The Queen's Secret

A MARRIAGE IS ARRANGED

My mother sent for me and, filled with apprehension, I went to her apartments. One of her women was waiting for me.

“Madame la Reine,” she announced, “the Princess is here.”

I went into the room.

It was so long since I had seen her that I had only vague memories of her.

She was stretched out on a couch, dressed in a gown of pale lavender color. There were pearls and diamonds at her throat, on her arms and in her ears. She glittered. She had grown very fat; and now that I was older I suspected that her dazzling complexion owed something to art. Two little white dogs were on the sofa with her.

She looked as voluptuous as ever. Her hair was a little darker than I remembered it, and the luxuriant curls were arranged in careless elegance. She was startlingly attractive still.

Her eyes sparkled as she saw me.

“My dearest, dearest child! Come to me.” She held out her hands. I went to her and kissed one of them; then she drew me to her. “Let me look at you. There.” She kissed my cheek. There was an alertness in her eyes which belied her languor. “But it is true,” she went on. “You are beautiful. Alas, you remind me of my dear Isabelle.” She picked up a lace handkerchief and held it to her eyes. “My dear, dear child. It broke my heart. So young…and poor Orléans. He’s consoled himself now…and lost little time in doing it. But he had no say in the matter, of course…with Armagnac in control. But let me look at you. Bring a stool and sit beside me. Stop that silly barking, Bijou. He is jealous, you know. He cannot bear me to look at anyone but him. Naughty, silly little dog.”

I sat beside her, fascinated by the folds of white flesh…the brilliant eyes, the delicately tinted cheeks.

I did not know what to say, but I realized, with relief, that I was not expected to speak very much. All I had to do was agree with what she suggested.

“My dear child,” she said, “it has been a great grief to me that I have been so often separated from my dear children. You do not understand what a mother’s feelings are.” Her expression changed from second to second. Now she was the bereaved mother, her beautiful features set in lines of melancholy. She quickly brightened and her smile was dazzling. “But that is the way of life for us. I have had so many trials. Your dear, dear father.”

“And there was the death of the Duke of Orléans,” I said.

She looked at me sharply. I could see angry lights appearing in her eyes. But that quickly passed. I knew what she was thinking: The child is innocent of everything. What could she know, shut away in Poissy?

“There have been many tragedies for France,” she said. “And for the Queen. Well, they must be her tragedies, too. We have lived through some stirring times…but I have always put my personal griefs behind me and thought only of my country. But why are we gloomy? I have the most wonderful news. My pleasure now is planning for my family. My thoughts are all for them…my dear, dear children, whose company was often denied to me…but now they are growing up and I can plan for them as I am doing now for you, my child. You will see what your mother has in store for you. I have a grand match for you.”

“A marriage …” I said fearfully.

“A marriage, of course. What else?” She was slightly irritable. She wanted me to be young and innocent but not stupid. “You will bless your mother when you hear.”

“Please, Madame…may I hear who this is?”

She leaned toward me. “You will never guess. You would never have dreamed. The King of England has a son…his eldest son…heir to the throne. Who else would I think good enough for my dearest daughter, Katherine?”

“That is Henry,” I said. “Henry of Monmouth.”

“But of course. He is a handsome young man…full of vitality…charming, amusing, witty, good-natured…kind. Everything that a young woman could wish for in a husband.”

“Isabelle did not think so.”

She frowned. “How do you know?” she demanded.

“She told me. She would not have him…and she knew him. She had seen him …”

“Your sister…your dear, dear sister…was not always wise. In any case she was only a child. She could not know what was good for her any more than you can. Never mind. You have a mother to plan for you.” She was smiling at me benignly, forgetting, no doubt, those years of neglect. I had an impulse to ask her where the loving mother had been then.

“Your sister was so young,” she went on. “She was so enamored of Richard, which was good and right that she should be, but like all children she was without judgment. Of course, she had a wonderful life in England…as you will see, my dear. Who would not wish to be Queen of England? And you will be that…in time. I have heard that the King suffers from some illness; he cannot last long. And then Henry, your husband…will be King of England. And you will be beside him, his Queen. Is that not a wonderful prospect? And should you not be grateful to your mother for making all this possible for you?”

“Isabelle could have remained Queen of England if she had married him.”

“Oh, an end to this harking on Isabelle! Isabelle…God rest her soul, has been taken from us. We loved her dearly but at times she could be a little foolish…as most young people are. They do well to listen to their elders…those who make the young people’s future their greatest concern. Then all will be well. Well, let us now say that Isabelle’s loss will be her little sister’s gain. Now listen to me. You are very like your sister. This comes out in your portrait.”

I said: “It was painted with that purpose…to show the similarities between us.”

My mother smiled slyly. “I am sure it will please the Prince.”

“But…I do not want …”

She waved a hand and there was a warning in her eyes. I could see how fierce she would be in anger. She did not want to know what I thought unless it was in favor of the match. If I was proposing to object I had better be silent. In any case my views in the matter were immaterial.

“Now,” she went on, “an embassy will be here shortly. The Duke of York is on the Continent. He will come to Paris to discuss certain matters. Naturally he and his embassy will wish to see you.” She looked at me archly. “And take back a report. We must see that it is a good one.”

I was silent.

“You must learn to be more animated. We do not want the English to say you are dull. Isabelle was full of life. You must try to be like her. They will speak to you in English and you must reply to them in their language…show them that you are not stupid. I have dressmakers coming tomorrow. There are many preparations to be made. You must make a good impression on the King of England’s ambassadors.”

I knew that there was no escape and I was filled with foreboding.

I longed for the peace of Poissy.

The period of preparation had begun. I was with my mother often. She, who had spent a lifetime adorning herself, knew exactly how to accentuate the good points in others. Colors were chosen with the utmost care; the cut of a sleeve, the fall of a skirt…they were matters of great moment. She applauded or abused the dressmakers in accordance with what she considered their deserts. One would have thought we were going into war, or that some matter of great importance to the country’s welfare was being decided.

Jewels were chosen for me. I had to practice my English; I had to learn to dance—a matter which, to my mother’s chagrin, had been somewhat neglected at Poissy. I was kept so busy that I had little time to brood on my situation—which was a good thing.

My dead sister was constantly referred to—“Isabelle did this…she had a habit of …”—until I felt I was impersonating her. And how I longed for her to be with me, to advise me…to help me…to explain what I had to do. The odious Henry of Monmouth had sought her at one time…and ardently, it seemed. She had turned from him in horror. He had never seen me…but his father was seeking me on his behalf. He might not want me any more than I wanted him.

Oh, Isabelle, I thought, if you were here, you would tell me what to do. You would help me to evade this fate which they are determined to press upon me. You did it. How can I?

But Isabelle was gone and I was alone; and I was completely at the command of my indomitable mother.

At length the ambassadors came. I had conversed with them in their own tongue and they had graciously applauded me on my command of their language, which I believe was due to politeness rather than truth, for I had stumbled a little. But it seemed my looks and my demeanor were acceptable; and there was reference to my likeness to my sister Isabelle.

My mother was not displeased.

“You did well,” she told me, and she patted my head. “I could have thought it was Isabelle all over again.” She perfunctorily dabbed at her eyes for a few moments.

The English emissaries were still in Paris, and negotiations went on. I heard that the demands of the King of England were too great; on the other hand they were not refused.

Every day I dreaded to hear the outcome, for I knew that once they reached an agreement—and it was certain that both sides wanted the match to take place—my fate would be settled.

But something happened which was to give me a respite—if only temporarily.

My mother sent for me and I knew at once that she was excited but a little uncertain.

“There is news from England,” she said. “This will undoubtedly delay our plans. I hope not for long. The King of England has died. Prince Henry has become King Henry…King Henry V.”

She was smiling at me coyly.

“Well, what do you say?”

“I…I was wondering what difference that would make.”

“Delay undoubtedly. Perhaps he will want to strike a harder bargain. It was hard enough, God knows, before. But now he is the King…we shall see. Do not fret, child, I am sure your father and I will manage to get this wonderful match for you…however much we have to pay for it.”

