216 Days (Violent Delights Book 12)

Chapter 8: The siege according Catherine of Valois, October 15, 1421

For the first time in nearly a month, I bother to dress. When I can have dinner in my room, why should I leave it? I hate seeing people. I'm in my confinement anyway. And I hate the noise of court. It's mostly closed up now, with the King gone. My husband expects little of me.
Agnes comes and does my hair, helping me to dress. I do not look in a mirror, just smoothing my hands over my swollen belly. The child is moving, squirming. It's running out of space and is cross. Sad little creature. Cross it's getting brought into the world. The entire country wants it, but its parents do not. I pray it doesn't know.
"You look lovely," Agnes says, fixing my hair.
"Do I look like a queen?" I ask, as I look out the windows at the snow. I loved the snow when I was a little girl. At the convent, where I did my lessons, I'd always race through my work. Just so I could go outside and play in it, let the fresh flakes settle on my face. So magical and clean.
But now I'm trapped inside. Bearing this child I do not at all want. In this cold, cold castle. Only able to look out. Trapped in my body which I now hate. I'm not beautiful anymore. I'm not a little girl anymore. I'm supposed to be having a child.
"You do, you look quite well," she says, finishing braiding my hair up. I hate it all up on my head. It gives me a headache.
"I'm meeting the dowager Queen, hopefully I measure up," I say, "Tell me, do you think she writes to Henry? What do the ladies say?"
"She lived here at Windsor, when he was first king. And they say she used to get on well with her step-sons, all of them. But her son in France sided with —,"
She was going to say us. Sided with us.
"—with the Dauphin."
"Yes," my brother. Whose name I cannot speak. I belong to his enemy and am having his enemy's child. Charles isn't bad. He's two years younger than I. And on holidays and such when we were all allowed to play we'd always hide together under the tables, and steal the sweets. Sometimes our father would catch us both and if he was in a good humor he'd tuck us each under one arm.
At least our father loved us, in his own way, as much as his mind let him. And we would laugh and cling to each other. We had no idea the fates would do this to us. We didn't even know Charles would be the Dauphin. We thought that our brothers would do all that. Charles would promise me that he'd have a big castle someday. Where I could live. And never have to get married. Because that was always floated about. That someday I would have to get married. That someday I would be wed perhaps to the English prince, then the English king. We were little. And he promised me he'd protect me. Such empty words. I'd like to think he meant them.
I highly doubt my child will have such experiences. For one thing, reflecting on it, it's really remarkable that its father gave me this baby. For another, I have met its father. I'm really lowering my expectations for this creature in me to be anything like a human being with feelings and kindness. I just don't see that happening. It already feels like something evil growing in me. I can still feel its father's emotionless stare, his rough hands braced on my little arms. Tipping his face away and refusing to kiss me. But he did his duty and gave me this child. No, it will be awful I expect nothing else of it. How could it? It's father and I had no love for each other. We gave it nothing.
"Well. We shall see what she says," I say. I asked for this visit. She was at my coronation, but that was loud. It was so loud. I relied on Henry's arm and little more and just smiled and nodded. That was all that was required of me and Henry's possibly only good quality as husband is being taller than everyone and moving us swiftly through a crowd. I don't think he's doing it for me. I think he doesn't like people either, but it still stands.
"Yes, you'll have to tell me all about it. Do you want me to stay outside, in case you need me?" She asks.
"No, I'll be well, you can have your dinner," I say. All right, the baby hasn't made me that ill. My stomach churned early on, but that's to be expected they tell me. I'm not that ill. I'm just sore. And lonely. And miserable. And defeated. But not yet. I'm not defeated yet.
The ladies and a couple of attendants walk me to one of the day rooms. I don't usually come out here. I haven't been in half of these rooms. At first Henry was here so I was doing whatever engagement he needed. Then he was gone and I'm pregnant and there's no reason not to stay in my room. At least then I can pretend, if my face is in my pillow, I can pretend I'm not here. I think of the birds in France that would sing. And if I close my eyes and focus I can imagine I'm not in this body and carrying this child.
