216 Days (Violent Delights Book 12)

Chapter 31: The siege according to Catherine of Valois, February 13, 1422

I didn't expect him to meet me here like this. But he does. My parents are here, at the coast. I fall into my mother's arms the moment we dock at Calais.
"I missed you," I whisper, sobbing.
"Did you not get my letters?" She asks.
I shake my head. Tears are in my eyes.
"And the child? Is he well?" She asks.
"Yes," I say and she must see my face darken. She kisses my cheeks.
My father doesn't know me. He stares off. I kiss his cheek as well. Then nothing. He may know me later.
Of course Henry beat me here. He'll be at the castle though he did not see fit to meet me. The attendants get my things. And I go up to my set of rooms. My mother squeezes my arm and says we'll talk at dinner. Of course Henry is here he controls everything. I'm not free yet. But it does feel good to be back in France. I'm so much closer to home.
Owen is with them unloading my things. He throws me a cocky smile then lets it melt when anyone else looks. I bite my lip to keep from smiling. He's so stupid I love him. Any man with half a brain wouldn't be here so near my husband not when he can't help looking at me the way he does. But that isn't stopping him. No. He says he doesn't care if he dies. I say I care.
"The King will come to see you when he's free," one of Henry's attendants informs me. A man called Green I believe.
So I'm made to wait like a dog shut in a pen, locked in a sitting room. Everything on Henry's schedule. I get up and I fidget. What is he doing? What will he do? We've not seen each other since June and he was not in my bedchamber for over a year. Will he now want to kiss me? After such long chastity on his beloved campaign? Or to prove I'm his? So proud of getting me with child he wants another son? I did imply that I missed him. Well I directly said I missed him but that was for effect I don't actually want him.
I've nearly got myself shaking by the time the door does open. And my long lost husband. Taller than life, dark hair short as always and smooth shaven around those awful war scars. Ink stains on his hands and cheek like he touched his face, he's currently holding sets of papers and walks in barely glancing up to ascertain that I'm alone.
"I need to ask you something. You were in the French court I need you to tell me everything about this man now I can describe him I also have a sketch—what are you doing?" He looks up from his papers. I got up and stepped behind a chair because again I had nearly frightened myself with ideas of what he'd do.
"Just standing here, my lord," I say.
"Right, well sit down this could take a while—sit down if you want to—now I don't know this man's name but perhaps you've heard it? Or you could ask your mother? They call him the Bastard of Vaurus but I don't know his father's name or his Christian name, but I have a very accurate sketch of him and I can describe him in detail—,"
"What?" I really am trying but he's acting like I saw him yesterday and not, oh, over six months and an entire baby ago.
"What part do you need me to repeat?" He asks, looking up, brown eyes filled with annoyance.
"Um—little bit slower," I say, sinking down. I think this is the longest conversation we've had, "The Bastard of Vaurus?"
"Yes, do you know him?" He asks.
"Ah, I've heard of him. Yes. He's Meaux's governor is he not?" I ask.
"Yes, he defends their garrison we're sieging, Meaux. I mean, I am. What do you know of him?" He asks, urgently.
"Um, not a lot I don't recall his name my mother might. I can ask her. He was appointed governor I don't think anyone wanted the job and he was said to be clever. They also said he was pretty," I say, shrugging.
"Yes, that's him, can you tell me who this man is?" He asks, handing me a sketch.
"Did you draw this?"
"No, the Earl of March did, why is that important?"
"Hidden talents," I say, almost smiling.
"The Earl of March did based on my description and with my supervision do you know who that man is? He has some connection to the Bastard and I must know what it is," Henry says, tapping the paper. It's honestly not a bad sketch at all. In fact, it's quite good.
"That's Denis de Vaurus—you know him as well perhaps he was at Agincourt I think, along some others half the Vaurus' were there, but he helped my brother escape," from you that's awkward. Go on. "He would be the bastard's cousin, I think."
"Cousin?" Henry frowns, "How do you know?"
"Denis de Vaurus was my father's guard for a time. My father is ill as you know, Denis was among the men who would rescue my father from the woods, or wherever he was hiding. He's a good knight," and you're killing him.
"And how do you know he's the bastard's cousin?" Henry persists.
"The boy was his squire or whatever for a period. As I said, Denis was at the castle, so if this is the bastard I'm thinking of, a boy with dark curls. He was my brother's age, a bit older than me. He helped Denis and the other knights with the horses and their armor so I saw him once or twice. I know because my mother asked Denis if it was his boy. He said might as well be; it was the bastard of his cousin. I only saw him once or twice. He kept the boy away from everyone, I mean he is a bastard. And Denis was just a knight." I'm drawing off maybe one conversation so it's not a lot of information and it's all hazy. I did not expect a quiz on an acquaintance from ten or so years ago.
