‘That might be a dispatch from France! I must go and see. Au revoir, Madame – and thank you!’
I watched her horse dance away on dainty hooves, following the messenger’s sweating courser, and wondered what Lady Joan’s real reason was for wanting to stay at court.
We French have always believed St George to be an Anatolian knight-errant who, among other chivalrous acts, fought crusades in the Holy Land, slew a dragon in Cyrenia and was finally executed there for refusing to deny his Christian faith, but the English placed his feats in a whole variety of other places, most of which were located within a few days’ ride of Windsor. Rather than being a Mediterranean martyr, in English eyes St George was a local hero, greatly honoured for pursuing and killing a dragon which had terrorised the maidens of numerous English villages. King Edward III had named his new palace at Windsor St George’s Hall and his great-grandson had given the saint much of the credit for his Agincourt victory. King Henry had planned a tournament to celebrate the Feast of St George on the twenty-third of April, a week after arriving back at Windsor. Knights from all over England, those who were not involved in the French campaign, had been invited to take part and began riding in the middle of the month but a downpour had turned the tourney ground to a quagmire. The event had therefore been postponed until the first of May. Like the king’s recent pilgrimage around England’s shrines, the tournament had a hidden agenda.
‘With the borders relatively peaceful, most knights will surely be glad of the chance to flex their fighting muscles and it will be a good opportunity to recruit more lances for France,’ King Henry observed to his brother Humphrey one morning as they prepared for arms practice together.
The Duke of Gloucester had ridden in the previous night, full of his usual flamboyance and self-assurance. ‘I am still short of knights ordinary for my contingent,’ he admitted. ‘I will tell my captains to keep an eye out for likely recruits.’
The two brothers were standing outside the barrier surrounding the area of hard sand where knights and men at arms practised their fighting skills. Squires worked busily around them, buckling on various pieces of armour. Part of the reason for arms practice was to maintain fighting fitness, so heavy plate and mail was worn to give their muscles a proper work-out.
After the downpour, spring had re-asserted itself and Catherine had asked the king for a chance to watch him at practice. She had brought her ladies with her to spectate and their fashionable gowns made bright splashes of colour against the grey walls of the castle. I noticed several of the bolder young ladies, particularly Joanna Coucy, casting eloquent sidelong glances in Gloucester’s direction. A bachelor prince who was so closely related to the reigning monarch was inevitably going to attract female attention, although Humphrey affected to ignore their sly scrutiny, restricting his attention to Catherine.
‘Since I am supporting my brother in France on this campaign, Madame, you may be sure that your lord will be in safe hands.’
It had already been announced that during King Henry’s next campaign, Humphrey and his brother John of Bedford would swap their roles as king’s lieutenants in England and France, but I could see that Catherine was not enormously impressed with Humphrey’s flagrant boast.
‘If your hands prove as safe as his were when he defended you against all comers after you were felled at Agincourt, my lord of Gloucester, that will indeed be great reassurance.’ Noticing his flush of irritation at her reference to the king’s famous battlefield rescue of his youngest brother, she was unable to suppress a twitch of her lips before turning to her husband with an eager query, ‘Where will be the best place to view your swordplay, my lord? I so look forward to watching you hone your legendary skills.’
Clearly riled at being put in his place by a woman, Gloucester cut in with a glacial smile, ‘So you like to see men sweat, do you, Madame? Or perhaps it is blood you relish? If so, I fear you will be disappointed. We spar only with wooden swords – see!’ His squire had just placed the practice sword in his hand and he thrust it towards Catherine, making her jump back.
King Henry rounded on his brother furiously. ‘How dare you, sir! A knight never shows the point of his sword to a lady, let alone a queen, as well you know. You will apologise at once or consider yourself on a charge of treason!’
With a shaky laugh, Humphrey hastily drew back his weapon. ‘Steady, brother. It was only a play thrust, I meant no harm.’ Nevertheless, seeing the king’s fierce expression, his bow to Catherine was so abasingly deep, he almost kissed his own kneecap. ‘I humbly beg your grace’s pardon if I startled you.’
This was not enough for King Henry, who abruptly shoved his brother in the back, making him stumble to the ground. ‘On your knees, villain! Apologise on your knees!’ he ordered. ‘You have offended the queen, not merely startled her. I should make you eat dust.’
Humphrey shot an astonished glance at Henry, as if expecting him to break suddenly into a laugh, before realising that he was fiercely in earnest and swivelling back to fall on his knees before Catherine. All bluster apparently gone, he bent forward to gather a handful of dirt from the ground which he held out to her and said, ‘On my knees I abjectly crave your grace’s forgiveness. If you so desire, I will indeed eat the dust from beneath your feet.’
Catherine’s intense look of gratitude to the king surprised me and the determination of her riposte to the duke was equally unexpected. It was also delivered in French, which gave it added fluency and authority. ‘I crave dust as little as I crave blood or sweat, my lord Gloucester. But I demand and I will have the respect due to the wife of your king; so I will pardon your sword thrust, but I will not forgive any repeat of the disrespectful thrust of your original remarks.’
Humphrey was taken aback. Expecting only a formal acknowledgement of his insincere grovel, he was more than a little shocked by her robust rebuttal of his veiled insinuation that she might have an unnatural lust for blood and sweat, so it was a somewhat sullen Gloucester who rose, frowning, to his feet, backed away and followed his brother across the sand towards the row of pells at one end of the practice ground. I detected more than a trace of venom in the violent blows he immediately began to inflict on the quilted padding of the stout pell-post, a far cry from King Henry’s deft thrusts and lunges.
I noticed Walter Vintner approaching from the palace with an impressive-looking missive in his hand. He bent his knee to Catherine. ‘This has just come for the king, your grace; it is from the Duchess of Hainault and I believe his grace will want to consider its contents with all speed.’
Like all the king’s official correspondence, the seal had been broken and the letter read by his chief clerk so Catherine was able to scan its contents. It was written in Latin, the universal diplomatic language of Europe.
‘It is from Jacqueline, Mette,’ she confided, moving nearer to me so that her voice did not carry to the rest of the spectators. ‘Jacqueline of Hainault, who was married to my poor brother Jean, if you remember. Her father died soon after Jean did and left her heir to the territories of Hainault and Holland. Then I believe she married her cousin the Duke of Brabant, although it seems not willingly.’ Her brow creased with concern as she read on. ‘Now she is in terrible trouble and asking for our help.’ She nodded at Walter dismissively. ‘You are right, Master Clerk; his grace will want to deal with this immediately. I will see that he gets it.’
We moved to the seating area where Catherine perused the letter more closely.
Nearly an hour passed before the king and Gloucester abandoned their energetic assaults on the pells and wandered across to the barrier to take refreshment. Their faces were glistening with sweat and both men hastily