I imagine I'll die in childbirth. Then he'd have to come home. I'll die and I won't have to ever see this thing growing in me. And there'll be a funeral and my parents will cry. And Henry will be forced to come home. And I won't be his prize anymore. I'll be gone. I'll be free. I dream of that. Just praying I bleed out. And the baby dies as well so he's left with nothing. A joint funeral and he'll have to pretend he cared for us, or thought of us at all. I can pretend and imagine my funeral for hours. Then I'll be beautiful again.
But now I have an engagement. Of my own. I asked for this. But that doesn't mean I want to do it now. I've been nothing but in my room for days and now I don't even want to come out. But I can. I will. I need to know.
They open the doors for me, and I step in. The sitting room is warm, and bright. I feel like I'm not even myself anymore. I know how to be a princess though and I learned to be a queen, so I tip my head and do not curtesy. I smile like I was taught. Always a pretty smile.
The Dowager Queen rises, curtseying to me. She's my mother's age I suppose, with greying hair and a lovely handsome face. Strong. She looks so strong to me.
"Catherine, it is lovely to see you," she says, crossing the room to take my hands. Hers are warm and thick. And she smiles warmly, like she's my aunt or something. She greets me in French, a language I only hear from my own ladies. The rest all babble in English. I nearly weep to hear it on her lips now.
"I confess I did not think you would come," I say, "The king said you do not leave your residence."
"By his command. He doesn't know. He need not know everything, my dear, come, let me look at you in the firelight," she says, drawing me over, kindness in her eyes, "You must be getting tired now. With my first I thought that girl would never be born."
"It feels that way," I say, softly, "I confess I do not know why the King has banished you to Kent."
"You'll find my dear Henry's primary motivator is money for his wars. Little else. He's a young man and has a steadier head than his father," she says, dismissively, as though her step son's treatment of her is as immaterial as neglecting to invite her for Christmas, and not depriving her of her place in this house.
I must start a bit for she laughs.
"Yes, Henry. He may be king, but I have known him since he was boy I will speak his name. As should you, he is your husband and my step son, first. King, second. If only because he would hate that," she says, "But come, sit down. I'm glad of the company and your letter was quite intriguing."
"How long have you known my husband?" I ask, following her to sit on a sofa.  She smells of lavender, and cinnamon. 
"Since he was sixteen. Or in there. A boy to me," she amends, "But that isn't what you brought me here to ask me, is it? You said you longed for counsel, before the birth of your child?"
"Yes. My mother is home, in France," I say, "And my sisters. And I believe that I may die."
"Why?" She asks gently.
I wish to is the real answer. But I do not say it. "It's something I think. It may not be true. And frankly what I tell you I know matters very little. Henry would believe nothing you told him anyway. So I can speak freely. Something that has not been true since I left home," I say.
"I'm more than happy to listen. I loved my first husband, and I still feared for my first child's birth," she says.
"Why would you say it like that?"
She smiles.
"You know, how do you know? The world believes he's smitten with me. He's made sure of it. So how would you know?" I ask, frowning.
"I have met Henry, love," she says, kindly, "I have known that man since he was a boy. I was with him the night his father died. I may not be his mother. But I do know him."
"That is all I ask of you. I am having our child. And I may die," I say, putting a hand on my belly and then moving it. The little Englishman is kicking me again. "If you know him as you say, then you will not be surprised to hear that he does not love me. He does not care for me, or this child."
"I suppose it would be crude to ask you if it were his?" She says.
"Why would you ask me that?" I frown. Rumors of my mother's infidelity abound I know but I did not know they had bled to me.
"Again. I have met Henry," she says.
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean all that he is, is not a mystery to me as it is to everyone else. I am not his mother, but I am a mother. And I've known him more than half his life now," she says.
