Yet both came forward as soon as they saw the Queen Mother and bowed over Catherine’s hand with surprising grace and fluency. Surprising for Englishwomen at any rate; but, Catherine realised, as soon as they opened their mouths and began murmuring their introductory speeches, larded with compliments, they were both native French speakers.
Bowing back, smiling, murmuring, ‘The honour, the joy’ and ‘I never expected’, Catherine found herself thinking very kindly indeed of her brother-in-law Duke Humphrey, who must have intuited how badly she still missed hearing her own language around her, even now her English was getting better; and who had gone to the trouble of searching his dominions for French ladies to send to her for this visit.
The older lady, it transpired, was Queen Jeanne of Navarre – Henry’s stepmother, whom he’d once accused of being a witch so he could get his hands on her dower income. Catherine knew of her but had never met her. She knew Henry must have felt guilty about his behaviour, because he’d never allowed the two Frenchwomen, his wife and his stepmother, to compare notes. But she also knew Henry had found time, on his deathbed, to give Queen Jeanne back at least enough money to live on – his conscience must have troubled him badly at the last. Getting that money hadn’t much improved matters for the old Queen, though; the taint of unpopularity and the sulphur of the witchcraft accusation lingered on. No one wanted to know her. There was always an excuse. People said she’d got stranger with age; she never wanted to leave her home at Langley Manor in Essex, where she spent almost all her time alone in one room with a pet parrot, staring out of the window. But Catherine could see the old lady was seldom invited anywhere. She could feel it in the wonder of that pale-eyed stare as Queen Jeanne greedily drank in her surroundings, and in the vague, astonished way the old lady shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe she was out.
As for the younger, more terrifying lady, who was she? ‘Jacqueline of Hainault, Holland and Zeeland,’ the Ice Queen murmured languidly, rising, heavy-lidded and slightly sullen, from her graceful if careless obeisance. Astounded, Catherine recognised Jacqueline as the grown-up version of the tall tomboy girl-child, Henry’s protégée, whom she’d met a couple of times before. The previous times, Jacqueline had been a child countess who, she vaguely remembered, had been brought up in England (she had been Henry’s ward) and been supposed to marry Henry’s brother, John of Bedford – until the girl’s own overlord, the Duke of Burgundy, had decided he didn’t want that much English influence in his Low Countries, and had married her off to his own cousin the Duke of Brabant instead. Catherine remembered Jacqueline being sent off overseas to her marriage … oh, not long ago – soon after Harry’s birth, it must have been, because as far as she could recall, Jacqueline had been one of the small army of godparents. A year, or a few months more … so shouldn’t the girl be at Brabant with her husband? Why was she back in England?
‘Why, how beautiful you’ve become,’ Catherine said hesitantly, hoping they would become friends and the ice in the other young woman’s eyes would melt. ‘Now that you’ve grown up I hardly recognised you … now you are the Duchess of Brabant …?’
Even as she was saying it, she realised she was being unwise.
Sure enough, Jacqueline sucked air into her lungs and her eyelids lowered still further, until only an angry slit was open on each side of her elegant nose. Holding her height perfectly still, she gazed back at Catherine with what could only be called contempt.
‘I regret’, the tall girl drawled witheringly, ‘that marriage was not for me. Nor was Brabant. I am petitioning the Pope for an annulment. I remain the Countess of Hainault, Holland and Zeeland.’
Not knowing whether to feel shocked at the snub, or just to smile to herself at the baleful childishness that Jacqueline couldn’t quite strip out of her proud answer, Catherine bit her lip and looked down, murmuring something soft. How ignorant she was of court stories, shut away in her travelling nursery, she thought. She should be better informed; she should follow the dramas of the English court. She should have known Jacqueline would come rushing back to London, where she felt at home, to get away from her own people. When Harry was older she’d have more energy; when it was time to think of remarriage …
But she could already see one thing. The thought made her smile wryly to herself. Between the fumbling fingers of confused old Jeanne de Navarre, and the sneering hostility of Jacqueline de Hainault, she’d be better off dressing herself for the feast, or calling in Dame Alice Butler.
