by Anne O'Brien
‘Shall I pour you more wine, Katherine?’ Henry asked.
I dared not look at him—or at anyone. ‘Thank you, sir.’
I had no intention of drinking it. That way would be madness, drinking to oblivion, to hide the speculative attention, but it was easier to agree than refuse. I had learned that people were far happier when I agreed.
He looked at me quizzically. ‘Are you content?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ I even smiled, a curve of my lips that I hoped would fool everyone.
‘This interminable feast will soon be over.’
‘Yes, my lord. I expect it will.’
‘You will become used to such occasions.’
‘Yes.’
I opened my mouth to say something more flattering, but he had turned away—and I caught my mother’s eye again. Like that of a snake: flatly cold and lethally vicious. Her earlier instructions rushed over me in a black wave, delivered in her curt, clear voice as if she were sitting at my side, even drowning out the female gossips.
Don’t speak unless you have something to say, or are spoken to.
Smile, but don’t laugh loudly. Don’t show your teeth.
Eat and drink delicately, and not too much. A man does not wish to see a woman scooping up every scrap and crumb on her plate, or licking her fingers.
I would not, even though my starving childhood had given me a respect for the food on my plate.
Modesty is a virtue. Don’t express strong opinions or argue. Men don’t like a woman to argue with them.
Don’t be critical of the English.
Don’t flirt or ogle the minstrels.
I did not know how to flirt.
If this marriage does not come to fruition because he takes a dislike to you, I’ll send you back to Poissy. You can take the veil under the rule of your sister. I will wash my hands of you.
‘I suppose she is still a virgin. Can she possibly still be a virgin—from that debauched French court?’ The brunette’s whisper reached me like an arrow to my heart.
Pray God this feast came to an end soon.
Henry bowed me from the dais with gratifying chivalry, kissing my fingers, and handed me back into the care of my mother for the final time. Wrapped around in my own anxieties, I noted that the trio of English women rose too: they were indeed to be part of my new household.
And so I was escorted ceremonially to my bedchamber, with much waspish chivvying at how any lack of experience would soon be put to rights, but my mother silenced any more silliness when she promptly closed the door, without any word of apology, on their startled faces. Outside the door they twittered their displeasure. Inside I flinched at the prospect of another homily. I could not escape it, so must withstand whatever advice she saw fit to administer. Soon I would be my own woman. Soon I would be Henry’s wife in more than name and God’s blessing. Soon I would be beyond my mother’s control and Henry would not be unkind to me.
As an unexpected little flicker of expectancy in my future at Henry’s side nudged at my heart, I stood while the gold and ermine was removed, my shoes and my stockings stripped off, until I was clad in nothing but my linen shift. And then I sat as instructed so that Guille, my personal serving woman, could unpin and comb my hair into virginal purity. Isabeau stood before me, hands folded.
‘You know what to expect.’
Did I? I was lamentably lacking in knowledge of that nature. My mother had resembled a clam, Michelle shyly reticent of her experiences with Philip, and I had had no loving nurse to ensure that I knew what to expect. I had quailed at asking Guille for such intimate details.
‘Or did the black crows at Poissy keep you in ignorance of what occurs between a man and a woman?’
Well, of course they had. The black crows considered anything pertaining to their bodies beneath their black robes to be a sin. My knowledge was of a very general nature, gleaned from how animals might comport themselves. I would not admit it to my mother. She would think it my fault.
‘I know what happens,’ I said baldly.
‘Excellent!’ She was clearly delighted that the burden of instruction would not fall on her as she moved to the cups and flagon set out on the coffer, poured the deep red liquid and held one of the cups out to me. ‘Drink this. It will strengthen your resolve. Rumour says that he is experienced, as he would be at his age, of course. He was a wild youth with strong appetites—he led a notorious life of lust and debauchery, so one hears, until he abandoned his dissolute companions.’
‘Oh.’ Obediently I took a sip, then handed the cup to Guille. I did not want it.
