many whisper.‖
― I never rode with my father against Richard,‖ Hotspur said. ―I kept apart from
Bolingbroke‘s slaughtering and murdering. Now I move against it. What is so ‗passing strange‘
about that? What? ‖
He glared at the other men. ―My father made an error of judgement. Now he seeks to
rectify it. And why do you sit here and murmur and mumble about our actions? Do you not stand to gain as much as I?‖
―Aye, aye, that we do,‖ Douglas said, holding out his hands placatingly. ―We merely
needed to be reassured as to the strength of your resolve, laddie. Bolingbroke was once your dear
friend—‖
― Once! ‖ Hotspur said.
―Enough!‖ said a new voice, and everyone‘s head whipped up to look at the man who
had now entered the church.
Hotspur rose, and managed a smile. ―Uncle. Greetings. I am glad you are here. What
news?‖
Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester, brother to the Earl of Northumberland and uncle to
Hotspur, looked about carefully at each man present, then withdrew a parchment from
underneath his cloak. ―Glyndwr is with us.‖
Without exception, the face of every nobleman and warrior present broke into a huge grin
of combined relief and triumph.
Thorseby, on the other hand, mumbled something uncomplimentary about dark
magicians into his beard.
―Owain Glyndwr,‖ Hotspur said, ―the most powerful prince among the Welsh.‖
Douglas sent him a sardonic glance, and refrained from reminding Hotspur that, until
three years ago, Owain Glyndwr had been a failed law student at the Inns of Court who had
wandered back to his native Wales, proclaimed himself a prince of the ancient Powys line, and
proceeded to stir up nationalistic Welsh resentment against the English. Well, Douglas thought,
to give the boy his due, he”d done a good job. Now tens of thousands of Welshmen would lay their lives down for him. For Hotspur, now, if Glyndwr had indeed agreed to the terms of the alliance.
―He will…‖ Hotspur could not complete the answer.
―Meet us in Cheshire, as will your father,‖ Worcester said. ―Harry,‖ he addressed
Hotspur familiarly, ―we will have so many tens of thousands with us that Bolingbroke will have
no choice but to lie down and cower.‖
―And this island will finally be divided into three clear, independent and strong
kingdoms,‖ Hotspur said. ―England, Scotland and Wales, confirmed by treaty, and bound by
brotherhood!‖
Douglas winced, thinking Hotspur was getting a bit carried away. Confirmed by treaty,
yes, but they‘d be bound by treason and regicide, not brotherhood.
―And so to Cheshire,‖ Hotspur said. ―And from there…England.‖
II
Thursday 30th May 1381
―Paris,‖ said Charles. ―I have set my mind to it.‖ Thank the sweet Lord Christ, thought Catherine. Finally, we move from Rheims.
―May I enquire,‖ asked Philip the Bad of Navarre from his place at the table next to
Catherine, ―why this sudden change of heart? We have been here,‖ he gestured about the hall of
the palace Charles had commandeered (or rather, that his mother, Isabeau de Bavière had
commandeered) ―some ten months, with most of us lusting after a change of scenery. But to this
point you have always pouted your lip—‖
―Philip!‖ Catherine hissed, not wanting his insolence to push her brother into retracting
his order.
―—and declared that Rheims was more to your liking, and that Paris was full of nothing
but stinking drains and rebellious peasants.‖
―Paris,‖ Charles said stubbornly.
―Why?‖ Catherine asked with as much gentleness as she could muster.
―Because…‖
―Because reports from England,‖ Joan said, her eyes steady on Catherine, ―suggest that
there are major troop movements in the north. Perhaps good King Hal,‖ her mouth twisted very
slightly, ―is planning an invasion shortly. And, my beloved king wishes to go to Paris, where—‖
―The walls are mightier than those about Rheims,‖ Charles finished in a rush.
―You are not afraid,‖ Catherine said, ―that Paris might once again rise in rebellion at your
presence? Do you not remember what occurred the last time we were there?‖
―Joan shall keep me safe from any harm,‖ Charles said, looking down at the napkin he
was fumbling between his hands. ―She is the Maid of France, and none would dare hurt her, or
those she protects.‖
Catherine glanced at Joan, and saw a glint of humour in her eyes, as if she knew very
well that there were many people who might hurt her.
