‘Dear God, are there any more pantomimes to be endured?’
Catherine, sitting on the bed beside him, was smiling. ‘No, Henry. I think they realised that you would soon be fulfilling your intentions, even though we hadn’t … well, you know … we hadn’t …’ she hesitated. ‘Well, anyway, there should be no more pantomimes.’
‘You promise?’
‘I promise. But …’ Catherine hesitated again.
‘But what?’
She looked at her new husband uncertainly, her eyes large and luminous in the candlelight. ‘Well, now I have to prove something to myself,’ she said.
‘Prove what, sweetheart?’ asked Henry, pushing a tendril of hair away from her face and trying to pull her down towards him. God, he thought, swelling again, how he wanted her.
Catherine held back from him, a small frown creasing her forehead. ‘Well, Guillemote says …’
‘What does Guillemote say, my love?’ Henry was reaching up to nibble at her earlobe now, his eyes half closed, not really listening.
‘Guillemote says that all Englishmen have tails.’
Henry stopped nibbling. ‘What?’ He hoisted himself up onto his elbow and looked at her, astounded. ‘Englishmen have tails! She really thinks that?’
‘Yes, she does. Many French people do. Now, I suppose, I will find out for myself.’
Henry rolled over onto his back, guffawing with laughter. Then he paused and looked up at Catherine who was watching him with a small, hesitant smile on her face.
‘Oh, my love,’ he said, pulling her down towards him so that her head was on his shoulder. ‘Come, give me your hand.’ With infinite tenderness, he reached for her hand and guided it downwards on to the flat of his stomach.
‘Englishmen do have tails, you know,’ he whispered against her hair, smiling in the half-light, ‘but not on their backsides.’
‘What!’ Catherine’s eyes widened in alarm and she tried to draw back from him but her hand was imprisoned in his.
‘This is mine,’ he said, ‘but it’s at the front, not at the back. And this Englishman’s tail is wagging very hard indeed.’
Henry spent the next two days doting on his new wife and tutoring her gently in the ways of love. Catherine made the joyous discovery that, though she had not really known what to expect once the door of the bedchamber was closed, she was able to respond to her new husband’s ardour with pleasure and with a surprising appetite for more.
Two new harps had been ordered from John Bore, the London harp-maker, one for Henry and one for Catherine as a wedding gift. Henry played his instrument with considerable skill and sang in a warm baritone voice. They were delighted to realise that her voice blended pleasingly with his and they discovered the joy of singing together. She could have stayed in their bedchamber forever, making music, making love.
But it couldn’t last. The following day, a ceremonial mid-day feast was held in the great hall of the castle at Troyes. Some of Henry’s own military musicians, the pipe and tabor players, had joined the musicians of the Valois court, making quite a large ensemble in the minstrels’ gallery. They were already playing popular airs and gigues as the guests arrived. King Charles was still confined to bed so Queen Isabeau and her daughter Michelle were escorted to the royal dais at the end of the room by Philip of Burgundy. A fanfare on the bugle-horn from the minstrels’ gallery and a scatter of applause greeted the entrance of the bridal couple as they made their way through the room and took their places once again at the centre of the high table under the same red silken baldaquin. Archbishop Henri de Savoisy said a short grace and, after much scraping of chairs and benches, some eighty guests sat down to await their meal.
They were not disappointed. No sooner had the assembled company settled themselves at the tables than the food began to arrive, born aloft on trays by troops of servants. The royal chef had excelled himself. Course after delicious course was served and the table on the royal dais was graced with three dressed swans, their wired necks elegantly bent and decorated with garlands. Alongside each bird was a bowl of rich chaudron sauce.
‘This makes a change from battlefield fare!’ said Henry to his new mother-in-law. ‘Do you always eat as well as this?’
‘The Valois court is renowned for it,’ said Queen Isabeau, ‘so there are always plenty of guests at our table.’
‘I’m not surprised. What’s the secret?’
