Книга - The Tudor Bride

The Tudor Bride
Joanna Hickson


The thrilling story of the French princess who became an English queen, from the best-selling author of The Agincourt Bride. Perfect for fans of The White Queen.Even the greatest of queens have rules – to break them would cost her dearly…King Henry V’s new French Queen, Catherine, dazzles the crowds in England but life at court is full of intrigue and her loyal companion, Mette, suspects that the beautiful Eleanor Cobham, protégée of the Duke of Gloucester, is spying for him.Catherine believes herself invincible as she gives birth to an heir, then tragically King Henry is struck down by fever. Unable to outwit those who seek to remove the new king from her care, Catherine retires from court, comforted by the King’s Harper, Owen Tudor.At the secluded manor of Hadham a smouldering ember bursts into flame and Catherine and Owen Tudor become lovers. But their love cannot remain a secret forever, and when a grab for power is made by Gloucester, Catherine – and those dearest to her – face mortal danger…









JOANNA HICKSON

The Tudor Bride










Copyright (#ulink_70ab0478-7a69-53e5-b2d1-43b6c4ba5592)


Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014

Copyright © Joanna Hickson 2014

Cover photographs © Richard Jenkins (main image); Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com) (patterns). Cover lettering © Stephen Raw

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013

Joanna Hickson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007446995

Ebook Edition © January 2014 ISBN: 9780007564637

Version: 2017-07-12


For Katie and young Hugo

who are my Catherine and young King Henry.


Contents

Cover (#u3c52bc03-8bd9-5545-baf3-7a8f691834a6)

Title Page (#uac69337b-fa03-5fbb-961b-8b1eb3cd3665)

Copyright (#u06939ef9-7b0b-5245-8c58-d310d0717518)

Dedication (#ued4b8759-917b-5cb1-8741-2e8f44d18608)

Family Trees (#ue5d5ffb7-3656-5627-9303-fa4d852e17c1)

Map (#u2e8d521a-0087-51a9-a3db-a44cd4a35a11)

Narrator’s Note (#ufbc6d721-ef92-5291-a1ee-c8cbd5a78876)

Part One: Queen of England (1421–1422) (#ub0173ebb-1fdb-5314-8c2c-f33476116494)

Chapter 1 (#u354d5407-185a-5119-9d7d-fe6fdd39d08a)

Chapter 2 (#u6c278bd5-39c4-5af2-8fd4-de3b9c15a9d8)

Chapter 3 (#u5014b15b-6b4d-5908-abed-69b2d7a33da8)

Chapter 4 (#u52b855da-e6b0-56c4-abce-9e949ac8f721)

Chapter 5 (#ua4c71396-0a1a-590e-be67-07573afbd7e6)

Chapter 6 (#u7434bbea-449d-580d-b3d8-0195ce64a8c5)

Chapter 7 (#u6920b810-c30b-5db7-9d6d-00d05dbc2a35)

Chapter 8 (#u61a76c00-1ad7-546a-b07e-6d841a86b1ab)

Chapter 9 (#ud27c0bfc-39b4-5503-bee4-afebc666d4ff)

Chapter 10 (#u04ba9909-1b8f-5d6f-9a68-3dc8d722d52b)

Chapter 11 (#u901f2e66-af30-540a-95f2-c6c229a2d2be)

Chapter 12 (#ud4ed06b0-a01d-5e5c-9e9a-33c76def830d)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Two: The Secret Years (1427–1435) (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Three: Journey into Jeopardy (1435–1437) (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)

Author’s Note: Fact and Fiction (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

By the same author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)






















NARRATOR’S NOTE (#ulink_29cc7c1f-1cc3-57ad-991c-9820062e93a9)

The House of the Vine, London, Summer 1440


Respected Reader,

My name is Guillaumette, known to my friends as Mette. Some of you may already know that and yes, I am French but I write this at my house in London, where I live very quietly now. You will understand that the French are not much liked in England today, so I think it best to speak and write in English.

It is not my own story I write; this is the story of my mistress, Catherine de Valois, youngest daughter of the French king Charles the Sixth, whom I suckled as a baby, nursed as a child and tried to console through the troubled years of her girlhood, during which she was offered by various of her male relatives to the invading enemy, King Henry the Fifth of England, as his bride. This she eventually became, not entirely without her consent, in June 1420. By the end of that year, as a result of his extraordinary military success, an alliance with the Duke of Burgundy and a very favourable (to him) peace treaty, King Henry and his new bride were able to enter Paris in triumph, he as the new Regent and Heir of France and she as his queen. Afterwards they sailed for England as a golden royal couple, ready to be féted and celebrated, not least at Catherine’s coronation in London. And I sailed with them.

Since France lay devastated by years of constant warfare, you may think it was a relief for me to follow in the new queen’s train, but I left France with a heavy heart. I had always been close to my daughter Alys, who with her husband and baby girl lived in Paris, which was now under English rule. My son Luc, meanwhile, had sworn his allegiance to Catherine’s seventeen-year-old brother Charles, the former Dauphin, who had been disinherited and declared illegitimate by his sister’s marriage treaty and forced to retreat to his loyal territories south of the Loire. Charles would have to fight the combined armies of England and Burgundy if he was to win back his name and his claim to the French throne. Catherine and the Dauphin’s father, King Charles, was subject to devilish fits and often confined to a padded room, believing he was made of glass and terrified of being shattered; a living metaphor for the shattered state of his kingdom and, I fear, the splintered state of my family. Regrettably we were typical of French people at the time, the divided victims of violence and political upheaval. I did not depart with a light heart.

Nevertheless, when we embarked at Calais, part of me was glad to be leaving the chaos behind but, I realise now, twenty years later, how little notion I had of what we were sailing into. Catherine had no choice, she was by law the Queen of England, whether the English liked her or not; but for me it was different. I followed her out of loyalty and love, but there were times later, I assure you, when I wondered whether I had done the right thing in boarding that ship …










PART ONE (#ulink_dab15a23-2bb6-550a-a21d-4768d35bb356)




1 (#ulink_5befc063-8178-52d9-bd4d-3a131f290234)


The grey-green sea looked hungry as it lapped and chewed on the English shore, voracious, like the monsters mapmakers paint at the edge of the world. With her sails flapping, the Trinity Royal idled nose to the wind under the walls of Dover Castle, a vast stronghold sprawled atop high chalk cliffs which gleamed in the flat winter sunlight. Visible against this great white wall were the flags and banners of an official welcoming party and a large crowd of onlookers gathered along the beach. Unfamiliar music from an unseen band drifted past us on a dying breeze.

Having almost completed my first sea voyage, I could not say that I was an enthusiastic sailor. I felt salt-stained and wind-blown, my only consolation being that the sea-swell which had plagued my stomach all the way from France had now eased and the ship’s movement had dwindled to a gentle rocking motion. Queen Catherine, by contrast, looked radiant and unruffled after the crossing, even when faced with the prospect of being carried ashore in a chair by a bunch of braggart barons, bizarrely known as the Wardens of the Cinq Ports; bizarrely because there were seven towns involved, not five as the title suggested, and some of them were not even ports. Apparently this chair-lift was an English tradition, but personally I considered it barbaric that a king and queen should be expected to risk their lives being carried shoulder high over treacherous waters to a stony beach when they could have made a dignified arrival walking down a gangway onto the Dover dockside. Besides, as Keeper of the Queen’s Robes, I, Guillaumette Lanière, was the one who would have to restore the costly fur and fabric of the queen’s garments from the ravages of sand and salt-water.

King Henry discussed this singular English honour with his brother, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, when the duke boarded the Trinity Royal from his galley, half a league off the white cliffs. That his grace of Gloucester thought himself a fine fellow was amply evident in the swashbuckling way he climbed the rope-ladder, vaulted the ship’s rail one-handed and sprang up the stair to the aftcastle deck, where the king and Queen Catherine stood waiting. Gloucester sported thigh-high polished leather boots and his short green doublet clung tightly to his muscular physique, admirably displaying the heavy gold collar and trencher-sized medallion of office which hung around his broad shoulders. His bend of the knee was practised and perfect, accompanied by a flourish of his right hand as he grasped his brother’s with the left.

‘A hearty welcome to both your graces!’ He pressed his lips to the king’s ring, but raised his eyes not to his brother’s face but to Catherine’s. ‘England waits with bated breath to greet its beautiful French queen.’

A faint flush stained Catherine’s cheeks, but she remained straight-faced under the impact of Gloucester’s dazzling smile. If the duke’s youth had been in any way misspent, it did not show. I believe few men of thirty could boast such a fine, full set of white teeth as that smile revealed. His face was clean-shaven, smooth and unblemished, in striking contrast with the scarred and care-lined visage of the king, only five years his senior.

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

Gloucester appeared reluctant to drag his gaze from Catherine’s face. ‘Indeed, sire, as is customary for people of great rank and honour. You will be pleased to hear that the surf has dwindled to friendly ripples now though. You may remember that we welcomed Emperor Sigismund to these shores with the Wardens’ lift. We can do no less to honour the return of the glorious and victorious King of England and France – and the advent of his beauteous queen – than was appropriate for a visiting Holy Roman Emperor.’

King Henry frowned. ‘It is ill-judged, Humphrey, to place the crown of France on my head while the father of my queen still lives.’ He made an irritable upward movement with his hand. ‘But rise, brother, if only to explain how we are to enter these chairs of yours without getting wet. As you know, I have always avoided such mummery in the past.’

When he rose, Gloucester stood almost as tall as the king and a head taller than Catherine. ‘A simple matter, sire!’ he declared, gesturing over the side of the ship. ‘The litters are fastened ready, there on my galley. The captain will bring the ship as near to the shore as he may, the gangway will be lowered onto the galley and you and Madame, the queen, will walk regally down it. Once safely seated, you will be rowed towards the shore until the water is shallow enough for your Wardens to wade in, take the litters on their shoulders and bear them ceremoniously up the beach. The 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.’

‘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. I would wager we could carry her from Dover to London without effort. As for your grace’s royal person, it can surely rely on divine protection to remain dry.’

‘Hmm.’ King Henry grunted non-committally.

Catherine suddenly 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?’ She turned to the king. ‘Perhaps we could walk to the castle, my lord? It does not look far. The people will the better have a sight of us.’

King Henry shot a sharp glance at his brother, who shook his head almost imperceptibly and said hastily, ‘That might be unwise, Madame. It is a steep climb. But Madame will have the opportunity to set foot on English soil when she reaches the town gate. There, the mayor of Dover waits to present you with the freedom of the town. I can assure you that the populace is out to greet you. Walking anywhere would render your graces susceptible to the attentions of over-eager citizens in the narrow streets, and besides we go in procession to the castle. Teams of hand-picked burghers are waiting to shoulder your chairs, and I think when you witness the exuberance of our English crowds you will understand the need for being raised above the common herd. Also, I trust you will forgive the coarseness of the people’s greetings. They will doubtless shout “Fair Kate!” as you pass. It is not meant to offend, but to please. 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 properly seen me, such blind devotion cannot be deemed … how do you say? … an insult,’ responded Catherine with a smile. ‘And if they call me fair, how can I then not like the name they give me?’

I watched Gloucester bow deeply to Catherine and thought I saw a spark of recognition in his eyes, as if he realised 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 strategic value of flattery. Now, let us get this adventurous journey 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 attendants.’

There were only three of us to summon because all but one of Catherine’s French ladies-in-waiting had been left with their families in France. The exception was the devout and practical Agnes de Blagny, a knight’s daughter who had been orphaned and impoverished by her father’s death at the Battle of Agincourt. She had come to the French court with Catherine from their convent school, where they had been close friends. The other attendant was a young English beauty, Joan Beaufort, daughter of the Duchess of Clarence and step-daughter of King Henry’s brother Thomas, Duke of Clarence. The duchess was also accompanying Catherine to England to instruct her in the protocol of the English court. At nineteen and fourteen years old respectively, my two colleagues in attendance on the new queen were better suited, I willingly admitted, to help Catherine down the gangway and onto the gilded chair-litter that was roped tightly to the bobbing galley. Being the same age as the English king, I am not suggesting I was over the hill in any way, but I confess that my thirty-four years had broadened my beam and made me less agile than my younger companions. However, I think I can safely say that 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 girlhood. She had left her mother, Queen Isabeau, in Paris without a second thought, but in order to bring me with her to England she had raised me from the rank of menial servant and given me a courtier’s post as one of her closest confidantes. I had journeyed a long way from my father’s bakery on the banks of the Seine.

I bustled behind Agnes and Joan, directing proceedings as they did all the bending and tugging, easing the queen’s voluminous skirts down the narrow gangway. The king and the duke handed her into the galley and the girls helped her into the litter, tucking the folds of her costly gown around her feet to keep it clear of the water.

As the galley drew nearer to the beach, seven men wearing short doublets and thigh-high bottins started to wade out towards us, the wavelets lapping first at their leather-clad ankles and then rising up their shins. The shingle shelved very gradually and they were a good thirty yards offshore before we came alongside them, at which point the Duke of Gloucester stood up and leaped casually over the side, landing up to his thighs and causing a mighty splash. Muttering under my breath, I hastily brushed the water drops from Catherine’s fine worsted skirts as the rowers shipped their oars and those nearest to the chair-litters began to untie the ropes attaching them to the galley.

‘Have no fear, my beautiful queen,’ Gloucester said as the galley rocked turbulently, unbalanced by the rowers’ efforts to heave Catherine’s litter over the side and onto the shoulders of the bearers. ‘Archbishop Chichele was our last carry and he is twice your weight.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the other three men in his team and signalled with his free arm. ‘Forward, fellow wardens!’

As they began moving, I saw Catherine raise her chin, summon a fixed smile and lift one hand to wave to the crowd. On the other side of the galley, King Henry was already shore-bound.

The rowers returned to their oars and the galley began to swing away towards the jetty, giving me a clear view as the Duke of Gloucester suddenly sank up to his chest and the queen’s chair tilted violently.

I cried out in alarm and the cheers from the onlookers instantly turned to a collective gasp of horror as Catherine lurched forward in her seat, clinging desperately with the one hand that was still clutching the arm of the chair. The duke appeared to struggle to regain his balance, but just as it seemed Catherine must topple forward into the water, he thrust his arm upwards to return the litter to the horizontal and throw her back into the chair. There was no particular reason to think that his stumble had been deliberate, but I could not help wondering. Although he was soaked to the armpits, he did not look greatly troubled when he turned to speak to her and I had the chance to see his face.

‘A thousand pardons, my queen. A loose stone attempted to trip me, but as you see it failed. All is well and your adoring public awaits.’

The galley moved out of earshot before I could catch Catherine’s reply, but I recognised her expression. It was one of anger and suspicion, as if she too doubted Gloucester’s integrity, but it lasted only moments, then her smile returned, growing ever more confident as the cheers of the crowd redoubled. I cast a glance at King Henry to gauge his reaction to the incident, but he was looking the other way and had not seen it.

Marshalled behind stave-wielding sergeants, the people surged forward on the shingle waving evergreen branches and coloured banners and hailing their hero king and his trophy French queen.

‘God bless Queen Kate!’ Fair Kate! ‘Bonny queen!’ ‘Hail to the conquering king!’ ‘God bless good King Hal!’

From this moment of her arrival on the Kent coast, there was the same noisy tumult wherever she went. Gloucester had been right in every particular about the people being rowdy, but I was unprepared, even so, for the triumphant mood of the crowd as we passed through the steep streets of Dover in procession to the castle.

This scene was repeated on following days, time and time again, as the royal train made its slow progress towards London. At every village the populace turned out in their best clothes, precious relics and religious banners were paraded out of the churches and petitioners scrambled to catch the king’s attention or beg the queen’s blessing for their children. Even the weather showed favour, bestowing on the royal procession unseasonal warmth, bright sunshine and blue skies. Despite winter-bare trees and sparse vegetation, the countryside looked fertile and well-farmed, in sharp contrast to the abandoned and unkempt fields of Normandy, from where we had recently come.

It was during our three-week stay in Rouen, before we took ship for England, that Catherine had insisted I take riding lessons. As a baker’s daughter from the back streets of Paris, I had never learned to ride and, until I began to travel around France with the court, I had never seen the need. Even though I had been married at fifteen to a groom in the royal stables, apart from our frequent and lusty use of the hayloft above their stalls, I had never had much truck with horses until Catherine decided it was time I did. I had rapidly discovered that now she was a queen, when she made a decision something was done about it.

‘You cannot accompany me on a royal progress if you have to ride on one of the baggage carts, Mette,’ she had complained. ‘I may need you en route and will not want to wait while someone goes to search for you at the back of the procession. Besides, I assure you that it is much more comfortable to ride a horse than to be bounced around on a cart.’

One of King Henry’s 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 reined in behind the horse in front. I was not intending to chase after the hunt or indulge in adventurous gallops across moor and heath. What I had not anticipated, however, were the aches and pains that resulted from sitting on a horse for long periods of time.

However, my legs and rump grew accustomed to it and by the time we reached Canterbury, I had become quite comfortable in my sideways saddle, and grown 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.

But my poor mare had begun to limp by the time we arrived at the abbey of St Augustine in Canterbury, where the royal household was to lodge while visiting the city and the tomb of St Thomas à Becket. That evening the king and queen were dining privately with the abbot and I took the opportunity to slip away and check whether any of the grooms had tended my horse’s front foot. But when I led her from her stall, I found that she was still lame. Dusk was falling and I had no idea what to do, so I began searching about for some assistance. To my surprise, the only person I encountered was little 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 at this time. What 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 and step-niece, Joan was one of the most eligible damsels of the court.

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

‘My horse is lame,’ I said. ‘I want someone to tend her foot.’

An eager look animated the court beauty’s face. ‘I know about horses. I always preferred the stables over needlework. Has the mare got a stone in her hoof?’

I shook my head. ‘I have no idea. How do you tell?’

‘Let me take a look. Is that her over there?’ She trudged off to where I had tied Genevieve back in her stall a few yards away, ignoring the horse dung and wet straw which mired her slippers and sullied the hem of her priceless brocade gown. Giving the mare a gentle pat, she bent down and expertly lifted her front hoof, peering at its underside. ‘Yes, there is a stone in this one.’ 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.’




2 (#ulink_02fa0bde-6917-504b-bb5e-e6ccaa390a58)


If Catherine had ever been in a frenzy it had abated by the time I got to her, but she was certainly angry, pacing around the grand bedchamber in the abbot’s house, which he had vacated in favour of his royal guests.

‘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.’ It was hardly a grovelling apology, but I soon realised that perhaps it should have been.

‘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 any 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 her 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 to a stone in your horse’s hoof!’

Agnes de Blagny, who had borne the brunt of the queen’s initial outburst, was making faces at me behind Catherine’s back. I found her 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 suddenly brimming with tears. ‘All day people have been calling out my name, begging for my glance, holding out their children 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 Christian 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 all 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 might be the darling of the crowds but, deep down, she would be an inadequate 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 the very embodiment of the unification of the two kingdoms. She was the living proof of his remarkable conquest of more than half of France, but the joining of the two crowns, set in law by the Treaty of Troyes at their wedding eight months before, would be useless unless there was a male child born of the marriage; an heir to inherit the empire King Henry was creating and to carry it through to succeeding generations. On the surface Catherine was the ultra-beautiful, super-confident Queen of England and presumptive Queen of France, but inside she was a quivering mass of insecurities, all centred on the imperative conception of that child.

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 ever since we had been reunited when she came to the French court at thirteen, fresh from her convent school. To me she would always be ‘Mademoiselle’, however many grand titles she acquired. ‘He 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 complained, fretfully tugging at the pins that secured her veil to her headdress. ‘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 performed his duty in the marital bed for some time and I was guiltily aware that I might be partly responsible for this lack. A month ago, just after Epiphany, Catherine had miscarried. 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 they had not made any announcement to this effect, having followed my suggestion that it might be best to wait until a few more weeks had passed; so Catherine had not had to suffer court murmurings of dissatisfaction and doubt about her ability to bear a child. But of course it had been a bitter disappointment for the king and queen. To my surprise, the king had not been critical of Catherine or blamed any lack of care on the part of her attendants, including myself, which had emboldened me to advise him that it would be wise to allow her a few weeks to recover 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.

I decided to try a fresh approach. ‘I recall the king saying he was eager that you should be crowned his true consort before any heir was born, Mademoiselle. Perhaps he has decided that it would be best even to delay conception until after your coronation, believing that God will bless your union once you are both consecrated.’

The feverish removal of hair-pins ceased suddenly. Catherine now turned to meet my gaze, which she had so far avoided, a flicker of hope dawning. ‘Do you think that could be so, Mette? Really?’

I nodded vigorously, glad to have provided at least some crumb of comfort. ‘Yes, Mademoiselle. As you know, the king lays great stress on divine approval of his actions. Truly I believe you should not doubt his regard for you or his trust in God’s holy will.’

She frowned. ‘But if he is convinced that it is God’s will anyway, why has he sworn to pray for a son at the shrine of every English saint we pass in our progress through the kingdom?’

