The Tudor Bride (16 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I took a moment to absorb the full meaning of her words. Ever since she had become Queen of England and, at least in matters of personal choice her own mistress, she had treated me in exactly the same way as she treated her ladies-in-waiting – in other words as one of her close companions. Now, for some reason, there was apparently to be a change in that situation.

‘Of course I will do whatever you wish, Mademoiselle, but may I know the reason for this request?’ I said, straightening up from my task of stirring up the fire in the hearth. Spring was well underway but these early May mornings were chilly still.

Catherine shifted a little under the covers. ‘The Duchess of Hainault noticed your presence and asked me why I included a servant in my social circle. It is the old problem, Mette. She has been brought up in one of the most rigidly structured courts in Europe and she says she cannot talk freely when there is someone present who does not conform to the noble code of honour. Unfortunately the Duke of Gloucester encourages her in this attitude, so if I am to have their companionship I must ensure their ease in my company. I am sure that in due course I shall manage to change their opinions, but not while you are within earshot I am afraid.’

I felt more angry than hurt and found I could not hide my indignation. ‘Is King Henry aware of his brother’s viewpoint, I wonder? He himself seems to favour those who are intelligent and industrious rather than necessarily from the top branches of the tree.’

Catherine frowned and took a sip of her posset before replying. ‘I do not wish to have a debate with you about this, Mette. Please accede to my request and let us leave it at that, otherwise there is a danger that we will fall out over the matter.’

‘Yes, your grace,’ I muttered rebelliously. ‘May I at least ask if there have been any other changes during my absence? For instance now that you have a confessor, will you be going to the chapel to hear Mass as before, or will Maître Boyers be saying it in your oratory before you break your fast? I may not have prepared the correct garb for your morning activities.’

‘Maître Boyers will come to my chamber at the Tierce bell and so will the duchess,’ Catherine replied impatiently. ‘We will hear Mass together and then break our fast in my solar. Does that answer your question?’

I dropped a humble curtsey, anxious not to offend any further. ‘Indeed, your grace. I will fetch your clothes immediately and your ladies to help you dress.’

She nodded. ‘Thank you. Oh, Mette,’ she called as I hurried to the door, ‘Agnes will serve us at breakfast. I am sure you have much work to catch up on after your trip to London. You may come later to give me your report on your activities there. The duchess will be interested too, for she needs a good tailor.’

So the duchess needs my advice, I fumed as I took myself off, but she cannot tolerate my presence.

While I was selecting suitable attire for the queen’s morning activities, I speculated how I might withhold my advice from Duchess Jacqueline without revealing my reasons, but in the event I resisted the temptation. There was no escaping the fact that I had no choice in the matter. I was lucky to have my position at court and I must dance to the rhythm of the one who called the tune. I might not like it, but I had to bear it.

The first thing I noticed when I was at last summoned to reveal the results of my research in the workshops of London, was that there was a chamberlain keeping the door of her salon, a task I had habitually performed in the past. Although Catherine seemed pleased with what I had achieved, my arrangements met with criticism from her grace of Hainault.

‘I would hesitate to use the services of an unregistered seamstress, however well her designs have been received by the Tailor’s Guild,’ she observed. ‘Are you sure you wish to patronise this Mistress Anthony, Catherine?’

‘Well Mette does know my taste in such matters,’ Catherine responded in what I thought an unnecessarily apologetic tone. ‘And I must admit I think I would prefer a female to be fitting my gowns while I am with child. It sounds as if she has some very good ideas about putting lacing at the sides of the kirtle and drawing the attention away from the waistline to the hemline with embroidery on the underskirt. Jacques did that for my wedding gown, did he not, Mette? And it was very successful. But then he was always ahead of his time, your son-in-law.’

‘He would be pleased that you think so, your grace,’ I said, slightly mollified by her championing of both my arrangements and my family. ‘May I suggest that if her grace the duchess is unhappy about using a female tailor, she might commission a trial gown from Mistress Anthony’s husband, who is a registered master tailor? They will both be coming to Windsor next week, as will a chosen collection of craftsmen. There will be quite a number of them showing their wares in the great hall.’