"Of course it's his child. I probably wouldn't hate it otherwise," I breath. I can't imagine that, some child conceived in love, growing in me, because I loved or at least enjoyed its father's kisses on my lips. The warm sweet idea that it could be something I had because I wanted it. I don't know what that would feel like. I haven't felt pleasure with a man, let alone this thing's sire. Sire, nothing more.
"I am sorry," she says, softly.
"I just want to know. Before I give birth. Before I may die," I hope I die. I hope we both die. The child and me. He doesn't want us. And we're both forever stained by him. "I want to know—and you are the only person I can ask. The servants tell me nothing. My ladies have heard nothing. So I just want to know. Who is there?"
"You're asking if Henry has a mistress?" She asks.
"Yes. He's thirty five years old. I'm not a fool. I have brothers. And a father, however ill. I have known, plenty, of men. Who does he go to? Because it isn't me. I barely tempted him to my bed enough to get this," I gesture to my belly, heavy with his child. "I simply want to know. Who was she?"
"You know he vowed chastity till his wedding night?" She asks.
"He looked at me like I was a dog. He wouldn't let me kiss his lips, or touch him. He wouldn't let me remove my dress. So I ask you, who was she? I want to know who won the heart of a king, when I could not. I'm young. Before he had me, I was beautiful. So what is it he wants?" I ask. I'm desperate to come this far. I'm desperate to ask her. But I'm frustrated. Time is running short. It is winter nearly. And he does not come home.
"You are still very beautiful, child. A good man would say more so, for bearing his child," she says, smiling at me, gently though. "Don't let him, or anyone tell you differently. We were made to change, to give birth, to grow with time and age. That does not make us any less. This child is a gift. That does not mean you have to keep it. Or love it. It is like any gift, to do with as you wish."
"I hate it," I whisper, tears running down my face, "He was supposed to want me."
"I know. I suspected when I got the news, that he'd married you—your mother told you to bewitch him, or something of that kind?"
"Something of that kind."
"I realize you may not be receptive to it now, but it's to your credit that you even got the child," she says, a little dryly.
"Why? What is it he wants? Whose bed did he go to those nights? I saw it in his face. His eyes searching for someone else when he looked at me. And he slipped from my room with relief. I want to know who she is," I plead. I want to destroy her. I want to take from him this thing he loves so much better than me and the child I'm bearing him.
"No one. I'm sorry, but there is no one," she says.
"That can't be true. I know it isn't true. I told him I was having this baby. He responded as though I'd told him the weather. Nothing. He's fathered children before. He had a woman before, he knew what to do with me. He just didn't want me," I say.
"If he ever took a girl to his bed then it was brief and she never spoke of it. I had good track of all those boys. I knew what their father was like. And you'll come to an age where you trust no man. I warned the brothers off flirting with the serving girls. And Henry? He helped me. He chastised the others for their dalliances. He gave no girl here the time of day, he simply did not care," she shakes her head, "I didn't believe it either. I thought he was playing the part for his father. But I had my spies. And the girls would tell me of his brother's indiscretions. Not him."
"So what then? He goes to the brothels, has his fun? That's where he flees to, the whorehouses around Paris?"
"No. My son is with Henry's army. He writes to me. I assure you my dear, they are entirely focused on their goal, at the moment a siege. Henry drives from camp any prostitutes. He answers correspondence late into the night and spends the days in the trenches with his men," she says.
"And when he was home? He left me. He was getting pleasure elsewhere, he must be. They all do," I say.
"I'm telling you what I have seen. I wish I had a simple answer for you. His courtesan. But she does not exist," she says.
"Why? He's a king, they take anything they want. Powerful men, they have any girl. Any number of girls. The refined perhaps one or two but he has all the power, all the money in the world. He bought me as his broodmare. He can have whatever he likes, so why not?" I ask.
"Hm, my son asked the very question apparently he was in favor of letting the men have their fun. Let me read it to you. I have the letter here. When my son asked why the need to police men's vices. The answer given was 'the pleasure of Venus all too often weakened and softened victorious Mars'," she says, looking down at a letter in her hands.
"What?" I shake my head, "Does he think he is Mars?"
