by Anne O'Brien
Dame Katherine paled, and I, hearing the enormity of what I had said, flushed from the embroidered border of my neckline to the roots of my hair.
‘We will pretend that you did not say that, Elizabeth.’
‘But it is true. Physical intimacy has branded you with sin. Yet my father would condemn me to live without it until I lose my youth.’
Which drove Dame Katherine to stand and put distance and a distinct chill between us. To ward it off, I snatched up my lute and plucked unmusically at the strings.
‘Stop that!’ my governess said, so that I cast the instrument aside. ‘That is not the way for you. You will not consider it, speak of it. You will honour the memory of your mother and your royal forebears. What would your grandmother Queen Philippa say if she were alive to hear you now?’
Contrition was beyond me. ‘I know not. I barely remember her.’
‘Then I will tell you what she would say,’ returning to clasp my wrists, imprisoning me as she belaboured me with everything I knew by heart about duty and compliance, courtesy and the role of Plantagenet daughters. Halfway through, contrition had reared its uncomfortable head. I might not always find it easy to admit fault, but Dame Katherine left me in no doubt of my sins of pride and self-will.
‘Forgive me.’ At the end. ‘I regret what I said.’
‘I will forgive you. I always forgive you, Elizabeth.’ Yet still she was stern. ‘Because as your erstwhile governess it is my role to forgive you. You might consider that your behaviour reflects on me as much as it paints you in colours of intolerance and sin. It is your duty to make your father proud of you. You will have your own household. You should know that an annual sum of one hundred pounds has been granted for its maintenance.’
‘Because I will be Countess of Pembroke.’
My erstwhile governess nodded, releasing my wrists at last.
‘It is your father’s will, Elizabeth. It will be a good marriage. And when you are twenty-five years old, John will be sixteen, far closer to being an excellent knight and husband. Handsome enough too, I warrant.’
Another eight years to wait. I could not contemplate it.
‘He admired the parrot more than he admired me,’ I stated, furious with the bitterness I could not hide.
‘Then you will have to work hard to change that.’
I stalked to the window to look out at the spread of Lancaster acres, for it was as if the walls of my chamber had suddenly closed in on me, curtailing my freedom, as this marriage would imprison me within an unpalatable situation. Would it matter whether the Earl of Pembroke liked me or not? Since our marriage would be in name only for almost a decade, I could not see the purpose in cultivating the affection of a child. Then another thought struck home and I stopped.
‘Why did you not tell me earlier? Why did you not tell me before you actually had to?’
‘Because I knew that you would not like it,’ she replied without pause.
‘You thought I would make a fuss.’
‘Yes.’
I did not like the implied criticism. ‘Would you have told Philippa? If the Earl had come for her?’
‘Yes. Because she would have the charity in her to make things easy for the boy.’
‘And I wouldn’t.’
Dame Katherine’s raised brows said it all. I did not like the implication. Was I selfish, thoughtless, mindless of the feelings of those around me? I had not thought so.
At that moment I was too cross to give my failings even a passing thought.
On the morning of the following day I stood next to John Hastings before the altar in the chapel at Kenilworth. Not for us a wedding at the church door. My father had wed Blanche beneath a gilded canopy held by four lords at Reading Abbey, in the presence of the old King Edward the Third. No such ostentatious splendour for me and the child Earl, but both of us, and the chapel, were dressed for high ceremonial. As were the guests who crowded in to witness our joining in this auspicious union. The robes of my father’s chaplain were spectacular with red silk and gold thread. The banners of Lancaster and Pembroke all but covered the warm hue of the stonework.
My hand, resting lightly in the boy’s, where my father had placed it as a sign that he was giving me into the young Earl’s keeping, was ice cold: the boy’s was unpleasantly warm and clammy. I glanced at my betrothed, ridiculously elegant in gleaming silk tunic, knowing that he wished himself anywhere but in the chapel. Yet I could not fault his rigid stance, his solemn concentration.
I tried to concentrate on the sacred words but failed miserably, conscious only of the child at my side, and disturbed that Dame Katherine should find my behaviour a cause for concern. Was I always as selfish, as careless of the feelings of others, as she perceived? Assuredly I would prove her wrong today. My demeanour would be faultless. I looked across and smiled at the boy, receiving a beaming grin in return.
Yes, I would be kind to him.
The chaplain, austere with the weight of the burden on his frail shoulders, was frowning at me, reminding me that I had responses to make. And so I did, accepting this boy as my husband as the consecration was brought to an end, trying not to think how ridiculous we might appear together in spite of the outward magnificence of silk and satin and jewelled borders. John Hasting’s head barely reached my elbow.
