exultant. “Burgundy's armies and mine marching together, marching in battle order. And everywhere the people cheering me. And Burgundy riding and pretending it was him they cheered, and pretending to be pleased; bowing and smiling and his eyes scowling all the time. At Nogent it was like a wedding-journey; at Provins a triumph. But Paris...Paris...”
Her full red lips curved to a smile.
“Thousands coming out to meet me; and all, all wearing the white cross—that put my lord duke in a better mood. And then riding through the gates; and the music and the flowers—lilies, lilies all the way; my lilies. And it was my song they were singing Dame enclos en fleur de lis...” She hummed the old tune. “It was as though I were a girl again. Oh Paris, Paris, there is no city in the world like you!”
She lay back in the great chair, eyes closed.
“But you, my girl!” She rose with that abruptness of hers. “Let us talk of you.” She put an enamelled claw on the girl's shoulder, set her back a little.
“Pretty enough, my dear, but no beauty as yet! You haven't the sure look, the look of power. That's a thing that may be learnt—and you are not over-quick at the learning. Well,” she shot her sudden question, “is your heart set still upon England?”
“Yes,” Catherine said and would not mince words with this formidable mother of hers.
“Consider well, my girl.” Isabeau gave no sign that as far as she herself was concerned the match was made. “You are scarce seventeen and he won't see thirty-five again.”
“Just turned thirty, Madam,” Catherine corrected her. “It is young enough in a man. As for me, I should have married long since; Michelle was younger by far.”
“The girl burns!” Again, unexpected pity stirred for the girl so untouched, so ignorant. “Be warned in time. The man is hard; bitterness in him like a canker when he's crossed.”
“I like a proper man. As for bitterness—” she shrugged, “who cares, as long as it fall not upon me.”
“Who knows how or where? When his pride is rubbed there is no-one too great, no, nor too small, neither, for his spite. Spite, I say; not punishment. Punishment is a proper thing; but spite; spite in a King!”
“Then why call it so, Madam?”
“Because it's been proved so, and not once, neither. Didn't you hear of Louviers? Your King was ail-but killed. God's pity he was not; our task would be the easier.”
Catherine's eyes darkened. That he should die in the flowering of his glory! It was not possible. A soldier, of course; but God's Soldier. Oh no, it was impossible; God would see to it.
“Oh yes.” Isabeau nodded. “A stone from one of the town's guns. It was not aimed at him—who knew where he stood? Your true soldier accepts the chances of war; but not this Henry, not this Soldier of God! He hanged the gunners when he took the city, all nine of them, innocent men that only did their duty. No, I do him an injustice. The ninth was saved at the desire of the Legate—God's Soldier is too wily to offend Rome!”
Catherine said nothing. Henry of England—killed! There had gone her hope of any crown. She felt her anger rise. “I should have killed not nine but ninety; not ninety but nine hundred!”
Her eyes were as hard as Isabeau's.
CHAPTER IX
Henry of England lay before Rouen. He looked at it with longing, he looked at it with anger—the obstinate city, the great, rich city rising from the river flats, sheltered by hills; vine-clad city of spires.
Five miles of wall; five great gates; bastions and towers; and the deep ditch that ran all round, except on the south side, where, more formidable than any ditch—the Seine. And behind those walls, seasoned and bitter fighters, Armagnac and Burgundian patching up their quarrels for once.
Staring across the ruined countryside he thought, House and garden, farm and field burnt, burnt by command of Rouen's captain. The good land ruined. He considered it with an almost impersonal
Her full red lips curved to a smile.
“Thousands coming out to meet me; and all, all wearing the white cross—that put my lord duke in a better mood. And then riding through the gates; and the music and the flowers—lilies, lilies all the way; my lilies. And it was my song they were singing Dame enclos en fleur de lis...” She hummed the old tune. “It was as though I were a girl again. Oh Paris, Paris, there is no city in the world like you!”
She lay back in the great chair, eyes closed.
“But you, my girl!” She rose with that abruptness of hers. “Let us talk of you.” She put an enamelled claw on the girl's shoulder, set her back a little.
“Pretty enough, my dear, but no beauty as yet! You haven't the sure look, the look of power. That's a thing that may be learnt—and you are not over-quick at the learning. Well,” she shot her sudden question, “is your heart set still upon England?”
“Yes,” Catherine said and would not mince words with this formidable mother of hers.
“Consider well, my girl.” Isabeau gave no sign that as far as she herself was concerned the match was made. “You are scarce seventeen and he won't see thirty-five again.”
“Just turned thirty, Madam,” Catherine corrected her. “It is young enough in a man. As for me, I should have married long since; Michelle was younger by far.”
“The girl burns!” Again, unexpected pity stirred for the girl so untouched, so ignorant. “Be warned in time. The man is hard; bitterness in him like a canker when he's crossed.”
“I like a proper man. As for bitterness—” she shrugged, “who cares, as long as it fall not upon me.”
“Who knows how or where? When his pride is rubbed there is no-one too great, no, nor too small, neither, for his spite. Spite, I say; not punishment. Punishment is a proper thing; but spite; spite in a King!”
“Then why call it so, Madam?”
“Because it's been proved so, and not once, neither. Didn't you hear of Louviers? Your King was ail-but killed. God's pity he was not; our task would be the easier.”
Catherine's eyes darkened. That he should die in the flowering of his glory! It was not possible. A soldier, of course; but God's Soldier. Oh no, it was impossible; God would see to it.
“Oh yes.” Isabeau nodded. “A stone from one of the town's guns. It was not aimed at him—who knew where he stood? Your true soldier accepts the chances of war; but not this Henry, not this Soldier of God! He hanged the gunners when he took the city, all nine of them, innocent men that only did their duty. No, I do him an injustice. The ninth was saved at the desire of the Legate—God's Soldier is too wily to offend Rome!”
Catherine said nothing. Henry of England—killed! There had gone her hope of any crown. She felt her anger rise. “I should have killed not nine but ninety; not ninety but nine hundred!”
Her eyes were as hard as Isabeau's.
CHAPTER IX
Henry of England lay before Rouen. He looked at it with longing, he looked at it with anger—the obstinate city, the great, rich city rising from the river flats, sheltered by hills; vine-clad city of spires.
Five miles of wall; five great gates; bastions and towers; and the deep ditch that ran all round, except on the south side, where, more formidable than any ditch—the Seine. And behind those walls, seasoned and bitter fighters, Armagnac and Burgundian patching up their quarrels for once.
Staring across the ruined countryside he thought, House and garden, farm and field burnt, burnt by command of Rouen's captain. The good land ruined. He considered it with an almost impersonal
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