Crown in Candlelight (39 page)

She had believed the English to be a strange, savage, mercenary race, and cold. She wondered how many other lies she had believed.
Sainte Vierge!
there was nothing cold about their King! In her retrospective rapture she half-throttled the baron, he did not seem to mind and went on roaring her praises. To think I once imagined I was born unlucky! I am the most fortunate, blessed lady in Christendom! Henry was ashore; men were falling on their faces before him in the wet sand. He was holding out his arms still, as if to embrace them all. My dear companion, she thought, my joy-maker. Oh, Belle, how truly wrong you were!

For several hours her feet never touched English soil. She was carried everywhere in the arms of great knights who almost fought one another for the privilege, and in chariots each one more sumptuous than its predecessor. She heard oaths of fealty in accents which her command of English sometimes found unintelligible. Swept by the tumult of generosity, she saw tears and laughter in the streets and crowds gathered so thickly in the flat fields of Kent that she feared England would tip into the sea. At Canterbury she wept a little from the beauty of the singing and the jewelled miracle of St Thomas’s shrine. She was parted at Canterbury from Henry, who, with an escort riding fast horses, galloped ahead to ensure that in London everything was ready for her coming. At every halt he made he sent back greetings and tributes; soon a wagonload of gifts followed her train.

Gradually the striped fields and Kentish orchards gave way to the slopes of the North Down and the sprawling forests of Eltham. The Archbishop of Canterbury, Henry Chichele, rode with her, accompanied by his priests and the precious relics that were to add lustre to her coronation. Henry had spoken affectionately of Chichele, who had been his confessor in earlier times, and she found his presence reassuring. As they travelled he rehearsed her in procedure for the forthcoming ceremony. Her own chaplain, Johan Boyars, chosen by Henry, was with them and she found him sympathetic too. It would be a long and arduous occasion, they said. Yet she was already a queen, divine, immune, strong. Also in the company was Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, thirty-six years old and so proud and princely that at first she mistook him for an unknown brother of the King. His face was strong; his hooked nose was flanked by grey eyes as judicial and unblinking as an owl’s. But he addressed her with greater deference than any, and put himself about immeasurably for her slightest whim.

Katherine marvelled at the palace of Eltham, its round blunt towers so different from the pinnacled turrets and delicate spires of the French châteaux. The garden had lily-lakes and swans and climbing roses and there Henry rejoined the main party. With him came Humphrey of Gloucester. He greeted her effusively, throwing himself upon his knees with much panache, calling her ‘
Madame la reine
’ and ‘
ma chère soeur
.’ Rising, he asked permission to salute her as a brother. From the tail of her eye she saw Beaufort’s expression. The owl had changed to an eagle; his face was grey with fury. She felt the unmistakable hatred that sparked between him and Gloucester. Then Humphrey kissed her on the mouth, she felt the lightning probe of his tongue between her lips; her face flamed. But he was already kneeling again, a meek unpleasant little smile vanishing in his downward look. She longed to wipe her mouth, but Henry was beside her, urging her into the great hall where more gifts were arriving. Her flesh still crawled from the kiss. But there was Jacqueline, on the brink of tears because Humphrey had not yet greeted her!
C’est mystérieux
, she thought.

‘See them bow down!’ said Henry, as they rode into London from Blackheath plain where the mayor and aldermen and citizens had assembled wearing white cloaks and red caps, and flanked by their Guild banners. Henry rode close to her, proudly protective, as the roaring acclaim of the city swirled about them. Great statues of St George and the Virgin had been built and towered, holding out the keys of the City. The narrow streets had been made narrower by elaborate wooden castles filled with knights. Below, boys and girls shimmered in silver and gold paint, men pranced in jewelled mummery. Falcons, tigers and elephants, angels, prophets, martyrs and virgins; children wearing green leaves danced about the procession like a living forest. A gold lion with a dozen men inside its skin capered by Katherine’s horse and rolled its eyes, and she laughed in joy, riding under a canopy of evergreen and tapestries strung across the street, darkening the sky. Someone freed a shower of white doves. Bells battered her ears. When she reached the Tower of London to be prepared for her coronation, she was dizzy and trembling. She had felt the love of the English people—a love for their king which rebounded on her in generous measure. A sense of destiny and tremendous rightness took hold of her, supporting her throughout the long ceremony which passed without a flaw.