I gave her a mischievous smile. ‘Why do you attend Mass every day, Mademoiselle, when God must know that you worship Him unreservedly anyway? Is it not to demonstrate your faith to the world?’

Catherine’s brow wrinkled as she considered this. ‘Actually, I think it is to reinforce my faith, Mette,’ she said after a moment.

‘Well then, perhaps the king is reinforcing his faith in God’s will by giving Him a little reminder now and then,’ I responded.

She gave me a reproachful look. ‘I have said it before, Mette, you are too flippant in your attitude to God and the Church.’ However she spoke more calmly having revealed what was the immediate cause of her outburst. ‘Tomorrow the king will be leaving us and going on ahead to London to supervise arrangements for my coronation,’ she informed us. ‘The date has been set for February the twenty-third. That is just over a fortnight away.’

‘And what will you do in the meanwhile, Mademoiselle?’ I asked, seeking to glean some idea of when and where we were to make our own arrangements for this momentous event.

‘We are to travel to Eltham Palace, which is apparently a royal palace close to London, where we can rest and organise ourselves for the big day.’ Catherine turned to young Joan, who had been hovering quietly nearby waiting to assist her to undress. ‘You may help me to choose my maids of honour for the ceremony, Joan. I am told that a number of young ladies are to present themselves at Eltham Palace for my consideration and I believe three of them share your name, or a version of it. It seems that in future I may call “Joan!” and four of you will answer.’

Young Joan Beaufort lifted her chin proudly. ‘But I was here first, Madame. The others will have to take different names.’

I was delighted to hear Catherine’s laugh ring out and see a twinkle return to her eye. ‘You are right, little one! You shall be the one and only Joan and we will call the others something else. Meanwhile, please come now and help me take off this headdress.’

Joan advanced to pick up the discarded veil and remove the jewelled net and fillet which had restrained Catherine’s pale gold hair for her dinner with the abbot. Agnes and I exchanged relieved glances; a crisis had erupted and now seemed to have subsided, but I did not doubt there would be many more over the next weeks and months. This had been a warning that for the foreseeable future we would have to deal with a vulnerable young queen whose growing popularity would doubtless continue to wreak its share of havoc with her mood, causing her to veer alarmingly between intense self-belief and a desperate sense of inadequacy, unless and until her confidence was bolstered by the arrival of a viable male child. King Henry would not be the only one praying for an heir at the shrines of the English saints. Very likely I would be creeping in behind him with my own fervent prayers of intercession.




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Our first sight of Eltham Palace was a disappointment to those of us who measured English palaces against the sprawling, marbled splendour of the French king’s Hôtel de St Pol in Paris. Eltham had once been a royal hunting lodge and the densely wooded park around it was certainly extensive, but the demesne itself had been developed in a higgledy-piggledy fashion with a variety of accommodation towers and half-timbered guest houses strung out around the walled bailey, cheek-by-jowl with the kitchens, dairies and breweries, not to mention rows of lean-to wooden stables, kennels and mews, with all their attendant muck and stink. Situated above all this, on a raised mound, were the royal apartments, great hall and chapel which, although built of beautiful mellow stone and modernised with elegant oriel windows, looked surprisingly inadequate for a palace where King Henry’s father was reported to have lavishly entertained the Byzantine Emperor twenty years before. However, as we rode up to the gatehouse, I noticed a vast tourney ground laid out beyond the curtain wall and concluded that the entertainment on that grand occasion must have been chiefly al fresco.

My information about Eltham had been provided by a pleasant and unassuming young man called Walter Vintner who joined us during the later stages of our journey. To my surprise he did not seem averse to riding alongside an older, wimpled member of the queen’s entourage. As we rode out of Rochester that morning, I had smiled at him, thinking what a personable youth he was, polite, fresh-faced and soberly attired in riding hose and boots, a short dark-brown doublet and cloak and a cheerful green hat with a feather in it. A clue to his employment was an ink-horn which he wore slung from his belt alongside a leather scrip, which I quickly learned contained the quills and paper he needed as one of the clerks of the king’s household.

After we had discovered each other’s positions within the royal retinue, I took the bold step of pursuing him with flattery. ‘You are so kind to speak French with me, Master Vintner, and with such clarity that I am prompted to pick your brains rather than those of your fellow countrymen who speak with accents I am afraid I find difficult to understand.’

‘Ah, you have my father to thank for that,’ he confided. ‘He is so often in France on the king’s business that he speaks the language like a Parisian and has teased me into doing the same.’

‘Royal service is a family tradition, then,’ I remarked. ‘Is your father also in the king’s employ?’

‘Indirectly,’ he replied. ‘He is a lawyer at the Court of Common Pleas in London, but the royal council has need of his advice on diplomatic missions to Rouen and Paris. I do not ask what these missions are, nor do I think he would tell me if I did.’

My eyebrows probably disappeared under the band of my coif. ‘Is your father a spy then, Master Vintner?’

He laughed. ‘No, Madame! He deals with confidential legal negotiations between the English and French administrations. In truth I know no more than that. And please, why do you not call me Walter? I am not yet used to being addressed as “Master”.’

‘Why, how old are you … W-walter?’ I stumbled over the very English way he said his name, pronouncing the W as I remembered Catherine’s younger brother Charles had mispronounced his Rs when he was an infant in the nursery, and Catherine was his adored playmate; the same brother who now called her traitor for marrying his country’s conqueror.

‘I am nineteen. Although my father thinks I behave more like a twelve year old.’

I was struck by the sudden thought that he was the same age as my firstborn son would have been, had he lived. But he had not lived; instead I had suckled Princess Catherine and come to love her and, for that reason, now found myself here in her train on foreign soil with a lump in my throat.

I coughed, forcing out my next words. ‘Fathers can be hard to please. What does your mother think?’

His face grew solemn and he made the sign of the cross. ‘Sadly for us all, my mother died last year.’

My heart gave a little lurch to think of his grief for the mother so recently deceased. ‘God give her rest,’ I murmured. ‘But who is “us all”? Do you have brothers and sisters?’

‘Two sisters,’ he nodded, ‘younger than me. They try to run the house, but fifteen and thirteen is too young really.’

‘And who guards them while you and your father are away?’ I asked with concern. ‘They will need protection surely?’ Then I heard my own words and felt ashamed of their intrusive nature. ‘I am sorry. It is none of my business.’

He regarded me thoughtfully. ‘No, do not apologise. It is kind of you to take an interest. In truth it is an awkward situation because our aunt – my father’s sister – has recently come to live in the house. She is a widow but my sisters do not like her. Meanwhile, my father buries his grief in his work and does not notice.’ He gathered up his reins and clicked at his horse impatiently. ‘Hey, Dobbin, shall we get there today?’

I took his impatience with the horse to be an indication that he wanted an end to the subject so, after a pause while I urged my Genevieve to close the gap between us, I reverted to my original topic. ‘Have you been to Eltham before … er, Walter?’ I asked.

‘Once,’ he admitted, ‘on the way to Dover. I was only recruited into the royal household last month to serve the king on his return.’

‘It is a royal palace though, is it not? Is it much used?’

‘I believe the king has hunted there a number of times and the court came for Christmas a few years ago. I am told that his grace’s father liked it particularly, but of course the present king has been out of England a good deal.’

‘Yes indeed. He has seen more of Normandy than England lately,’ I observed. ‘What do your fellow countrymen think of that?’

Walter shot me an appraising glance. ‘Well the battle of Agincourt was a great victory, of course, so he is very popular.’

‘For us French it was a catastrophe,’ I remarked dryly.

I saw his cheeks colour. ‘Yes,’ he muttered awkwardly, ‘I suppose it was.’

‘What do the English think about having a French queen?’

His colour deepened further. ‘She is beautiful, Queen Kate!’ he exclaimed. ‘The people love her as soon as they see her, as you have witnessed.’

‘Yes, they do,’ I agreed, ‘and long may it last.’

‘Why should it not?’ Walter cried. ‘A glorious king and a beautiful queen – that is what the people want in their monarchs.’

Catherine may have thought she would miss King Henry’s company at Eltham but, in truth, there was little time for moping. Couriers brought letters daily, outlining the developing plans for her coronation and the surrounding celebrations; there were gowns to be tried and adjusted, headdresses to fit, veils and jewels selected to match each set of robes, visiting courtiers to entertain and for exercise, some hawking in the surrounding forest.

In the midst of all this, a group of court damsels rode in for her appraisal as maids of honour and over the following days I was happy to hear Catherine’s laugh ring out amidst a chime of girlish giggles as half a dozen young daughters of the nobility did their best to teach her some of the English court dances, while she attempted to teach them the French way to play bowls and they all swapped tips on the art of harmless flirtation. Catherine did not confide her thoughts to me but, as a close observer, I soon assessed which girls I hoped she would choose. Then, just before she was due to appoint them, the Duke of Gloucester threw a stone into still waters when he arrived at Eltham unannounced, bringing with him among his large retinue, a young lady. Within minutes of their arrival, a page came to Catherine’s solar to request audience with the queen for his grace of Gloucester and the Damoiselle Eleanor Cobham.

‘What does it mean this word “Damoiselle”, is it an English version of our “Mademoiselle?”’ Catherine asked her sister-in-law, the Duchess of Clarence.

We were all in the great solar, a royal presence chamber large enough to hold upwards of twenty people comfortably and had been listening to a new poem celebrating the royal marriage, penned by a poet called John Lydgate whom King Henry apparently much admired and patronised. It was written in English and, even though it was declaimed with great clarity by a professional player, Catherine had been frowning over the strange language and meter of the verse, so she looked quite grateful for the interruption.

‘Yes, more or less,’ allowed the duchess. The two royal ladies sat in canopied armchairs, while the young would-be maids of honour had grouped themselves around them on low cushioned stools and benches. ‘The title is used at court now to indicate a maiden of birth but not of noble blood. Her father is probably a knight ordinary, a lord of a manor but not a baron. She therefore does not merit the title “Lady”.’

‘I see.’ Catherine turned to Agnes with a smile, addressing her in French. ‘There you are then, Mademoiselle de Blagny. It seems that here in England you are a Damoiselle.’

Agnes and I were occupying a sill-seat in one of the solar’s long oriel windows, which protruded over the main courtyard of the palace and gave a clear view of the entrance to the royal apartments. We had witnessed the arrival of Gloucester’s entourage and exchanged intrigued glances as we watched the duke elbowing a squire away to personally help a young woman down from her horse in a way which had led me to assume she was at least a countess. Not so, it would seem. This must be the Damoiselle Cobham, although with the hood of her cloak pulled over her head against the chill weather, it had been impossible to see her face.

When she walked into the room, it was instantly obvious that Eleanor Cobham was a beauty; small in stature with glossy dark auburn hair smoothed under a little green veiled cap, a pale, unblemished complexion and huge black-lashed eyes the colour of violets. She was also very young, with all the grace of a yearling hind as she knelt before Catherine’s chair with her head bowed and her eyes modestly downcast, her robe a simple surcôte of pale-green wool, untrimmed and oddly old-fashioned, over a kirtle of cream linen with trumpet-shaped braid-edged sleeves. Compared to the bevy of stylish, blue-eyed blondes around her, with their bright-coloured houppelande gowns, rich fur trimmings and jewelled headdresses, she looked like a dainty wren among goldfinches.

The Duke of Gloucester bent his knee deferentially to Catherine. ‘God’s greetings to your grace,’ he said with one of his dentally perfect smiles and precise flourishes. ‘I beg to present Damoiselle Eleanor Cobham, the daughter of one of my ablest troop captains, Reginald Cobham, the lord of Sterborough. In return for valiant service under my banner at the siege of Cherbourg, I undertook to introduce his eldest unmarried daughter at court. Sadly her mother is too unwell to act in this capacity, but it came to my notice that you were appointing young ladies to your service as handmaids and attendants at your coronation, so I took the liberty of bringing the damoiselle here to Eltham, confident that you will find her entirely suitable for such a role in your train.’

Gloucester did not remain on one knee for long, moving to greet the Duchess of Clarence before stepping back to allow them both to inspect his protégée.

Catherine studied the crown of the little green cap with its pristine shoulder-length drop of white veiling. ‘Pray rise and lift your head, damoiselle, so that we may see your face, for I think it is a very pretty face,’ she said kindly, watching Eleanor’s graceful return to standing and the proud lift of her chiselled chin above the smooth, pale column of her throat. ‘But then all these young ladies display English beauty at its best, do they not, my lady of Clarence? Your daughter, Joan, not least among them.’

‘Indeed they do, your grace,’ agreed the duchess. ‘And you have wisely decided to choose your companions according to their sweetness of character and temperament, rather than their looks.’

‘Exactly,’ nodded Catherine. ‘So you see, my lord duke I cannot instantly grant any request to include the Damoiselle Cobham among them until I have enjoyed more of her company.’ Ignoring the duke’s frown of displeasure, she smiled at the newcomer. ‘Meanwhile, we are happy to welcome you, Eleanor, and I will ask Mademoiselle de Blagny to introduce you to the other young ladies and make sure you are comfortable, whilst I retire to learn more of the arrangements for my coronation from his grace of Gloucester.’

She rose from her chair and there was a rustle of skirts as we all rose with her but, before she departed, she cast a second glance at the damoiselle, who now appeared even smaller, measured against the others. ‘How old are you, Eleanor?’ she asked.

‘Fourteen, your grace.’ There was a slight hesitation and the girl blushed before adding, ‘That is to say, soon I shall be fourteen.’

‘Yes, I thought you were very young. Not yet fully grown, I think. Well, time will remedy that.’ Catherine addressed the duke directly. ‘Let us take refreshment in my privy chamber, my lord. I gather that as Great Chamberlain you have been making all the arrangements for the feast. Will you join us, Madame?’

This last was to the Duchess of Clarence, who expertly swept back her trailing skirt and followed the queen and the duke from the solar. As soon as the door was closed, a burst of chatter broke out among the assembled girls, several of whom clustered around the newcomer asking where she was from and whether they knew any of her family. Eleanor looked slightly startled, but obligingly answered their questions, although it soon became clear that her connections were not recognised.

Listening to this exchange, the French word parvenu sprang to my mind, and I noticed that while Eleanor’s eyes might be the colour of violets, there was nothing of the shy wildflower about her. In truth, this was a shameful thought on my part because if anyone was parvenu in the assembled company, it was me. However, Eleanor’s manner and dress were such as to make it obvious that here was a girl who was not from a vastly privileged background and who lacked the sophistication gifted by wealth and social position. I wondered if the Duke of Gloucester had done her any favours by dropping her in amongst these judgemental daughters of the English nobility and was minded to feel sorry for her. But at thirteen she already showed the composure of some young ladies of twenty and the cool self-containment of a high-bred cat; I decided that I could probably save my pity for those who needed it. If and when the Damoiselle Cobham entered the queen’s service, I suspected it would be only a matter of days before she displayed all the traits and skills of a seasoned courtier.

I had begun to wonder whether Catherine would ever seek my opinion of the candidates for her maids of honour and had more or less resigned myself to accepting whoever was foisted upon me, since it would inevitably fall to me to break them in, if that was the right term for showing these proud fillies how and in what ways they were expected to serve their queen with grace and humility. There were several among them who I thought might find the humility part of it hard to stomach.More encouragingly, there were some for whom it would be a natural extension of a careful upbringing. These latter were the girls I hoped would make the grade and I was gratified to have my opinion sought later that night when Catherine retired to bed.

‘Which of the young ladies shall I call to serve you tonight, Mademoiselle?’ I asked, pushing a poker into the embers of the fire ready to heat her bedtime posset.

She made a face. ‘None of them, Mette. They all look at me with such questing eyes, as if willing me to tell them they are chosen. I know their families are waiting and hoping they will be given a position. It is so important to them and I cannot bear to disappoint.’ She crossed to the prie-dieu and I thought she was about to kneel and pray, but instead she suddenly turned and wailed at me. ‘Help me, Mette! I do not know what to do.’

‘About the appointments?’ I spread my hands to indicate my hesitation. ‘What does the duchess say?’

‘She says I should take the ones I like best, but I believe the king would not think that the right thing to do. Some of them are of higher rank than others, some of their families deserve royal patronage more than others, and some would just make better attendants.’

‘Then I think you should take those,’ I said at once. ‘At least they should be at the top of the list. After all, there is no point in having people around you who are lazy or who resent the tasks they are required to do.’

‘Are there any who do that?’ She seemed surprised at the suggestion.

‘I have noticed one or two, Mademoiselle. Of course you would not see the faces they pull behind your back.’

‘No, of course not. You must tell me their names, Mette. And what about the Cobham girl – Eleanor? I think she is too young yet to be let loose about the court, but I am reluctant to offend the Duke of Gloucester. After all, he is the king’s brother.’ By now Catherine had sat down on a stool beside the hearth and was staring into the fire.

‘Why do you think the duke has singled her out?’

I tried not to inject my question with hidden meaning, but I must have failed because she glanced up at me, frowning. ‘He said it was as a favour to her father.’

‘Yes, but when does a royal duke ever owe a favour to a mere troop-captain?’ I pointed out. ‘It seems to me there is something not quite right about it.’

‘What are you trying to tell me, Mette? That the duke has lecherous intentions?’

‘I have no cause to think his grace of Gloucester unscrupulous,’ I said hurriedly. ‘The girl is very young, a beautiful child.’

She held up her hand sharply, cutting me off. ‘Yes, yes, I know. You need not say it. A young girl with her looks is always vulnerable, especially if she does not have powerful relatives to protect her. So you think I should send her back to her mother? And you are right. I will tell the duke that I will reconsider her in a year’s time. Let him be satisfied with that.’

I pulled the hot iron out of the fire and knocked the ashes off it before plunging it into a jug of spiced wine. A tantalizing aroma of fermented fruit rose in the sizzling steam.

‘And the other young ladies, Mademoiselle? Which of them will you have?’ I asked, reaching for a silver hanap from the nearby buffet.

She gave me a mischievous smile. ‘Unless you tell me they have been pulling faces behind my back, I think I will appoint the three Joans or Joannas or whatever they call themselves – they are all Jeanne to me. I know it will make for confusion, but we can use their surnames and they all seem pleasant and uncomplicated. Also Belknap and Troutbeck are from the north …’ Her brow furrowed in concentration as she struggled to pronounce the next words. ‘… Lanca-shire and York-shire I believe – and will be helpful keeping me abreast of matters in those far outposts of the kingdom. With Lady Joan and Agnes that will make five. What do you think?’

I answered her question with one of my own. ‘Do you not need six maids of honour to carry your train at the coronation, Mademoiselle? I hope you are not expecting me to line up with the young damsels.’

Catherine giggled. ‘And have the mother ewe plodding along beside the skipping lambs? No, no, Mette – that would never do. I will ask the beautiful Damoiselle Cobham to be the sixth train-bearer before she returns home to Sterborough – wherever that is. I hope that will appease the Duke of Gloucester as well as compensating the child a little. Now, Mette, tell me I am the queen of diplomacy.’

I made her a low curtsy. ‘You are the queen of queens, Mademoiselle,’ I assured her, offering the warmed wine. ‘I hope this is not so hot it scalds your grace’s sharp wits.’




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‘What can I hear, Mette?’ asked Catherine when I drew back the bed-curtains at dawn. ‘It started a few minutes ago and I have been lying here listening, thinking it might be angels.’

‘It is a choir, Mademoiselle,’ I told her. ‘There are boys dressed all in white on the green below your window and they actually look rather like angels, only lacking wings. They are here to herald your coronation day.’

‘That is very special. They sound wonderful.’ Catherine made to sit up but hastily snuggled down again. ‘Blessed Marie it is cold! Those poor boys, how can they sing in this frost? They need something to warm them. Will you make sure they get hot drinks, Mette?’

‘I will send a page with your orders at once, Mademoiselle,’ I assured her. ‘But do not let your own drink get cold.’ I had placed a cup of warm buttermilk and honey at her bedside. I held out her chamber robe and with reluctance she shed the covers, quickly stepping down from the bed to don the fur-lined robe. ‘The fire has been burning all night so you can warm yourself at the hearth.’

At last the day of her coronation had arrived and, following a tradition begun by England’s first King Henry, Catherine had spent the night in the Tower of London.

The previous morning she and the king had left Eltham at dawn, mounted on white horses, bells jingling on their harness and tasselled trappings of scarlet and blue boldly displaying the lions of England and the fleurs-de-lys of France. They were met on Blackheath Common by the city’s mayor and aldermen who had ceremonially escorted them through the narrow shop-lined thoroughfare that crossed London Bridge and into the crowded and festooned streets of the city. I had not taken part in the parade that followed, but Catherine had excitedly described it when she returned at dusk.

