Read Online Crown in Candlelight by Rosemary Hawley Jarman - Free Book Online
Authors: Rosemary Hawley Jarman
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to England, nine people were crushed to death in their effort to see me—the little queen! It was a bad augury which was fulfilled worse than either of us had dreamed …’ She brushed her tears away. ‘It’s finished. Charles loves me and I am fond of him. His father was kind to you. I shall be saved from Henry Bolingbroke and his knavish son. You also, and Michelle. You will make good marriages and be happy. When I’m married I shall live at Blois. Or Charles will take me to Angoulême, where he is Count. It’s lovely there in spring.’
Katherine’s dark eyes were suddenly wild.
‘You swore you’d never leave me, Belle! Never while life lasts!’ She began to sob, and Isabelle took her close again.
‘I swore it. I swear it now. We shall not be parted for long.’ She shivered. A ghost-voice whispered in her head: Adieu, Madame! Adieu! until we meet again!
‘I want to be with you. Take me with you to Blois, to Angoulême!’
‘Katherine,’ said Belle sternly, ‘you must trust me. It’s safer for you here at Poissy, until such time as you marry. Oh, Katherine! as if I should ever desert you! I’ll come to see you often, do you think I don’t miss you? Care for you constantly, pray for you every day? I’ve told you, Kéti, this is a dark, evil world. Stay a while longer here. Dame Alphonse is loyal and this place is so holy none dare meddle with it. Here, dry your eyes. Bring your lute and sing to me. We’ll have a lovely time together.’
While they played and sang and told one another stories, the day shortened and the fog thickened, becoming a noxious brew like that which had covered Paris the previous evening as if obedient to some powerful will. Death-cold and filled with the stench of sewers and river, it seemed elemental and gorged with sin.
As Katherine played and Isabelle tapped her foot and smiled, there came a hammering on the outer door of the convent. A hammering that might have come from the swordhilt of one seeking sanctuary, so desperate and violent were the blows. They heard the porteress’s raised voice, and feet running down the cloister to where the sisters sat. A man’s voice cried: ‘Madame! I must see Madame!’
It was a henchman of Charles of Orléans, one who loved the family well and who consequently wept and whose white disastrous face made Isabelle spring up with a cry. When he could speak he told a dreadful tale. The secret premonitions of Louis of Orléans had come to their full.
For him, triumph and consummation had been all he had ever hoped for. After the evening of Bosredon’s murder had ended in chaos, the Queen shrieking with rage and grief, the King laughing wildly and eventually becoming pale and silent, Isabeau had almost collapsed. Leaving the table with its overflung goblets and skirting the gruesome corpse, Louis had followed her from the hall, offering her his arm, expecting it to be struck away with a malediction. But she had turned to him, her face patched scarlet and white, her eyes sunken with shock.
‘For God’s love, Louis, take me from this place.’
He summoned for all his resources to find a lodging fit for her and not too far away, for her strength seemed on the wane. An unfamiliar sense of power possessed him; he blessed Bosredon’s demise and found it possible in his mind to congratulate the King. It seemed a long time since he and Isabeau and Louis of Bavaria had wandered into the Hôtel de St Paul to taunt the filthy and raving Charles. St Paul was where he took Isabeau. The place had recently been refurbished; fires were kept burning and chambers sweet. There they lay that night, Isabeau tossing in a great bed, Louis watching from the foot and soothing her with eloquence he had not known lay in him. On the following day they returned to Tours, and there the Queen rewarded him at last. No longer did she flaunt her person before him only to send him off next minute with an oath. She scarcely let him out of her sight, accepting his
Katherine’s dark eyes were suddenly wild.
‘You swore you’d never leave me, Belle! Never while life lasts!’ She began to sob, and Isabelle took her close again.
‘I swore it. I swear it now. We shall not be parted for long.’ She shivered. A ghost-voice whispered in her head: Adieu, Madame! Adieu! until we meet again!
‘I want to be with you. Take me with you to Blois, to Angoulême!’
‘Katherine,’ said Belle sternly, ‘you must trust me. It’s safer for you here at Poissy, until such time as you marry. Oh, Katherine! as if I should ever desert you! I’ll come to see you often, do you think I don’t miss you? Care for you constantly, pray for you every day? I’ve told you, Kéti, this is a dark, evil world. Stay a while longer here. Dame Alphonse is loyal and this place is so holy none dare meddle with it. Here, dry your eyes. Bring your lute and sing to me. We’ll have a lovely time together.’
While they played and sang and told one another stories, the day shortened and the fog thickened, becoming a noxious brew like that which had covered Paris the previous evening as if obedient to some powerful will. Death-cold and filled with the stench of sewers and river, it seemed elemental and gorged with sin.
As Katherine played and Isabelle tapped her foot and smiled, there came a hammering on the outer door of the convent. A hammering that might have come from the swordhilt of one seeking sanctuary, so desperate and violent were the blows. They heard the porteress’s raised voice, and feet running down the cloister to where the sisters sat. A man’s voice cried: ‘Madame! I must see Madame!’
It was a henchman of Charles of Orléans, one who loved the family well and who consequently wept and whose white disastrous face made Isabelle spring up with a cry. When he could speak he told a dreadful tale. The secret premonitions of Louis of Orléans had come to their full.
For him, triumph and consummation had been all he had ever hoped for. After the evening of Bosredon’s murder had ended in chaos, the Queen shrieking with rage and grief, the King laughing wildly and eventually becoming pale and silent, Isabeau had almost collapsed. Leaving the table with its overflung goblets and skirting the gruesome corpse, Louis had followed her from the hall, offering her his arm, expecting it to be struck away with a malediction. But she had turned to him, her face patched scarlet and white, her eyes sunken with shock.
‘For God’s love, Louis, take me from this place.’
He summoned for all his resources to find a lodging fit for her and not too far away, for her strength seemed on the wane. An unfamiliar sense of power possessed him; he blessed Bosredon’s demise and found it possible in his mind to congratulate the King. It seemed a long time since he and Isabeau and Louis of Bavaria had wandered into the Hôtel de St Paul to taunt the filthy and raving Charles. St Paul was where he took Isabeau. The place had recently been refurbished; fires were kept burning and chambers sweet. There they lay that night, Isabeau tossing in a great bed, Louis watching from the foot and soothing her with eloquence he had not known lay in him. On the following day they returned to Tours, and there the Queen rewarded him at last. No longer did she flaunt her person before him only to send him off next minute with an oath. She scarcely let him out of her sight, accepting his
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