Because that damned saintly whore had not allowed him to escape! He danced to her tune now … and that made Isabeau almost incandescent with rage.
How dare that peasant bitch control her son!
If it hadn’t been for Joan’s presence, Isabeau knew she could have persuaded Charles to stand aside from his pathetic fumble for the throne.
But, no, that damned saintly whore had shoved her Godly righteousness so far up his spine that Charles had actually managed to remain on his feet…
Sweet Christ Savior. If Joan hadn’t been there, Isabeau knew Charles would have bolted for the door.
Whore! Isabeau had a great deal to lose if this treaty did not bring Richard the French throne, and she had the feeling that Richard would prove the most appalling of enemies should he be crossed.
And what of Philip? In the short while she had had to speak with him, Philip had appeared almost as seduced by the whore’s aura of saintliness as Charles was. But was that merely Philip’s wiliness, or was it true awe? Isabeau had known Philip a very long time, knew how he lusted for the throne of France as much as did the English king, and knew him for the conniving, treacherous bastard that he was.
Isabeau de Bavière had always liked Philip.
She sighed and then turned over, angry with herself that she could not sleep.
How could she convince Charles that he was, indeed, the son of a Master of Hawks? How could she undo him, and further her own cause?
Suddenly, all thoughts of Charles and Joan flew from her mind as, panicked, she lurched into a sitting position.
Someone had entered the room.
Isabeau squinted, damning the maid for closing the shutters against the afternoon light, and cursing her thudding heart for fearing the entrance of an assassin. “Madam?”
Isabeau rocked with relief. “Catherine.”
Catherine walked into the chamber, and Isabeau slid from the bed, tying a woolen wrap about her linen shift. There was a fire burning in the hearth, and Isabeau indicated that they should sit on a chest placed to one side of its warmth.
For a minute or so she sat and studied her enigmatic daughter, knowing that Catherine was also using the time to study her.
Catherine. Isabeau had never quite known what to make of her… especially given the unusual circumstances of her conception. Catherine was not a beautiful woman in the same manner that Isabeau was, but she was striking nevertheless with her pale skin, dark hair and the blue eyes she’d inherited from her mother, and she had a form that most men would be more than happy to caress.
But, form and face aside, Catherine was an enigma, although Isabeau suspected her daughter had the same depths of ambition and strength that she had. What was she now?
Eighteen? Nineteen?
“Nineteen,” said Catherine, and Isabeau jumped slightly, and smiled slightly. “I had forgot your disconcerting habit of reading my thoughts,” she said. “I was not reading your thoughts at all, madam, but whenever you screw up your brows in that manner I know you are trying to recall either my name or my age and, as you have already spoken my name, then you must have been wondering about my age.”
“Ah.” Isabeau was not in the slightest bit put out at the implied criticism in Catherine’s words.
Then, because Isabeau had never been one to waste time on womanly gossip, she went straight to the heart of the matter. “I am wondering what you do here at la Roche-Guyon, Catherine. There must surely be more comfortable palaces to wait out the current troubles.
You are, perhaps, another of this peasant girl’s sycophants?”
Catherine gave a wry smile. “I am here, madam, because I have nowhere else to go and because for the time being my fate is linked to that of Charles—”
Isabeau made an irritable gesture. “Don’t be a fool, take charge of your own fate.” Catherine ignored the interruption. “And as to what I think of Joan …” She gave a bitter laugh. “She shall ruin all our lives should Charles let her prattle on for much longer.”
“But surely,” Isabeau said with some care, “she should be commended for her devotion to Charles’ cause?”
Catherine looked her mother directly in the eye. “You and I both know, madam, that France will be ruined if Charles ever takes the throne. He is truly his father’s son.”
Isabeau hesitated, then nodded. “Aye, he is that. I regret the day I ever let that breathing
lump of insanity get him on me.”
“Ah, the truth of the matter. Not the Master of the Hawks, then?”
Isabeau waved her hand dismissively. “A subterfuge only. Over the years I have made good use of my reputation for harlotry.”
“And so you sold Charles to Richard for … how much, madam?”
“A castle here, a castle there, a stableful of lusty lads .., you know the kind of bargain I drive, Catherine.”
Isabeau stood up, pacing to and fro in front of the fire before she stopped and looked at Catherine.
“My dear,” she said, in a voice so gentle Catherine could hardly believe it was her mother speaking. “You and I have never been close and we have never talked as we do now. You were always so much the child.”
“I have grown in the year since last we spoke.” Isabeau had never taken much interest in her children, and Catherine had been raised in a succession of castles and palaces far from her mother’s side.
“Oh, aye, that you have. Catherine, I have sold Charles because I want France to live. I—as you do, I suspect—want France to have a king who can lead it to glory, not some pimple-faced toad afraid of his own shadow,”
“And so you want to hand it to Richard? I have heard but poor reports of him.” Isabeau sank down to a pile of cushions on the floor before Catherine. The firelight flickered over her face, lighting her eyes and silvering her hair.
“I have opened the door, my dear, for the right man to fight his way through to the throne,”
she said very quietly. “And I do not think that man will be Richard.” Catherine stared at her mother for what seemed a very long time. “You have come from the English court,” she said eventually. “What news?” Isabeau dropped her eyes and fiddled with a tassel on her wrap. “I have a message for you from a Margaret Neville,” she said.
Catherine leaned forward. “Margaret? What message?”
Isabeau raised her head and looked her daughter directly in the eye. “She told me to make certain that I passed on to you the latest gossip.” “Yes?”
“Hal Bolingbroke is to take Mary Bohun, the flush-faced virgin heiress to the Hereford titles and lands, as his wife on … why, on Michaelmas. Tomorrow.”
Catherine reacted as if she’d been struck. She reeled back, her face paling save for two unnaturally bright spots in her cheeks. “I cannot believe it!” she whispered.
“But you must,” Isabeau said, “for I spoke with the little Mary-child myself.” She grinned.
“Poor Mary. She dreads her wedding night whereas you would have lusted for it more than Bolingbroke.”
Catherine’s eyes had filled with tears, and Isabeau regarded her with suspicion. “I did not know you had lusted for him, Catherine. Why so shocked?”
“There had been talk … some time ago … of a marriage between us.” “There is always talk and there are always negotiations that never eventuate into actuality. You know that as much as any other noble-bred girl. And, truth to tell, Bolingbroke did not fight very hard to ensure the success of the negotiations. He was somewhat indifferent. But I can see that you managed to take a fancy to him, at the least. A shame, for you shall never have him.”
Catherine’s face tightened in anger, and Isabeau smiled, well pleased. “You shall never have him,” she said again, “unless you fight for him, and make him want you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I know the Plantagenet princes very well.” She smiled. “Very, very well. Well, at least the older generation of them. But, come what may, all the Plantagenet princes are the same—they lust for power—and for the women they cannot have. I do not think Bolingbroke any different.” “And…”
Isabeau shrugged elegantly. “Mary will not suit him. All can see that. She has not the fire to earn his respect. One day, Catherine, he will regret very, very much not having fought for you.
“My dear,” Isabeau leaned forward and took her daughter’s hands in hers, “make him fight for you now!”
“But he will soon have a wife!”
“Ah! You tie yourself down with such pettinesses! God above, Catherine, you can bring him France!”
“But with Mary as wife—”
“A wife? Of what matter is that? Wives come and go… and I have a feeling that Mary Bohun is so vapid she will catch a chill and die with the first touch of an autumn fog. Mary can be disposed of when the time comes, but in the meantime, she will provide a good power base