‘London is magnificent, Mette. Hundreds of bolts of cloth of gold had been distributed by the Guild of London Mercers and hung from the windows of the houses where they billowed in the breeze, turning the streets into a golden pathway. It was truly magical. A holiday had been declared and the roads were free of foul-smelling rubbish and lined with young girls in white kirtles with baskets full of dried herbs and rose-petals to throw under our horse’s hooves so that we smelled only fragrant perfumes as we rode. For the duration of the parade the fountains ran with wine, although as you know King Henry has an abhorrence of drunkenness and had ordered it diluted with spring water. Even so, there were plenty of people in very high spirits. Spectators crammed every vantage point, blowing trumpets and horns, and some of the more agile citizens leaned from attic casements or perched on rooftops and even clung to church steeples to get a clear view. I was fearful that someone might fall, but no one did, as far as I know.

‘There was plenty for them to see. On raised platforms at each crossroads mummers staged biblical tableaux celebrating marriage and monarchy and outside every church on the route choirs sang psalms and anthems. Fifty knights of the king’s retinue rode before and behind us flying their brightly coloured standards and wearing full suits of armour, which glinted in the sunshine. Then, mounted on bright chestnut palfreys behind them were my six maids of honour attracting deafening cheers and whistles – and so they should have, in their blue fur-trimmed mantles and sparkling jewelled headdresses. We made a circular route through the centre of the city, stopping at St Paul’s church to hear a celebration mass, and then to a feast in the Guildhall before returning along the river, past moored barges, docks and warehouses all decked with flags and crammed with more cheering crowds of people. I have to admit that today we were more enthusiastically greeted than when we rode into Paris last Christmas.’

I had left the royal cavalcade after crossing London Bridge and ridden with the household servants and baggage straight to the royal apartments in the Tower of London, on the city’s eastern flank. The quiet of the inner ward, where I had spent the day supervising the queen’s unpacking, was suddenly broken by the fanfare of trumpets. I found a window from which to watch the returning procession as it clattered over the drawbridge that spanned the moat, past the Lion Tower where the king’s animals were housed, through the massive gatehouse, under another gatehouse and into the inner ward. Steam rose from the horses’ flanks and the riders’ cheeks were flushed bright red, their breath condensing in the icy air as daylight faded. A hot tub awaited the queen before a blazing fire, not only to warm a body stiff and chilled by the February wind, but even more importantly to begin the purification process essential before the divine rite of coronation.

The queen would make a lone vigil ahead of the solemnity of coronation. Having escorted his queen formally to her lodgings, the king immediately rode away again to Westminster, leaving the Archbishop of Canterbury with Catherine in the royal chapel of St John. The archbishop spent an hour explaining the vows she would be taking and the indelible nature of the sanctity which anointment with the holy chrism would bestow. When she emerged, she looked pale and slightly dazed and went immediately to the small oratory beside her chamber, where she dropped to her knees before the portable altar that always travelled with her with its precious triptych of the Virgin.

Each of the maids of honour had been given particular duties regarding the queen’s personal grooming – meticulous washing, trimming and brushing and the application of fragrant unguents – but I knew that if Catherine wished to pray, these treatments would have to wait. The wooden tub, draped in fresh white linen and set before the fire in the royal solar, had to be refreshed with hot water and re-draped three times before the queen felt that the preparation of her mind and soul for coronation could give way to the smoothing and soothing of her body and its ritual cleansing.

I waited with her in the little oratory, standing quietly in the deep shadows cast by the flickering wax pillar candles. When she rose from the prie-dieu and turned to leave, she noticed me there, smiled at me wistfully and moved close to whisper, ‘I do not feel worthy, Mette. I fear the filth of Burgundy will never be prayed away.’

There was no one else to hear us but, nevertheless, I replied in the same hushed whisper, ‘You have said yourself that the crown is your destiny, Mademoiselle. You did not allow that devil duke to snatch this marriage from you and now your coronation will demonstrate forever your high worth in the eyes of God.’

Although nothing had been said, I was intuitively aware of Catherine’s fervent hope that the crowning ritual would bring a spiritual rebirth that might banish once and for all the dark memories of the torrid abuse inflicted on her by Jean, Duke of Burgundy; appalling ill-treatment which had ended only with the violent death of the duke, murdered in the presence of, if not by the hand of, her brother Charles. I had prayed that her marriage to King Henry would allow her to set the past aside, but it seemed it might take more than that.

‘Perhaps the weight of the crown will finally instil a sense of right,’ I added gently; ‘that and the birth of an heir.’

She closed her eyes and crossed herself. ‘I have been begging Our Lady for both, Mette. I earnestly pray that she will intercede for me and that I will emerge from the abbey tomorrow fortified with God’s divine strength and ready to carry the heir that our countries demand.’

When her eyes opened, the expression of determination in their deep-blue depths startled me. Looking back, I had not anticipated how fundamentally the catharsis of coronation might affect her.

Over recent days two of the three Joannas (they all shared the extra syllable to their name) had formed a tight friendship, always keeping together and helping each other in the performance of their tasks. Joanna Belknap and Joanna Troutbeck were both from the north of England and seemed to possess a certain down-to-earth practicality. In order to differentiate between them, Catherine had decided to call them by their family names, a habit which made life easier for the rest of us but which did not please the third Joanna whose name was Coucy, a solitary girl not given to smiling readily or volunteering for anything. She complained out of Catherine’s hearing that she considered being addressed only by her surname to be disrespectful. When I suggested that being in the service of the queen and addressed by name at all could only be deemed an honour, she gave one of her habitual, dismissive sniffs. Through careful enquiry I discovered that the Coucy family held, among others, the estate and barony of Dudley, which included possession of a substantial castle, and that her father had served King Henry in France and was recently appointed a court official. The Coucys were what might be described as ‘top-rank’ and very conscious of the fact.

When all six young ladies came to dress Catherine on the morning of her coronation Coucy, sniffed and sneezed and complained about the penetrating chill of their allotted rooms at the top of the White Tower, but Eleanor Cobham remarked on the glorious view to be had from its windows.

‘They are calling it “coronation weather”, your grace,’ she told Catherine, kneeling to present the first of the queen’s fine white hose, embroidered with fleurs-de-lys to signify her French royal lineage. ‘From our chamber you can see across the River Thames and miles out over the countryside. I think today you might even be able to see as far as my father’s manor of Hever!’

Catherine merely smiled and raised her eyebrows, being distracted by Agnes who was polishing her long pale-blonde hair with a silken cloth to make it glossy, but Coucy gave another of her chronic sniffs and commented tartly, ‘Hever? I thought you came from some place with a borough in it, Cobham.’

‘Yes, my home is at Sterborough,’ Eleanor agreed equably, affecting not to notice the other girl’s scornful tone, or her use of the surname. Joanna Coucy had decided that, since she was to be addressed by her family name, she would call all her fellow maids of honour by theirs. ‘But my family has rents from more than one manor, as I am sure does yours. Hever is one of them.’

‘Not manors,’ responded Coucy scathingly. ‘My family has estates – and more than one of those.’

Catherine eased her foot gently into the toe of the pale hose and stretched out her leg for it to be rolled up. Without turning she said, ‘Is it not your task to raise my skirts, Coucy, to allow Eleanor to pull up the hose? And you might remember, while you boast of your estates, that they are granted to your father by the king and what is granted may also be withdrawn.’

Joanna Coucy flushed bright red, muttered an apology and carefully lifted the skirts of the queen’s chemise and chamber robe. I watched Eleanor duck her head to hide a smirk as she tied one cream satin garter and wondered how long Coucy would keep her place at the queen’s side.

Catherine wore two kirtles for her coronation – one of fine ivory Champagne linen directly over her chemise and the other of more substantial weight, for warmth when she was ceremonially stripped of her grand outer robes before her anointing. This second garment was a tunic of heavy white silk, lined with a layer of soft shaved lamb’s wool and sewn with tiny seed-pearls. It had tight sleeves with long trailing tippets of ermine. Around her neck was draped a white stole of the type worn by bishops and senior clergy, lavishly embroidered in shimmering gold thread. At the anointing, and before the crown was set on Catherine’s head, this stole would be removed to allow the sumptuous ivory velvet houppelande gown made for her in Paris to be drawn on and fastened with four fabulous diamond-studded clasps which were part of her French dower, followed by the crested, crimson, ermine-trimmed mantle of state, the train of which was twenty-feet long. Abbot Haweden of Westminster was due to officiate at the anointing, and he would keep the stole as a reward and a memento of his pivotal role in Catherine’s transformation from ordinary mortal to one of God’s divine representatives on earth.

In the Abbey Church of St Peter, I squeezed into the north transept among the officials of the royal household, where we had a clear view of the raised chancel and the high altar. There the carved and gilded throne stood on a stepped dais in the centre of a beautiful mosaic pavement, laid in squares and circles of brightly coloured stone and glass. Above it heraldic banners hung from the ceiling vault, showing the honours and devices of all the English Kings since William of Normandy. And so, as the ceremony began, I was able to raise my voice in loud approbation along with the great congregation of barons and ladies, when we were asked if we would have Catherine as our rightful queen. She looked modest and graceful in her embroidered white kirtle with her hair tumbling loose from a simple circlet of gold as she was escorted to each corner of the chancel by King Henry and the abbot and their demands for approval were swamped by loud shouts of ‘Aye, we will!’

Then she was led to the altar by the Archbishop of Canterbury, where she made her solemn vows, speaking the Latin words fluently and without mistake. A lump came to my throat as I watched her prostrate herself before the great gold crucifix while the choir sang an anthem of dedication. She lay on cushions with arms outstretched in total supplication and inside my own head I could almost hear her fervent prayers that a great and compassionate God would demonstrate her worthiness to be queen by removing her burden of guilt and granting her an heir for England’s crown.

Her maids of honour came forward to raise her up and remove the stole and circlet. While the choristers sang a plangent benediction, she stood waiting, head bowed, under a cloth of gold canopy held by the four highest-ranking noblewomen of the court. Then the archbishop advanced to anoint her with the holy chrism on her forehead, intoning solemn prayers of dedication and intercession. Another anthem was sung while the holy oil was carefully wiped from her skin with a soft cloth, which was carried to the altar and placed reverently in a jewelled pyx. Then she was robed in her coronation garb and taken in procession to be enthroned.

During this procession the train of Catherine’s heavy ceremonial mantle was carried three to each side by the maids of honour. Halfway across the chancel, without warning or apparent cause, Joanna Coucy suddenly tripped. By a supreme effort she managed to save herself from tumbling to the floor but not without jerking the mantle and pulling Catherine to a halt.

The procession resumed directly, but the gasp of dismay I had heard reminded me of when the Duke of Gloucester had tripped on the Dover shore. While all attention was on the king, who stepped forward to formally place Catherine in the throne, I kept my gaze fixed on the maid who walked last in the line of train-bearers, a pace behind Joanna Coucy. It was Eleanor Cobham and on her lips there played an enigmatic, smug little smile. I could not help suspecting that Eleanor had deliberately trodden on Joanna Coucy’s skirt and made her trip in order to pay her back for slighting her family earlier in the day. Eleanor Cobham may have been the youngest of the maids of honour but she was far from being the meekest.

A glorious fanfare of trumpets and the sound of soaring soprano voices raised in a triumphant ‘Vivat Regina!’ and ‘Long Live the Queen!’ announced the moment the crown was placed reverently on Catherine’s head by the archbishop. The crown was a precious and ancient relic of English history first used by Queen Edith, consort of the saint-king Edward the Confessor, who was buried behind the altar only yards from the coronation throne and whose shrine and sanctuary was a much-visited place of pilgrimage. We French often expressed scorn for the Saxon people who had been conquered by the armies of Normandy nearly four hundred years before, calling them uncouth and uncivilised, but if the workmanship of that crown was anything to go by such disparagement was sadly misplaced. Dozens of highly polished gems of every size and hue were set in a coronet of gold surmounted by pearl-studded cross-bars centred on a finial carrying a diamond the size of a goose’s egg. It was a crown just light enough for a lady’s head, but grand enough for an empress’s regalia and wearing it, with two gold sceptres placed in her hands, Catherine was transformed from a beautiful young girl into a regal figure of power and patronage, an icon of sovereignty. I could not tell what was going on in her head, but in mine a subtle alteration was taking place. I felt my eyes fill with unbidden tears. The image of the infant Catherine tiny and helpless at my breast seemed to be slipping from my mental grasp, to be supplanted by this awesome figure of authority, crowned with gold and precious stones and invested with the symbols of earthly and divine power.

King Henry did not attend Catherine’s coronation feast. He explained that it was because the rules of precedence dictated that if he were there she would not be the centre of attention, would not be served first and her new subjects would not do her full honour, being obliged to bow the knee to him first. Disappointed though she may have been, in his absence she was unquestionably Queen of the Feast. The highest nobles in the land acted as her carver, server, butler and cupbearer, while two earls knelt at her feet throughout the meal, holding her sceptres. The Earl of Worcester made an impressive spectacle riding up and down the centre of Westminster Hall on his richly caparisoned horse, ostensibly to keep order, and the Duke of Gloucester, in his role as Great Chamberlain of England, strode grandly about displaying his physique in a short sable-trimmed doublet of gold-embroidered red satin, brandishing his staff of office and directing the seemingly endless parade of dishes and subtleties.

In truth it was more of a pageant than a meal, a feast for the eyes rather than the stomach, as course after course was presented, each one more magnificent than the last and, because Lent had begun the previous week, all consisting of fish in one form or another. I had never seen so many different sea foods presented in so many guises. Anything that swam or crawled under water and could be hooked, trapped or netted had been turned into a culinary masterpiece; sturgeon, lamprey, crayfish, crab, eel, carp, pike, turbot, sole, prawns, roach, perch, chub – roasted, stewed, jellied, baked or fried, embellished with sauces or topped with pastry confections – culminating in a spectacular roasted porpoise riding on a sea of gilded pastry and crowned in real gold. It was all too much for me, but the great and good of the kingdom seated around me on the lower floor of the hall clearly relished it. From her royal dais, the new queen consort smiled and nodded at her subjects, admired the extraordinary skill of the cooks and, I noticed, consumed scarcely a morsel.

In the absence of her husband, seated beside the newly crowned queen was a pleasant-faced young man who also wore a crown; King James of Scotland who, although a monarch in his own right, did not outrank Catherine because he was a king without a kingdom. It was the first time they had met and his story was one which kept Catherine spellbound for much of the feast and earned her heartfelt sympathy. So much so that she regaled us with it at length the following day.

‘King James told me that there are warring factions in Scotland, just as there are in France and that his older brother, David, the heir to the throne, was starved to death in a castle dungeon by his uncle, the Duke of Albany. Fearing that James might also fall into Albany’s clutches, his father, King Robert, put him on a ship to France for safety. He was only twelve. Just think how frightened and lonely he must have been. And before he got near France, his ship was boarded by pirates off England. When they discovered his identity, they sold him to the English king, my own lord’s father, who then demanded that the Scots pay a vast ransom for him. When word of this was brought to King Robert, he fell into a seizure and died; so Albany achieved his evil ambition, took power in Scotland and the ransom has never been paid.’

At this point she gave me a meaningful look. She was thinking, as I was, of the parallels between this story and the civil wars between Burgundy and Orleans which had shaken the throne of France and led to her own marriage treaty, in which King Henry had supplanted her brother Charles as the Heir of France. However, she made no reference to it and continued her tale of the hostage king.

‘King James says the English have always been kind to him, particularly my own lord, the king’s grace, and the recent death of Albany has set the stage for the ransom to be paid. So, since under the rules of chivalry it is a queen’s prerogative to plead just causes, I mean to ask the King of England to instigate the King of Scots’ return to his kingdom.’ She clapped her hands with delight at the prospect of exerting her new powers.

‘Incidentally, little Joan,’ she turned to address Lady Joan Beaufort, who was gazing absent-mindedly out of the solar window, no doubt wishing she was galloping over wide-open spaces to the cry of the hunting horn, ‘King James made particular mention of you during the feast. He pointed you out to me, asked your name and who your parents were. I think you might have made a conquest there.’

Surprised at being addressed directly, Lady Joan went pink, but I think it was more from confusion at being caught day-dreaming than embarrassment at being singled out by the Scottish monarch. ‘Oh,’ was all she said, casting her eyes down as though she had no idea what the queen was talking about.

Catherine laughed. ‘I think most girls would be more excited by the attentions of a young, unmarried king than you appear to be! Perhaps if I told you he has recently purchased a new jet-black destrier from the Earl Marshal’s stud you might be a little more impressed?’

Joan’s eyes did light up at this. ‘Has he, your grace? How much did he pay for it?’

The queen spluttered with mingled mirth and exasperation. ‘I have no idea. You will have to ask him yourself, but you may have to wait a while because he departs tomorrow in the king’s train. King Henry fears that the Welsh border is too dangerous for ladies to visit at present, so he intends to go there first while we stay here at Westminster and make preparations to meet him further north. Belknap and Troutbeck, I want you to tell me all about the northern shires. Who are their leaders? What are their grievances and concerns? I am to join the king at a place called Kenil-wort.’ She stumbled slightly on the pronunciation of the English name and gazed enquiringly about the room. ‘Is that how you say it? Which of you can tell me about this place?’

Joanna Coucy was ready, as always, to air her knowledge. ‘It is the grandest of the Lancastrian palaces, your grace, situated right in the heart of England. I went there once with my father who had business at the duchy court. I believe the king spent his early childhood there. It was his mother’s favourite castle.’

‘Is that so, Coucy?’ Catherine beckoned to the girl. ‘Bring your stool nearer and reveal to me all you know about Kenil-wort and the king’s mother.’

‘Forgive me, your grace, but I believe it is pronounced Kenilworth,’ remarked Coucy, smirking as she picked up her stool to carry it across the room, deftly dodging Eleanor Cobham’s suddenly outstretched foot. Observing this, her second attempt to capsize the big-headed Joanna, I decided it was probably fortunate that, with her coronation duties over, the tricky Damoiselle Cobham would be returning home to Sterborough the following day.




5 (#ulink_72ca4c95-e36e-5b5c-b6e1-1fbf106f412f)


The queen’s procession arrived at Kenilworth at sunset. Seen through the mist rising off the surrounding lake, the castle seemed to float weightless before us, its tall red sandstone towers glowing in the sun’s dying rays like pillars of fire. We were cold and tired after a long day in the saddle, but the magnificent spectacle imbued us with a new energy and the whole column of riders broke simultaneously into a brisk canter which even I, novice horsewoman that I was, found unexpectedly invigorating, especially as the chill March breeze had stiffened my limbs and, despite my riding gloves, almost frozen my fingers to the reins.

I had been to a few castles in my time, but I had never seen one quite like Kenilworth. Even at a distance it gave the impression of a palace rather than a fortress, for its towers were not crenellated, its curtain wall was barely eight-foot high and you could see the sun glinting off scores of delicate glass panes in huge mullioned windows. As we trotted through the first gatehouse to enter the long causeway across the lake, I realised the reason for the lack of apparent defences. Those fine windows were never going to be shattered by a bombardment, for not even King Henry’s vast new German cannons were capable of hurling a missile that far and getting scaling ladders and men across the lake would take a flotilla of boats which would simply not be available at this inland location. The causeway was the only dry access to the castle and it was fiercely fortified with stout stone barbicans and gatehouses at both ends, which fortunately stood open to our cavalcade. I learned later that the causeway was in fact a dam, built in order to flood the land around Kenilworth and create a huge lake. In that misty pink sunset, with a group of swans trailing wedge-shaped ripples over the glassy water, it looked to me like the legendary lake of Avalon and when a solitary boat with a crimson sail emerged through the mist, moving slowly towards the apparently floating castle, it might have been carrying King Arthur to his final resting place.

Our accommodation at Kenilworth was the best we had experienced since leaving the Hôtel de St Pol in Paris over two years before. The principal living chambers were on the first floor of a tower set behind the spectacular great hall, where the master-mason had deployed a unique system of heavy oak rafters, permitting a wide, cathedral-like space without any of the usual pillars needed to support the roof above. It reminded me of Westminster Hall, where Catherine’s coronation feast had been held, but Walter Vintner, my fount of English history, told me that the Westminster roof was actually a copy of the Kenilworth design. It was this fact that really brought home to me how rich and powerful King Henry’s grandfather, John of Gaunt, had been as Duke of Lancaster, for it was he who had initiated the renovation and embellishment of Kenilworth with its soaring towers and gracious presence chambers.

When I started to relay this information to Catherine on the morning after our arrival, she stopped me in mid-sentence, holding up her hand imperiously. ‘Do not tell me, Mette!’ she exclaimed. ‘I do not want to hear anything about the glories of Kenilworth unless it is from the king’s own mouth. Nor do I want to be given a guided tour of its policies by the steward as he offered last night. I am sure the place is heaven on earth but I will only think so if King Henry shows it to me himself. Where is he, Mette? He wrote to say he would meet me here in mid March. Today is the fourteenth. Why is he not here?’

