―I escort,‖ Margaret said, turning back to the queen in her chair, ―the Queen Mary, wife
to Hal Bolingbroke.‖
―I am sorry,‖ Mary said softly, ―that for the moment I can do little else for you than to
give you the shawl, and one of these blankets.‖ She handed the item to Margaret, who passed it
through to Joan. ―When my husband departs this city, as I expect him to do within the next day
or so, then I will be able to do more for you.‖
―What you have done is grace enough,‖ Joan said quietly.
―My husband,‖ Mary‘s voice hardened a little with that statement, ―has feared you for a
very long time. Joan of Arc, Maid of France, forgive him his fear.‖
―How can he not love and honour you?‖ said Joan, for she could see that Mary was, as a
wife, a neglected and unloved companion.
―He thinks to love Catherine of France,‖ said Margaret. ―Do you know her?‖
―Aye, of course I do,‖ said Joan. ―And Bolingbroke loves her? Then he will indeed have
been distressed to have heard Regnault de Chartres‘ news…that she and Philip of Navarre have
been wed these past four or five days.‖
Mary smiled, very slightly, very sadly. ―Then no wonder it is that he has been thumping
about this castle so thunderously. He will indeed have been grieved at the news.‖
―What did she hope to accomplish with that?‖ Margaret said, more to herself than anyone
else.
―An end to the fighting, perhaps,‖ Mary said. ―Or maybe she hoped that Hal might return
home if he thought she were now unattainable.‖
Her mouth twisted. ―But there‘s nothing standing between Hal and Catherine—so far as
Hal is concerned—that two quick deaths could not accomplish. As far as Philip is concerned, Hal
prepares for it even now. He has gathered about him his army, and will soon march out to meet
with Philip. I have heard rumours—and no doubt Hal has heard the certainty—that Philip is
preparing to lead an army forth from Paris to repel the English once and for all.‖
―And this sickness that I have heard so much about?‖ said Joan. ―Does Bolingbroke have
an army to lead out?‖
―Aye,‖ replied Margaret, this time. ―But much reduced. The sickness passed within days
of our transferral here to Rouen. He leads no more than six and a half thousand men.‖
―But they have Hal at their head,‖ said Mary softly, her eyes unfocused and far away,
―and Hal is worth ten thousand men at the least.‖
―Madam,‖ said Joan, ‖what do you here? Here in France, and here in this dungeon with
me. You are ill, and should be at home, surrounded with those who love you.‖
―My home is wherever I am surrounded with those who love me.‖ Mary held up her right
hand for Margaret to hold. ―And I am here in this dungeon with you, Joan, to let you know that
you are also loved. Do not despair.‖
Joan lowered her head, blinking away her tears. This Mary was truly good in a way that
Joan had never seen before.
Eventually, she raised her eyes again and spoke in a quiet voice. ―Is Thomas Neville with
you? May I speak with him?‖
Both Mary‘s and Margaret‘s faces fell. ―We have not seen Tom in many days,‖ said
Margaret, her voice breaking. ―We do not know where he is.‖
―We fear,‖ said Mary. ―Greatly.‖
V
Tuesday 20th August 1381
—ii—
Catherine knew she was making a spectacle of herself, knew that men were looking away
in embarrassment, knew that her mother Isabeau de Bavière was standing, arms folded, looking
on in amusement, but Catherine did not care.
All she knew was that Philip was going to his probable death.
―Don‘t go!‖ Catherine cried once more, one hand clinging to the stirrup leather of
Philip‘s saddle, the other grasping the strap holding his knee plate in place.
―Catherine—‖ he said.
―He will kill you!‖ Catherine said. ―Hal is…is…‖
Philip risked a glance about the courtyard. Several score knights and men-at-arms, fully
weaponed and armed, sat their horses, waiting Philip‘s word and movement. In the streets
outside another thousand waited.
And another twenty thousand awaited in the fields north of Paris.
Philip was going to war.
―Bolingbroke‘s army is decimated,‖ Philip said, his voice low and caring. He reached
down and took Catherine‘s chin in his hand, tilting her face towards his. Her almost-hysteria did
not embarrass him; rather, knowing Catherine‘s normal steely reserve and control, it touched him
deeply. She cared enough to weep over his going, and Philip could not have asked for a better
farewell gift.