‘Tradition, mainly. A tradition established by my father-in-law’s master cook Guillaume Taillevant. Our present chef was one of his students and he himself now has several apprentices working with him in the kitchens.’
‘Mmmm,’ said Henry, licking his fingers before dipping them in a small bowl of water infused with rosemary and orange peel. He wiped them on his sleeve then turned to Catherine. ‘I hope you won’t be disappointed in our English food, my sweet. Maybe we should persuade one of the apprentice chefs from the palace kitchens to come back to England with us.’
‘But there’s more to life than food,’ she said, giving Henry a conspiratorial smile as she squeezed his hand under the table. It was quite clear what she was thinking. ‘How soon shall we set out for England, my Lord?’
‘Not for a little time yet,’ said Henry. ‘I have things I must attend to here in France. And the longer I leave them, the more urgent they become.’
They had been so engrossed in each other that the Duke of Clarence had to tap his brother’s shoulder to attract his attention.
‘Some of the younger English knights are keen to spend tomorrow in the tiltyard, jousting for the favours of the ladies of the French court,’ he said as Henry craned his neck to hear him above the din. ‘I told them I thought we should ask your permission before arranging anything. What do you think? Shall we give the young bloods their heads?’
The Duke was forced to step back rapidly. Henry had leapt to his feet and was banging the table with the handle of his knife. There was sudden silence in the great hall and all eyes turned to the royal dais. The bridegroom, who had smiled adoringly at his new wife for the last two days, now looked thunderous. He breathed deeply and waited until he had everyone’s attention.
‘My lords,’ he roared, his voice reaching every corner of the room, ‘I understand that there are those among you who have a mind to spend the morrow in jousting.’ There was a general murmur of agreement and one or two people clapped their hands until Henry banged the table again.
‘I will not permit it. We have all enjoyed a time of great celebration over the last weeks, a celebration of my marriage to the Princess Catherine and of the peace which has been agreed with the people of France, the peace which now entitles us, in due course, to return home to England.’
At this, a great cheer went up. Henry smiled as he waited until he had everyone’s attention again, then he went on. ‘But that peace is still uncertain and I am not naïve enough to assume that neither the treaty nor my marriage will meet with everyone’s approval. There are those here in France who believe that this union with England should be resisted at all costs. We must root out those pockets of resistance and bring them to heel. So there will be no playing at fighting in the castle tiltyard tomorrow. I will not run the risk of injury to any one of you, so let us not squander our energies by pretending to fight.’
Several people muttered their disappointment. Henry paused and looked around the great hall then he spoke again, his voice lower now, more threatening. ‘Once again, my Lords, I implore you – nay, I command you – to stiffen the sinews because tomorrow, by the grace of God and with the blessed intercession of St Crispin and St John of Bridlington, I intend to begin preparations for the siege of Sens. You will hold yourselves in readiness for that.’
There was a shocked silence then everyone babbled at once before breaking into spontaneous applause. Puzzled, Catherine turned anxiously to Henry as he resumed his seat beside her.
‘But, my Lord, it is so pleasant here at court. Why must you return to battle so soon? ‘
/> ‘Because your fellow countrymen must learn who is now the ruler of this country.’
‘My father is the King.’
‘Yes, of course he is,’ Henry was quick to agree, ‘but while he still suffers from his malady, I intend to guard his interests and Sens must be brought into line with Paris where the citizens acknowledge that they now have an English overlord. It’s time for the people of Sens to do the same and stop this bickering and bloodshed.’
Catherine sighed and put down her knife. Raising her goblet, she took a sip of wine.
‘So, my Lord,’ she said, ‘when will we travel to England? When will I see my new country? When will I taste English food?’
Startled, Henry looked hard at her but she appeared simply to want an answer to her question. ‘In due time, Catherine, in due time,’ he said. He didn’t want to introduce her to pease pudding and brawn too early in their relationship.