Her fretful query was typical of the mood she had been in ever since King Henry had left for Wales on the day after her coronation. Although her father and mother, the French king and queen, had lived in separate houses within the royal palace and held their own separate courts, for some reason Catherine seemed to expect that she and Henry would be together all the time, making no allowance for the fact that he had not one but two kingdoms to run and a new campaign army to recruit and finance before he returned to his preferred occupation, which was storming more castles and conquering more territory. I do not know where she had got the impression that a marriage between royals meant living a cosy domestic life. Certainly not from her mother, Queen Isabeau. Too late I realised that, unlikely as it seemed, she had a commoner’s attitude towards marriage and sought love and a working companionship with her husband, and I fear I was probably responsible for this desire, which was rarely fulfilled at any level of society.

I could not even persuade Catherine to break her fast in the great hall or attend mass in the ducal chapel, which only required a short walk across the inner court. She declared that she would emerge only when the king put in an appearance. Fortunately, later that morning, a courier arrived on a lathered horse with news that King Henry would be at Kenilworth before sundown. There was also a letter for the queen, written under the royal seal and in the king’s own hand which, when she had read it, she showed me with undisguised glee, as if to say: ‘See? I was right to wait!’

—ξξ—

To Catherine, my dear and well-beloved queen, greetings,

I trust this finds you already at Kenilworth where, God willing, I expect to be myself within the day. We have hardly seen the hills of Wales, for it has rained consistently but our marcher barons are successfully keeping the peace and we have encountered little unrest.

At Kenilworth I have a surprise for you and ask you not to be too curious about your surroundings until I come to show them to you personally. We have talked of my love for the place and I long to share it with the Queen of my Heart.

I will set out at sunrise and must stop briefly at Warwick, but before sunset I will have you in my arms. God be with you and keep you safe until then,

I kiss your mouth,

Henry

Written at night in Dudley this 13th day of March 1421.

—ξξ—

Noting the address from which this letter was written, I was thankful that Catherine had not shown it to Joanna Coucy, for we would never have heard the end of it if she had known that the king was staying at her father’s castle. I handed it back, a little surprised that she had shown it to me at all, because of its personal nature. I took it as another example of her fluctuating self-confidence; she wanted me to witness the fact that King Henry still loved her, despite their recent lack of intimacy.

Her mood had changed from listless indifference to brisk intention. ‘Call the steward, Mette,’ she said. ‘I want to hear the arrangements for my lord’s arrival. And bring my sunset gown – the one I wore for my wedding. I will wear it to greet the king today.’

All afternoon, from the window of her chamber, Catherine watched the western sky and it had hardly begun to acquire the first pink tinge of sunset, when a trumpet sounded from the battlements of the keep. She scrambled to her feet, excited and agitated.

‘They have sighted the king’s procession. Quick, Mette! Bring my mantle. I must be waiting for him when he rides in.’

The sunset gown was so called because it was made of dark-blue, filmy gauze embroidered with tiny gold fleurs-de-lys and was worn over a cloth-of-silver kirtle with a wide gold lace hem. When Catherine lifted the skirt to walk, the lace beneath gleamed like the setting sun against a darkening sky. It had been made by my son-in-law, the tailor Jacques, and she had worn it for her wedding to King Henry in the city of Troyes the previous June. It was the first time she had put it on it since that day and it was Catherine’s intention that he should recognise it and understand the significance of her choice.

As the king and his retinue clattered over the causeway and through the fortified gatehouse, Catherine took her place at the top of the sweeping stone stairway that led up to the great hall. Long shadows had formed across the flagging of the inner court and the sky was a fiery orange, causing the approaching horsemen to shield their eyes from its glare. King Henry was in the van and did not wait for a squire to rush forward to take the reins before flinging himself from his horse and taking the steps two at a time to reach Catherine’s side. Heedless of the numerous observers, he first kissed her hand and then drew her to him and kissed her on the lips, clasping his arms hungrily around her as he did so. It was by no means a gentle or decorous salute and, when he eventually pulled back from it, there was a broad smile on his own lips.

‘Catherine my queen, my beautiful bride! I have galloped hard and eagerly to greet you!’

Her cheeks pink with shy pleasure, Catherine sank into a formal obeisance, as all of us around her had already done at the king’s approach. ‘You are well come, your grace,’ she said, tilting her head up to return his smile and expose the long, white column of her throat, where a pulse beat visibly, revealing her own heightened emotions. ‘I too have waited eagerly for you.’

He pulled her quickly to her feet and putting his arm around her shoulders led her through the porch into the great hall. ‘Then let us waste no time, my lady. I have much to show you.’

‘But you must take refreshment, my lord,’ she protested. ‘You have ridden hard.’

The king shook his head. ‘It is no distance from Warwick and they gave me food and drink there. No – let my men rest and eat, I have other plans for you and me. We have not much time before darkness falls.’

Inside the hall the king took me by surprise, addressing me directly. ‘Always nearby, Madame Lanière,’ he remarked with a smile. ‘Has the queen a warm cloak?’ He felt the velvet of the formal mantle Catherine wore and pulled a face. ‘This mantle is not suitable for our purpose. Be sure I recognise the gown however. We will do it justice, I promise you.’

Quite what he meant by that I hesitated to guess, but I bobbed my knee and hurried away to fetch the cloak. ‘And bring one for yourself, Madame,’ the king called after me. ‘A queen cannot do without her handmaid. Meet us at the Water Gate.’

I felt my own heart racing as I hurried to do his bidding wondering, as Catherine must have been, what surprise he had planned for her. I had to seek directions to the Water Gate because, like her, I was as yet unfamiliar with the castle lay-out but I found it quite close to the privy apartments, directly opposite a tunnel leading from the kitchens to a steeply sloping court behind the great hall undercroft. I guessed that supplies for the kitchen were brought by boat across the lake and carried via this route into the cellars. Passing through the gate I found steps leading down to a stone quay and a sailing boat moored alongside. I recognised it as the one we had seen approaching the castle the previous night.

King Henry was already handing Catherine carefully down into the boat. She was shivering and I hastily passed her fur-lined cloak to the king who leaped into the boat, sat down beside her and wrapped her swiftly in its folds. ‘You were just in time, Madame,’ he said, his teeth gleaming in the dying rays of the sun. ‘I think my lady’s blood was about to freeze.’

‘But now I am warm, my lord,’ Catherine murmured softly, ‘and intrigued to know where you are abducting me to at this darkling hour.’

King Henry did not answer her question, but put his arm around her and she snuggled down into his embrace, a smile lighting her face. He pulled the capacious hood of the cloak over her ears and over the gold nets and circlet which held her hair in place. ‘These are regally elegant,’ he said, tugging lightly at the nets, ‘but they will not keep you warm in the lake breezes. Cast off, boatman, and jump aboard, Robin.’ This last was addressed to the young squire who was holding the prow of the boat fast against the quay.

Catherine sat up in alarm. ‘And Mette. Do not forget Mette, my lord!’

The squire grinned and gave me his hand to steady me as I stepped aboard. There was a narrow plank seat set in front of the mast and, unbalanced, I sat down rather heavily, rocking the boat. ‘Your Mette is certainly aboard now, Catherine!’ cried the king with what I considered unnecessary mirth.

The boat nosed out into the lake, pushing the water aside like wrinkled black silk as the red sail filled and flapped in the light breeze, driving us south-east around the castle mound and towards the opposite shore. Little was visible there except the silhouette of an uneven line of trees standing out against the pearly grey sky. Having no fur-lined cloak or lover’s embrace to warm me, I thought a little enviously of the household, sitting down to their hot meal in the great hall and wondered what awaited us in the dark forest ahead. Behind me a murmured conversation was taking place between Catherine and the king, but the words were too indistinct to make out and anyway I assumed they were private. Suddenly I felt terribly lonely, marooned on that black lake with no idea where I was going and glumly certain that I would be the last to be rescued if a sudden storm blew up and threw us all into the water.

I should have had more faith in King Henry’s generalship. There was nothing random about this twilight escapade. Within a few minutes we rounded a low headland and there before us, set against the trees, stood a small castle with crenellated towers, a moat and a drawbridge and torches blazing spluttering greetings from the gatehouse walls.

‘Welcome to the Pleasance,’ said King Henry to Catherine. ‘This is my surprise for my beloved queen.’

Catherine was enchanted. I could hear it in her voice.

‘It is beautiful! It reminds me of the Vallon Vert.’

‘I thought it would,’ the king responded, sounding pleased. ‘Like our pavilion there, the Pleasance is timber, painted to look like stone. I had it built soon after I came to the throne. I wanted a place to retreat to.’ The boat grounded on a gently sloping shingle beach and Robin jumped over the side to keep it steady. ‘Come, there are fires to warm you and a meal has been prepared.’

The king followed his squire over the side and took Catherine in his arms to carry her to the shore. I tutted in disapproval as the train of her bridal gown trailed in the water but she was heedless, as well she might be, snug in the arms of her royal spouse. Clambering down the length of the boat, I was glad to see that it was possible to jump down onto the beach without getting my feet wet, for no one was offering to carry me.

Catherine was right when she said the place reminded her of the Vallon Vert. That had been her name for the little green valley where King Henry had had wooden pavilions built for himself and Catherine and for her parents, the King and Queen of France, to live in during the siege of Melun. It had been high summer and while they were staying in that cool oasis of shade, she and King Henry had discovered that real love might be possible between them.

Those summer pavilions had been little more than wooden tents, but The Pleasance was a more solid construction, designed as a miniature version of Kenilworth with glazed windows and graceful oriels giving views over the lake. King Henry told Catherine that, in the days before his marriage, he had used it to entertain his close friends, hunting in the surrounding forest and feasting in the hall. I assumed that these feasts had not been for men only, but no details were forthcoming. There was certainly plenty of space for amorous adventures. On a quick inspection of the facilities, I discovered several privy chambers in the towers behind the hall but for this romantic interlude, alone with his young queen, the king had ordered a large tester bed set up in the great hall, where the two of them could spend a few days alone together without interruption or distraction.

‘And no siege guns thundering away on the other side of the hill!’ Catherine pointed out to me with joy when the king had gone to check arrangements with the small band of castle servants seconded to The Pleasance. ‘Oh, Mette, is this not perfect? I had no idea that Henry was planning this idyll for us, which makes it so much the better!’

‘And look, Mademoiselle,’ I said, laying my hands on a harp which stood in the shadows beside the carved mantle-hood, beyond the reach of the fire’s heat.

‘A harp!’ she cried, dancing across the room to run her fingers over the strings, filling the air with a rush of liquid notes. ‘It must have been Henry’s mother’s, do you not think?’

‘What must have been my mother’s?’ The king strode back into the room and I hastened to melt into the shadows as he came up behind Catherine. ‘Oh, the harp – yes. She was always making music with some instrument or other. She taught me my first chords when I was three. She loved to sing to us.’ He put his arms around Catherine’s waist and pulled her to him so that her head lay back on his shoulder. ‘Come, let us eat. I am famished!’

‘But I thought you said you ate with the Earl of Warwick,’ Catherine protested.

‘I said I ate at Warwick,’ agreed the king, ‘but the earl was not there and the fare was bread and pottage.’ He shuddered. ‘It filled my belly but offended my senses. Here the cooks have prepared mussels and crayfish, with melted cheese.’ He glanced over his shoulder at me, knowing exactly where I was. ‘Mette can serve us and Robin will play and sing. He is not as accomplished as Owen Tudor, but he will do.’

The squire had followed King Henry into the hall and picked up the harp with a hasty bow before carrying it off. His head soon appeared above the balustrade of a small minstrel’s gallery on top of the screen and a series of notes wafted down to us as he bent to tune the instrument.

King Henry led Catherine towards the fire, where a pile of cushions had been heaped beside the hearth. ‘Where will Owen be now?’ asked Catherine as she sank down onto the soft couch. ‘Have you any idea?’

Owen Tudor was a Welsh archer whom the king had heard playing around a campfire at the siege of Melun and, being impressed with his music, had invited to entertain at the pavilion in the Vallon Vert. All who heard him agreed that he had great skill on the strings and a voice that could vibrate the senses. After the siege ended, King Henry had persuaded Owen’s captain, Sir Walter Hungerford, to allow the archer to join the royal household temporarily, but when the king and Catherine set out for England Sir Walter had requested the archer’s return to his troop, convincing King Henry that it was foolish to waste a good soldier on domestic duties when there were military objectives to accomplish.

‘Hungerford’s troop has joined my brother of Clarence, besieging strongholds on the Loire,’ Henry replied, lowering himself down beside Catherine. He pulled at a cushion so that he could prop himself on his elbow to look at her and she blushed under his intense gaze. ‘Young Edmund Beaufort is there too. Clarence is determined to break the hold of the Pretender in the south.’

I hoped the king would not pursue this subject as it entered territory painful to Catherine’s ears, namely the war between her husband and her brother Charles, whom the English called ‘The Pretender’. It was less than two months since Catherine had discarded into the sea a letter from Charles denouncing her for marrying the enemy and declaring her a traitor to France. It was a painful topic for me as well, because my young son Luc was a huntsman in her brother’s entourage and had been the carrier of the letter. The war which King Henry pursued so relentlessly had opened a raw wound in all French lives, which had not healed since the Battle of Agincourt – England’s glory and France’s catastrophe.

Fortunately he changed the subject to less contentious ground. ‘Kenilworth holds many memories for me. This was where I was healed after I was wounded in the cheek at Shrewsbury. I was brought here with the arrowhead still embedded in the bone of my jaw and a surgeon called Bradmore pulled it out with a special tool he had made.’

I could see that Catherine’s stomach turned over just as mine had at this story. ‘Oh, but my dearest lord, that must have been exquisite agony,’ she cried, her hand reaching out to touch his scarred cheek. ‘How did you stand the pain?’

‘I knew I had to,’ he replied simply. ‘They strapped me down to prevent me moving and I could not cry out because that would have jolted the tool, so I prayed inside my head as loudly as I could. They told me afterwards that I should have died, but God did not permit it. I spent three months here recuperating – the wound was cleansed daily with local honey and my flesh healed in the good air of Kenilworth. Ever since then, I have believed that God intends me to lead England into a great future.’

At this point a small procession of servants emerged from the screen passage at the far end of the hall bearing dishes of various shapes and sizes, followed by a pair of pages with bowls and napkins. The dishes were set down on a buffet and a small table and two chairs were arranged at a suitable distance from the fire, ready for the meal. I hurried to spread a clean linen cloth and cut trenchers from a manchet loaf as the servants departed, leaving the pages kneeling beside the chairs, their bowls ready for hand-washing. I shook my head, took the bowls and napkins and shooed them away, frowning fiercely at the smirks and knowing glances which they cast in the direction of the lovers on the cushions. Rippling harp music began to drift down from the minstrel’s gallery.

All this while Catherine and King Henry had carried on talking in undertones, heads close together. I gave a discreet cough to attract their attention.

Catherine dragged her gaze from the king’s and shot me a glance of mild irritation. ‘I can feel the breeze of your ears flapping, Mette,’ she complained. ‘I hope you will keep a curb on your mouth.’

‘Of course, Madame,’ I responded, hurt at the very suggestion that I might repeat anything I heard from my position of trust and hoping she had only mentioned it in order to satisfy the king’s concern for discretion. ‘Would your graces care to eat while the food is hot?’

‘Indeed we would!’ King Henry rose immediately to his feet and bent to assist Catherine to rise. In the firelight she looked ethereally beautiful in her shimmering night-sky gown, her cheeks rosy with love and warmth. My heart lurched at the sight of her, much as it had eighteen years before when I had pledged my life to the service of the tiny peach-skinned cherub who had been given to me to nurture. If she inspired this emotion in me, what must the king feel when he looked at her?

‘My heart wishes to feast only on the sight of you, fair Kate,’ he said as he bent to kiss her lovingly, ‘but my belly clamours for more solid fare. Luckily, your Mette has the chairs arranged so that I may satisfy both needs at once.’

When they were seated across the corner of the table, Catherine said shyly, ‘Mette knows how I have yearned to be close to you again, my dearest lord. It has been weeks and I have been churlish for the lack of you.’

Precedence ruled that the king be offered the basin first and he gave me a rueful smile as he dipped his fingers in the water. ‘I cannot imagine my beautiful Kate being churlish, Mette. Tell me what she means.’

Handing him the napkin to dry his hands, I jogged the basin and a little water spilled over my apron. Brushing it off gave me a moment to gather my thoughts for a response. ‘I am sure I do not know, your grace,’ I said, retrieving the napkin from him. ‘Churlish is not a word I would associate with Madame. But I do know that she refused to be shown Kenilworth castle by anyone but you.’

King Henry turned to Catherine, raising an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Is that true?’ he asked.

I turned to offer the basin to Catherine. Her face wore a slightly mulish expression and I thought she was going to chastise me, but eventually she gave a direct answer to the king’s question. ‘Yes, it is true and it is because you once told me that this is where you discovered love – the love of your mother and your brother Thomas.’

I could not see King Henry’s face because I was dealing again with the bowl and napkin but his voice sounded gruff. ‘We were always happy here at Kenilworth when our mother was alive,’ he acknowledged. ‘But my younger brothers and sisters cannot remember her as vividly as Thomas and I. She made this place a playground and every corner of it contains memories of her presence.’

King Henry leaned over to take Catherine’s hand. ‘I learned my military skills on the Welsh border, but it was here that my mother taught me to love music and books and poetry and all the things that raise men above the animals. In recent years I have been too busy fighting to enjoy the finer things of life, until God blessed me with a beautiful wife as my companion. I too have missed you and missed sharing your bed, my sweet love, but I thought it best to let your body recover after our great disappointment. I believe that my mother died from giving birth too young and too often. My sister Philippa was her eighth child in ten years and she was worn out. She died of exhaustion at the age of twenty-four. I hold you too dear, my Catherine, to allow anything similar to happen to you.’

At this point I thought it tactful to move away from the table. I may be accused of undue prurience, but I was as anxious as they that normal marital relations should be resumed and the essential heir conceived as soon as possible. At the same time, I needed to preserve my close relationship with Catherine because while King Henry would doubtless be off on campaign as soon as a pregnancy was established, I was the one he would hold responsible for nurturing it to a successful conclusion. It was obvious that they both fervently desired each other – you could feel the sexual urgency crackling between them – but while Catherine’s desire for him was artless and emotional, his desire for her was controlled and dynastic – or so I thought …

I took a seat in the shadows beside the fireplace hood where I could not see or be seen by the two diners, but it was not long before I leaped up again in response to a loud bellow from the king.

‘Guillaumette! Where are you when we need you? Come and unlace this tiresome gown!’

The sunset gown was beautiful to behold, but needed the services of a maid to release the wearer from its clutches. I hurried to perform the task, pulling the gold laces from their hooks as quickly as I could while the squire Robin took the narrow stair down from the minstrel’s gallery two steps at a time to come to the aid of the king. Nothing was said but the king and Catherine never took their eyes off each other as we undressed them and when they were both reduced to their chemises, King Henry gathered his queen in his arms and almost threw her onto the embroidered silk cover of the great tester bed. The squire and I had scarcely managed to give them the privacy of the crimson curtains before we heard the urgent sounds of passionate love-making. We exchanged wry glances and while he hastened to set a reviving flagon of wine and accompanying cups on a side table, I retired to the hearth to stoke up the fire. As I stirred the embers and sent sparks flying with fresh logs, I could not suppress a gurgle of mirth, picturing my incendiary task as a metaphor for what was taking place only yards away behind the drawn bed-curtains. A few days and nights of this, I thought with an indulgent smile, and England would soon have its longed-for heir.




6 (#ulink_18ed1b25-5588-5a18-a03e-1ec41735b25e)


For three days and nights, the king and queen scarcely left the confines of the hall with its blazing fire and accommodating bed. Soon after dawn on the first morning, I took it upon myself to commandeer the boat and boatman to take me across the lake to fetch fresh clothes and other necessities for Catherine and we returned with a priest and the clerk, Walter Vintner, his scrip full of letters and documents for King Henry’s attention. Fragrant new loaves from the castle bake-house, milk and cheese from the dairy and a large basket of fruit and vegetables had also been loaded on board, an indication that the king would not be leaving imminently, and who could blame him?

During the return journey, being privy to the royal itinerary, young Walter proved a fruitful source of information. ‘The king intends to visit Coventry and Leicester while he is at Kenilworth and the queen is to go with him. They will stay on here until after Easter and then they are to make a progress through the northern shires. I hope you will not suffering unduly from all that riding, Madame.’ A mischievous grin crossed the young clerk’s face.

I shot him an indignant glare. ‘It is not I who bears the strain, Master Walter, it is my stalwart mare. Perhaps on your return to the castle you might be kind enough to check that Genevieve is well tended in the stables.’

‘No need, Madame. I went there last night to check my own cob and met Lady Joan Beaufort, who told me she had been speaking to the stable master about all the queen’s horses, so I think you may be reassured on that score.’

I was impressed. ‘I will tell the queen that her youngest maid of honour shows great initiative. Although I am afraid it may only confirm her opinion that Lady Joan cares too much for horses.’