The ensuing feast lasted all day. As it was Lent no meat was served, but a variety of fish. Stewed eels, fish jelly coloured with columbine flowers, a cream of almond soup thick with bream, sole, chub and barbel. All delicious, all so salt that deep draughts of wine were needed for accompaniment. The wines of Champagne and Gascony and the Loire; Burgundy wine and the light red wines of Gloucestershire; the mead of Kent and Sussex. There was carp, turbot and tench in cream, perch with gudgeon sauce. Roast porpoise and crab in its shell. Fresh sturgeon, dressed with whelks.

She sat upon the King’s bench in Westminster Hall. A thousand people occupied the benches on either side of the great chamber. Music played. The table damask was dressed with early violets and coils of greenery. Snowdrops had been mixed with the floor-rushes. Whatever her feelings about Humphrey, he had organized the feast to perfection. Yet there was one dish she knew Henry had ordered especially, remembering how she had enjoyed it on their wedding-day. The Crustade Lombard, with fish and fruit in pastry. It stood nearly a foot high before her place, decorated with hawthorn leaves and berries, the pastry sculpted with the arms of Henry and Katherine and the SS collar of Lancaster. Another subtlety showed a pelican on her nest with St Katherine and her wheel. A scroll, held in the saint’s hand, read:

C’est signe et du roy

Parer tenez joy,

Et tout sa gent

Elle met sa content.

as if to emphasize the joy and contentment she had indeed given him. There was also a pastry image of St Barnabas with robes of spun sugar and a legend reading:

It is written,

It may be seen for sure,

In marriage pure,

No strifes endure.

Behind Barnabas was a marchpane tiger with a mirror in its paws and a knight fully armed, holding a tiger cub. The tiger’s face was that of her brother the Dauphin, and the knight was unmistakably Henry. By legend the sight of a mirror tamed a wild beast. In a savage way the image pleased her; it was the final closing of the door on an old, bad life.

Henry was filled with tenderness and relief that she was safely crowned. Now I must keep her in secure contentment, he thought. She sat, radiant in her white gown, relishing the banquet. The greatest in England waited on her: Lord Audley, the Duchess of York, the Countess of Huntingdon, Margaret, Duchess of Clarence, and the Countess of Kent, who sat at Katherine’s feet, ready with the finger bowls. The Earl of March held the priceless gold sceptre Henry had given her for her coronation. Sir Richard Neville poured her wine and Sir James Stuart served her food. Lord Clifford acted as pantner, with the loaves balanced on his arm. Lord Grey of Ruthyn held the pile of surnapes. At her right hand sat the Archbishop of Canterbury, Chichele, and next to him, Bishop Henry Beaufort. On her left, King James of Scotland. He was at liberty, through Katherine’s intercession. Henry thought: I could not resist her plea, and she was right: I will make him a good soldier when I return to France. He shall marry Joan Beaufort, and God send them happy as we are!

And, standing respectfully before the Queen throughout the banquet, was Humphrey of Gloucester. Henry was not pleased with Gloucester. The reports of his conduct in England had been far from encouraging. The constant enmity between him and Beaufort was no longer to be taken lightly as Humphrey’s mere grudge against high-risen bastard blood. It was a festering hate that might one day break out and do grave harm. Henry thought: I wish I had left him in France, after all. Rather let him expend his energies controlling the territories there than stirring up this aggravation in England.

But my good brother, Clarence, had to be given his chance. Clarence was so disappointed when he was shipped home sick from Harfleur. He missed all the glory. So let him remain in France as my regent. I have promised Philip and King Charles I shall return by midsummer. Let Clarence hold my gains till then.

As for Queen Joanna, she is safely immured in the manor of Rotherhithe, and her fellow necromancers in the Tower. And God is on my side. There is the proof, that delicate, dark-eyed, loving face talking so charmingly to King James. God is with me. God will protect us both for ever. Amen.

Katherine, attuned to his thoughts, leaned to look at him. Praise be, he is well, he is happy. Tonight we shall lie together in this friendly palace of Westminster. Peace and the joys of the night shall be with us. Her glance strayed along the table-decorations, the glazed and gilded fish, the sweets and flowers. Nearly every item bore the
raison
that stretched, repeated, in a silken banner raised the length of the board. Worked in gold and sugar and green leaves, it printed itself upon her heart. UNE SANS PLUS! Henry’s
raison
, and therefore hers.
One alone
.

