by Anne O'Brien
A whisper hissed, an unmistakable undercurrent, breaking once again into my thoughts. ‘She’ll not keep our Henry’s interest. Look at him! He’s already talking warfare and he hasn’t yet got her into bed!’
‘Not exactly smitten, is he?’
I tried not to be wounded by the gurgle of laughter.
‘He’ll want a woman with red blood in her veins, not milk and water. Someone lively and seductive. She looks like a prinked and painted doll.’
Lively? Seductive?
Of course I was not lively! Did they expect me to run amok? As for seductive—if that meant to use my female arts to attract a man, I did not know how to, and dared not try. What did these women expect of me when every possible rule for my good behaviour had been drilled into me by my mother after the failure of that first attempt to make a marriage at Melun? Nothing must jeopardise this negotiation at Troyes. Nothing! My conversation and my deportment must be perfect. I had been so buried under instruction that I had become rigid with fear of Isabeau’s revenge if Henry should reject me.
But of course these haughty English women did not know. How would they? And neither did Henry—for I would never admit it to him. I could not bear to see the condemnation in his face that I should be so weak and malleable.
I could feel my mother’s eye on me even as she sat along the table and conversed with someone I could not see. Dry-mouthed, I lifted the cup to my lips, but it was empty except for the dregs. I replaced it, awkward with nerves under her stare, so that the gold-stemmed goblet fell on its side and rolled a little, the remnants of the wine staining the white cloth, before it fell to the floor with a thud of metal against wood.
I held my breath at my lack of grace, praying that no one had noticed. A hopeless prayer: it seemed that every guest in the room had noticed that the new French wife was so gauche that she must drop her jewelled cup on the floor in the middle of her wedding feast.
Isabeau frowned. Bedford looked away. Michelle raised her brows. Gloucester inhaled sharply. An almost inaudible ripple of laughter from the ladies informed me that they had noted my lapse of good manners and added it to my list of faults. I clasped my hands tightly in my lap, not even attempting to rescue the vessel. If only the floor beneath my feet would open up and swallow me and the cup from view.
And then my heart sank, for Henry forsook his planning. Stretching down, without expression, he picked up the gleaming object, tossed it and caught it in one hand and placed it before me once more. And that drew everyone’s attention, even if they had missed my inelegance in the first place.
‘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 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.
The Forbidden Queen by Anne O’Brien is available for pre-order now
Also available in eBook from Anne O’Brien
Virgin Widow
Devil’s Consort
Puritan Bride
&nbs
p; The King’s Concubine
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited, used under licence.
Published in Great Britain 2011
MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,
Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR
© Anne O’Brien 2011
ISBN 978-1-4089-3583-5