The Agincourt Bride

by Joanna Hickson

  ‘A hearty welcome to both your graces!’ Although Gloucester pressed his lips to the king’s oath ring, he raised his eyes to Catherine. ‘England waits with baited breath to greet its beautiful French queen.’

  Catherine was indeed beautiful in her ermine-lined mantle, sapphire silk gown and sleek silver fox turban which spurned the playful breeze and accentuated the long, smooth line of her neck. A faint flush stained her cheeks but she remained straight-faced under the impact of Gloucester’s dazzling smile. I believe few men of thirty can boast such a complete set of white teeth. If the duke’s youth had been in any way misspent, it did not show. His clean-shaven face, smooth and unblemished, was like that of a youth compared with the scarred and care-lined visage of the king, only four years his senior.

  King Henry raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘We hear you have a ceremonial welcome planned for us, brother. We are to be carried shoulder high through the surf.’

  ‘As is customary for honoured arrivals, sire.’ Gloucester appeared reluctant to drag his gaze from Catherine’s face. ‘Fortunately the surf has dwindled to friendly ripples and you may remember that when he visited England we welcomed Emperor Sigismund in this way. If the Warden’s Lift was appropriate for the Holy Roman Emperor it is surely appropriate for the return of the glorious and victorious King Henry the Fifth of England and Second of France – and the advent of his beauteous queen.’

  King Henry frowned. ‘It is premature, not to mention unlucky, to place the crown of France on my head while the father of my “beauteous queen” still lives. I am as yet but the Heir of France, as you well know, Humphrey.’ He made a brisk upward gesture with his hand. ‘You may rise, but only to tell us how we are to enter these chairs of yours without getting wet. I have always avoided such mummery in the past.’

  On his feet Gloucester stood almost as tall as his royal sibling, which was a head taller than Catherine. ‘A simple matter, sire!’ he declared, gesturing over the side of the ship. ‘The litters are safely roped onto my galley. The captain will bring your ship as near to the shore as he may, the gangway will be lowered and you and the queen will walk regally down it. Once seated, you will be conveyed towards the shore until the water is shallow enough for us to take the litters on our shoulders and bear you ceremoniously to the beach. Trumpets will sound, the musicians will play and the crowds will cheer. When he can make himself heard the Lord Warden – my humble self – will make a speech of welcome. Then your litters will be lifted shoulder high once more for the short journey to the castle. I can assure you that the whole town is out to greet you.’

  ‘And do I have your solemn word that there is no question of either of us receiving a ducking?’ The king favoured his brother with a fiercely narrowed gaze.

  Gloucester made an appreciative gesture in Catherine’s direction. ‘Her grace appears to be made of fairy dust, my lord. We could carry her from Dover to London without a stumble. As for your grace’s royal person, it can surely rely on divine protection to remain dry.’

  ‘Hmm.’ King Henry grunted, unconvinced.

  Catherine favoured Gloucester with one of her most regal smiles and surprised him by speaking in charming broken English, her voice light but firm. ‘My Lord of Gloucester is gracious to honour us with this ceremony but should I not also descend from the chair and set my foot on English soil? The people will expect it, surely.’

  Humphrey bowed. ‘There will be an opportunity for that your grace, when the Mayor of Dover humbly presents you with the freedom of the town. And I trust you will forgive the coarseness of the peoples’ greetings. They will doubtless hail you as “Fair Kate!” It is not meant to offend. Fair is in praise of your beauty and Kate is a shortening of your name.’

  ‘The king has told me this. If they think me fair before they have even seen me, such blind devotion cannot be deemed … how do you say? … an insult,’ responded Catherine with another smile. ‘And if they call me fair how can I then not like the name they give me?’

  I watched Gloucester bow deeply in acknowledgement, as if he recognised that, like him, she possessed a keen appreciation of the importance of public acclaim. ‘You are a lady of great wisdom, Madame. And you are to be congratulated on your grasp of English. Is she not, brother?’

  King Henry directed one of his rare smiles at Catherine. ‘You will find that my queen grasps many things quickly, Humphrey, including the relative value of flattery. Now, let us get this carnival started. I think you will need help in mounting the chair-litter, Catherine, however much my brother makes light of the matter. You should summon your ladies.’

