The Duke bowed his head and said: “I trust your word. In God’s holy name, do you swear you have not murder in mind?”

“My good and most noble lord,” replied Duchâtel. “I would rather die than commit treason to you or my lord. I give you my word that the Dauphin wishes nothing but reconciliation.”

“Then let us proceed,” said the Duke.

When he came to the Dauphin, the Duke took off his cap and knelt before him. The Dauphin appeared to be seized with emotion and made him rise and cover his head.

Then, changing his mood abruptly, my brother began upbraiding the Duke. He had not cared for the good of France, he said. He had followed his own inclination. He was wanting in his duty.

The Duke must have been surprised at this sudden change. He had come to talk peace, not to listen to a harangue against his actions.

He said haughtily that he had done what he had thought was right and would do it again.

My brother, alas, was no diplomat. I think that secretly he must have been afraid of Burgundy, who had a very powerful and overbearing personality and considered himself equal to—perhaps greater than—the highest in the land.

Duchâtel ran up and shouted: “The time has come!” He lifted his battle-ax and struck the defenseless Duke.

I wondered if Burgundy had time to realize that he had stepped into a trap. Had he forgotten that he himself had brought the Duke of Orléans to an untimely end? That had happened twelve years earlier, but such things are never forgotten.

Vengeance had been brewing for years. It had been decided that the murder of Orléans should not go unpunished.

As the Duke fell to the ground, others came forward, their swords unsheathed.

There were several who were eager for revenge; and there on the ground lay the once-mighty Duke. They fell upon him with their swords.

The murder of Orléans was avenged.

The Duke’s followers waited at some distance, as had been arranged. They did not know what had happened until they were set upon and, weaponless as they were before armed men, they were forced to fly.

There were some among the assassins who wanted to strip the Duke’s body and throw it into the river. But my brother, already regretting the part he had played in the murder of his kinsman, would not allow that. The Duke’s body was prepared for burial, albeit in a pauper’s shell, and taken to the Church of Notre Dame in Montereau to be interred.

And so died Jean the Fearless, the great Duke of Burgundy. The new Duke Philip was the husband of my sister Michelle.

I wondered what Michelle was feeling now, for she was happy with the heir of Burgundy, and I wondered how this would affect their relationship, for her brother would be held responsible for the murder of her husband’s father.

It was small wonder that I felt a desire to escape from the scene of this strife.

It was not to be supposed that the murder of such an important personage as the Duke of Burgundy would not arouse a storm of condemnation.

The next day, when the news was spreading throughout the country, the Parliament and all the leading dignitaries met. They were determined to bring the criminal to justice. People were crowding into the streets, demanding that the murderer be delivered up to them.

My poor brother was thrown into a state of deep depression. All he had wanted to do was to stop the quarreling between Burgundy and the Armagnacs. He had been led into this. Only the death of Jean the Fearless could bring peace, he had been assured, and, young and inexperienced as he was, he had believed them. And now this terrible deed was on his conscience. Never would he be able to forget the look of horrified reproach in the eyes of the Duke as he fell, when, in those fleeting seconds, he realized he had been betrayed. Charles would be haunted by the murder all his life.

There was an attempt to justify the deed.

The conspirators said that the Duke had been greeted in a friendly fashion but he had suddenly started to abuse the Dauphin. He had been ready to draw his sword.

As the Duke’s supporters had made it clear that he had come to the meeting unarmed, this carried little weight. But, said the conspirators, the Duke had attempted to attack the Dauphin, and it was then that they had found it necessary to dispatch him with speed. It was through his own madness that he had died.

This story was quickly proved to be untrue when two of the knights who had accompanied the Dauphin declared that they had known the Duke to be unarmed; they had seen him walk into the trap; they had wanted no part in such treachery; they cursed those men who had planned the murder and so betrayed the honor of their master, the Dauphin. They would rather have died before they had been present on such an occasion, and they had played no part in it.

There was condemnation throughout the country.

As for Henry, he was determined to turn the murder to his advantage.

It was a great loss to France, he said. The Duke of Burgundy was a true and honorable knight. Through his death he, Henry, had reached the summit of his wishes, for one of the greatest Frenchmen was no longer there to oppose him.

The murdered man’s son, now Philip, Duke of Burgundy, was deeply grieved by his father’s death. He was filled with hatred for the Dauphin and the Armagnacs. He was determined to bring them to disaster, and to this end he threw in his lot with the English that he might stand up in arms against the true enemies of France, the Armagnacs.

I could imagine Henry’s glee. At least he had profited from the terrible deed.

The Dauphin and his Armagnacs were doomed. My brother was overcome by remorse and despair. This wicked deed which was to have silenced the Burgundians had succeeded in making them stronger and—an unforeseen development—who would have believed they would have ranged themselves beside the English!

The result of this alliance did not take long to show itself.

There was no alternative for the Dauphin but to make peace with the conqueror of his country.

Henry was triumphant.

