The Forbidden Queen (10 page)

‘You will present yourself in the audience chamber within the hour, and there we will discuss exactly how you will conduct yourself when you meet with Henry of England. Nothing—absolutely
nothing
, Katherine—must be allowed to stand in the way of this alliance. You will be the perfect bride.’

Her conviction as she strode from the room was a magnificent
thing. And so was the implied threat, so that I subsided into an inelegant heap on my bed, careless of any damage to the fine cloth. All my tentative delight in this marriage drained away as her words struck home. Of course he would accept me, and not for my face and virginal hair, my becoming gown or because I could say ‘Good morrow, my lord!’ in English. He would accept me if I were in my dotage with a face as creased as a walnut.

What had Isabeau said? Henry would be a fool to refuse me, and he was no fool. Who would refuse a Valois princess who came with the whole extent of her country as her dower? For the first time in my life I felt compassion for Charles, who would be heir no longer.

I thought, sardonically, that I must start my English lessons again.

My lord, I am honoured that you will stoop to wed me, so unworthy as I am. But I do bring with me an inestimable gift
.

Hopeless!

As I informed Michelle, who came to commiserate. ‘Henry will not care whether I can speak with him or not. I could be the ugliest of old crones, and he would accept me. He would wed me if he found me on my deathbed.’

Michelle hugged me. ‘He won’t want an ugly old crone, Kat. He needs a young wife to carry a son for him.’ She pushed a ring, its dark stone encased in gold, glowing with untold powers, onto the forefinger on my right hand. ‘Wear this, a beryl to guard against melancholy and poison.
And remember me when you are Queen of England, for who’s to say that we will meet again?’

And that was no comfort to me at all.

Within the week I received a gift from my betrothed, which this time found its way into my hands: a formal portrait of the King of England in an intricately worked gilded frame, set around with enamelling and precious stones. I studied it, allowing the soft wrappings to fall to the floor.

‘Now, why do you suppose he has sent me this?’ I asked Michelle.

‘To impress you?’

‘He doesn’t have to.’

‘To remind you how imperious he is?’

‘I have not forgotten that.’

I held the painting at arm’s length, perplexed. I knew what he looked like, so why reacquaint me with it? He had no need to win my hand or my admiration. I would do as I was told. So why this little masterpiece of artistry? With it came a folded piece of manuscript.

‘Read it for me,’ I said, as Michelle’s learning was a good few steps above mine. All I had ever absorbed at Poissy had been the ability to pluck a semblance of a tune from the strings of a lute.

‘“To the Princess Katherine. In expectation of our imminent marriage,”’
Michelle read. ‘It is signed by Henry too.’

A nice thought. I carried it to the light to inspect it further.
It was a fine representation of Henry in profile, and one I could endorse, as I had seen much of Henry’s profile at our only meeting: a high brow; a straight nose; a dark, level gaze. The artist had caught the heavy eyelids and the well-marked winging brows. He had captured the firm lips, a little full, leaving the viewer with the impression of an iron will, but with a hint of passion too perhaps. And the wealth. The importance.

The portrait left no stone unturned to announce the man’s superiority. A gold collar, rings and jewelled chain, the glimpse of a paned sleeve in figured damask. It was impressive.

I touched the painted surface with my fingertip, wishing not for the first time that he smiled more readily. But, then, neither had I in my portrait. I smiled at his painted features, encouraged by what I had just noticed.

‘Well? What do you think?’ Michelle asked, tilting her head to see what had made me smile.

‘I think he is a man who knows his own mind. He is very proud.’ And I held the portrait up for her to see more clearly. The artist had left out the scar on his face. And was that very bad? It made him appear very human to me. Perhaps he had sent the little painting because he simply wanted to acknowledge me as his new wife, giving me ownership of a very personal likeness. If so, it hinted at a depth of kindness beneath the austere exterior. I hoped that Isabeau was wrong. I hoped that I meant something more to King Henry than a means to a political end, a
living and breathing title deed to the Kingdom of France. ‘I like him,’ I said simply.

‘And I think that you must grow up quickly, Kat. Or you might get hurt.’

I did not listen. There was no room for any emotion in my heart but joy.

