had smears of cheese around his mouth and grass in his hair. ‘Only because Maman agreed to send Marguerite away …’ he objected, but he sounded cheerful too; as if he were enjoying the argument. ‘And Papa’s still away too … ill …’

They both looked very serious at that. They nodded solemnly at each other, like much younger children. ‘Poor Papa,’ Catherine said piously.

Owain could feel Christine’s eyes warningly on him. He had the feeling these two didn’t know what was the matter with their father. Christine might be worried that he’d say something tactless. He kept reassuringly still. But Christine changed the subject anyway. She said, tartly: ‘And, of course, the Duke of Burgundy has called up ten thousand men, and he’s sitting in Dijon, just waiting for your mother and Louis to fall out … you shouldn’t get so carried away by a few days of hot weather that you forget that …’

She gave them a chiding look from under the white headdress that, despite the heat, she wouldn’t take off.

But it was too hot and light and safe here in the walled garden to care about ten thousand men in Dijon. Catherine only giggled, just a little nervously, and reached for another strawberry.

‘When I get married, it will be a golden day like this,’ the Princess said, biting into the fruit, looking at it. She was careful not to say whom she planned to marry. She didn’t want to annoy Christine. Owain stared at her mouth; at the glistening fruit. She knew he was looking at her. Taking another strawberry, she went on, dreamily, childishly: ‘And I’ll make Maman let me have a dress of cloth of gold, so I’ll glitter like the sun. And you’ll all be there, watching me, all three of you,’ and she flashed a beseeching look at Owain, and smiled at the soft glance she got back. ‘Won’t you?’ She ate the second strawberry. ‘And we’ll all be as happy as we are today, for ever and ever.’

‘They trust you,’ Christine said. ‘Charles has never talked about that before. I’m glad he did.’

Modestly, Owain lowered his head. He was leading her mule. They were walking west, along Saint Anthony Street, homeward, into the sunset, dazzled by the thick honey light. It was easy enough to look down. He knew both Charles and Catherine were coming to trust him – just as, he supposed, their father Charles and their uncle Louis of Orleans must have, long ago, as children, come to trust Christine, their own non-royal playmate in the gardens of the Hotel Saint-Paul. There was a pleasure in the continuity of that tradition started a generation ago by Christine, as well as the personal pleasure Owain felt at his own deepening friendship with this generation of royal children.

Owain spent large parts of his evenings with Christine’s books. He was an acolyte; overwhelmed with respect for her writing. He rushed through the books, feverish with words, eager for the next entire imaginary world he knew would be waiting for him inside the next cover. She had written so much: advice to widows, army strategy manuals (how did a woman do that?), an account of the philosopher-king Charles V’s life. But what he really wanted to read most, now, was the poems of wistful unrequited love that she’d earned her first money from.

Finding him reading her old poems, Christine gave him someone else’s book: the treatise by Andreas Cappellanus, The Art of Honest Love, in which the rules of the convention of unrequited love known to lovers all over Christendom were set out in three volumes. Owain found it very strange, and not only because it was in Latin, which he struggled to grasp. The delicious sufferings of the knights he understood all too well; the sighs. But, in true courtly love, as depicted in books, it appeared that the lady must always be haughty and superior. Her role was only to educate her lover, whose moral standing must be improved to make him worthy of her. However, he could never hope to improve himself enough to win her. The true aim of their love had nothing to do with achieving the satisfaction of a romantic union. It was a love that could never be satisfied; it was a love that could only exist outside marriage.

When Owain plucked up courage to ask, at Christine’s table, why the ladies of the poems must always be so harsh, it was Jean who replied, with a hint of impatience: ‘Because, if they ever did give in, there’d be nothing to show for all those years of trembling knightly devotion but adultery and moral disaster, would there now?’ He shrugged a brusque apology at his mother, but went on. ‘The idea of courtly love is … safer: a lifetime of spiritual adultery. Improve and be improved! Pine and be pined for! But never a moment of physical love. Never so much as a kiss.’

He laughed at Owain’s hot blush. ‘I’ve shocked you,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken so plainly.’ Getting up, he added: ‘Courtly love poems can make love seem too pretty. It’s not always pretty – love. You’re too young to know. You should leave love poetry alone until you’ve felt it yourself.’

‘He’s working so hard,’ Christine said after he’d gone, as if excusing her son’s tetchiness. It was true. Jean was out of the house long before everyone else was up, making sure there was money coming in, food on the table, but so rushed off his feet with the chancellor’s projects that his eyes were drooping before anyone else had finished supper. Christine sighed. There was a tired silence.

