I jacqueline, p.17
I, Jacqueline, page 17
And then again—if things went against me what would Gloucester do?
‘I have brought him nothing but trouble!’ I told her, despondent.
‘Never blame yourself!’ she said. ‘My son of Gloucester knows that if he wants your lands he must fight for them! He’s always known it! The truth is he veers like a cock on the spire to every wind that blows!’ And then without warning, asked abruptly whether I liked my woman Cobham.
I shrugged, surprised. Though I have as much jealousy in my nature as any woman, it had never occurred to me to consider Cobham—humble and, to my mind, plain—a cause for jealousy.
‘She’s well enough,’ I said, careless. ‘She’s’ obliging …’
‘Too obliging,’ Johanne said. ‘Too free with her favours by half!’
‘Good luck to her—if she can find her market, poor thing!’ And I remember how I laughed.
Johanne’s plucked brows went up; they all-but disappeared beneath the coif.
‘Would it surprise you,’ she said, ‘to know that men find her bewitching? Indeed there are some—cheated wives and sweethearts—that call her witch. Poor, did you say? Perhaps … once. But not now. She’s laid away some wealth, garnered, so they say, from the long line of gentlemen she’s admitted to her bed.’
‘Little chance of her admitting anyone to her bed now!’ I said and I was careless still. ‘She’s forever about me.’
‘Have you brought her with you?’ Johann asked.
I was forced to admit I had not. She had asked permission to visit her mother.
Johanne said no more and I dismissed the matter, except that now and again I would look at that pale, pointed face, those slanted eyes, that meagre figure, and wonder that any man could be taken in the net of such slight charms. My mind was full of other things. In Paris they were still debating the matter that must bring me honour and happiness, or shame and misery.
And then something happened so that for a while I forgot even that.
XIX
I was walking in the garden at Hadleigh. It was a crisp autumn day and I walked thoughtful among the golden leaves thinking less of the sweet morning than of my own affairs. Gloucester was increasingly difficult; the strain of waiting for a decision upon our marriage weighed ever more heavy upon him. In council he was irritable, with his books restless, with servants harsh; and with me, all three.
And now, this morning, I had fresh cause for disquiet; there was news that might well cast a shadow upon my whole life. So I walked thoughtful among the autumn leaves, and, turning a corner, came upon my husband. He had plucked an apple; I saw him bite into it and cast it peevishly away. ‘A maggot at the core!’ he said. ‘There’s a maggot at every core—so it seems!’ He cast a look at my thoughtful face. ‘Well?’ he said, impatient. And again, ‘Well?’
‘It’s my uncle!’ I said. ‘Bavaria’s a sick man; likely to die, they say.’
‘God send it!’ he said at once. ‘A snake less in our path!’ He shrugged. ‘You cannot pretend to grief. You’ve wished him dead often enough!’
‘A natural death; or a soldier’s death. Not this death. Death by poison … it’s a cruel death.’
‘This way or that, what matter? When heaven grants us our wish, give thanks—and no questions asked.’
‘I fear the hand of heaven is not in this!’ I said.
He looked at me sudden and sharp. I thought there was a secret look in his eyes.
‘Meaning?’ he asked.
‘I fear the hand of one that loves me.’ And for one hateful moment I found myself wondering whether his own hand had meddled in that matter. But that was not Gloucester’s way. The sword, yes; the poison-cup, no. But for all that, whether his hand was truly in the matter or not I do not know until this day. But that my own name was not the sweeter for it, I know full well.
He said, careful, ‘If you know nothing of the matter, what do you fear?’
‘Harm to those that may suffer for love of me.’
‘Those that love you will be glad to suffer for you!’ And he laughed a little.
Would you? If princes were punished like common men, if they tore those handsome limbs of yours from your fine body—would you relish it? The thought turned me sick so that I put out a hand and stumbled upon the wet leaves.
‘Come now!’ And his hand tight upon my arm saved me from falling. ‘You cry out too soon. Your uncle isn’t dead yet, more’s the pity!’
‘Let him live or die, still the tale will follow us!’