The first six months of marriage to Henry had altered Catherine’s outlook on life quite considerably. No longer the little convent girl, she was fast becoming a sophisticated young woman, growing in confidence and always beautifully dressed. The Duchess of Clarence had taken her in hand and spent hours with her every day, grooming her for her future role as Queen of England, explaining what kind of behaviour would be expected of her as King Henry’s wife, and giving her intensive lessons in the English language. She was anxious to impress upon her young sister-in-law that the King was determined to see English become the common language of the court and that, as Queen, she should set an example.
With great patience, Margaret explained how things were done in England and explained which noble Englishmen were responsible for various aspects of governance. But she also took pleasure in helping Catherine choose patterns and fabrics for new gowns and would sit for hours watching the patient Guillemote as she devised new ways of dressing Catherine’s hair. Being considerably older than the young queen and very much more experienced, Margaret proved a patient tutor.
And Catherine proved herself a willing pupil in all aspects of her intensive education. Her dancing lessons continued as well as her harp lessons and she had always loved singing. So during that autumn, on the rare occasions when Henry could find time to be with her, she would delight and entrance him by singing, to her own accompaniment, the songs she had learned from the precious song-book which had been another wedding gift from Henry.
He, on the other hand, had been preoccupied with subduing the French and bringing them to heel. Sens had fallen to the English without much trouble. Then, in December, the Dauphin Charles had been summoned to attend a meeting where he was required to answer charges relating to the death of John the Fearless at Montereau. He did not appear. As a result, a sentence of banishment was passed and a declaration made that the Dauphin was incapable of succeeding to the throne of France.
Henry’s future as King of England and of France was assured. Now, he turned his attention to the movement of his troops. It was high time the fighting men of England went home.
Catherine had heard people talk of the sea but she had never seen it herself. As they arrived in Calais, she caught her breath in surprise at the vast expanse of grey water which looked as though it reached to infinity and she felt quite weak-kneed at the prospect of travelling on it in a ship, even with her husband at her side.
Henry was as excited as a small boy when the bosun piped them aboard the Grace Dieu. The huge vessel was almost brand new and towered over every other ship in the French port.
‘Welcome,’ said Henry, giving Catherine his hand to help her onto the deck, scrubbed spotless in their honour. ‘Welcome, my dearest lady, as you step onto English territory for the first time.’
‘Grace Dieu, it is an English ship, my Lord?’
‘Oh, indeed. The pride of the fleet of the Cinque Ports. Perhaps I should have insisted she be called God’s Grace. After all, she’s English through and through, built from good English oak, the best there is. Ah, Captain Payne! The Grace Dieu does you proud, sir.’
Captain William Payne bowed low. ‘Thank you, Your Highness, and you’re very welcome aboard. Welcome, my Lady. Yes, she is an excellent ship. The whole crew takes a great pride in her.’
‘She could put paid to any challenge from a French vessel!’
‘It is very unlikely that we will be challenged, Sire. The French now openly acknowledge our supremacy in the channel.’
‘Aye, perhaps we are the victims of our own success, Captain. Now that we are more at peace with France, this ship won’t be needed for battle. I’m glad of that. It means that we have achieved what we set out to do.’
‘Indeed, Sire, and the whole of England rejoices in your success. I know that there will be many people waiting to welcome you home.’
Henry smiled. ‘And do you expect a calm sea and a following wind for our voyage today, Captain?’
‘Yes, Your Grace. She’ll cut a fine feather between here and Dover, you see if she doesn’t.’ Catherine remembered that curious expression and mentally added it to her burgeoning English vocabulary.
On the first of February, under full sail and at the head of a convoy of troop ships, the Grace Dieu moved out into the channel with elegance and speed, her bow wave feathering out to either side of her, gulls swooping and calling noisily in her wake. Blinking against sudden tears at the sight of the rapidly receding French coastline, Catherine turned her face resolutely towards England and her future.
