The Forbidden Queen (9 page)

‘Bien venue, monsieur, mes dames…’
continued Lord John.
‘Votre presence parmi nous est un honneur.’

A flurry of bowing and curtseying.

‘Bienvenue, Mademoiselle Katherine,’
Lord John encouraged me, smiling with a friendly gleam in his eye, and I found myself smiling back. So this was the Duke of Bedford, whose reputation was almost as formidable as King Henry’s. I liked his fair face and amiable features. I liked it that he had taken the trouble to speak to me and put me at my ease, as much as it was possible, even though my heart continued to gallop.

His brother, the King, took no such trouble. King Henry still did not move, except for a furrow growing between his well-marked brows. So he was frowning at us, and his voice, clear and clipped, cut through the formal greetings.

‘We did not expect you to arrive quite yet.’

And he spoke in English. The frown, I decided, was not for me but for his brother’s kindness. This haughty King intended to speak in English, forcing us to struggle
in a language in which not one of us was able to converse equably. He looked us over, chin raised in chilly superiority, while my mother, glorious with a gold crown and jewelled fingers, stiffened even further under the scrutiny. Could my heart beat any harder, without stopping altogether? This was going from bad to worse, and King Henry had yet to exchange one word with me.

‘We understood that you wished to begin negotiations immediately,’ Isabeau replied curtly, in French.

‘Is the King not present with you?’ Henry demanded, in English.

‘His Majesty is indisposed and rests at Pontoise,’ Isabeau responded, in French. ‘His Grace of Burgundy and I will conduct negotiations in His Majesty’s name.’

‘It is my wish to communicate with His French Majesty.’ Henry, in English.

I sighed softly, overwhelmed by despair at the impasse. Was King Henry truly so insufferably arrogant?

The King waited with a shuttered expression. Warwick shuffled, his hand still firmly on the hound’s collar, Bedford studied the floor at his feet, neither one of them venturing into French again. It could not have been made clearer to us that the English King’s word was law. And there we stood, silence stretching out between Henry and Isabeau, until, in the interest of diplomacy, Duke John jettisoned his pride and translated the whole into Latin.

Finally, drawing me forward into his direct line of
sight, he added, ‘We wish to present to you, Your Majesty, the lady Katherine.’

And I stepped willingly enough, glowing with female pride, for they had truly slain the fatted calf for me. I had no need to feel shamed by my appearance on that day. I was the one bargaining point we Valois had, and Duke John—not my mother, of course—had decided that I was worth some outlay. More coin than I had ever imagined in my life, the vast sum of three thousand florins, had been spent on my appearance. I prayed I would be worth it as I breathed shallowly, my palm damp with nerves within my cousin’s heavy clasp.

And so, splendid in my fur-edged sleeves at last, I made my first curtsey to Henry of England.

I had a price to pay for my moment of glory. It was all very well to dress me as if I were already Queen of England, but in a hot tent on a sultry day in May, I was as heated as if I were labouring in the royal kitchens.

The heart-shaped headdress that confined all my hair sat heavily on my brow like a boiled pudding, the short veiling clinging damply to my neck. The folds of the houppelande, quite beautiful and as blue as the Virgin’s robe, furred and embroidered and belted beneath my breast with a jewelled girdle, were so heavy that trickles of sweat ran down my spine. But I braced myself against the discomfort.

I suppose I looked well enough, a true princess, as I lifted my skirts a little way with my free hand to exhibit
the pleated under-tunic of cloth of gold. All very fine—except that it was all outward show. My linen shift was old and darned and rough against my naked flesh. My shoes let in the damp from the dew-laden grass. The florins had not run to new shoes or undergarments, but the King would not notice that beneath my magnificently trailing skirts and jewelled bodice.

King Henry took in my glory, sleeves and all, in one comprehensive, dismissive glance.

‘We are gratified,’ he said, but still in English. ‘We have long wished to meet the princess of France, of whom we have heard so much.’ And he bowed to me with impeccable grace, his hand on his heart.

‘Monseigneur.’
Now that I was face to face with him, almost within touching distance of those snarling leopards on his tunic, any initial courage fled. I sank into a second low curtsey, because he seemed to expect it of me, my eyes, cravenly, on the floor until I felt a stir of air, heard a foot fall, and the soft boots that he wore came into my vision. His hand was stretched down to me.

