Guillemote had tossed a handful of pine cones onto the crackling logs in the small fireplace in Catherine’s bedchamber, and their fragrance mingled with the delicious smells of spit-roasting goose and wild boar which wafted up from the palace kitchens. Sitting at her little oak dressing table, Catherine could hear occasional snatches of music or a shriek of laughter from another room and was thrilled at the prospect of the festivities to come. She had decided on a crimson gown for the dancing and Guillemote, having finished dressing her mistress’s hair, was now beginning to lace up the back of the bodice.
The excited barking of a small dog in the corridor outside the room heralded the arrival of the Queen and, a moment later, the door burst open to admit her. She was brandishing a piece of paper above her head as her yapping lap dog pranced around in excited circles in front of her then stood on its hind legs, pawing at her skirts. Pausing only to send the little creature skittering across the floor with the toe of her shoe, Isabeau pushed poor Guillemote impatiently out of her way and made a beeline for her daughter.
‘Catherine! Catherine! Such good news!’ she screeched, flinging her arms around her daughter’s neck from behind and nearly upending her chair.
‘What, my Lady? What is it?’ Catherine attempted to stand, her unlaced gown falling from her shoulders. Isabeau took a step back and waved the piece of paper in her hand, a ribbon and seal dangling from it.
‘Catherine, look! Look! It’s from Rouen, where King Henry and Philip of Burgundy have been holding discussions. It is a copy of an agreement made between them yesterday and sent to us for our information. It will be formally issued today under the great seal of the King.’
‘Let me see, Maman …’ Catherine reached out her hand, her gown falling off her shoulder again.
‘Oh no, child,’ Isabeau held the letter in an embrace against herself. ‘Oh no! This is too important. I’ve waited too long for this. I’ll read it to you.’ With reverence, she held the piece of paper in both hands while she took a deep breath and began to read.
Catherine had succeeded in getting to her feet and Guillemote, who had been cowering against the wall since the Queen had shoved her to one side, began to make another attempt to lace up the crimson gown while her young mistress stood, anxiously clenching and unclenching her fists at her sides. Queen Isabeau, in a voice cracking with emotion and excitement, began to enumerate the proposed terms of the treaty designed to bring about a general truce between England and France. It was dated the twenty-fourth of December 1419.
Catherine listened intently. There were several points made in the agreement about the division of land between England and France; Normandy and Aquitaine were both to be handed back to the English crown and there were formal endorsements of some concessions made by Philip of Burgundy earlier in the month. Both the King and the new Duke agreed that, after the debacle at Montereau, the Dauphin’s opinion should not be sought on any matter.
‘Charles won’t be pleased at that,’ Catherine said. ‘He is the Dauphin. He will inherit Papa’s title.’
‘Dauphin or not, his opinion doesn’t count for anything,’ said Isabeau, dismissing Catherine’s comment with a wave of her hand. She began to read again. There was a clause in the agreement which secured the interests of Philip’s wife, Michelle. Isabeau gave a whooping cheer at that, having heard that Michelle had become deeply melancholy after the death of her father-in-law, convinced that he had died at the hand of her own brother. Then Isabeau paused for a long moment and looked at Catherine.
‘Now, Catherine, do you want the good news? The really good news?’ She was quivering with excitement.
‘Yes, yes, Maman. Don’t tease me!’
Isabeau took a deep breath. ‘Catherine, Henry wants to marry you. And …’ Isabeau didn’t take her eyes off her daughter.
‘Yes, Maman? What else?’
‘He has dropped his demand for a dowry!’
‘What? Completely?’
‘Absolutely and entirely!’ Isabeau let the letter fall to the table and held out her arms to her daughter. The pair hugged each other, not knowing whether to laugh or cry and doing both at the same time, tears running down their faces.
Saucer-eyed, Guillemote watched the two of them, the Queen of France and the future Queen of England, embracing and jigging around the room like a pair of over-excited children. How things were going to change from now on, she thought. She would have to go to England with her mistress and live among English people. And everyone knew that Englishmen had tails!