Walter made an appreciative noise. ‘She is a beauty though, is she not, Madame? Many a young squire would be happy to loosen her girths!’

I glanced at the priest’s back, straight and prim on the forward thwart and wondered if he had heard the last remark. ‘Whoa Master Vintner!’ I murmured reprovingly. ‘Lady Joan is the king’s cousin and destined for a great match. You had best keep your eyes down if you value your position!’

He had the grace to look a little sheepish. ‘I was just saying … I do not aspire to a high-born love, I assure you. However, if I did, I would pick Lady Joan over that Eleanor Cobham. She is another beauty right enough, but I reckon she would be a handful – and I do not mean in a buxom way!’

I decided there and then that it was time Master Vintner found himself a wife and wondered if he had a sweetheart at home in London. A position like his in the royal household did not lend itself to a steady domestic life and I knew that many of the courtiers in the king’s retinue made use of the whores who were allowed to follow at the back of the train if they submitted themselves to the court physicians for regular health checks. My curiosity did not extend to questioning Walter on this matter however.

The royal couple were still abed when we returned, giving time for breakfast to be prepared and warm water to be brought for washing. After dressing quickly, the king spent half an hour with his clerk in an adjoining chamber while Catherine stood before the fire in a dreamy reverie, allowing me to dress her in a simple kirtle and warm fur-lined over-dress of the sort the English called a côte-hardie; a very French name for a garment which I had never seen worn in Paris, at least not by a woman. I had acquired it for Catherine in London, thinking it a practical style for informal wear.

It was not until she was fully clothed that she even noticed her apparel but then she commented on it. ‘Is this new, Mette? I have not seen it before.’

‘Yes, Mademoiselle. It is an English style. A little old-fashioned, perhaps, but I thought it suitable.’

She fingered the fine cornflower-blue wool. ‘It is a pretty colour but why now, particularly?’

I gave a casual shrug. ‘You may notice that it has no lacing at the back.’

A sly glance showed me that she was digesting the significance of this remark. Then an irrepressible giggle burst forth, which soon developed into a lusty laugh. ‘Oh, Mette, you are a rogue!’ she cried when she could speak. ‘Sometimes I think you forget that I am a queen.’

‘Only when you do yourself, Mademoiselle,’ I assured her. ‘Which is when you are happy – as you were last night, unless I am very much mistaken?’

‘No, Mette, you are not mistaken,’ she admitted twisting to and fro, trying to find a fastening in the loose garment which skimmed the hips and had characteristically wide arm-holes. ‘But I will be even happier when I discover how I get out of this.’

I moved forward to unfasten the plaited silk girdle around her hips. ‘Undo this and just lift it over your head,’ I explained. ‘Or get your lover to do it for you,’ I added with a twinkle.

She gave me a reproachful look. ‘My husband, Mette,’ she corrected primly. ‘King Henry is my husband.’

I assumed a suitably contrite expression. ‘Forgive me, Mademoiselle. Last night I mistook him for your lover and I hope to do so again tonight.’

I could see her wrestling with herself, undecided whether to chastise me or to concur. I hoped she would soon discover an ability to be both queen and coquette.

She and her lover-king settled into a relaxed companionship which lasted until Easter. It was interrupted by an official two-day visit to Coventry, when they were fêted and entertained and Catherine’s beauty and charm loosened the purse-strings of the rich merchant guilds so that the king’s campaign coffers were much replenished as a result. They returned to the Pleasance and a few more days of private indulgence before taking up residence in the formality of the castle to celebrate the feast of Easter with the rest of the court.

When we finally left Kenilworth, the royal household took up a nomad existence, heading north and riding a minimum of twenty miles a day. King Henry was an impatient traveller and tended to push the timetable to the limit. An overnight stay would always include an official dinner with opportunities either for fund-raising and recruitment or a visit to a chapel or shrine. By the time we reached York, a hundred and twenty miles north of Kenilworth, we had visited ten cold, grey shire towns and monasteries and March was well behind us.

Catherine was tired and, sensing this, King Henry suggested that she stay in York and rest while he fulfilled his vow to visit the famous shrines of two northern saints, St John of Bridlington and St John of Beverley. Since the many pilgrims to such locally popular shrines greatly enriched their attendant abbeys and priories, he also took the opportunity to obtain further financial support. Religious houses were a fruitful source of campaign funds because farmland that did not have enough men to work it quickly became unproductive and shrewd abbots preferred to offer the king substantial loans rather than provide rustic recruits for the campaign army.

In York we lodged at the house of the Dean of the Minster, and Catherine spent time praying in the beautiful cathedral-church. Meanwhile King Henry completed his pilgrimage a shaken man, having received disastrous news on the return journey from Bridlington. He maintained a calm façade in public and during the evening meal in the dean’s presence, but his outward shell cracked as soon as the door closed behind them in the bed chamber.

He sank to his knees at the queen’s feet, burying his face in the folds of her her skirt, like a little boy seeking comfort from his mother. ‘Oh, Catherine, God has sent me a grievous trial. My beloved brother, Thomas, is dead, killed in a battle at Easter-tide.’

With a cry of horror she sank to her knees before him, taking his face in her hands. ‘My dearest lord, this is dreadful news. How – when – did you find out?’ Her own blue eyes blurred with tears and she called in an anguished voice, ‘Mette, bring wine! My lord needs strength.’

I hurriedly poured two cups of the strong Bordeaux wine provided by the dean’s cellarer. Catherine had persuaded King Henry back to his feet and they sat down together on a cushioned bench beside the chamber fire. Their hands shook as they took the cups.

‘A courier met me on the road with a dispatch,’ the king explained.

Catherine gasped with dismay. ‘Then the duchess does not yet know? Poor lady! She loved your brother so dearly.’

Henry nodded slowly and sorrowfully. ‘Yes, theirs was a love match like no other. It was a forbidden marriage, but our father was eventually won over. How am I going to tell her? She will be devastated. We should send for her before she learns the news from any other lips but ours. Perhaps Mette would bring her here?’

‘Ah yes, Mette, would you go please?’ Catherine endorsed his request, adding, ‘And bring Lady Joan also. Poor girl.’

‘Yes, Madame.’ I dipped my knee before hurrying to perform the unwelcome task. The Duchess of Clarence and Lady Joan were lodged with their entourage in a house nearby and had taken their evening meal there. When I relayed the king’s summons, they responded immediately, donning warm cloaks against the cold night.

The duchess was understandably curious, but I parried her queries about the reason for the summons, struggling to hide my knowledge that she was only moments from despair. I had brought a lantern and we were able to pick our way quickly across the flagstones of the Minster court without mishap. I thought it best to admit her and her daughter to the royal chamber and then retire. Despite their high status, this was above all a family bereavement and the terrible news should surely be broken in private. After only a few moments, I heard the duchess’s long and heart-rending cry of grief and made the sign of the cross.

I was full of admiration for Margaret of Clarence during the ensuing days as the royal progress followed the spine of England south to Windsor. It seemed it was not the custom here, as it was in France, for everyone and everything to be plunged into black mourning at the death of a prominent person; besides, no thought was given to protracted obsequies because the king was preoccupied with planning his new campaign which was now more imperative than ever. Masses were sung in the Minster for the Duke of Clarence’s soul and, when we set out from York, his duchess rode beside the queen as usual, sitting straight-backed and proud on her beautiful, high-stepping horse and Lady Joan rode close to her mother’s side, not among the other ladies-in-waiting as she had done hitherto.

It transpired that the Duke of Clarence had not been the only death at the disastrous Battle of Beaugé. Two other royal knights had been killed and there had been prisoners taken, among them, to add to the duchess’s burden of misery, her two sons John, Earl of Somerset and Edmund Beaufort, the young squire who had acted as a special messenger between Catherine and the king during their so-called ‘siege-honeymoon’ which followed their wedding in France.

During the second day of our long journey south, King Henry singled the duchess out for a long horseback discussion and I was surprised when, at the same time, Lady Joan sidled her horse up to mine. Long bouts of crying had left the girl’s normally smooth-skinned face rather blotched and puffy and my heart went out to her.

‘May I speak with you privately, Madame Lanière?’ she asked in French.

‘Of course, Mademoiselle,’ I replied, happy to use my own language for once. I kicked Genevieve to move out to the side of the column where we should not be overheard. ‘How are you and your lady mother? It must be hard riding out in public at such a time of great sadness.’

She shook her head. ‘Oh no, I am glad to be on a horse and out in the air,’ she said. ‘Much better than being cooped up indoors with nothing to think of but the death of my stepfather and the captivity of my two brothers. I just wish I knew how they were, I believe they are injured.’

‘Surely the king will get word soon about their circumstances,’ I suggested, wondering why she had sought me out.

‘He and my mother are talking about raising the ransoms at this very moment. Of course, Edmund’s will not be too onerous for he is only a young squire, but John’s will be crippling, an earl’s ransom, even though he is not yet knighted. My mother will have to leave the queen and go to our estates in order to raise the necessary funds. That is why I wanted to speak to you.’ She gave me a rather watery smile. ‘I wondered if you would put in a good word for me with the queen because I really do not wish to accompany my mother on a long trek around Kent and Somerset, but nor do I want to hurt her feelings by refusing to go with her.’ She looked a little guilty as she said this, but persisted eagerly. ‘I would hate to lose my place in the queen’s household and I am sure you can persuade her grace to ask my mother to let me stay on. On the way south we are to pick up my little sister who has been staying with my aunt and Margot will keep my mother company much better than I could. They have not seen each other for nearly a year and she is much more accomplished than I am. I am afraid my boyish ways rather annoy our mother, now more so than ever.’ She opened her huge speedwell-blue eyes wide in earnest supplication. ‘Please say you will help me, Madame Lanière!’

I have to confess that, despite the sad circumstances, it was a pleasant feeling to be at the receiving end of a plea from a member of the nobility. It would certainly not have happened in the French court, where I had been a servant of low birth. In England, where I was a courtier, few people were aware of this and Lady Joan, whether aware or not, was only interested in exploiting my influence with Catherine.

I smiled at her, a beautiful girl, so different from the style-obsessed demoiselles of the French court. ‘I cannot guarantee success, Mademoiselle, but I will take your part with the queen on one condition,’ I said. ‘You must assure me that you do not wish to remain at court in order to pursue some unsuitable romance with a young and ill-bred squire. Your lady mother has been very kind to me and I would not like to do her a disservice by inadvertently bringing her distress, especially at this time of her profound grief.’

Lady Joan looked crestfallen. ‘I am sorry that you would even think that of me, Madame,’ she said indignantly. ‘I am the one female among the queen’s ladies who would rather chase a deer than dawdle in a pleasure garden. Did you not hear that I gave one stupid squire a thick lip for his wandering hands during a galliard?’ She gave me a sidelong glance – a flash of bright blue filtered through thick, dark lashes. ‘I do not know who I will marry, but I do know that it will not be a booby such as that.’

I detected a rather endearing touch of the convent schoolgirl in Lady Joan’s pugnacious prudery, very similar to the queen’s.

‘I have poured my heart out to my horse over the past two days. She is the most loyal of creatures, aren’t you, Artemis?’

She leaned forward and scratched her pretty dappled mare fondly between the ears. The horse responded with a flick of those ears and a little sideways swerve, which almost sent her into the path of a well-lathered horse galloping past us ridden by a man in royal livery. Lady Joan clung to the saddle like a limpet, calming her startled mare with a steadying hand and giving a little cry of excitement.

‘That might be a dispatch from France! I must go and see. Au revoir, Madame – and thank you!’

I watched her horse dance away on dainty hooves, following the messenger’s sweating courser, and wondered what Lady Joan’s real reason was for wanting to stay at court.




7 (#ulink_6f0d5f35-55e1-569a-8103-ecba38aff56a)


We French have always believed St George to be an Anatolian knight-errant who, among other chivalrous acts, fought crusades in the Holy Land, slew a dragon in Cyrenia and was finally executed there for refusing to deny his Christian faith, but the English placed his feats in a whole variety of other places, most of which were located within a few days’ ride of Windsor. Rather than being a Mediterranean martyr, in English eyes St George was a local hero, greatly honoured for pursuing and killing a dragon which had terrorised the maidens of numerous English villages. King Edward III had named his new palace at Windsor St George’s Hall and his great-grandson had given the saint much of the credit for his Agincourt victory. King Henry had planned a tournament to celebrate the Feast of St George on the twenty-third of April, a week after arriving back at Windsor. Knights from all over England, those who were not involved in the French campaign, had been invited to take part and began riding in the middle of the month but a downpour had turned the tourney ground to a quagmire. The event had therefore been postponed until the first of May. Like the king’s recent pilgrimage around England’s shrines, the tournament had a hidden agenda.

‘With the borders relatively peaceful, most knights will surely be glad of the chance to flex their fighting muscles and it will be a good opportunity to recruit more lances for France,’ King Henry observed to his brother Humphrey one morning as they prepared for arms practice together.

The Duke of Gloucester had ridden in the previous night, full of his usual flamboyance and self-assurance. ‘I am still short of knights ordinary for my contingent,’ he admitted. ‘I will tell my captains to keep an eye out for likely recruits.’

The two brothers were standing outside the barrier surrounding the area of hard sand where knights and men at arms practised their fighting skills. Squires worked busily around them, buckling on various pieces of armour. Part of the reason for arms practice was to maintain fighting fitness, so heavy plate and mail was worn to give their muscles a proper work-out.

After the downpour, spring had re-asserted itself and Catherine had asked the king for a chance to watch him at practice. She had brought her ladies with her to spectate and their fashionable gowns made bright splashes of colour against the grey walls of the castle. I noticed several of the bolder young ladies, particularly Joanna Coucy, casting eloquent sidelong glances in Gloucester’s direction. A bachelor prince who was so closely related to the reigning monarch was inevitably going to attract female attention, although Humphrey affected to ignore their sly scrutiny, restricting his attention to Catherine.

‘Since I am supporting my brother in France on this campaign, Madame, you may be sure that your lord will be in safe hands.’

It had already been announced that during King Henry’s next campaign, Humphrey and his brother John of Bedford would swap their roles as king’s lieutenants in England and France, but I could see that Catherine was not enormously impressed with Humphrey’s flagrant boast.

‘If your hands prove as safe as his were when he defended you against all comers after you were felled at Agincourt, my lord of Gloucester, that will indeed be great reassurance.’ Noticing his flush of irritation at her reference to the king’s famous battlefield rescue of his youngest brother, she was unable to suppress a twitch of her lips before turning to her husband with an eager query, ‘Where will be the best place to view your swordplay, my lord? I so look forward to watching you hone your legendary skills.’

Clearly riled at being put in his place by a woman, Gloucester cut in with a glacial smile, ‘So you like to see men sweat, do you, Madame? Or perhaps it is blood you relish? If so, I fear you will be disappointed. We spar only with wooden swords – see!’ His squire had just placed the practice sword in his hand and he thrust it towards Catherine, making her jump back.

King Henry rounded on his brother furiously. ‘How dare you, sir! A knight never shows the point of his sword to a lady, let alone a queen, as well you know. You will apologise at once or consider yourself on a charge of treason!’

With a shaky laugh, Humphrey hastily drew back his weapon. ‘Steady, brother. It was only a play thrust, I meant no harm.’ Nevertheless, seeing the king’s fierce expression, his bow to Catherine was so abasingly deep, he almost kissed his own kneecap. ‘I humbly beg your grace’s pardon if I startled you.’

This was not enough for King Henry, who abruptly shoved his brother in the back, making him stumble to the ground. ‘On your knees, villain! Apologise on your knees!’ he ordered. ‘You have offended the queen, not merely startled her. I should make you eat dust.’

Humphrey shot an astonished glance at Henry, as if expecting him to break suddenly into a laugh, before realising that he was fiercely in earnest and swivelling back to fall on his knees before Catherine. All bluster apparently gone, he bent forward to gather a handful of dirt from the ground which he held out to her and said, ‘On my knees I abjectly crave your grace’s forgiveness. If you so desire, I will indeed eat the dust from beneath your feet.’

Catherine’s intense look of gratitude to the king surprised me and the determination of her riposte to the duke was equally unexpected. It was also delivered in French, which gave it added fluency and authority. ‘I crave dust as little as I crave blood or sweat, my lord Gloucester. But I demand and I will have the respect due to the wife of your king; so I will pardon your sword thrust, but I will not forgive any repeat of the disrespectful thrust of your original remarks.’

Humphrey was taken aback. Expecting only a formal acknowledgement of his insincere grovel, he was more than a little shocked by her robust rebuttal of his veiled insinuation that she might have an unnatural lust for blood and sweat, so it was a somewhat sullen Gloucester who rose, frowning, to his feet, backed away and followed his brother across the sand towards the row of pells at one end of the practice ground. I detected more than a trace of venom in the violent blows he immediately began to inflict on the quilted padding of the stout pell-post, a far cry from King Henry’s deft thrusts and lunges.

I noticed Walter Vintner approaching from the palace with an impressive-looking missive in his hand. He bent his knee to Catherine. ‘This has just come for the king, your grace; it is from the Duchess of Hainault and I believe his grace will want to consider its contents with all speed.’

Like all the king’s official correspondence, the seal had been broken and the letter read by his chief clerk so Catherine was able to scan its contents. It was written in Latin, the universal diplomatic language of Europe.

‘It is from Jacqueline, Mette,’ she confided, moving nearer to me so that her voice did not carry to the rest of the spectators. ‘Jacqueline of Hainault, who was married to my poor brother Jean, if you remember. Her father died soon after Jean did and left her heir to the territories of Hainault and Holland. Then I believe she married her cousin the Duke of Brabant, although it seems not willingly.’ Her brow creased with concern as she read on. ‘Now she is in terrible trouble and asking for our help.’ She nodded at Walter dismissively. ‘You are right, Master Clerk; his grace will want to deal with this immediately. I will see that he gets it.’

We moved to the seating area where Catherine perused the letter more closely.

Nearly an hour passed before the king and Gloucester abandoned their energetic assaults on the pells and wandered across to the barrier to take refreshment. Their faces were glistening with sweat and both men hastily removed the heavy gauntlets they had been wearing in order to grasp the cup of the wine their squires poured for them. Catherine immediately approached the king and drew him aside to read the letter, while the duke took the opportunity to stroll over to the spectator stand where Catherine’s ladies still sat. He rapidly had the three Joannas giggling at some light-hearted remark, but his dallying was interrupted when King Henry strolled up and thrust the letter into his brother’s hands.

‘You had better read this, Humphrey,’ he said. ‘The Duchess of Hainault and Brabant is a lady in distress. You may have met her in Flanders when you stood hostage for the Duke of Burgundy during our peace talks in Calais four years ago.’

Humphrey pondered this suggestion but shook his head. ‘No, although I did hear talk of the new dauphin’s beautiful wife. Would that be the same lady?’

‘Yes, but she was not dauphiness for long, as Prince Jean died soon after that and she married the Duke of Brabant. Not a successful union it seems. Anyway, she is in Calais now and asks permission to come to England. Awkward though it may be in view of her close relationship with our ally Philippe of Burgundy, I do not see how we can refuse. Greeting her is a job for the Lord Warden of the Cinq Ports but, although we must regard her as an honoured guest, I would not advise carrying her ashore in one of your infamous chair-litters. This lady is reputed to need careful handling.’

Catherine protested at this. ‘I think that is a little unkind, my lord. Her husband is a violent brute and the Burgundians have invaded her territory. She deserves our sympathy.’

Ignoring this outburst, Humphrey returned his attention to the letter, but King Henry gave Catherine a quizzical look. ‘Another way of looking at it may be that she has run away from her husband and abandoned her people. Not something any prince worth his honour would do.’

‘But she is not a prince,’ Catherine insisted. ‘She is a princess who has been forced into marriage with a half-wit cousin by the Duke of Burgundy on the basis that there will be no offspring to inherit either of their territories, meaning that in due course he can add them to his own. That is manipulation of the ugliest kind and Burgundy should surely not be allowed to get away with it. Jacqueline is connected to every royal house in Europe and might have been Queen of France, if my brother Jean had not died before his time. She deserves our help.’

King Henry forced a placatory smile, clearly unwilling to enter into a public debate on the subject. ‘I understand that you have sympathy for your former sister-in-law, Catherine, and with that in mind I will agree to let her come to England, even though it will undoubtedly annoy Philippe of Burgundy who, I am sure I do not need to remind you, is our greatest ally against the forces of the Pretender. Now, let us drop the subject.’

Catherine allowed him to take her hand and lead her back to her seat on the dais, but from where I stood I could see a mutinous expression that the king did not see. King Henry immediately went to speak to his brother, who was again surrounded by a giggling gaggle of young ladies.

‘Well may you practise your charm, Humphrey,’ I heard the king remark in a tone too low for Catherine’s hearing. ‘You may soon need all you can muster. I will send a courier to Calais today and I suspect that Duchess Jacqueline will waste no time in taking ship for Dover. If you take the highway tomorrow, you should be there in time to greet her and bring her back to Windsor for the tournament. You do not want to miss that!’

