by Anne O'Brien
My honeymoon read like a military campaign. Henry, as newly appointed Regent of France in my father’s name, and thus leading the attack against my brother Charles, took me with him, much like an item of military equipment. I was at the surrender of Sens—a rapid affair over a mere seven days—in June. Ensconced in a pavilion in his camp, Henry had no time for me, although he did inform me of his victory when the fortress fell. He did not even find the time to visit my bed with a view to procuring an heir. For me it was like living in a constant state of apprehension. Would Henry visit me? If not, was it because I had displeased him in some manner unknown to me?
I sat and stitched and tried to converse with my damsels, who made little effort to converse back. I was wary of them. Particularly of Lady Beatrice, the lively brunette, owner of the sharp tongue and a blue and gold damask houppelande with trailing sleeves. I returned the gown to her.
‘It is lovely. I thank you for your generosity, but you must have it back. I had no opportunity to wear it,’ I explained stiltedly.
Her curtsey was perfect, her smile knowing. They all knew of my missed opportunity.
And then we were all packed up and on to Montereau and Melun, where, to my astonished satisfaction, Henry, with an heir strongly in mind after his lengthy absence from the allure of my body, had a dwelling constructed for me, out of earshot of the cannon but near to his pavilion. Thus I was restored to Henry’s determined embrace.
Henry proved to be a driven man. His visits to my bed were now so regular that I felt as if I were written into the battle plans, along with the digging of trenches and the ordering up of ale to keep the soldiery content. He was brisk and efficient on those frequent forays into intimate relations over the four months it took to reduce Melun. He never stayed with me longer than an hour, but during that time I was granted his complete attention. He was always gentle with me. As recompense for his rapid departures, at sunrise and sunset he ordered English minstrels to play one hour of sweet music for me.
I enjoyed the music far more than I did the smoothly expert but rapid assaults on my body. They roused nothing in me other than a desire that I might quicken fast and be done with it. Regretting my coldness, I put the blame firmly at my own door but could do nothing to remedy it. The more I worried about my freezing reticence, the worse it became. To be fair to my new husband, he did not appear to notice. Perhaps he had not the opportunity in the short time he allowed himself to fulfil his marital duties. He was never critical of me. I was touched when he ordered two harps to be sent from England.
‘I know you play the harp,’ he said, snapping his fingers to alert my page, who promptly presented one of the magnificent instruments to me, on one knee.
‘I do.’ I admitted my surprise, and pleasure, that he had found time both to discover it, and to arrange for their delivery from England.
‘My brother John told me.’ Henry ran an expert thumb over the strings of the second harp. ‘I too have the skill.’ He smiled thinly at my raised brows. ‘I have other interests besides warfare, Katherine. Perhaps we might play together.’
I flushed with the thought, until disappointment set in. We might have achieved a meeting of souls in music if Henry had had time to run his hand even once across the strings but his hand was firmly on the war pulse. Music—and a wife—were both an irrelevance for most of the time.
And yet all was not uneasy isolation for me: I made one acquaintance due to the intensity of the savage fighting. I did not recognise the young man, some few years older than I, compactly built, with steady grey eyes at odds with the vibrantly curling hair that reached to his shoulders, who was brought to my door under what was clearly a military guard.
‘Lady Katherine.’ He bowed with the sweetest of smiles, his escort unexpectedly abandoning him to my care. ‘I apologise for my presence here. I am ordered to stay.’
‘Who are you?’ I asked. He clearly knew me.
He executed another flamboyant bow. ‘I am James Stewart.’
‘Yes?’
‘King of Scotland.’
‘Oh.’ I was no wiser. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I don’t suppose he’s told you, has he?’ I shook my head: ‘Because I am a prisoner of your husband.’
‘Are you?’
