Catherine’s frown deepened, but her expression changed from anger to intrigue. ‘What do you mean, Mette? Are you saying he is frightened of me? No! That is impossible.’
I had been doing my homework on his English royal highness and I spread my hands to demonstrate my point. ‘Consider for a moment. He has never been married. His mother died when he was very young. He has spent his life among soldiers and the only women he may have known are not the sort you have ever met or may ever wish to. He knows nothing of clever, educated, beautiful noblewomen. In fact, he has probably encountered precious few. You should not hate him. Perhaps you should feel sorry for him.’
I heard Agnes’ sharp intake of breath and saw Catherine glare at me under beetled brows. Her head was moving slowly from side to side as if what she had heard was incomprehensible. ‘No, he is a king,’ she protested. ‘Women of high birth throw themselves at him. I have seen the ladies at my mother’s court, the way they flock around the men of power. Men like King Henry can take their pick. No, no, Mette, I cannot feel sorry for him; not at all.’
‘Very well,’ I agreed. ‘But do not be frightened of him either. Because, believe me, although he is a lion, when you are his wife you will be able to get close to him, get inside his regal shell and discover the real man, who is not a lion, but more like a pussy cat. For a king, someone who has perfected the role of ruler and soldier and conqueror, that vulnerability is terrifying and enticing all at the same time. He wants it, but at the same time he fears it because he fears that, like Samson, he will lose all his strength.’
Now Catherine’s mouth had dropped open in amazement. ‘Holy Marie, Mette – you are right! I do not know how you know this, but I instinctively feel that you are right. How do you know this?’
I had been concentrating so hard in trying to get my point across that I did not realise how tense I had become. My whole body was taut as a harp string and I had almost forgotten to breathe. Taking in a huge gulp of air, I let it out in a long, slow sigh, which ended in an apologetic little laugh. ‘I do not know,’ I confessed in bewilderment. ‘I have never met a king and I have never been a princess, so you would be perfectly justified in ignoring every word I have just said. In truth, Mademoiselle, I do not know where it came from!’
It was Catherine’s turn to laugh. ‘Well, I wish I could have bottled it, but instead I will remember it. And I will not be frightened of the king. Every time he is rude or domineering, I will smile and imagine I am stroking his soft fur – and sooner or later, maybe one day I actually will!’
I clapped my hands in delight. ‘Bravo, Mademoiselle!’ I cried. ‘When he first saw you at the Pré du Chat he did not know you, but he realised that you were a prize worth fighting for. Now that he has won you, he worries that although Henry the king is more than worthy of you, Henry the man may not be.’
Catherine sat down on her dressing stool again and handed me the hair brush. ‘All right, Mette, on the basis of your argument, Thomas of Clarence is nice to me because he is married and used to the close companionship of a lady.’ She paused to consider this statement and seemed to find it satisfactory. ‘I think that may be so. His wife’s name is Margaret and he clearly holds her in high regard, even though sadly they have no children together. She is the one who is to teach me how to be a queen.’
I began to pull the brush firmly through her hair as I had done so many times. Agnes brought rosewater and sponged her face and throat with dampened linen.
‘I think you may have misread that situation, Madame,’ Agnes ventured gently. ‘Might it not be a kindness to help you adjust to your new life? There must be many differences between the French and the English courts and it would be a shame for a new queen to make mistakes out of ignorance.’
‘I expect you are right,’ agreed Catherine, closing her eyes to allow Agnes to wield the facecloth freely. ‘Perhaps I should have started to learn English earlier. Henry conducts all his court business in English so unless I learn quickly I will not know what is going on. Yes, I can see that I may have been too hasty in rejecting Margaret of Clarence’s help. Maybe I will ask King Henry to also provide me with an English tutor.’