"Yes. Yes, as you ask that. Yes, I think he does. I would believe he genuinely does believe he is Mars reborn," she nods.
"Mars had Venus as a consort. Mars had the queen of the Amazons as a consort. Does he think in his—beloved chastity, that he is better—than Mars?" I ask, confused.
"Also yes. I would truly believe that boy sat down and decided that he is superior to the God of War. That probably tells you more than you wanted to know about the father of your child, but there you have it. You're beautiful. But this man believes Venus would soften his victories. And he loves nothing but war. So there you have it. Again, I do credit you that you took him to your bed enough to get with child."
"I don't understand," I shake my head. Did he ask her to say this? It makes no sense. If he's had no woman why would he not at least enjoy the brief pleasures of me? I offered myself to him.  Even if he planned to leave again?
"Not all men, are as you believe them. Most, yes. But not all," she says.
"Fine. He thinks he's—saving himself for war? Giving in to temptation. All right. I'll, accept that. I think. But you cannot tell me that when he was a boy he did nothing. Flirted with none of the girls. Didn't even tempt one to his bed so he could tell his brothers he had," I say, as his baby kicks in me, painfully rooting against my ribs.  "I've seen my own brothers. And men at court. And you cannot tell me you do not know at least one secret of his young heart. However long ago. What girl's memory keeps him warm all these nights in France?"
"There is no girl," she sighs, "Someday, you'll live as long as I. And all the awful men will quit gawking at you. And you'll learn to see the other breed of men. Rare yes. Who are as charming as the rest, perhaps the speak even more fairly. But at the end of the day they keep to their soldiers, and their sports. They are freer there. And they joke with the others about not finding a woman to tempt them. But they do not look. I had grown children when I came here. And two husbands. I saw what Henry was before he knew. His father never guessed, which was well for both of them I think. Too quiet, eyes for no one but perhaps himself in the mirror. Neat, clever, always with a fine word for the ladies, but then no time for them. There were a few stolen nights yes, injured as he was from war, lonely, but it was one of his followers he tugged back to his bed.  A priest, a boy about his age. Henry would take him by the wrist. It was all mockery and foolishness of course, claiming he needed to speak to his friend at length. Cheeks a bit too flushed. Too ready with his defenses and of course all good reasons. But I'd see neither till morning. And the priest would be at his side again, just lurking in the shadows. That's all he could do."
I stare at the firelight, "You're saying he prefers the —company— of other men?"
"At one point in his life he did treasure the company of that man. I do not know to what extent. I do not wish to. We all deserve secrets of our hearts, do we not? Even a man like Henry," she says.
"What happened to him? This priest?" I ask, trying to think back to any service at Westminster. Any priest that could have been Henry's age, or there about.
"He died. Boys who go to war tend to," she says, gently, "One battle Henry could not win."
"How?"
"In Henry's arms if young Mortimer is to be believed, which as a rule he is not. Sickness took the priest, he handled Henry's money by then. And he died in his monarch's tent. In his arms," she says, "If the rumors are true. I choose to believe they are. Because all I remember is Henry tugging him down a hall, holding him by the wrist. A lovely new plaything for a spoiled prince. And the other boy laughing. They saw me and Henry poured out some lie about what they'd been doing with red faces and messy hair. And I never spoke of that day until now. Perhaps because I wanted to keep them that way. They'd taken no lives then, committed no sins, Henry was something like redeemable then. Something somebody could imagine being loved."
"I see," I say, quietly. My mother told me rumors of men who preferred the company of their soldiers. She said little more. Charles told me more, he's my brother that's what brothers do. He said they would lie with one another, and that it was sinful. But what I've done doesn't feel honorable. And this thing growing in me feels like a sin. It feels filthy. What I am feels filthy. Especially now.
"I'm sorry. I'd say he should have told you, but if Henry ever felt love, which I do doubt he can, then I'm sure he wasn't aware of it," she says, "There's little room in his heart. If he did have any sort of romantic, or sexual attachment to this man, it was when they were boys. And it was done years ago. I don't think he looked at anyone in that fashion. He keeps things that he cannot break. And he tries desperately to break them. It's to his credit that he has not done that with you."
