Wife to Henry V: A Novel by Hilda Lewis

casement.
    Above the confusion of noises the Burgundian battle-cry sang clear. It rose, swelled, sustained itself in triumph.
    “God be praised!” And now with knowledge of Burgundian victory, Catherine was herself again, exultant. “You chatter like a fool, girl. Take yourself off; but first reach me my bedgown.”
    * * *
    Now all Paris wore the white Cross of Burgundy—even the King himself. The Dauphin had fled. Paris was mad with blood-lust. It was enough to cry after a man Armagnac for him to be butchered then and there—and no questions asked. The mere sound of the word sent the mob crazy. They found Armagnac himself crouched in a hovel and dragged him out to die unspeakably in the open street. His body lay naked as when it was born; but not quite as it had been born. They had carved a great bend sinister in the dead flesh to shame him further; and did not know how they shamed themselves. The streets of Paris were piled high with corpses, mutilated, naked. A decent woman dare not raise her eyes, Guillemote said.
    Messengers were hastening from Tours to Paris with news—Burgundy himself was following hard on his victory; triumphantly riding, castles and towns and cities fallen to his hand.
    “Things are moving,” Catherine said and struck upon the lute.
    * * *
    Paris had forgotten its blood-lust. The corpses were shovelled from the street; the gutters ran no longer with blood, they ran with wine instead. Flowers and tapestries, pennants and banners—Paris crazy with joy at the coming of the Queen; forgotten her greed, her wantonness; remembered, only, her strength, her courage. Paris, crazy with joy at the coming of the Duke, the long-hated Duke, swung into glory by the side of the Queen.
    In the great hall of St. Pol Catherine waited. She kept her eyes steady before her, not to see the figure in the great chair, her father twitching and muttering; not to see the mean men, servants decked in the clothes of their betters murdered in the riots. In their borrowed plumes they made, for the moment, a fair showing; her mother would deal with them later!
    The high sweet note of trumpets cut across her thoughts.
    On a fanfare, Burgundy leading the Queen came into the room.
    With a shock of surprise Catherine found she had forgotten how mean-looking a man this duke was; rising from her curtsey to the Queen she felt herself flinching from the glitter of triumph in those bold eyes.
    Charles the King sat staring into vacancy. His page, the Bourbon child, small sprig of nobility miraculously spared in the rioting, bent to the sick man, whispered.
    “We...we thank you...” the King said and looked at the child asking whom he must thank, “...our dear Cousin of Burgundy,” he repeated obediently, “for...for the care of our Queen...because...because...”
    Even Burgundy could stomach it no longer—the spectacle of the madman thanking those who meant to betray him.
    “Madam the Queen is fatigued,” he said shortly and brought the hateful scene to a close.
    * * *
    Isabeau sat with her daughter. There had been little in the way of affection between them—Isabeau was not given to soft murmurings. She had taken a quick look to see whether the girl blossomed still in prettiness and that was all. Catherine, all submission on her stool, listened, trying to pluck her own future from the spate of words.
    “The people are mad with joy; ready to worship me as though I were Queen of Heaven!” She sent the girl an amused look from her bold eyes. “And all because I have made friends with Burgundy. Peace, now there will be peace, they think. And perhaps there will be—if I can keep my new friend honest.” She tossed back her head with its famous hair; freed from the great head-dress it fell to her knees like water—but there were new threads of grey in its darkness. Imprisonment had aged her; she was still a woman in bloom—but the bloom was fading.
    “Oh but it was wonderful—a thing to be born for!” Isabeau said,