‘Do not flout God’s gift,’ and he smiled that charming smile of his. And then, very sharp again, ‘Us? Why—us?’
I looked into his eyes, the cold hazel eyes of the Lancasters. I asked the question I must ask.
‘Do you know anything of the matter, my lord?’
‘I?’ And he laughed. ‘We talk of Holland. Why should an English prince play poisoner there? He would have neither need nor opportunity. But a Dutch prince might well have both.’
A Dutch prince! It was as though he winged an arrow. I looked at him surprised. He was staring at me with an odd expression. A Dutch prince. The arrow found its mark. He meant … me.
I stood there amazed and troubled. But surely this was some jest of Gloucester’s; with him you could never tell. He turned and looked at me over his shoulder. ‘Go into the house, my dear!’ And now he was frankly mocking. ‘You may find someone to elucidate the matter.’
Someone to elucidate the matter? He was teasing! I took in my breath with relief. But I was a little angry, too; he, my husband, did not scruple to wound me with his mockery. What of those that sought to discredit me?
I turned about and hastened indoors.
In my chamber a woman waited; a woman all in black. She fell on her knees as I came in; I hardly knew her at first—so old, so yellow, so stained with weeping.
I ran to Beatrix van Vliet and lifted her. Even before she spoke I knew the truth.
‘Van Vliet!’ I said.
She nodded. ‘He did it for you!’
I felt my heart crack. I said, ‘Do they know?’
She nodded again. ‘They tormented him and he spoke. And now he must die.’ Her fingers clutched at my arm. ‘Save him, save him. You can. Only you … little Jacque we have loved and served. And will serve to the end …The end,’ she said again and shook with tearless weeping.
I said, ‘What can I do?’
‘You are a prince!’ she said.
‘And what can I command? I am a fugitive.’
‘You can beseech your uncle for Jan’s life.’
‘Do you think he’d listen? Even a saint racked by poison would find it hard … and my uncle is no saint.’
‘Then you must command. You are a prince,’ she said again obstinate in misery.
‘A prince may not set himself against the law.’
‘Law comes from the prince. Have you forgotten your Joyous Entries, how you sat there in the judge’s seat and said the word to punish or set free?’
‘I did what I was told by men learned in the law. I did not set myself above the law. I obeyed it; though afterwards there was no sleeping because of the things my mouth had spoken. But it’s all useless to talk. I have no power in Holland, no power at all. It’s to my uncle you must go—and he’ll not let his poisoner go free.’
She turned and paced backwards and forwards; every time she turned to face me, she looked at me out of her desolate eyes. It is a bad prince that sets his friends above the law; I thanked God I had not to make that choice. And then I remembered her devotion to me, this woman that was my sister; that had never asked a thing of me but to serve me with all her heart. She had lost her first husband in my service; now she must lose the second.
‘Beatrix, Beatrix,’ I said, ‘I talk of the law and the duty of princes as though there was no heart in my body; but my heart is there and it breaks … it breaks …’ and the tears ran down my cheeks.
She ran to me then and knelt, as so often in my childhood, and put her arms about me, forgetting her bitter need in my lesser need. I took myself gently away; she had the right to her own sorrow. I said, ‘Jan van Vliet did this for me; and I am powerless to abate one jot of his punishment.’
I looked at her and she looked back at me. Between us lay the thought of a man hanged, drawn and quartered—the pain and the shame of that death!
‘Oh Beatrix,’ I said. ‘My sister!’ And I had never called her that before; but she did not even notice it.
‘I love him,’ she said. ‘My first marriage—to please others. Oh, it was well enough. But this! Dear God, I ask no more of paradise.’ She put out a hand as though to beseech me again; her lips moved, soundless.
I threw my principles to the four winds; I had done babbling of justice. I said, ‘I love Jan for his love of me. I will help him if I may; though how, by God’s Face I do not know! Tell me the tale. We might somehow, somewhere, find the hand of the great in this; a hand strong enough to reach out and save.’