‘My lady. You must stand.’

It was gently said, yet undeniably a command. I placed my hand in his and he drew me to my feet. Leaning a little, in formal recognition, he lightly kissed me on one cheek and then the other. And then on my mouth with the softest pressure of his own. My heart fluttered. Blushing from throat to hairline, I felt the blood run hot under my skin as his lips brushed against me and his battle-rough
palms were firm against mine. All I could think was: King Henry has kissed me in greeting. I stared at him, no words coming to those lips he had just saluted.

‘The rumours of your beauty do not lie, Lady.’ He led me a little distance away from our audience, his voice warming as he did so. ‘Now I can see for myself the value of the gift that the House of Valois would make to me.’

This was undoubtedly a compliment, but his face was so stern. Did Englishmen not smile? I struggled with the English, embarrassingly tongue-tied, searching for a suitable reply.

‘Do you speak English?’ he asked, when I failed.

‘Only a little,
Monseigneur
,’ I managed, with what I must presume was an appalling accent. ‘But I will learn more.’

‘Of course you will,’ he affirmed. ‘It is imperative that you do.’

‘I swear I will practise every day,’ I replied, unnerved by the seriousness of his response.

But Henry’s interest had moved from my lack of linguistic skill as his eyes fell from my face to the bodice of my gown where a gold-mounted sapphire was pinned at my neckline.

‘What is it, my lord?’ I asked anxiously: the frown was back.

‘The brooch.’

‘Yes, my lord? It is a gift from Duke John, to honour the occasion.’

‘Where is the gift I sent you?’ he demanded.

I shook my head in incomprehension. Seeing it, Henry condescended to address me in fluent court Latin. ‘I thought you might have worn the brooch,
Mademoiselle
.’ A rank chill drew all colour from his tone.

‘Which b-brooch, my lord?’ I stammered.

‘I sent you a brooch as a token of my regard. A lozenge with a fleur-de-lys set in gold with rubies and amethysts.’

‘I did not receive it, my lord.’

The frown deepened. ‘It was a costly item. A hundred thousand ecus, as I recall.’

What could I say? ‘I do not have it, my lord. Perhaps it was lost.’

‘As you say. Perhaps it fell into the hands of my enemies. I expect it graces the war coffers of the Dauphinists, your brother’s misguided supporters who would fight against me.’

‘So I expect, my lord.’

It was a strangely unsettling conversation, leaving me with the thought that it was the value of the lost gift that concerned him more than the failure of it to reach me and give me pleasure. The English King was obviously displeased. I risked a glance, wondering what he would say next, but the matter of jewellery had been abandoned.

‘I have been waiting for you all my life, Katherine. It is my intention to wed you,’ he announced with cool and precise diction. ‘You will be my wife.’

He did not ask if I would be willing. We both knew
I would follow the dictates of my family. But still I responded from my heart.

‘Yes, my lord. And I would wish it too.’

And as he raised my hand to his lips, in a neat gesture of respect, Henry smiled at me at last, a smile such as a man might use towards the woman he had an admiration for, a woman he might hold in some affection. A woman, I thought, who he might actually come to love. The austere planes of his face softened, his eyes gentled. In that moment his simple acceptance of me overwhelmed me and I sank into admiration for this beautiful man. I returned his smile, my cheeks still flaming with colour.

‘Katherine,’ he murmured. His English pronunciation made of it a caress.

‘Yes, my lord?’

He is not harsh, I thought, seduced by the power of his proximity, the allure of his direct gaze, he is not cold. He is handsome and potent and he wants me as his wife. I was, I decided, sliding into love with him, so easily, and when Henry kissed my cheek again, and then the palm of my right hand, my heart leapt with joy, imagining the picture we must present to our noble onlookers, the King of England treating me, the youngest of the Valois daughters, with such gallantry.

‘I must send you another jewel,’ he said.

‘And I will take great care of it,’ I replied.

A sudden outburst of animal temper thrust between us, and we turned to where the Valois leopard bared its
fangs at the English hound that now lunged, barking furiously, drowning out any stilted conversation between their owners. I flinched away, but Henry abandoned me and strode forward.

‘Take them out!’ he snapped, his curt English harsh with irritation. ‘Who in their right minds would bring a hunting cat to a formal negotiating table? That is the end of proceedings for today. We will begin tomorrow at dawn, with no distractions of any nature.’