I made it to the altar at last in spite of all obstacles. Henry Plantagenet waited there for me, regally magnificent.

‘My lady Katherine.’ He welcomed me with a chivalric bow. ‘I rejoice. You are even more beautiful than my memory recalled. Your new English subjects will honour my choice of bride.’

His words were formal, but I could not doubt the admiration in his gaze. Clothed in a cloth-of-gold bodice, I allowed myself to feel beautiful, my body transformed by Isabeau’s tirewomen into a royal offering fit for a King. I was scoured from head to toe, my hair washed and brushed until it drifted like a fall of pure silk. My brows plucked, my nails pared, my skin cleansed with tincture of cowslip to remove any hint of a freckle, I was polished and burnished until I glowed like a silver plate for Henry’s delectation. Beneath a translucent veil my hair spread over my shoulders, as brightly gold as the cloth beneath, proclaiming
my virginity to God and the high blood of England and France.

Thus arrayed, I stood before the altar in the Church of St John in Troyes, my hand enclosed in that of Henry of England. His clasp was firm, his expression grimly austere as we faced the bishop, but perhaps he was simply preoccupied with the solemnity of the occasion.

Intense cold rose up from the floor and descended from the roof beams and I shivered with it. Henry’s hand around mine too was cold, and I was trembling so hard that I thought the whole congregation must see it, my veil shivering before my eyes like sycamore flowers in a stiff breeze. Oh, I had no fear of his rejection at this eleventh hour. When Henry had been required to place on the bishop’s missal the customary sum of thirteen pence, in symbolic payment from the groom for his bride, my eyes had widened as a stream of gold coins had slid from his hand. Thirteen gold nobles, so vast a sum. But, then, perhaps thirteen gold nobles was a small price to pay for the Kingdom of France.

Another shiver shook me from head to foot.

‘There’s no need to tremble,’ he whispered as the bishop took a breath. ‘There’s nothing to fear.’

‘No,’ I whispered back, glancing up, grateful for the reassurance, pleased that he was smiling down at me. How considerate he was of my apprehension. Of course he would understand that a young girl raised in a convent would be overawed.

The bishop beamed at us. Turning to Henry, the phrases rolled around us.

‘Vis accípere Katherine, hic praeséntem in tuam legítiman uxórem juxta ritum sanctae matris Ecclésiae?’

‘Volo.’

There was not one moment of hesitation; neither was there any lover-like glance in acknowledgement of our union. Staring straight ahead as if sighting an enemy army approaching over a hill, hand still gripping mine, Henry made his response so firmly that it echoed up into the vaulting above our heads, to return a thousand times.

‘Volo, volo, volo.’

It rippled along my arms, down the length of my spine. Henry was as proud as a raptor, an eagle, his response a statement of ownership, of both me and of his new inheritance.

I swallowed against the rock that had become lodged in my throat. My mouth was so dry that I feared I would be hopelessly silent when my moment came, and my mind would not stay still, but danced like a butterfly on newly dried wings over the disconcerting facets of my marriage.

The royal Valois crown was my dowry. Henry would become the heir of France. The right to rule France would pass to our offspring—Henry’s and mine—in perpetuity as the legitimate successors. I had been handed to him on a golden salver with the whole Kingdom of France in my lap for him to snatch up. My Valois blood was worth a king’s ransom to him.

The butterfly alighting for a brief moment, I glanced across at Henry. Even he, a past master as he was at the art of cold negotiation, could not govern his features enough to hide the glitter of victory as he took the vow.

The bishop, who was staring encouragingly at me, coughed. Had he been addressing me? I forced myself to concentrate. Within the half-hour I would be Henry’s wife.

‘Vis accípere Henry, hic praeséntem in tuum legítimun maritum juxta ritum sanctae matris Ecclésiae?’

I ran my tongue over my dry lips.

‘Volo.’

It was clear, not ringing as Henry’s response but clear enough. I had not shamed myself or the decision that had been made in my name. Many of the French nobility would wish that it had never come to pass. When my mother had offered me and the French Crown in the same sentence, there had been a sharp inhalation from the Valois court. But to save face, to dilute the shame of deposing the reigning King, my father was to wear the crown for the rest of his natural life. A sop to some, but a poor one.

