The Wounded Hawk. Sara Douglass
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is to take Mary Bohun, the flush-faced virgin heiress to the Hereford titles and lands, as his wife on … why, on Michaelmas. Tomorrow.”
Catherine reacted as if she’d been struck. She reeled back, her face paling save for two unnaturally bright spots in her cheeks. “I cannot believe it!” she whispered.
“But you must,” Isabeau said, “for I spoke with the little Mary-child myself.” She grinned. “Poor Mary. She dreads her wedding night whereas you would have lusted for it more than Bolingbroke.”
Catherine’s eyes had filled with tears, and Isabeau regarded her with suspicion. “I did not know you had lusted for him, Catherine. Why so shocked?”
“There had been talk … some time ago … of a marriage between us.”
“There is always talk and there are always negotiations that never eventuate into actuality. You know that as much as any other noble-bred girl. And, truth to tell, Bolingbroke did not fight very hard to ensure the success of the negotiations. He was somewhat indifferent. But I can see that you managed to take a fancy to him, at the least. A shame, for you shall never have him.”
Catherine’s face tightened in anger, and Isabeau smiled, well pleased.
“You shall never have him,” she said again, “unless you fight for him, and make him want you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I know the Plantagenet princes very well.” She smiled. “Very, very well. Well, at least the older generation of them. But, come what may, all the Plantagenet princes are the same—they lust for power—and for the women they cannot have. I do not think Bolingbroke any different.”
“And …”
Isabeau shrugged elegantly. “Mary will not suit him. All can see that. She has not the fire to earn his respect. One day, Catherine, he will regret very, very much not having fought for you.
“My dear,” Isabeau leaned forward and took her daughter’s hands in hers, “make him fight for you now!”
“But he will soon have a wife!”
“Ah! You tie yourself down with such pettinesses! God above, Catherine, you can bring him France!”
“But with Mary as wife—”
“A wife? Of what matter is that? Wives come and go … and I have a feeling that Mary Bohun is so vapid she will catch a chill and die with the first touch of an autumn fog. Mary can be disposed of when the time comes, but in the meantime, she will provide a good power base so that eventually Hal’s lusts and ambitions can straddle the Narrow Seas.”
Isabeau’s teeth glinted momentarily. “And while you wait, there is no reason why you can’t make him sweat … and further our own cause to dispose of this Joan.”
Catherine, who had been fighting despair and hope in equal amounts in the last minutes, now eyed her mother warily. “Explain.”
“You said that Joan will ruin all our lives should she be allowed to prattle on for much longer. But I do not think myself wrong to say that most in this castle think her a mouthpiece of God?”
Catherine made a wry face. “I think most follow her about sweeping up the discarded skin she scratches off her neck and ears to keep as holy relics. Men flock to this castle as news of its saint spreads. And of all within this house of fools, Charles is the greatest fool of them all!”
“But what of Philip?”
“What of Philip?”
“What does he think? Does he have a collection of sacred dandruff tucked away under his pillow?”
“Who knows what he thinks?”
“I think we must learn what he thinks,” Isabeau said carefully, “for he might yet prove our greatest ally. And I think you the perfect woman to secure his secrets.”
“No,” Catherine whispered, trying to pull her hands out of her mother’s grip.
But Isabeau was surprisingly strong for her seeming fragility, and she kept tight hold of Catherine. “Don’t be such a fool! I said before that you should control your own destiny. Don’t let others do it for you! Bolingbroke uses people as he wants for his own devices, Catherine. Don’t let your womanhood stop you from doing the same.”
“Philip will think to use me to gain the throne for himself.”
“Of course! I would expect no less from him. But, Catherine, don’t you see? If Philip thinks he might have a chance at the throne through you then he will turn against Joan! One day, somehow, we can use him to destroy her, and once she is gone …”
“Then Charles fails.”
“Aye. He will never have the strength to fight for his inheritance on his own.”
Catherine took a deep breath. “I would have liked to have saved myself for—”
“Oh, stop prattling on about saving yourself!” Isabeau laughed in genuine amusement. “You’ve been listening to those pious priests and dimwitted nursery maids again. Enjoy Philip, for he will be good for you and to you.”
“Are you sure this is not a task you want to take on yourself, mother?”
“I think it is time for you to take wing and fly, child. Besides, yours is the body and womb that will gift a strong man the throne of France, not mine. Not any more. I have bequeathed you that power, Catherine. Use it.”
When Catherine had gone, Isabeau sat back and let her thoughts drift.
In many ways Catherine disconcerted her, but most of all Catherine disconcerted Isabeau because she should not exist.
Catherine was conceived one winter when Isabeau was being held captive in a stronghold of the Duke of Burgundy’s—the duke had thought to ransom her back to King John until he’d realised after four months that John would not pay a single gold piece to have his daughter-in-law returned. Finally, the duke had been forced to release Isabeau with much grumbling and cursing.
Catherine was not Louis’ daughter. Indeed, everyone assumed that Isabeau had consoled herself during her capture with a guard, or perhaps a cook.
But only Isabeau knew the truth. During those four months she had bedded no man. When, some two weeks before the Duke had finally released her, Isabeau had realised she was pregnant she was beside herself with fear.
What sprite had fathered this child on her? What imp would she give birth to?
Not wanting to know the answer to either question, Isabeau had taken every potion and herb she knew of to try and rid herself of the child in her womb. But it would not be shifted. Isabeau had gone into her birthing chamber terrified, thinking the child would kill her in its release from the womb.
But the birth had been easy, surprisingly painless, and Isabeau had recovered quickly. The child, Catherine, had been as any human child, and gradually Isabeau had convinced herself that perchance she had imbibed too much wine one night and had consoled herself with a foul-smelling guard after all.
And yet sometimes, as she did this day, Isabeau felt strong enough to admit to herself the truth.
Catherine was not the child of any mortal man, and she had not been put in her womb through any mortal means.
The Feast of St Michael
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(Thursday 29th September 1379)
—Michaelmas—
—i—
Neither