Windsor Castle, St George’s Day 1422
Windsor Castle, St George’s Day
DUKE HUMPHREY, REVELLING in his new power as regent, holds St George’s Day at Windsor Castle, with a vigil by the knights in their stalls in the chapel, their banners slack over their hooded heads, thousands of pure wax candles burning brightly, and the choir chanting steadily like invisible angels.
Only a few new knights are invested with the greatest honour of England – the Order of the Garter – and a diminished joust follows and a feast day with the queen and her ladies in attendance.
The handsome Duke Humphrey is the centre of all celebrations.
He sings a French song in his warm baritone; he teaches us a new dance from Burgundy, and when the queen retires early to be with her baby, he talks privately with my lady.
‘I rode so near to your homeland,’ he tells her. ‘Right to your borders!’
‘Come to the muniments room and show me exactly where you were.’ She takes his arm as if they are comrades, and I trail behind them, downstairs to the great hall, through the gallery to the muniments room.
It is dark. The clerks have all finished for the day; every candle is snuffed for fear of fire.
Duke Humphrey sends me back to the hall for a taper, and I take my time to leave them alone.
He puts the little flame to the candles, and the light glows around Jacqueline, softening the hard lines in her face and making bobbing shadows on the drawings on the walls, on the huge bound manuscripts on the deep shelves.
He makes a secret corner for the two of them, as if they are lovers.
But Jacqueline is thinking only of Hainault.
She draws out the map of northern France where she has marked the king’s campaign, and together, they pore over rivers and forests.
He points to the towns that they have besieged and the one where he was in sole command.
He invites her praise, but all she wants to know about are her own lands, and if they are being reinforced against the French.
They bend over the map together; her finger traces the line of the border. ‘How close did you get?’
‘I saw the round towers of the town walls,’ he says, his voice dreamy, as if he is telling a fairy story about distant lands.
‘I saw the turrets on the castle and the silvery slate of their roofs. I saw the high bell tower in the distance. I had no idea your lands ran so far, that your palace was so beautiful.’
She gives a shuddering sigh and closes her eyes, as if she can see it herself. ‘Did you see the tops of the trees in the castle forest? Was my flag flying from the tower? Did you hear the bells ringing the hours?’
He puts his hand over hers where it rests on the map. ‘You’ve been in England for more than a year,’ he says softly. ‘Can you forget your home? The queen loves you, and we will support you – why not be happy here?’
She draws her hand away. ‘I live on no one’s charity. I’ll win my lands back. If I’d known my marriage was invalid, I’d never have allowed John of Brabant to steal from me. But now I do know, I owe him nothing: neither lands nor obedience. I defy him, and I’ll fight him, to the death.’
She puts her hand flat on the map, as if she is swearing an oath on a holy relic. Her borders run so wide from France to Germany that not even her palm and long fingers can cover them all.
‘When I was just a little girl, my father took me round the great towns and made sure that the townsmen knew me, and knew that I would reign when he was dead. This is my birthright Humphrey. It is my honour and duty to rule. It is mine, just as Gloucestershire is yours. I will claim my own.’
His eyes never leave her face, but he does not reach for her hand again, and I could cry for disappointment.
It has all gone wrong. It was a perfect setting – shadowy and romantic – but she is so loud, so strong, so unwomanly: swearing she will win her rights like a squire demanding his spurs!
At the very moment when she should yield to his comforting shoulder and weep, she stands tall and points to the map and makes demands.
But to my amazement, he does not shrink from her strength.
He drops to one knee and holds up his hands as if in prayer, in the gesture of fealty.
‘Countess Jacqueline of Hainault, I will be your man,’ he promises.
‘I will lead your army into Hainault, and I will see you in possession of the castles and palaces that belong to you. I swear it on my honour.’
I am stunned; but she does not falter. She is so sure of herself that even when a royal duke of England goes down on one knee to her, she is not flustered.
She does not raise him up with little cries of gratitude; she does not shower kisses on his head.
She lets him kneel as she stands proudly, both of them beautiful in the candlelight, like a bright illustration in a book of stories.
She puts her own hands on either side of his, clasping them in the ancient gesture of lordship. ‘I accept your promise of fealty,’ she says, as solemnly as a king. ‘I accept your service.You will be at my side when we enter my capital city of Mons, and I will reward you on my day of victory.’