The bishop’s voice, ringing in triumph, recalled me once more to the culmination of that hard bargaining.

‘
Ego
conjúngo vos in matrimónium. In nomine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti
. Amen.’

All done. Henry and I were legally bound. As the musicians and singers, lavishly paid for and brought all the
way from England by Henry, began a paean of praise, and we turned to face the congregation, the clouds without grew darker, and rain began to beat against the great west window.

I shivered, denying that it was a presentiment of things to come, as, perhaps in impatience to get the business finished, Henry’s hand held mine even tighter and I slid a glance beneath my veil. Not an eagle, I decided, but a lion, one of his own leopards that sprang on his breast. He positively glowed, as well he might. This was a triumph as great as Agincourt, and I was the prize, the spoils of war, giving Henry all he had hoped for.

There would still be war of course. My brother Charles, the Dauphin, and his supporters would never bend the knee. Did my new husband realise that? I was sure he did, but for now Henry, head held high, looked as if he were King of all the world. And in that moment realisation came to me. I, the much-desired bride, was not the centrepiece of this bright tapestry. Henry was the focus of attention, the cynosure for all present, and so it would always be in our marriage.

‘You’re trembling again,’ Henry said quietly.

The nerves in my belly tensed, leapt. I had not expected him to speak to me as he led me down the aisle to the great west door; his eye was still quartering the congregation, as if searching out weaknesses on a battlefield.

‘No,’ I denied. I stiffened my muscles, holding my
breath—but to no avail. ‘Yes,’ I amended. He would know that I was lying anyway.

‘Are you afraid?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I lied again.

‘No need. This will soon be over.’

This increased my fear tenfold, for then I would be alone with him. ‘I’m just cold,’ I said.

And at that moment a break in the clouds allowed a shaft of pure gold to strike through the window to our right as if a blessing from God. It engulfed him in fire, glittering over the jewelled chain that lay on his breast. The leopards flexed their golden muscles as he breathed and his dark hair shone with the brilliance of a stallion’s coat. The light glimmering along the folds of my veil were of nothing in comparison.

He was magnificent, and I found that I was clinging to his hand with a grip like that of a knight upon his sword. Henry, reading the apprehension in my face and in my grip on him, smiled, all the severity vanishing.

‘A cup of wine will warm you.’ The hard contours of his face softened. ‘It is done at last,’ he said, and raised my fingers to his mouth. ‘You are my wife, Katherine, and my Queen, and I honour you. It is God’s will that we be together.’ And there in the centre of the church with every eye on us, he kissed my mouth with his. ‘You have made me the happiest man in the world.’

My trembling heart promptly melted in the heat of flame, and I could feel the blood beating through me, to
my fingertips, to the arches of my feet. Surprising me, a little bubble of joy grew in my belly, stirred into life by no more than a salute to my hand and lips from the man at my side, and I felt happy and beautiful and desired.

Beguiled by the idea that I was Henry’s wife and he had honoured me before all, I smiled on the massed ranks as we passed them, confidence surging within me. I would never feel unworthy or unwanted or neglected again, for Henry had rescued me and given me a place in his life and in his kingdom.

We waited at the point where, the arches soaring above us, the chancel crossed into the nave of the church. Behind us the procession of English and Valois notables took its time in beginning to form, allowing us a few words.

‘England waits to greet her new Queen,’ Henry said, nodding towards a face he recognised to his left.

‘I hope to see England soon,’ I replied, relieved that my voice was quite calm with no hint of the sudden dread that gripped me that I would have to live in England, a country I knew nothing of, with people who were strangers to me. My overwhelming happiness had been short-lived indeed.

‘You will enjoy the welcome I have prepared for you. You will be fêted from one end of the country to the other.’

Turned back from the crowd to me, his face was illuminated by his smile. Handsome in feature, power rested on his shoulders as easily as a summer-weight silk cloak.
But what did he see in me? What would he wish to see in me? With what I hoped was intuition, I lifted my chin with all the pride and dignity of a Queen of England, and smiled back.