"He doesn't speak to me."
"That's the only way he knows to be kind," she says, "I'm sorry I don't have the answers you wanted. You have competition, with no one. You can't be what he wants because he wants nothing at all."
"That does me little good when I'm having our child. And he cares neither for it or for me," I say, tears on my face.
"Shh, you're all right. He has left you, yes. So, do as you please! God knows Henry is. He's having a fine time in some ditch in France making everybody around him completely miserable. As is his main pastime, for whatever reason has been since he was a boy. So find your own pastime here. What is it you want to do?" She asks.
"Not be pregnant. And be home," I say, wiping tears from my face, "I hate it here."
"Oh child," she says, taking my hand gently.
"I'm sorry," I say, wiping my face again, "But it's true. I don't even want it. I thought he'd stay and leave France alone if I had this baby. But he didn't. Now I'm having it anyway."
"Go ahead and cry, you've had an awful time and you're just a child yourself," she says, patting my hands.
"I just want to go home," I sob.
"All right. Well, we can't get you home just now. This baby isn't quite ready to be out in the world, but once he is, then you can visit your mother, how about that?" She says.
"Henry would never allow it."
"I really need to express how little Henry thinks of you. So long as his heir is here I will lay money that he will not bother about what you do with your time so long as it does not interfere with his war with France. So you can go home," she says.
"What makes you think he doesn't think of me at all? Or care where I go?" I ask.
"Because the last time I saw him I said 'how is your Kate doing?' And to which your loving husband said 'who?' And then I said 'you know your wife? What with the child?' And he said 'what child?' and I said 'your wife is having a child Henry' then we went into me not calling him his actual name, and that took a minute, after which he spent another minute pretending he hadn't forgotten you and the baby exist and excusing it on the child not being born yet, and then he left the conversation. Which is very typical, however," she says, "He does not think of you."
"I would like to go home," I say, softly.
"Once you have the child, we'll see. For now. You have a cozy winter here. When are you due?" She asks.
"The start of December," I say.
"You sure?" She asks, gently.
"Yes," I say, hand on my belly. I know I'm little. The midwives say it all the time, implying I'm not as far gone as I am. I'm past seven months, and while red lines line my skin, my belly still only protrudes in an obtrusive lump, not past my swollen breasts. I never had breasts before, now they ache. In the dress I'm in I truly just look like I've gotten rather fat.  "I know the night I conceived. It was the first time he came to me, since the wedding. I got pregnant, somehow, and ah, I know. I was throwing up soon and feeling ill. I truly didn't think I had. My mother said it might take a few months and that's with him coming to you every week at least."
"My husbands were both fond of me. That comes with it's own grievances, however," she winces a little in sympathy.
"Yes, lucky me," I say, dryly, wincing as the baby kicks.
"Moving?" She guesses.
"Feel," I say, taking her hand and laying it on my belly through the thick dress.
"Nice and strong," she smiles, "He has a kind spirit."
"I don't feel it," I say.
"I divined for him."
"You're a witch?" I almost laugh.
"Yes, Henry has charged me with it. I told him it's delightful I don't have to pretend I'm not anymore," she says, "He didn't find that amusing, but I did. When I found out you were having a child, I cast stones. A calm, gentle nature, and kind. That was what the stones said. Again, I do confess that along with your condition in general led me to believe Henry was not the child's father."
"Unfortunately he is," I say. That's wrong he's my husband. But he does not want me or this baby? That he gave to me, somehow?
"Shut up in here alone, I know Windsor was dreary to me at first. But my husband did want my time. And his children were everywhere and I had my girls. You must be far too quiet. Well, I'm here for the week. Come. What do you want to do?" She asks, petting my hand.
"I want to go outside. I didn't get to see the first snow," I say, sniffing back tears.
"Then go outside we shall. Come," she says.
