The Tudor Bride (9 page)

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.

W
e 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.’