A moment later, Owain realised that Christine’s sigh signified something quite different from fatigue, or embarrassment that Jean had talked disrespectfully of poetry. She had something on her mind. She wanted to ask him a favour.

Fiddling with a bit of gristle on her platter, and looking down, almost nervously, she cleared her throat and asked if Owain would make a two-day trip out of Paris with her, to visit her daughter Marie, who was a nun at the monastery of Poissy. ‘Usually Jean takes me; but I can’t ask him now; he can’t spare the time,’ she said, and when she looked up he saw her eyes glisten.

Owain had read in one of Christine’s books that she had a daughter in a monastery. In her first months of widowhood, he knew, Christine had discovered that the dowry she thought had been put aside by her dead husband for this daughter had been stolen; and, without a bride price, Christine’s girl-child could never marry. Marie de Castel’s future had been saved by the King of France. When his own daughter, also called Marie, had entered the convent for royal women at Poissy, he’d found Christine’s daughter a place at her side, and paid the dowry the nuns demanded out of his own purse. Christine had written about her gratitude for the King’s goodness.

But Owain had never heard Marie’s name mentioned in her mother’s voice. Now, looking at Christine’s imploring eyes, which – although he knew she was much too self-possessed to weep – he could swear were soft with unshed tears, he could guess why. It was simple. She missed her daughter.

‘I’m allowed to visit her once a year; at the feast of St John … I don’t want to miss it,’ she was saying, looking down again, and he could hear the pain in her voice now, so clear that he was touched by the bravery with which she’d lived her hard, odd life. When he put a hand on hers, she took comfort from it. She didn’t shake it off. St John, he calculated: midsummer; in the next few days. ‘Of course,’ he said gently. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

She looked up now, blinking; and the smile that came to her face was both relieved and triumphant. She wanted to lighten the atmosphere, he could see; she knew she’d looked vulnerable, and she didn’t like to be pitiful. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured; then, in more conversational tones: ‘You’ll enjoy it, I think. It’s the most beautiful place, Poissy … tranquil … serene …’ She laughed, without amusement. ‘So beautiful that sometimes I think I should go and end my own days there, with my Marie.’ She blinked again and smiled; Owain saw that, despite her efforts, her eyes were watery again. She’d never have her family all together under one roof again; she’d never be completely happy with her choice, whether it was to be with her son or her daughter; there’d always be regrets.

‘… But not now, of course,’ Christine went briskly on. She got up from the table. She gestured with her veiny hands at the familiar room, full of the leftovers of dinner and her grandchildren’s clutter and the paraphernalia of family life. ‘There’s too much holding me here.’

Owain could see her biting her lip as she headed for the door. He sat on at the table, thinking.

He didn’t especially want to go to Poissy, not for himself. Owain could think of nothing but staying in Paris; nothing beyond the next few weeks and months here, in this perfect, frenzied, breathless moment, feeling young and full of joy with his confidence growing that every pleasure in life still lay ahead. There was something of the same feeling, he sensed, in Catherine’s endless questions about England, which kept coming even though there’d been no further word from the English court about the possible royal marriage. Whenever Christine wasn’t listening, Catherine would be whispering another request for information, about the King, jousting, London, the length of royal processions, Parliament, horses, fashions, the royal homes strung along the Thames valley … Owain couldn’t permit himself to examine the combination of hope and unease that this day-by-day interrogation aroused in him, but it hovered on the edge of his mind anyway, like a brilliant sunburst, too bright to look at. It was as if each of them were striving towards the place on the map that they sensed was natural for the other.

Still, if Christine wanted him to travel out of Paris with her, he would do her bidding. Of course he would. Even if it meant leaving the city where the sun always seemed to shine and happiness was within such easy reach, it was the least he could do for the woman who’d opened the door to it all.

The storm broke the next day. Over the ruins of a picnic in the gardens, they all heard the sound of hoofs in the heat of the afternoon. Half a dozen horses broke the silence; too close; too fast; only reining in a hasty gallop at the gate for long enough for a thin, angry male voice to hiss, ‘Get out of the way, you bloody fool; don’t you see who I am?’ and for a whip to crack; and then more jingling and neighing as the skittering horses were urged on again, up to the Queen’s house, over the flagstones just behind the nearest bushes.

Owain shook himself and raised his head. He didn’t know what was habitual here and what was not; he was only responding to the heightening of tension in the others. Charles was sitting straight up. Catherine’s head had jerked round to follow the sounds. They were both watching the bushes for any glimpse of the passing horses. Christine was getting to her feet; brushing grass off her skirts.