In the biting cold wind, and finding it difficult to keep her footing on deck once the ship had reached the open sea, Catherine was pleased to be shown to a seat in the comparative warmth and comfort of the Captain’s accommodation on the quarterdeck. But within the hour, she was feeling very sick indeed. She hadn’t realised that a ship, even one as magnificent as the Grace Dieu, could buck like a horse as she fought her way through the waves. With her stomach churning painfully, Catherine felt certain that she would disgrace herself by vomiting in front of everyone. Seeing her face drained of colour, Captain Payne, with a sympathetic smile, produced a small phial containing a decoction of chervil which he claimed would put paid to her seasickness. He also advised that she should move to a position where she could keep the horizon in view at all times. Between them, with Guillemote hovering anxiously in their wake, the Captain and the King helped Catherine make her way to a sheltered seat on deck.
Eventually, her nausea abated a little and Catherine closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Henry was no longer at her side but leaning on the ship’s rail, gazing into the distance where majestic, ghostly white cliffs were just visible, rising sheer out of the sea.
‘Dover,’ said Henry, ‘the gateway to England. God, it’s good to be going home!’
Once past the mud bank at the mouth of the port, Captain Payne barked the order to heave the great ship across the wind and the little town of Dover came into view, nestling between the towering white cliffs, boats bobbing at anchor in the sheltered harbour, the grey castle keep on the hill above the town rising like a finger pointing towards heaven. Leaving all other thoughts aside, Catherine hoped fervently that England would be dry and warm.
On an ebb tide, the draught of the Grace Dieu prevented her from going any further inshore so Captain Payne gave the order to drop anchor a little way out and small boats were deployed to take the royal party ashore. Catherine could see crowds of people on the beach and on the headland, waving and shouting in welcome. Above the din of pipes and drums, she heard great shouts of ‘God Save the King! Long live the King! God save England and St George! God save Harry!’
‘Harry? They call you Harry in England?’
Turning to her husband as he looked towards the crowded foreshore, she saw an expression on his face that she had never seen there before; it was pure, unalloyed joy, as though Henry was looking at the greatest love of his life.
Nodding, he spoke quietly then, almost as though he was talking to himself. ‘Yes, they do call me Harry, especially when they’re pleas
ed with me!’
Standing up suddenly in the small boat, he let out a great roar and raised both arms above his head, waving to the crowds on the shore. Mad with excitement, they waved back and, as the boat approached, several of them began wading fully clothed into the sea. Waist-deep in the freezing water, they reached out and grabbed the prow of the boat and began tugging it towards the shore with great rhythmic shouts of ‘Wel-come! Wel-come!’. When they had beached it, willing hands helped the King and his new queen from the boat and on to dry land.
Catherine stumbled. It was an odd sensation being able to stand on firm ground after the incessant motion of the Grace Dieu. Guards were clearing a path, holding back the crowds of people who were pressing in from all sides, calling to the King, vying with each other for his attention and chattering excitedly in a foreign language. Henry turned and reached out to Catherine with both hands, steadying her.
‘Welcome, my little landlubber,’ he smiled. ‘Welcome to England. We’re safely home.’
Chapter Five
London, February 1421
The journey from Dover to the palace at Eltham was a revelation for Catherine. No sooner had the long procession of courtiers, servants, and guards left the port than she became aware that, every now and then, groups of people would appear as though from nowhere and run alongside the royal procession, waving excitedly with cries of ‘God save the King!’ and ‘God save Harry of England!’. The eager, noisy welcome they received at every village and hamlet they passed through made her realise that Henry was a popular king, much loved by his people, and she had been delighted to hear shouts of ‘God save the Queen!’ when they saw her at his side. She waved back at them excitedly, despite the disapproval of the Duchess of Clarence who thought Catherine should be a little more restrained and dignified. Margaret had elected to return to England with the royal couple so as to continue the education of her young sister-in-law, while her husband Thomas stayed in France to oversee his brother’s interests there.
Root of the Tudor Rose Page 6