Dinner was over. Duke Humphrey was sweating slightly as he rose and handed Catherine up to her feet too. Catherine had lost count of the number of small birds he’d crunched through. No wonder he was getting a little portly. But he was going out of his way to make himself agreeable, and the evening had been a glittering success. Catherine was enjoying herself.
There were tapers and torches everywhere, and flashes of light, like fish in a river, glinting off jewels and the pewter, gold and silver of the tableware. There were more than two hundred people present.
In her best English, Catherine thanked Humphrey again, as prettily as she knew how, for his thoughtfulness in providing her with French ladies. As she did so, she noticed Jacqueline of Hainault a few places away, between the Bishop and another lord whom Catherine didn’t know. The girl was more beautiful than ever. She was wearing blue and gold tonight, and she’d had plenty of time for her own toilette: she’d sent word to Catherine that she was unwell and wouldn’t be able to help the Queen Mother dress. Perhaps that was why she was staring at Catherine now; perhaps she was feeling guilty? Catherine didn’t think so. The look coming from Jacqueline’s eyes had nothing of guilt in it. It was black, concentrated and full of hate.
Shivering a little, Catherine looked away. Jacqueline de Hainault must be a little mad, she thought. That was a rival’s look.
‘The first dance,’ Duke Humphrey said lightly, not noticing, ‘in a moment. Once I’ve gone and had a word about the musicians. Shall we?’
Catherine nodded, looking forward to dancing, even English dances. But she was aware, from across the table, of Jacqueline de Hainault’s eyelids drooping and her lips tightening, as if even that polite moment of acquiescence was a crime.
Left to herself for a few moments while Duke Humphrey organised his evening, she bowed and smiled and accepted the obeisances of the formal, awkward English lords and ladies who wafted past. Some of them seemed rather elegant tonight, in their dark clothes. She was beginning to know a few faces. Perhaps soon it would be time to learn more.
As soon as the tables had been cleared and pushed back against the walls, the dancing would begin.
She’d caught a glimpse of Owain while they were eating, far down the table in the gloom, separated from her by the bustle of pages and servants. As the guests milled and talked, walking through the halls to the dinner, stayed aware of where he was, drawing comfort from his distant presence: a head in a black hood.
‘My dear,’ a voice said, very close. A cultured man’s voice. She turned, startled. The Bishop was standing behind her shoulder – as if he’d materialised there, without moving towards her; as if he’d sensed that his irritating nephew Humphrey would be gone for a few minutes and they could talk. He had his dinner partner with him: not, thank God, the prickly Jacqueline of Hainault, but a tall, rather beautiful lady in her middle years, with dark curly hair, a straight nose and a generous laughing mouth, and what must have been perfect skin, now just beginning to dry into parchmenty folds. Her mischievous eyes glinted at Catherine in friendly fashion as she dropped into a deep, impeccable curtsey. Catherine liked her at once. ‘Margaret, now the Duchess of Clarence,’ the Bishop said by way of introduction, putting a hand on Catherine’s shoulder and another on Margaret’s, and drawing them into a walk, three abreast, down the side of the hall, alongside the tables with their swarms of pageboys, ‘… though previously she was married to my dear brother John Beaufort, the Earl of Somerset, God rest his soul.’ They all crossed themselve
s in memory of the dead Beaufort earl. ‘We still consider ourselves brother and sister, Margaret and I,’ the Bishop continued, not sounding particularly grief-stricken; but then again, Catherine remembered, his brother had died a good twelve years earlier, and Margaret’s six Beaufort children were now grown up. Margaret flashed another friendly look at Catherine. ‘An honour – a joy – the two most charming ladies in England,’ the Bishop finished. ‘I hope we’ll all see more of each other now the deep mourning is over … now that there might be a little more merriment at court …’
Catherine knew her cheeks were flushed and her heart was beating faster than usual. To her surprise, she found herself looking forward to that too: to hunts and tournaments and dances and ceremonies, where she could be at home among adults of her own kind, who’d look on her with the understanding eyes of this lady; people she might perhaps laugh with.