"This is him," Henry holds up a very elegant sketch of a man, but yes it does match the boy from my memory. I only remember because I thought Denis was quite nice to my father. And the boy was scurrying about. I say boy he's probably five or six years older than me. My brothers may have played with him they'd play with the squires but I don't know. Denis wasn't at the palace much longer after that and I was sent off to study.
"It looks like him yes. I'm sorry it was maybe once I saw him, but that is his cousin, I think he took the boy in or something of that kind," I say.
"Something of that kind. Yes," he walks to the window, looking out, "Yes. I suppose that would fit."
I look around. This is it? That's what he wants to talk about? That is it. Isn't it? He's not going to ask about the baby. Or me. This is, who he is. And suddenly I pity him. Perhaps it's because I've had someone love me. But I pity it. He's obsessed with his war. That's all he is. And he means me no ill will. His callousness is his character. That's all there is.
"Why do you ask?" I ask, carefully, fearing for the brave defenders of Meaux.
"This man—his cousin you say. He—looked at the bastard with care. Kindness. Treated him as someone he—held love for. It surprised me I did not— I wanted to know why. I still want to know why. I didn't think a creature such as him could ever draw someone to love him. He's alone. I've trapped him alone and he's impossibly stubborn, and wild. I know exactly who and what he is. I don't understand how someone could care for him," he says, staring out the window.
"I think every person, has at least someone willing to love them. It just takes someone willing to know what you are, and not mind what they find. And not everyone's going to understand that's fine but—someone usually will I think," I say.
"Very romantic of you," Henry says.
"Yes, I suppose it is," I laugh almost at being called romantic. I'm terribly cynical I feel.
"Anyway. That's why I asked," he says.
"You're sieging them?"
"Yes. We'll win soon," he says, making no move to do anything, "Did you need something from me? You asked to see me. You can put anything in a letter no one reads my letters but myself."
"No, I'm fine, I just—I wanted to see you," now I am glad I did see you, "Your son is well. He's strong."
"Ah. Good. Did you tell him about the siege?"
"What?" I ask, so startled I have no better response, "No. He's a baby."
The door opens then and John steps in, he quickly bows to his kingly brother, but the two more quickly embrace.
"Thank you for coming," Henry says, slapping him on the shoulders, actually smiling.
"Wouldn't miss it. We'll crush them soon. And look who I've brought," John says, like I'm a dog or something.
"Yes, thank you," Henry says.
"I told the baby about the siege," John says, squeezing his brother's arms once more.
"Excellent, I'm glad. I don't suppose he spoke?"
"No, he's barely two months old he doesn't speak yet," I say.
Henry shrugs like he has no idea when babies speak. I realize he does not, "No matter. Thank you for telling him about the siege."
"Of course. I'll leave you to it," John says, kissing his brother's hand before leaving. James is lurking as well I'm sure, but I'm pleased enough to have only dealt with the one of them.
"If that was all you needed," Henry shrugs, going to the window again, "I've work to do. You simply wanted to see me then?"
"And tell you about the baby," I say. So he's not planning on lying with me I take it? I'm relieved enough at that.
"Oh yes. You already wrote he's well," Henry says, not concerned.
"Yes," I say, looking down at my hands. He really doesn't care. "I want to stay in Paris for a while, with my mother and father. You know my father's ill."
"Yes," clearly excited. My father's death means he gets the crown of France.
"Yes, I may?" I ask.
"Do as you like. The boy stays at Windsor of course he's too small for travel I suppose," Henry says, not concerned. "As you say your father may die then we'll both be here for the coronation."
"Good," I say, "Yes."
"What do you believe happens to us? Once we're gone?" He asks, quietly, staring at his reflection in the frosted window.
"Dead you mean?" I ask.
"In the Iliad, Achilles mourns the death of his paramour, Patroclus, yet without him he goes on fighting. Winning his greatest victories. So why be left after another is gone to go on to greatness? Or was it holding you back all the time? The strings that tie us to one another really just hold us down?" He asks, tracing his hand along the pane of glass.
"I think we go on if the people who love us still live," I say, gently. Did someone die on campaign? That he liked? Joan's words echo in my mind. That he prefers his men's company.
"Do you?" He looks at me sharply, "Why would we do that? Even if we let them go why would they return?"
"Memory, right? That's why we have tombs. So that the memory can live on while we're in heaven."
"Yes. Memory. Of course."
"I mean, one must go on. Achilles had to go on and then he had success as you say," I say, trying to recall the old text. I think I read it once. My primary reading was scripture.
"Achilles didn't want to go on alone, though. He said he wished that all the other Greeks were dead so that he and Patroclus could conquer Troy alone. Just the two of them. As it was meant to be," he taps the glass.
"I don't think any of us want to be alone," I say, wondering what prompted this.