‘You will not be unwilling or foolishly naïve, Katherine.’
Would he dislike me if I made my ignorance obvious? That tender new shoot of optimism withered and died.
‘What must I not do that is naïve, Madame?’ I forced myself to ask.
‘You will not flinch from him. You will not be unmaidenly. You will not show unseemly appetites.’
Unmaidenly? Unseemly appetites? I was no wiser. Flinching from him seemed to be something I would very readily do. Will he hurt me? I wanted to ask, but rejected so naïve a question. I imagined she would say yes because it would please her.
‘Don’t sit there like a lump of carved stone! Do you understand me, Katherine?’
‘Yes.’
‘That is good. All he wants from you is a son—more than one for the security of the succession. If you prove fertile, if you breed easily, and there’s no reason that you shouldn’t since I did, then he’ll be quick to leave you alone.’ She frowned, deciding to say more.
‘They say that since his father’s death and gaining the English Crown, he has been abstemious. He is not driven by the demands of the body. He’ll not expect you to act the whore. Unless his years of chastity have fired his passions, of course.’ She frowned down at her hands, clasped before her. ‘It may be so. One never knows with men.’
My inner terrors leapt to a new level. How could I possibly play the whore? And if even my mother was uncertain…‘What does one not know about men?’ I managed.
‘Whether they have the appetite of the beast between the sheets.’
I swallowed. ‘Is it always…unpleasant?
‘In my experience, yes.’
‘Oh…Did Gaston have the appetite of a beast?’ I asked, remembering a particular flamboyant young courtier ensconced in the Hôtel de St Pol before I engaged my mind, and instantly regretted it. ‘Pardon, Madame.’
‘Impertinence does not become you, Katherine,’ Isabeau remarked. ‘All I will say is thank God the King’s madness has drained him of his urges. And one more thing—if Henry brings his associates with him to the bedchamber, don’t cower in the bed. You are a Valois princess. We will tie this proud King to this treaty. Now remove your shift and get into bed.’
She rounded on Guille, who still stood at my side, as motionless as a rabbit caught in the eye of a hunting stoat, comb in hand. ‘You will strip the bed tomorrow and parcel up the linens. If any one of these proud English should question my daughter’s virginity or her fitness to be the English queen, we will have the proof of it in the bloodstains.’
I closed my eyes. It would hurt.
‘Yes, Majesty.’ Abandoning the comb, Guille folded down the linen, taking a small leather purse from her bosom. Opening the strings, she began to sprinkle the pristine surface with herbs that immediately filled the stuffy room with sharp fragrance.
‘What is that?’ Isabeau demanded.
‘To ensure conception, Majesty.’
Isabeau sneered. ‘That will not be necessary. My daughter will do her duty. She will carry a son for England and France within the year.’
I dared do no other. Stripped of my shift, I slid beneath the covers, pulling them up to my chin, and waited for the sound of approaching footsteps with thoroughly implanted terror, my newborn confidence effectively slain.
The door opened. I held my breath and closed my eyes—how impossible was it to honour the King of Engla
nd when lying naked in a bed—until I realised what was missing. The raucous crack of laughter and jokes and crude roistering of the drunken male guests—there was none of it.
Henry had brought no one with him but the bishop, who proceeded to pace round my bed to sprinkle holy water on both me and the linens that would witness our holy union, and a page, who placed a gold flagon with matching intricately chased cups on the coffer, before quietly departing. When the bishop launched into a wordy prayer for our health and longevity, I glanced through my lashes at Henry, still clad from head to toe in his wedding finery, arms at his sides, head bent, concentrating on the blessing. The candle flames were reflected a thousand times in the jewels that adorned his chest and hands, shimmering as he breathed steadily.
I wished I were as calm. The bishop came to the end.
‘Amen,’ Henry announced, and glanced briefly at me.
‘Amen,’ I repeated.