She clasped her hands together. I saw how thin they had grown, how yellow, twisting upon the black stuff of her gown. For the rest, she sat very still, her voice quiet.
‘It all began on Ascension Day. We were at Schoonhoven, supping with the Bastard of Langeraeck. After supper Jan walked by the river, a thing he loves to do … he will not walk by any river again. There was a man following after him; and Jan, for the sake of courtesy—the man had been at supper—stopped to say Goodnight. It was a courtesy that cost him dear. For this man was an Englishman …’
An Englishman! And I took in my breath. If Gloucester had had a hand in this, then he must reach out somehow to save the man he had brought to destruction.
‘Can you speak English? the man said; he spoke very softly and his eyes went this way and that.
‘Jan shook his head. The man had no Dutch but Jan had a little Latin and so they began to talk.
‘The Englishman said he knew how we hated the Bavarian because of his treachery to our rightful lady. He said we could help ourselves and serve you at the same time; and we should be paid well; more than we could ever dare to hope. He said he served a great prince. A great prince; and English. What were we to think?’
I said nothing; I stared at her. I knew the name she meant.
‘Oh we didn’t know; we weren’t meant to know. But we guessed; we were meant to guess. Your husband, Jacque … we thought you wished it; we were meant to think it.
‘So then Jan stood silent and thought awhile. He knew well my love for you … and why I love you so. He knew how often I have lain awake and wept that you were far away; and how at times I would not come into his arms nor sleep, for thinking of you. So Jan—he’s a soldier, a man of deeds and no great thinker—said Yes. And I swear before God that the thought of money was not in him; only how he might serve you.
‘The man gave Jan English poison in a soft leather bag, lest the poison come through and corrode the hand.
‘Jan went to the Hague; he got into the palace easily. His face is known and he didn’t think to cover it with his hood. He found the Bavarian’s chamber empty; the great chamber of the counts of Holland, that is yours by right. Before the prie-dieu a prayer book stood open. Jan says he remembered how this man had sold his God for a prince’s crown; and that he was a hypocrite and cruel with it. The Pitiless, the Tiger—and his prayer book open for all to see how deep he prayed!
‘Jan said his anger came up hot as blood. He smeared the pages of the book with poison. The man should die after he had prayed—so much grace Jan allowed him. He had no fears, he said, only a gladness that he had revenged treachery to you, his prince. His mind was quiet; thereafter he slept like a child. And who should know but I?
‘The Bavarian fell sick. We waited for him to die that we might welcome you home again—our lady, our Jacque. We could not guess that it would be out of the frying pan and into the fire for you and for all loyal Hollanders. We could not guess that the Burgundian was already named heir—heir to all your lands and titles.
‘So, simpletons that we were, we waited for the Bavarian to die; and for you to come home again. But he did not die. The poison was strong; but he was stronger.
‘One cannot poison a great duke and no questions asked—we should have remembered that. And all enquiries came back to Jan. Someone had seen him at Schoonhoven talking to the Englishman; a man on guard at the palace remembered him crossing the courtyard. A button had fallen from his coat; maybe they found it, who knows? They did not stop for proof. They came and took him from my bed and they carried him before the Privy Council at Purmerende, but they got nothing out of him. So the Bavarian had him carried back to the Hague and there, in the dark cell, with none to see—they tormented him. They broke his fine, straight bones…
She stopped while the long shudders shook her lean black-garbed frame.
‘…Then, they carried him all broken as he was, before the Court of Holland. I was waiting in the courtyard to see him … for the last time; to say a word of cheer … for the last time. But when I saw what they had done to him…’
Again the long shudders shook her. I took her by the waist and would have made her sit but very gently she shook me off.
‘This is a thing that must be said standing. He could not stand, yet he must stand. Oh Jacque, Jacque, it was then, seeing what they had done to him, my heart broke.
‘So there they sat, the great lords, sworn to justice—the Lord of Egmont, the Lord of Cortgene together with his cousins the van Borselens.’
