The Tudor Bride

by Joanna Hickson

  Elizabeth Cope was indeed a great deal better at roasting beef than preparing mutton pie and her prowess had also lightened her mood. It was a cheerful party that gathered around the long table in the hall as night fell. The smoky oil lamps of the previous evening had been replaced by beeswax candles in polished pewter candlesticks and there was manchet bread cut into thick slices as trenchers to soak up the delicious juices of the meat. Best of all there was a leek and oyster pudding as an accompaniment. Master Vintner clearly wished no expense to be spared in demonstrating to the queen’s keeper of robes what a fine household he kept.

  He was also assiduous in asking after my success in the workshops of the Cheape and Threadneedle Street, so I delivered a brief account of my meetings with various tailors and the orders I had placed in a number of shops where accessories were made. I kept it short because I did not want to reveal too much before arrangements were finalised with those craftsmen I had patronised. Orders such as these could make or break reputations and when news of the queen’s favour spread, I wanted it to be accurate.

  ‘And did you make contact with Master Anthony in the course of your activities?’ my host enquired, rather to my surprise. I had not realised that he had heard my exchange with the clerk at the Tailors’ Hall.

  ‘I called at his workshop, but the apprentice told me his master was still at the Tailors’ Hall,’ I admitted. I did not add that I had gone back there later and spoken to Mistress Anthony, nor reveal anything of the conversation I had had with her. The results of that interview might become known later – or they might not.

  Mildy, who had been jiggling about on her chair, could contain herself no longer. ‘Did you buy any pretty things for the queen, Madame?’ she asked excitedly. ‘Any ribbons or lace or jewellery? And if you did, may we see them?’

  I smiled at her. She endeared herself to me; as curious as a kitten and twice as irrepressible. At her age I should have been as eager for them as she was, had I ever had the chance even to look at such fripperies. ‘Mostly I ordered drawings and designs to collect tomorrow, but I do have some samples to take back to her grace. You are welcome to see them later if you wish. Tell me though, what did you get up to today? I felt like a slug-a-bed for you were up and out before I broke my fast.’

  Mildy’s brow creased under the turned-back brim of her white linen coif. ‘Oh yes, we rise early and today we went to market with Aunt to carry baskets. We had to get there soon after dawn in order to catch the best produce, that is what our aunt said.’

  ‘And so it is and so we did,’ interjected Mistress Cope, ‘as I think is proved by the quality of the beef we are eating.’

  ‘Indeed it is!’ echoed her brother heartily, raising his glass. ‘Let us drink a toast to the king and queen and the roast beef of England. Long may they grace our land!’

  Mistress Cope spluttered and I caught my host’s eye, fighting to suppress a chuckle at his somewhat subversive conjunction of royalty and bullocks.

  ‘And now a toast to our guest,’ he added, drawing instant colour to my cheeks. ‘May this not be the last time she honours my house with her presence.’

  Later that evening, when the girls had exclaimed over the few gee-gaws I had purchased for Catherine and been chivvied up to bed by their aunt, my host and I sat conversing by the hall fire with the last of the flagon of Gascon wine and I asked him the question I had been pondering ever since I learned of his regular trips to France.

  ‘I wonder, Master Vintner, if I were to write a letter to my daughter Alys in Paris, whether you would be kind enough to take it to her on your next visit? It would be wonderful to be able to tell her all my news and perhaps there might be an opportunity for her to write a reply while you are in the city.’

  Master Vintner did not hesitate for a second. ‘With great pleasure, Madame,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, I will be making the journey very soon, on one of the ships that will carry the king’s relief troops. I believe they will sail at the end of the month so I should be in Paris in early June.’

  ‘Ah, the best time of year,’ I said enviously. ‘I will write the letter tomorrow and give you clear directions to her house. It is very kind of you to do me this favour.’

  ‘It is no favour, I assure you,’ he responded, ‘for it will give me the pleasure of hoping for another visit from you so that I can tell you how your daughter fares and of course describe the progress of your little granddaughter. And perhaps one day there will be an opportunity for me to accompany you in person to Paris to see them for yourself.’