Guillemote crossed herself fervently.
Chapter Four
Troyes, France, May 1420
Catherine had to fight the urge to sneeze as motes of thick building dust danced in the shaft of coloured light streaming in through a magnificent stained glass window in the great Cathedral of St Peter and St Paul. At least, she assumed the window to be magnificent since her view of it was rather obscured by a tower of wooden scaffolding supporting a stonemason’s work platform. Today the mallets and chisels lay unused and silent while a peal of bells rang out the message that the business in hand was the ceremonial signing of the Treaty of Troyes, followed by the betrothal of His Royal Highness King Henry V of England to Her Royal Highness the Princess Catherine de Valois of France.
Her one abiding memory of that May morning was the look of triumph on her mother’s face as a fanfare greeted her entrance into the cathedral on the arm of her son-in-law Philip of Burgundy. At exactly the same time, King Henry made his entrance with his brother Thomas, the Duke of Clarence, from the opposite door. The four, with their attendants and advisers, met at the crossing which intersected the nave and the transepts, before moving in procession towards the high altar, on which lay the final draft of the Treaty of Troyes. The document already bore the signature of King Charles VI of France who, suffering another bout of his old malady, was not present. Now came the turn of the King of England, then the Queen of France, to sign the document, witnessed by several members of the French and English aristocracy. Under the terms of the Treaty, it was agreed that Henry would become ruler of both countries on the eventual death of the King of France.
Then Archbishop Henri de Savoisy summoned Catherine up to the high altar to take her place at the side of her future husband. Peace was declared between their two countries, God’s blessing was invoked, and the formal betrothal took place.
Things moved quickly now. For Henry, the most urgent task was to send a message to his brother, Humphrey of Gloucester, who was performing the duties of Regent in England. He wished to inform Gloucester of recent developments and to issue his instructions. An official proclamation was to be made at St Paul’s Cross in London, of the peace between England and France and of the King’s impending marriage. He ended with an instruction to the Duke and the Council to destroy his seals and to strike new ones, bearing the inscription: Henry by the grace of God King of England, and Regent of the Crown of France, and Lord of Ireland.
Guillemote had been staying up until well into the night, working by candlelight alongside two of the royal seamstresses, helping to stitch Catherine’s trousseau. The wedding gown was the most beautiful thing Guillemote had ever seen and she stored it with great care in the garderobe, as near as possible to the latrine chute where the bad smells would protect it from the unwelcome attention of moths. Though she was almost afraid to touch it, it did need a very minor last-minute alteration. She worked first in trepidation and then with reverence on the sumptuous cloth of gold.
Her painstaking devotion to her mistress was rewarded by the sight of her on a fine morning in early June: Catherine looked magnificent in her bridal finery. It was such a shame, Guillemote thought, that because of the ongoing building work, the great cathedral at Troyes was deemed unsafe for such an important wedding ceremony. The smaller church of St Jean-au-Marché was to be used instead.
A large, excited crowd had gathered in the market square to catch a glimpse of the wedding guests as they arrived. When the last g
uest had been ushered into the church, Catherine took her place between her mother and Philip of Burgundy, under a canopy of red silk held aloft by four men of the royal guard. Her sister Michelle, looking whey-faced and thin, stood passively behind her husband.
Guillemote had to swallow hard to control her emotions as she hovered on the periphery of the wedding party, watching to make sure that no last-minute adjustment was necessary. Earlier that morning, she had washed Catherine’s long fair hair in her favourite soap of Marseilles and rinsed it several times in an infusion of rosemary leaves, polishing it between two lengths of silk as it dried, until it shone. Now, unbraided as befitted a bride and held in place by a little headdress of twisted gold, it cascaded in burnished waves to Catherine’s trim waist.