The Bishop and Margaret of Clarence moved off, bowing, to begin the stately basse dance. Humphrey was still out of sight. Catherine stood back against the tables, in the shadows, as the last of the pages, busy as ants, carried off the last of the dishes of meat, and watched the couples begin to advance down the room.
She was hardly aware of another tall man until he’d tapped her on the shoulder, and then, as she turned warily round, swept a deep bow full of French elegance. ‘Sister,’ he said, in a French voice that had lost its confidence, but with his thin, handsome face lit up with pleasure. ‘You’ve become lovelier than ever, I see, in spite of all your sorrows.’
She stared, so full of joy that she could hardly speak. It was her cousin, Charles of Orleans, whom Henry had refused to free on ransom after he’d been captured at Azincourt. She’d always been so fond of Charles. He was the son of her murdered uncle Louis of Orleans; but he called her ‘sister’ because, long ago, he’d briefly been married to Catherine’s elder sister Isabelle, who was dead now, as was his second wife. Catherine hadn’t met him since coming to England, though she’d always known he was here somewhere. He’d been locked away in a country castle while she’d been briefly in England as Queen, and she hadn’t thought of him once in this last year of mourning, alone with her child and her household, turning Windsor and Wallingford into nurseries. Would they really allow him to take part in court banquets, like any free nobleman? Could this really be him …?
‘Charles …?’ she stammered, before forgetting her dignity and throwing her arms around his neck.
Long ago, when she’d first known him, when she’d been a little girl and he a radiant golden youth married to Isabelle of Valois, Catherine had hero-worshipped him enough to listen carefully to all the stories about Charles of Orleans’ troubled past. How well he’s recovered, the servants would whisper; and how handsome he’s become, considering what a miserable little shadow he was when his father was killed. By hiding under tables or behind tapestries, and shamelessly eavesdropping whenever no one noticed her there, Catherine had learned that Charles of Orleans had, as a suddenly fatherless child, had to swear the traditional vow of revenge against the Duke of Burgundy for killing his father, then, confusingly, promise the King of France not to take the revenge; and after that he’d had to watch his mother fade away and die of grief and shame. When, a few years later, Charles had found new happiness with Isabelle, everyone had rejoiced with him. The whole French court had grieved with him when his bride had died in childbirth; Catherine couldn’t imagine what pain he must have suffered when, soon after, he was taken prisoner, and his second wife, Bonne, the Count of Armagnac’s daughter, had died too. But he was born with sunlight in him. Nothing could destroy his optimism. He must be nearing thirty now, and his fair hair had thinned. He looked almost translucent. But he still had that endearing capacity to appear transformed by joy.
Arms tightly linked, they moved towards the table. Catherine forgot everything else – forgot Duke Humphrey, forgot to stay aware of where Owain was – as she questioned her cousin and rejoiced in his laughing, effortlessly charming replies. He still wrote poems. He’d written beautiful verse before, she remembered. ‘There’s precious little else to do, after all,’ he said ruefully. ‘A little hunting; there’s good hunting at Wallingford, don’t you find? I spent time there a couple of years ago. And thank God I like hunting and poetry – because I think I’ll be spending the rest of my days like this. Your husband, God rest his soul, always refused to let me be ransomed, in case I went over to your brother … to Bourges … as if I would … and who will reconsider my case now, until your son grows up? Which means I’m here forever, I think … but at least I love filling my days with writing.’
‘But,’ she said, shocked that his existence could be so utterly without hope, or that he could take his punishment so lightly, ‘isn’t there anything …?’ She stopped. She was a prisoner of fate, too, she thought. Everyone was. What power did she have to change the terms of his imprisonment?
He shrugged, and smiled with only a hint of wistfulness. ‘I don’t want to complain,’ he said lightly. ‘Not on a night that has brought me a reunion with you. I want to give thanks!’
He bowed again, murmured, ‘We’ll talk again, I dearly hope; perhaps we will dance, later,’ – but without trying to pin her down to a promise she might be embarrassed to keep, she realised, touched by his delicacy – and vanished to the place assigned for him. In spite of his glorious rank, she saw with chagrin that it was below the seats of princes of the English blood.