Following the talk about the Duchess of Hainault’s letter, Catherine became unusually quiet for the rest of our stay at the practice ground. She waited to reveal the reason for this until we were in her bedchamber with no men present, preparing her for dinner in the great hall.

‘Why should a woman have no say in her own future, even when she is the ruler of her own country?’ she asked indignantly as Agnes and I removed her fur-lined heuque and began to unlace the warm woollen kirtle beneath. Sensing that the question was rhetorical, we exchanged quizzical glances, but remained silent, expecting further enlightenment. Being the maid of honour on duty, Lady Joan busied herself in the queen’s jewellery chest, selecting the pieces to be worn and sensibly keeping her counsel.

‘If we show the slightest sign of exercising any power, even power that is legally ours, we are instantly considered to be difficult or, as my lord puts it, to “need careful handling”.’ Catherine glanced round at the three of us, still busy at our tasks. ‘Not one of you speaks, but you all know what I mean. Joan, has your mother never complained of such things?’

Lady Joan looked up from the jewel casket, her cheeks hot. ‘Not in my hearing, your grace,’ she said diplomatically.

Catherine shrugged and sat down on her dressing stool. Agnes moved in to arrange her hair more elaborately for the formal headdress she would wear with her elegant ground-sweeping gown. I had not yet noticed any of the court ladies copying Catherine’s French fashions, but it could be only a matter of time before there was a rash of steeple hats and houppelandes.

Agnes began to twist handfuls of Catherine’s hair into ropes, pinning them to the crown of her head. ‘Have you ever met the Duchess of Hainault, Madame?’

‘No.’ Catherine shook her head, tugging against the tress her attendant was arranging. ‘Ouch, be careful, Agnes! Well, I was at her wedding when she married my brother Jean, but we were all children then and I do not remember her except as a bride in the cathedral at Compiègne. Charles met her later, when she was the dauphiness, and said she was very beautiful but heiresses are always beautiful to men, are they not?’

‘Will she live here at the English court now?’ Lady Joan laid a collar of Lancastrian SS gold links set with diamonds on the dressing chest, ready to drape around Catherine’s shoulders. ‘After she arrives, I mean.’

‘We shall have to see if we like her,’ Catherine responded. ‘She may not fit in with our merry little band. You are happy that you stayed with me, are you not, Joan? Or do you miss your mother?’

This double question flustered Lady Joan. ‘Oh yes – I mean no. Well, I miss my lady mother, of course, but I am very happy that you managed to persuade her to let me remain in your service, Madame.’

‘That is good because it was not easy. And of course King James is here for the occasion of his being knighted by the king. Does that please you also?’

This abrupt change of topic seemed to turn Lady Joan’s cheeks a deeper shade of pink. ‘King James, Madame?’

I frowned, striving to fathom where this conversation was going.

With a teasing smile Catherine pursued her theme. ‘He spoke to me of you yesterday, Joan. He said he had watched you from a window, playing bowls in the garden, and thought you the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. I received the impression, however, that he actually knows you rather better than merely as a vision of loveliness viewed from afar. Would I be right?’

Both Agnes and I were by now wide-eyed with astonishment. This suggestion of a liaison between Lady Joan and the King of Scotland came as a complete surprise; then I remembered Joan’s plea for my intervention with Catherine on her behalf. Suddenly I understood the real reason why she had been so anxious to stay at court.

I felt quite sorry for her in the circumstances. Clearly her lover, if he was that, had spoken to the queen of his interest without forewarning Joan. Tongue-tied and deeply embarrassed, she was unable to think of anything to say.

Catherine took pity on her. ‘Well, since you do not deny it, I must suppose that the two of you are at least acquainted. And whilst King James is obviously very enamoured, he spoke most honourably and delicately about you. He writes poetry, did you know that? Well, of course you do. Really, Joan, there is no need to look so crestfallen. You have not committed any crime and not even your high-minded mother could object to such an acquaintance. King James has asked me to take his part in marriage discussions with your mother and the king, but first I would like to know whether you would be willing. Consent is still required by the Church, however; many marriages are somehow forced on unwilling and unfortunate noblewomen like Duchess Jacqueline.’

By now Lady Joan had dissolved into tears, and it was impossible to tell if they were tears of relief or remorse. I was about to rush to her side and put my arm around her, but Catherine beat me to it, pulling her hair from Agnes’s grip and abandoning her dressing stool to take the tearful girl’s hands and lead her to a window-seat where they subsided together. Wordlessly I handed Catherine a kerchief taken from my sleeve and she gently mopped Lady Joan’s eyes.

‘I am sorry, little Joan. I took you by surprise and clearly King James has raised the question of marriage without your knowledge. Men do that, I am afraid, especially kings, I find. They tend not to understand that women have feelings and wishes of their own and should be consulted. But do not cry. There really is no need. You are lucky if you have attracted the love of someone you might be permitted to love in return. If you wish, I will speak to your mother on your behalf when she returns to court. Meanwhile, I think you may continue your friendship with King James, always remembering that he is still a king without a kingdom and may never be in a position to marry if he is not restored to his throne. Besides, you know that he will be going with King Henry to France before too long, so perhaps it would be wise not to get too attached.’

‘H— he has promised to write to me f-from France, Madame,’ confessed the sniffling girl. ‘I did not wish to deter him. I am told that men going to war often need someone to write home to.’

‘Ah – the sweet innocence of the child!’ Catherine handed Lady Joan the kerchief, casting a playful smile at me as she did so.

I raised an eyebrow in return, thinking that she was not so far from being a child herself.

‘I am sure he will write charming and lyrical letters and you will treasure them.’ Catherine stood up, her tone suddenly brisk. ‘Now, I must finish dressing or there will be scores of people waiting for their dinner and I shall be chastised by King Henry for keeping them all waiting. You see – even queens live under orders.’

I shrugged my shoulders and gave her a smile of sympathy. At eighteen she had thought marriage and a crown would give her freedom to exercise her own will and was fast discovering otherwise.




8 (#ulink_446d80bd-f648-503a-a031-6a2400b84e1c)


Early next morning I had thought the queen was still abed, asleep, when Agnes came rushing into the robe room, her face a mask of fear. ‘Quickly, Mette, come quickly! The queen is hurt!’

Catherine was very pale, propped up on cushions in a chair in the presence chamber, where she had been carried by the Master at Arms, a sturdy soldier who had heard Lady Joan’s cry for help as she clattered into the stable yard at a hectic canter. It seemed that the horse-mad lady-in-waiting had been persuaded to assist Catherine in taking a secret dawn ride in the Windsor deer-park, which had come to grief when the queen had been knocked from her horse by a low branch. King Henry had been sent for, but had not yet arrived because at sunrise he had crossed the river to inspect the latest Thames navigation works. He must have missed Catherine and Joan sneaking out of the royal stables by minutes.

‘I am perfectly all right. Do not cluck like a mother hen, Mette!’

Catherine was right, I was fussing around her in trepidation, feeling her brow and propping her feet on a stool. ‘Well your grace, if you would care to tell me exactly what happened, I might be able to help,’ I fretted. ‘Should we send for a physician, I wonder?’

I would have liked to give her a more thorough examination, but was very conscious that we were not alone. Several high-ranking courtiers had interrupted their breakfast to offer help and were hovering anxiously in the background.

‘My back hurts a little, that is all. I was knocked clean off my horse!’ Catherine’s indignation had increased in proportion to the number of people she could see in the room. ‘Blessed Marie, Mette, send all these spectators away! There is nothing for them to see.’

She had dropped her voice to a hiss, but it still carried to every ear in the room and most of the courtiers began to drift away, muttering to each other.

‘Truly, Mette, I am not badly hurt, just shamefaced because I am entirely to blame for my bruises. I wanted to gallop, to be free!’ She winced as she shifted on the cushions. ‘I daresay the king will scold me thoroughly.’

‘Certainly he will and with some justification!’ King Henry heard her words as he strode through the door. The small gathering of remaining courtiers dipped their knees as he passed. Frowning fiercely, he bent over his wife and kissed her cheek, placing one hand on her forehead in concern. ‘I am happy to see that my worst fears appear groundless. I had dreaded to find broken bones at least. Please tell me there are none.’

Catherine’s expression was that of a small girl found with her fingers in the sweetmeats. It was only with a visible effort that she met his gaze, shaking her head. ‘No, my liege, none. I am sorry you were brought back from your business unnecessarily.’

King Henry continued to stand over her, like a tutor over an unruly student. ‘I heard that you fell from your horse in the park. What in Heaven’s name made you ride out without even a groom, Catherine?’ Turning to me, he demanded, ‘Did you not notice she had left her bed, Madame Lanière?’

So flustered was I by this sudden verbal thrust that I neglected to make any deferential move, simply staring dumbstruck at the king before dragging a garbled response from my frozen brain. ‘Er, no, your grace. That is – I usually rouse the queen soon after first light but I had not yet entered the bedchamber.’

‘Oh do not blame Mette, my liege! Do not blame anyone but me, it was my idea!’ cried Catherine. ‘I am not a child to be watched every moment of the day and night. I simply wanted to go for a ride with my lady-in-waiting without everyone else knowing where I was. Now let us have an end to this and allow me to retire to my chamber and lick my wounds!’

At this she kicked away the stool and rose gingerly from her chair, allowing me to support her in a painful progress towards the door. There were dirt-marks on her skirt, but I was relieved to see no sign of blood. She stopped halfway across the room to speak to Lady Joan, who stood shifting from one foot to the other, biting her lip and looking guilty. Dishevelled and also splattered with mud and dirt, it was clear that it must have been Lady Joan who had been persuaded to tack up the horses for this dawn escapade. Catherine put her hand on the girl’s shoulder and turned to face the two kings.

‘And no one is to lay any blame at Joan’s door. It was entirely my idea and she was kind enough to make it possible for me that is all. I confess that the result of our adventure is a disappointment for myself, but Joan is a skilled and daring horsewoman and I, for one, am proud of her.’ She aimed a look of encouragement at her maid of honour and made a wobbly curtsey to the king. ‘Have I your permission to retire, my liege?’ She gave him a tremulous smile, which I swear no red-blooded man could have resisted and his sternness visibly melted under its beam.

‘I will come soon to see how you are faring,’ he said, his eyes still anxious.

On closer inspection, I found Catherine’s injuries to be just as she had claimed; bruises, both of body and pride, exacerbated by a few sharp twinges in her back. However, I noticed that she had become alarmingly pale and encouraged her to return to bed. She did not need much persuading. Uneasily I wondered if there might be more to her pallor than simply the after-effects of hitting the ground at speed. The bed was still rumpled from when she had abandoned it before dawn and, as I pulled the bedclothes straight ready for her to climb in, I posed the question foremost in my mind.

‘You have not asked me for a napkin lately, Mademoiselle,’ I remarked, crossing my fingers among the sheets. ‘Should I be drawing any conclusions from this?’

There was a pause. ‘Perhaps,’ she admitted in a very small voice. ‘To be honest, Mette, I do not dare to look.’

I felt my stomach lurch. Dressing herself for her clandestine excursion, she had only managed to pull a woollen kirtle and her fur-lined heuque over her chemise and so far I had only removed the heuque.

‘Do you mean you might be pregnant?’ I gulped, instinctively crossing myself.

Catherine nodded, tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks. ‘Or I may have been – before I fell off the horse. I realise now I have been very stupid, Mette. I was angry yesterday, the men were being so … so male! I wanted to show them that we women are just as spirited as they are; not difficult and “hard to handle”, as they put it.’

Her white face worried me, but I thought it a good sign that she had made no mention of stomach pains and, when I removed her kirtle, I was heartily relieved to find an unblemished chemise beneath. ‘All is well,’ I declared gratefully, ‘so far anyway.’ I had to tell her because she had covered her own eyes for fear of what mine might see.

‘Are you sure, Mette?’ she asked, dropping her hands but still unable to allow herself to believe it. ‘I confess that I have a pain in my back and I feared the worst.’

‘Then you must rest immediately, Mademoiselle,’ I said briskly, dumping the kirtle and moving to pull back the bedclothes. ‘You must keep your feet up for a day and more, until we know if there is definitely to be a child.’ I forced a consoling smile, although I was suddenly very angry with her. She and King Henry had prayed for an heir at every shrine on their progress through the country and yet with one foolhardy action she had risked destroying any new life that might be growing inside her. I now pondered whether I should immediately inform King Henry of the situation.

In the event it was a decision I did not have to make because the king arrived almost as soon as Catherine was between the sheets and once he had satisfied himself about her general condition he asked a very direct question.

‘It is nearly six weeks since we came together at Kenilworth, Catherine, and I have not been kept from your bed by any female effusions. Is it possible that you are pregnant?’

When Catherine confessed that it was possible, he was torn between praise and reproach, elated and exasperated at the same time.

‘I do not know what to say,’ he admitted, somehow managing to smile and frown at the same time. ‘Glory be to God it is wonderful news! But we must pray that no damage has been done by your impulsive action today. I want you to promise that you will take the greatest possible care from now on. I cannot believe that you have risked the safety of our son and heir.’

His pacing brought him to the bedside where he gazed down at her with stern admonition. ‘I have been forgetting that you have still not reached your majority and possess all the headstrong recklessness of youth. To a certain extent, I blame myself for the danger in which you have placed our son, but it must never happen again. I want to be sure you understand that. I need to know if I can trust you, Catherine,’ he added earnestly.

‘I promise to take more care in future, my liege,’ she said solemnly, ‘but I stress that I am not yet certain that I am with child. I beg you to wait before making any announcement. Remember what happened last time.’ She reached out and took his hand, pressing it fervently to her lips. ‘And I beg you to remember, my dearest lord, that any child we have might just as easily be a girl as a boy.’

King Henry gave her a pitying look. ‘Believe me, madam, there is no question of this baby being a girl. God has promised me an heir and I have fulfilled all His requirements to deserve one. You must not harbour another thought that our first child could be female for that will weaken our son’s strength and sense of purpose. Never forget that you are carrying a king, Catherine. We are building a dynasty, you and I.’

His messianic expression brooked no denial and Catherine subsided into the pillows, her face paler than ever. I hastened to intervene, moving forward from the shadows.

‘Forgive me your grace, but the queen has had a bad shock and needs to rest quietly,’ I said hesitantly, anxious not to stir his wrath further.

To my relief he nodded and bent to stroke his wife’s brow in tender farewell. ‘Yes, rest, Catherine. I will send to hear how you are this afternoon. Take care of our son.’ He stepped away from the bed and beckoned me to approach him. ‘Keep a close watch on her, Mette. This time there must be no mistakes.’

A sudden late snow storm laid a slippery cover over the ground and the tournament in celebration of St George had to be postponed once again. The conditions also delayed the arrival at Windsor of the Duchess of Hainault. She and the Duke of Gloucester were forced to wait out the storm at Eltham palace.

‘This weather might well make Duchess Jacqueline regret her decision to come to England,’ Catherine remarked wistfully, trapped indoors with her ladies embroidering an altar cloth when she would have preferred to be playing bowls in the palace gardens. ‘There will be blossom in the orchards at the Hôtel de St Pol by now. Do you not sometimes long for France, Mette?’

Since I was doing my best to repair a delicate Valenciennes lace trimming on one of her gowns and wishing I had my daughter Alys’s skill with the needle, her question brought a sudden tear to my eye. ‘Oh yes indeed, Mademoiselle, quite often; especially when something reminds me of Alys and little Catrine.’

A meaningful glance passed between us at the mention of my infant granddaughter. There had been no announcement of Catherine’s pregnancy yet, but with every passing day we became more certain that there was a child on the way. What I now recognised as King Henry’s rather calculated romancing of his young bride at Kenilworth had reaped its reward and those passionate days spent in the Pleasance had borne fruit. If all went well England would have its heir by Christmas.

‘If it is a boy, of course,’ Catherine reminded me tartly when I mentioned this calculation in private. She was smarting from the king’s abrupt abandonment of her bed the moment he thought she was with child and also from his total denial of any prospect of it being a girl. Poor Catherine; she never quite knew where she was with her enigmatic husband. One day he was the charming lover, another the conquering hero and at present, unable to be either of these, he had transformed into God-fearing King Henry and was closeted with the clergy composing a new set of rules for English Benedictine monks, whom the Pope had accused of losing sight of their vows of work and prayer and, above all, of chastity. Catherine was discovering that she had married a chameleon.

‘But when the snow melts, suddenly spring will be here,’ said Lady Joan brightly. Perhaps as a result of her burgeoning romance with the Scottish king, the Beaufort girl was fast becoming the twinkling star of the queen’s troop of ladies, always ready with a cheerful remark or a distracting riddle. ‘The sun will shine and the flowers will bloom and the world will be a beautiful place.’

‘Oh thank you, Lady Goody Sugar-plum,’ I heard Joanna Coucy mutter. ‘And we can all kiss a May-frog and find he turns into a king.’

Coucy’s remark had not reached the ears of either Lady Joan or Catherine, but I shot her a fierce glare so she knew I had heard. I sighed and bent over the infuriating frill of torn lace, thinking that we could all do with some timely distraction.

We did not have long to wait.




9 (#ulink_76d50733-41d6-5792-8568-130d4da9a36d)


As soon as the unseasonal blanket of snow had melted, the Duke of Gloucester rode into Windsor with the Duchess of Hainault and, to the surprise of Catherine and her ladies, her sole female attendant was none other than Eleanor Cobham.

The king and queen received Duchess Jacqueline with due ceremony in St George’s great hall and we all had a good look at her as she swept down the room on Gloucester’s arm, looking to my eyes nothing like a damsel in distress. She was tall and statuesque with milky skin and red-blonde hair dressed in plaited ‘horns’, capped with a headdress of exquisite wired Valenciennes lace. Seeing this and her magnificent and unsullied gown of dark-green broadcloth trimmed with sable, I concluded that she had prevailed upon Gloucester to make a halt somewhere in Windsor so that all evidence of the journey could be removed from her person. Jacqueline of Hainault knew the value of first impressions.

When the initial greetings were over, she was invited to take the place of honour beside the king at the high table and a splendid welcome feast was served. However controversial Jacqueline’s departure from mainland Europe may have been, it was made evident to all that she was an honoured guest at the English court.

During the meal Eleanor Cobham was seated among Catherine’s ladies at a lower trestle and we were able to quiz her about her new patron. ‘It was a complete surprise when his grace’s messenger arrived with the invitation to serve the duchess,’ she confessed coyly, ‘especially as my family had moved from Sterborough to Hever, so he was obliged to battle the blizzard to seek me out. Fortunately, Hever is only a day’s ride from Eltham.’

‘Goodness, did you ride there in the snow?’ enquired Lady Joan admiringly. ‘Even in daylight, it must have been a cold and slippery journey.’

‘A little cold,’ acknowledged Eleanor, ‘and of course we had nothing but saddlebags, so this is my only gown.’ She made a deprecatory gesture at her serviceable grey tunic and blue côte-hardie, serviceable for riding hard over snowy roads, but lacking any of the style and colour of court costume. ‘However, the duchess has promised me five marks to buy cloth for new gowns as soon as we are settled.’

‘Five marks!’ I echoed, impressed. ‘The duchess’s purse is well-lined. I thought she had been forced to flee Hainault with barely the clothes on her back.’

Eleanor frowned. ‘Yes, she did, it was a daring escape from all accounts. But she assures me she will receive funds from the king until such time as she regains her own treasury. I hope there are some good tailors about the court.’

‘The queen does not think so,’ Lady Joan remarked. ‘She is sending Madame Lanière to London as soon as the roads dry out, to recruit tailors and mercers. Is that not so, Madame?’

‘More or less,’ I admitted, although since my mission was quickly to acquire some looser gowns to accommodate Catherine’s soon-to-be-swelling belly, I could have done without it being generally known yet. ‘But if I can persuade a number of London craftsmen to come to Windsor, it will be some time before they arrive. Meanwhile, perhaps you may be able to borrow a gown. Several of the queen’s young ladies are more or less your size.’

Eleanor favoured me with an innocent-seeming smile, but I caught a calculating glint in those violet eyes of hers. ‘Or perhaps the queen herself has some old gowns she no longer wears?’ she suggested. ‘You would know that, would you not, Madame?’

I immediately had a vision of Eleanor preening herself in one of Catherine’s Parisian creations and revelling in the jealous glances of the queen’s own maids of honour. ‘I would,’ I confirmed, ‘and I can tell you that all her surplus gowns were left in France, to be distributed to charities in Rouen where the terrible siege left people destitute. Incidentally,’ I added casually, ‘does the duchess know you are not yet fourteen? Is she happy to be responsible for one so young among the schemers and lechers of the court?’

Eleanor’s ingratiating smile faded and was replaced by a smug and steady stare. ‘Actually I was born on the feast of St Richard of Chichester, a saint my mother particularly reveres. And so on the 4th day of April I became fourteen.’