  I gazed at him, speechless, asking myself how many times this man’s warmth had brought a lump to my throat during the brief hours of our acquaintance. This last offer had taken me completely by surprise. To him it appeared to be the most natural and logical idea, but to me it suddenly seemed like an offer from heaven and I was overwhelmed by a longing to accept immediately, which merely served to tell me how much I had been suppressing my heartfelt wish to see my family again. But I knew of course that it was impossible, at least until after Catherine was safely delivered of her baby, for I had promised faithfully to see her through the momentous process of presenting England and France with their crucially important heir.

  After several seconds I managed to deliver what I hoped was a serene smile and say, ‘What a kind and thoughtful offer, Master Vintner, but I hope you will not think me ungrateful if I turn it down, at least for the foreseeable future. You see, perhaps the news has not reached London yet, but the queen is enceinte and as you can imagine it will be a long time before I am able to leave her for more than a few days. I have been with her more or less since she was born and I will be with her when she brings her own child into the world. I would not be human if I absented myself from that event.’

  He nodded solemnly. ‘Indeed you would not. I had heard the good news of the queen’s happy condition and of course I should have realised that there was no question of you leaving England at this time. But please remember that the offer is always open.’ He leaned forward and poured a last drop of wine into my cup before emptying the flagon into his own. ‘Let us drink to the health of the queen,’ he said. ‘May God give her an easy confinement and a healthy babe in the cradle, be it boy or girl.’

  We drank and I inwardly blessed him for being among the few men in England who would not have prayed exclusively for a son for the king.

  His eyes twinkled in a way in a way with which I had now grown familiar as he added earnestly, ‘And I hope you will not think it untoward if I suggest that in private at least we abandon formality and call each other by our baptismal names. Mine is Geoffrey.’

  I set down my cup and nodded contentedly. ‘And mine is Guillaumette, but that is my serving name. My friends call me Mette.’

  ‘Then, if you permit it, I shall call you Mette.’

  12

  I stayed one more night at the House of the Vines and spent the daylight hours completing my business in the craft workshops of Cheapside. Fortunately the weather was kinder on our return journey and we arrived back at Windsor well before sunset, dry and contented. However, comfortable though it was, my chamber in the queen’s apartment felt dull and lonely after the cheerful bustle of the house in Tun Lane and when I presented myself in the queen’s solar after the evening meal, my welcome was disappointing. Deep in intimate conversation with the Duchess of Hainault, Catherine displayed little interest in my arrival and did not enquire whether my trip had been successful.

  When I made my curtsy at the door, ‘Goodness, Mette, have you returned already?’ was all she said, before resuming her tête-à-tête. For a moment I thought I heard her mother speaking and felt a jolt of dismay. She had addressed me in English and her broken accent reminded me of Queen Isabeau’s fractured French.

  Fortunately Agnes, Lady Joan and Joannas Belknap and Troutbeck greeted me enthusiastically, Joanna Coucy being the exception as I had come to expect, and I spent a pleasant hour describing the sights of London and the new styles and fa
brics I had seen in the warehouses and workshops I had visited. None of them asked where I had lodged during my visit and so I did not tell them about the house in Tun Lane or the friendliness of its inhabitants. When Catherine showed signs of retiring, I hurried through to her bedchamber as usual only to find Eleanor Cobham already there preparing a herbal mixture in a pestle and heating a kettle of water over the fire. She smiled at me brightly.

  ‘There you are, Madame Lanière,’ she said impatiently, as if I were a junior lady-in-waiting reporting late for duty. ‘I am preparing a tisane for the queen. It is one that I have made for the duchess and it was she who recommended it as a night-time posset. Are their graces coming now?’

  ‘The queen is coming,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you should hurry along to the duchess’s bedchamber.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Eleanor responded. ‘They will take the tisane together before they retire, but the queen’s new confessor will come to say the Angelus with them first.’

