The Queen's Lover (12 page)

Christine didn't wait for any more discussion of whether they should cancel their journey. She just moved swiftly on to considering what should be said about the trip once they were
back in Paris. She said: "I suppose we should say you just took it in to your head to come to Poissy to visit your sister."

There was no anger in Christine's voice anymore. She'd accepted Catherine's presence. She was making the best of it. So there was no reason for Catherine to demur. Yet, at those words, the Princess frowned and fidgeted, and shook her head, and said sulkily: "Why? I've never even met my sister."

Owain stared at her in wild surmise. Catherine clearly hadn't the least wish to meet an unknown sister at the end of this journey. But what
had
she expected to be doing at Poissy, if not going into the women-only confines of the nunnery with Christine? Not...He blinked, feeling as blinded by the possibility dawning on him as if he'd stared straight at the sun...Not staying outside all day...sitting at some travelers' inn...with him?

Christine's patience, always limited, was at an end. "Well, you're about to meet her now," she snapped. "Unless you want to tell your mother you just ran off to get away from
her
." And, standing up, she flicked crumbs off her skirts and called, in her most imperious voice: "Owain! Come; put away the food and get the horses untied. And bring Catherine's up. We'll be off in a minute."

The abbey was inside a great wall that stretched for miles in every direction, in a landscape that seemed almost impossibly green and alive with birdsong and happiness.

The light was golden. There were deer between the trees on this side of the wall, and fishponds. Owain could see clusters of houses that must belong to the nuns' male confessors and spiritual advisers, the doctors, the financial counselors, the overseers, the cooks, the bakers, and the servants. Through the gate, he glimpsed more rooftops and the tall towers of a church inside the enclosure. He could hear the buzzing of bees. He knew he'd never see more. Men weren't allowed inside the wall. His journey, and that of the other men who'd ridden with the women, ended here.

One by one, the men pulled up, dismounted, chatted to the gatehouse keepers. A couple of them, who knew the ways of
this place, carried on down the lane that must lead to the town and the inn.

The women hardly seemed to notice. Their minds were on their meetings; on beloved faces hidden behind the walls. Their yearning eyes were fixed ahead. Their horses were almost trotting. They processed through the gate without looking back.

Owain stayed where he was, very still, shading his eyes to watch the women's receding backs. He didn't dismount until after one small head, with its cloak hood up, had turned briefly round from the gatehouse to look his way.

The women heard Mass.

Christine had forgotten the anger that had consumed her when she'd caught sight of Catherine. She couldn't imagine feeling angry anymore, not now she was listening to the soaring soprano voices. There was light pouring down from the window. She was happier than she remembered being anywhere else. Her heart was full of Marie's embrace just now, and of the joy in those cornflower-blue eyes. She could still smell the pure innocence of her daughter's skin.

There was a partition in the church, separating the nuns from the laypeople of the town and beyond. But she was burning with the knowledge that her Marie's shining little face, peeping out over the black habit trimmed with white fur that all the nuns wore, was just behind the barrier. Marie was probably letting her eyes rise, like Christine's, to the ceiling, to gaze at the midnight-blue arches with their golden stars.

They were so pretty, all those girls with roses in their cheeks, all dressed alike.

She had to overcome her selfish sadness at only seeing her daughter once a year. Poissy was the closest you could come to Heaven on Earth. Marie was blessed. It had been right to bring her here.

Catherine would have known her sister anywhere. There were fifteen years separating them, but the unlined face bending toward hers, with a benign stranger's curiosity, had the same
long nose, green eyes, and high cheekbones Catherine saw in her own mirror every day. They were of the same blood.

All Catherine had really hoped for from this journey was to have some time to talk to Owain. After yesterday, there was nothing else she wanted in the world but to pour out her heart to him. She wanted to tell him about Maman and Louis' quarrels; about how Louis behaved to Marguerite to punish her for being her father's daughter; about the butchers breaking in last year and how frightened she and Charles still were, especially in the night. She'd seen kindness in his eyes. He would listen.

