Blood Royal (8 page)

That got the child’s attention all right. He turned straight to Owain, staring. Rudely, Owain thought; but then, whatever he was wearing, he was, after all, a prince of the blood, and allowed to stare at anyone he chose. He narrowed his eyes. ‘I know you!’ he cried, almost accusingly. ‘You’re the one who held the casket while the English Duke gave my sister a jewel. Aren’t you?’

Owain nodded, and bowed. ‘The very same,’ he said easily, doing his best to charm. ‘Owain Tudor.’ He’d half-turned to face the little boy; but he was blissfully, agonisingly aware,
at the same time, of the girl looking up at him from below, muttering, with pink cheeks and a prettily awkward air, ‘I remember you now, of course, it’s just that you look different, out here in the sun.’

You must be informal, Christine had said; just call them by their names; no bowing and scraping. In the gardens they’re just children; they’re very quiet; shy; it’s wrong to scare them with formalities; we’re old friends. All the same, he wished now he’d put on something better than the simple tunic he was wearing. For reasons he didn’t understand, he wanted to cut as elegant a figure as he could.

Christine, also visibly keen to make the introductions go smoothly, said, in a special child-voice whose gentleness surprised Owain, ‘Owain is from a noble family of Wales – the kings of Powys Magog.’ She pronounced the Welsh words strangely, but he was surprised and flattered that she’d even tried to reproduce the unfamiliar name; flattered, too, that she was describing his lineage with such respect, when he’d got used, almost, to being all but invisible among Englishmen; to sitting below the salt; to being ignored. ‘I thought you’d enjoy showing him the gardens, and the lion.’

Little Charles didn’t look as though he’d enjoy that at all. For someone supposedly so shy, there was a definite aggression in his expression. He was scowling. He said: ‘But the English party is supposed to have gone. They told us in the kitchens. Why are you still here?’

Owain opened his mouth to make a soft reply. But he wasn’t sorry when Christine got there first. The truth was that he wouldn’t have been sure what to say about why he was still in Paris, or, indeed, at the Hotel Saint-Paul. Christine had suggested he come with her so he could see the famous gardens at the King’s favourite Paris home, though he’d had a feeling she really just wanted to show off her friendship with the King’s children. Not everyone was on such intimate terms with princes; and he’d begun to see that Christine, magnificent though she was, wasn’t above vanity.

‘Owain was only temporarily attached to the Duke of Clarence,’ Christine told the pouting little boy reassuringly.
Owain could tell from the practised way she patted at him that this suspicious, feral child must often take a lot of reassuring. ‘He’s not with them any more. The rest of the English have gone, darling. I doubt they’ll be back.’ She patted again. The little boy’s eyes lost their fierce look. ‘But Owain wanted to stay on in Paris for a while to see if he’d like to study at the University. He’s my guest. And he’s reading my modest collection of books while he’s here. Racing through them. An example to all of us. An example to you!’ she finished brightly.

Little Charles wasn’t quite satisfied yet. But he put his concerns, whatever they were, to one side; nodded briefly at Owain, and said again to Christine, even more plaintively: ‘So can we eat now?’

Owain’s heart leapt. He saw that Catherine was still watching him from her place on the long grass, catching his eye so he’d be sure to notice her. She was shrugging slightly and casting her eyes upwards, in a quiet, friendly apology for her brother’s awkward manners.

He smiled back at her, grateful for the thought; wondering why she had her hand clamped, as she did, across her mouth. It looked like a gag. She didn’t seem conscious of it. It was an ugly gesture. Then she forgot him. She was hungry too. And she was still a child. As Charles threw himself down beside her, ready to snatch at the food she’d set out, she moved her hand, freed her mouth, turned a teasing grin on her brother, and plucked the bit of bread he was aiming for off its cloth. ‘Too late,’ she mumbled with it in her mouth. Charles pouted; then, seeing Christine smile, he started to laugh too.

There was a breadcrumb on the side of her lip. There was a mischievous glint in her eye. There was sun in her hair. Owain, who’d thought he was excited and happy before, seeing the world, caught up in adventure, could hardly believe the trembling intensity of the joy he now felt just watching her, as he and Christine slid down to their knees to join the picnic.

