The king looked as severe as his queen looked lovely. He wore a doublet of dark brown velvet, the sleeves slashed with crimson, and the heavy gold chain of the Order of the Garter draped about his shoulders. The crown was a heavy weight on his erect and proud head, and he stood to the side as the archbishop droned a prayer.
A choir was intoning hymns, and the Archbishop of Canterbury in his high gold miter had Catherine recite the traditional oath as he solemnly celebrated the High Mass aided by Bishop Beaufort and a Papal legate, and she knelt when he offered her the Holy Eucharist.
James leaned forward to see past Henry Percy. The archbishop placed the heavy crown onto the queen’s golden curls. A hot flash of anger went through James. This girl was offered what he was denied—wrongly denied. He tamped it down hard. He had better things to think of just now.
King Henry stepped to stand beside his queen. “I present you my wife, Catherine, Queen of England,” he said in a resounding voice.
When Catherine curtsied to him, almost to the ground, he lifted her hand to kiss, and light shining through the stained glass cast jeweled patterns around them, rebounded off gleaming brass and lit motes of dust that swayed in the air like heaven’s own angels.
Thanks be to the Blessed Virgin. Now let us go to the feast, and I shall somehow seek Lady Joan out. The feast was to be huge. The king had made the strange pronouncement that James would be seated next to the queen, but that would not prevent him from escaping for the hunt. His prey was too sweet to miss such a chance, though he feared the prey was he, and he was already captured.
The king’s brothers, Thomas of Clarence and John of Bedford, led the procession from the Abbey in shining armor and scarlet cloaks. Then came the king and queen, her long cloak still carried by her ladies-in-waiting, followed by Humphrey Stafford, the Lord High Constable of England, the Duke of Exeter, and then the numerous Beaufort uncles and cousins.
As James reached the high arched doors of the abbey, the noise of cheering was thunderous. He stepped out into the icy February air, and Henry Percy said, “I thought it would never end.”
“Impressive, I suppose,” James replied, rubbing his growling stomach. “The main lack was food and drink. It has been a deal of time since last night’s supper.”
Percy grinned. “You always did like a good meal, James.”
As they made the long, slow trek to Windsor Castle, they rode through narrow streets lined with commons shouting Catherine’s name. She brought their king home, so she was their darling. Percy said something to him, but the words were lost in the tumult. When James shouted to ask what he’d said, Percy gave a helpless shrug, so they passed the rest of the trip in silence whilst their ears rang with the uproar.
When the long train clattered into the bailey yard of the castle, James jumped from the saddle and tossed his reins to one of the dozens of stable boys scrambling to lead away the horses. He heard Catherine laughing as King Henry swept her from her saddle, and a wave of jealousy crept through him. He did not want the queen, but Henry had everything that he did not. So he must make do—for now—with what he could reach for himself. He looked around, but he didn’t see Lady Joan in the crowd, so scowling, he went to join the crush making their way through the doors into the great hall.
Pages in royal livery were delivering guests to their places at the long tables as the heralds called out their names and ranks. One solemnly escorted James to his place on the dais next to the seats of honor. There were some wondering looks, but he received courteous bows and friendly enough smiles from the lords he had fought with in France.
“It is pleasant to be out of our armor for a while,” Richard Beauchamp said when he stopped on his way to his place, though his black doublet and hose might still have been armor, they were so severe. “I believe our cavalcade leaves for Nottingham tomorrow, and even that will be better than sitting in the mud in a siege.” Lord Richard gave a gruff smile. “Though they were your first sieges, so mayhap you didn’t mind.”
“I grew tired enough of armor, my lord,” James said, “but I—I should say that I learned a great deal. More than I ever thought possible.”
“War is like that, even sieges.” The knight nodded sagely. “Now excuse me, it is time that I was in my place.”