Smiling with unruffled serenity, the bishop continued, raising his hand to make the sign of the cross, demanding God’s ultimate gift to us in the form of a son. He was in full flow, but I saw the corners of Henry’s mouth tighten. He looked up.
‘Enough.’
It was said gently enough, but the holy words came to a ragged halt, mid-petition. Henry’s orders, clearly, were obeyed without question.
‘You may go,’ Henry announced. ‘You can be assured that this hard-won union will be blessed. It is assuredly God’s will to bring peace and prosperity to both our countries.’ He strode to the door and ushered bishop, Queen and Guille out with a respectful bow.
And I was alone with him at last.
I watched him as he moved restlessly about the room. He twitched a bed curtain into position, repositioned the cups and flagon on the coffer, cast a log onto the dying embers. When I expected him to approach the bed, he sank to kneel before the prie-dieu, hands loosely clasped, head once more bent, which gave me the opportunity to study him. What did I know about this man that was more than the opinions of others, principally Isabeau? Very little, I decided. Mentally I listed them, dismayed that they made so unimpressive a comment on my new husband as a man.
He was solemn. He did not smile very much, but became animated when discussing war and fighting. He had been kind to me. His manners were exceptional. God’s guidance meant much to him, as did the power of outward show. Had he not insisted on wedding me with all the ritual of French marriage rites? He was never effusive or beyond self-control. He did not look like a man who was a beast in bed. His portrait was very accurate. Perhaps he was even more handsome: when animated he was breathtakingly good to look at.
Was that all I could say, from my personal knowledge?
Henry.
I tried the name in my mind. His brother had called him Hal. Would I dare do that? I thought not. I thought that I would like to, but I had not yet dared to call him more than my lord.
Henry made the sign of the cross on his breast, and looked sharply round as if aware that he was under scrutiny, and I found myself blushing again as I lowered my eyes, foolishly embarrassed to be so caught out. Pushing himself to his considerable height, he walked slowly across the room. And then, when he was sitting on the edge of the bed, he allowed his gaze to run over me. I jumped when he put his hand on mine.
‘You’re trembling again.’
To my relief he addressed me in French.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
What woman would not tremble on her wedding night? Did he not understand? But he did not seem to me to be insensitive. I sought for a suitable reply that would not make me seem inadequate.
‘My mother said you would bring your companions with you,’ I said. ‘She warned me that…well, she warned me.’
‘Did she now? I didn’t bring them, so you may be at ease.’ Still, his expression was unsettlingly grave. ‘I did not think you would wish me to do that.’
‘That is very kind.’ I had not expected such consideration.
‘No. Not kind. They were not necessary. I did not want them here.’
And I realised with a flutter of anxiety that it was not a matter of consideration for me so much as a pursuit of his own desires. On this occasion they had coincided, but it had not been to put me at my ease that had determined his choice.
‘You were very quiet at the feast,’ he observed.
‘My mother was watching me,’ I said, without thinking, then wished I hadn’t when his expressive brows climbed.
‘Does that matter?’
‘Yes. Well—that is, it did. Before I became married to you.’ I thought he must be mad to ask so obvious a question.
‘Why?’
Should I be honest? I decided that I would be so, since it no longer mattered. ‘Because she has a will of iron. She does not like to be thwarted.’ His regard was speculative, not judgemental, but I thought he did not understand what I was trying to explain. ‘She has a need to be obeyed.’ I gave up. ‘Perhaps your mother is more kindly,’ I added.
‘My mother is dead.’
‘Oh.’
‘I don’t remember her. But my father’s second wife was not unkind to me.’ A brief shadow of some fleeting emotion crossed his face. ‘She was kind when I was a boy.’
‘Is she still alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you see her?’
‘Not often now.’
‘But she was kind to you.’
‘I suppose she was.’
He was not effusive, and I thought there was a difficulty there. There was certainly no close connection with the lady.
‘So you will never understand about my mother,’ I said.