I shivered and was silent, and she pretended to construe my attitude as one of delight.

“I know how you feel,” she went on. “It is a dazzling prospect. A Queen…you, my little Katherine. You will learn what that means. I am a proud woman. Two daughters of mine Queens of England. Is that not a wonderful triumph?” She was smiling, gazing ahead. “Of course…he will be busy for a while…getting himself crowned and dealing with matters of state. We know that full well. So it may be that we have to wait for a few weeks or so…months mayhap…before he can give himself up to the delights of marriage.”

I escaped to my own apartments, and there I shut myself in with my thoughts.

A few months. At least it was a respite.

The embassy sent to assess my worthiness to become the bride of the King of England had departed. I wondered what sort of report would be given of me.

I gathered that I looked sufficiently like my sister to please them; and I fervently hoped that it would be a long time before Henry wanted to think of marriage. He was fourteen years older than I and from what I had heard had been on particularly friendly terms with a great many women: but of course that was different. He would have to marry, and the sooner kings married the better, for one of their first duties was to get heirs.

The thought made me shudder. How grateful I was to Henry IV for dying when he did. It ensured me a few weeks—perhaps months—of peace.

There was a great deal of speculation about Henry. He had been such a wild and reckless youth that people were asking what sort of king he would make. Many people said England would be ill-governed. Perhaps that was wishful thinking, for an ill-governed England would suit France very well. Heaven knew France was in a sorry state. There was what was tantamount to war between the Burgundians and the Armagnacs; the King’s periods of lucidity were growing more and more infrequent; the Dauphin was young and inclined to flaunt his authority, and there were sycophants all around him; he was not on good terms with his mother, who objected to his attempts to interfere with her plans. She, I believed, was intriguing first with the Armagnacs and then with the Burgundians. This internal strife had weakened the country to a considerable extent, and across the Channel was a new king who had not been tested yet but had made it clear that he was casting covetous eyes on France.

All were watching events on the other side of the Channel. There were rumors that the new king had changed his character overnight. There was no more roistering with rowdy companions, no more frequenting of low taverns. He threw these habits off as though they were a cloak and revealed his true nature—a young man with a mission to rule his country well and make it great.

“It cannot last,” said some. “It is just a phase. He is a wild young man. He goes from one mood to another. No one changes like that overnight as it were.”

Others said he had long wanted the crown and that he had been impatiently waiting for his father’s death to take it. There was a story in circulation that when his father lay sick he had taken the crown and tried it on and had very much liked the feel of it upon his head.

This man they had chosen for me seemed to have many facets and moods. He was a rake; he was a dedicated king; he cared only for the life of pleasure, yet he had waited with the utmost impatience to shoulder the burdens of state.

It was difficult to know what to believe. I wanted to find out all I could about him, while I prayed that I might never have an opportunity of discovering whether it were true.

I was often in my mother’s company, and sometimes I felt that the more I saw her, the less I knew her. I had very soon learned that it would be unwise to show any defiance of her wishes. I had a habit of lowering my head in case she should read rebellion in my expression. I was always wishing that I might be sent away from Court. I longed for Poissy. But even if the negotiations did hang fire, I was still an important pawn in my mother’s game; and she wanted to keep me under close surveillance.

I was afraid of her. Large, voluptuous, perfumed, there was something snake-like about her. I saw it in the sudden venom in her eyes when she considered her enemy; and if I refused to fall in with her wishes, I could qualify for that description.

She must be at the center of some plot. I knew that she swayed between Burgundy and Armagnac, feigning friendship with each in turn and being the friend of neither. Yet, in spite of her love of intrigue, she wallowed in voluptuous indolence. Her sensuality was her most outstanding characteristic; and it must be satisfied at all cost. When I think of her now, it is to see her reclining on a couch in her splendor, lapsing into voluptuous ease, nibbling sweetmeats, calling to her little dogs, petting them, scolding them, popping sweetmeats into their mouths, stroking them while they watched her with attentive adoring eyes. I think she cared more for her pets than for any people. I supposed it was because they were completely hers to command. They obeyed without question. She did not have to manipulate them. But then I believed she enjoyed manipulating people; of course, she could fly into wild rages if those about her did not dance to her tune.

She had her lovers—several of them. I remember especially Louis de Bosredon, whom I particularly disliked. He was a nobleman who came from the Auvergne and she had made him her steward so that she could keep him close to her.

He was good-looking and very conceited. He gave himself airs, and I had heard it said that, because the Queen liked to have him in her bed, he thought he was all but in name King of France.

He clearly did not realize how short-lived the Queen’s favor could be and that she never seemed to show any regret for her lost lovers. Even in the case of the Duke of Orléans, who many believed had had a special place in her affections, she had shown no great sorrow when he was murdered.

My mother was anxious to keep my brother Louis close to her and to guide him in every way. He was a child no longer and many believed that before long he would be King of France. My father was growing less and less capable of understanding state affairs and there was a good deal of speculation about his abdicating in favor of the Dauphin. Courtiers were aware of this; and with every day Louis grew more important in the eyes of those about him—and in his own.

No one was quite sure which side the royal family supported…Burgundy or Armagnac. The Queen was so devious; she swayed between them. But Louis suddenly developed a very close friendship with the young Duke of Orléans and they were constantly together. They even dressed alike; and therefore Louis became a friend of the Armagnacs. The people followed the Court, and the Burgundians who had been in high favor in Paris were no longer so. It was fashionable now to stand with the Armagnacs. It was amazing how quickly people took up causes, and they were completely fickle. There was fighting in the streets and, I am grieved to say, often murders. Anyone who dared say a good word for Burgundy was set upon.

I felt a great sorrow for my country. People did not see that the continual bickering between two great houses could do nothing but harm to everyone.

It was not to be expected that the Duke of Burgundy would allow himself to be ousted from his position of power; and when his secret negotiations with the King of England were disclosed, there was a great outcry against him.

My mother was enraged.

“The perfidious scoundrel!” she cried. “He thinks he is the King of France…no less. How dare he! I’d have his head for this. Jean the Fearless! I’d give him something to fear!”

I do not know why she talked to me about it. I supposed it was because at that time she talked to anyone, so furious was she.

“Do you know what he has done? He has sent men to London, trying to persuade the King there to consider his daughter.”

My heart leaped with hope. Could it be that I was to be supplanted? I was sorry for the girl, but what an escape for me!

“He is offering his daughter as wife to Henry. Does he think he can achieve that! The upstart!”

Burgundy was no upstart, I wanted to say. He was more royal than she was. But of course I lowered my eyes and kept quiet.

“I never heard of such arrogance. Her name is Katherine,” she added wryly, as though that made the offense even more treacherous. “Yes…he hoped to get ahead of me…ahead of your father, by bringing about a marriage between that wretched daughter of his and the King of England.”

“And…what did the King of England say to that?”

“What think you? He is making high enough demands for you. Do you think he would think twice of Burgundy’s daughter?”

“She is royal.”

“She is not the daughter of a king. He is a king, is he not? He will take you in time…never fear. But he strikes a hard bargain. Burgundy is mad.”

That was not true, but perhaps he had been a little unwise.

My hopes that there would be a substitute were dashed. My father was brought out of retirement and set up in the council chamber.

He must sign certain documents which would be delivered to the Duke of Burgundy without delay, informing him that on pain of forfeiture and treason, he must not enter into any treaty with the King of England either for his daughter’s marriage or for any other reason.

My mother laughed in derision.

“The man is undoubtedly mad. Does he think Henry would take such a match? No…no…he’ll look higher. He is the King of England, is he not?”

I could see that my hope of escape had been too optimistic.

We heard that the new King was displaying great energy. He was extremely popular in a way his father had never been. He was young and virile; Henry IV had been old and ailing. In fact, his last years had been plagued by a terrible illness. Now there was a great driving force in the nation. The shipyards were busy; there were preparations for war which was always a matter for concern; and already the young King had distinguished himself on the battlefield.

