The Forbidden Queen (24 page)

I had enough acquaintance with my damsels to answer smartly, ‘My damsels sneer and scoff at my lack of confidence.’

‘That’s nonsense, Katherine.’ Impatience was gathering like a storm cloud on Henry’s brow. ‘They are only your servants. They will obey you.’

‘But they do not like me.’

‘They don’t have to like you. Their opinion is irrelevant.’

Ridiculously, I felt tears press against my eyelids. This momentous day was being ruined by my lack of assurance and Henry’s lack of understanding. My enjoyment was fast sliding away between the two.

‘My brothers will stand beside you. The archbishop will do all that needs to be done. And you, Katherine, will play the role to perfection.’ Henry rose to his feet and, collecting the pile of documents from beside his platter—of superbly inscribed gold craftsmanship, of course—walked
from the room. At the door he halted and looked back. ‘We have been wed for six months now. It is time that you were able to present yourself with more regal authority.’

Henry stepped out, then stopped again to add, ‘You have a duty to this country as Queen and as my wife. It is time that you fulfilled that duty. In all its aspects.’

It was a final, blighting condemnation of my failure to bear a child for him. It was also an order, stated with cold exactitude, leaving me feeling awkward and foolish. And ungrateful, despite having been plucked from obscurity and made Queen of England with all the splendour of rank and honour. Yet how cold was English precedent! How rigidly formal the demands of ceremonial, when my husband was prevented from standing at my side to imbue me with his grace and confidence. Would I ever grow used to it? Growing up enclosed behind Poissy’s walls, I knew nothing of living so prominently in the eye of the Court.

‘I will fulfil my duty. Of course I will. But I do not wish to be there alone.’ I addressed his squared shoulder blades and formidably rigid spine.

Henry did not hear me. Or chose not to.

And now my coronation banquet, which should have filled me with a sense of my achievement, merely enforced my unworthiness. As I sat in the place of honour and smiled at my guests, all I could think of was who was there and who was not. These high-blooded members of the English royal family, these English nobles and princes of the church, would people my future existence
and dictate the direction of my future life. I had no one of my own.

So I must become English.

There was Lord John, who had made me welcome from that very first occasion when the war between hunting cat and wolfhound had filled me with fear. He smiled at me and raised his cup in a silent toast. I could call him John and trust his friendship.

I slid a glance to my right, to Henry Beaufort, clad in all his magnificence as Bishop of Winchester. Thin-faced, sharp-eyed, quick and keen as a fox, this was Henry’s uncle, a man very close to all the Plantagenet brothers. He had welcomed me like a niece, assuring me of his good offices. I think he meant it but I sensed a strong streak of ambition, a man who would let no one stand in his path. He had a wily eye. He patted my hand and nodded his encouragement.

On my left was James, hopeful King of Scotland. Dear James. His jaunty irreverence was balm to my sore heart.

I tried not to look across the table, in case I caught his eye, for there sat Lord Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, another of Henry’s clutch of brothers, easily recognisable with the family traits of nose and brow, but his mouth had a sour twist. I recognised his dislike of me behind the false smile. Perhaps because I was French. Or my mother’s daughter. I was wary of him, and he was cool with me.

The one figure I looked for, and did not find, was that
of Queen Dowager Joanna, Henry’s stepmother. Perhaps there was a reason for her absence. Perhaps her health was not good. I determined to ask Henry.

The banquet began. Because it was Lent, the range of magnificent dishes that were brought for our delectation was composed entirely of fish. Salmon and codling, plaice and crabs, sturgeon cooked with whelks—the variety was astonishing. And after each of the three courses a subtlety to honour me, a confection that elicited cries of wonder. A figure of me as Saint Catherine seated amongst angels, all constructed cleverly out of marchpane, then another of me holding a book. I hoped Saint Catherine was better able to master the contents than I. And then another Saint Catherine with her terrible wheel and a scroll in her hand, with gold crowns and fleurs-de-lys and a prancing panther, which made me laugh.

And where was Henry, to enjoy this moment with me? He would not be there because this was my day and he would not impose his own presence on it. The exchange, becoming increasingly impatient on his part and increasingly hopeless on mine, had ultimately undermined all my pleasure.