James explained with cheerful insouciance. Taken captive by English pirates on a ship bound from Scotland to France, he had been handed over to the English King and had been a captive ever since, too dangerous to be sent back to Scotland. And now, his nationality and title of an advantage to England, he had been escorted from London to the war front, where he had been instructed by Henry to command the obedience of the Scots mercenaries who were fighting for the Dauphin. To demand, as their King, that they lay down their arms.
‘Did it work?’ I asked, fascinated, imagining this lively individual addressing his wayward fellow countrymen on the opposite side.
‘Not that I could see. And why would they? Since they’re fighting for money, they don’t acknowledge my authority. Henry was not overly pleased.’ He did not seem particularly concerned over any royal displeasure, and I said as much. ‘I’ve been a prisoner of the English for fourteen years—since I was twelve years old,’ James explained. ‘I have to keep things in perspective, my lady.’
It made little sense to me, not understanding the situation between England and the Scots. ‘You are not well guarded,’ I pointed out. ‘Can you not escape?’
‘How would I get back to Scotland without English aid?’
‘Will you be a prisoner for ever?’ It seemed a terrible predicament. ‘Will Henry never release you?’
James Stewart shrugged lightly. ‘Who’s to say? Only on his terms.’
‘And what are they?’
‘I don’t know that yet.’
I admired the young man’s sangfroid.
‘Since we’re both here for the duration, can I be of any use to you, Lady Katherine?’ King James asked.
His grin won me over. ‘You can entertain me, sir. Tell me about England.’
‘You’ll not get an unbiased view. I’m the enemy and a prisoner, Lady Katherine.’
I liked him even more. ‘I’ll get more from you than I will from my damsels. And you must call me Katherine.’
‘Then you must call me James.’
And so I fell into the first friendship I had ever had.
‘Will I enjoy living in England?’ I asked, my anxieties multiplying now that the time was approaching. James had described for me the great palaces of Windsor and Westminster, the massive Tower of London, the places I would soon call home.
‘Why not? The English are kind enough. In a cool manner, and as long as they see some personal gain in engaging your support. They don’t like you as much as tolerate you.’
‘I think Henry only tolerates me.’ Shocked, I covered my mouth with my fingers. ‘I did not mean to say that. You must not repeat it.’ How unguarded I had been. How unwise to say what was in my heart. I looked at James anxiously. Would he think me impossibly unpolished?
But James returned my regard, suddenly very serious. ‘He will do more than tolerate you. He will fall in love with you—when he gets the battles out of his system. I would love you if you were my wife.’
My face flushed brightly, my breath caught in my throat.
‘Really?’ I knew I was ingenuous, but how could I not respond to such unexpected admiration? ‘How kind you are.’
I smiled at James, and he smiled back at me. From that moment he became a welcome addition to my battlefield household, which was further enhanced by the arrival of Dame Alice Botillier, her husband and full-grown son both being in Henry’s service.
Her role became something between nurse and superior tirewoman, her position arranged by Henry to promote my well-being and to care for me when I became pregnant. Stern and acerbic, every inch of her tall figure encased in austere black with a crisp white coif as if she had taken holy vows, I found her presence agreeable, although her first words were
caustic enough.
‘There’s not enough flesh on your bones, my lady, to feed a starving lion. If you are to carry a child, we must build you up.’
‘If I am to carry a child, I need to see more of my husband,’ I replied crossly. Henry had been absent for almost a week.
Alice pursed her lips. ‘I expect he does his best in the circumstances.’
Her reply warned me that I must take care never to be openly critical of my heroic husband. The loyalty of the English to their masterful king was chiselled in granite, like the blank-eyed statues on Westminster Abbey. Accepting my silence as compliance, Alice dosed me with an infusion of feverfew, the yellow-centred white flowers gathered from the hedgerows.
‘If the King is to plant his seed, the earth must be rich and strong to nurture it.’
I shuddered at the rank smell.
‘Drink up! This will heat your belly and your blood. You’ll carry a child in no time.’
At a lull in the siege operations, Henry planted his seed with thorough attention to detail. I prayed fervently for a satisfactory result.