―He is deep into what, for him, is enemy territory,‖ Philip continued, his fingers caressing
her chin. ―France is rousing against him—soon Bolingbroke will commit the gross error of
murdering Joan…if he hasn‘t already. That will be enough. That will lose him France, if not also
his life. Catrine, darling, if I strike now I will win. Believe it.‖
But Catherine didn‘t believe it. For her the past few days had been a mixture of profound
joy—she knew taking that final step into wedlock with Philip had been the right thing to
do—and profound despair. From somewhere or someone, she knew not where or whom ( Joan?
Margaret? Neville? ), black anguish had been washing over her in great breaking waves of
misery.
Something, somewhere, was very, very wrong.
And Philip was riding into this maelstrom of uncertainty and despair.
And against Hal. Who had ever withstood Hal?
―He has much more than the six thousand men at his back,‖ she whispered.
―What?‖ Philip frowned. ―What do you know? Has he found more men?‖
―No, no…oh, Philip, do not trust Hal—‖
―Trust Bolingbroke? Never!‖ Philip laughed, then bent even further down and planted a
kiss on her mouth. ―Do not worry over me, Catrine. I have weathered greater storms than
Bolingbroke.‖
―There is no greater storm than Bolingbroke,‖ Catherine said. She reached up with both
her hands and briefly, tenderly, held his face between them. ―I love you, Philip. I have given you
everything that I am.‖
―I will be back, Catrine. I will. ‖
Her hands dropped, and her mouth twisted. She could hear heaven itself laughing at that
remark.
Then, impulsively, knowing she shouldn‘t do this, knowing that she tempted fate beyond
all hope of redemption, she pulled Philip‘s face close to her own again.
―Philip, beloved,‖ she whispered hastily into his ear, ―know that on our wedding night I
conceived your son.‖
Stunned, Philip jerked his head out of her hands, staring at her.
―You can‘t know—‖
―I know,‖ she said, staring at him, her clear blue eyes now calm and sure. ―Believe me.‖
―Catrine…‖
―Go now,‖ she said, her voice breaking. ―Go to your war.‖ Philip stared at her a moment
longer, his face full both of love and of question, then, abruptly, he raised his hand, and gave the
signal.
Commands rang out through the courtyard and down the street outside. Philip held
Catherine‘s eyes a moment longer, then he wheeled his horse‘s head about and kicked it into a
canter.
Catherine watched until he‘d disappeared beyond the courtyard gates then she turned to
go back inside.
―Very touching,‖ said her mother, Isabeau, who‘d come up behind her.
Catherine stared at her with eyes hard with grief. ―Isn‘t it time you retired to one of your
many castles full of willing stable lads, mother?‖
―Not when there‘s still power about for the grabbing.‖
―Very soon, mother, there will be nothing about at all. It is all soon to come tumbling
down. Everything. Everything. Soon there will be nothing left at all.‖
Catherine walked towards the apartments she shared with Philip ( had shared, never
would again…), but stopped, confused by the unusual scurrying of servants and valets about the
wing of the palace containing the royal apartments.
―What is happening?‖ she asked a valet, whose arm she‘d had to grab to make him stop
and talk to her.
―The king is leaving,‖ the man said, his thin, pale face gleaming with the sweat of either
fear or effort.
Sweet Jesu! What was Charles up to now? ―Leaving? Where?‖
The valet‘s eyes blinked in confusion. ―Where to, madam? Or where is the king?‖
―Both, you idiot. Answer me!‖
―The king is in his apartments,‖ the valet stuttered, trying, but failing, to tug his arm out
of Catherine‘s grip. ―And he is fleeing…um…travelling south. I know not his destination.‖
Catherine muttered something very unflattering, then let the valet go. She turned on her
heel, and walked quickly down the corridor that led to Charles‘ apartments.
The fool was in a flutter of fear. He‘d managed to dress himself in at least three outfits,
all crammed one on top of the other, and was now so confined by the stiff robes and tight seams
that his arms stuck out stiffly at his sides and his face had gone a dusky pink in his efforts to