There was a rumor that he was thinking of claiming France. His great-grandfather, Edward III, had had an obsession that France, in truth, belonged to England, which was due to the marriage of Edward II to Isabelle of France. Edward had waged war in France. Poitiers and Crécy were still remembered.

Henry sent messengers to France. He was ready now to open negotiations for the marriage.

“He liked the portrait of you,” my mother told me. “No doubt it reminded him of Isabelle. He was most upset that he did not get her.”

But when she saw the demands Henry made, my mother was less euphoric.

“Really!” she cried. “He asks too much. He is too sure of himself. He is young…and feeling his way, no doubt.” She smiled indulgently. She had a weakness for young and virile men.

I was glad of his demands, for it seemed they were too great to be met. Postponement at least was something.

I heard that he was demanding Normandy, Anjou and Maine and that I was to bring a dowry of two million crowns.

“It is outrageous,” said my mother. “Even if we were inclined to concede the territory…where could we find two million crowns?”

Negotiations flagged once more and the trouble which had begun by Burgundy’s perfidious act in trying to arrange a marriage for his daughter behind the King’s back caused further outbreaks of fighting. It was almost as though we were at war.

In the midst of all this the bargaining was renewed.

The Dauphin Louis could talk of little but Henry of England. He jeered at him. How dared he make such demands? The English had no right to be in France. They had gained much through Henry II’s marriage to Eleanor of Aquitaine, and their son King John had obligingly—as far as the French were concerned—lost it all. Now those lands were back where they belonged, and that was where they should stay.

I had opportunities of talking to Louis now and then. How different he was from the young brother I had known in the Hôtel de St.-Paul! He was now longing to be King. He thought my father should give up the crown and pass it to him without delay.

“He is sick of mind,” he said. “He will never be able to govern. If I were King, I would subdue Burgundy for a start. I would stop this fellow of England daring to make such demands. If I were King, I should tell him to marry you, sister, and think himself honored.”

“Why should he?” I asked. “He is a King.”

“And are you not the daughter of a King? When you are Queen of England, you must always think of your native land. You must work for France…when you are Queen of England.”

“It may turn out that I never shall be. The matter has been discussed many times and there is always some hitch.”

“It will not always be so. Oh, if I were but King, how different everything would be!”

I could see why my mother kept a close watch on Louis. I wondered what would happen when he became King. He had no love for her and he would certainly not brook her control. What would she do then?

I asked him to tell me what he knew of Henry. “For, if I am to be his wife, it will be good for me to know,” I said.

“Oh, you will deal with him, sister. Any woman could. He is but a boy.”

“He is fourteen years older than I am.”

“He has spent his life roistering in taverns in low company.”

“I have heard that he has spent some time on the battlefield.”

“Just a soldier. He will never be able to govern England. I have no fear of him.”

“Some people seem to.”

“They would be frightened by their own shadow. I shall be King one day…then you will see.”

“Louis,” I said earnestly, “how necessary is this marriage to France? Must it be?”

He looked at me shrewdly. “It is of importance,” he said. “We have had trouble with the English. There is always trouble with the English. Such a marriage might put an end to it. They have this notion that they own our land. It was due to all those marriages…years ago. Well, France is mine and I intend to hold it.”

“And must I marry Henry of England?”

He nodded his head. “It seems to me that most people in France think it would be an excellent conclusion…and I am of the opinion that the English are of like mind.”

“Then…providing he does not ask too much…it will take place?”

“Yes, sister. It must. For France.”

I could see that unless Henry made outrageous demands—which he was capable of doing—my fate was certain.

Disquieting news was coming from across the Channel. Henry was demanding subsidies from his Parliament. “For the defense of England and the safety of the seas.” What did it mean? There was a great deal of shaking of heads and uneasy speculation.

Henry’s demands, which included me, could not be met. And it seemed he was preparing to make even greater demands.

Alarming statements were coming from England. The crown of France, in fact, belonged to him, declared Henry. The English did not recognize the French law precluding women from ascending the throne, which law was the reason why the throne had not come to Isabelle, wife of Henry’s ancestor Edward II. These claims had been raised before and had caused strife between our countries; and now here they were again.

The King was more or less offering an ultimatum. Unless I was given to him in marriage with a dowry of 840,000 golden crowns, fifteen towns in Aquitaine and the seneschalty of Limoges, he would have no recourse but to come over and take the crown which, after all, was his by right.

My brother Louis laughed aloud.

“The arrogant young pup!” he said. “To whom does he think he is talking? Does he realize that he is challenging the mighty land of France?”

But was France mighty? For years it had been ruled by a mad king and his rapacious wife; there was fighting between the two greatest houses in the land. Was France in a position to defend itself?

There was a hasty meeting of the Council; and the Archbishop of Bourges sent to the King of England a reply which was both moderate and adequate.

Did the King of England really think that he could turn the King of France from his throne? he asked. He must be thinking that out of fear he had entered into negotiations for his daughter’s marriage. This was not so. It was done out of the love of peace. The French did not want war. They did not wish innocent blood to be shed. In the event of war, the French would have right on their side. They would confidently call upon God Almighty and the Blessed Virgin to aid the King’s arms and loyal subjects, and the English armies would be driven out of France and their King would meet death or capture.

Such bold words might have deterred some, but not King Henry.

He now made it clear that negotiations were at an end. If the French would not give him what he wanted, he had no alternative but to come and take it by force.

It was said that he was determined on war.

My father was in one of his lucid periods. He was horrified at the prospect of war. He wrote to the King of England saying that if he came to France he would receive him and they might enter into discussion. He added that it was a strange way of wooing his daughter—covered with the blood of her countrymen.

Louis was boasting about what he would do to the English if they dared set foot on French soil. With a few of his friends he contrived what he thought was a joke. He had a cask of tennis balls sent from Paris to London, with a message to Henry that the balls were more fitting playthings for him than the weapons of war he was proposing to use against France.

Knowing Henry, as I did later, I could well imagine the mood in which he received the tennis balls.

His reply was typical of him. “These balls,” he said, “shall be struck back with such a racket as shall force open the gates of Paris.”

It was tantamount to a declaration of war.

On August 7 in that year 1415, Henry set sail for France.

At that time I was nearly fourteen years of age.

It was just a month after he had landed when Henry took Harfleur. It had cost him a great deal and there were rumors that his army was plagued by sickness.

He marched on, however.

The terrible events of the previous months had aroused my father from his madness. He listened to the accounts of the capture of Harfleur and declared he would place himself at the head of his army and go with it to meet the English King.

It was his Uncle Berry, I think, who begged him to consider what he was proposing to do.

“Remember Poitiers?” he said. “Remember Crécy? It is better that you should not be there. If we lose the battle, we cannot lose the King or the Dauphin as well.”

My father hesitated. He must have known that his presence would be a cause for alarm rather than an inspiration. What if madness should seize him on the battlefield—which was not unlikely? What harm would that do? It was agreed that he should not go…nor the Dauphin and his brothers Jean and Charles. It was also decided that it would be unwise for Berry, Brittany and Burgundy to risk themselves either.

When I heard this, I felt that they were preparing for defeat before the battle had begun. But although it was more than fifty years since the Battle of Poitiers had been lost, Frenchmen had never forgotten it.

The Battle of Agincourt would be another of those which would be remembered for a long time. It was October 25 and I had now reached my fourteenth birthday. There was tension throughout the Queen’s apartments.

All the flower of the nobility—with the exception of the very highest in the land, whom it had been decided could not risk their lives—was there.

In trepidation we waited for the result.

I heard more of that battle later on. Henry himself described it to me. He glowed with pride and enthusiasm when he did so, and I could not help catching it, even though it had meant such a bitter defeat for my own countrymen.