I accompanied my mother to Troyes, where I was to be formally betrothed to Henry. I felt a sense of relief that it was to happen at last. My longing to be free from conflict was now intense. I had seen Henry only briefly, but I felt I knew a great deal about him and I was ready to trust myself to him.

I went with my mother to the church of Notre Dame in Troyes. Henry was already there. He had arrived on May 20 with his brothers, the Dukes of Clarence and Gloucester, and 1,600 men, chiefly archers, to remind all that they must accept him as the conqueror or take the consequences.

Lodgings had been prepared for him at the Hôtel de Ville.

I remember now the moment he came into the church. He looked godlike in shining armor, and in his helmet was a fox’s tail decorated with gems.

As he approached me, he gave me a most warm and loving smile. Then he took my hand and that of my mother and led us both to the altar.

My mother explained to him that her husband, the King, was too indisposed to be present.

Henry graciously inclined his head. He would know that my father was suffering from another of his mad spells—which was not surprising considering that this ceremony was tantamount to the surrender of France to the conqueror.

The terms of the peace were read aloud so that all might hear.

It was as though my father were speaking and, when I thought of him alone in his room at the Hôtel de St.-Paul, I was glad that he would be unaware of what was happening about him. He would be happier that way. At least he did not know that he had lost a kingdom.

“I, Charles VI, King of France, give my daughter Katherine in marriage to King Henry V of England.

“King Henry shall place no hindrance in the way of our retaining the crown for as long as we shall live.

“It is agreed that immediately on our death the crown and kingdom of France shall belong perpetually to King Henry and his heirs.

“During those times when we are prevented from taking part in the affairs of the kingdom, the power of government shall belong to King Henry, with the counsel of the nobles and sages of our kingdom.

“King Henry shall strive with all his might to bring conflict in this kingdom to an end and bring back peace to those cities, castles, places and districts that belong to the party commonly known as that of the Dauphin or Armagnacs.”

As I looked around among those assembled in the church to listen to the terms of surrender, I wondered what their feelings were to hear this solemn renunciation of their country to an invader.

Philip, Duke of Burgundy, was present. Now the ally of the conqueror, he was in deep mourning for his father.

Henry was beside me. He had taken my hand, and on my finger he placed a ring encrusted with jewels. It was one worn by English queens at their coronations, he told me afterward.

I felt a certain contentment. It seemed now that my marriage with Henry was certain.

It was a little more than two weeks after that ceremony, on June 3, that I was married to Henry and became Queen of England.

The ceremony took place in the parish church of Troyes, and I doubt the people of that town had ever seen such a magnificent spectacle before.

My husband wanted everyone to realize that he was, in all but name, the King of France; and all the pomp and glory were an indication of his power.

It touched me deeply that this mighty warrior could be tender toward me. I felt happy and secure and I thanked God that, out of the terrible tragedy which had befallen France, at least this had come about.

The truth was that I was proud of him. He was triumphant and I wanted him to be, even though his triumph was the defeat of my country.

My mother was pleased with me. She cared nothing for France, only for herself, and I believed she craved excitement so much that she would have welcomed it whatever it cost.

She was ingratiating toward my husband, exerting all her wiles. Not that he appeared to be aware of the feminine allure which had led men like Louis de Bosredon to destruction. At the same time I had a feeling that he was assessing her in his shrewd manner and wondering how she could be of use to him.

After the ceremony, Henry and I sat side by side, and he spoke to me in his rather anglicized French and I responded in my quaint English which amused him.

I told him I should improve my English. I had learned to speak it, but the manner in which he spoke was somewhat different from that of my teachers.

“You must not change it too much,” he said. “It is charming as it is, Kate.” He went on, “I shall call you Kate. It sounds more English. Kate, I would not have you change one little bit.”

I blushed and hung my head for there, before them all, he kissed my lips.

He prided himself on being a soldier. He told me he lacked the fancy manners of prancing courtiers.

“So much of my life has been spent on the battlefield,” he said. “It makes a man rough and ready perhaps…but honest, Kate…an honest man who says what is in his mind. If you want me otherwise …” He lifted his hands in mock despair.

I said: “I would not want you other than you are,” at which he laughed and kissed my hands and said I delighted him and that I was all he wanted in his bride, which was how he had known it would be from the first moment he saw me.

And I refused to remember that he might have married me long ago if he had accepted the terms offered. I understood why he had refused. He was a man of great ambition. He wanted France…as well as me.

But why should I think these thoughts? I was newly married. I was excited. I believed I had left the melancholy days behind me. I was starting a new life.

QUEEN OF ENGLAND

The Archbishop of Sens had blessed the bed and prayed God to make it fertile. We had been ceremoniously put to bed. This was the moment about which I had thought a great deal. No one had talked to me of what was expected of me. Isabelle’s marriage with her King of England had never been consummated; and afterward, when she had married the Duke of Orléans, she did not speak of such matters. My mother had told me nothing. She was the sort of woman who would have been born with the knowledge of everything that would be required of her.

I felt inadequate. I need not have done. Henry was a gentle and tender lover, and I was greatly relieved to discover that, instead of irritating, my innocence enchanted him.