The Forbidden Queen

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘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 England 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.

  ‘May I keep Guille?’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘My chambermaid.’

  ‘If you wish.’ He did not care.

  Henry continued to remove his garments until he stood in immaculately close-fitting hose. Nervously I concentrated on the hue of the wine in my cup and dredged up another irrelevant question.

  ‘What is your stepmother’s name?’

  ‘She is Joanna. From the house of Navarre.’

  ‘Will I meet her? Does she live at Court?’

  ‘No. She lives in seclusion. Her health is not good.’ He took a breath as he stood beside the bed, towering over me. ‘Katherine.’ It seemed that Henry did not wish to speak of Madam Joanna, and I thought he was growing impatient.

  ‘Has your mother, in her wisdom and undoubted experience, told you what to expect?’ My eyes snapped up to his face, all the comforting wine-induced warmth dissipating, seeing that his mouth was set in an uncompromising line of distaste, and not for the first time I wished that my mother had been more circumspect in her amorous dealings. My heart sank but I would not pretend what I did not know. Fear crept steadily back to engulf me, like a winter fog rolling across bleak and chilly water meadows.

  ‘No,’ I announced. I thought he sighed again. ‘She said you were so experienced that it would not matter that I had none and was raised in a convent.’ And I found within me a sudden desire to shake him out of his cold self-possession. I gulped a mouthful of wine. ‘She said that you had led a dissolute life.’ Nerves—and wine—made me indiscreet. Anything to prolong the time until he joined me in the bed. By now I was trembling uncontrollably.

  ‘She said you had spent a life of lust and debauchery—before you became king, that is, and abandoned your companions.’

  ‘You should not believe all you hear,’ he replied, and, although his response was even, I thought I had displeased him.

  ‘Did you?’ I asked.

  ‘Did I what?’

  ‘Abandon your companions.’ I had never had any companions to abandon.

  ‘Yes. It was necessary. They were not to my advantage.’

  I drank again, summoning all my false courage as my head swam a little with the warm fumes of the excellent Bordeaux. ‘Am I? Am I to your advantage?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘A royal virgin with a dowry of inestimable value.’

  His gaze moved steadily over my face. ‘I did not know that we were going to talk of politics.’

  ‘I know nothing else to talk about. I have run out of subjects.’

  ‘And drunk too much wine, I think.’ He took the cup from me, but his voice was gentle.

  ‘I don’t feel drunk,’ I said consideringly. ‘Do I need to talk of anything else?’

  ‘You don’t need to talk at all.’ And he pinched out the candles.

  I valued the darkness. It was, at the moment when I became Henry’s wife in the flesh, an experience that I was not at all sure I wished to repeat. The best I could say was that it was brief.

  What did I recall of it?

  Pain, of course: the physical invasion; the weight of his body on mine so that I felt crushed to the bed. But was that not the lot of all virgins? But then there was the uncomfortable unpleasantness of it all that made me squirm. My mother would have her stained sheets, and I supposed I would, with time and frequency, become used to it. And I remembered the overwhelmingness of it: the heat; the slide of his hands, roughly calloused, when he made himself master of me. There was the power of his hard-muscled, soldier’s body that allowed me no time to catch my breath.

  And there was the strange silence, apart from Henry’s heightened breathing as he took his pleasure. Henry spoke not one word to me during the whole event. I recalled no pleasure, on his part or mine. It was, I decided, all very prosaic and unembellished.

  Well, what did you expect? my mind queried fretfully as Henry withdrew, removed his weight and sank his face in the pillow beside me. I had expected some romance, in the manner of the troubadours, some soft words, even if untrue, to engage my emotions. Some caresses, heated kisses, tender encouragement, not a silent assault delivered with cool skill, driving towards a desired outcome. I would at least have liked him to call me by my name. I did not think that too much to ask.

  Perhaps that was how Englishmen made love. Perhaps it w
ould all become more acceptable. Perhaps I might even come to enjoy it. I could not imagine such an eventuality but, then, my experience was lamentable and I would learn from Henry’s smoothly practised skills. He deserved a wife who could learn and become what he desired.

  If I expected some intimate exchange of words after the deed—which I did—I was entirely misled. Henry climbed from the bed, delved into a coffer—one of his own that had been brought to the room—after relighting one of the candles and shrugged into a loose chamber robe that fell magnificently in heavy folds of sable fur and crimson damask to the floor. Fastening a belt that sparkled with rubies and agates, he ran his fingers through his hair to make some semblance of order and returned to look down at me where I clutched the linen to my chin.

  ‘Sleep well.’ Smoothing my hair, he leaned to press a light kiss on my forehead—the only kiss during the whole of the proceedings. ‘Tomorrow you will need all your resources. It will be a long day.’

  Was that it? Was he leaving me without a word? I needed at least to know if he had found me a satisfactory wife. I could not let him go without knowing.

  ‘Henry.’ I tried his name in my mouth for the first time. ‘Was I, was I…?’ But I did not know how to ask.

  ‘You were exactly what I had hoped for, my gentle wife,’ he replied, and kissed my hair at my temple, his lips warm, infinitely tender, so that my heart beat long and slow.

  The door closed behind him, leaving me miserably bereft, for in my innocence I had not expected to spend this night alone. Perhaps I had not pleased him after all, and he was merely being polite in his cool manner. Or perhaps I had satisfied him and he simply did not show it. What would make him show the passion I had seen when he had discoursed on the effective laying of sieges or moving troops into position to attack? I thought I knew. Only if I fell for a child would he rejoice.

  I prayed that I would, and quickly.

  There was a tentative knock on the door and in came Guille, who must have been watching for just this eventuality. She came slowly towards the bed, curtsied, and we looked at each other. Much of an age with me, short and neat with a managing disposition that I lacked, Guille was the nearest to a friend that I had. I felt that her experience of life was also so much greater than mine.