  I frowned. ‘A new confessor,’ I echoed. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Maître Boyers.’ I noted a triumphant gleam in Eleanor’s eyes, doubtless sparked by the fact that she was able to tell me something pertaining to Catherine that I did not know. ‘The king appointed him to the queen’s household as a parting gift when he left for Winchester. Was it not a great kindness? He said the priest would bring the queen God’s comfort during her pregnancy.’

  ‘Has the king left for France already?’ I asked faintly, marvelling at how much had occurred during the four days I had been away.

  ‘No, he has gone to attend to business with Bishop Beaufort in Winchester and will return before he takes ship. The Duke of Gloucester is still at Windsor, however. Ah, here is Maître Jean.’

  A tall, thin tonsured man in the white habit and black cloak of a Dominican had entered the room and paused uncertainly on the threshold. ‘The queen told me to come to the oratory,’ he said apologetically. ‘She and the duchess are on their way.’

  ‘God’s greeting, Maître,’ I said, approaching the priest and making a small bob. ‘I am Guillaumette Lanière, the queen’s Keeper of Robes. Eleanor here tells me that you have been appointed her confessor. May I offer my congratulations?’

  Maître Boyers made me a small bow over clasped hands. His thin face and frame gave him an aesthetic look, but his smile was warm and friendly. ‘I have heard about you, Madame,’ he said. ‘The king tells me that you guard the queen’s physical well-being whilst I am to attend to the spiritual. Would that be a fair summary?’

  ‘I have served the queen with all my heart and soul for many years,’ I said. ‘But she certainly craves spiritual guidance from the right person. If the king has chosen you, you must be that person.’

  ‘As well as studying theology at Oxford, I am a member of the Dominican Priory of St John there, the Blackfriars. My lord, the king, thought that since her grace was educated by Dominican nuns in France, she might be receptive to spiritual guidance from one of our order.’

  I was about to remark on the king’s thoughtfulness when the door was thrown open to the swish of silken skirts. My knee touched the floor and I expected Catherine to raise and greet me as she usually did, but behind her came Jacqueline of Hainault and they both swept past me without a glance in order to acknowledge the priest. The three then immediately disappeared into the little oratory off the bedchamber and the door closed behind them.

  Still kneeling, I felt my stomach twist into a hard knot of distress and my mind flew back to when Catherine had returned to Paris after ten years of convent schooling and I mistook another young lady for her. Bonne of Armagnac had been the newly appointed and high-nosed mademoiselle whom I had wrongly assumed must be Catherine and her disdainful attitude towards me, a mere servant, had led me to believe that my beloved nursling had no memory of one who had loved her like a mother. The crippling sense of worthlessness which had assailed me then resurfaced at this moment with astonishing force, making me realise that Catherine still had an overwhelming power over my emotions.

  I got to my feet and saw that Eleanor Cobham was watching me closely, her lips curved in a half smile. She could not have failed to notice the tears in my eyes, but made no comment. I turned away and busied myself preparing the great bed for Catherine’s repose. As I smoothed the lavender-scented sheets and arranged the monogrammed pillows, my mind was a blur of bewilderment at Catherine’s apparent and sudden change of attitude. I thought I knew what, or rather who had caused it and I fretted over the possible consequences.

  Then I caught sight of the smug look on Eleanor’s face as she poured boiling water onto the mixture she had prepared in the mortar. I do not think I am normally vindictive, but my fingers itched to scratch those creamy, perfect cheeks. A strange, bitter-sweet aroma filled the room and twitched at my heightened senses.

  ‘What is in your tisane? The smell is curious,’ I said, emerging from behind the heavy hangings of the bed.

  Steam rose from the stone mortar as she stirred its contents, a frown of secretive intensity on her face. For a few moments I thought she was not going to answer, but then she straightened and her expression cleared. ‘There are fresh mayweed flowers, angelica and all-heal and I have added some elderberry syrup for sweetness. It is a family recipe. There is an excellent herb garden in the lower ward of the castle, near the Curfew Tower. I will show you if you like.’

  I nodded. ‘Thank you. All-heal and mayweed are not names I am familiar with. What are their properties?’

