The Tudor Bride (17 page)

Jacqueline pouted again. ‘We do not want to find ourselves wearing the same fabrics as a courtier’s wife,’ she complained. ‘The queen and I must have first and exclusive pick of all the goods before they display them in public.’

Short of locking the visiting craftsmen up until the royal ladies had inspected their wares, I did not see how I was to achieve this, but I decided to tackle the problem when it arose. The craftsmen I had approached had seemed very keen to come to Windsor and try their luck at the queen’s new court, but they had all stipulated that they would need at least a week to arrange transport and protection for themselves. The roads were clear at this time of year, but their goods were precious and even in the relatively prosperous and well-populated countryside between London and Windsor there were tracts of land that were known to harbour bandits and outlaws.

I made an effort to bow deferentially to the duchess. ‘That goes without saying, Madame. I will ensure that each and every master craftsman is aware of your exclusive priority – after the queen, of course.’

Catherine giggled at her new friend. ‘Oh I do not think we will come to blows over a girdle or a pair of gloves, will we? After all, your need is greater than mine, Jacqueline. Although I must admit that I am rather looking forward to buying some pretty things. It seems a long time since I did.’

At that moment the Duke of Gloucester was announced by the chamberlain and made his approach with a low bow to both ladies. In deference to the milder season he had dispensed with a gown of any kind and wore a splendid padded doublet of lavishly embroidered green brocade over part-coloured hose in black and crimson. On his head he wore a draped black chaperon set off with an eye-catching enamelled brooch depicting a boar’s head, his personal emblem. The tight fit of his hose over his thighs and his gold S-link Lancastrian belt accentuated the snake-like motion of his hips as he moved. He cannot have been unaware that the duchess was mightily impressed.

‘You are welcome to join us, your grace,’ Catherine said, ‘although our conversation may not be to your liking. We were discussing fashion.’

‘Judging by his present garb, I would say that fashion and my lord of Gloucester are hardly strangers,’ put in the duchess, an arch smile dimpling her porcelain cheeks. ‘I cannot imagine you wearing that doublet, my lord, when you ride out on campaign.’

Gloucester preened himself, stroking the gleaming fabric of his sleeve. ‘I hoped it would meet with your approval, Madame. Why else would I have worn it?’

Catherine’s glance swivelled from the duke to the duchess and a frown creased her brow. Then she caught sight of me, standing in the shadow of the gold-fringed canopy over her chair and her frown deepened. ‘Are you still here, Mette? Thank you, you may leave us.’

‘Yes your grace.’ I bent my knee briefly and backed away.

But I had not reached the door before the Duke of Gloucester said clearly, ‘What was that woman doing here? No sooner is she back at court than she is eavesdropping again!’

I heard Catherine respond rather indignantly, ‘Mette was telling us what she had organised …’ but I did not hear the rest because the chamberlain closed the door on me.

I was incensed because a chamberlain was permitted to remain in Catherine’s salon while I was not. I asked myself why the high-nosed duchess and the self-satisfied duke could ignore his presence when apparently they could not tolerate mine – and the answer came instantly: they were fearful of my influence. But they had not stopped to consider their own security. I was only too aware of what happened when servants got together in passages and anterooms and I knew that no subject broached in Catherine’s circle now would remain confidential with lose-tongued chamberlains keeping the door.

When my anger had cooled, I gave thought to another matter of interest; the nature of the relationship between the Duke of Gloucester and the Duchess of Hainault. I am good at detecting smouldering embers and I definitely felt a glow forming between those two. After all, they had spent several unscheduled days snowed up together at Eltham Palace and they struck me as birds of a similar feather – handsome, hubristic and arrogant. It was not that I cared whether passion had flared between them – they deserved each other in my opinion – I was just grateful that Humphrey of Gloucester would soon be joining the king on the campaign in France, which might leave Jacqueline of Hainault less confidant and less likely to throw her weight around. I told myself that I merely had to bide my time.

