Wife to Henry V: A Novel by Hilda Lewis Read Free Book Online

duchy, while the aged Berri took the summer air, and the Dauphin sported with his lights of love.
    * * *
    A sweet August day; but Isabeau the Queen sat huddled over the brazier. She lifted a heavy, anxious face to Catherine rosy and fresh from the garden.
    “Your hero has taken Harfleur,” the Queen said. “It needs a prophet from heaven to read his mind. We looked for him at Boulogne and where should he land but Caux? And before you could look round, there he was storming Harfleur. He'll never take it, we said. And yet he has taken it, the great strong city—and the Seine valley lies open.”
    She cast her grim, shrewd look at Catherine. “The news pleases you, my girl. Oh yes it does, you can save your breath! But I'm afraid. I'm very much afraid. The man is after the crown. And your brother—what becomes of Louis?”
    Catherine shrugged. “He's a fool. The tennis balls—what possessed him? So small, so stupid, so deadly an insult!”
    “Who knows the truth of that? It's not unlike Louis to make bad worse with dangerous jokes. And yet it's all a tale, or so I think, put about by England. But Louis plays their game—one moment bragging of his cleverness, and the next, flat denial. Well, tennis balls or not, blood will flow for it.” She was silent, staring into the thin flames of the brazier. “But still—” and now she was brisk again. “Harfleur isn't the end. It's only the beginning. Harfleur is taken—what then? He'll never hold it. Too many dead; and more, sick. And there's no food; and they march in enemy country. Even his English, his own English, implore him to return. And what can he do but go home?”
    “The lion doesn't turn tail.”
    “He may be taken in the net. Oh Catherine, my girl, my girl! The blood in you fights against your dearest blood. You love the man...knowing nothing of men. You pray for his success, oh yes you do, I know you well. Your happiness lies with England—or so you think, won by a pretty phrase in a letter. Well, words are cheap enough! It isn't you he wants, it's the crown; he'd take any woman who would help him to it. The crown...the Valois crown. Could you share it thinking of Louis?”
    “He'd be happier without it. Let him but wench by day and sing by night!”
    “You have a hard heart once it's set. Don't think to match it against this Henry. No man moves him against his will; and no woman, neither—certainly no green girl.” She looked at Catherine so young, so hard...so vulnerable. “Take care,” she said and sent the girl an almost pitying look.
    * * *
    Henry was on the march for Calais. He would not turn for any man's advising; not even for Arundel sick of dysentery, like many more. Arundel his captain and his friend; thirty-four and dying.
    “Home, home,” Arundel kept saying. And on his fainting breath the words were a longing and a lament. “France is not for you—not this time.”
    “France is for me—this and every time. How should I turn back now? What would they think of me in France which is mine? How cheap would they hold me in England...” which I have not yet won .
    “So few men,” Arundel said, “so many sick. And it's cold...cold.” He shivered so that the pallet shook beneath his wasted frame.
    But it was not only the sickness that shook him, Henry knew it well enough. It was winter breathing its icy breath too soon. He took the cloak from his shoulders and threw it over the sick man; bent to warm his hands over the sulky brazier.
    ...Winter closing down on an enemy country and I, with my sick men on the march. Am I wrong, obstinate with pride? But there is no choice...no choice; turning back I shame myself in the eyes of Christendom...
    He looked again at Arundel. The face was grey, Arundel's warm and friendly face. To die in the heat of battle is an easy death, the King thought; to die slowly of this filth, another. He sent his pity for the sick man packing. Keep pity for myself. England will have his bones. But I? If I may not