“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.

“They were so confident, your poor deluded Frenchmen. They had the numbers. There they were in their shining armor…elegant to look at but oh so heavy to wear. They spent the night before drinking, dicing, betting on how long we should last against them. A soldier should have confidence…but the right sort of confidence…which is not the foolhardy sort. There must be no vanity in that confidence. The French did not have the right kind. We spent the night in preparation. I had my scouts all over the ground. I knew where it was marshy due to the excessive rains. I knew where I wanted my men and I knew where I wanted theirs. I made sure the French were huddled together without enough space to move freely. I had them on the sodden ground. I knew that, however pretty their ornate armor was, it was too heavy for easy maneuver. And there we were, with the whole width of the field to move in, with the archers on our wings and the woods to protect our flanks. I wore a crown in my helmet so that all should know I was there among them. And at the end of the day the French had lost 10,000 men and the English…some say fourteen, but I’ll confess it might have been a little more…perhaps a hundred or two. Small, though, against 10,000. I did not know the name of the place and asked it of a peasant who said: ‘It is Agincourt, my lord.’ And I replied, ‘Henceforth this shall be known as the Battle of Agincourt.’”

That was Henry’s version, and I think it must have been an accurate one for he was not a man to hide the truth.

In any case, no one could fail to admit that that was a sad day in France’s history.

There was despondency throughout the Court. There was scarcely a family in the land which was not plunged into mourning. The Duke of Burgundy had lost his two brothers—the Duke of Brabant and the Count of Nevers. I heard he cursed himself because he had not been present. He had given orders that his son—who was the husband of my sister Michelle—should not be allowed to go, and although the young man had attempted to disobey his father’s orders, he had been restrained by the Duke’s men.

It was a day of shame for France, and that meant England’s glory.

The Duke of Burgundy, in a moment of despair, sent a message to Henry with his gauntlet challenging him to single combat. He wanted to avenge his brothers, he said.

By this time I was beginning to realize that Henry was not the man I had first thought him to be. Isabelle’s account had been of that rash youth, that frequenter of taverns. This was a different man, a man of great wisdom…a king and a conqueror.