Charles led the way to the lion cage. Food had improved his mood. So had the exchange he’d begun as soon as he
had an egg inside him and a slice of beef and most of the strawberries.

‘Does the King of England really want to marry Catherine and take her away?’ he’d asked Owain, and his eyes had had both fierceness and a kind of mute plea in them.

‘Yes,’ Owain said kindly, understanding what was making the child look so glum – fear of losing his playmate if she married – and feeling sorry for him.

‘
No
,’ Christine said at the same time, with much more force. ‘He knows we’ll say no – we already said no to him as a husband for Princess Isabelle, because he’s a …’ Looking at Owain, she refrained from saying ‘usurper’, but only just. ‘In any case, he doesn’t want a marriage. He wants war. He’s already started harping on about English claims to France. He’ll just use any marriage negotiations to pick a quarrel with France. He’s looking for a grievance. It would be naive to think anything else.’

There was a short pause. Owain, feeling shocked that he hadn’t understood how hostile some of the French might feel towards his King and, trying not to resent Christine’s sudden brusque rudeness, looked carefully away. But he saw little Charles nodding, clearly believing Christine. ‘Let’s go to the lions,’ Charles piped up, looking suddenly much more cheerful. He bounded off through the bowers and trellises and artful fountains and sprays of roses.

Owain brought up the rear. The royal gardens were so extraordinary that he quickly forgot the sting of Christine’s tongue and was soon turning his head from side to side, admiring statues; views; flowers; nightingale cages; fountains gleaming with silver fishes. Miracles.

Everyone stopped when they got to the great wrought-iron cage. Inside, a matted, maddened lion paced, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, over its droppings, snarling. It was menace in animal form. It was golden; it was stinking; a king humiliated. It never stopped trying to escape. Even now, in this heat, it was pulling the chain that ran from its collar to the stake in the ground as taut as it could, testing the possibilities, following its instinct, feeling for a way out.

A silence fell on them all as they admired its powerful shoulders and the magnificent lines of its muzzle and its tawny, deadly eyes.

‘Has it ever got out?’ Owain asked, in a dazed voice.

No one answered.

Charles whispered: ‘They feed it a whole dog, or a pig, or a sheep, every day.’ He added, without expression: ‘The animals always scream before they die.’

After a while, Catherine asked, just as quietly: ‘Does the King of England keep lions?’

As she spoke, she glanced up towards Christine, who was standing well back from the cage. She was looking past the lion into the distance; lost in some private thought of her own, which, to judge from the tragic expression on her face, wasn’t a happy one.

Catherine turned her steady gaze back on Owain.

Owain had no idea if there had ever been a lion in England. And his head was too full of lion-stink and heat to be able to think straight. But there was nothing he wanted more than to feel her eyes on him. ‘There’s an elephant at the Tower of London,’ he said. He’d heard the story, even if he hadn’t seen the elephant on his few brief trips to London. And he’d seen a picture of an elephant once. It was the most impressive thing he could think of to say.

‘What’s an elephant like?’ Catherine asked.

‘Huge and grey,’ he said boldly, describing the picture he remembered, beginning to enjoy his story. ‘Like a giant dog. And instead of a nose it has an extra limb – curving up, in the shape of a horn.’

He’d hoped to astonish her with his fabulous beast. But she just nodded, matter-of-factly, as if she saw elephants every day. Perhaps being among miracles at all times took away the edge of shock.

Then, after another furtive glance at Christine, she added in a whisper: ‘And what’s Henry of England like?’

She moved a little closer.

Owain paused, trying desperately to marshal his thoughts. She smelled of roses.

‘Honest,’ he muttered, thinking defiantly that he could at least do something to right the damningly wrong impression Christine had given of his King. ‘Straightforward. Good-tempered … A good planner … And an excellent master: everyone who serves him loves him …’

He glanced up at Christine himself, hoping she was still staring past the lions, thinking her thoughts and not listening to him.

Catherine was so close now that she couldn’t help but catch the movement of his eyes and know what he was thinking. She bit her lip; but the breathless beginning of a giggle escaped anyway. She nodded conspiratorially at him. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered, ‘Christine’s not listening.’

For a moment they stood too close, exchanging glances, not quite laughing. He was dizzy with the intimacy of it; dizzy with the bees buzzing around him. Then she went back to prompting him: ‘And the court, the English court? What’s that like?’