‘Are you happy here?’ Henry asked as he pulled on his boots and reached across the bed to retrieve his sword. There had not been much in the way of undressing, time being at a premium.
Happy? I did not think I was, but neither was I unhappy. Lonely, yes, but less so in the company of the splendidly garrulous Scottish King. My facility with English was improving in leaps and bounds, as James would say.
‘I am not unhappy,’ I offered, regretting my nervousness, wishing that I could be more loquacious in my stern husband’s company.
‘Good. I would not wish that.’
It had the effect of a warm caress, and encouraged by it I touched his wrist. Henry stroked his hand along the length of my hair.
‘A child will bring you happiness,’ he observed. And then: ‘You’re not afraid of me, are you?’
‘Afraid?’ My cheeks became a puzzled pink.
‘I have never yet beaten a wife.’
His humour was heavy but I laughed and reached up to kiss his cheek. Henry appeared surprised. His mouth was firm, his embrace strong and, abandoning the sword and any thought of returning to the fray quite yet, his renewed possession of me was more than flattering.
‘Pray for a son, Katherine. Pray for an heir for England.’
And I did, fervently. And that Henry would miraculously fall in love with me if I could laugh with him and fulfil this apex of his desire. While I was thus engaged in bright thoughts of the future, Melun fell at last. Rejoicing, I tolerated Alice’s astringent draughts, dressed with care, and was unpacking the harps when Henry arrived.
‘We leave tomorrow,’ he announced.
‘Where are we going? To England?’
Mentally repacking the harps, I experienced a sudden desire to see my new country. To settle into a new home where I might raise my children and have some time for what could pass for a normal wedded life even if I was a queen. Henry was preoccupied, reading a letter just delivered.
‘Do we go to England?’ I persisted.
‘Paris first,’ he said. His eyes gleamed. He must have seen my doleful expression for, surprising me, he wound an arm around my waist and drew me close, rubbing his face against my hair. ‘You will enjoy going home to Paris. We’ll celebrate our victory, and put on a show for the citizens.’ He kissed my mouth with obvious passion, perhaps for me as well as for his victory. ‘And then we will return to England. To celebrate our triumph. Perhaps we’ll have a child to celebrate too.’
It was lightly said, but I could feel the beat of his blood under my palm, and I felt a blossoming of incipient joy within me. Of anticipation for a love that would surely mature and develop between us. This would be the real beginning of my marriage, when we were in England, when we would be able to spend time together, to grow to know each other.
I laughed, making Henry smile too.
‘I would like very much to go to England. I’m sure I will quicken soon.’
CHAPTER THREE
My world on that morning as I awoke, the first day of my married life, was a thing of near-delirious anticipation. It was early when I was awakened by voices, a muted conversation between Guille and a visitor. I started, tempted to hide beneath the covers if it was Isabeau come to interrogate me, but the voice died, and the footsteps receded even before the door closed. The relief was as comforting as a cup of red wine.
I flushed, as I remembered Henry taking the cup from me.
‘What is it?’ I asked from the depths of the bed.
‘A marriage gift, my lady.’
I sat up and looked, with delight, at what she held in her arms.
‘From the English King, my lady,’ she said.
I slid from the bed to inspect it.
‘It’s not new, my lady.’
‘How could it be?’ I did not care. Probably it had been in the travelling presses of one of the English ladies, for it was undoubtedly made in the English fashion, a symbol of my new life. Guille pulled and laced and tied until I felt truly glorious in a blue and gold damask houppelande, its heavy folds banded by an embroidered girdle, its sumptuous sleeves long enough to sweep the floor. Queen Isabeau never wore anything more regal than this. It was a gown fit for a celebration. At length I stood, my hair braided and veiled in gold and fine gauze, my heart full of gratitude to the unknown lady flooding through me.
‘Some colour in your cheeks, my lady,’ Guille advised. ‘It wouldn’t do to look pale at the tournament.’