‘Congratulations, Damoiselle. But, even so, you are not old enough to know the difference between a gentleman and a serpent masquerading as a gentleman – and there are plenty of such bejewelled serpents who are not instantly recognisable, not until you find yourself alone with them in a dark corner. Do you take my meaning?’

‘Oh yes, Madame,’ she responded seriously, ‘and I assure you that any man lucky enough to find himself in a dark corner with me will be there at my invitation and extremely rich, titled and unmarried!’ She broke into a gay little laugh. ‘I am joking, Madame!’ she hastened to add, seeing my astonishment. ‘No, the Duchess of Hainault will have in me a diligent and discreet companion. I was merely pointing out that young ladies come to court not only to serve our noble patrons, but also to find a rich and landed husband. I assure you the duchess completely understands the importance of making powerful connections.’ She glanced slyly up at the high table where, with smiles and elegant hand gestures, Jacqueline was adroitly managing to draw the attention of both the king and his brother. Catherine was also leaning forward to listen to their conversation, temporarily ignoring King James who sat on her other side.

Meanwhile I was assessing the impression Eleanor had made on me, admitting astonishment that a girl of such tender years should already have developed this hard-nosed attitude towards her own assets. Where were the wild, romantic notions that filled the minds of most girls of her age and which caused their guardians such worry and heartache? If Eleanor Cobham was to be believed, at just fourteen she already had high ambitions and a very clear idea of how to achieve them.

Joanna Belknap had eagerly taken over Eleanor’s attention with questions about the intriguing stranger and she was not alone in her curiosity. Jacqueline of Hainault had sparked a new fascination in the court.

Eleanor spoke candidly of her new mistress. ‘I have only known her a short time, but she is a lady who knows what she wants and tells you in no uncertain terms. I think she may have rubbed a lot of important people up the wrong way in Brabant, which is why she has come to England. She has even run away from her mother, you know.’

‘Her mother is the sister of the previous Duke of Burgundy, Jean the Fearless; the one who was killed on the bridge at Montereau,’ I observed darkly. Even pronouncing the name of Catherine’s ‘devil Duke’ sent a shiver down my spine. I could not help wondering if his sister might be tainted with the same evil nature, even towards her own daughter. It was not that long since I had risked my life and that of my son and daughter to save Catherine from his vile abuse.

Eleanor shrugged. ‘I do not know about that, but I think she is lonely. She was delighted to receive me when I arrived at Eltham, saying it was several weeks since she had had any female companionship, and I must say her clothes were in a terrible state. It took me a whole day and the help of his grace of Gloucester’s body squire to make that green gown presentable again. The sooner she acquires some menial servants the better, as far as I am concerned. My nails are ruined.’

She laid a pair of dainty little hands on the cloth to prove her point, but they did not look particularly work-worn to me. These days, at court, I kept my own hands hidden as much as possible because there was no disguising the evidence of their years of physical toil.

Eleanor continued cheerfully, ‘Indeed, from what I know of her grace’s intentions, the establishment of her household is precisely what she will be discussing with the king at this moment.’

She was right and very successful that discussion proved to be, for by nightfall the Duchess of Hainault and Eleanor were installed in a suite of guest chambers beside the queen’s and planning how to spend the allowance of a hundred pounds a month granted to Jacqueline from the Royal Exchequer, a very considerable amount of money. The immediate problem of the ladies’ lack of apparel was solved with the loan of a gown to the duchess from Catherine’s wardrobe and one to her lady in waiting from a generous Lady Joan, which was just as well because the delayed tournament, when everyone would be sporting their finest apparel, had been rescheduled for two days’ time.

It was intriguing to watch Catherine and Jacqueline quickly establish a close relationship, for since they were both princesses of European courts they had a great deal in common, not least the fact that they had once been sisters-in-law. At the time of her birth, Catherine’s brother Jean had shared the royal nursery at the Hôtel de St Pol in Paris with their older siblings Louis and Michele and, for nearly four years, I had tended them all, as well as, when he came along, their younger brother Charles. I remembered Jean as a tough, pugnacious little boy who had constantly scrapped with his brother Louis and shown scant interest in any form of learning other than how to fight. At the age of seven, together with Louis and Michele, he had been more or less abducted by the Duke of Burgundy; Louis and Michele he had betrothed to his own children and Jean to his niece Jacqueline, after which the young prince of France had gone to live with her family and become a stranger to his own.

‘I barely remember Jean,’ Catherine admitted on Jacqueline’s first visit to her solar. ‘I was three when my brothers left and I can only recall Jean teasing me about my imaginary playmates. He would call me Lame-Brain.’

‘Oh that was Jean all right,’ laughed Jacqueline. ‘He had absolutely no imagination. He had no time for anything that did not have a military purpose. If he saw me reading a book he would snatch it out of my hands and throw it across the room. “Books are for nuns,” he would shout. “They make you dull. Come and play chess with me.” He was good at chess and later became quite a strategist. Wherever we went he would assess the lie of the land and devise imaginary battle plans. If he had lived he would have made a good general.’ Her face fell as she said this. ‘France could have done with a dauphin capable of fighting a war.’

‘Yes, we could,’ agreed Catherine thoughtfully. ‘That is why Henry is now the Heir of France rather than Charles.’ A brief silence fell between them while she made a few token stitches in her embroidery, which had otherwise lain abandoned on her lap. Then she added, ‘This may sound an impertinent question, Madame, but did you become fond of Jean?’

Jacqueline gave her a keen glance. ‘No, not really, he was not sympathique, as you know. But we understood each other. That was the advantage of growing up together. Moreover he was more interested in knightly pursuits than those of the bedchamber and so he was more like my brother than my husband. In truth I mourned him as a brother when he died.’

‘His death must have been a terrible shock. He was only eighteen, was he not? It certainly it took us all by surprise in Paris. It was so sudden. Did he suffer greatly?’

A shadow seemed to cross the duchess’s face. ‘Yes he did. There was some bubo or tumour in his ear and it pressed on his brain they said. I sat with him while the doctors tried to relieve the pain with the most terrible treatments, which he fought against like a madman. In short he screamed and groaned until he was utterly exhausted and then he fell back dead. It was truly horrible.’ She sat back white-faced at the memory, which still obviously haunted her.

‘But it does not sound as if he was poisoned, as some people suggested,’ Catherine said gently. ‘Did the doctors suspect any foul play?’

Jacqueline shook her head. ‘No, not at the time, although some of our courtiers spread rumours about witchcraft or sorcery, but no names were ever spoken.’

‘There were rumours like that when Louis died, but I was always certain that he drank himself to death. And now there is only Charles left, the last of our mother’s five sons.’ Catherine dropped her voice and glanced around at her ladies, most of whom were quietly squabbling over embroidery silks in a far corner. ‘But we do not speak of him outside this room, especially since his forces killed my lord the king’s brother. You met Charles once though, did you not?’

Jacqueline gave a brief laugh. ‘Yes. Charles came to try and persuade his brother to kiss his father’s hand, but Jean would not go to Paris. Actually Charles did not try very hard to make him. They discovered that they both hated their mother – your mother – and did not trust her. Jean declared openly that she said one thing and did another.’

‘Well, he was right there,’ observed Catherine dryly. ‘Yet he trusted Jean the Fearless, which I find incomprehensible.’

Jacqueline visibly shuddered. ‘It was. I think he admired his ruthlessness. Your brother would have been a ruthless ruler too, if he had lived. At least he had all his wits, unlike my brute of a cousin of Brabant, whom I was forced to marry after your brother died. That marriage was Jean the Fearless’s doing too. I was drugged and dragged to the altar.’ Her full lips were pressed together into a thin line and the next words were forced through her teeth. ‘Jean of Burgundy was a man of whom it is impossible to speak well, even though he is dead.’

I quickly rolled my eyes at Catherine in silent warning, but she was discreet in her response, sensibly giving no hint of her own extreme and justified abhorrence of the murdered duke. ‘How much you have suffered,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Life in Brabant must have been unbearable if you were forced to flee in terror – even from your own mother.’

‘They all conspire to take my lands,’ insisted Jacqueline bitterly. ‘My mother, my uncle and my cousin all blatantly seek the expansion of Burgundy’s territories. I am without friends save for his grace, your husband. King Henry is the only man of power to embrace my cause. I am eternally grateful to him and the Duke of Gloucester.’

‘Yes, you and Humphrey have had time to become well acquainted, being snowed up together as you were, and he brought his little protégée to your notice too.’ She cast a glance at Eleanor, who sat a little removed from the other young ladies across the chamber. ‘She is something of a beauty your new companion, is she not?’

The duchess laughed happily. ‘Oh yes – and quite delightful; so accomplished for her age and very bright. Of course I will seek other attendants too, but I know already that she will be of particular help to me.’

Even though she sat apart from the conversation, Eleanor must have been listening intently to hear what was said about her for I saw her lips twitch in a secret, self-satisfied smile. Suddenly I felt a surge of relief that she had entered service with the duchess and would therefore presumably no longer be in line to join Catherine’s household. Beautiful though she was, with all the lustre of youth, there was something deeply troubling about Eleanor Cobham.

By the time the herald trumpets sounded, the St George’s Day tournament had been delayed by two weeks. It was well into May when the Knights of the Garter attended their solemn re-dedication service in the castle chapel before donning their burnished armour and parading on horseback around the Upper Court acknowledging the cheers of a large crowd of courtiers and any townsfolk who could wangle an entry by bribery or civic rank. King Henry led the parade, followed by the Duke of Gloucester and the ten other distinguished members of the order of Knights of the Garter who were not fighting in France, were indisposed or had died in the last year. In view of these restrictions it seemed a good turnout.

It was the first time I had ever had a grandstand view of a tournament. The royal box had been erected in front of St George’s Hall and lavishly decorated with banners and spring flowers. Queen Catherine sat enthroned between her new friend Jacqueline of Hainault and Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, while I sat at the back among her ladies, pinching myself and wondering whether, nineteen years ago, my mother could ever have envisaged me in this position when she hired me out, red-eyed from the loss of my stillborn son, to be a wet-nurse to the Queen of France’s new baby girl. ‘It is a good opportunity, Mette,’ she had said encouragingly. ‘It will be hard at first, but who knows where it could lead?’ I stroked the fine cloth of my sleek slate-blue worsted gown and concluded that even in her wildest dreams she could not have conjured this eventuality.

King Henry was to open the tourney with a formal tilt against his brother, but before they rode to their respective ends of the lists, a trumpeter blew a loud blast and Windsor Herald called the crowd to attention in a sonorous, carrying voice.

‘Your Graces, My Lords, Ladies and Knights of the Garter, and all the king’s subjects here present, pray silence for joyful news. Our most puissant King Henry, the greatest knight in Christendom, and his fair Queen Catherine have commanded me to announce that an heir to the thrones of England and France is expected during Advent. And so, God willing, at Christmastide, England and France will celebrate the coming of both the Christ-child and a newborn prince. God save the king and God save Queen Catherine!’

Another trumpet flourish resounded at the end of the herald’s announcement and cheers swelled from among the crowds in the stands. The tilt ground was not a vast arena and the enclosing walls of the castle seemed to shake with the shouts of joy and celebration. Then the bells began to ring, first from the Curfew Tower in the Lower Ward, from which the carillon was taken up by all the church bells in the town of Windsor. Vibrations seemed to shake the clear blue arc of the spring sky and speech became impossible against the tumult of echoing chimes. In the royal box we all burst into spontaneous applause and Catherine stood to acknowledge the enthusiastic greetings that were offered from every side. Blushing prettily, she reached into the floral display before her and plucked an early red rose bud from the garland, leaning over the rail to proffer it to King Henry, whose charger pranced impatiently, agitated by the bells, stirring the sand with its hooves. Controlling his horse with one hand, the king reached over to take the bloom from his wife with a broad smile of pleasure, kissed its tightly curled petals and tucked it into the shoulder joint of his glinting suit of armour, where it nodded jauntily. The red rose was a badge of Lancaster and the king’s delighted smile acknowledged her subtle intention to mark the budding of a new flower of the Lancastrian tree.

The previous day King Henry had announced the appointment of four new Knights of the Garter, including his standard bearer Sir Louis Robsart and the Earl Marshall, Sir Thomas Mowbray, who both now entered the arena on foot bearing spurs and a sword and escorting King James of Scotland modestly dressed in a white jupon, black hose and red shoes. King Henry’s intention was to personally confer the accolade of knighthood on his fellow monarch prior to allowing emissaries at last to enter into negotiations over the Scottish king’s ransom from his prolonged captivity in England. Catherine had expressed a wish to see this ceremony and so it had been decided that it should be performed at the start of the tournament.

Out of interest I kept one eye on Lady Joan as her professed suitor crossed the sand; predictably her eyes were bright with excitement. Meanwhile Joanna Coucy made an accurate but to my mind unnecessary observation.

‘He is somewhat old to be receiving a knighthood, is he not? I thought twenty-one was the usual age. The King of Scots must be all of twenty-five or six. It does not say much for his fighting skills if he has had to wait until now to be dubbed.’

Lady Joan rounded on her fellow lady-in-waiting with an indignant glare. ‘He has not exactly had an upbringing of the usual kind!’ she exclaimed. ‘How would you like to be held for ransom for fifteen years? The old king refused to let him have instruction in the use of arms in case he employed them against Englishmen. He only started his training for knighthood under King Henry, who seems to think he has succeeded, even if you do not!’

Joanna Coucy glared back. ‘Well! You are very quick to defend him, Joan! I wonder why?’

‘Hush,’ I cautioned, leaning from behind to push my face between them with a frown. ‘King James at least deserves your attention at this important moment in his life.’

Lady Joan turned back instantly to watch the proceedings, but Joanna Coucy continued to stare at me balefully. ‘Your title is Keeper of the Queen’s Robes, Madame Lanière, not Keeper of the Queen’s Damsels. What makes you think you have any authority over me?’

Hiding my angry reaction I said quietly and with a pleasant smile, ‘Seniority,’ and put my finger against my lips. As I averted my gaze to the lists I could not help noticing that the Duchess of Hainault had turned in her chair to watch and listen to this exchange. Her eyes were narrowed, as if she pondered a question of profound significance.

A silk carpet had been laid on the sand of the tourney ground and King James was now kneeling before King Henry, who had dismounted and taken the great two-handed sword of Edward the Confessor from his Leopard Herald. Stepping forward he raised the heavy weapon and delivered the accolade of knighthood by three firm taps on the royal squire’s shoulders. ‘James Stewart soyez chevalier – be you knight!’ he declared in a loud, clear voice. ‘Be true to God and guard your honour.’

After a solemn pause, King James rose and the two monarchs kissed each other on the cheek in brotherly acknowledgement, while each of the Scot’s two distinguished sponsors knelt to buckle a polished spur around his ankles. When the sword of knighthood, safe in its scabbard, had been slung from his knightly girdle, they then took him by the arms and turned him to face his fellow knights gathered at the Herald’s Gate, whereupon they put up a rousing cheer which was echoed by King Henry and the Duke of Gloucester, who was still mounted at the far end of the lists. Beside me Lady Joan clapped excitedly, tears of admiration glinting in her eyes.




10 (#ulink_2cf02c18-459e-52ec-87f1-f71e490e4d9e)


Genevieve flicked her ears irritably and drops of water flew off to join the misty drizzle that seemed to penetrate every seam of our clothing. It was a whole day’s ride from Windsor to London and within half an hour of setting out, we were wet through to the skin. I had been looking forward to this trip with Walter Vintner as an opportunity to escape the restrictive confines of the castle and breathe the fresh air of the countryside, but I had reckoned without the English weather. After the late snow and thaw, the road was still fetlock deep in mud. We tried as much as possible to avoid the boggiest stretches by riding on the verges, but they were soft also and Genevieve was as miserable as I was, slipping and sliding and pecking so that I was hard put to stay in the saddle. Riding single file with our hoods pulled well down over our heads, it was a morose journey, and no pleasant conversation was possible. It was not until we stopped to rest the horses and restore ourselves at a tavern in Hounslow that there was any opportunity for communication.

‘Normally I would expect to make it as far as Chiswick by midday at this time of year,’ Walter grumbled. ‘The Swan Inn there always has a hearty welcome for us since it buys wine from our family vintry.’ He looked around the crowded low-beamed room where we sat crammed into a corner, unable to get near enough to the fire to dry our sodden clothes. ‘This place is run by a mean-spirited bunch of monks from the local priory and their trademark is weak ale and tasteless pottage. And look at that fire, not enough heat to dry a kerchief.’

‘At least the roof is not leaking,’ I observed with a wry smile. ‘We will not get any wetter for the time being. And we look so poor and bedraggled that no one will try to overcharge us.’

Walter gave me a lop-sided grin. ‘I did not think there could be a bright side but you found one. That is the mark of a good travelling companion.’

‘Thank you, kind sir,’ I smiled back. ‘I am just happy to be out of the rain for a while.’

‘Perhaps when we set out again it will have stopped,’ suggested Walter.

‘Ah – optimism!’ I cried. ‘You see, you too are a good travelling companion.’

The pot boy brought us ale and, as Walter had predicted, it was weak but not sour and the pottage, when it came, was actually quite tasty, well-seasoned and laced with herbs and scraps of meat. It served its purpose, which was to warm us up and fortify us for another long ride. Providing the horses had been as satisfactorily cared for, all should be well and, to our delight, when we stepped out into the stable yard the rain had stopped and a watery sun stood high in the sky.

‘Now we might reach London before curfew,’ said Walter, taking Genevieve’s reins from the ostler and helping me to mount. ‘It pays to be optimistic.’

At last able to ride with my hood back, I settled in the saddle and began to look around me. We were travelling east on the Great Western Road out of London and a steady procession of traffic came against us. Mule-carts and hand-carts, many of them empty, were returning to the vegetable gardens and poultry farms of the Thames valley having sold their loads of roots, onions, chickens, ducks, geese and eggs in the city markets. Well-guarded strings of laden pack-horses plodded steadily at the start of their journey to the ports of Bristol and Exeter and the occasional sound of a horn heralded a knight or nobleman with his posse of retainers, bidding us to clear the road to give him passage. We passed through a series of villages until the road once more met the River Thames at Chiswick and became even more crowded as the spires and towers of Westminster grew clearer in our sights.

We skirted the palace and abbey to the north and it was very slow going on the stretch between there and the London wall, but the sun had dried us out and I was comfortable enough to be fascinated by the sights. This loop of the Thames was, like the stretch of the Seine between the Grand Pont and the Hôtel de St Pol in Paris, the chosen location for the city residences of a number of nobles and bishops, close to both the merchant hub and the centre of royal power that was the palace of Westminster. These mansions were well-protected by high walls and gatehouses, but often the gates were open and it was possible to catch a glimpse of the busy courtyards within, noisy with the clatter of horses hooves and the shouts of servants and varlets bustling through doors and arches.

‘This road will take us to the Ludgate,’ Walter shouted above the rattle of iron-bound wheels on a passing cart. ‘Let us hope there is not too much of a queue.’

‘Why, when is the curfew?’ I yelled back.

‘Not until after the Compline bell, so we should get through before dark. Then it is not far to Tun Lane.’

Walter had very kindly invited me to stay at his family house on the edge of the Vintry, the wharf area on the river where wine cargoes were unloaded and stored in warehouses.

‘Shall I meet your father?’ I asked with interest. ‘Is he in London?’

‘I believe so. He usually lets me know if he is travelling to France.’

‘And will your aunt be there? The one your sisters wish was not?’

He gave me a worried look. ‘Yes, but I hope you will not make any mention of that,’ he said. ‘I probably should not have told you.’

I smiled reassuringly. ‘I promise I will be the soul of discretion. It is extremely kind of you to offer me lodging. I hope your aunt will not be put out by it.’

He looked as if the thought had never occurred to him. ‘I cannot think why she should. We have plenty of room. Anyway, you can have my chamber if there is any problem and I will sleep in the hall with the servants. It would not be the first time.’

I did not pursue the subject, but nevertheless felt a stab of misgiving. His original description of his aunt had not encouraged me to think that she was an easy-going woman and I feared my arrival might rouse her ire.

‘Well, I will be very grateful not to have to take a room in a strange inn,’ I said. ‘The prospect does not appeal to me.’ Catherine had suggested I seek lodging at Westminster Palace, but I suspected that when the royals were not in residence such a place would be cold and eerie and, anyway, I wanted to be closer to the shops and workshops in the city.

We waited less than half an hour in the queue to pass through the wall and immediately began to plod up a hill on a narrow roadway lined with tightly packed half-timbered houses whose overhanging gables almost grazed our heads, obscuring the setting sun and trapping the acrid odour stirred by our horses’ hooves. Behind us the Compline bell began to ring from a nearby abbey, tucked into the corner formed where the London wall dipped down to the river bank.

‘Blackfriars Abbey,’ Walter revealed. ‘Of the Dominican order. Their bell denotes the start of curfew. We only just made it through the gate.’