Yet, for a while, on the road, after Christine had ordered her to meet Marie de Valois, Catherine had also let herself start to imagine that this saintly stranger sister might approve of their mother's notion of marrying her to the King of England. The quarrel yesterday had brought the question of escape into her head again, more urgently than ever before. She'd have been grateful for a word of encouragement.

But now she realized that wasn't going to happen. Her sister's face had taken on a fastidious look as soon as Catherine had mentioned the English marriage--as if she'd smelled something bad. And she was still shaking her head.

"Dishonorable," Marie said simply when Catherine finished. "A princess of the blood royal can't marry the son of a usurper. Don't let them bully you. Just say no."

They seemed to do without flowery turns of phrase in the nunnery, Catherine thought resentfully.

"The English have already tried this trick once, with Isabelle," Marie said. "She said no. You can too."

Then, unexpectedly, she grinned. The lively mischief that came into her face made her look younger, and even more like Catherine. Catherine stared. She hadn't expected a nun to look so cheeky.

"Even I've said no to one of Maman's mad marriage plans," Marie said, and she was clearly enjoying the memory. "Did you know?"

That was astonishing enough to make Catherine forget her disappointment. No one stood up to their mother; and if they
did, they suffered. She looked at Marie's laughing face with new respect. "Tell me," she demanded.

All she knew was what everyone knew--that Marie had been promised to the Church at birth, in the hope that giving a child to the nuns would please God enough to make Him cure the King of his illness in exchange. God hadn't kept His side of the bargain. But, at four, Marie had entered the nunnery anyway. And, at eight, she'd chosen to stay at Poissy forever, and had taken her vows.

But it seemed that wasn't the end of the story. For when Marie was twelve, the Queen had changed her mind.

Marie said: "She just turned up here, one fine day, with our uncle of Orleans, and told me to leave with her. She'd decided to marry off one of her daughters to the Duke of Bar. And I was the right age, and not married. So she'd taken it into her head that the bride should be me."

She laughed merrily.

Remembering the hard beds and endless prayer that must be Marie's daily lot, Catherine thought: I'd have done it, without a second thought.

Perhaps Marie realized what she was thinking. The deputy prioress stopped laughing and said, more seriously: "When I thought about going back to court, I knew there was nothing I wanted less. Everything I'd known before coming here to Poissy had been so...dirty. Once I'd come here and known the peace of God, how could I go back?"

Catherine had always been told that life at court before the civil war had been civilized perfection; their uncle of Orleans a paragon of charm and intellect. She hardly remembered him. He'd been very tall. He'd jumped her on his knee. He sang. He'd had a light laugh and amused eyes, and a weak mouth. She still loved what little she remembered of him. But she could hear the ring of truth in Marie's frank voice, too. It couldn't have been so wonderful before, after all. Even as a small child, Marie had been searching for an escape.

"I told Maman she'd brought me here, and I was dedicated to God, and I should stay. She didn't want to hear. They spent hours trying to bully me into leaving. But I said: 'You've made
a gift to God. You can't take it back.' In the end they went away. They hadn't given up, though. They sent Papa, as soon as he got better, to try again. Dear Papa; he was sweeter than they were. He knew it was my right to choose; so he just asked me whether I would consent to leave. But what could I say? I told him, too: 'I've promised to be the bride of Christ. I will hold to my vow unless you find me a better and more powerful husband.'"

She laughed, a little sadly. "I miss Papa, you know. I pray for him. But I couldn't obey him. I knew he'd forgive me in the end; Maman too, she loves us all, really, God forgive her. But my conscience wouldn't let me."

Catherine sat, stunned, letting it all sink in.

"You can say no to Maman too." Marie drove her point home. "Don't let her dishonor you. She won't mind; not really; she's always changing her mind. He is too; it's all whim and fancy with them."

Crushed, Catherine faltered: "But...if she does insist?"

Marie's face shone with the simplicity of virtue. She opened her arms. "Then come to God--here."

