I was glad to see him but at the same time sad, for there he was, robbed of his royalty in a way, although he still held the title of King which Henry had graciously allowed him to keep. But he had no power; every decision must be made by Henry; and as soon as my father was dead, Henry would be King. I often thought of my brother, the Dauphin. This affected him more than anyone, for he had expected to take the crown; I knew that he had not wanted it and it had suddenly been thrust upon him, but having tasted power, he did not want to lose it…particularly in such a humiliating way.
But he was our enemy now. The ill-advised murder of the Duke of Burgundy had put him firmly in that unfortunate position—a Dauphin without hope of fulfilling his destiny.
My father might be sunk in melancholy, but my mother was as eager for intrigue as ever. She was constantly in my company, telling me what I should do. I did not consider that she had made such a success of her life that I needed to emulate her. I would listen to her and shrug my shoulders. I should do what Henry wished.
How long the days seemed without him! They were enlivened by visitors from England who had come to pay homage to me as the new Queen. My mother was delighted to receive them. She still behaved as though she were the Queen, and her manner had not changed since the days when she held great power.
She received the visitors graciously, with me standing beside her. I accepted this. In spite of everything, I could not help feeling sorry for her. I could not believe that she was still attractive to her lovers; moreover, I myself was happy and when one is happy one is inclined to be sorry for anyone who cannot possibly enjoy the same bliss—and therefore one is lenient toward them.
The Duchess of Clarence—my sister-in-law Margaret, who had arrived with the English party—was very agreeable to me.
She told me a great deal about life at the English Court and how it changed with each king. With Richard it had been elegant and gracious; it had been less so with his successor.
“The King’s father was not a happy man,” she said. “I think he had Richard’s death on his conscience. He was always afraid that ill luck would come to him through it. Henry IV was a haunted man.”
“My sister Isabelle has told me something of what happened.”
“Ah, our Little Queen. I heard she was most enchanting.”
“She loved Richard.”
“She was only a child.”
“I suppose children can love.”
“That is so, of course.”
“Will the English like me?”
“They will love you.”
“But I am French. Do they not see the French as the enemy?”
“They will see you as the King’s wife, and he is their idol. And when he returns as the conqueror, you will see how dearly they love him. They will applaud everything he has done…including his marriage.”
“I do understand.”
She looked at me quizzically. She said: “You will make many friends in your new country, but I will be the first.”
I held her hand and pressed it.
Another time she talked of her childhood. There had been great tragedies in her family and we could sympathize with each other. Three years after her father’s death, when her eldest brother was only twenty-five years of age, he had been beheaded for treason, and his head had been set up on London Bridge.
“Why?” I asked. “Why did they do such a thing?”
“Well, it was all due to the new King…the father of the present Henry. Richard was King and Henry’s father, who became King Henry IV, thought he would be a better king than Richard. My brother was loyal to Richard. If Richard had been victorious then, it would have been Henry IV who lost his head. My brother rose against Henry. He set himself at the head of a company of men and went to the Little Queen.”
I cried out: “My sister told me of this. They deceived her. They said that Richard was alive and free.”
“My brother believed it. That was why he was so confident. He had seen a man who was exactly like the King. It was a trick. However, my brother was captured and that is how his head came to be on London Bridge.”
Our conversation brought back to me those days when Isabelle had been with me and told me of her love for Richard.
I talked to her then of my childhood, of my sisters—Michelle who was now the Duchess of Burgundy, and Marie in her convent.
It was a great pleasure for me to have such a companion. It passed the days while I was waiting for the siege of Montereau to end. So the Duchess of Clarence, my new sister-in-law, became my friend.
The people of Montereau put up a strong resistance. They knew that outside their walls, fighting with the English, were the Burgundians led by Duke Philip. Montereau had been the scene of the murder of the late Duke Jean the Fearless and they guessed Burgundians would want their revenge. This knowledge doubtless strengthened their resistance.
It was inevitable, though, that in due course the town should fall to Henry.
Soldier that he was, he was not a violent man. He wanted victory not revenge. He killed only when it was necessary to do so, and if those who were conquered fell in with his wishes, he would be lenient with them. He made no effort to avoid the hardships his men endured and shared them with them. That was one of the qualities which made him the greatest soldier of his age and was the reason why his men were prepared to follow him anywhere.
Therefore there was no undue slaughter at Montereau.
He told me that Philip of Burgundy made a drama of the occasion. He called attention to his bereavement. With dramatic ardor he visited the place where his father had been buried in a pauper’s shell. He ordered that a pall should cover it and lighted candles be placed around it. He then took a solemn vow that he would dedicate his life to bringing his father’s murderers to justice. He would make it his unswerving duty to do so. And to this cause he would place his body, his soul and all he possessed.
“It was effective,” commented Henry. “But I believe his devotion to his father was slightly less intense during the latter’s lifetime. I believe he went so far as to curse his father for not allowing him to be present at Agincourt. Jean gave orders that his son was to be guarded and not allowed out. Philip made an attempt to escape and was restrained. I believe he thinks that, if he had not been prevented from being there, the result of the battle would have been different.”
I told him how pleased I was to have his brother’s wife, Margaret, with me and how we had become good friends.
“She is a good woman, and Clarence is a good man. I’ll confess that of all my brothers I love him best—though I suppose many would point out that Bedford is the more worthy. But one does not always love people for their worthiness. And Clarence…Thomas…has always been my special friend. I suppose it was partly because he was the nearest to me in age.”
“I think she is sad because she sees so little of him.”
“He is a soldier…like the rest of us.”
“Would it not be wonderful if these wars could be over!”
He laughed at me. I was not sure whether he agreed. I had seen the excitement in his eyes at the prospect of battle; and I knew that, tender and loving as he was to me, the real excitement in life for him was in conquest. I wondered what he would have been like if there had been no war to occupy him.
I had no opportunity of finding out.
No sooner was Montereau in his hands than we must move on to Melun.
I with my family and our attendants were housed not far from the camp.
Henry was thoughtful and kind to my parents; none would have believed that my father was the conquered king and Henry the conqueror. He was most anxious for my father’s comfort.
He said to me: “The house is far enough for your father not to hear the cannon. I am sure that would disturb him. And yet it is near enough for me to be able to ride to you now and then should the siege take longer than I expect. That was why I chose it.”