‘Perhaps not.’ He picked up my hand, and turned it over within his, smoothing his thumb over my palm. There was a little frown between his brows. ‘But the French Queen is not here now. She no longer has jurisdiction over you. You need tremble no more.’
It made me laugh, as it struck home that Isabeau was gone and what passed between us now was not her concern, and never would be again. I no longer trembled; indeed, I admitted to a heady sense of euphoria quite foreign to me. Freedom was a thing of beauty, unfurling like a rose.
‘The jurisdiction over you,’ Henry stated, ‘is now mine.’
My eyes leapt to his face. And I stopped laughing, uncomfortable under that direct stare, for he had not smiled. It had been no pleasantry. Would I find him a hard taskmaster?
‘My mother ordered all my days,’ I ventured.
‘And so shall I,’ Henry responded. ‘But it will be no hardship for you.’
Releasing my hand, he stood and walked away from me, leaving me not knowing what to say. I searched for something innocuous, since he offered no easy conversation. Perhaps Henry did not have easy conversation. I grasped at the obvious, too nervous to sit in silence.
‘Will we go to England soon?’
‘Yes. I want my heir to be born in England.’
He was looping a chain of rubies from round his neck to place, very precisely, on the top of a coffer, then sat to pull off his soft boots.
‘Tomorrow there is to be a tournament to honour our marriage,’ I remarked inconsequentially.
‘Yes.’ His reply was muffled as he pulled his tunic over his head.
I drew in a breath. ‘Will you fight?’
He looked up, lips parted as if to make some remark. Then shook his head and said: ‘I expect so.’
‘Will you fight for me?’
‘Of course. At any tournament you will be guest of honour.’
I thought it a strange choice of wording, but announced what, to my trivial female mind, mattered most at that moment. ‘I have nothing to wear to be guest of honour at a tournament.’
He concentrated on placing his sword and belt beside the glittering chain. ‘What about the gown you were wed in?’
A man’s response, I thought, but, then, he would not know. ‘I will not. It is borrowed—from my mother.’ I saw his scepticism, so tried for hard logic that
might sway him. ‘It is French. I am now Queen of England.’
Arrested, and for the first time, he laughed aloud. ‘Have you nothing else? Surely…’
‘The gown made for me when we first met was abandoned in Paris—when we feared your attack and fled.’
His brows drew into a frown, as if I had reminded him of unfinished business on the battlefield, then his expression cleared. ‘Clearly I owe you a gown. I’ll send to arrange it.’
‘Thank you.’ This was not so bad, and I ran my tongue over dry lips. ‘I would like a cup of wine.’ There were things I wanted to say. Wine might help to dissolve the weight in my chest and loose my tongue.
He tilted his chin, as if he rarely poured his own wine, or if he considered my request unwise, but proceeded to present me with one of the lovely chased goblets with a little bow.
‘Don’t throw this one on the floor.’
I expected him to smile, making of it an amusement, but he did not, merely returning to pour a second cup for himself. Perhaps it had been an instruction after all.
‘The English ladies do not like me,’ I announced, sipping the wine.
‘They do not know you.’
I took another sip. ‘They say my mother is a whore.’
‘Katherine,’ It was almost a sigh. Was he shocked? ‘It is not wise to repeat gossip.’
I sipped again, not at all satisfied. ‘I wish to choose my own damsels.’
‘Who would you choose?’ His brows all but disappeared into his hair again.
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted.
‘I have already chosen them—you have already met some of them at the banquet,’ Henry remarked matter-of-factly. ‘It will be better it they are English as you will reside in England. Lady Beatrice will guide you in your first steps.’
‘Will you not be with me?’
‘Not all the time.’
So I was condemned to the company of the unknown Lady Beatrice. I hoped she was not the opinionated brunette. I sipped again, the warmth dulling the ferment in my belly as Henry began, moving with an agile flex of muscles, to address the ties of his shirt.