Burgundy was only too eager to aid her in her escape, and from then on they were allies—at least on the surface.
Isabeau was allowed to leave her prison, only to go to Mass at the convent of Marmoutier, which was just outside the city’s walls, and on the occasions when she went there, her guards went with her.
While she was in the convent’s church, a company of sixty men, led by their captain, entered. Seeing that these were Burgundians, her three guards urged her to act with caution while they tried to decide how they could smuggle her out of the church.
It was she who surprised them when she addressed the captain.
“Where is the Duke?” she asked.
“On his way, Madame.”
“Then arrest these three men.”
When the astonished guards found they were prisoners they realized that the Queen had led them into a trap.
In due course the Duke of Burgundy arrived.
He kissed the Queen’s hand.
“My dearest cousin,” she said. “I should love you beyond any man in the realm. You have rescued me from my enemies. You have set me free. I will never fail you, my dearest friend. I know your aim has always been one of devotion to the King and your country. May God bless you.”
The Duke knelt at her feet, and in due course they set out, followed by his men, for Chartres.
My mother was free. It was fortunate for her that my father, overcome by all the distress brought on by the situation between them, had had to retire once more to the Hôtel de St.-Paul and the ministrations of the tender Odette.
My mother sent a declaration to all the important towns, in which she stated that, owing to the King’s unfortunate seclusion, the government of the country was, for the time being, at Chartres, and with her was her good cousin, the Duke of Burgundy, to help and advise her when necessary, until the recovery of her good lord, the King.
So my mother was free and, with Burgundy beside her, had regained her power.
The Armagnacs kept control of the King and the Dauphin; and the conflict in my country was stronger than ever.
In the meantime Henry had returned to France and was laying siege to Rouen.
A few men from the besieged city escaped and came to Paris. They had a terrible story to tell. The people had been determined to hold out until help came to them. Poor deluded men and women! What help could they expect? Nevertheless, they had fortified their ramparts; they had forced all those who could not bear arms or were too feeble to withstand the siege to leave the city; they had hoarded food and had prepared themselves in every way.
Twelve hundred helpless men and women were sent out of the town; and the miseries they endured are too distressing to brood on. I was especially sorry for the pregnant women who had nowhere to go. They gave birth unattended outside the walls of the city. Death stared them in the face, and their greatest fear was that their newly born infants would go unbaptized. Friends from within sent down baskets that the newborn children should be brought up to be baptized, and when this was done, they were lowered down to their helpless mothers and left to die.
How cruel was war! I should hate those men who came over to our country and caused so much misery—and all for a crown!
The people inside the city’s walls suffered too. They were forced to eat cats, dogs, rats, anything that came to hand. And the winter was approaching.
They were very brave, those people of Rouen. If those in high places had shown the same dedication to their country, we should not have been in the sorry plight we were.
When the fall of the city was imminent, the men of Rouen decided to fight to the end rather than give in. They planned to stand together and fight outside the city walls after having set fire to it. They were courageous and Henry admired courage. He declared he would spare the lives of all citizens—with one or two exceptions—if they would surrender peacefully; and so a compromise was reached.
Henry said later that one of the proudest moments of his life was when he entered Rouen—that city beloved of his ancestor Richard Cæur de Lion and which King John had lost with the English possessions in France.
Our resistance was coming to an end. These disasters could not continue. The English were marching through Normandy, and everywhere cities and castles were falling into their hands.
We were ready to make terms.
My mother returned to Paris. She behaved as though there had never been a rift between her and my father, who had now lapsed into a state of melancholy. Everyone around him was watchful lest he should slip into violent madness.
Dr. Harsley had left Court, deciding that his own health demanded that he should live a quiet life in the country. So my father was taken back to the Hôtel de St.-Paul, to Odette, whose company, I was sure, was more beneficial to him than any doctors would have been.
My mother had commanded that, as I was now of some importance and had my part to play in bringing peace terms to a satisfactory conclusion, I should be under her care.
I was given an apartment and several attendants. What a delight it was to find my old friend Guillemote among them.
We greeted each other rapturously. She had changed a little. She was slightly more plump, but there was still the same rosy face—the face, I always thought, of a good woman and one on whom I could always rely.
“I have thought of you often, my lady,” she said, “and wondered how you were getting on.”
“The convent was more comfortable than …”
She nodded.
“But I missed you. So did Michelle and Marie.”
“Michelle is a grand lady now. I wonder if it has changed her.”
“I suppose we all change. I must have changed a good deal.”
“You’ve grown up…which was to be expected. And the boys …” She turned away to hide her emotion.
“I know. Both Jean and Louis …”
“And little Charles?” she went on quickly. “Such an important man now. The Dauphin, no less. I trust all will be well with him.”
“Guillemote,” I said, “we are together again. Let us stay so.”
She lifted her shoulders. “If it is in our power, my lady.”
“I shall do my best. I shall not let you go away.”
“They say you are going to make a grand marriage…across the sea.”
“I shall be important then, Guillemote. I shall be the one who says whom I shall have about me.”
She smiled rather sadly. “I shall never forget the day they took you away. There was such sadness. Nothing was the same. I wept until I had no tears left. All my little ones gone, especially you, Madame Katherine.”
“Well, Guillemote, don’t be sad now. We are together again.”
“Mademoiselle de Champdivers was good to me. She is a good woman. I think she arranged that I should come here to be with you.”
“Yes,” I said. “I know she is good. I am thankful that my father has her to look after him.”
I felt considerably comforted to have Guillemote so near.
The King of England was now ready to talk peace; and my mother was making arrangements into which she entered with the utmost enthusiasm. She was sure that I would be instrumental in softening the peace terms.
“This betrothed of yours strikes a hard bargain,” she said with a coy laugh. “Now, child, we must make you so desirable that he will decide…for your sake…to modify the terms. You are handsome enough. Yes…just a little like me. And amazingly like your sister Isabelle for whom he once had a great desire. He will see her again in you…and therein lies our hope.”