So then Henry knew that it had something to do with Joan of Arc.
He asked one of his squires about the witch. It was exciting – and frightening too – to contemplate that she was actually a prisoner in this very castle. Sometimes he would wake up in the night and wonder whether witches had special powers and that they might break out of their prisons. Surely that was a small thing to do. Suppose she came to him? She would be particularly angry with him because, as he had learned, it was due to her that the Dauphin had been crowned. She wouldn’t like the true King very much.
One day his squire said to him: ‘There is an aperture in her prison. People watch her through it. Would you like to take a peep?’
He hesitated. He was afraid of what he would see. He imagined an ugly old woman with warts all over her where the Devil had kissed her.
But he wanted to see. He wanted to be frightened and horrified.
He accompanied the squire into the tower and up a flight of stairs.
The squire lifted him and he put his eye to the aperture. He was looking into a dark room, bare as far as he could see of all furniture except a straw pallet. Seated on this, her eyes on the window high in the wall, which was the only place where any light came through, was a woman. She was not old. She was pale and her eyes looked large and luminous. He could not help staring at her. There was a quality about her which even he in his youth must recognise.
He could not have described her. The only thought that came into his mind was: She is not like a witch. She looks good.
Then he saw that there was another table in this room, which he had not seen at first. Seated at it were three men whose appearance was so rough and cruel that they made an outstanding contrast to the girl seated on the bed.
As he looked there he felt suddenly a wretchedness which he could not understand. He signed to the squire to lift him down.
He wanted to burst into tears.
He said nothing as he was taken back to his own apartments, but he could not forget the sight of her. She haunted his dreams as she had before, but differently. Previously he had thought of an evil witch breaking into his apartments and putting some fearful spell on him. Now he thought of her quiet and sad … staring up at the light as though she were talking to God.
There must be good witches as well as bad ones, he thought and he was convinced that she was a good one.
There came a day when the excitement in the town of Rouen had reached fever point. It was impossible to shut it out of the royal apartments. They were whispering together – from the highest to the lowest. Everybody wanted to be out in the streets on that day.
‘It is the day when they will burn Joan of Arc at the stake,’ he was told. ‘You are not to go out to see it.’
He did not want to. He clenched his hands together. He did not want to see her burn.
But the tension had permeated the castle. One might not be there to see … but one could feel.
The English were burning her. His uncle Bedford had said that was what must be done because she was a witch. She brought great harm to the English and had changed the course of the war. There would be no hope for England if she were allowed to live and lead French armies.
He could smell the acrid odour of burning wood and the oil they poured on it to make it burn the faster. And she was in the centre of it. The girl he had seen through the aperture in the wall.
He wondered if he would ever be able to forget her.
Uncle Bedford was brisk and obviously relieved. So was the Bishop of Winchester. Now they could go ahead with the coronation.
But it seemed that was not easy. It was all due to the fact that traditionally Kings of France should be crowned at Rheims and because of Joan of Arc the French were now in possession of that town and they believed that the true King was the French one who had already been crowned, once more due to Joan of Arc.
His uncle Bedford came to him one day and told him that shortly he would be leaving for Paris. He was going to be crowned there. It was a great pity that it had to be Paris but they could not wait until they had recaptured Rheims so he was to be crowned there and return to England for the people there would not want him to stay away too long.
He was glad that his aunt Bedford was there too. He liked her; she reminded him of his mother. She was kind and seemed the only one to understand what an ordeal a coronation could be to a boy of nine. That was it; she thought of him as a boy while these important men thought of him as the King. He was able to tell her that he had looked through the aperture at Joan of Arc.
‘They should never have taken you to see her,’ said the Duchess.
‘But I was glad they did. I wasn’t frightened after that. I used to dream that she came into my room at night and she was old and ugly and cast wicked spells on me. Then I saw her and I didn’t dream after that … except to be very sad because they were going to burn her.’
‘Hush,’ said the Duchess. ‘You should not speak of her to your uncle or to any.’
‘People do speak of her,’ he said. ‘I heard someone say she was a saint.’
‘No … no … no. That is treason.’
‘Treason,’ said Henry solemnly, ‘is to speak and act against the King and the country. I am the King, so I can’t speak treason against myself, can I?’
‘Oh,’ laughed the Duchess, patting his hand, ‘you are going to be a clever one, I can see. Listen. It would be better now if you did not disturb yourself with these matters.’
But try as he might he could not forget Joan of Arc, even when they rode to Paris, that wonderful city of towers and turrets which enchanted him. He wished that he was going there to stay with his mother as they used to at Windsor and there were just the two of them with Alice and Joan and of course Owen Tudor. Then there had not been the anxieties of what he would have to do and whether he would perform it to the satisfaction of these solemn old men.
The people had hung out flags and banners for him, and they cheered him as he entered by the Porte Saint Dennis, but they were the English conquerors of course. The French remained silent and sullen. He felt that he wanted to say to them: It is not my fault that I am here. I am the King but I still have to do what I am told.
He was to be lodged at Vincennes until the coronation, which, said his uncle Bedford, should not be delayed. The situation had been uneasy since the coming of Joan of Arc and now she was dead her influence remained. She was a martyr now and Henry had heard it said that martyrs were as much to be feared as the greatest generals.
Two days before the coronation he was taken to the Hôtel de St Pol to visit his grandmother.
It was an alarming experience. Isabeau, ravaged by the violent life she had led, was still beautiful but her grandson was repelled by her. She put down a hand which he thought was like a claw and drew him to her. He stared at her with solemn eyes. Her face was painted and she looked like some powerful goddess who would have the power to turn him into stone if he displeased her.
‘So, grandson,’ she said to him, ‘you are to be crowned King of France. That is well … that is well.’
‘I am not sure that the people of France think so,’ he answered.
She laughed. ‘You are a clever boy, I see that. Stay clever, little one. There are two things which will bring you what you want … beauty and cleverness. Once I had them both.’
He did not know what to reply so he looked at her steadily thinking she was magnificent although somewhat grotesque.
‘Tell me of your mother.’
‘She is well,’ answered Henry.
‘They have taken you from her care.’
Henry agreed that this was so.
‘Tell me, grandson, did you know the Tudor squire?’