Above in the gallery, musicians with harps and lutes and trumpets and sacbuts and flutes and drums were already playing. But they ceased when the heralds announced the king and queen. Catherine had, sensibly, changed from her coronation robes into a gown of blue samite cut low to reveal the tops of her breasts and a pointed headdress with wispy veils that flowed down her back. James smiled at the English putting their heads together to whisper over the new styles of her French attire.
Trumpets blared whilst the pair strolled to the seats of honor, smiling and greeting their guests as they went. When they reached their places, Catherine gave James her hands to kiss as he bowed low over them and then kissed him on each cheek. The king was greeting his brothers, only two of them, since Thomas of Clarence was still in France leading the English army. The king’s brothers pounded James on the back, and even Bishop Beaumont’s smile was less oily than usual. Philip of Bourgogne greeted him the French way with a kiss on each cheek. James spotted Charles d’Orleans at a far end of the table, being ignored and looking down his nose at the Burgundian. James nodded to his old friend from the Tower, and Charles gave him a wry smile. No doubt the planning was to keep those two enemies well away from each other.
The Archbishop of Canterbury made the usual prayers, and the king toasted his new queen. Once they had all drunk and cheered, the feast truly began. James sipped at his wine, more interested in finding Joan amongst the crowd. And there was Joan, sitting at the far end of the table on the right. She leaned forward to speak to a nobleman James did not recognize. Her beauty had only increased in the year that James had been in France, as had her delight in the merriment around her. James watched as she laughed at some quip that the man made. She gave her same enigmatic smile when he offered her a drink from his cup, and a flame of jealousy coiled through James.
More courses were served, and James ate them but couldn’t have said what they were. Then Joan turned and looked at him, her gaze level. She cocked her head like a beautiful little bird examining who knew what? But her eyes were on him, and her smile was the same: small and mysterious.
Dishes and entertainments came in a dizzying profusion. Masked mummers tumbled and danced in circles. The king’s jester chased a squealing piglet around the room, beating it with an air-filled bladder and calling it the Dauphin Charles. The dozens of musicians in the gallery played familiar airs. But none of it held James like Joan’s smile. She would look away, but then her eyes would turn to him again. He couldn’t help his wide smile when her companion at the table had to speak to her before she took a sliver of swan from his knife.
A new line to the poem he had written to her so long ago came into his mind, full blown:
But a’ the world to witness this we call,
That strewn it has so plainly over all
With new, fresh, sweet, and tender green,
Our life, our desire, our ruler and queen.
At last, the king commanded the lower tables removed for dancing. Shouts of delight went up, and servants scurried, carrying the trestle tables away as the guests gathered in clumps along the walls, chattering and laughing. With nods and smiles, James eased himself through the crowd, Joan’s golden head visible even in the press. The musicians in the gallery struck up a lively air, and King Henry took the queen in his arms, whirling her until she threw back her head, laughing, and cried that she was dizzy.
But James had reached Joan. She blushed when he took her hand and bent over it, but he turned it and kissed the inside of her wrist.
“My lord,” she said so softly he could barely hear her over the din.
He straightened but kept her hand as he looked around. “Can you escape, my lady?” He nodded toward a side door behind the dais. �
��Would you escape? For a moment?”
She checked her sleeve and gave him a wide-eyed look. “My chamber is in that direction on the floor above, and I fear I forgot my handkerchief should I embarrass myself with a sneeze.” Her mouth curved in a smile that made his heart stutter. She curtsied low and then started for the door but stopped long enough to whisper a word to her mother.
James turned to a lanky knight and said that the queen looked very fine, and the king seemed fond. The man grunted and replied that what mattered was that she provide an heir. James shrugged and agreed that was important for a queen. By that time, James felt it was safe to follow Joan, hoping no one remembered his chamber was in the Round Tower. He slid through the shuffling crowd as more merrymakers made their way to the floor to join the raucous rounds of dance.
He opened the narrow door and slipped into the torchlit passage. The noise from the great hall faded as he proceeded past closed doors interspersed with niches, where statues stood. Up he went on the winding stair and emerged to walk slowly through the hall. He heard only his own footfalls in the silence until he reached the next stairway and a soft whisper of “My Lord” came out of the murk. “You came.”