So her mood of anger and indignation diminished and in the end we left Catherine kneeling calmly before her triptych and took ourselves off to the small adjoining chamber where Agnes and I shared a tester bed. Gone were the days of sharing a pallet with Alys. But finding sleep evasive, I lay considering the alarming possibility that history may be repeating itself; that I had engineered the death of one devil’s spawn only to see Catherine shackled to another.
From Catherine, Princess Royal of France to Charles, Dauphin of Viennois,
A final greeting to my beloved brother,
This will be the last letter in which I address my confidences to you, Charles. After my wedding to King Henry, it would be an act of disloyalty, perhaps even treachery, to continue sharing my thoughts with my brother, even though this correspondence is unseen and unsent and will, I suspect, remain so for ever. Perhaps in the future I will find some other recipient.
In the past I have indicated to you that I was struggling to accept that the treaty which brings about my marriage to King Henry also declares him to be the Heir of France and revokes your position as dauphin. While I will never believe that you are not the legitimate son of our father, I have come to believe that the Salic law which brought our grandfather to the throne is not divinely sanctioned and that the claim brought by King Henry’s grandfather to be the rightful king of France was therefore legitimate. On that basis I will not be marrying a usurper, but the rightful heir to the throne of France.
Perversly, my intuition that King Henry pursued the marriage out of an emotional spark that ignited between us on first meeting has proved false. Even before we are bedded, I feel now that this will be a dynastic union and not one based on a mutual attraction. And so, while you and I must of necessity become enemies, it does not follow that Henry and I will become friends. This may be of some satisfaction to you, but I confess that it is none to me. Truthfully, I wish it were otherwise.
My wedding is in four days. I would like to believe that, should you have been here, you would have wished me well, but the first being impossible, I suppose the second is unlikely! However I do wish you well and hope to hear news of your continued health and the establishment of a brood of sturdy children with Marie.
Be happy, Charles, as I will try to be, and may God bless us both.
Your loving sister,
Catherine
Written at the Palace of the Counts, Troyes, this day Friday, May 30th 1420.
I popped my head around the door of the oratory and saw Catherine placing another letter in the secret compartment of her triptych. She shot me a sly glance as she turned the lock and placed the key back in the reliquary around her neck.
‘What is it, Mette?’ she asked, tucking the reliquary away in her bodice. ‘It must be important for you to interrupt me in here.’
‘There is a message from the queen, Mademoiselle. She summons you immediately to the great hall. King Henry is on his way to pay his respects.’
Catherine wrinkled her brow, unimpressed. ‘I do not think that an immediate appearance is necessary, Mette. Is not a bride permitted, no – expected – to keep her groom waiting? I believe I will change my gown. Please fetch the first one that Jacques made for me.’
‘You mean the one the queen wished never to see again, Mademoiselle?’ I enquired with a smile.
She returned the smile with interest. ‘Exactly, Mette,’ she nodded. ‘And please prepare yourself to come as my train-bearer.’
I was intrigued. With one appearance Catherine intended to challenge two of her mother’s expressed dislikes, her taste in gowns and her choice of companions, and she intended to do it in front of King Henry, when the queen would be most annoyed and could make no direct comment. For once I was agog to be her train-bearer!
Personally, I thought Catherine looked wonderful in th
e aquamarine and cream gown with its unusual styling and beautifully embroidered front panel and as we entered the great hall I could see that King Henry thought so too. He cut short his remarks to the queen and took several long strides to meet the princess as she crossed the hall.
‘Catherine!’ he said, taking her hand as she curtsied low and, raising her immediately, kissed the hand he held and murmured, ‘It lifts my heart to see you.’
‘Your grace,’ she said as softly as he, but not so soft that my service-trained ears could not hear.
From my position behind her I could not see her face either, but she must have looked up at him through her eyelashes in her inimitably dazzling fashion for I saw the blood rise in the king’s good cheek.
‘Where have you been, Catherine?’ her mother called irritably from her canopied chair. ‘His grace has been waiting.’