Oh, I wished I had more confidence. The weight of the jewelled crown on my head did nothing to enhance it. Why did I not have the assurance of Beatrice, who was laughing and simpering with the gallant on her right? How could a newly crowned and anointed Queen of England
be so gauchely tongue-tied? I picked at the dish of eels roasted with goujons of turbot.

I made a token gesture of eating, yet when another dish, a crayfish in a golden sauce, was placed before me, I abandoned my spoon. This roused unsubtle debate over possible reasons why my appetite was impaired. Could it be that I carried England’s heir?

No, it could not. My ability to quicken was becoming an issue.

‘You were magnificent, Katherine.’

Back at the Tower, leaping to his feet as the little knot of us, full of laughter and comment, entered the room, Henry abandoned his cup of wine—for once he had been lounging at ease, ankles crossed, a hound at his feet—to clasp my shoulders in his strong hands and kissed my cheeks.

Delighted at such a show of spontaneous admiration, I returned his smile. The apprehension that had dogged me through the whole performance dropped away, along with the ermine cloak that Beatrice bore away to preserve for the next occasion. Henry’s praise expressed with such immediacy was a rare commodity and to be valued.

‘I think I did nothing wrong,’ I replied hopefully, as his hands slid down my arms to link fingers with mine. Joy spurted in my affection-starved heart.

‘You did it to the manner born,’ John assured me.

‘Very gracious, Your Majesty!’ James grinned.

Humphrey said nothing, busying himself with cups of Bordeaux.

‘You made a magnificent Queen,’ Bishop Henry added. ‘You would have been proud of your wife, Hal.’

‘So I am.’ Henry had forgotten our clash of the early morning and was in good humour, reminding me of our first meeting when he had allowed his admiration for me to shine in his eyes. ‘And a more beautiful one I could not have chosen. Did I not say from the beginning that you would make me a superb wife?’

He kissed my fingers, then my lips. He was proud of me. More than gratified, I tightened my hold, heart throbbing and my whole body flushed with my achievements and my love for this man who saw through my fragile facade to my possible strengths and encouraged me to stand alone. With him I would be confident. I would hold my head high.

‘Oh, Henry…’

What I would have said I had no idea, for I could hardly pour out my love at his feet, but Henry released my hands and turned to look at John. ‘About tomorrow…’

‘Bishop Henry said we would go on progress,’ I said, emotion still bubbling inside me. ‘So that the people of England will know me.’

‘I leave tomorrow,’ Henry said with a quick glance, taking the cup offered by Humphrey.

My belly lurched, clenched, but I kept my expression impassive. A Queen of England must exercise composure.
‘And what do I do?’ I asked carefully. My smile was pinned to my face.

‘Remain here. I intend to make a circuit of the west. And then I’ll go on to…’ I closed my eyes momentarily, accepting that Henry’s discussion of his itinerary was more for the benefit of his brothers and uncle than for mine. ‘They need to see me after so long in France. And I hope to call on their loyalty in hard cash. The army’s a constant drain—will you organise a body of royal commissioners to follow on behind to receive loans that are freely offered—or not so freely? It’s quicker than going cap in hand to Parliament.’

‘I’ll organise it,’ Humphrey offered.

‘Do I go with you?’ James asked wistfully.

Henry shook his head. ‘Stay in London.’

So he was rejected too. Since there was no reason for me to stay with what was fast becoming a discussion of financial and military policy, masking my raw dismay behind a spritely step, I made my way to the door.

‘If you will excuse me, my lords.’

Henry looked up from the list of loans already promised, handed to him by Humphrey. He promptly cast the list aside and covered the space between us.

‘Forgive me, Katherine. How unthinking I was, and after your glorious day.’ His smile was wry. ‘I know you’ll understand by now that when I am focused on the next campaign, I forget the needs of those around me.’ The smile twisted, even more ruefully, appealingly. ‘I’ll not
abandon you completely,’ he said. ‘I have made plans for you to join me at Kenilworth. We will go on from there together to the north. We’ll enjoy a somewhat late honeymoon, without the pressure of battles and sieges. You’ll like that, won’t you?’

‘Oh, yes!’

All my hopefulness returned. So I was not to be entirely cut out of his life. If we travelled slowly together and he was not engaged in warfare, if I could match the sort of wife he wanted and show him that I loved him, then he would come to love me. I knew that he would.