I submitted to her deft ministrations, impatient to be with him, to experience once again his consideration for me. To talk to him as I had talked last night. Lips and cheeks, enhanced with a delicate tint, I admired my reflection in my looking glass. He had thought about me, he had taken the time to provide me with something close to my heart. He had listened to my foolish complaint and not forgotten. My heart sang a little.
‘You look happy, lady.’
I thought about this. ‘I think I am.’ It was not an emotion I recognised, but if this deep contentment was happiness, then I was happy. ‘I need a glove,’ I said impatiently. ‘I must have one.’
‘Why is that, my lady?’
‘To give to Henry as my guerdon. He will fight for me today. And he will win.’ I enjoyed the sound of his name on my lips. I would make him proud of me as I sat in the gallery, clothed as a queen, and cheered him on to victory.
I perched on the edge of a stool, perfectly still so that I did not crease the intricacies of the embroidered panels, head lifted to catch any sound outside. Would he send for me? Or perhaps he would come himself to escort me down.
The time slid past.
‘Will he come for me?’ Trying to quell the little ripple of anxiety, I forced my fingers flat against my thighs.
‘I expect he will, my lady.’
‘Yes. I am valuable to him. He said so.’
I sipped a cup of ale, picked at the platter of bread and meat placed before me, but with no real interest. My mind was already running with the heralds and banners and brave knights. And with Henry.
‘It will be on the meadows beside the river,’ I said as I brushed crumbs from my fingers. ‘They’ll be erecting the pavilions—or perhaps they’ve already done that. I’ll have a gallery to sit in, so that I might see. I’ve never been to a tournament before,’ I confided. Another feather of latent concern brushed the nape of my neck. ‘When will he come? But listen…’ I was conscious of the growing tumult of noise, enough to carry through the walls and glazed windows.
I could sit no longer but crossed the room to look down into the entrance court below. It was full of people and wagons and horses, of banners stitched with vivid heraldic devices, a scene of feverish activity.
‘There he is!’
My heart was thudding. Standing at the top of a flight to steps leading from the great door down to the gathering masses, tall, lithe, with his head bent as he conversed with Bedford and with Warwick and
the rest of his English friends, Henry was everything I could ever have hoped for in a husband. In a lover. He swept a wide gesture with one arm, at the same time as he laughed at some response from Warwick. His face was alight with the same fierce concentration I had seen when planning the attack against the fortress of Sens. Captivated, I pressed my forehead against the glass, and at my movement, snatching at his attention, he looked up. I raised my hand. He looked back at me, as I thought, then gave his attention back to his brother.
Slowly I lowered my hand.
‘He did not acknowledge me,’ I said.
‘Perhaps he did not see. He is very busy, my lady.’
‘Of course.’
I turned back to look again. A shaft of sunlight illuminated the scene, striking silvered fire from his armour. And it came to me that the crowds below were not milling at all. It was a scene of organised and disciplined activity: a force of soldiers with horses, weapons being loaded onto carts. More men mustering every minute.
My mouth dried with the implication.
‘It doesn’t look like a tournament to me,’ I said softly. ‘It looks like war.’ This was no formal passage of arms. Henry was going to war. I snatched up the fullness of my skirts and I ran.
‘My lady…’
‘He’s leaving me!’ was all I could say. And then I was pushing my way through the crowd, refusing to be deterred by the crush, with Guille still remonstrating at my heels, until finally I came to where Henry stood. I climbed the steps out of the crush, pushing aside a rangy alaunt trying to claim his master’s attention. I needed Henry’s attention more.
‘My lord.’ I tried for a little restraint. His back was to me as he replied to some comment by my lord of Warwick. ‘My lord.’ I touched him lightly on his arm.
Henry spun round, and I saw the moment when the laughter was gone.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘This is no place for you.’
It was a blow that chilled my blood. How peremptory his command. He did not want to be interrupted. He didn’t even address me by my name.