Owain hardly knew anything of the court, either. He’d served at banquets – three hours of silent eating. He’d ridden behind hunts. But he didn’t know if any of that would impress her, any more than the elephant had. He let the smell of roses and warm skin drift delightfully into his nostrils. He hesitated. He wanted to make England attractive. But he wanted to tell her the truth, too.

Hesitantly, he began: ‘Not as magnificent as this … and London isn’t a quarter the size of Paris.’ His head cleared. Suddenly he knew what might appeal to someone brought up in times as uncertain as those Catherine had known here – times, he thought, with sudden understanding, that had perhaps been almost as uncertain as those he’d known, in a different way. He’d tell her what had appealed to him about coming to England – it had been exactly the same thing. He went on, with greater confidence: ‘But it’s very orderly. Dignified. Decorous. Calm. The King and his brothers and his three Beaufort uncles rule together, wisely and in perfect unison … and the people love them all.’

She was nodding now; looking thoughtful; wistful even. He’d been right. She was impressed by that.

Louder, because it would be foolhardy to expect Christine not to come out of her reverie sooner or later, and seriously, because he wanted the pleasure of watching Catherine’s lips move and eyes dance and neck sway as she considered her reply, he asked: ‘And what about here? The French court … what’s
that
like?’

She thought. Her forehead wrinkled enchantingly.

But it was Charles who, turning away from the lion at last, broke in with an answer. ‘Dancing and debauchery!’ he shouted, throwing out both arms as if taunting a mob.

Catherine laughed, a little uneasily. ‘He doesn’t know what it means,’ she told Owain. ‘It’s just something they were shouting in the street … last year … when there was …’ Then, as Owain’s startled look sank in, she turned crossly to her little brother and reprimanded him: ‘You mustn’t say that! I’ve told you so many times!’

‘I do know what it means. There was a ball here once when four men dressed up as hairy savages,’ Charles piped up stubbornly. ‘They were supposed to jump out and scare the ladies. But their costumes caught fire on a torch, and two of them burned to death before everyone’s eyes,’ he added with ghoulish relish. ‘You can imagine the screaming.’

‘Did that really happen?’ Owain couldn’t help asking. You never knew, here. Perhaps it had. ‘Were you there?’

With something like regret, the little voice replied: ‘No … before I was born.’ And the pinched, freckled boy’s face clouded.

Catherine said: ‘But I went to the Court of Love once … my uncle’s idea … the Duke of Orleans …’

She dimpled at Owain.

He softened: ‘And what was
that
?’ he asked.

‘A kind of repeating ball. No, more than that: an idea, a place where people could meet – the officers of the Court of Love – and talk about chivalry, judge cases of unhappy love, and learn how to be true lovers themselves …’ she said, being careful with her words. He could see she remembered it with affection.

‘And everyone wore beautiful clothes, too,’ she added,
with childlike regret; ‘we don’t have anything like that any more … not since …’

Charles said: ‘… my uncle was murdered.’ There was ghoulish pleasure in his eyes.

There was a rush of air behind them. All three young people froze, as if they’d been caught doing something terribly wrong. Christine had come to herself. With a whisk of bony elbows, she broke into their little circle, clearly annoyed at the way the conversation was going. ‘You were three at the Court of Love,’ she said sharply to Catherine. ‘And he’s been dead for seven years. If there’s nothing like that now, then there’s no reason to talk about it any more, either. It might well have done us all more good if there’d been less idle talk about chivalry back then, and more sensible thought about real life.’

She put a determined arm through Owain’s. Looking sideways as he was pulled away from Catherine’s side, their eyes met again; another shared look full of quiet laughter and delight.

‘It’s getting late,’ Christine said, pointing at the long shadows. She tried to keep her voice strict, but she couldn’t help sounding relieved. She’d never brought anyone here with her, except Anastaise and her own Jean, who hardly counted, to meet these children. She’d always been afraid that Catherine and Charles might turn silent; stare; run away like deer into the woods. But this day had gone so easily. They’d loved the Welsh boy. She’d wanted them to. She admired him herself: she liked the way he’d found through adversity – the questions, the bright eyes, the unquenched hope. He was already bringing the younger children out of their quiet little selves; he was getting them to talk. Christine was pleased with her experiment.