He laughed a little, feeling drunk. “Certes, I came, my lady. I would follow you… anywhere.”
She gave him one of her secretive smiles and said, “Why? You know me not at all.”
He took her hand and kissed the palm. Then he told her the story of a lonely young prisoner in a high tower and the day he fell in love with a beautiful goddess who saved him from desiring death.
She breathed out, “Oh.”
He was stroking her wrist and could feel the pulse pound. He leaned over and kissed her mouth, tasting honey and berries in her breath, feeling the tremble of her body. Her lips moved under his, a proclamation, a promise. She pulled back and smiled into his eyes. Then laughing, she turned and hurried up the steps and around the bend in the stairway. James smiled as he walked down the hall to the great hall, wondering what Henry would do if he found out that he was courting his cousin. Shaking his head, he decided he didn’t care.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
March 1421
The van of their cavalcade had dismounted and set up pavilions by the time James reached the clearing. The party stretched for a mile, a hundred knights, two hundred men-at-arms and mounted archers. That did not count the king’s own party and the captured nobles with their households, who followed like a prize to be shown. Henry and his queen rode surrounded by men-at-arms with King Henry’s brothers by his side. Behind them, Joan cast James occasional glances from her mother’s side. At the rear of the cavalcade lumbered a dozen wagons piled with chests of clothing and bedding for their stays in the cities where the king intended to display his French queen.
James had been kept near the royal party throughout, along with Philip de Bourgogne. Well to the rear of them rode Charles d'Orléans. The glares of either of the Frenchmen when one caught sight of the other would have scorched the hide from a boar. The hundreds of riders were still dismounting when James walked toward his own modest tent.
A hand landed on his arm, and he turned as Charles smiled. “Is it going well, old friend?” the duke asked. He was clad in a leather doublet for travel and a fur cloak, his face, as always, clean shaven, but there was a sprinkling of white amongst his dark hair that had not been there when James left for France. “Muscled and dark from the sun. From the look of you, you spend much time fighting and little with your poetry.”
“I’ve spent little time with the pen; I confess it.” James tilted his head toward the flap of his tent. “Come within so we can talk.”
Iain had lit a brazier to take the chill from the air, and he turned to take their cloaks. He poured out a measure of wine to heat, stirring in a dollop of honey and a sprinkle of cinnamon.
James tilted his head and looked at his old crony from the Tower. “They are treating you well?”
Charles shrugged. “Well enough, since they will never free me as long as King Henry lives. It is boring, as you know well, but gives me time to write I would have never had, so not all a loss. Hearing what is happening in France, though, that is hard.”
“Is that hypocras heated?” James asked.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Iain served the steaming drink in their plain cups, and Charles pulled off his leather gloves to take one.
He sat on a camp stool. “You have been with your lord long. He is fortunate in his servants.”
“It is my duty.”
“Iain followed me faithfully into battle. I am indeed fortunate in those who serve me. They sacrifice much.”
James took a deep swallow of his drink and felt the warmth as it spread from his belly. Traveling in the winter, even in soft England, was no pleasure. “You were speaking of the news from France. I wonder if you heard how ill it truly is?”
“I heard that Paris fell to him like a ripe peach, ripe for the eating.”
“I’m afeart I thought a harsher term, but you’re right. Melun was another case entirely. Sire de Barbazan used every wile he knew, many I had never heard of, to hold the city. If Dauphin Charles had relieved it—”
Charles shook his head. “The Dauphin was once as brave as any man I knew. His device of a mailed fist was one he earned. And now look at him: a craven who huddles in fear of his enemies!” Charles drew his mouth into a thin line. “And Henry… Is he a ravening dog to throw into a cage a brave and honored knight such as Sire de Barbazan?”
“That was the least of it, Charles.”
“And yet you fight for him.”