‘But it has been worth the wait,’ he said, smiling and leading her to another chair set beside Queen Isabeau’s.
I arranged Catherine’s train, fielded an angry glare from the queen and retreated to the stone bench on the wall beside the hooded, empty fireplace, close but unobtrusive. I noticed Queen Isabeau’s ire increase as she recognised the gown Catherine was wearing and I debated how she might attempt to bring her daughter to heel. Did she know yet, I wondered, that she had already lost control of this last remaining member of her family, just as she had all the others?
‘I have come to ask for your help, Catherine,’ King Henry said, taking the third seat.
‘Help, your grace? What help could I offer such a potent prince?’ she responded, unable to hide her surprise.
‘It concerns our wedding,’ he continued, his eyes studying her closely as if doubtful of her reaction. ‘I confess that I was less than satisfied with the ambiance of the cathedral during our betrothal ceremony and I wondered if you would object if we held our wedding somewhere else.’
Catherine inclined her head enquiringly. ‘May I ask what it was about the cathedral that you did not like, my lord?’
The queen protested. ‘His grace does not need to go into detail, Catherine. If he is unhappy that is all you need to know.’
Catherine ignored the interruption and smiled disarmingly at King Henry. ‘I merely wondered if we were dismayed by the same things, sire. For instance the fact that the cathedral is still under construction and there are masons’ tools and equipment everywhere and part of the nave stands open to the sky.’
King Henry’s smile transformed his face, relieving the stern expression dictated by his scar. ‘You felt it too!’ he exclaimed. ‘It spoiled the atmosphere. We need calm and beauty for this most important occasion, not ladders and scaffolding.’
‘I completely agree,’ Catherine said, nodding happily. ‘Would you permit me to suggest another church?’
King Henry seemed a changed man that day. I swear I saw a twinkle in his eye as he responded, ‘As long as it is the one I was going to suggest.’
And together they both said, ‘St Jean au Marché!’ and burst out laughing.
‘I have worshipped there several times since coming to Troyes,’ added the king when their laughter subsided. ‘I like the way it sits in the midst of a busy market and yet is a haven of peace.’
‘And it has seen many weddings and masses and churchings,’ continued Catherine eagerly. ‘I myself attended a baptism there recently. I would love our marriage to take place there.’
‘Then I will ask the archbishop to arrange it,’ King Henry said, then hesitated before raising a new topic. ‘But there is one more matter I must mention, which also concerns his grace – it is the matter of his See.’
Catherine raised her eyebrows. ‘The Archbishop’s See? I thought Sens had fallen recently.’ I noticed she avoided mentioning that it was the dauphin’s forces which had overrun the city. Her brother was still a thorny topic as far as she was concerned.
King Henry was impressed at her grasp of military progress. ‘That is precisely the matter in hand. In return for marrying us, I have promised the archbishop to restore him to his city and his cathedral. I wish to lay siege to Sens immediately after our wedding, Catherine.’
I stifled a gasp and could only imagine Catherine’s reaction to this announcement.
‘When you say immediately, how soon would that be?’ I had the distinct impression that her question was asked through clenched teeth.
King Henry had the grace to blush. ‘I wish to leave the next day.’ He held up a hand apologetically, ‘I know – you are offended – but you are marrying a soldier, Catherine. June brings good siege weather and the Pretender is strengthening all his frontline garrisons by the day. We cannot wait.’
There was a tense silence and even the queen had the sense to hold her peace. When Catherine spoke her words were laced with irony. ‘It must be frustrating for a soldier like yourself, sire, that the Church permits war during Pentecost but not weddings. Otherwise we could be married today and I could become a camp follower tomorrow.’
I sighed. There had been the stirrings of harmony, but discord had prevailed.
