The favorite was still Louis de Bosredon, and he was becoming more and more insufferable.
He had several clashes with one or two highly placed officials in the household, but when complaints were made to my mother, she shrugged her shoulders and laughed. She treated Louis de Bosredon like one of her little dogs…to be petted and scolded lightheartedly and pampered. Louis de Bosredon was clearly delighted with his success.
I do not know how long he would have continued to please her—he had had a long run—but it was inevitable that one day he would go too far.
It so happened that my father had been getting a little better since the battle of Agincourt. It was possible that such a devastating event may have done a little to arouse him to his responsibilities and had given him a little impetus toward sanity.
However, he was better and he decided to come to Vincennes to see the Queen.
On the road he met Louis de Bosredon.
I cannot imagine how Bosredon could have been so foolish. He must have been intoxicated by his success. He had spent the night with the Queen, and I imagined it had been such a satisfactory encounter that it had robbed him temporarily of any common sense he might have had.
It is only by hearsay that I know what happened at that meeting on the road, but, of course, everyone who had witnessed it could talk of nothing else. Bosredon behaved as though he were the King and my father some vassal.
My father was at first amazed that a subject could show such a lack of courtesy and offer none of that homage which was due to the Crown. It was more than an insult to him; it was an insult to France.
He ordered that Bosredon should be arrested without delay.
And then he rode on to Vincennes.
From a window I saw his arrival. He went straight to my mother’s apartments, and there such a scene ensued, the like of which had never taken place between them before.
He must have known she had many lovers. He was a tolerant man. He knew of her ardent nature. Perhaps he thought it was natural that she should be unfaithful to him during his absences. He himself had Odette de Champdivers to comfort him in his seclusion. He had even had a child by her. However, he had not reproved my mother before. But the insolence of Louis de Bosredon must have ignited years of resentment. He had indulged her; he had been besotted by her; but he would not have her lovers insulting the Crown.
We were all amazed. We all cowered in our rooms, waiting to know what would happen next.
He was accusing her not only of infidelity toward him but of treachery to France. She had her spies everywhere. She was with the Armagnacs. She was with the Burgundians. Anything that suited her purpose at a certain time. He was tired of being treated as though he were of no account.
He sent for the guards. She was under arrest.
He shouted his orders. The Queen should be taken to Tours. There she should be guarded night and day. Every letter she wrote must be examined. All her actions must be reported.
My mother was astounded. What had happened to the poor mad husband who had always been her slave? She tried to protest. She exerted all those wiles which had never failed before. But the King had had enough. He was no longer to be duped.
His country was in dire straits; the enemy was waiting to deliver the final blow; and one of France’s bitterest enemies was its Queen.
And now she was his prisoner.
So my mother was taken to Tours, and I was united with my father.
I traveled back to Paris with him, and there I was with him often. Now and then he talked to me sadly of the past.
He said: “It is my tragedy, daughter, that I have my periods of insanity. I am sane now, but for how long? How do I know? Perhaps it would have been better for me if I had been completely mad. These trips back and forth are sometimes more than I can endure. I trust young Charles will have a happier reign than I. Alas, poor child…he is little more…this has overwhelmed him. I trust he will not suffer as I have done. But sometimes I fancy he has no stomach for the task.”
He liked to have me with him, and I was glad of that time we spent together. I wished it could have been longer. He was so different from my mother, gentle, innately good and kind.
He talked of my mother a little and with much sadness.
“In the beginning it was perfect,” he said. “Too perfect, I suppose. My child, I am afraid of perfection. There is often a canker somewhere. If you could have seen her when she first came to France. She was enchanting…a child…younger than you are now…but she never seemed like a child. She was so eager and loving. I never saw anyone like your mother. There are few of her sort in the world.”
I thought that was not such a bad thing.
He said to me one day: “And you, daughter, you have a happy life ahead of you. You will leave this tortured land. You will be the wife of a great king.”
“Do you think, Sire, that Henry is a great king?”
“He has all but conquered us, has he not? Oh, he had a wild youth, but they tell me that, as soon as the crown was placed on his head, he changed. It was like a miracle, they say. He put aside his frivolities. He gave himself up entirely to his country. It is a rare man who can do that, Katherine. Perhaps that is greatness. I think you will be fortunate to marry such a man.”
“Shall I ever, do you think? For so long there has been talk of it.”
“Much has to be settled. He wants this marriage, depend upon it. We both want it. It is just a matter of settling terms. The King of England asks too much of us, but after Agincourt…it seems inevitable. My reign has been disastrous. We have gone from bad to worse.”
“It was not your fault, dear Father.”
“Perhaps if I had not been plagued…perhaps if I could have kept a firm hand on the reins…perhaps, daughter…it may be then that this strife within our country might not have happened. There is nothing which destroys a country more than civil war and when you have two great houses within their country fighting each other…then that country will fall into despair…as ours has. But we shall emerge. It may be, Katherine, that you will play your part in rebuilding our great nation.”
“How, dearest Father?”
“You will know when the time comes. Perhaps it will be through this much-talked-of union. Your husband will be our conqueror…but he will always remember that it is your country which he has conquered.”
“And what of my mother?”
His face hardened. “I want to trust her,” he said almost piteously, “but I cannot. I would if I could. If only I could.”
His lips trembled and his eyes were melancholy. I was afraid—as we often were—that the madness might be coming upon him once more.
There are many who said Louis de Bosredon met his just deserts.
When he was arrested and imprisoned he was “put to the question.” I do not know what form of torture was applied, but he did not endure it for long. He could not, I was sure, have borne the thought of his beautiful body being mutilated in any way. He quickly confessed to anything they wanted him to. His punishment was that he should be sewn into a sack and thrown into the Seine. A fitting end for an arrogant coxcomb, many said. So this was done and the sack, on which was written “Let the King’s justice run its course,” was thrown into the river.
The Armagnacs rubbed their hands with glee. This was a direct attack against the Queen who had been in secret communication with Burgundy.
My mother was not the woman to accept captivity with quiet resignation. Intrigue had always been one of her most exciting pastimes; and consequently she excelled at it.
She had not been at Tours for more than a month before she conceived the idea of getting in touch with the Duke of Burgundy. It was the King and the Armagnacs who had imprisoned her; therefore she knew that Burgundy would be prepared to defy their authority. I do not know how she managed to smuggle a note out of her prison, but I guessed she had contrived to cajole one or more of her guards by that time.