“He is offering his daughter as wife to Henry. Does he think he can achieve that! The upstart!”

Burgundy was no upstart, I wanted to say. He was more royal than she was. But of course I lowered my eyes and kept quiet.

“I never heard of such arrogance. Her name is Katherine,” she added wryly, as though that made the offense even more treacherous. “Yes…he hoped to get ahead of me…ahead of your father, by bringing about a marriage between that wretched daughter of his and the King of England.”

“And…what did the King of England say to that?”

“What think you? He is making high enough demands for you. Do you think he would think twice of Burgundy’s daughter?”

“She is royal.”

“She is not the daughter of a king. He is a king, is he not? He will take you in time…never fear. But he strikes a hard bargain. Burgundy is mad.”

That was not true, but perhaps he had been a little unwise.

My hopes that there would be a substitute were dashed. My father was brought out of retirement and set up in the council chamber.

He must sign certain documents which would be delivered to the Duke of Burgundy without delay, informing him that on pain of forfeiture and treason, he must not enter into any treaty with the King of England either for his daughter’s marriage or for any other reason.

My mother laughed in derision.

“The man is undoubtedly mad. Does he think Henry would take such a match? No…no…he’ll look higher. He is the King of England, is he not?”

I could see that my hope of escape had been too optimistic.

We heard that the new King was displaying great energy. He was extremely popular in a way his father had never been. He was young and virile; Henry IV had been old and ailing. In fact, his last years had been plagued by a terrible illness. Now there was a great driving force in the nation. The shipyards were busy; there were preparations for war which was always a matter for concern; and already the young King had distinguished himself on the battlefield.

There was a rumor that he was thinking of claiming France. His great-grandfather, Edward III, had had an obsession that France, in truth, belonged to England, which was due to the marriage of Edward II to Isabelle of France. Edward had waged war in France. Poitiers and Crécy were still remembered.

Henry sent messengers to France. He was ready now to open negotiations for the marriage.

“He liked the portrait of you,” my mother told me. “No doubt it reminded him of Isabelle. He was most upset that he did not get her.”

But when she saw the demands Henry made, my mother was less euphoric.

“Really!” she cried. “He asks too much. He is too sure of himself. He is young…and feeling his way, no doubt.” She smiled indulgently. She had a weakness for young and virile men.

I was glad of his demands, for it seemed they were too great to be met. Postponement at least was something.

I heard that he was demanding Normandy, Anjou and Maine and that I was to bring a dowry of two million crowns.

“It is outrageous,” said my mother. “Even if we were inclined to concede the territory…where could we find two million crowns?”

Negotiations flagged once more and the trouble which had begun by Burgundy’s perfidious act in trying to arrange a marriage for his daughter behind the King’s back caused further outbreaks of fighting. It was almost as though we were at war.

In the midst of all this the bargaining was renewed.

The Dauphin Louis could talk of little but Henry of England. He jeered at him. How dared he make such demands? The English had no right to be in France. They had gained much through Henry II’s marriage to Eleanor of Aquitaine, and their son King John had obligingly—as far as the French were concerned—lost it all. Now those lands were back where they belonged, and that was where they should stay.

I had opportunities of talking to Louis now and then. How different he was from the young brother I had known in the Hôtel de St.-Paul! He was now longing to be King. He thought my father should give up the crown and pass it to him without delay.

“He is sick of mind,” he said. “He will never be able to govern. If I were King, I would subdue Burgundy for a start. I would stop this fellow of England daring to make such demands. If I were King, I should tell him to marry you, sister, and think himself honored.”

“Why should he?” I asked. “He is a King.”

“And are you not the daughter of a King? When you are Queen of England, you must always think of your native land. You must work for France…when you are Queen of England.”

“It may turn out that I never shall be. The matter has been discussed many times and there is always some hitch.”

“It will not always be so. Oh, if I were but King, how different everything would be!”

I could see why my mother kept a close watch on Louis. I wondered what would happen when he became King. He had no love for her and he would certainly not brook her control. What would she do then?

I asked him to tell me what he knew of Henry. “For, if I am to be his wife, it will be good for me to know,” I said.

“Oh, you will deal with him, sister. Any woman could. He is but a boy.”

“He is fourteen years older than I am.”

“He has spent his life roistering in taverns in low company.”

“I have heard that he has spent some time on the battlefield.”

“Just a soldier. He will never be able to govern England. I have no fear of him.”

“Some people seem to.”

“They would be frightened by their own shadow. I shall be King one day…then you will see.”

“Louis,” I said earnestly, “how necessary is this marriage to France? Must it be?”

He looked at me shrewdly. “It is of importance,” he said. “We have had trouble with the English. There is always trouble with the English. Such a marriage might put an end to it. They have this notion that they own our land. It was due to all those marriages…years ago. Well, France is mine and I intend to hold it.”

“And must I marry Henry of England?”

He nodded his head. “It seems to me that most people in France think it would be an excellent conclusion…and I am of the opinion that the English are of like mind.”

“Then…providing he does not ask too much…it will take place?”