Dress warmly, she was told. The North of England is a wilderness, swept by barbaric winds, where spring comes late. Henry had gone on ahead to greet his people, jesting that in the northern territories it was rumoured he had died in France! She fancied his smile was a little strained and found his wit incomprehensible. Although at Windsor, where he had left her to prepare at leisure for the journey, he confided the threefold purpose of his progress north. First, he needed to address the corporation of as many towns as possible, telling them of his gains abroad and his need of further funds to return and consolidate these triumphs and establish the condominium with Burgundy. His finances were straitened. Most of the battle-ransoms had been exhausted. There were fresh armies to finance for what he hoped would be the final return to France. And then would come his life’s true work: the crusade against the Infidel, the fateful, inevitable journey East. Philip of Burgundy would be with him in Jerusalem. He had sworn it upon the most sacred relics, in Melun. The debt would be repaid.

Secondly, in the north there were rumours of fresh Lollard heresies. Leicester, for example; this was the womb of Wyclif’s teachings; he had been rector of Lutterworth for some years. And even the burning of Oldcastle had rebounded unsettlingly upon the True Faith. Folk had gathered about his stake in ungodly fervour to rub his ashes into their eyes.

Lastly, Katherine was to be shown to the people. The, proof! the prize! By now it was a tender jest between them. They would kneel together before the Easter candles, kindled to lighten the northerners’ dark souls led astray by the voice of heathen. And before he departed, he had shown her some other candles. A hundred candles burning before the tomb of King Richard in Westminster Abbey. In the side aisles, monks tongued a constant liturgy, echoed by the arching stones and undulating like the shadows cast about the King and Queen as they stood where Richard had been interred anew by his murderer’s son.

‘The candles must never be allowed to go out.’ Henry wept, fresh tears from an old well, and she knew better than to offer comfort, for this was part of the forbidden, undying past. Yet she thought of Belle, and sighed at the complex mysteries of it all.

‘Richard!’ he murmured. ‘I’ll light another candle for you in Jerusalem!’

She was in fair spirits when he left for the North. They would not be parted for long, and she was surrounded by servants and retainers and a hierarchy of nobles. John of Bedford was increasingly kind to her. Humphrey of Gloucester she contrived almost to ignore. Bishop Beaufort was there to attend to her spiritual needs. Her ladies: her cousin Anne of Burgundy, Bedford’s betrothed; Margaret, Duchess of Clarence; Philippa, Duchess of York. Jacqueline, so full of gratitude that to please Katherine, she managed to refrain from speaking too much of her beloved Humphrey. A host of servants of wardrobe and bedchamber. Dames Belknap, Troutbeck and Coucy, who cherished her tirelessly, at bed and bath. A strange little tiring-woman named Guillemot, who from the first had looked at her with childlike adoration. Katherine learned that their wages were paid, like Jacqueline’s maintenance at court and Dr Boyars’s salary, out of the estates of the disgraced Queen Joanna. She knew this to be Henry’s punishment, and pitied those who crossed him.

She learned more of Henry as the chariot, drawn by the eight white horses, bore her north. With her travelled Margaret of Clarence, who at one time had been married to John, the brother of Bishop Henry Beaufort. She seemed to love to dwell in the past. Old feuds Were dredged up for Katherine’s bewildered ear. How the Bishop, years ago, had cheated her of her late husband’s estate. How Thomas of Clarence and Henry fell out over it. Also there was some strange story of Beaufort hiring an assassin to hide in Henry’s chamber. How subsequently Arundel was made Chancellor in place of Beaufort. And Thomas of Clarence had worsened things by persuading his father to dismiss Henry from the Privy Council and appoint him, Thomas, instead.

‘Thomas was always impetuous,’ she said. ‘All the brothers squabbled when they were young. Once my husband was sent to France on a campaign that should have been Henry’s. Your noble lord was bitterly upset.’

‘Yet he bears no grudge.’ Katherine thought: he was determined to let Clarence have his chance in France this time.

‘Yes, impetuous,’ said Margaret, looking worried. ‘He resented his absence from the Agincourt affair. God grant he will not try to make conquests alone. He boasted before he left that he could have won that battle without the English bowmen!’