  There were only three of us to summon because Catherine’s French attendants had been left behind with the exception of me and Agnes de Blagny, a devout and practical knight’s daughter who had been orphaned and impoverished by her father’s death at the Battle of Agincourt. The third attendant was a recent recruit, an English beauty and cousin of the King, Lady Joan Beaufort. At nineteen and fourteen years old respectively, I readily conceded that Agnes and Joan were better fitted than I to help Catherine down the gangway and onto the gilded litter. Being the same age as the king, I do not suggest for one moment that I was over the hill but the years had broadened my beam and made me less agile than my young companions. However my relationship with Queen Catherine ran closer and deeper than that of any teenage court damsel, for I had suckled her as a babe, nursed her as an infant and steered her through a profoundly troubled youth. She had left her mother, Queen Isabeau, in Paris with barely a second glance but she had raised me from the rank of a menial servant and given me a courtier’s post in order to bring me with her to England as one of her closest companions. I had come a long way from my father’s bakery on the banks of the Seine.

  So I bustled behind, fussing, as Agnes and Joan did all the bending and tugging, easing the queen’s silk skirts down the narrow gangway. The king and the duke handed her into the galley and the girls helped her into the litter, tucking her costly robes around her feet to keep them clear of the water. Once the royal couple had been lifted from the boat, the rest of us, including the king’s personal squires, were to be rowed to a nearby jetty to be available if needed, and I was very nearly more greatly needed than I would have wished.

  As the galley drew closer to the beach, seven men in short doublets and high boots began to wade out towards us, the wavelets lapping first at their ankles and then their shins as they strode deeper. The shingle shelved gradually and they were a good twenty yards offshore before we came alongside them, at which point the Duke of Gloucester stood up and leapt casually over the side into the ice-cold water. Muttering under my breath I brushed the splash-drops from Catherine’s skirts as the rowers shipped their oars and began to untie the ropes attaching the chairs to the galley.

  ‘Have no fear, my q ueen,’ Gloucester said as the boat rocked alarmingly, unbalanced by their efforts to heave the litters over the side and onto the shoulders of the bearers. ‘Archbishop Chichele was our last carry and he is twice as heavy.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the other three men in his team and signalled with his free arm. ‘Advance, fellow Wardens!’

  Catherine raised her chin, stretched her mouth into a fixed smile and forced herself to lift one hand to wave to the crowd. On the other side of the galley King Henry was already shore-bound, unmistakable in his royally emblazoned doublet and jewelled gold coronet. The rowers returned to their oars and we began to swing away towards the jetty, giving me a clear view of the queen’s chair as it suddenly tilted violently.

  The huge cheer which had risen from the onlookers instantly turned to a collective gasp of horror as they saw Catherine lurch forward in her seat, clinging desperately with the one hand that was still on the arm of her chair. The duke appeared to have lost his footing, drastically tipping one corner of the litter, but he quickly managed to thrust his arm upwards to return it to the horizontal, throwing Catherine back into the chair just as it seemed inevitable that she must topple out of it into the water. There wa
s no particular reason to think that his stumble had been deliberate, but I could not help wondering. Although he was soaked to his armpits, he did not look greatly troubled as he turned to speak to her. ‘A thousand pardons, your grace. A loose stone attempted to trip me, but as you see it failed. All is well and your adoring public awaits.’

  There were bright pink spots of anger on Catherine’s cheeks but she ignored his glib apology and began to wave again. Relief redoubled the cheers of the crowd on the shingle as the boisterous mob of men and women waved evergreen branches and coloured banners and hailed their hero king and his trophy French queen.

  ‘God bless Queen Kate! Fair Kate! Bonny Kate!’

  ‘Welcome home, brave Harry! God bless good King Hal!’

  There was the same tumult as they passed through the streets of Dover and it was repeated time and again during the following days as the royal procession crossed the county of Kent. At every village the populace turned out in their best clothes, carrying precious relics and statues out of the churches to greet them, while petitioners scrambled to catch the king’s attention or beg the queen’s blessing for their children. Even the weather joined in the celebrations, favouring the royal progress with unseasonal warmth, bright sunshine and blue skies.