“Yes, sister. It must. For France.”

I could see that unless Henry made outrageous demands—which he was capable of doing—my fate was certain.

Disquieting news was coming from across the Channel. Henry was demanding subsidies from his Parliament. “For the defense of England and the safety of the seas.” What did it mean? There was a great deal of shaking of heads and uneasy speculation.

Henry’s demands, which included me, could not be met. And it seemed he was preparing to make even greater demands.

Alarming statements were coming from England. The crown of France, in fact, belonged to him, declared Henry. The English did not recognize the French law precluding women from ascending the throne, which law was the reason why the throne had not come to Isabelle, wife of Henry’s ancestor Edward II. These claims had been raised before and had caused strife between our countries; and now here they were again.

The King was more or less offering an ultimatum. Unless I was given to him in marriage with a dowry of 840,000 golden crowns, fifteen towns in Aquitaine and the seneschalty of Limoges, he would have no recourse but to come over and take the crown which, after all, was his by right.

My brother Louis laughed aloud.

“The arrogant young pup!” he said. “To whom does he think he is talking? Does he realize that he is challenging the mighty land of France?”

But was France mighty? For years it had been ruled by a mad king and his rapacious wife; there was fighting between the two greatest houses in the land. Was France in a position to defend itself?

There was a hasty meeting of the Council; and the Archbishop of Bourges sent to the King of England a reply which was both moderate and adequate.

Did the King of England really think that he could turn the King of France from his throne? he asked. He must be thinking that out of fear he had entered into negotiations for his daughter’s marriage. This was not so. It was done out of the love of peace. The French did not want war. They did not wish innocent blood to be shed. In the event of war, the French would have right on their side. They would confidently call upon God Almighty and the Blessed Virgin to aid the King’s arms and loyal subjects, and the English armies would be driven out of France and their King would meet death or capture.

Such bold words might have deterred some, but not King Henry.

He now made it clear that negotiations were at an end. If the French would not give him what he wanted, he had no alternative but to come and take it by force.

It was said that he was determined on war.

My father was in one of his lucid periods. He was horrified at the prospect of war. He wrote to the King of England saying that if he came to France he would receive him and they might enter into discussion. He added that it was a strange way of wooing his daughter—covered with the blood of her countrymen.

Louis was boasting about what he would do to the English if they dared set foot on French soil. With a few of his friends he contrived what he thought was a joke. He had a cask of tennis balls sent from Paris to London, with a message to Henry that the balls were more fitting playthings for him than the weapons of war he was proposing to use against France.

Knowing Henry, as I did later, I could well imagine the mood in which he received the tennis balls.

His reply was typical of him. “These balls,” he said, “shall be struck back with such a racket as shall force open the gates of Paris.”

It was tantamount to a declaration of war.

On August 7 in that year 1415, Henry set sail for France.

At that time I was nearly fourteen years of age.

It was just a month after he had landed when Henry took Harfleur. It had cost him a great deal and there were rumors that his army was plagued by sickness.

He marched on, however.

The terrible events of the previous months had aroused my father from his madness. He listened to the accounts of the capture of Harfleur and declared he would place himself at the head of his army and go with it to meet the English King.

It was his Uncle Berry, I think, who begged him to consider what he was proposing to do.

“Remember Poitiers?” he said. “Remember Crécy? It is better that you should not be there. If we lose the battle, we cannot lose the King or the Dauphin as well.”

My father hesitated. He must have known that his presence would be a cause for alarm rather than an inspiration. What if madness should seize him on the battlefield—which was not unlikely? What harm would that do? It was agreed that he should not go…nor the Dauphin and his brothers Jean and Charles. It was also decided that it would be unwise for Berry, Brittany and Burgundy to risk themselves either.

When I heard this, I felt that they were preparing for defeat before the battle had begun. But although it was more than fifty years since the Battle of Poitiers had been lost, Frenchmen had never forgotten it.

The Battle of Agincourt would be another of those which would be remembered for a long time. It was October 25 and I had now reached my fourteenth birthday. There was tension throughout the Queen’s apartments.

All the flower of the nobility—with the exception of the very highest in the land, whom it had been decided could not risk their lives—was there.

In trepidation we waited for the result.

I heard more of that battle later on. Henry himself described it to me. He glowed with pride and enthusiasm when he did so, and I could not help catching it, even though it had meant such a bitter defeat for my own countrymen.

“The French were doomed from the start,” Henry told me, “in spite of the fact that there were so many of them. We had come from Harfleur…there was sickness in our ranks, and a soldier will often fight better when he is defending his homeland. France was mine by right but these men of mine…well, they wanted victory…they wanted the spoils of victory…but home for them was England. The French were confident…too confident. Fifty thousand of them at least…all drawn up in their heavy armor. Compared with them, we were very few. Some Englishmen quailed when they compared the numbers of French with ours, and I had to remind them one Englishmen was worth ten Frenchmen.” He laughed that rather raucous laugh of his to which I had become accustomed by that time. But I never forgot his description of the battle.