T
he letter came to the queen as she was dressing one morning in early June. Catherine had been enjoying trying out some of the new trappings and accessories acquired from the London craftsmen, showing them off to Jacqueline and, for once, not signalling me to make myself scarce in the duchess’s presence, perhaps because Eleanor and Agnes were also there, helping with the boxes and wrappings. The letter was written in the king’s own hand and delivered by one of his squires to the ever-present chamberlain, but I took it firmly from his hand outside the queen’s bedchamber, pleased for once to be able to close the door on him rather than the other way round and hating myself for relishing such a petty triumph.

Catherine was twisting and turning before the Venetian looking-glass the king had sent her before their betrothal, which had happily survived the journey from France, trying to gauge the effect of a beautiful new jewelled girdle. ‘I really think you should have this, Jacqueline,’ she suggested, sighing a little. ‘I do like it, but it requires a slender waistline and mine is soon to be that no more.’

The duchess’s pale-blue eyes gleamed and I knew the costly girdle would be around her waist within hours, but she demurred punctiliously, ‘At least you should wear it until the baby shows,’ she said. ‘It would look well with the bronze and blue silk you ordered from your lady tailor.’

Catherine unhooked the girdle and held it up to admire the pretty topaz-studded braiding threaded through the gold links. ‘You are right, but by the time that gown is here my waist will not be.’ She patted her stomach and held the belt out to Jacqueline. ‘It is yours. Consider it a gift from the next King of England.’

The duchess murmured profuse thanks and bent to fasten the belt around her own waist as I stepped up to Catherine with the letter. ‘This has come from the king, your grace,’ I said, taking care to curtsy deeply.

She took the letter and gazed intently at it. ‘This is in his own hand! He has even written the address.’

‘We will leave you to read it in peace, Madame,’ I suggested as she broke the seal and opened the folded sheet of paper. It contained only a short message.

‘No, wait.’ She glanced at the writing and raised one hand. ‘The king is on his way to Windsor and will be here shortly. He wishes to speak to me privately.’

I looked expectantly at the duchess, but she showed no sign of leaving. ‘Would you like me to attend to your hair before I go, Madame?’ I asked, thinking that Catherine appeared troubled at the content of the letter. ‘You will want to look your best to receive the king.’

She moved to sit down on her dressing stool, her gait clumsy as if her legs might give way beneath her. ‘Yes, thank you, Mette,’ she acquiesced distractedly. ‘I would – I do. Here.’ She thrust the letter at me and put both hands over her face.

I noticed immediately that the letter was in French and deduced that she wanted me to read it so I perused it quickly, turning its contents away from the duchess’s prying eyes. Half of my mind wondered why Jacqueline did not rush to comfort her friend rather than make such an obvious effort to read over my shoulder.

—
ξξ
—

My sweet Catherine,

In two days we take ship for France, God and the wind permitting. I will be with you before Sext today to bid you farewell. There is also a grave matter to discuss so I would see you alone, save of course for Mette who I know is privy to the secrets of your heart and guards them with her life.

I ride within the hour.

Henry R

Written this Seventh day of June, 1421 at Odiham Castle.

—
ξξ
—

‘Are you ill, Catherine?’ I heard the duchess say, having at last noticed that her friend looked pale. ‘Is it the babe?’

Catherine straightened up and shook her head. ‘No. It was the realisation that my lord comes to take his leave. I am foolish, for I have known he would take ship any day now.’ She stood up and clasped Jacqueline’s hands. ‘The girdle looks well on you, as I knew it would. Now I must finish dressing and so must you. I am sure his grace will want to bid you farewell also. I will send word when he is departing.’

It was a gentle but obvious dismissal, and Jacqueline was not too thick-skinned to take the hint. However she did not quit the queen’s chamber without aiming a long and enquiring look in my direction, to which Catherine hastily responded. ‘No, Mette is to stay. She has to help me with my hair and, besides, the king has asked particularly that she be here when he comes.’

I tried not to let them see that I registered the exchange of disdainful glances between the duchess and Eleanor as they both curtsied to Catherine and made their exit, closely followed by Agnes. The room seemed suddenly very empty. I crossed to Catherine’s seat and handed the letter back to her.