  During our stay in Rouen, before we took ship for England, Catherine had insisted that I take riding lessons. Being a girl from the back streets of Paris, I had never learned to ride, even though at fifteen I had married a groom from the royal stables, and until I began to travel around France with Catherine I had never felt the need but she had decided the time had come. ‘You cannot accompany me on a royal progress if you have to ride on one of the baggage carts, Mette. I may need you en route and will not want to wait while someone goes to search for you at the back of the train. Besides, I assure you it is much more comfortable to ride a horse than to be bounced around on a cart.’

  So one of the royal grooms had been instructed to find a docile cob and teach me the rudiments of horsemanship. It did not take long for all I needed to do was walk and trot and keep my mount safely following the horse in front. I was not intending to chase after the hunt or indulge in headlong gallops across moor and heath. However what I had not anticipated were the aches and pains that resulted from sitting on a horse for long periods of time. Even though I opted to ride sideways rather than astride, which Catherine favoured, I still found I was using parts of my body that had never been used before. However, by the time we reached Canterbury my rump was less saddle-sore and I had become quite fond of the sturdy brown mare which had been procured for me at Dover, reared and broken I was told, on the wild moors of England’s South West. She had been named Jennet but I decided to re-christen her Genevieve after the patron saint of Paris and hoped she would look after me just as that virgin saint protected my home city.

  It was concern for Genevieve that brought me to the stables of the Abbey of St Augustine, where the royal household was lodged in Canterbury en route for London. The queen and king were dining privately with the abbot and I had taken the opportunity to slip away and check if any of the grooms had tended my horse’s front foot. The mare had begun to limp towards the day’s end and having just got used to her paces, I was anxiously hoping it was nothing serious. However, when I led her from her stall I found that she was still lame and it being the dinner hour there was no sign of anyone to ask for help. On searching about, the only soul I encountered was Joan Beaufort, looking flustered and nervous and very out of place in her elaborate court dress and furred mantle.

  ‘Sweet Marie, Lady Joan, a young girl like you should not be wandering about the stables alone when it is nearly dark! Whatever are you doing here?’

  Apart from being the epitome of English beauty – strawberry-blonde, blue-eyed and apple-blossom-cheeked – as the king’s cousin, Joan was one of the most eligible young ladies of the court.

  ‘Searching for you,’ said Joan, obviously very relieved to have found me. ‘I have been looking everywhere.’

  ‘My horse is lame,’ I told her. ‘I want someone to have a look at her foot.’

  Her response astonished me. ‘I know about horses. I always favoured the stables over my embroidery. Has the mare got a stone in her hoof?’

  I shook my head. ‘I have no idea. I know nothing about horses.’

  ‘Let me take a look. Is that her there?’ She trudged off to where Genevieve was tied back in her stall and I winced as horse dung and wet straw sullied the hem of her priceless brocade gown. Giving the mare a gentle pat she bent down and expertly lifted her hoof, peering at its underside. ‘Yes, there is a stone.’ She placed the foot carefully down and turned to me. ‘I need something to prise it out with. A strong stick would do.’

  I was about to go off in search of an implement when I suddenly realised that she must have been seeking me for a reason. ‘Incidentally, Lady Joan, why were you looking for me?’ I asked.

  She frowned. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. The queen wants you. She is in a frenzy.’

  If Catherine had ever been in a frenzy it had died down by the time I got to her, but she was certainly angry.

  ‘Where on earth have you been, Mette? I wanted you and you were not here.’ There was a strident, peevish note in her voice that was new to me. She could be cross and critical at times, but was not usually given to petulance.

  ‘I am sorry, Mademoiselle. I went to the stables to check on Genevieve.’

  Catherine was pacing around the abbey’s grand bedchamber, which the abbot himself had vacated in favour of the king and queen. ‘Do you mean to say that you abandoned your queen in favour of a horse?’ she almost snorted. ‘Is there something wrong with your horse?’ The sharp tone of this enquiry did not imply a sudden burst of equine benevolence on her part.

