Mons, Hainault, Christmas 1424
Mons, Hainault, Christmas
JACQUELINE, HER NEW court, and I, as her chief lady-in-waiting always at her side, dress in our finest and go out on the steps of the Naasterhof at Mons under fat flakes of falling snow to welcome her husband as a returning hero.
Then we have to wait. I go back inside for a fur-lined cloak for Jacqueline.
The duke is at the gate of the town, but the gatemen refuse into admit the soldiers.
Only when he has ordered his men into requisitioned barns and stables outside the city walls, will the townspeople swing the great gates open for him to ride up the hill to the castle, where we are still waiting to welcome the new Count of Hainault back to his capital city.
His face is pale and resentful; his hand is at his belly, where the spleen is gripping his bowels, as he dismounts. He greets his wife coldly, as if it is her fault that the gatemen refused to open their town to an army.
And just as I ask myself how this man is ever going to be happy, Jacqueline’s friend, Jehanne de Warigny, steps forward, curtseys very low, and gazes up from the depth of her curtsey with a look of spellbound adoration.
Amazingly, the colour returns to Humphrey’s cheeks, his hand creeps from his belly to his heart for his ornate bow, and suddenly, his eyes are bright.
We hold a service of thanksgiving for the safe return of the English duke in the canoness’ church of St Waltrude, the patron saint of Mons.
The choir sings an anthem of thanks; there is a lengthy sermon preached on the text: ‘Praise we glorious men and our fathers in their generation . . . and the seed of their sons’ sons .
. .’ It rather misses the mark, speaking of sons – which the duke has failed to make – and preaching of the inheritance of men – that Jacqueline, as a daughter, openly challenges.
The feast after the long mass is extraordinarily good: lamprey in spiced wine sauce, roasted porpoise, gilded swan, and a peacock in its feathers.
Duke Humphrey gorges himself, resenting every mouthful, knowing that they will cost him nausea and pain in the night.
Jacqueline, seated on the dais beside him, looking out over the hundreds of people of their household, tries to cheer him, smiling and telling them stories of his success in England and France.
But her encouragement to tell stories of his past – even Agincourt, which is usually an infallible key to his good humour – does not lift the duke’s spirits.
Slowly, as the dinner wears on, it becomes apparent why they came home so cheerless.
None of the towns acknowledged him gladly; none of them welcomed him.
The towns have enjoyed peaceful times under John of Brabant’s negligent rule, and they do not want a new count, especially one with an army of Englishmen.
Some of the townsmen even dared to whisper that until the pope in Rome declares Jacqueline’s marriage to John of Brabant invalid and annulled, she is still John of Brabant’s wife and Duke Humphrey is nothing more than an adulterer and an adventurer.
When the long dinner finally ends, Jacqueline leads out the dancers with her friend Gilles de Potelle, and the duke comes down from the dais and strolls about the room, smiling and slapping men on the back, making his courtly bow to ladies.
But as people start to talk among themselves and drift to the tables to play cards, the duke is gradually left alone.
I see him look around, and his face grow sulky as he realises nobody seeks his company.
I am just about to go to him when I see his head come up, and with a little furtive movement, he nods at Jehanne de Warigny, and she, glancing, to see that her husband is playing dice, slips quietly from the ladies’ table and goes from the room.
I feel as betrayed as if it were my husband going off with my friend.
I am appalled that the duke could leave his wife and his celebration dinner for such a paltry temptation as Jehanne.
This is not a hero. This is not chivalry!
I hug myself with the knowledge that Owen ap Maredudd would never be tempted by such a one as Jehanne de Warigny.
I take a quick glance for Jacqueline. She is handclasped in a circle dance, and her place puts her back to the door, so she has seen nothing.
Of course, I knew that Duke Humphrey was not a great lover like Launcelot, not a great king like Arthur, and Jacqueline was never – as she told me herself – a maiden in distress.
But I have clung to the thought of their marriage as a true Romance.