‘Enemies all!’ I cried out. ‘There would be no mercy for any friend of mine. But,’ I said, unwilling, ‘there would be justice.’ And I remembered how Frank van Borselen had this much justice in him that he had rebuked a page long ago for lewd words concerning a young girl.
‘Yet their justice will not help you; you must fear it rather,’ I said, very low. ‘Your unjust man may be swayed by gifts, or pity even; but your just man remembers his duty to do it.’
‘Yet,’ she said, and fetched a sigh from the bottom of her heart, ‘not one of those just men thought to ask why he had confessed; nor why he could not stand upon his feet; nor yet why so good a man had done this thing. It is a crime, so it seems, to put a poisonous snake from my prince’s heel. And so the words were spoken … and he is to die.
‘To die, to die!’ she cried out, ‘unless … unless … oh Jacque, you are our only hope.’
‘A poor hope,’ I said. ‘What am I but a stranger in a strange land? And I am driven this way and that! I love Jan for his love of me; but I know full well that poison is wickedness…’
‘Wickedness, indeed!’ my husband stood there in the doorway. He turned to Beatrix. ‘Never seek pity where none can be. The man that uses poison is outside all pity. Stop wearying your lady with your useless tears—it’s overlate for that! Go home again; I cannot welcome you here.’
She curtseyed first to him and then to me; she turned and left us without another word.
I would have spoken then but his hand, uplifted, stayed me.
‘Your uncle’s dying at last, God be thanked,’ he said. ‘And Brabant shakes in his shoes. He’s lost his best ally and doesn’t know when his own turn will come to make a forced exit. He blames you of course. Witch and bitch—he calls you both! You cannot afford, my dear, to keep that woman by you now, nor yet to show her any pity. The thing was done. It has no concern with you.’
‘Has it not?’ I asked. ‘It disposes of one enemy and causes the other to shake in his shoes. Have we no part in it, no part at all, my lord?’
‘We?’ he said. ‘We? I have heard them call you rash, too quick of tongue, your own worst enemy; and by God, it could be true!’
He kissed me lightly—slightingly as it were—and left me.
XX
‘My patience begins to crack!’ Gloucester told me more than once. ‘Your uncle’s dying and here we wait. We wait for Parliament’s permission; we wait for the Pope’s word; we wait for this and for that! And all the time the enemy gathers strength. Behind the sot that calls himself your husband, Burgundy stands. If it weren’t for thrice-damned Burgundy, your inheritance would return to you and no need to spill blood.’
‘Even though the Pope hasn’t spoken?’
‘Because the Pope hasn’t spoken. If he hasn’t confirmed our marriage, certainly he hasn’t denied it.’
‘Yet there are some—and not a few—that call me your whore.’ And, in spite of my smiling, my voice shook.
‘Then I will cut out their tongues!’ he promised, very pleasant.
And still the wearisome argument trailed on.
Backwards and forwards went the messengers; and my fears mounted lest I should find myself not Gloucester’s wife but Gloucester’s whore. As for him, his steady anger grew.
And now my fool of Brabant himself made things easier. He was ready to compromise, eager for what he could grab without fighting. If he might remain in possession of Hainault as long as he lived, he would renounce all claim to me as his wife. After his death Hainault could, for all he cared, come back to me and my husband. Philip was away, I fancy; certainly he was caught napping!
‘Brabant ready to renounce all claim as my husband! A miracle, praise be to God, beyond our dearest hopes!’
But Gloucester would not smile. The mouth that could smile so sweetly—and kiss so sweetly—tightened.
‘The promise comes from Brabant and from him alone. Do you think Burgundy will back up that fool? Not he! Well, I’ve no more patience! I’m going to take my rights. I’m no hairsplitting churchman; I’m a soldier.’
I was as eager as he could be; but for all that I put in a last word. ‘We promised Parliament to wait; we agreed to stand by the decision from Rome.’
‘There’s been no decision, no decision at all!’ He turned upon me, all carried away by his fury. ‘When my rights are kept from me, why then I take them!’ And his hand flew to his sword.
He was so handsome then, I took fire myself—dry tinder, I must own. I burned now to see my own land and to win back what was mine.