Catherine felt a twinge of disquiet. Over these past two months Joan‘s sense of peace and
contentment had not wavered. She and Catherine had talked privately on three or four occasions,
and not once did Joan veer from her commitment to establishing Charles firmly on the throne of
France. When Catherine argued with Joan that Charles was an imbecile, the worst choice for the
throne of France that anyone could possibly imagine, Joan only smiled gently, and said his time
would come. Catherine felt in Joan something that greatly disquieted her—that Joan not only
knew of her fate and accepted it, but embraced it.
Perhaps she would come to her senses if her parents could speak with her. Had not Joan
said she would end her days as a shepherdess?
Catherine‘s mouth lifted very slightly at the thought that not even sheep could be as
stupid to herd as Charles so consistently proved himself to be.
Yes, perhaps all Joan needed was the temptation of her parents. The faint whiff of sheep,
perhaps.
―Joan,‖ she said, ―would you like it if I arranged for your parents to meet you in Paris?‖
Joan‘s face creased in a huge smile, and Catherine thought that if she‘d been in any
company other than that which currently sat about this chamber she would have clapped her
hands.
―Thank you,‖ Joan said. ―You are a very generous woman, and sensitive to my needs.‖
The faint whiff of sheep, Catherine?
Catherine had the grace to flush very slightly, and it deepened as she saw how merrily
Joan smiled at her.
―Let me look at you,‖ Philip said, his brow furrowed in pretended confusion. ―Perchance
let me pinch you, to see if you are still the Catherine I fell in love with so long ago. Ah, yes! You do feel the same…but…something about you confuses me, muddles me…‖
They were alone, finally, in their apartments. Catherine‘s maid had just departed, leaving
her mistress sitting in a chair by a fire with her glossy black hair unbound and flowing down her
back, and her body encased in nothing but flimsy silk. Philip, for his part, still had his undershirt and hose on, but was hopping from foot to foot as he struggled to slide off his boots while poking
Catherine in the shoulder.
Catherine laughed, a little self-consciously, for everyone in the hall had regarded her in
startlement when she had been so unusually kind to Joan.
―Sometimes the little saint makes me feel sorry for her,‖ she said. ―So attached to
Charles. Such peasantish loyalty and naivety.‖
―Ah…‖ Philip had finally managed to rid himself of his boots. He threw them into a
darkened corner of the chamber, then lifted Catherine in his arms, sitting down in her chair and
settling her upon his lap.
She smiled, and snuggled in close to his body.
―You have saved me from madness these past months,‖ Philip said softly, one hand
stroking Catherine‘s hair. ―This sitting about doing nothing. This waiting. This not knowing. ‖
―Shush.‖ Catherine kissed his mouth softly, knowing his frustration. Philip was a fighting
man, a man of action and impetuosity, a man who was all for the getting and not for the constant drivelling inaction he‘d been forced to endure. ―Paris is one step closer for us.‖
―Yes? And how might that be? Was Joan right when she said that Bolingbroke was
preparing to invade?‖
Catherine could feel Philip tense underneath her. ―I do not know what she has heard,
sweetheart, but I do know that, whatever happens, Bolingbroke must invade sometime this year.‖
―Oh? And how do you know that? Has Bolingbroke been writing to you of his plans? Of
his hopes? Of his love?‖
Philip‘s voice had raised, and he pushed Catherine back a little so he could stare into her
eyes.
―Nay,‖ she said softly. ―I have no communication with Bolingbroke. But I know him, and
I know his ambition, and I am certain that he will be here this year.‖
―He wants you,‖ Philip said, and drew Catherine back to him, sliding the silken robe from
her body as he did so. ―We both do. You are France. Whoever you accept takes France. That was
my deal with Bolingbroke…or have you forgot it?‖
Catherine shook her head, her eyes filling with tears.
―Marry me,‖ he said.
His hands were sliding over her breasts, almost rough in their hunger, and Catherine
wondered if it were her body he caressed, or the hills and valleys of France.
―I wish I could,‖ she whispered.
Again he pushed her back, studying her face. Then he ran his hand down to her belly, and