Whether we fully understood or not, the meaning was clear. Henry bowed with magnificent condescension and strode from the pavilion, followed by Warwick and the recalcitrant hound. But my lord of Bedford stayed behind and walked towards me.

‘There is nothing to fear, my lady,’ he said softly in French.

I did not know whether he meant from the animals or from his brother.

‘Thank you, my lord.’ I said. And I meant it. His assurance was a soothing gesture after Henry’s abrupt departure.

Thus my wooing at Meulan left me in a muddle of heaving emotion. Here was a man who did not dislike me, who would make me Queen of England. Could he perhaps come to love me? Only time would tell. If I was to be the prize to draw Henry back to the negotiating table, then so be it. It pleased me well enough.

I touched my fingertips to my lips where he had kissed me.

Could I love a man I had met only once in my life? It appeared that I could, if admiration and a trembling of the heart signified love. He had cast an enchantment over me, simply by smiling at me and calling me by my name. The scar of some old wound did nothing to mar his beauty. To me, he was everything I had dreamed of.

A Queen of England must be able to speak the language of her husband’s subjects. Had not Henry commanded me to learn? I applied myself to conversation with one of my father’s household who had more than a few basic words to string together, encouraged by the thought that perhaps it would win some commendation from my betrothed. Perhaps he would smile at me again.

‘Good morning, my lord. I hope you are in health.’
Or I might ask him:
‘Do you hunt today, my lord? I would wish to accompany you.’
Or even:
‘Do you admire this new gown that I am wearing? I think it is very fine.’
My adeptness at politics was less sure, but I could ask:
‘Do we welcome the French ambassador to our Court today? Will there be a celebratory feast?’
When my clumsy Gallic tongue had difficulties with
celebratory
, my impatient tutor, a young lad of fewer years than my own, suggested
festive
, which I could manage. I even became proficient in the crucial phrase:
‘I will be honoured, Majesty, to accept your hand in marriage.’

‘He
will
take you,’ Isabeau declaimed with clenched jaw. ‘I will not let this alliance escape.’ Black anger shook
her. Now removed from Poissy and based in Paris, back in the
Hôtel de St Pol
, I kept out of her way.

And then, miraculously, out of nowhere:

‘It is decided. Your dower will be without rival. He’ll take you.’

A golden cloud of conviction hovered over the Queen’s brow. She even touched my cheek with what could have been a caress. I watched her warily from where I sat on my bed. All I could recall was that our previous dower offer had fallen far short of matching the English King’s demand, so why should Isabeau’s new planning be any better? We had even less money at our disposal since Henry controlled all trade routes in the north of France, so that our royal coffers rattled in emptiness.

‘Why will Henry take me?’ I asked.

‘I’ve made him an offer that he would be a fool to refuse. And he is no fool.’ And when I looked justifiably baffled, Isabeau’s glance slid to mine with sly satisfaction. ‘He will take you because when he does, he will get the Crown of France as well.’ Pausing, to make an impression—and succeeding—she added, ‘
That
will be the dower carried by your royal blood,
ma petite
. Not a coffer full of gold coin but the Crown of France. How can he argue against that?’

I was stunned, as if the Crown of France had dropped from the ceiling to land at my feet. This was mine, to take with me as a dower to my husband? My new silk-lined bodice—Isabeau was spending some money on me
at last—suddenly felt too tight. The mirror I had been holding fell from my hand, fortunately onto the trailing hem of the blue damask to save it from harm. Could Isabeau actually do this? As I retrieved my mirror, my hands trembled with the enormity of what she had done.

‘Will my father allow it?’ I gasped.

‘Your father will have nothing to say in the matter. How should he? He hasn’t the wits to string two words together.’

So she had taken the decision on her own authority. ‘You will disinherit my brother Charles?’

‘Without compunction.’ Her strong hands closed on my shoulders, and with only the barest hesitation she kissed me lightly, unexpectedly, on each cheek. ‘You carry all our hopes, Katherine. He will not refuse you now. How could he, when you hold his heart’s desire in your pretty hands? He wants the French Crown—and this is how he can get it without spilling one more drop of blood, English or French. He will smile all the length of the aisle to the high altar where you will stand with him and exchange your vows.’ Her smile grew.