“The French were doomed from the start,” Henry told me, “in spite of the fact that there were so many of them. We had come from Harfleur…there was sickness in our ranks, and a soldier will often fight better when he is defending his homeland. France was mine by right but these men of mine…well, they wanted victory…they wanted the spoils of victory…but home for them was England. The French were confident…too confident. Fifty thousand of them at least…all drawn up in their heavy armor. Compared with them, we were very few. Some Englishmen quailed when they compared the numbers of French with ours, and I had to remind them one Englishmen was worth ten Frenchmen.” He laughed that rather raucous laugh of his to which I had become accustomed by that time. But I never forgot his description of the battle.

“They were so confident, your poor deluded Frenchmen. They had the numbers. There they were in their shining armor…elegant to look at but oh so heavy to wear. They spent the night before drinking, dicing, betting on how long we should last against them. A soldier should have confidence…but the right sort of confidence…which is not the foolhardy sort. There must be no vanity in that confidence. The French did not have the right kind. We spent the night in preparation. I had my scouts all over the ground. I knew where it was marshy due to the excessive rains. I knew where I wanted my men and I knew where I wanted theirs. I made sure the French were huddled together without enough space to move freely. I had them on the sodden ground. I knew that, however pretty their ornate armor was, it was too heavy for easy maneuver. And there we were, with the whole width of the field to move in, with the archers on our wings and the woods to protect our flanks. I wore a crown in my helmet so that all should know I was there among them. And at the end of the day the French had lost 10,000 men and the English…some say fourteen, but I’ll confess it might have been a little more…perhaps a hundred or two. Small, though, against 10,000. I did not know the name of the place and asked it of a peasant who said: ‘It is Agincourt, my lord.’ And I replied, ‘Henceforth this shall be known as the Battle of Agincourt.’”

That was Henry’s version, and I think it must have been an accurate one for he was not a man to hide the truth.

In any case, no one could fail to admit that that was a sad day in France’s history.

There was despondency throughout the Court. There was scarcely a family in the land which was not plunged into mourning. The Duke of Burgundy had lost his two brothers—the Duke of Brabant and the Count of Nevers. I heard he cursed himself because he had not been present. He had given orders that his son—who was the husband of my sister Michelle—should not be allowed to go, and although the young man had attempted to disobey his father’s orders, he had been restrained by the Duke’s men.

It was a day of shame for France, and that meant England’s glory.

The Duke of Burgundy, in a moment of despair, sent a message to Henry with his gauntlet challenging him to single combat. He wanted to avenge his brothers, he said.

By this time I was beginning to realize that Henry was not the man I had first thought him to be. Isabelle’s account had been of that rash youth, that frequenter of taverns. This was a different man, a man of great wisdom…a king and a conqueror.

He at once saw the folly of fighting a duel with the Duke of Burgundy. Weighty matters such as he was engaged in were not solved by such methods. He was the victor of Agincourt, but he was fully aware that this was by no means the end of the struggle. Victory could easily turn sour, and he had no intention of allowing his to do so. Moreover, he knew of the strife in France; and he believed that, with a little diplomacy, because of Burgundy’s intense hatred of the Armagnacs, he might consider them a greater enemy than the English. Henry was more than a great soldier; he was a diplomatic king, always looking far ahead beyond the triumphs of the moment.

His reply to the Duke was almost sycophantic, which amazed all, for it seemed incredible that the victor of Agincourt could write in such a humble manner. I was as surprised as any, for, of course, I did not know Henry at that time.

He wrote back: “I will not accept the gauntlet of so powerful a prince as the Duke of Burgundy. I am of no account compared with him. If I have had a great victory at the expense of France, it is through the grace of God. The death of the Duke’s brothers has afflicted me sorely, but neither I nor my soldiers caused their deaths. Take back this gauntlet. I will prove to the Duke by the testimony of my prisoners that it was the French who accomplished his brothers’ destruction.”

I wondered what Burgundy’s feelings were when he received that reply. He must have realized the cleverness which lay behind it. It could have been the beginning of that rapport between Burgundy and the English. The latter were not so much the Duke’s personal enemies as the hated Armagnacs.

I remember my brother Louis’s rage when he realized the extent of the defeat at Agincourt. All his arrogance had disappeared; he was a different man from that one who had laughingly sent the tennis balls across the Channel. He looked more like the bewildered boy I had known in the Hôtel de St.-Paul.

He trembled with rage. “What will happen now?” he shrieked. “What will happen to us all now?” He went into a sort of frenzy. I think those about him must have feared he was going to have an attack similar to those suffered by my father. Blood frothed at his lips. He was a terrifying sight and had to be hurried to bed.

He was very ill for some days. I went to see him.

“I shall soon be well,” he said. “It is just a fever.”

“You must rest,” I told him.

“So says the physician. Then I shall be well. It is the war. I should have been there, Katherine. I should not have allowed them to be so…ignobly beaten by those barbarians.”

I looked at him sadly. Did he really believe that he could have turned the defeat at Agincourt into a victory? He seemed very like my little brother then…vulnerable…like the rest of us…constantly having to remind himself that he was the Dauphin when he was really a frightened boy.

I was present when my mother came to him.

“My dear, dear son,” she cried. “You are sick. Oh…but I am going to look after you.”

“I am well looked after,” protested Louis.

“But at such a time, my love, you need your mother. You have had a shock. Have not all of us? This terrible tragedy which has befallen our country…I know exactly what is good for you. I am going to nurse you back to health.”

The idea of our mother in a sickroom was rather startling. Louis stared at her disbelievingly; then suddenly I saw a look of horror creep over his face. He turned to me and there was a tragic appeal in his eyes. “Katherine,” he said, “don’t go…you will stay.”

“There is no need for Katherine to be here,” said our mother firmly. “She knows nothing of nursing.”

Did she? I wondered.

I said boldly: “I will stay with you, Louis, if you wish.”

“Katherine …” He reached for my hand, and I was again reminded vividly of that little boy.

“Now, now,” said my mother. “My poor boy. Katherine should go now. We do not want too many people in the sickroom. Poor, poor Louis. You have suffered a great shock. It is best for you to be with your mother.”

I stood still looking at Louis.

“Go now,” she said to me with a show of irritation. She turned to look at Louis. “We shall soon have you well. You shall have the very best attention. I shall send for my physician. He is the cleverest doctor in France.”

She gave me a little push away from the bed. I wanted to refuse to go because I thought Louis was trying to say something to me, but we had been in awe of her too long, and I knew those purring kittenish moods could suddenly break into violent rage.

I bowed my head and turned away. I could not bear to look at Louis.

I heard that his health did not improve even though she had sent for her physician.

I cannot say whether the rumors were true, but inevitably there were rumors, for everyone knew there was conflict between the Dauphin and his mother.

When the physician came, he gave Louis what he said he thought would be an immediate cure. Louis was very ill and by the following day he was dead.

Rumor persisted. Some said Louis had been in moderately good health. Why should he die so suddenly? Was it the shame of Agincourt which had hastened his death? He had been certain that the French could not fail to win. He had boasted of inevitable victory; and the shock of defeat had killed him.

Others said he had been spitting blood for some months. Innumerable royal children had died from that complaint.

But the whispers were there. It was poison. Everyone knew that the Dauphin hated and feared his mother; and everyone knew that that was something she would not endure.

Whatever the truth was, the Dauphin Louis was dead, and my brother Jean had now stepped into his shoes.

Jean had never been like Louis. He had always comfortably assured himself that he would never have to face that great responsibility. Now he had been proved wrong.

Our mother lavished care on Jean, which he had never known before. He was timid; he was no braggart like his brother; all he wanted was a peaceful life.

Like all of us children, he was afraid of our mother, and now that her attention was turned on him, he was terrified.

The Armagnacs were always at his side. He could not escape to the peace he so desired.

He was only just eighteen years old. I remember well the last conversation I had with him.

“I’d rather be anywhere than here, Katherine,” he said. “I’d rather be cold and hungry at the Hôtel de St.-Paul.”

I tried to comfort him. “Most people in your position would feel like that at first,” I said. “This has been thrust upon you. You weren’t expecting it.”

He nodded. “And our mother…she is always there now.”