Nothing had changed about the marriage, however, except the location. There was still much to prepare, which now also included packing all Catherine’s goods and chattels ready for immediate departure on what she ironically called her ‘lune de siège’. In their attic workrooms above the royal apartments Jacques and Alys stitched away on the princess’ wardrobe, while a nursemaid rocked baby Catrine’s cradle and I sneaked up for frequent grandmotherly cuddles and playtimes.
Michele of Burgundy kept us straight about the etiquette and form of a royal wedding, explaining the order of the ceremony, the distribution of alms, the programme of feasting and entertainment and the awkward bedding ritual, which apparently would involve the archbishop, all the family members present and even musicians.
‘And that reminds me,’ she added during this crucial planning meeting, actually turning to address me personally, ‘it is time you got busy with your tweezers, Madame Lanière. No royal or noble virgin in France goes to her marriage bed looking less than smooth all over.’
This was a tradition I was familiar with, that young French brides of dynastic families must be brought to their deflowering in a state of hairless purity, a condition that did not of course extend to their crowning glory, which had to be worn loose and flowing as a magnificent statement of their nubility. In painful pursuit of this pristine state, Catherine endured hours of tweezing in intimate places and endured it without complaint – a stoicism which I anticipated might stand her in good stead.
‘I suppose the dates of my menses were freely discussed in council when they were deciding on the wedding date,’ she observed dryly, as she lay naked under a carefully arranged sheet while I worked as gently as I could on her right armpit. ‘I assume you still keep the queen informed, Mette. It cannot be just coincidence that they managed to avoid my time of the month.’
‘No, Mademoiselle,’ I admitted contritely, ‘it is not coincidence. But you can thank King Henry himself that you were spared the indignity of a virginity test. I gather he said that he was prepared to take it on trust.’
I stepped hastily back from my task as Catherine reared up, clutching the sheet around her, her eyes wide with shock. ‘Jesu, Mette, I did not know such a thing was a possibility! Whatever would I have done?’
I shrugged. ‘I do not think it would have been necessary to do anything, Mademoiselle. I took the precaution of making subtle enquiries. It seems such tests are not intimately physical; that would defeat the purpose, would it not? But I am glad King Henry refused it, for dignity’s sake.’
‘Yes, that was good of him.’ Catherine gave me a troubled look. ‘Did he really say that? That he was prepared to trust me?’
‘So I am told,’ I nodded, following her train of thought. ‘And so he can,’ I asserted firmly. ‘God knows he can.’
33
‘When we were girls at the convent we used to day-dream about what our husb
ands would be like. Do you remember, Agnes?’
Catherine’s voice held a far-away note, which made me wonder if I had put a little too much poppy juice into the calming posset I had insisted she drink on rising. Outside the chamber window the early morning sky showed a milky haze and weak sunshine cast long, faint shadows across the waterside gardens. Despite an overnight downpour, it seemed unlikely that rain would spoil the royal wedding day.
‘Of course I remember,’ nodded Agnes, beckoning Alys to help her gather up a heavy under-skirt made of precious cloth of silver and hemmed with broad gold lace. ‘We imagined you marrying a handsome, royal prince – and you are going to do just that, this very day!’ Intensely aware of the bride’s jangling nerves, Agnes’ words were warm with encouragement. Carefully she and Alys lifted the silver skirt high and slipped it over Catherine’s head. It fell about her with a rustling sigh and they set about arranging the folds and tying the points at the waist.
I knelt at Catherine’s feet, proffering the pearl-encrusted satin slippers she would wear for her wedding. Jacques’ exquisite gown lay like a lifeless puppet across the bed beside us and the tailor himself paced the ante-chamber, anxiously awaiting the call to come and make last-minute adjustments when the princess was dressed.
‘But we imagined him kind and gentle as well as royal and handsome, did we not?’ said Catherine wistfully. She appeared almost unaware of what her attendants were clothing her in. The prized Venetian mirror stood close at hand, but she had not so much as glanced at her reflection. ‘I suppose little girls can never imagine any other sort of bridegroom.’
The Agincourt Bride Page 37