.
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 realised 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.
‘Dishonourable,’ 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 realised 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 civilised 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 dishonour 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 memorising 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 towards the refectory, Christine’s arm was still outstretched and her eyes tender as bruises.
She turned to the lantern man, 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