“With him. There are worse men in the world from whom to learn warfare, my friend, and if I one day must fight against him, you may be sure I’ll use the lessons he taught me. Some of his lessons, I swear, if I have the chance to cause it, he will rue. He is a harsh tutor, I tell you. It is a strange thing to fight beside a man and hope that he fails.”
“If there is any comfort to be had, it is that Orleans will not fall like a peach into his hands, however craven the Dauphin has become.” Philip put his wine cup down. “You saw his father, the king. Mayhap we should not be surprised that his son cannot hold the realm. And to be called a bastard by his own father!”
“Is it true? The stories that some tell of Queen Isabeau did not seem to match the woman I met.”
“Lies by people who hate her. She rules in the king’s stead. Or did, which angered many. Though her decisions have made me hate her as well. She turned against her own son and the rightful heir.” Charles ground his teeth. “If I were there, it would not be so.”
“The Earl of Buchan is there, and the Earl of Wigtoun. They are not men who will take defeat lightly or be easy to defeat. Though many Scots died at Agincourt, and Henry hanged every one who surrendered at Melun.” James snorted. “If he thought that would change their minds about standing with the Dauphin, he does not know my people. We can be a thrawn people, and threats only make us more so. It only made sure that they stayed.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Aye. As do I.” James twitched a smile. There was a time not so very long ago when he would not have understood much of what he had learned. Now he almost wished that he didn’t. Innocence seemed sweet. “Moreover, he is in need of money and men. Keeping an army so long in the field is expensive, it seems. And even when you win, you lose men. The bloody flux may have cost him as many as the siege, and the siege cost enough. We left hundreds, perhaps thousands in graves—which is the reason for this mummers’ show.”
“True,” his old comrade in imprisonment said. “I have no doubt that he needs both men and gold. But the English love him. I think he will be given what he needs.”
James grunted. He couldn’t argue that Charles was wrong.
“And his queen. They will love her as long as she gives him a son.”
James twirled the dregs of his drink in the cup. “This lingering to raise money and men puts him in her bed, so at last there is a chance he
will give her that son. Whilst in France, he barely went near her. Whether that bodes good or ill for the two of us, I do not ken.”
James talked with his old crony for an hour before the Duc d’Orleans took his leave. When he was gone, James donned his heavy fur cloak and went to walk in the dark and breathe in the sweet scent of pines.
He loved being away from castles. They made him think of being locked up, unable to win free. They would never be dear. Few things were as fine as breathing the open air, but the men looked much less happy. They huddled around cook fires, grumbling about the cold. A man-at-arms trudged a path around the picket line, his hands tucked under his arms. The nobles were in their tents with braziers burning, and if they weren’t warm, they were at least less miserable. In the trees, an owl hooted, and the gusting wind made the branches creak and whisper.
When James circled back to his own tent, he found Sir John Water talking to a guard.
“I cannot rest,” James told him. He picked up his shield that was propped against his tent. “Come work out your sword wi’ me.”
“We’ve never faced each other,” Sir John said with a wary look, but he lid his arm through the loops of his own shield and followed when James turned. A sentry challenged James as they walked from the camp. Sir John gave him a gruff reprimand. They walked along the rutted road until they found a level spot.
“You’re good with a blade,” Sir John said as he drew his sword, “but I have years in the business of fighting behind me.”
James used his sword to salute, and Sir John moved in to attack, swinging for James’s belly. James caught the stroke on his shield and answered with a counter-stroke that Sir John caught. James broke off with a step back. They were still feeling each other out, and he smiled. He took the lead this time with a downward strike. Sir John met it and they traded blows, steel ringing on steel. Each blow was blocked and slid into a new attack, swords slashing from side to side, flickering in the moonlight. Then in a move so fast, James did not see it coming, Sir John thrust his sword through James’s defense. James jumped back as the point of the blade bit into his arm.
A King Ensnared, A Historical Novel of Scotland (The Stewart Chronicles Book 1) Page 19