‘Now, Mademoiselle, tell me what it is in there that has made you suddenly so pale and faint?’ I asked gently.

‘You have read it, Mette,’ she replied, staring down at the closely scrawled missive. ‘What can this “grave matter” be that he wishes to discuss? Have I done something wrong?’

I went on my knees by her stool and saw the tears glistening on her eyelashes. It was a surprise to see her suddenly look so frightened when she had recently appeared happy and confident in her new friendship with the duchess, despite the absence of King Henry and his imminent departure for France.

‘No, Mademoiselle. Why should you think it is anything you have done? The king probably wants to advise you of any problems that may require your attention while he is away.’

‘Yes, but the Duke of Bedford will be here to handle all that. Perhaps Charles is trying to foment trouble in England and the king thinks I am involved. Perhaps he no longer trusts me. Suddenly I feel terribly fearful, Mette.’

‘It is the child, Mademoiselle. Many mothers-to-be feel like that, especially the first time. It is a great responsibility you have, to bring that babe safely into the world. But I am sure you have nothing to fear from the king and believe me you are not alone. I will always be here.’

She looked up at me sorrowfully. ‘I know, Mette, and I am grateful, but you do not understand. I may be the Queen of England but the English have no love for us French. When the king is far away, who will defend me against prejudice and false accusation? I have learned that the last French Queen of England, my lord’s stepmother Jeanne of Navarre, was accused of witchcraft and lives under restriction somewhere. She never comes to court and no one talks of her. She is powerless and friendless and cannot even return to her own country. And it would be the same for me if the king were to turn against me. I know you think I am weak not to defend you against the Duchess of Hainault and the Duke of Gloucester, but you see I need their support. It is important that people know I have powerful friends at court.’

‘Which people, Mademoiselle? Whom do you fear?’ I was worried that she might be losing her grip on reality, remembering with deep concern her father’s mental frailty, locked for months at a time in a padded room in his almost deserted palace.

However, she seemed suddenly to throw off her apprehension, straightening up and shrugging her shoulders. ‘There is no one in particular. I daresay I have been studying too much English history in order to try and understand my new country. Take no notice. Let us enjoy our brief time alone together, Mette, for it happens too infrequently these days. What shall I wear to greet my husband cheerfully?’

King Henry arrived just as I had finished pinning a gossamer veil over Catherine’s carefully arranged hair. The day was growing warm and we had chosen a loose yellow silk houppelande over a pretty blue tunic with a collar of lustrous river pearls. Henry stopped short at the doorway, relishing her fresh beauty as she sank to her knees before him.

‘My sweet Catherine! You are a sight to quench the desert thirst of Araby!’ he exclaimed, his face wreathed in smiles. The scar on his left cheek stood out white against the weathered tan on the rest of his exposed skin and his crimson doublet, scattered with white Lancastrian swans, was dusty from the road. He took both her hands, raised her and enfolded her in his arms, pressing his lips to hers. All evidence of Catherine’s earlier misgivings had vanished and I turned away, swallowing a rush of emotion at the passion of their kiss.

‘How am I going to leave you when all my being cries out to have you with me in the field, as we were at Melun?’ King Henry’s outburst would have seemed melodramatic, had it not been expressed with such genuine feeling. Despite my sense of intrusion, I found my eyes drawn back to them and he was gazing down into her upturned face as if he would have her image burned into his memory.

‘You must know that I wish with all my heart I could be there with you, my dearest lord, but the fruit of our love comes between us. We can never regret the advent of the child we have made together.’

‘No indeed, and it is that very subject I wish to talk to you about before I leave.’ He led her to a cushioned bench where they could both sit close together. ‘I want you to hear this too, Mette, because I rely on you to remind Catherine of it when her time comes.’

‘What is it, my lord? What have I done?’ All Catherine’s previous anxiety seemed to flare again.

The king smiled and shook his head like a father reassuring a child. ‘You have done nothing, my love. But I want you to promise me something. I am troubled by a prediction shown to me in an astrologer’s almanac. I wish you not to have the babe at Windsor, Catherine. The stars do not bode well for the birth of a king within these walls.’