At my request we had been speaking English all day. I was getting more fluent and needed the practice. I had discovered that learning the language led me to understand the English character better and it was becoming clear to me that although many of them were descended from Normans, they displayed very different characteristics from their continental cousins. I found them more phlegmatic, less quick to anger and generally more straightforward in their attitude to life.

Walter leaned from his saddle to speak above the clanging sound of another bell which began to ring out from a large building silhouetted at the top of the hill. ‘That is St Paul’s,’ he said, ‘the greatest church in London. In the churchyard you’ll see a big cross where many a famous sermon has been preached. Crowds block the street to hear them, especially in times of trouble.’

When we reached the elevated churchyard it was just possible to see over the patchwork of tiled rooftops down to the river Thames, its brown and turgid waters transformed by the reflected sunset into a golden highway dotted with boats and ships. London seemed smaller than Paris, crammed tightly within its walls and, judging by the miasma of smells that assailed our nostrils, afflicted with the same city problems; waste, ordure and disease. It also radiated all the excitement and opportunity that resulted when people massed together in the right location for trade, industry and creativity.

We had stopped to let our horses draw breath after the climb and to allow me to admire the view. Walter was eager to share his pride in his native city, ‘The river looks magical in this light, does it not? The Vintry is this side of London Bridge,’ he said, indicating the higgledy-piggledy line of buildings on the many-arched bridge I remembered crossing the day before Catherine’s coronation. ‘Our house is in Tun Lane, off Cordwainer Street. Ten minutes’ ride. I hope supper will be ready!’

When we reached the Vintner house it was already shuttered against the night, but the street gate quickly opened in response to Walter’s rat-tat-a-tat-tat coded knock. A grizzled servant emerged first from a narrow passage at the side of the house and took our horses, while seconds later down some steps at the main entrance tumbled two young girls, laughing and exclaiming as they came.

‘Walter! Walter! It’s you at last!’

Light spilled out a welcome from lamps burning in the inner porch and Walter returned the enthusiastic embraces of the two whom I assumed to be his sisters before shushing them and ushering me up the steps towards the warmth of the interior.

‘Now calm down and show your manners to my guest,’ he admonished gently. ‘This is Madame Lanière, who is Keeper of the Robes to Queen Catherine and deserves your greatest courtesy. Madame, may I present my sisters? This is Anne, the eldest and this hoyden is Mildred, although we call her Mildy because she does not deserve such a saintly name.’

I received the solemn curtsies of the two girls with a grave nod. ‘I am enchanted to meet you,’ I said in French and saw that they understood immediately. Some of the education Walter had received had clearly also been afforded his sisters. They were very like him, blue-eyed, open-faced and handsome rather than pretty, dressed plainly in brown woollen kirtles and practical unbleached linen aprons, their hair hidden under neat white coifs.

‘I hope you have not eaten all the supper,’ their brother said, pulling them aside to allow me to mount the inner stair to the first floor. ‘Madame Lanière and I are very hungry. We have been riding all day.’

‘We have not started,’ Anne revealed. ‘Father is here. He came back from the Temple only an hour ago.’

So far there had been no mention of the aunt, but when we entered the hall at the top of the stairs a lady was waiting at the hearth who was obviously she. Walter introduced her as Mistress Elizabeth Cope. My first impression was of a strict disciplinarian; a wimpled lady with a thin face and dark features, unrelieved by the grey and black of her widow’s weeds. She greeted me civilly but without warmth, and I felt instantly that there was no joy in her. However she made no comment about me being an unexpected guest and an extra place was soon being laid at a table set before a good fire, which gave me hope of a clean and comfortable bed later.

‘We have very few visitors, Madame Lanière, so I hope you will not find our hospitality wanting,’ Mistress Cope remarked in her surprisingly deep voice. ‘Try as we might, our standards are hardly likely to measure up to those of the royal household.’

‘I have sometimes found the greatest of palaces draughty and cold, Madame,’ I replied in hesitant English. ‘Courts are not always lodged comfortably.’

She did not respond to that, hardly seeming to have heard because a door opened in the inner wall of the hall to admit a well-set man in a fur-trimmed black gown and a lawyer’s coif that hardly seemed able to contain his thatch of springy silver-threaded brown hair. The atmosphere of stiff formality instantly lifted. Master Geoffrey Vintner was about as similar to his sister as wine is to vinegar. Where she was narrow, he was broad, where her brow was furrowed, his was smile-lined and where she looked coldly down her nose, his good-natured expression burst through a full set of dark, gingery whiskers. If I had nursed a stereotyped image of a stern, pompous lawyer, it was instantly expunged by the presence of this pleasant, warm-spirited man.

When Walter introduced me, his reaction was genuinely cordial. ‘It is a privilege to welcome you to our house, Madame,’ he declared in perfect French. ‘I am honoured to have a member of the queen’s household under my roof.’

I returned his smile and his bow in equal measure, surprised to find myself wishing that I had been able to remove the dirt and dishevelment of the road before meeting him. He must have read my mind for he immediately called for warm water and ushered me to a place at the table nearest to the fire. ‘Come, Madame, let me take your cloak. Sit down and my maid will bring the bowl and towel for you to wash your hands. Walter, you should have offered Madame Lanière these comforts as soon as she crossed the threshold. Where are your manners, boy?’

I saw Walter’s cheeks flush with embarrassment and felt bound to spring to his defence. ‘Truly sir, there has not been time and Walter has been the most attentive escort all day. He does not deserve a word of criticism.’

Meanwhile, Mistress Cope and the two girls arranged themselves around the table and a maid in a bleached apron and coif brought the hand basin, offering it to me carefully so that it did not spill. As I made use of the water and towel, Walter gave his father details of our journey while the two girls tried not to stare at me as they absorbed every detail of my appearance.

‘I believe you have come to London on the queen’s business, Madame?’ enquired Master Vintner, regarding me as intently as his daughters. ‘Are you at liberty to reveal what that business is? Perhaps I can be of assistance to you.’

I smiled. ‘That is a kind offer, sir, but I think it unlikely that a professional man like yourself would have much business with craftsmen skilled in ladies apparel. Queen Catherine has sent me to visit certain recommended tailors and merciers – I think you call them haberdashers? – in order to refresh and replenish her wardrobe. Walter has promised to guide me to the quarters in the city where these are to be found.’

The lawyer looked surprised. ‘Really? You amaze me. I had no inkling that my son was familiar with the haunts of fashionable ladies. Walter, were you neglecting your studies all that time I was paying for your education at the Inns of Court?’

Once again poor Walter went bright pink. ‘No indeed, Father, but I do know the way to Threadneedle Street. When I last looked, that was the location of the Tailors’ Hall, where I believe all masters of that craft in London are registered.’

‘Ah yes, I see,’ nodded his father. ‘So you will take Madame Lanière there tomorrow.’

‘And may I ask how long you intend staying in the city?’ Mistress Cope’s enquiry was couched in such a way as to indicate that she hoped it would not be too many days, an inference that was not lost on her brother.

‘Elizabeth, Madame Lanière is welcome to stay as long as the queen’s business keeps her here,’ Master Vintner said firmly. ‘And tomorrow I think you might acquire a good haunch of beef to roast for our dinner and I will ensure that there is some fine Bordeaux wine to go with it.’ He cast a disapproving glance at the dish of cold mutton pie which the serving woman had placed on the table alongside a loaf of day-old maslin bread and a hunk of hard cheese. ‘Is there none of that onion tart left to go with this pie?’ he asked. ‘There was plenty left last night as I recall.’ He leaned in my direction to ask confidingly, ‘I expect you like a good slice of onion tart as much as I do, Madame?’

‘Perhaps not quite as much,’ I responded with a smile. ‘But I do care for a slice of roasted beef.’

‘The onion tart was eaten for our midday meal, brother,’ Mistress Cope interjected.

‘I did not have any,’ Mildy piped up, speaking for the first time.

I cast a swift glance at Mistress Cope and saw her pale cheeks colour slightly. It occurred to me that the remains of the onion tart had been hers and hers alone, but she did not look plump enough to be hoarding food for her own consumption.

‘You do not like onion tart, Mildred!’ the dame told her niece acidly. ‘And young ladies should hold their tongues at table unless invited to speak.’

‘I would like to ask you girls where you learned such excellent French,’ I intervened, changing the subject.

‘Our mother taught us,’ answered Anne proudly. ‘And she taught us to read as well.’

‘And Latin, have you learned any Latin?’

‘No. Our father speaks Latin but he says it is not necessary for females.’ Anne looked a little crestfallen, as if she would have been keen to study the language that opened the door to so much learning. ‘Do you know it, Madame?’

I shook my head. ‘No, and I am only just learning English so you are well ahead of me, being fluent two languages already. In France not many women even learn to read.’

‘That is the case here in England as well,’ said Master Vintner. ‘My wife was an exception and wished her daughters to be educated to a certain degree. My sister does not read, do you, Elizabeth?’

Mistress Cope sniffed. ‘I have never felt the need,’ she said stonily. ‘Running a household requires other skills.’

I cut a piece of mutton pie with my knife and bit into it. The meat inside had not been stewed long enough and was tough and stringy. I swallowed it with the help of a sip of the wine Master Vintner had poured and decided to make do with bread and cheese. I noticed Walter and his father both chewing mightily and pondered how much skill it took to hire a cook who could cook or find a pie shop that could make pies.

However, when I was shown to my chamber later I found it clean and well furnished with a jug of water for washing and a night pot for my convenience. I decided that what Mistress Cope lacked in the kitchen, she made up for in the bedchamber, then smiled at my own thought, glad that I had not voiced it aloud and in company. Then, exhausted after my journey, I snuggled gratefully beneath the covers and blushed to think that I had even conjured a single thought about any bedtime activity other than sleep.




11 (#ulink_55946c64-1a42-5740-9b5d-33a859ecb75c)


On waking the next day, my first thought was for Genevieve. Guilt stabbed me as I realised that I had seen my beloved mare led away down an alley and had not given any further thought to her welfare. However, during our evening meal my two saddlebags had been delivered to my chamber and I had been able to shake out my best blue Flanders wool gown and hang it on a convenient clothes pole to allow the creases to fall out. I intended to wear it in the evening for Master Vintner’s promised feast. Meanwhile, I washed my face in the water provided, gave my travel-stained russet riding kirtle a good brush to remove the worst of the mud splashes and donned it once more before hurrying downstairs to find the stable.

In daylight the house in Tun Lane was revealed to be one in a row of substantial town houses constructed on a frame of strong, dark oak beams filled in with lime-washed lath and plaster, similar to hundreds I had seen in the towns we had passed through on the court’s progress around England. It was larger than most, boasting four windows on each side of the two gabled upper floors and was roofed with slate tiles which, considering the danger of fire in cramped city streets, I thought a vast improvement on the straw and thatch used in poorer neighbourhoods. An intriguing series of pargetted designs relieved the rectangles of plasterwork on the first floor overhang, the beams framing images of twining vines laden with fruit, a ship loaded with barrels and capering youths and girls treading huge vats of harvested grapes. There was no mistaking that this house had once belonged to a wine merchant, even if it now housed a lawyer’s family.

The narrow tunnel down which the horses had been led the previous night opened on to a rear courtyard surrounded by outhouses, one of which I rather hoped might be a privy. A stable boy was busy tipping a barrow-load of soiled straw onto a muckheap in the corner of the yard and I asked him to show me where Genevieve was. On the way past a feed-barrel I grabbed a handful of oats and enjoyed my mare’s little whicker of recognition before she snuffled them off my outstretched palm. She was comfortably settled in a stall beside Walter’s cob and looked none the worse for the previous day’s long trek. Following the advice of the horse-loving Lady Joan, I felt her legs carefully and was happy to find no sign of heat. I reckoned a day’s rest would do her no harm however.

Having found and made use of the privy, I took a quick tour around the rest of the yard, discovering that the ground floor of the house was given over to a chamber of business where two legal clerks were already busy penning entries in large leather-bound ledgers under the sharp gaze of their employer, Master Geoffrey Vintner. As I passed the open door that led directly into the yard, he called my name.

‘Madame Lanière, good morrow to you! I trust I find you well rested.’ He came out to meet me, his amiable face wreathed in smiles. I found myself wondering if this genial man could really be a forceful interrogative lawyer, then I remembered that he was also a diplomat, where I imagined that cordiality was a definite advantage.

I returned his bow with a bob. ‘Thank you, Master Vintner, I slept well. Your house is very comfortable.’

‘I am glad you think so and it is close enough to the wine warehouses for me to keep an eye on the legal side of our family business. My older brothers are the wine merchants, but I am of some use to them. May I escort you up to the hall to break your fast?’

‘Thank you. I have been checking on my mare but, of course, it was unnecessary. Your stable is as well set up as your house.’

We entered the back door and climbed the narrow stairway from the front lobby. In the hall the table had been pushed to one end of the room and bread and jugs of ale were laid out on the cloth. There was evidence that we were not the first there but whoever had already eaten had also left. We took a bowl each and some bread to a small table by the hearth. Someone had stirred the fire back to life and a cauldron of pottage stood on a trivet keeping warm. The lawyer ladled some into my bowl.

‘My sister may not be good at mutton pie, but she does make decent pottage,’ he said, eyes twinkling. ‘She has breakfasted early and gone off to seek the makings of a good beef dinner and she has taken the girls to carry her baskets.’ He filled his own bowl and sat down opposite me, adding confidentially, ‘I am fortunate that she agreed to come and care for my daughters after their mother died. Elizabeth has a brusque manner but a good heart. I can trust her to do the best for the girls.’

‘I am sure you can,’ I said, breaking some bread to dip in the pottage and deciding it would be tactful to change the subject. ‘Your son tells me you travel frequently to France. Is that on wine business?’ I knew it was not but did not want to make trouble for Walter if he had told me too much of his father’s affairs.

Geoffrey Vintner pursed his lips. ‘Partly,’ he concurred. ‘But because of my knowledge of both French and English law, I am sometimes employed on missions for the king; a glorified messenger really between the English court and the governing councils of Paris and Rouen. Do you have family in France?’

I suddenly found the bread hard to swallow as a lump came to my throat, a problem which had started to occur more frequently lately as I struggled to come to terms with the extended separation from my children. I tried to clear it and spoke hoarsely as a result.

‘Yes I do but, sadly, they eat from different plates. My son is a huntsman in the dauphin’s household – I am sorry, I mean the Pretender of course …’ I blushed and rushed on, ‘and my daughter is married to a Parisian tailor and so now lives under English rule. She has a little girl, my granddaughter.’

Master Vintner ignored the dauphin/Pretender slip in favour of blatant flattery. ‘Saint’s bones! You are a grandmother? Impossible!’

I felt my cheeks burn even hotter and inwardly scolded myself for foolishness. ‘It is only too possible, sir,’ I said, avoiding his teasing gaze. ‘You might be a grandparent yourself if your son were a daughter.’

He thought about that for a moment. ‘Ah yes, I see what you mean. I find it difficult to contemplate the fact that my daughters are nearly of an age to take husbands. Am I the only father who hates that thought?’

I gave a small laugh. ‘That depends on the husbands they take. Fortunately mine chose well.’

He frowned. ‘Chose?’ he echoed. ‘You mean she chose her own husband? What was her father doing?’

My cheeks had cooled now and I gave him a direct look. ‘Sadly I lost my husband after the Battle of Agincourt. He was as much a casualty of that disaster as the Duke of York, even if he was not a nobleman.’

‘A disaster you call it?’ He kept his expression neutral. ‘Well I suppose for many thousands of your countrymen it was just that. Did he fight in the battle?’

I laid down my horn spoon to clasp my hands tightly in my lap. I did not wish to begin a detailed description of Jean-Michel’s miserable and unnecessary death. ‘No, he was a charettier. He drove supplies for the royal army. Although I serve the queen, I am not of noble stock, sir.’

Master Vintner struck his knee with the palm of his hand and laughed. ‘No more are my son and I, Madame, and yet we serve the king. These are changing times, are they not?’

I resumed my meal and we ate in silence for a few moments. ‘Where is Walter?’ I asked at length. ‘I do not imagine he is a lay-abed.’

‘No, no. I have sent him about his own business. He has gone to buy quills and paper. If you will permit me, I will escort you to the Tailors Hall myself. As it happens, I have done legal work for the guild and I think my introduction may ensure you more solicitous attention than my young son’s.’ He paused, observing me humbly. ‘I hope this arrangement does not offend you.’

In fact I found myself unexpectedly pleased by his offer but I restricted my response to a brief smile and a nod of appreciation. ‘Not at all, sir,’ I said. ‘It is very generous of you to spare the time.’

On Master Vintner’s advice I strapped pattens onto my shoes for the walk to Threadneedle Street and I was glad I had. The muckrakers may have been out at dawn, but the gutters in the lane had already received new and generous dumps of household waste and the main thoroughfares were liberally scattered with fresh droppings from travellers’ horses and the wild pigs that still apparently roamed the streets and gardens. London’s fifty thousand citizens had to eat and drink and pursue their livelihoods and so they also had to live with the side effects. Although the pattens made walking clumsy, at least they kept my feet and my skirt off the ground and my escort was kind enough to offer me his arm over the worst parts.

It was not far to the Tailors Hall and, on the way, we passed numerous workshops of crafts I would need to explore later; haberdashers, drapers, cordwainers, hatters, glovers and hosiers. London might be only half the size of Paris, but there seemed to be no lack of the skills necessary to maintain Queen Catherine’s reputation for setting the style, even when she began to change shape from her usual willow-wand slimness. The only question lay in whether there was a tailor who would be able to satisfy her demand for the new and avant-garde. My son-in-law Jacques had proved exactly the young and daring innovator she had wanted and I needed to find his equal in the lanes off Threadneedle Street.

By coincidence, while we waited in the dim oak-panelled hall for a meeting with the grand master of the guild, we witnessed an argument between a tailor and his wife which stirred my interest. For a guild freeman, which he clearly was, the tailor was a relatively young man; in his mid-twenties I would have guessed, his wife about the same, and their conversation centred on a subject which, in view of my own daughter’s position; working in Paris with her husband, was of particular interest to me.

‘Whatever happens, you are not to become excited and start shouting.’

These were the first words I heard as we drew near to the couple, who were among several groups and individuals standing around the long room. The young tailor was addressing his wife, who was already red-faced with suppressed irritation.

‘It will not help your cause and nor will it help mine, which is more important,’ he added.

‘It is unjust!’ she seethed, her voice vibrating with passionate indignation, ‘My work is lauded in the guild when it carries your name and yet I am not permitted to sell it as my own. I do not know how you can take all the credit when you know it is I who do the work.’

‘It is our business, Meg, and we are making our reputation,’ he insisted, keeping his tone deliberate and hushed. ‘When we married, you were happy just to have an outlet for your designs. Do not forget that you would have had no opportunity at all without the backing of my name.’

‘But it is not your name that actually does the designs, cuts the patterns and sews the seams, it is me! How would you like to have someone else receive all the praise and money for your singular endeavours?’

‘I would not stand for it, but I am a man and that is the way things are and you will not change it by shouting at the grand master like a Billingsgate fishwife!’

She looked mutinous, but simmered down enough to keep her thought process logical. ‘Perhaps the answer is for me to stop work and then we will see if our business makes any money!’ she muttered.

‘You can stop work when you fulfil your marriage contract and produce the children to staff our workshop,’ retorted the man with what I surmised was unkindness born of disappointment. ‘Until then, let us turn our attention to the more urgent business of how we are going to answer the guild’s accusations of over-pricing.’

She sniffed loudly, her resentment simmering. ‘We demand the highest prices because our gowns are of the highest quality. I will insist that fact until the moon turns blue.’

At this point a clerk nudged my companion’s elbow and asked us to follow him to the grand master’s chamber. As we traversed the hall, I asked the clerk if he knew the name of the couple we had been standing next to. He glanced back and smiled with instant recognition. ‘Ah yes, goodwife,’ he said, embarrassingly mistaking us for a married couple, ‘that is Master Anthony and his wife. Their designs are presently in great demand by London’s richest and noblest and, because of that, they think they can break the guild’s price tariffs. They are in dispute with the Chapter.’

‘And with each other,’ I murmured and made a mental note of the name Anthony, but I had more interest in the mistress than the master. A female tailor with a reputation for style might be just what Catherine needed in the months leading up to her confinement.

On my return to the house in Tun Lane, the smell of roasting beef assailed my nostrils like a benediction. After introducing me to the Grand Master Tailor my host had left me to attend to his own business, leaving strict instructions for me to meet Walter by the Cheapside fountain at the Vespers bell.

‘I have told my son to escort you home because London is a safe city in daylight,’ he had advised, ‘but as darkness falls a good woman risks being mistaken for one of her less reputable sisters. Besides, you might lose your way and I do not wish you to miss any part of the meal my sister is preparing for us this evening!’

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 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 (#ulink_3d50b800-8680-5b08-9053-fa0705438594)


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 fabrics 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.





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