The Star of Lancaster (51 page)

Katherine was led into the most, richly decorated of the pavilions and very soon there were shouts to proclaim the arrival of the King of England.

Henry was accompanied by his two brothers, Clarence and Gloucester, and a thousand men at arms and as he stepped into the tent Katherine’s eyes were fixed on him and her heart beat fast with excitement.

Henry came forward and first bowed to the Queen and then kissed her. Then he turned to Katherine. Her lips parted; and she was smiling; and he was smiling at her. He laid his hands on her shoulders and kissed her lips.

It was unceremonious but she was delighted; and so was he.

She wished that they were alone and she could talk to him.

But this was not the time.

She was seated between her mother and the Duke of Burgundy and Henry sat opposite with a brother on either side of him. She was gratified to notice that during the whole of the proceedings Henry did not take his eyes from her.

The conference was over all too soon for Katherine and when it had broken up no definite arrangements had been made.

There must be another conference, said her mother.

‘It is clear to me that the King has fallen in love with my daughter,’ she added with pride.

But Henry’s passion was not so great that he was going to give away any of his demands. They were excessive.

‘We are not yet beaten,’ said Burgundy.

There was another meeting at Pontoise. ‘This time,’ said the Queen, ‘Katherine shall not go with us.’

Henry was clearly disappointed but as adamant as ever and the conference ended in deadlock.

Henry was sure that they must meet his demands. ‘We will wait a few days,’ he said to his brother. ‘They willgive way.’

He was disconcerted when he saw the pavilions being removed which was a sign that the French had nothing more to say.

He sought one more interview with the Duke of Burgundy.

‘I tell you this,’ he cried, ‘we will have the daughter of the King of France or we will drive the King out of his country . . . and you too, my lord of Burgundy.’

‘You may threaten to do so,’ was the cool reply, ‘but before you have succeeded in driving me out of my country you will be very exhausted.’

Katherine felt deflated. She was sure he had wanted her. And yet he had let her go.

Perhaps she would never see him again.

The war continued. Henry was almost at the gates of Paris. There was nothing for the French to do but sue for peace.

Messages from Burgundy and the Queen of France were delivered to Henry’s camp. Would he agree to another meeting?

His answer was: No. I trust none of you except the Princess Katherine. If I treat with any of you it would only be with her.

This was astounding. But then Henry had always been unconventional.

‘There is nothing for us to do,’ said the Queen. ‘We have to give way to him. He must have Katherine.’

She sent for her daughter.

‘The King of England is demanding your hand. You are smiling. It seems to please you.’

‘I liked him well,’ said Katherine, ‘and it is time I married.’

The Queen laughed. ‘I think you may resemble me in more ways than one. Write a note to him. Tell him how you long to speak with him. Our position is desperate. He will be in Paris soon if we do not stop him. But he must not come in war.’

Katherine sat down as bidden and wrote a note to him. She had greatly regretted not seeing him for so long for their brief meeting in the pavilion at Pontoise had given her the desire to see him more than anything in the world.

It was a bold letter for a princess to write, but she was dealing with a bold man.

‘He will want more than Katherine’s hand,’ said Burgundy.

The terms would be harsh but they must accept them. Katherine’s dowry would be the crown of France after the death of her father. The King of England should on the marriage become Regent of France.

Henry was overjoyed. It seemed that his goal was reached.

When Katherine was brought to his tent he unceremoniously swept her into his arms.

‘My lord, my lord,’ she protested but she was smiling contentedly.

‘At last,’ he cried. ‘I have dreamed of you, Katherine. A pox on these people who have kept us apart so long.’

She was no longer the young girl Isabella had been, but how she reminded him of her. Isabella had died at twenty-two years of age, poor sad Isabella; and after all the delays Katherine herself was nineteen years old.

‘I swore I’d have you the minute I first met you in the tent at Pontoise,’ he told her.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I hoped it too.’

‘Katherine . . . Katherine . . . what a lot of battles I had to fight to get you!’

‘I trust you will consider the fight worthwhile, my lord.’

They were delighted with each other. He was thirty-three years old. Not a young man any more.

‘By God’s truth!’ he cried. ‘I have a lot to make up for.’

In the church of Notre Dame in the town of Troyes Henry with the Queen and Katherine were present at the signing of the treaty. Henry looked magnificent in burnished armour and Katherine was now deeply in love with him. The King of France was unable to be present, but that was so frequent an occurrence that his absence was scarcely noticed. There on the high altar France was surrendered to Henry of England.

