by Anne O'Brien
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.
‘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.
CHAPTER ONE
It was in the Hôtel de St Pol in Paris, where I was born, that I chased my sister through the rooms of the palace, shrieking like some demented creature in torment. Michelle ran, agile as a hare pursued by a pack of hounds, and because of her advantage of years I was not catching her. She leapt up the great staircase and along a deserted gallery into an antechamber, where she tried to slam the door against me. There was no one to witness our clamorous, unedifying rampage.
I flung back the heavy door so that it crashed against the wall. My breath was short, my side clenched with pain, but my belly was so empty that I would not surrender. I pounded in my sister’s wake, triumphant when I heard Michelle whimpering in distress as her feet slid and she cannoned into the corner of a vast oak press set against the wall. From there she lurched into yet another audience chamber, and I howled with imminent victory. There was no way out from that carved and gilded room. I had her. Or, more importantly, I would have what she gripped in her hand.
And there she was, standing at bay, eyes blazing, teeth bared.
‘Share it!’ I demanded.
When, despite her laboured breathing, she stuffed a piece of bread into her mouth, I sprang at her, and we fell to the floor to roll in a tangle of foul skirts, unwashed legs and greasy, unbraided hair. Teeth and nails were applied indiscriminately, sharp elbows coming into play until, ploughing my fist into Michelle’s belly with all my five-year-old weight, I snatched the prize from her. A stale crust and a charred bone of some unidentifiable animal that she had filched from the kitchens when the cook’s back was turned. Scrambling up, I backed away, cramming the hard bread into my mouth, sinking my teeth into the flesh on the bone, my belly rumbling. I turned from the fury in her face to flee back the way we had come.
‘What’s this?’
Despite the mild query, it was a voice of authority who spoke. I pulled up short because my way was barred, yet I would still have fled except that Michelle had crept to my side. In our terrible preoccupation we had not heard the approach, and my heart was hammering so loudly in my ears that I was all but deafened. And there, beating against my temples, was the little pressure, the little flutter of pain, that often afflicted me when I was perturbed.
‘Stop that!’
The mildness had vanished, and I stood quietly at last, curtseying without grace so that I smeared my skirts even more with grease and crumbs. There was no governess to busy herself about our manners or our education. There was never any money in our household to pay for such luxuries.
‘Well?’ The King, our father, lifted agitated eyes to the servant who accompanied him.
‘Your daughters, Sire,’ the man replied promptly, barely respectful.
‘Really?’ The King blinked at us. Then smiled brightly. ‘Come here,’ he said, at the same time as he drew a jewelled knife from his belt.
We flinched, our eyes on the blade, where the light slid with evil intent as the King slashed indiscriminately at the space before him. Our father was known to lash out at those nearest to him when the mood was on him, and we were not encouraged even when the servant removed the knife from our father’s hand—no cleaner than mine—and tucked the weapon into his own belt. Our father’s eyes were alight with a strange, knowing gleam. Unperturbed when I shrank away, he stretched out his hand to lift a lank curl of my hair from where it clung against my neck in matted hanks, like the fleece of a sheep after a long winter. His fingers tightened and I tensed all my muscles, waiting for the pain when he forgot his strength.
‘Which one are you?’ he asked, gently enough.
‘Katherine, Sire.’
‘Yes, you would be. You are very small.’ He quirked a brow. ‘And you?’
‘Michelle, Sire.’
‘Why are you not at your lessons?’
I slid a glance at Michelle, who simply hung her head. There had been no one to teach us anything for at least a month.
‘Well?’ A familiar harshness again coloured his demand. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘Madame, our governess, has gone away,’ I ventured.
‘Has she? Who dressed you this morning? No, don’t bother to answer that.’ The fire in his eyes dimmed as he swung round to address the servant. ‘Why are they like this? Little better than animals?’
‘There is no one, Sire.’
‘Why not? Do they not have their own household? Where are their servants?’
‘They too have gone, Sire. They have not been paid for many weeks now.’
The King bent his stare on me. The rapid blinking was unnerving but his question was both lucid and clear. ‘What are you hiding behind your back, Katherine?’ And when I showed him, he seized my hand and growled, ‘When did you last eat—apart from that?’
‘Yesterday,
Sire.’ It was Michelle who answered. Words were beyond me in my fright.
‘And you stole the bread and meat? Be silent, both of you!’ the King roared before we had even begun to make our excuses, and we were silenced. ‘Before God! You’re no better than gutter urchins from the Paris stews! I should have you whipped.’
I sidled up to Michelle and clutched at her skirts, almost faint in my terror. Would our father truly beat us for our sin? I let the bread and meat fall to the floor as the trembling in my limbs became uncontrollable. I was never a brave child.
‘Where is their mother?’ he demanded. The servant shook his head. ‘Wait here!’
The King marched from the room, leaving the three of us an uneasy trio. What if he never came back? What if he forgot about us? Yet, indeed, it might be to our advantage if he did. I glanced at Michelle. Should we escape while we had the chance? She shook her head, and so we remained, listening to his footsteps fading into the distance. A little silence fell, broken only by my feet scuffing the floor and Michelle sniffing. The servant sighed heavily. And then in the distance footsteps returned. Our father strode back through the door, bringing a gust of wild, unfettered energy as he circled his arms like the sails of a windmill.
I whimpered.
‘Here!’ He thrust a goblet, heavy with gold and the glimmer of precious stones, into the servant’s hand. ‘Sell it!’ the King snarled with a show of uneven, discoloured teeth. ‘Pay a servant to tend to them. They need food and garments, fitting for my daughters.’ He stared down at us for a brief moment, puzzlement in his face, before marching once more from the room.
We were duly fed. I don’t recall if we were given new clothes.
So that is what I remember, the most vivid memory of my childhood. The cold, the hunger, the deprivation and neglect. The constant fear. The stark misery, product of the heedlessness of those who were set to care for us. Were Valois princesses allowed to suffer from misery? We were. We wallowed in it. For a little time matters improved for us, but how long could the coin raised by the sale of one gold cup last? Within a matter of weeks the coin had slipped into the hands of the servants and we were as starving and filthy as before as we roamed the palace like lost souls, bellies clapped hard against spines.