  ‘She had a stone in her hoof,’ I replied. ‘Lady Joan removed it for me.’

  This revelation brought Catherine’s anger fizzing to the surface again. ‘This is unbelievable! I have three ladies to serve me and yet when I need their assistance I find that two of them are dancing attendance on a horse!’

  Wondering what it was that could have brought on this uncharacteristic fit of pique, I decided that there was nothing for it but to act the truly humble servant. ‘Forgive me, your grace,’ I said, abandoning my usual, more familiar, form of address. ‘I had no idea you were in such urgent need of me. How may I serve you?’

  She turned her back and paced away across the room. ‘Oh, it does not matter now. Clearly my problems are of no consequence compared with a stone in your horse’s hoof!’

  Agnes de Blagny, who had taken the brunt of the queen’s initial outburst, was making faces at me behind her back. I found these facial gymnastics hard to interpret, but gathered it had involved King Henry in some way.

  ‘Please, Madame – your grace – tell me what it is that has upset you. Does it concern the king? Was it something he said?’

  She swung round at that, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘All day people have been calling out my name, begging for my glance, holding out their babies for my touch. I am their beautiful queen, their Fair Kate, their Agincourt Bride! But my husband, the one who should have my glances and my touch and whose child I should be bearing, prefers to squander his attention on debating doctrine with the abbot and inspecting the abbey’s library of dusty old books! And tomorrow – after he has prayed for an heir at the tomb of St Thomas à Becket – he says he must leave me here and hasten to Westminster to meet with his counsellors. I ask you, where in the two thousand books the abbot is so proud to display to the king, does it say that there has ever been more than one Immaculate Conception? What is the use of praying for an heir if Henry does nothing about actually getting one?’

  There was the crux of the matter. She may be the darling of the crowds right now, but she would soon be called a failure as a queen if she did not produce the heir that was so essential to securing the future of the crowns of England and France. Her marriage to King Henry was not only the embodiment
of the unification of the two kingdoms, and the living proof of Henry’s remarkable conquest of the better part of France, but also the joining of the two crowns, set in law by the Treaty of Troyes at their wedding eight months before. The treaty would be useless unless there was an heir born of the marriage and to the empire that Henry was still in the process of creating. On the surface Catherine was the ultra-beautiful, super-confident Queen of England and soon-to-be Queen of France, but inside she was a quivering mass of insecurity, centred on the imperative conception of that heir.

  I hurried across the room to the abbot’s carved armchair into which she had sunk with a heavy sigh. ‘His grace will be here soon, Mademoiselle, I am sure,’ I said, lapsing back into the intimate form of address I had used since her infancy. To me she would always be ‘Mademoiselle’, however many other grand titles she acquired. ‘His grace rarely fails to wish you goodnight, even if he works into the small hours.’

  Catherine gave me a withering look, far from mollified by my attempt at consolation. ‘A goodnight kiss is hardly going to sire the next King of England, Mette,’ she said, fretfully, tugging at the pins that secured her veil to her head-dress. ‘Henry could learn something from his subjects when it comes to enthusiastic outpourings of love!’

  I gazed at her ruefully. What she was trying to tell me was that King Henry had not fulfilled his side of the marital contract recently and I was guiltily aware that I might be responsible for this lack. A month ago, just after Epiphany, Catherine had miscarried a child. It had not been a well-developed pregnancy but for a few joyous weeks she and Henry had believed the essential heir had been growing in her womb. Fortunately, on my tentative suggestion that it might be best to wait until a few more weeks had passed, they had not made any announcement to this effect. So Catherine had not had to suffer the murmurings of disappointment and doubts about her ability to carry a child. To my surprise the king had not been critical of Catherine or blamed any lack of care on the part of her attendants, which had emboldened me to advise him that it would be wise to allow her a few weeks to heal before making any further attempt to get her with child. The fact that I had not told her of this conversation was now coming home to haunt me. The king might be scrupulously following my advice, but the queen was misinterpreting his restraint, construing it as lack of interest.