Then the pair were betrothed and Henry solemnly placed a priceless ring on Katherine’s finger. He insisted that she now be in his care, for he did not trust the French and in view of everything they had surrendered he felt that even if those who had made the bargain adhered to it there might well be some rebellious faction which would try to take his well-earned spoils from him.

He insisted that the wedding should not be long delayed.

It was a glorious June day when in the church at Troyes he and Katherine were married. There was universal rejoicing because all saw in the marriage an end of the war which had tormented the people for so long.

It had ended as honourably for France as could be hoped for it did not seem quite so humiliating to surrender to the husband of their Princess as it would to a stranger.

Henry was determined to do honour to his bride. He had ordered that the most sumptuous preparations should be made.

The French watched in amazement. Their own preparations were grand but more restrained. More elegant was their verdict but at the same time they admired the ostentation of the English.

‘It would seem that he is the King of the whole world,’ was the comment.

So Katherine was his. They held hands and he smiled at her with a passionate intensity. She was delighted. She did not resemble Marie. She liked what she saw in her lover’s eyes.

The Archbishop went through the ceremony of blessing the marriage bed; and there was the ceremonial putting to bed. There was a procession to the bedside and refreshment was brought to the happy pair. They drank the wine and soup according to the old French custom; and in due course they were alone.

‘This is the moment for which I have longed since I first set eyes on you,’ said Henry.

And Katherine was content.

Chapter XV

K
atherine lay at Windsor, awaiting the birth of her child. The King of course was still at war. The marriage had not brought the peace all had prayed for. The new Dauphin perhaps could not be expected to relinquish his rights and determined to stand against the treaty. Moreover it was hardly likely that all Frenchmen would calmly stand by and see their land handed over to the English even though their mad King was to retain his title until he died.

So Henry was now in France awaiting the news of the birth of their child.

She was happy. She was meant to be a wife. She and Henry were well matched. She laughed to hear of the adventures he had had in his youth when everyone thought it would be disaster when he came to the throne. He was a man of passionate desires – whether it was in the bedchamber or the battlefield. He was a man who could become obsessed by an ideal; to her he was a conquering hero. She did not care that he had subdued her father and her country. She regarded her brother, the Dauphin, as an enemy because he was Henry’s.

Thus had Henry claimed her as his own and they were both delighted with the marriage.

He had given her a magnificent coronation and she had been crowned in Westminster Abbey by Archbishop Chicheley on a cold February day. The banquet that followed was the most sumptuous that had ever been served in the great hall at Westminster.

Henry was determined to do her honour.

And soon afterwards to the delight of them both she had become pregnant.

Her baby was to be born in December.

‘You must be with me when our baby comes into the world,’ she told Henry; but he laughed at her and she knew that if he felt it necessary to go into battle even she could not detain him.

Conquest was his life. He was a great lover but a soldier first. The prosecution of a war meant more to him than anything else. Her kinswoman Joanna who had been Queen to Henry’s father was still imprisoned in Pevensey.

Henry believed in witchcraft and he told her that Joanna had practised it against him. He only half believed it to be so for he had always liked his stepmother until he needed her money to help him to make war.

He was ruthless. She knew that. But he was a man . . . every inch of him; and she was gratified to have him as her husband.

When she had ridden out beside him she had been thrilled; when his eyes had sought hers in an assembly her heart leaped with pleasure. There could be no doubt of the love between them.

He was going away again. She could pout and express her displeasure but he took no notice. His presence was needed in France.

‘And you will not be here for the birth of the child,’ she complained.

‘You will bear it without me,’ he said.

‘Then as soon as I am able to I shall come to you. You will not be able to prevent that.’

He laughed at her. ‘It may well be that I have no wish to,’ he answered.

She was amused when he began to have suspicions about the birth of the child.

He had been listening to astrologers.

‘There is a cloud over Windsor,’ he said. ‘They predict it will be there in December. Katherine, our child must not be born in Windsor. It is an ill omen.’

‘Stop here and make sure it is not born there.’

He laughed again and kissed her.

But all the same he had gone away to war.

And now here she lay . . . in Windsor. He would not stay with her while her child was born. Very well, she would deliberately disobey him.

He would not be angry; once the child was born he would forget its birthplace.

It was a magnificent castle; fitted to be the birthplace of Kings. She wanted a boy – a King to follow Henry. It was what they both wanted. And why should it not be born in Windsor?

Henry’s favourite ancestor, Edward the Third, had been born here. They had called him Edward of Windsor, and if she had a son she would call him after his father. He should be Henry of Windsor.

And so she was brought to bed and in due course her son was born.

She called him Henry after his father.