Owen ap Maredudd warned me that chivalry was a fairy story; but I have loved these legends since childhood and dreamed that there might be a lord so noble that he would see me and fall in love with me, as Palamon fell in love with Emelye.
But now, in this hot room, crowded with noblemen and their ladies, I realise that there is nothing remarkable about Jacqueline and Humphrey, any more than there is anything remarkable about me.
Duke Humphrey is not inspired by chivalry but by very ordinary greed.
Jacqueline is not a distressed maiden but a woman who wants her own.
She married him to get his army; he married her to get her lands.
They are not fairy-tale characters or even noble.
They are ordinary and rich, and I am ordinary and poor.
I have been – as my father so brutally said – trying my luck.
And both the duke and I seem to have no luck at all.
A FEW DAYS later is the meeting of the three estates.
We walk down the hill in a procession from the castle to the h?tel de ville in the town square, preceded by the castle guard, the duke complaining all the way that the burghers should have come to us at the castle, to show respect.
Jacqueline says nothing, but Jehanne de Warigny, walking a little behind her but in front of me, says very sweetly, ‘It is gracious of you, sir. They should appreciate your condescension.’ Duke Humphrey falls quiet with a satisfied little smile.
There are about a hundred men from the different towns of Hainault waiting to meet with the countess and her new husband.
‘No one from Holland,’ Jacqueline remarks quietly.
The duke gives them no chance to speak. He seizes control of the meeting, confident that he can dominate the hammer-beamed hall.
He tells them that since he has brought peace to their country, his army must be paid by them. The bill will be 40,000 gold crowns.
There is a gasp and, immediately, quarrels break out: between Duke Humphrey and his council, between Dowager Duchess Margaret and her son-in-law, between the council and the lords, between the lords and the burghers, between Church and council.
Everyone is shouting; only Jacqueline is white-faced and silent as she sees her husband shatter the alliances that she has sworn to maintain.
I think they will come to blows over the duke’s outrageous demand when the door at the back of the hall opens, and they all, one by one, fall silent as a messenger comes in, snow on his boots, mud on his cape.
I see from the duke’s sly hidden smile that he knows what the report is going to be.
He turns and whispers to Jacqueline. The colour drains from her face, but she says nothing.
She rises to her feet, looks for me, and we walk out through the silent burghers.
Walking back up the hill in a cold wind and sleet, she tells me what Humphrey has done.
The English army, under the command of John de Mowbray, is launching a wild chevauchée into Brabant lands: a savage attack on common people in the middle of winter.
The army, raring to plunder after months of idleness, has roared out on a twoday march, down the snowy road to the gates of Brussels, allowed to raid, steal, and murder as they wish.
On their way back, half-mad with drink, loaded with stolen goods, unchallenged by any armed force, they burn haystacks and grain stores, kill winter-fed cattle, leaving bodies in the darkened fields, horses dying in burning stables.
They stagger home, smoke-stained, weak from drink, sated from killing, and fall into their winter quarters, which will not hold them, now they have tasted such wild freedom.
The Hainaulters, appalled at the monsters camping in their winter barns and outhouses, pay the 40,000 crowns to the duke at once.
Twice the price would be cheap to keep the English murderers quiet; but the pretence that we are on a chivalrous mission is smashed as thoroughly as the broken windows of the little houses.
I AM STANDING on the bell tower beside the castle of Mons, T 1 looking out at the view.
The land, white with snow and brown with mud, stretches before me, unrolling for miles, as far as the eye can see, the grey snow clouds above me, big-bellied in unending skies.
The town gate far below is guarded, though no one is travelling along the cold roads in this miserable weather.
As I stand, wrapped in furs, wishing I was safe at home in England, wondering if Owen ap Maredudd is looking out over a green wet landscape and thinking of me, I see four armed men riding towards the gate.
The gateman comes out, pike at the ready; the guard tumbles out behind him.
I hear him shout a challenge in their incomprehensible language and then he nods and stands back to let them enter.
I just glimpse the standard that flaps in the wintry breeze: it is the gold fleur-de-lys and blue and gold stripes of Burgundy.