  ‘Their Latin names are valeriana and chamomilla. They are both good for inducing gentle sleep and the elderberry syrup is a tonic for calming nerves. I thought they would all benefit the queen in her present condition.’

  ‘Ah yes, I know valerian and camomile of course, and the properties of elderberries. You have studied herbs, then?’

  ‘My mother learned from her mother,’ Eleanor revealed, ‘and she has taught me all she knows. She is a Culpepper. Her family have always used herbs extensively.’

  ‘May I see?’ She moved aside and I peered at the contents of the mortar, which looked slightly sinister with blackened leaves and wilted flowers swirling around in a dark liquid. ‘I have heard that knowledge of herbs has sometimes led to people – women in particular – being held in suspicion by those who have no such understanding. Has your mother experienced any such reaction?’

  ‘Not at all, Madame.’ For once the ready smile was not in evidence as Eleanor abruptly picked up the mortar. ‘I will strain this before it is drunk and you will see how pretty the liquid looks when cooled in a silver cup. The queen took some before retiring last night and was full of praise for its effects this morning.’

  I watched as she deftly strained the drink into a flagon, taking care to keep the trailing sleeve of her new houppelande out of the way. Then I recognised the gown as one of Catherine’s and felt a surge of indignation. In my absence Eleanor Cobham had achieved what I had flatly denied her – the loan of an item from the queen’s wardrobe. I noticed that she had also somehow acquired Catherine’s two gold hanaps from the strongbox, the key of which I had entrusted to Agnes during my trip to London. Of course there was nothing to stop Catherine telling Agnes to bring the cups from the strongbox, but I had the uncanny feeling that Eleanor had somehow made herself seem sufficiently trustworthy to acquire the key personally. She would not have done so while I held it and I made a mental note to get it back that very night.

  Within minutes, the door of the oratory opened and Catherine and the duchess emerged, followed by Maître Boyers. The two ladies took seats at either side of the hearth and Eleanor prettily presented her tisane, pouring it into the two gold cups in a tempting stream of luminous, dark-pink liquid. A faint curl of aromatic steam wafted from the surface of each drink.

  ‘Mmm,’ Catherine took a cautious sip and then another, more liberal one. ‘It is just the right temperature and as delicious as before. Mette, have you tried Eleanor’s tisane? It is very good. I have never slept so well as
I did last night.’

  I stepped forward, going on one knee between the two fireside chairs. ‘I have not tasted it no, your grace, but it smells effective. It is the valerian, I expect.’

  ‘Oh, there are more things in it than that!’ the queen exclaimed. ‘Eleanor, give Mette a taste, but only a sip, mind. Otherwise she might not wake up in time to bring me my morning posset.’

  So I was brought a dribble of tisane in the bottom of a horn cup while I stayed on my knees before the hearth. It was the first time I could ever remember Catherine failing to signal me to rise. Meanwhile Eleanor remained on her feet and her smug smile was back. Somehow she had made my meagre sip of tisane cold. It tasted to me of gall.

  With remarkable speed Jacqueline of Hainault had become Catherine’s new best friend. She had never really enjoyed such a friendship before and I understood how welcome it must be for her to have a companion of her own rank and age. Hard though it was for me to take, I suppose it was inevitable that our unusual mother-daughter relationship should suffer. I was still the one she wanted to perform all the most intimate services, but during my short stay in London I had been supplanted as her special confidante. Moreover, because the king was no longer at Windsor, his presence as chief male advisor and protector had been taken by the Duke of Gloucester and, unlike King Henry, neither he nor Jacqueline of Hainault saw any reason to hold me in high esteem.

  I received my first intimation of this the next morning when I entered Catherine’s chamber and placed her usual hot posset beside the bed. She must have been lying awake for some time because, when I drew back the curtains, she immediately sat up against the pillows, snatched her chamber robe from me and pulled it around her shoulders.

  After exchanging the usual morning greetings, she cupped her hands around the posset cup as if to take courage from its warmth and said in an unnaturally formal manner, ‘I would prefer it if you did not attend my afternoon salons in future, Mette.’