Читать книгу The Agincourt Bride онлайн | страница 27

I knew that the chances of being paid anything like that sum were slim but I did not care. ‘Thank you, Madame,’ I said, rising and bowing my head. ‘I will take it.’ Hidden by the folds of my skirt, I squeezed Catherine’s little hand in triumph.

Within a week she was the sunny, laughing infant she had been before I left. Even Louis and Jean seemed pleased to see me. They lived separately from their sisters now, on the ground floor of the tower and were subject to a strict regime of study and exercise supervised by one Maître le Clerc, a supercilious scholar who wore the black robes of a cleric and one of those linen coifs with side flaps, which left his hairy ears exposed. I was intrigued to learn that Louis was already managing to construct simple sentences in Greek and Latin but unsurprised to hear that Jean was constantly being punished for his academic shortcomings. Supervising his bedtime one evening I glimpsed red weals on his legs and buttocks and despised the high-nosed tutor even more. However, at least he had introduced books to the nursery. Most girls of seven might have preferred stories or poetry but quiet, studious Michele was quite content with the worthy, religious tracts that he selected for her from the famous royal library in the Louvre.

I suspected that the governess and tutor might be related. They were certainly cast in the same mould for I soon learned that Maître le Clerc was as adept as Madame la Bonne at filling his own coffers. I confess I closed my eyes to their thieving ways. I had promised Catherine I would never leave her again. The children needed someone who was on their side; someone who would look out for them, encourage the boys not to fight, tell them jokes, bring them honeyed treats from the bakery. So we all rubbed along, playing what effectively amounted to blind man’s buff for nearly two years. Then, with the suddenness of a whirlwind, our lives were dismantled.

In late August of 1405, a searing heat wave had caused trees to wilt and stone walls to shimmer. In the hope of catching an afternoon breeze off the river, I had taken the children to the old pleasure garden which ran down to a river gate. Planted on the orders of the king’s mother, Queen Jeanne, and sadly neglected since her death, it was smothered with overgrown roses which clambered about tumbledown arbours, making perfect haunts for Catherine’s imagined fairies and elves. As always when she played, little Charles shadowed her like a small lisping goblin, tottering determinedly on skinny legs in wrinkled, hand-me-down hose. Catherine loved him, though no one else seemed to, always comforting him when he cried.