I tie my fur-lined cloak tighter and hurry down the spiral stone stairs.
If the all-powerful Philip of Burgundy has decided to take a hand in this miserable squabble, he could change everything.
His armed messenger stands before Jacqueline and her mother; he must have slipped in to see her before anyone could steer him to the English commanders.
But someone has told the duke that a messenger is here: Humphrey follows me into the room, Jehanne de Warigny at his heels.
Jacqueline glances anxiously at him and translates into English, without him asking.
‘These men come from Philip of Burgundy to tell me of the death of my uncle, my father’s brother: John of Bavaria.’ Her face is fixed, expressionless. ‘My uncle John claimed my lands on the death of my father but never dared to challenge me. Now he’s dead. He has named Philip as his heir.’
‘What?’ the duke demands.
She snatches a look at his white angry face.
‘My uncle John said Philip of Burgundy should inherit instead of me,’ she says again, slowly, as if she is explaining to a disappointed child.
‘I never acknowledged my uncle’s claim, and he never dared to make it in person.
Now he has died. He has left his claim – such as it is – to my cousin Philip. ’
‘Philip of Burgundy claims your lands?’
The messenger proffers the letter, festooned with seal and ribbons, like a gauntlet for a challenge.
Duke Humphrey whips his hands behind his back and refuses to take it.
He is aghast. It is one thing to ride out at the head of an army against unarmed townsmen and country peasants, but he cannot put an army of Englishmen against Philip of Burgundy – an essential ally for England.
He cannot drive Philip into the arms of the French and turn him against England.
And anyway, our army is good only for abusing civilians; they would run like frightened bullies from an experienced commander with well-armed men.
‘I came to make war on your false husband John of Brabant!’ he exclaims, as if she has deliberately misled him. ‘And now I’m facing Philip of Burgundy?’
Jehanne de Warigny moves a little closer to him, catches my eye, and stands very still.
‘We were always facing Philip,’ Jacqueline says half-apologetically. ‘You knew we had to march through his lands; you knew he surrounds us.You knew he was supporting my false husband against me.’
‘But I didn’t . . .’ He breaks off. He cannot publicly admit that he thought his brother Duke John would hold Philip of Burgundy neutral; he hoped to have a hero’s welcome and never have to earn it. ‘What about you?’ He rounds on Jacqueline’s mother.
She spreads her hands wide, the very model of a powerless woman. ‘Philip won’t listen to me; I’m just his aunt.’
Her sarcasm is quite lost on the duke; he loses the chance of an ally.
‘I will write to Duke Philip,’ he says hastily.
‘I will write to him personally. I know him; we have been side by side in enough battles and celebrations. Philip will listen to me. We are both dukes. He will understand my claim as a husband. He will support me as a husband over a dead uncle.’
‘I claimed as a daughter and heir,’ Jacqueline says with quiet determination.
Duke Humphrey flaps his hands. ‘This is a matter for men now,’ he says. ‘Noblemen. He will know that my claim is good.Your lands are mine.’
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ his mother-in-law says shortly. ‘He’s mustering his men. He’s calling out his vassals in Artois and Picardy. John of Luxembourg Count of Saint-Pol will lead his army against you.’
‘Philip is my friend!’ Humphrey exclaims.
Even I know he is not. Owen ap Maredudd told me himself that Philip of Burgundy refused the Order of the Garter so that he was free to make war on any of them.
All along, he has been humouring Duke Humphrey – the younger brother of the king he feared, the younger brother of the regent that he trusts.
He has never promised friendship to England outside of the war with France, he never swore to the friendship of the Order of the Garter, and my guess is that he despises Duke Humphrey.
‘He would not dare come against me,’ Duke Humphrey says, but his voice is less certain.
‘Mustering now,’ the old lady says cheerfully.
Humphrey, as if desperate for help, looks at the women he secretly despises: his wife, her mother, his mistress. He even looks at me, and walks out without saying another word.