Read Wife to Henry V: A Novel for Free Online Page B

soldier's mattress.”
    “Odd!” Beaufort shrugged elegant shoulders. “Henry is twenty-seven—a full man, as many a Cheapside wench has reason to know. And yet for two years, two whole years—no mistress; no strumpet, even. And here is the lady Catherine fresh as a rose—and he's cold as ice. You're right. He has no lust for women now; his whole lust is for war.”
    * * *
    It was hot in Paris. Even in the garden of St. Pol a sudden turn of the wind would bring the stench of gutters. Catherine was used to that; she hardly noticed it, where she walked thoughtful, gown trailing.
    How soon before Henry of England appeared, like the god of War? And who could stop him? Her father sick and out of his mind? Or the old man his deputy, her great-uncle of Berri enjoying the summer in the country? Or Burgundy the great windbag hunting in his duchy? Or Louis her brother? Another windbag with his talk of riding to Rouen to send the invader packing...Louis always talked too much. For what had he done? Sent his wife away so that he could the better disport himself with his mistresses. Who then to stand against Henry of England, to pull together the four ragged corners of France?
    She was not sure that she wanted anyone to stand against Henry, to pull together the ragged corners of France. Her own fortunes were bound up with his. She could not doubt it. In spite of his ships, in spite of his armies, he had written to her father. He preferred peace to riches, so he said; he would be more than content with his own inheritance if he might share it with his very dear Cousin, the noble Catherine.
    “His own inheritance—and what does he mean by that, the hypocrite?” Michelle had said. “He means to gobble up all France and you, too. So look out for yourself, our very dear Cousin, the noble Catherine.”
    Well, let Michelle mock, Michelle green with envy! She stooped to pull a rose; ran her finger upon a thorn, sucked at the tiny-wound.
    They said he was a lion at the kill, a tiger, a leopard...The thought was exciting; a little frightening. She saw the bead of crimson well, drop from her finger.
    She hoped there wouldn't be too much bloodshed. A little; just enough to show he was conqueror, that he had come to claim his prize. She would like to be given to him—the prize for valour...
    She turned to the sound of footsteps—Michelle come to say Goodbye. Michelle was smiling. “Finished, Henry of England,” she said. “Finished with grabbing at our crown, and lucky if he can keep his own! A plot; on the point of sailing. To put his cousin on the throne, the true heir. Perhaps you could change your bridegroom and take milord March instead. But then he's married; impotent, too, they say. Or are you besotted still with the handsome Henry? Well, I'd advise you to think again. God has spoken with a clear voice.”
    “It isn't God. It's men. Traitors.”
    “It is God. Three of his ships are burnt in harbour.”
    “Men could do that, too. Well,” she shrugged, “there are still ships enough.”
    “But God has spoken,” Michelle said again, a little stupid.
    “Are you God's Trumpet? Goodbye, Michelle, take care of yourself...and your husband. My greetings to Philip...if you see him.” She brushed the sallow cheeks with cold, fresh lips.
    * * *
    Isabeau said grim, “Your hero has sailed. The rebellion—so!” The arched foot in its long-toed shoe ground upon the floor. “The leaders hanged. He is not one to waste his time, this Henry. A flock of swans swam about his ship as it moved to open sea. He took it as an omen.”
    “The swans?” Catherine took in her breath. “His own bird—bird of his device.” One might indeed say God had spoken!
    “Well now, I suppose, we must look for this hero of yours at Boulogne!”
    It was Isabeau who received the messengers, who wrestled with the news, fitting this and that together in her shrewd mind; she who gave the orders. For still the King was sick; and still Burgundy hunted in his