“You must remember that you are the Dauphin,” I said. “It is you who will be the King.”

“I know. That is what terrifies me.”

It was April of that year 1417…a momentous one. Jean was coughing blood. He was almost pleased when the doctors said he must rest. Gratefully he kept to his bed, and a few days later he quietly died. Poor Jean. I think he was rather relieved to leave a life which had become so frightening to him.

My younger brother, Charles, now fourteen years old, had become the Dauphin of France.

Poor Charles, I do not think he wanted the honor any more than Jean had. He was of a melancholy nature and wept when he heard the news. His two brothers—who he had believed would protect him from high rank—had gone…and now there he was, the new Dauphin of France.

“I shouldn’t have the title, Katherine,” he told me. “It is not mine by right.”

“What do you mean, Charles?” I said. “You are the next in line.”

“Ah, but I do not believe I am the King’s son.”

“What?”

“When I was born, our mother was having numerous lovers. One of them could be my father.”

“You must not think like that, Charles. After all, it could apply to us all.”

“Our mother is a wicked woman, Katherine.”

I was silent.

“Do you think she poisoned Louis?” he asked.

“No…no …” I cried, although it was not strictly true.

“And what if she decided to poison me?”

“She will not. She would not dare.”

“But if I am a bastard I have no right to the throne.”

“Charles, do not think of such things. You will be all right. You must be. You are the last son. You are safe.”

He hugged me suddenly. I was very sorry for my little brother who was so afraid of being Dauphin, and even more so when he looked to the future and saw himself King of France.

Henry did not stay in France after Agincourt. Some less clever, less astute victors might have attempted to continue with the campaign. But his army needed rest and replenishment. Several of his men were sick, so he fortified his gains and with his sick and wounded and much depleted army he returned to England. But we all knew full well that that was not the end. He would return.

The strife between Armagnac and Burgundy continued while each blamed the other for the defeat at Agincourt. If only my countrymen had stood together, everything might have turned out differently.

We were in Vincennes. My mother kept me with her. She was certain that soon Henry would be demanding our union, so I was an important bargaining counter.

“A daughter’s place is with her mother,” she said, glibly ignoring any reference to the years of my infancy when I might have needed a mother and had been neglected with my brothers and sisters. But that was her way. Truth was bent to suit her purposes of the moment.

I think she was more indiscreet than ever in Vincennes. There were numerous lovers and she made little secret of her tendency to select presentable young men and invite them to her apartments for a cozy session.

The favorite was still Louis de Bosredon, and he was becoming more and more insufferable.

He had several clashes with one or two highly placed officials in the household, but when complaints were made to my mother, she shrugged her shoulders and laughed. She treated Louis de Bosredon like one of her little dogs…to be petted and scolded lightheartedly and pampered. Louis de Bosredon was clearly delighted with his success.

I do not know how long he would have continued to please her—he had had a long run—but it was inevitable that one day he would go too far.

It so happened that my father had been getting a little better since the battle of Agincourt. It was possible that such a devastating event may have done a little to arouse him to his responsibilities and had given him a little impetus toward sanity.

However, he was better and he decided to come to Vincennes to see the Queen.

On the road he met Louis de Bosredon.

I cannot imagine how Bosredon could have been so foolish. He must have been intoxicated by his success. He had spent the night with the Queen, and I imagined it had been such a satisfactory encounter that it had robbed him temporarily of any common sense he might have had.

It is only by hearsay that I know what happened at that meeting on the road, but, of course, everyone who had witnessed it could talk of nothing else. Bosredon behaved as though he were the King and my father some vassal.

My father was at first amazed that a subject could show such a lack of courtesy and offer none of that homage which was due to the Crown. It was more than an insult to him; it was an insult to France.

He ordered that Bosredon should be arrested without delay.

And then he rode on to Vincennes.

From a window I saw his arrival. He went straight to my mother’s apartments, and there such a scene ensued, the like of which had never taken place between them before.

He must have known she had many lovers. He was a tolerant man. He knew of her ardent nature. Perhaps he thought it was natural that she should be unfaithful to him during his absences. He himself had Odette de Champdivers to comfort him in his seclusion. He had even had a child by her. However, he had not reproved my mother before. But the insolence of Louis de Bosredon must have ignited years of resentment. He had indulged her; he had been besotted by her; but he would not have her lovers insulting the Crown.

We were all amazed. We all cowered in our rooms, waiting to know what would happen next.

He was accusing her not only of infidelity toward him but of treachery to France. She had her spies everywhere. She was with the Armagnacs. She was with the Burgundians. Anything that suited her purpose at a certain time. He was tired of being treated as though he were of no account.

He sent for the guards. She was under arrest.

He shouted his orders. The Queen should be taken to Tours. There she should be guarded night and day. Every letter she wrote must be examined. All her actions must be reported.

My mother was astounded. What had happened to the poor mad husband who had always been her slave? She tried to protest. She exerted all those wiles which had never failed before. But the King had had enough. He was no longer to be duped.

His country was in dire straits; the enemy was waiting to deliver the final blow; and one of France’s bitterest enemies was its Queen.

And now she was his prisoner.

So my mother was taken to Tours, and I was united with my father.

I traveled back to Paris with him, and there I was with him often. Now and then he talked to me sadly of the past.

He said: “It is my tragedy, daughter, that I have my periods of insanity. I am sane now, but for how long? How do I know? Perhaps it would have been better for me if I had been completely mad. These trips back and forth are sometimes more than I can endure. I trust young Charles will have a happier reign than I. Alas, poor child…he is little more…this has overwhelmed him. I trust he will not suffer as I have done. But sometimes I fancy he has no stomach for the task.”

He liked to have me with him, and I was glad of that time we spent together. I wished it could have been longer. He was so different from my mother, gentle, innately good and kind.

He talked of my mother a little and with much sadness.

“In the beginning it was perfect,” he said. “Too perfect, I suppose. My child, I am afraid of perfection. There is often a canker somewhere. If you could have seen her when she first came to France. She was enchanting…a child…younger than you are now…but she never seemed like a child. She was so eager and loving. I never saw anyone like your mother. There are few of her sort in the world.”

I thought that was not such a bad thing.

He said to me one day: “And you, daughter, you have a happy life ahead of you. You will leave this tortured land. You will be the wife of a great king.”

“Do you think, Sire, that Henry is a great king?”

“He has all but conquered us, has he not? Oh, he had a wild youth, but they tell me that, as soon as the crown was placed on his head, he changed. It was like a miracle, they say. He put aside his frivolities. He gave himself up entirely to his country. It is a rare man who can do that, Katherine. Perhaps that is greatness. I think you will be fortunate to marry such a man.”

“Shall I ever, do you think? For so long there has been talk of it.”

“Much has to be settled. He wants this marriage, depend upon it. We both want it. It is just a matter of settling terms. The King of England asks too much of us, but after Agincourt…it seems inevitable. My reign has been disastrous. We have gone from bad to worse.”

“It was not your fault, dear Father.”

“Perhaps if I had not been plagued…perhaps if I could have kept a firm hand on the reins…perhaps, daughter…it may be then that this strife within our country might not have happened. There is nothing which destroys a country more than civil war and when you have two great houses within their country fighting each other…then that country will fall into despair…as ours has. But we shall emerge. It may be, Katherine, that you will play your part in rebuilding our great nation.”

“How, dearest Father?”

“You will know when the time comes. Perhaps it will be through this much-talked-of union. Your husband will be our conqueror…but he will always remember that it is your country which he has conquered.”

“And what of my mother?”

His face hardened. “I want to trust her,” he said almost piteously, “but I cannot. I would if I could. If only I could.”

His lips trembled and his eyes were melancholy. I was afraid—as we often were—that the madness might be coming upon him once more.

There are many who said Louis de Bosredon met his just deserts.