She’d been so absorbed in these last conversations that she’d lost sight of Owain, she realised, once she was left to herself again. The thought surprised her. Even if she didn’t spend much of her day talking to Owain, she was almost always aware of where she could find him if she needed him; as if he were the north on her compass. Not knowing where he was now disoriented her. She peered down the table at the shadowy heads sitting out the dance, rather than at the dancers, hoping to see him. She wasn’t altogether surprised when, a moment later, another hand touched her shoulder.
She turned round to greet him with a warm smile.
The smile stayed uncertainly on her lips as she saw it wasn’t Owain.
How could she not have realised? The hand on her shoulder was big and meaty – with nothing like Owain’s careful touch – and it had grabbed her shoulder as if grabbing its prey. It was Humphrey of Gloucester standing above her, with a hand still clamped onto her bare shoulder.
There was something proprietorial and vaguely threatening about his smile. For the first time, too, she could see he was tipsy, or worse – which hadn’t been obvious during the meal – and looking lecherous. The heavy-handed courtesies of dinnertime, the awkward pauses, had passed. The wine had made him over-confident. Now, she could see, he seemed to think he could just come and claim her as his, with no more fuss and bother.
It was the last thing she wanted. Turning up the corners of her mouth in an imitation of a smile, she quickly looked down, but there was no escape in modesty. Her downcast eyes could see nothing but the close-up swell and bulge of tree-trunk legs and privates. Hot-faced, she looked up again.
‘Rediscovering old friends, eh?’ her brother-in-law said, nodding towards Charles of Orleans. Heavily, he propped himself against the table beside her. There was no need, Catherine thought with another hot burst of shame, for Duke Humphrey to press himself quite so close.
It was only after several minutes of whiskery, difficult, onion-breathed conversation, as Duke Humphrey leaned practically into her face to question her about her household, which he’d omitted to do earlier, and rumble disapprovingly that it had been a mistake to let Mistress Ryman go, and what was the point of the Butler woman, and was the Welshman utterly incompetent, and, patting her repeatedly on hand and arm, complimented her on the red velvet robe, that Catherine became aware, with relief, of Bishop Beaufort moving elegantly by in the dance, glimmering at her with quiet, mocking laughter that he was inviting her to share. She dimpled at him and watched the corners of his mouth go up. Suddenly, it didn’t seem quite
so bad. A little later still, after Duke Humphrey abruptly got up to rush off to the shadows and relieve himself, half-tripping over a dog on the way, Catherine managed to locate Owain’s still, dark, watchful presence, He was halfway down the table, perched on a bench, looking at the dancers. He must have felt her eyes on him. He nodded just once in her direction. He wasn’t smiling.
Duke Humphrey didn’t let her out of his sight or stop pawing at her all evening. But it was only when he’d managed to get her to dance with him, and, sweating heavily, was leading her around the floor, that he breathed noisily into her ear, ‘Time you thought about marrying again, now you’re out of your weeds, don’t you think?’ and edged the hand sweating on her back round her ribcage towards her breasts.
She winced and, pretending to be adjusting her neckline, dislodged his hand. ‘Oh,’ he muttered, with the beginning of a dirty guffaw, ‘no need for that; the view is lovely as it is.’
Ignoring that disrespectful last remark, she said with no great warmth, ‘It’s too soon to think of marriage. The memory of my husband is still as dear to me as that of my cousin’s wife, long dead in France, is to him.’ She nodded in the direction of Charles of Orleans, moving by in the dance with Jacqueline of Hainault.
‘Lovely girl, that,’ Humphrey said inconsequentially, and to Catherine’s amazement he seemed to be literally licking his lips as his eyes followed Jacqueline of Hainault. ‘One of the finest. I hope that Frenchman isn’t thinking …’ and he glowered at Charles of Orleans.
Was there no difference between the way the English treated princes of the noblest blood in Christendom and the contemptuous way they might behave to slaves and whores? She shook her head brightly, as if Humphrey’s idea was absurd but charming, but inside she couldn’t help the stirring of anger at his disrespect.
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