‘Louis,’ Charles said. His voice was hushed. He sounded scared.

‘Trouble,’ Catherine said, also in a tone of foreboding, following Christine to her feet. Charles scrambled up too.

No one needed to say more. It seemed entirely natural to start off, at a hasty pace somewhere between a walk and a run, in the direction the horses had taken. Breathlessly, Owain followed, heading for trouble too.

The royal Hotel Saint-Paul was a compound of separate houses set within the gardens. They watched from under a tree in front of the Queen’s house. In the heat and softness and grass, it felt unreal to Owain. None of the men on horseback, now reined in and waiting, seemed aware of the four extra sets of footsteps running up then stopping; of their quick breath. No one turned when Catherine quietly, protectively, put an arm round Charles’ trembling shoulder.

‘How dare you? How dare you?’ Crown Prince Louis was screaming. He’d dismounted. He was waving his whip, but not at the horse which had its suddenly placid head down in a tub of flowers. His face, whiter than ever, was all huge, black-rimmed, furious eyes. They were locked on the Queen, who, fat and carapaced in green silk, was gleaming like a poison beetle as she looked down at him from the shade of the colonnade. There were some smaller, bright-coloured forms behind her; was the whole court watching? Even from here, Owain could see the Queen was smiling.

‘Set them free at once. You had no right!’ Louis howled, on and on, beside himself, advancing menacingly up the stairs, never shifting his gaze. The Queen ignored his screechings. She stood her ground, and went on smirking and flashing her eyes hypnotically at him as he got closer; as he moved out of the sunlight and into the shadows. It wasn’t a nice smile. Owain thought, with a mixture of fascination and repulsion: She’s enjoying this.

There was a fast-moving blur in the shadows. Disbelievingly, Owain thought he could distinguish a raised arm; then the crack of leather on flesh.

The Queen stepped forward into the sunlight. Slowly, deliberately, she raised one hand to cup her injured cheek. Louis had struck her with his whip. Even from this distance, Owain could see the red welt on her face. Even from this distance, he could see the triumph in her eye.

There was a strange little whinny of laughter from somewhere very close. He glanced at his three companions. It must have been one of them. But they were straight-faced; concentrating; so sombre that he wondered, for an instant, whether it hadn’t been him who’d let that terrified laugh escape.

There was a terrible pause before the Queen spoke. Her voice was quiet but carrying; as taut as a whiplash. ‘You’re making a fool of yourself, Louis,’ she said. Owain could hear the taunt in it. ‘This isn’t how princes of chivalry are supposed to behave to the mothers who raised them, you know.’

Louis flinched, and put down the whip.

‘But then, what do you care about that? You just do whatever you want, whenever you want; don’t let anything get in the way of your satisfaction, whatever it is, however depraved. Don’t you?’ The female voice was rising now, enough to instil fear, though not quite enough to sound hysterical. ‘You’re still a spoiled child; you think of nothing but “want, want, want”,’ she went on, carefully nursing her welt and her grudge; keeping her rhythm. ‘And then you’re surprised when things don’t work out the way you want them to. You’re surprised when people start saying someone who can do all the self-willed, degenerate, dreadful things you do, without any hesitation, without the least guilt, is going the way your father’s gone,’ – Owain was aware of the hush deepening – ‘and should be kept from the throne.’

She stuck her face out towards him; making sure to stay in the sunlight so all the watchers could see.

‘No wonder there are riots and rebellions in Paris,’ she intoned, gloatingly; ‘no wonder people say the harsh things about you that I so often hear. You shouldn’t be surprised, Louis. You shouldn’t be surprised.’

She took another step towards him.

‘Are you proud of striking your mother?’ she asked, as if this taunting, hateful conversation was a ritual they often observed – which, Owain could see from the looks of dread on the two children’s faces, it must indeed be. ‘Are you? Do you think behaviour like this is worthy of a future king?’

Louis’ head drooped. He shifted ground; stepped back, further into the shadows. ‘You overstepped the mark. You had no right to do what you did,’ he muttered, still angry, sounding truculent but also, already, defeated. She’d got behind his defences.

Owain had no idea what this quarrel was about, or how to find out. But he could see that those more familiar with appalling, frightening spectacles like this had ways of finding out. He watched as Catherine let go of Charles’ shoulder and stepped, as lightly and daintily as a ghost, across the grass to the nearest horseman. ‘What happened?’ she whispered up at him; half whisper, half hiss; a command for information.