Here they came, with their heads drooping like cut flowers pulled out of water: the women, returning from their visit with dragging feet, reluctantly rejoining the outside world.

Owain and the two gatemen who were to walk them to the inn, holding torches, got up. The first bats were fluttering in the luminous sky. The air smelled of cut grass. There was a clanking of keys.

Before he could make out which of the women was Catherine, or Christine, another female form came flying over the lawns behind them. A thin figure in black and white, calling softly, urgently, "Mother!"

All the women turned back. Owain could feel the painful hope rekindled in them.

But it was Christine who rushed into the black-and-white girl's arms. The other women turned away.

Owain was outside the gate. But he still heard--everyone
heard--Marie de Castel's voice break as she muttered, "Please come back tomorrow. Just for an hour."

Christine's arms were around her daughter, rhythmically stroking her shoulders; she was kissing the top of her daughter's head. The gateman moved closer, but he stopped when Christine looked up. He didn't dare intervene. "Of course," Christine told her daughter softly. "Of course."

Mother and daughter looked at each other with no more words, as if memorizing each other in the failing light. Then Christine said, more brightly: "Won't you miss dinner if you're late?" and, when her daughter nodded, "Run...I'll be back...I promise...run now!"

But her hand followed Marie's shoulder away. Even when her daughter was just a shadow again, flitting toward the refectory, Christine's arm was still outstretched and her eyes tender as bruises.

She turned to the lanternman, and said, with painful dignity, "I'm sorry to have kept you," and, again without looking at anyone else, stepped forward into the twilight.

Christine walked ahead, overwhelmed by her thoughts.

She didn't even think of Catherine. Didn't see the child's face brighten when Owain appeared beside her. Didn't see them loiter at the back of the group, out of the torchlight, as the shadows deepened. Didn't hear the low-pitched conversation begin. Didn't see the solicitous way he took her arm to help her over a tree root.

Christine recovered her poise as soon as she got inside by the firelight; it had only been unbearable while she was actually in that heartbreakingly lovely landscape, within touching distance of her daughter. Now that the pilgrims and their friends were pouring the nuns' gift of wine and tucking into the hearty inn food and talking, she was perfectly capable of smiling and chatting with them again. She sat between Catherine and Owain at the trestles. Catherine was quiet, with pink in her cheeks. Owain served them both with food and drink; a good, trustworthy boy. Christine let him talk quietly to
Catherine. Christine was thinking: I will see Marie in the morning.

She took Catherine into the abbey with her the next morning. She would have been failing in her duties as a chaperone if she'd left the child outside with Owain and the horses. But she didn't want the Princess underfoot while she was with Marie, either. So, once inside, she sent her into the abbey church to ask for a blessing.

Five minutes later, Catherine came out of the church alone, and out of the abbey grounds, through the gatehouse. Owain was leaning against a fence, in a shady corner, with his back to the abbey, whistling. He was watching the soft wisps of pink-gold cloud creep across the blue of the sky. He didn't notice her come up behind him and put her hands on each side of his lean warm back. "Boo," she said, and felt him startle; but not enough to dislodge her hands.

Still with his back to her, still with her hands on him over the fence, he said: "That was quick." His voice was trembling.

"Meet you round here," he went on; and she flew along the fence to find a way to the other side.

They found a place to stand, side by side, where the fence stopped at a tree. They leaned against the tree, looking up, both gripped with a euphoric feeling of anticipation. They'd talked for so long last night, but there was still everything to find out. Neither of them meant it to happen now, as their arms touched; it just did. "Listen," Owain said; just to keep her there. "That's a skylark."

She shifted, and more of her yielding warmth was touching him. After a long moment, she moved away. He breathed out. But she turned herself round to face him. She was standing so close.

"How long will you stay at the University, do you think?" she asked softly.

Dizzily, daringly, he whispered back--longing to be a prince who could aspire to ride her off into the gray-green hills, knowing he was longing uselessly, now that everything back there in Wales had turned out the way it had, and he was no
one, yet not caring about the futility of that longing because of the blood singing in his veins..."Until you go to London?"