When he was arrested and imprisoned he was “put to the question.” I do not know what form of torture was applied, but he did not endure it for long. He could not, I was sure, have borne the thought of his beautiful body being mutilated in any way. He quickly confessed to anything they wanted him to. His punishment was that he should be sewn into a sack and thrown into the Seine. A fitting end for an arrogant coxcomb, many said. So this was done and the sack, on which was written “Let the King’s justice run its course,” was thrown into the river.

The Armagnacs rubbed their hands with glee. This was a direct attack against the Queen who had been in secret communication with Burgundy.

My mother was not the woman to accept captivity with quiet resignation. Intrigue had always been one of her most exciting pastimes; and consequently she excelled at it.

She had not been at Tours for more than a month before she conceived the idea of getting in touch with the Duke of Burgundy. It was the King and the Armagnacs who had imprisoned her; therefore she knew that Burgundy would be prepared to defy their authority. I do not know how she managed to smuggle a note out of her prison, but I guessed she had contrived to cajole one or more of her guards by that time.

Burgundy was only too eager to aid her in her escape, and from then on they were allies—at least on the surface.

Isabeau was allowed to leave her prison, only to go to Mass at the convent of Marmoutier, which was just outside the city’s walls, and on the occasions when she went there, her guards went with her.

While she was in the convent’s church, a company of sixty men, led by their captain, entered. Seeing that these were Burgundians, her three guards urged her to act with caution while they tried to decide how they could smuggle her out of the church.

It was she who surprised them when she addressed the captain.

“Where is the Duke?” she asked.

“On his way, Madame.”

“Then arrest these three men.”

When the astonished guards found they were prisoners they realized that the Queen had led them into a trap.

In due course the Duke of Burgundy arrived.

He kissed the Queen’s hand.

“My dearest cousin,” she said. “I should love you beyond any man in the realm. You have rescued me from my enemies. You have set me free. I will never fail you, my dearest friend. I know your aim has always been one of devotion to the King and your country. May God bless you.”

The Duke knelt at her feet, and in due course they set out, followed by his men, for Chartres.

My mother was free. It was fortunate for her that my father, overcome by all the distress brought on by the situation between them, had had to retire once more to the Hôtel de St.-Paul and the ministrations of the tender Odette.

My mother sent a declaration to all the important towns, in which she stated that, owing to the King’s unfortunate seclusion, the government of the country was, for the time being, at Chartres, and with her was her good cousin, the Duke of Burgundy, to help and advise her when necessary, until the recovery of her good lord, the King.

So my mother was free and, with Burgundy beside her, had regained her power.

The Armagnacs kept control of the King and the Dauphin; and the conflict in my country was stronger than ever.

In the meantime Henry had returned to France and was laying siege to Rouen.

A few men from the besieged city escaped and came to Paris. They had a terrible story to tell. The people had been determined to hold out until help came to them. Poor deluded men and women! What help could they expect? Nevertheless, they had fortified their ramparts; they had forced all those who could not bear arms or were too feeble to withstand the siege to leave the city; they had hoarded food and had prepared themselves in every way.

Twelve hundred helpless men and women were sent out of the town; and the miseries they endured are too distressing to brood on. I was especially sorry for the pregnant women who had nowhere to go. They gave birth unattended outside the walls of the city. Death stared them in the face, and their greatest fear was that their newly born infants would go unbaptized. Friends from within sent down baskets that the newborn children should be brought up to be baptized, and when this was done, they were lowered down to their helpless mothers and left to die.

How cruel was war! I should hate those men who came over to our country and caused so much misery—and all for a crown!

The people inside the city’s walls suffered too. They were forced to eat cats, dogs, rats, anything that came to hand. And the winter was approaching.

They were very brave, those people of Rouen. If those in high places had shown the same dedication to their country, we should not have been in the sorry plight we were.

When the fall of the city was imminent, the men of Rouen decided to fight to the end rather than give in. They planned to stand together and fight outside the city walls after having set fire to it. They were courageous and Henry admired courage. He declared he would spare the lives of all citizens—with one or two exceptions—if they would surrender peacefully; and so a compromise was reached.

Henry said later that one of the proudest moments of his life was when he entered Rouen—that city beloved of his ancestor Richard Cæur de Lion and which King John had lost with the English possessions in France.

Our resistance was coming to an end. These disasters could not continue. The English were marching through Normandy, and everywhere cities and castles were falling into their hands.

We were ready to make terms.

My mother returned to Paris. She behaved as though there had never been a rift between her and my father, who had now lapsed into a state of melancholy. Everyone around him was watchful lest he should slip into violent madness.

Dr. Harsley had left Court, deciding that his own health demanded that he should live a quiet life in the country. So my father was taken back to the Hôtel de St.-Paul, to Odette, whose company, I was sure, was more beneficial to him than any doctors would have been.

My mother had commanded that, as I was now of some importance and had my part to play in bringing peace terms to a satisfactory conclusion, I should be under her care.

I was given an apartment and several attendants. What a delight it was to find my old friend Guillemote among them.

We greeted each other rapturously. She had changed a little. She was slightly more plump, but there was still the same rosy face—the face, I always thought, of a good woman and one on whom I could always rely.

“I have thought of you often, my lady,” she said, “and wondered how you were getting on.”

“The convent was more comfortable than …”

She nodded.

“But I missed you. So did Michelle and Marie.”

“Michelle is a grand lady now. I wonder if it has changed her.”

“I suppose we all change. I must have changed a good deal.”

“You’ve grown up…which was to be expected. And the boys …” She turned away to hide her emotion.

“I know. Both Jean and Louis …”

“And little Charles?” she went on quickly. “Such an important man now. The Dauphin, no less. I trust all will be well with him.”

“Guillemote,” I said, “we are together again. Let us stay so.”

She lifted her shoulders. “If it is in our power, my lady.”

“I shall do my best. I shall not let you go away.”

“They say you are going to make a grand marriage…across the sea.”

“I shall be important then, Guillemote. I shall be the one who says whom I shall have about me.”

She smiled rather sadly. “I shall never forget the day they took you away. There was such sadness. Nothing was the same. I wept until I had no tears left. All my little ones gone, especially you, Madame Katherine.”

“Well, Guillemote, don’t be sad now. We are together again.”

“Mademoiselle de Champdivers was good to me. She is a good woman. I think she arranged that I should come here to be with you.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know she is good. I am thankful that my father has her to look after him.”

I felt considerably comforted to have Guillemote so near.

The King of England was now ready to talk peace; and my mother was making arrangements into which she entered with the utmost enthusiasm. She was sure that I would be instrumental in softening the peace terms.

“This betrothed of yours strikes a hard bargain,” she said with a coy laugh. “Now, child, we must make you so desirable that he will decide…for your sake…to modify the terms. You are handsome enough. Yes…just a little like me. And amazingly like your sister Isabelle for whom he once had a great desire. He will see her again in you…and therein lies our hope.”

My emotions were in a turmoil. I was about to take the most important step in my life and it might well be that soon I should be married to a man whom so far I had never seen. But I had a vivid picture of him in my mind. I saw him as Isabelle had seen him; and again as quite a different person: the wise, shrewd conqueror. Was it possible for a man to change as drastically as he was said to have done? It seemed hardly likely. But surely this rash and frivolous youth of Isabelle’s version could never have conquered France.

Earlier I had been terrified of union with him; now I had to admit to a certain excitement. I wanted desperately to see him, and my fear of what might follow was swallowed up in my excitement.

“Your complexion is good,” my mother said. “You have a lovely soft skin and your eyes are very fine. They are like mine. Your mouth and teeth are good. But your nose, my dear. That comes from your father. The Valois nose. A pity! But it is not too marked in you. You must smile. You look so solemn. You must look interested. I shall expect you to charm him. He is a soldier…no doubt a little rough…and English manners have never had the grace of the French. Never mind, you will act with grace and charm…and if you do that, he will be enchanted. Now, try this.”

It was a gown shaped to my figure, coming up high to the throat. It was discreetly adorned with jewels and there was a strip of ermine down the front. On my head was an arched crown, from which a veil flowed down to my shoulders.