Henry came to me that night, entering my room without a knock, and I was pleased to stretch out my hand in greeting. Stripping off his clothes, he assuaged his need with customary efficiency and speed.

‘Stay with me,’ I invited. ‘Stay with me because tomorrow you will leave me.’

‘I cannot, Katherine. Not tonight. When we are on progress, then I will. But I have too many demands on my time as yet.’

And I am not one of them
.

‘Will you miss me?’ I asked, ingenuously. ‘Will you miss me just a little?’

He looked surprised. ‘Of course. Are you not the bride I always wanted?’

‘I do hope so,’ I replied.

‘You are, without a doubt.’

With a kiss to my lips, a smile and a graceful bow, at
odds with his informal chamber robe, Henry left me holding tight to his assurances. As it must with any woman, it crossed my mind: did Henry, handsome and powerful, perhaps have a lover? Did he go from my bed to the arms of one of the palace servants who could entice him with sharp wit and languorous caresses?

I did not think so; I had no earthly rival. I had to fight against a God-ordained obligation to England and Henry’s vision of his country as the pre-eminent power in Europe. I did not think I would ever emerge the victor in such a contest.

Holy Mother, have mercy on me
. At my
prie-dieu
I prayed harder than I had ever prayed. If I carried the heir he so desperately desired, Henry might acknowledge me as part of his dream for the future, rather than as a burden to be shouldered or put aside as time and necessity dictated.

‘How does a woman fall for a child?’ I asked. Alice’s much-vaunted feverfew was not working. ‘What must I do to ensure my fertility?’

What a collection of raised brows and rounded mouths. Prayer was good, but I knew I must take counsel elsewhere. I steeled myself to it.

There was a silence in the artlessly decorative group of damsels, stitching and reading in the late afternoon.

Had I shocked them? Did English Queens not ask such intimate questions? I felt my face colour with heat but my
need was greater than my shame. They—my damsels—had been universally cool since our establishment back in their own
milieu
. Poised, at ease in the ceremonial ways of the court, I thought that they scorned my lack of aplomb. Respectful for the most part, for they would not deign to be less than deferential towards the King’s wife, there was no warmth for their foreign mistress. I found them hard to read. I had made no friends there. With no practice in making friends, I had no pattern of experience to use to court and win affection.

But this was urgent. I needed advice.

Meg pursed her lips. ‘Your hips are very small, my lady, for sure. It can make childbearing difficult.’

My hands clenched into fists, well hidden in the soft silk of my skirts. So the fault was mine that I did not conceive. As perhaps it was, but I heard the disdain for my failure behind the carefully phrased fact.

‘His Majesty is capable, my lady,’ Beatrice observed. They would know how often Henry came to my bedchamber, of course.

‘Yes.’ The heat in my face became more intense.

Joan, the youngest of my damsels, with a kinder eye, spoke up. ‘My sister says that if you grind the dried testicle from a wild pig into powder, mix it in wine and drink it, the result is excellent.’

‘Do we have a testicle of a wild pig?’ I heard myself asking, unnerved at the advice.

A silence. A pause. Then my damsels erupted into
laughter, with an edge that was, to my mind, not kind at all. I thought they looked at me with pity, even when Alice took them to task.

‘I have heard of such a nostrum, Joan, but that was not helpful. Unless you are volunteering to go and kill a wild pig for us? And you can take Beatrice with you. Her scowl will kill a boar at twenty paces. I think we can do better. If you carry a walnut in its shell, my lady, it will strengthen your womb and aid fertility.’

‘If you eat walnuts, it is said to cure madness.’

I froze, heated skin now pale and cold at this unexpected wounding. Anguish ripped through me that Cecily would make it so personal an attack. Could they be so deliberately cruel? I turned to her, prepared to defend my father.

‘Enough, Cecily!’ It was Beatrice who came to my aid. ‘Your manners are not what your mother would wish for you. I suggest you say a rosary before dinner and pray to the Holy Virgin for humility.’

While to me, with compassion in her face, Alice advised, ‘We will tuck some leaves of
polygonum bistorta
into your sleeves. And if you will eat some of the seeds of the
Helianthus
flowers, my lady…’