"I'm in my confinement!"
"My dear. We are queens. If you wish to go outside, we will go walk outside for a moment."
"What about the baby?" I ask. I don't care about it, but I don't want everyone saying I killed it.
"That is Henry's child it is probably  properly annoyed not to get out doors, the man is willingly spending his winter in a ditch someplace; it's of strong blood," she says, distastefully, standing up, "Come on then. Let's get you outside."
I don't think it will work but it does. Miraculously, the servants just bring us our cloaks. And lead us to the doors. Not the courtyard. No, Joan insists on the garden.
"There's always knights about there this time of day. That way if you fall a handsome knight can carry you back inside. It would do you good poor thing, married to our Henry," she says, patting my arm.
"Don't," but I almost laugh. She sounds like my mother.
"They are there, love," she says, holding my arm.
The snow is beautiful. Marred as it is by footprints. As she predicted the men are out in the yard, doing work, training, whatever they do all day? I don't know. I wonder if Charles is at a house by now. For the winter. I have had no word from him. Then I wonder if Henry shall be home for Christmas. To see the baby.
Joan was right, the baby has stopped kicking at being brought out here in the quiet and the snow. Perhaps we both needed it? I tuck my hand against my belly. Bound up in this cloak you can't even see it. Of course my face is fuller. And I suppose I'm thicker than I was but at least I don't look so obviously with child.  I don't know why I care except vanity. Perhaps that's reason enough. I get something, don't I? Yes. I do. And we both do. The baby isn't shoving me anymore, instead I feel it gently curl against my stomach, almost cuddling against me in the little space it has.
We walk down a gravel path. Joanne knows her way about. I confess I do not. I came out here but once, Henry was with me so that was distracting. He was actually giving competent directions but there were lots of people about, and he was giving an excessive amount of directions. And I was very sick, only twelve weeks gone and too chubby somehow for my normal dresses so it was feeling too tight and his response to finding out about the pregnancy was ringing through my head every ten minutes. It's down to every hour now so that's better. But then it was still rattling in my brain as he walked so casually beside me.
And so I didn't pay attention to where we were going. It's all different now. Quiet and calm, with the snow. A nice winter's day. Perhaps having the baby in winter isn't bad. I do like winter.
Joanne knows her way about quite well because of, "About five children who thought hiding from their governesses out here was a game. I couldn't stand to be cross with them though. If I got the word instead of someone diabolical and cruel who'd threaten them, then I'd come and wind up half playing with them to find them."
"Who was someone cruel? Their father?"
"No, your husband."
We both laugh.
The path leads us through some trees. Joan checks if I'm tired. I assure her I'm not. I haven't walked this much since I left home, but I do miss it. It feels good to be out here amongst the trees. And I'm feeling better than I have in months. The cool air is doing me good. The baby has stopped kicking. We're at something like peace.
We're passing by a stream when I hear voices. Some of the men are clearly bathing in the too cold water. More daring each other to jump in. My brothers would do that. And our mother would get so cross if she found out. Once Charles pushed me in. I chased him all the way home, soaking wet.
Joan has walked on a few steps ahead to examine icicles on a tree. I am going to join her but pause, looking over at the knights at the stream. One is stepping out, naked, soaking wet. He's lashing his hair from his eyes, so he doesn't see me at first, as he lifts up a long white shirt to put it back on. There are muscles in his chest and stomach, round and smooth on his shoulders. He sees me watching him and covers himself, cheeks getting a bit red as he averts his eyes. I avert mine as well, and just as I do he looks back at me smiling a little. Like acknowledging he knew I looked at him. And he didn't mind it.
He slides the shirt over his head, it falls past his waist but I can still see the water running down his thighs. His cheeks are still red but he catches my eyes again before averting them. Appreciating my gaze?
I walk on. I think I've seen him before. He's one of Henry's stewards who was with us at Melun. He's like most of the others, blonde hair, blue eyes, rough English accent. But that damned smile. That I do remember. He smiled at me once before and I thought it then. Damn that smile.