"You'd tell me if you knew anything more of the defenders at Meaux?" Henry asks, glancing up.
"Yes. Of course," I say. Our poor brave men at Meaux. "I don't think about war so much, I once did. But not anymore I—I want to be happy." I don't know why I'm telling him this.
"I always think of war. But I'm glad that you're well. And the child of course," he says, "I'm glad that you're happy."
"So am I," I say, meaning it now. "And you." I hope you find what you're looking for. Out there and in your trenches. And I hope Meaux gives you hell, Henry. My god you deserve it. "How long has the siege gone on?"
"Three thousand one hundred and forty three hours. Which is one hundred and thirty one days," he very nearly smiles, "They'll break soon."
I hope they do not.
"I'll stay with my mother in Paris then," I say, nodding, "John can take me he's going."
"Yes, yes, he needs to pick up final supplies for our siege machine there—it's impossibly expensive to have them shipped. Easier to get in Paris," he says, rubbing his face.
I get up and walk around the couch to stand by him. Somehow he holds no horror for me now. Perhaps it's finally seeing him as he really is that does it. And somehow instead of fear I feel something like pity. This is truly, all that he is. Lost son of Mars.
"You said you missed me, was that true?" He asks, frowning a little.
"I think it was," I say, and then I hug him around the waist. My head barely comes up to his chest. He stands there for a moment then puts his arms around me, very loosely, as though he can't remember the last time he got a hug.
"What was that?" He asks, when I step back from him.
"I suppose I did miss you," and I had our child. And it took me all this just to see you for what you are. "You're going back to Meaux."
"Yes. Yes. As soon as possible," he says, "Write to me if you have need of anything. I get all the letters."
"Yes," I smile a little, "Take care, my lord."
"You as well, my lady," he says, smiling then, an expression obscured by war scars.
We join the others for dinner. My mother is calm as ever, she despises this man I know but she's all smiles and politeness. As is he. My father is a different matter. My father is terrified is of my husband. My father is not well enough in his mind to hide this fact. My husband finds this entertaining.
"Kate, that man is here, why is he here?" My father hides behind me and my mother. Very brave.
"Well as much as it pains me to say it, I married him. So he sort of is going to be here," I say, patting my father's arm.
I don't know if Henry hears me but he looks like he tries not to smile so he might.
"We should all leave," my father says, taking our arms, "We're not safe."
"Well, you are completely correct we are not safe, but we're staying anyway, sit down," my mother hisses.
We do not get him sitting down at the table but the rest of us do eat. Henry says little which really dampens the conversation though my mother is lovely at making small talk and asking how our trips to the coast were, despite my husband's one word answers. She does not let on that we've had no letters from each other. We don't want to give him the satisfaction.
Henry makes his excuses and leaves almost as quickly as he can manage. As king his excuses are that he has work to do. And he simply leaves.
My mother immediately turns on me, "You nearly smiled at him."
"I'm not afraid of him anymore," I admit.
"You were?" She asks gently.
"Yes. But now I know what he is. It's like lighting a candle finally in the dark. Once you see what makes the strange shape, then the darkness holds no horror for you now. Except of course he's still a monster," I say.
"Has he hurt you?"
"Yes. But not like that, no. I think now he could have been a good man if he'd given himself the chance, and not let himself fall to rage," I say. But the rage of Achilles was his downfall. Why do you think yourself Achilles, Henry? When did you get self referential enough to liken yourself to a fallen Demi-god? Who did that to you, when you've always thought yourself a god? "Did you know Meaux has not fallen?"
"Yes, they are holding out, remarkably long," My mother says. She comes to take my arm as we leave the dining room, "I have word from your brother. He is safe in the south of France. They are shocked Henry has not marched on them yet."
"Meaux has bought them time," I say. So Charles still lives. Thank god. "God bless our brave defenders at Meaux."
"They refuse to yield. My spies tell me Henry seeks captives to force Charles' hand, to make him order them to surrender. They estimate there are less than five hundred soldiers, and some citizens, still in the city. They have one cannon and they must have few supplies," she says.
"It's been one hundred and thirty one days," I say. I have no idea how they held out against him this long.
"I pray they do not yield yet," my mother says.
"As do I," but I don't see how they can withstand it. Not this long. I don't know how they have not broken yet. They have wills of iron. "I hope they know they're saving half of France from that monster."
"I suppose they must. I don't see why Henry doesn't move on. They can be no threat now. Each day I expect to get word he's caught up to Charles."
"He won't. Not so long as Meaux stands. It's a chess game for him now. He must win it. Simply a prize it's not even about warfare. It's all a game to him. Nothing more," I say, "His whole life is nothing but games with other people and their lives. That's why I've come back home. I'm refusing to play."
"Is that wise?" My mother asks.
"Yes, yes it is for me," I say, "To chase me would mean to admit he lost me. And Henry does not lose."