Читать книгу The Agincourt Bride онлайн | страница 34

A third man, similarly dressed in studded leather, appeared from nowhere and panted at us, ‘I am sorry, Madame, but he is more frightened of you than you are of him. He thinks he is made of glass. He would not have hurt the little girl. Please tell her he is not an ogre. He is the king and he is ill.’

Not waiting for a response, he touched the edge of his bucket hat and raced after the others. It took several minutes for both children to stop hiccoughing with fear and my heart was still thudding in my chest when I grasped Catherine’s little hand and hurried with them both to the relative peace of our tower. I told myself that it would be a very long time before I would venture into Queen Jeanne’s garden again.

Back in the nursery the two little children clung to me as if to a rock in fast-rising water. I did not think they had heard what the third ‘minder’ had said and I was not about to make it worse for them by revealing that the terrifying man they had met in the garden was their father, the king. It was enough that they had suffered his animal screams and would probably see his agonised face in their dreams. More disturbing in the long term was the absence of Michele, Louis and Jean. Their older sister and brothers had been an integral part of their short lives; not always easy or kind but always there, to squabble with, play with or annoy. The nursery was silent and strange without them, a place at once both familiar and frightening.

Catherine was full of questions. Where had the others gone? Why had they gone? What would happen to them? When were they coming back? Was that lady really her mother? Why hadn’t she spoken to her? Would she come for her, too?

I had no answers because I had no idea why the queen had taken the older children away, or what would happen to them, or whether they would be back, or why she had completely ignored her two youngest children. Her actions seemed arbitrary and inexcusable, but she was the queen and I supposed there must be some rhyme or reason to it. I had heard much mention of the Duke of Burgundy and his boastful nickname Jean the Fearless, seen Michele’s anguish at the sudden talk of her marriage and gathered that Chartres was their destination, but that was the sum of it. I was as mystified as the children. Perhaps it was significant that we all avoided making mention of the screaming man.