My mother clapped her hands. “That is good,” she said. “Oh, daughter, I have hopes of you.”

I felt a little thrill of pleasure and for once did not recoil when she kissed me.

The meeting was to take place in Pontoise, and a splendidly decorated barge was made ready to take us there.

My father, who, under Odette’s ministrations, had recovered a little, was to accompany us.

“It is necessary that he is there,” said my mother. “As long as he remains quiet, all will be well.”

Close to the river, pavilions had been set up and there were elegant tents made of green velvet decorated with cloth of gold.

As we sailed down the river, I could not stop myself from watching my poor father. I thought, he should not be with us. How did he feel…he who had lived so much of his life in a clouded world…to be sailing down the river to meet the conqueror of his country? His father, the Wise Charles, had left him a prosperous land, a proud kingdom…and under him, it had come to this. He had to look to his daughter to charm the King of England sufficiently for him to accept her as part of the peace terms. It was humiliating…distressing beyond words—and I suffered with him.

My mother looked beautiful in spite of a certain obesity which only seemed to add to her voluptuousness. She was animated and I understood that what she craved most in life was excitement, and the significance of this occasion could not stop her enjoying it.

As for myself, I felt I had left my childhood behind me forever.

We disembarked and, as we approached the royal tent, I saw Henry.

He was very tall and slender; and what struck me most about him was his immense vitality. He was comely enough, with a pleasant oval face. I noticed his long, straight nose. I usually looked at people’s noses, as people do look at the features of others when they are particularly aware of their own. His complexion was fresh and he looked as though he lived much of his life in the open air. He had brown hair and eyes of the same color, very bright and, I noticed with relief, quite gentle, though afterward I learned they could flare into sudden wrath. I was agreeably surprised and I felt great pleasure as his eyes eagerly turned on me and I knew that he was not displeased.

He bowed to my parents and then took my hand and kissed it.

He sat opposite me and, while he talked with my parents and members of the Council, his eyes strayed again and again to me. I lowered mine and he smiled. I was feeling more and more reassured with every moment.

I was disappointed to learn that, in spite of his openly expressed admiration for me, he did not lower his demands.

My mother said: “Let him wait awhile. I know he is enamored of the Princess. He will agree to modify his terms. Give him time.”

He was disappointed, I believe, because my father and his advisers would not capitulate—but he would not give way; and the meeting over, he continued with his campaign throughout Normandy, with alarming results for the French.

I liked to think that he did intend to lower his demands, because he asked for another meeting, but by the time he arrived at Pontoise it was to find the tents had been removed. Only the Duke of Burgundy remained with a few of his men.

Henry said with some rancor: “Cousin, understand that we will have the daughter of your king or we will drive him out of his kingdom.”

The Duke replied: “Sire, you may do so, but before you have succeeded in driving the King and me out of this kingdom, I doubt not you will be heartily tired.”

So in spite of the meeting, it seemed that we had advanced very little.

But my mother did not accept this. She knew men, she said, and a spark had been struck between myself and the King of England, and he was the sort of man who would not rest until he had what he wanted.

I thought a great deal about Henry. At last he was a living person to me. I had seen him, though briefly, but it was enough to show me that he was not the man Isabelle had known.

My life since I had left Poissy had not been a happy one. I lived in fear of my mother. There was a suspicion in my mind, which I could not dispel, that she had poisoned my brother Louis. Of Jean, I was not sure. I knew that she despised my brother Charles. I thought he was safe, though, for there was no son to follow him; so it was to her advantage to keep him alive. I was fond of my father, but I was in a state of perpetual anxiety about his health. I thought of a new life…away from it all, away from the conflicts which had surrounded me since the day of my birth. I thought of Henry as my husband, of myself as Queen of England. I thought of children of my own. Yes, I longed for children.

I had come to the conclusion that I wanted a better life than that which I had hitherto known and that I might find it with Henry. I prayed that these negotiations would not fail. I was no longer a child. The years were slipping by. I was now eighteen years old. For so long I had been told I was to marry Henry. Should I ever do that?

During this uncertain period, there took place one of those events which was to shake the whole of France so violently that, temporarily, even the state of our country was forgotten. My brother Charles, the Dauphin, was under the control of the Armagnacs, and I believed he had now come to terms with his fate and, attempting to prepare himself for the role to come, was eager to make peace with Burgundy.

My father was becoming so feeble that even in his most lucid moments he was unfit to govern; and this must have made Charles feel that he must learn quickly and do his best to bring a stable government to the country.

He had now established himself at Bourges, where a small court had gathered about him. He was very serious, which might have been good had he not been of such a melancholy nature. I knew that he was haunted by the fear that he was illegitimate and therefore had no true claim to the throne. In view of the life our mother had led, it was a doubt which might come to us all. I felt fairly sure of my own parentage. I had my nose to thank for that.

Charles clearly saw that the reason we had fallen so low was the strife between our two great houses and, as he was involved with the Armagnac faction, he renewed his efforts to make peace with Burgundy.

I like to think that my brother was led astray by evil counselors. I cannot believe to this day that he planned what happened. Or if he did, it was because he was convinced that it was for the good of France.

What he did was to arrange a meeting between himself and the Duke of Burgundy when they would discuss how to bring about peace between the two rival houses. The meeting was to take place at Montereau. They would both come in peace and unarmed in order to show their confidence in each other.

I think the Duke must have been a little suspicious, for, although he might trust the Dauphin, the young man was in the hands of the treacherous Armagnacs. However, the meeting was arranged.

I heard that several men close to the Duke thought he was taking a great risk by going unarmed among his enemies and warned him not to agree to the meeting; but after a good deal of consideration the Duke decided that he must go.

“It is my duty,” he said. “If we can make peace, the Dauphin and I can stand together against the English.”

It was a never-to-be-forgotten day in September when he set out for the rendezvous.

The Duke arrived as arranged and was met by one of Charles’s men, a certain Duchâtel, who greeted him with great respect and told him how delighted the Dauphin was that he had agreed to come. It was time they settled their differences and stood together against the English, who were the real enemy of France, instead of fighting each other.

This seemed a satisfactory beginning but, as the Duke was preparing to go with Duchâtel to the Dauphin, one of his own men came running to him and, throwing himself on his knees, begged the Duke not to go. “You will be betrayed, my lord,” he said. “I am sure they mean to kill you.”

The Duke turned to Duchâtel and said: “You heard that, my lord. It is what the people around me have in mind.”

“They are wrong,” Duchâtel assured him. “I swear they are wrong. The Dauphin loves you. You are his close kinsman. All he wants is to end this strife, and that all Frenchmen stand together for France.”

The Duke bowed his head and said: “I trust your word. In God’s holy name, do you swear you have not murder in mind?”

“My good and most noble lord,” replied Duchâtel. “I would rather die than commit treason to you or my lord. I give you my word that the Dauphin wishes nothing but reconciliation.”

“Then let us proceed,” said the Duke.

When he came to the Dauphin, the Duke took off his cap and knelt before him. The Dauphin appeared to be seized with emotion and made him rise and cover his head.

Then, changing his mood abruptly, my brother began upbraiding the Duke. He had not cared for the good of France, he said. He had followed his own inclination. He was wanting in his duty.

The Duke must have been surprised at this sudden change. He had come to talk peace, not to listen to a harangue against his actions.

He said haughtily that he had done what he had thought was right and would do it again.

My brother, alas, was no diplomat. I think that secretly he must have been afraid of Burgundy, who had a very powerful and overbearing personality and considered himself equal to—perhaps greater than—the highest in the land.

Duchâtel ran up and shouted: “The time has come!” He lifted his battle-ax and struck the defenseless Duke.

I wondered if Burgundy had time to realize that he had stepped into a trap. Had he forgotten that he himself had brought the Duke of Orléans to an untimely end? That had happened twelve years earlier, but such things are never forgotten.

Vengeance had been brewing for years. It had been decided that the murder of Orléans should not go unpunished.

As the Duke fell to the ground, others came forward, their swords unsheathed.