Everything about her was golden; she shimmered with beauty. Her creamy skin seemed to reflect the rich gold of her gown and even her shoes were decorated with little gold buckles. Guillemote had fussed with the long train of the gown, making sure it was correctly folded and supported by Catherine’s attendants. She couldn’t bear to think of it dragging in the dirt and whatever else might be on the ground. Nothing must be allowed to spoil Catherine’s appearance.
Inside the church, the call of a single bugle-horn warned the waiting soldier-king that his bride approached and when Catherine made her entrance on the arm of Philip of Burgundy, Henry was spellbound at the sight of her. He felt an enormous sense of pleasure and of triumph that she came to him not only as his bride but as the living symbol of the unification of France and England. He was about to achieve the pinnacle of his military ambition and to possess the object of his desire at one and the same time.
Archbishop de Savoisy began the marriage ceremony by taking Catherine’s right hand and placing it in Henry’s. Henry squeezed her thumb and gave her a secret smile.
Trinity Sunday, the second of June 1420, was the day when the English and French royal families had the opportunity of getting to know each other, united at last under the terms of the Treaty of Troyes and by the day’s royal wedding.
As far as Henry was concerned, it was very much Catherine’s day and he was fully prepared to indulge her. At the reception which preceded the wedding feast, he stood back for a moment and watched the elegance with which she moved among the wedding guests, smiling and laughing with her family. He delighted in her girlishness as she shared a secret with two of her cousins, their heads bent close as they whispered together. Duke Philip’s sister, Anne of Burgundy, was the youngest and the most inclined to giggle at whatever little confidence was being exchanged. The Countess Jacqueline of Hainault, who had travelled from Holland to attend the wedding, was taller than the other two and not unlike Catherine in looks, though her features were heavier and less well-defined. There was no doubt in Henry’s mind that his bride was by far the most beautiful of the three cousins. Catherine’s sister Michelle, the new Duchess of Burgundy, watched them impassively as she stood to one side with her husband, the Duke. Henry grimaced when he noticed that Philip was draped from head to toe in black, in mourning for John the Fearless.
The bridegroom’s family was less well represented and King Henry felt a deep regret that his uncle, Bishop Henry Beaufort, was not among the guests. Beaufort was his father’s half-brother and a man he had always liked and admired until a grave misunderstanding had arisen between them, and the Bishop had made his resentment plain by not attending his nephew’s wedding. Yet, despite their disagreement, Henry found himself hoping that his uncle would like his new wife. Then he smiled to himself. How could anyone not like her!
He took great pleasure in seeing the way his brothers looked at Catherine. Thomas, Duke of Clarence, with his wife at his side, was necessarily circumspect. The rich and autocratic Duchess Margaret was a year older than her husband and had the air of a woman who was not to be trifled with. Margaret had been married before and it was a source of great sadness to her that she had no children from her second marriage. But she was a devout woman and prayed that the Lord would grant her fervent wish for a second family.
Humphrey of Gloucester was not present but John of Bedford, enchanted by his new sister-in-law, was following her around the room like a big puppy, taking every opportunity to offer her sweetmeats or to re-fill her goblet, his round face aglow, his rather beaky nose twitching with pleasure. Henry gloated as he watched. This beautiful creature was his bride, entirely his and his brothers’ tongues could hang down to their knees for all Henry cared because nothing could take her away from him. No one else would ever have Catherine, not now, not ever. No one but Henry.
The King of England and his new queen sat close together throughout the wedding feast, at the centre of the long table on a raised dais at the end of the room. Over their heads was a canopy of red silk, richly embroidered with the coats of arms of both families, with their symbols entwined. French royal traditions had prevailed throughout the wedding day and at the end of the evening, the feasting and dancing over, Henry stood and held out his hand to Catherine, smiling his encouragement as he caught the sudden expression of uncertainty on her face. Then, as she rose from her seat at the table, so too did several other people, including Queen Isabeau, the Duke and Duchess of Burgundy, the Countess Jacqueline of Holland, and Archbishop Henri de Savoisy.
‘Why so many people?’ demanded Henry, frowning. ‘Is this really necessary?’
