It was an indication of the changed condition of the country and how close the enemy were to Rouen.
I was depressed. As Henry was with us and there could be such danger, there was no hope of our leaving Rouen just yet.
Anne told me about the adventure later. She had been very frightened.
“They were very close,” she said. “We could hear their voices. We were lucky to be in a wood where the trees helped to hide us. Just suppose they had captured John! That would surely have been the end. There is no one who could take his place.”
“You will have to be more careful in future.”
“Oh, we shall be. John says we must take precautions before making the journey to Rheims. They will know the little King is with us. John thinks they would certainly make an attempt to capture him.”
I was filled with alarm. “What do you think they would do to him?”
She was silent. I burst out: “He is only a child. What harm has he done? They would kill him…if they caught him.”
“No. They would not dare. The most likely thing is that they would hold him to ransom. Be calm, Katherine. He will not be taken. He is safe here. John would never allow him to be taken. He has sworn a solemn oath to protect the King and serve him with all his strength.”
“I know. Oh…but how I wish we could go home!”
“The crowning will take place and then you will go.”
“But when…when?”
I might well ask.
The months were passing and still we lingered at Rouen. With the French so close, Bedford dared not venture out with the King.
Anne told me that he was abandoning all hope of getting to Rheims and that it might be necessary to crown Henry in Paris.
“Why not?” I said eagerly.
“Because Rheims is the place where the Kings of France are crowned and have been since the twelfth century, when Philip Augustus was crowned there. You know that, Katherine. And the French would not believe he could be truly King if he were not crowned at Rheims.”
“Somehow I do not believe they will accept Henry as their true King wherever he is crowned.”
“In time they will. John is certain of that.”
But still the weeks passed and we remained at Rouen.
There was news of The Maid. The English had paid the ransom for her, and she was in their hands.
I guessed they would bring her to Rouen, which was a city more important to them than Paris because it was the capital of Normandy, which they had always considered part of England.
I was right. The Maid was close to us.
A hush seemed to have fallen over the castle. She was in everyone’s thoughts. Those who had seen her said that there was a radiance about her and an innocence never seen before. To see her was to believe in her Voices, it was said. Now that she was a prisoner of the English—those who had suffered most through her—what would happen to her?
“Poor girl,” said Joanna Courcy. “Sold to her enemies for 10,000 livres.”
“How could Luxembourg have found it in his heart to sell her?”
“He was thinking of his pocket rather than his heart,” said Joanna grimly.
“What will it be like for her in that prison?” I wondered.
“They may be in too much awe of divine judgment to harm her,” suggested Joanna.
“I pray that will be so.”
“But her judges will condemn her in the end. She has done too much harm to our cause.”
“I wonder what she feels lying there.”
“Your brother will save her surely.”
“Why, yes,” I cried. “Charles must save her. But do you think he can?”
“He will do all in his power. She has turned the tide for him. She has given him new hope, brought back his dignity…his crown, one might say.”
“Yes, you are right. My brother will save her. But can he do so…if she is in English hands? Oh, to think the French sold her to the English for 10,000 livres!”
“The Burgundians,” Joanna corrected me. “The French would never have sold one who was their best hope.”
“How strange it is. Are not the Burgundians French? The Duke of Bedford will be rejoicing that there is still some friendship between him and the Duke of Burgundy. I wish I could stop thinking of that poor Maid.”
“People would say that we should rejoice because she is under lock and key.”
“Oh, but she is so young…so innocent.”
“An innocent girl who led an army to victory!”
“How I should love to see her…to talk to her…to discover for myself whether I could believe she truly heard those voices.”
The Maid’s name was on everyone’s lips as Christmas came and we were still in Rouen.
I cannot say it was a happy Christmas. Few were in the mood for merriment. True, The Maid was no longer an inspiration to our enemies, and the fact that she lay at this time in her prison should have cheered us, but it did not. It was impossible to rid ourselves of the lurking belief that she was indeed inspired by Heaven and that the hand of God would be turned against us because we had made her a prisoner.
My thoughts were back in Hatfield with my children. Jasper was a year old. He would not remember me when I returned. Would Edmund? Oh, it was cruel to separate us. How much longer must we remain in France?
“Are we never to leave this place?” I demanded of Anne.
“Not until it is safe for the King to travel.”
So the days passed.
I did have one or two opportunities of spending a little time with Henry.
He was deeply interested in The Maid.
“Do you really think that she hears voices from Heaven?” he asked me.
“I do not know,” I answered.
“If it is true, we should not punish her.”
“Perhaps we should let her go back to tend her father’s sheep,” I said.
“My lord uncle says that she would not do that. She would set herself at the head of the French army and lead them to more victories.”
“Perhaps she would lead them to defeat.”
“How could she, if God is with her?”
“Your uncle does not believe God is with her. He thinks she is a wicked woman…a bold woman who dresses like a man and lives with rough soldiers. Henry, tell me. Do you defend her…to your uncle?”
He turned to me, and I saw the bewildered look in his eyes. “I should mayhap,” he said. “But I do not.”
“Why should you?”
“Because it may be true.”
“You really think that, do you not?”
“Sometimes…when I am alone…at night perhaps. And I pray to God and ask Him to guide me…to let me see the truth. But when I listen to my uncle and my lord Warwick and the Earl of Stafford, I think I am wicked to think that she who is our enemy may be working with God.”
“Dear little King,” I said, “they have put too heavy a burden on those young shoulders.”
“They are putting her into the hands of the Bishop of Beauvais. I signed an order for him to set up a court and try her. My lady, could it be like trying God?”
“Only if you believe she is holy and has indeed been visited by the angels. Your uncle does not believe that.”
“Oh no.”
“So…you will not.”
“My uncle says she is a witch, and if she is a witch, she deserves to die, does she not?”
“They will prove she is a witch if they want to, I’ll swear.”
“They do want to. Oh yes, they want to. But it must not be because they want to but because she is.”
I soothed him, for I could see that he wanted comfort.
“We shall see,” I said. “Whatever happens, you must not blame yourself. It is not your responsibility, you know.”
“But…I have to sign the papers.”
“That is only a symbol. You are not responsible for what the Regent does.”
“But I am the King, dear mother.”
“I wish …”