There were several who were eager for revenge; and there on the ground lay the once-mighty Duke. They fell upon him with their swords.

The murder of Orléans was avenged.

The Duke’s followers waited at some distance, as had been arranged. They did not know what had happened until they were set upon and, weaponless as they were before armed men, they were forced to fly.

There were some among the assassins who wanted to strip the Duke’s body and throw it into the river. But my brother, already regretting the part he had played in the murder of his kinsman, would not allow that. The Duke’s body was prepared for burial, albeit in a pauper’s shell, and taken to the Church of Notre Dame in Montereau to be interred.

And so died Jean the Fearless, the great Duke of Burgundy. The new Duke Philip was the husband of my sister Michelle.

I wondered what Michelle was feeling now, for she was happy with the heir of Burgundy, and I wondered how this would affect their relationship, for her brother would be held responsible for the murder of her husband’s father.

It was small wonder that I felt a desire to escape from the scene of this strife.

It was not to be supposed that the murder of such an important personage as the Duke of Burgundy would not arouse a storm of condemnation.

The next day, when the news was spreading throughout the country, the Parliament and all the leading dignitaries met. They were determined to bring the criminal to justice. People were crowding into the streets, demanding that the murderer be delivered up to them.

My poor brother was thrown into a state of deep depression. All he had wanted to do was to stop the quarreling between Burgundy and the Armagnacs. He had been led into this. Only the death of Jean the Fearless could bring peace, he had been assured, and, young and inexperienced as he was, he had believed them. And now this terrible deed was on his conscience. Never would he be able to forget the look of horrified reproach in the eyes of the Duke as he fell, when, in those fleeting seconds, he realized he had been betrayed. Charles would be haunted by the murder all his life.

There was an attempt to justify the deed.

The conspirators said that the Duke had been greeted in a friendly fashion but he had suddenly started to abuse the Dauphin. He had been ready to draw his sword.

As the Duke’s supporters had made it clear that he had come to the meeting unarmed, this carried little weight. But, said the conspirators, the Duke had attempted to attack the Dauphin, and it was then that they had found it necessary to dispatch him with speed. It was through his own madness that he had died.

This story was quickly proved to be untrue when two of the knights who had accompanied the Dauphin declared that they had known the Duke to be unarmed; they had seen him walk into the trap; they had wanted no part in such treachery; they cursed those men who had planned the murder and so betrayed the honor of their master, the Dauphin. They would rather have died before they had been present on such an occasion, and they had played no part in it.

There was condemnation throughout the country.

As for Henry, he was determined to turn the murder to his advantage.

It was a great loss to France, he said. The Duke of Burgundy was a true and honorable knight. Through his death he, Henry, had reached the summit of his wishes, for one of the greatest Frenchmen was no longer there to oppose him.

The murdered man’s son, now Philip, Duke of Burgundy, was deeply grieved by his father’s death. He was filled with hatred for the Dauphin and the Armagnacs. He was determined to bring them to disaster, and to this end he threw in his lot with the English that he might stand up in arms against the true enemies of France, the Armagnacs.

I could imagine Henry’s glee. At least he had profited from the terrible deed.

The Dauphin and his Armagnacs were doomed. My brother was overcome by remorse and despair. This wicked deed which was to have silenced the Burgundians had succeeded in making them stronger and—an unforeseen development—who would have believed they would have ranged themselves beside the English!

The result of this alliance did not take long to show itself.

There was no alternative for the Dauphin but to make peace with the conqueror of his country.

Henry was triumphant.

I accompanied my mother to Troyes, where I was to be formally betrothed to Henry. I felt a sense of relief that it was to happen at last. My longing to be free from conflict was now intense. I had seen Henry only briefly, but I felt I knew a great deal about him and I was ready to trust myself to him.

I went with my mother to the church of Notre Dame in Troyes. Henry was already there. He had arrived on May 20 with his brothers, the Dukes of Clarence and Gloucester, and 1,600 men, chiefly archers, to remind all that they must accept him as the conqueror or take the consequences.

Lodgings had been prepared for him at the Hôtel de Ville.

I remember now the moment he came into the church. He looked godlike in shining armor, and in his helmet was a fox’s tail decorated with gems.

As he approached me, he gave me a most warm and loving smile. Then he took my hand and that of my mother and led us both to the altar.

My mother explained to him that her husband, the King, was too indisposed to be present.

Henry graciously inclined his head. He would know that my father was suffering from another of his mad spells—which was not surprising considering that this ceremony was tantamount to the surrender of France to the conqueror.

The terms of the peace were read aloud so that all might hear.

It was as though my father were speaking and, when I thought of him alone in his room at the Hôtel de St.-Paul, I was glad that he would be unaware of what was happening about him. He would be happier that way. At least he did not know that he had lost a kingdom.

“I, Charles VI, King of France, give my daughter Katherine in marriage to King Henry V of England.

“King Henry shall place no hindrance in the way of our retaining the crown for as long as we shall live.

“It is agreed that immediately on our death the crown and kingdom of France shall belong perpetually to King Henry and his heirs.

“During those times when we are prevented from taking part in the affairs of the kingdom, the power of government shall belong to King Henry, with the counsel of the nobles and sages of our kingdom.

“King Henry shall strive with all his might to bring conflict in this kingdom to an end and bring back peace to those cities, castles, places and districts that belong to the party commonly known as that of the Dauphin or Armagnacs.”

As I looked around among those assembled in the church to listen to the terms of surrender, I wondered what their feelings were to hear this solemn renunciation of their country to an invader.

Philip, Duke of Burgundy, was present. Now the ally of the conqueror, he was in deep mourning for his father.

Henry was beside me. He had taken my hand, and on my finger he placed a ring encrusted with jewels. It was one worn by English queens at their coronations, he told me afterward.

I felt a certain contentment. It seemed now that my marriage with Henry was certain.

It was a little more than two weeks after that ceremony, on June 3, that I was married to Henry and became Queen of England.

The ceremony took place in the parish church of Troyes, and I doubt the people of that town had ever seen such a magnificent spectacle before.

My husband wanted everyone to realize that he was, in all but name, the King of France; and all the pomp and glory were an indication of his power.

It touched me deeply that this mighty warrior could be tender toward me. I felt happy and secure and I thanked God that, out of the terrible tragedy which had befallen France, at least this had come about.

The truth was that I was proud of him. He was triumphant and I wanted him to be, even though his triumph was the defeat of my country.

My mother was pleased with me. She cared nothing for France, only for herself, and I believed she craved excitement so much that she would have welcomed it whatever it cost.

She was ingratiating toward my husband, exerting all her wiles. Not that he appeared to be aware of the feminine allure which had led men like Louis de Bosredon to destruction. At the same time I had a feeling that he was assessing her in his shrewd manner and wondering how she could be of use to him.

After the ceremony, Henry and I sat side by side, and he spoke to me in his rather anglicized French and I responded in my quaint English which amused him.

I told him I should improve my English. I had learned to speak it, but the manner in which he spoke was somewhat different from that of my teachers.

“You must not change it too much,” he said. “It is charming as it is, Kate.” He went on, “I shall call you Kate. It sounds more English. Kate, I would not have you change one little bit.”

I blushed and hung my head for there, before them all, he kissed my lips.

He prided himself on being a soldier. He told me he lacked the fancy manners of prancing courtiers.

“So much of my life has been spent on the battlefield,” he said. “It makes a man rough and ready perhaps…but honest, Kate…an honest man who says what is in his mind. If you want me otherwise …” He lifted his hands in mock despair.

I said: “I would not want you other than you are,” at which he laughed and kissed my hands and said I delighted him and that I was all he wanted in his bride, which was how he had known it would be from the first moment he saw me.

And I refused to remember that he might have married me long ago if he had accepted the terms offered. I understood why he had refused. He was a man of great ambition. He wanted France…as well as me.

But why should I think these thoughts? I was newly married. I was excited. I believed I had left the melancholy days behind me. I was starting a new life.