‘It is a family tradition, my Lord,’ said Queen Isabeau, ‘and it is quite a short ceremony so I would be grateful if you would indulge my wishes.’ She leaned towards him, gave him a very knowing look and dropped her voice. ‘I promise that it will not keep you long from the joys of the marriage bed.’ Henry smiled at her words. He understood his new mother-in-law only too well. He knew that had she been twenty years younger, she would have been pleased to share those joys with him; she didn’t have to tell him so.
Following the Queen’s example, yet more people rose from the table and accompanied the bridal couple to their bedchamber where they all clustered in a semi-circle around the foot of the bed, their heads bowed. Then the Archbishop was handed a silver bowl. Dipping his fingers into it, he began to sprinkle holy water.
‘Bless, oh Lord, this marriage bed,’ he intoned, ‘that it shall be as fruitful as the garden of Eden, so that the husbandman who plants his seed and the goodwife who receives and nurtures it shall, through your divine mercy, be delivered of strong sons to be brought up in the true faith. Amen.’
‘Amen.’ The French nobles and their wives crossed themselves with great solemnity.
‘Amen,’ said Henry, trying to keep a straight face. He had every intention of planting his seed at the first possible opportunity and, without actually pushing anyone, he almost shooed them out of the room. Queen Isabeau, the Duchess of Burgundy, and the Countess Jacqueline of Holland accompanied Catherine to her dressing room, where Guillemote was waiting to help her take off her wedding finery.
Relishing the prospect of having his new bride entirely to himself, Henry abruptly dismissed the valet who had helped him shrug off his heavy, ornate doublet. Alone at last, he pulled on a robe de chambre and sat down to wait for Catherine.
She came to him attired in a simple white nightgown, hesitating in the doorway of the bedchamber. Relishing the sight of her, Henry rose from his chair, took her hand, and pulled her gently into the room, closing the door behind her.
‘My Lord,’ she whispered, her eyes downcast, blushing in the candlelight.
‘Henry,’ he corrected her, smiling. ‘We are man and wife now, Catherine, safe from prying eyes in our own bedchamber. Man and wife. You must no longer think of me only as your king. I am also your husband.’
‘Henry,’ she said quietly. ‘My husband.’
With her hand still in his, he led her towards the bed where the covers had been turned back. Bending, he put his finger under her chin, raising her face to his. ‘Catherine,’ he choked, suddenly overwhelmed. He buried his face in her shoulder, the faint scent of lavender in the soft h
air at the nape of her neck rousing him to a passion he hoped he could control. He knew he mustn’t frighten her or take her too roughly, he must remember that she was not a strumpet from the stews at Southwark. Catherine was young, not yet nineteen years old, an innocent from a nunnery. But he found his passion difficult to manage. His hands slid down her spine and pressed her body against his own. Then the two, their arms entwined, fell as one onto the goose-feather mattress. Panting now, and between urgent kisses, Henry had begun to tug at the fastenings of Catherine’s nightgown when there was a loud rhythmic knock at the door.
‘Who the hell …?’
Catherine drew away from him, clutching her nightgown to her breasts. ‘That will be the soup,’ she said, by way of explanation.
‘Soup!’ he bellowed. ‘God’s wounds! Who ordered bloody soup?’
‘It’s … er … it’s the custom,’ she said as the door opened and a long procession of the French wedding guests came into the bedchamber. Some were carrying bowls of soup and bread on trays and others had flasks of red wine, all of which they set down on a table near the bed, with spoons, goblets, and napkins for the bridal couple. Then they inspected the bed for signs that it had been used for its matrimonial purpose and though it was hardly rumpled as yet, they seemed quite satisfied that it soon would be.
Henry watched, flabbergasted, his passion subsiding as quickly as it had been aroused. Having delivered their ceremonial meal, the guests processed through the room, nodding, smiling and wishing the bride and groom every blessing on their marriage. Then they were gone.
Henry fell backwards onto the bed, almost helpless with laughter.
Root of the Tudor Rose Page 5