So it was done. I would never again, in public, wear my hair loose in virginal purity. The boy, with surprising dexterity, pushed a gold ring onto my finger. We kissed each other formally on one cheek and then the other. Then fleetingly on the lips. We were man and wife. I was Countess of Pembroke.
‘Will I be allowed to go to the stables now?’ my husband whispered as I bent to salute him.
‘Soon,’ I whispered back.
‘How long is soon?’
I sighed a little as we joined hands and walked between our well-wishers, out of God’s holy presence into the trials of real life.
We were kissed and patted, feted and feasted, which I tolerated far better than my lord who squirmed with embarrassment and, in the end, with surly boredom, face flushed and eyes stormy. Conducted to the place of honour at the high table, our steward presented the grace cup first to us. My father’s carver carved the venison for us. The festive dishes were placed before us to taste and select before the throng stripped the table bare.
This should have been one of the happiest, most exhilarating days of my life. Instead I was torn between pleasure at my new status as a married, titled lady with the money to pay for a household of my own, and dismay that I had no knight to share it with me. I would have liked my husband to woo me, to show admiration for my person. To enjoy my company, whether to dance or sing or read the French tales of love. Of course he would go to war, win glory in tournaments, take his rightful place at court, but he would return to me. He would give me gifts and express a desire to spend time in my company. My husband too would be elegant and charming, well versed in the art of seduction with words and music, gracious and sophisticated.
At least he would have admired the dress that had been stitched for my marriage—for how long had my father known of this union with Pembroke? —with the symbols of Lancaster and Pembroke twining together along hem and the edges of my oversleeves. Such a magnificent heraldic achievement could not go unnoticed by the lord for whose new pre-eminence it was created.
John Hastings paid no heed.
‘My lady! What is it that I am expected to do now?’ the sibilants hissed sotto voce, the boy at my side rubbing the bridge of his nose with his finger, without grace or elegance, and looking hunted after our steward had bowed before him with yet another platter of aromatic meat for him to taste.
I was sure that he had been taught how to conduct himself, but he had not yet been sent to be a page in some noble household, and the heavy significance of the occasion robbed him of any immature confidence that might have been instilled in him by his lady mother. I tried not to sigh. It was not his fault.
‘We eat first,’ I explained. ‘Th
e feast is for us.’
‘Good.’ His eye brightened a little. ‘I will have some of that …’
And, served by our steward, he tucked in to a dish of spiced peacock, spoon akimbo in his fist, as if he had not been fed for a se’enight. I was left to choose my own repast and converse with my uncle of Gloucester on my left, who subjected me to a rambling description of a run after an impressive stag and my uncle’s ultimate success in bringing it down.
I made suitable noises of appreciation. The minstrels sang of love requited, which was patently ridiculous, but I enjoyed the words and the music. My lord ate through another platter that had caught his eye, of frytourys lumbard stuffed with plums, and then drew patterns in the fair cloth with his knife until his mother caught his eye and frowned at him.
The toasts were made, and our health was drunk once more.
Then came the dancing.
The disparity in our heights made even the simplest steps more complicated as we, the newly wedded couple, led the formal procession that wound around the dancing chamber.
Think of him as your brother. Imagine it is Henry. You’ve suffered his prancing attempts often enough.
So I did, relieved that my lord did not caper and skip as Henry was often tempted to do out of wanton mischief. We made, I decided, as seemly a performance as could be expected when the groom had to count the number of steps he took before he bowed and retraced the movement, counting again.
Holy Virgin!
No one laughed aloud. They would not dare, but I could not fail to see the smiles. It might be a political marriage made in the chambers of power, but I could detect pity and condescension as amused eyes slid from mine. I kept my own smile firmly in place as if it were the most enjoyable experience in the world. I had too much pride to bear loss of dignity well, but I had strength of will to hold it at bay.
Returning to our seats, the processing done, the musicians drawing breath and wiping their foreheads, I became aware of the boy’s fierce regard.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Will you enjoy being wed to me, Elizabeth?’ he asked, surprising me, his eyes as bright as a hunting spaniel on the scent, and not at all shy.
‘I have no idea,’ I replied honestly, immediately regretful as his face fell. ‘I suppose I will. Will you enjoy being wed to me?’
‘Yes.’ He beamed with open-hearted pleasure. ‘I have decided. I will like it above all things.’ My brows must have risen. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
I shook my head, unable to see why a young boy was so vehement in his admiration for our married status when it would mean nothing to him for years to come.
‘I will enjoy living here,’ he announced.
Which surprised me even more.
‘Do you not go home with your mother? Or grandmother?’
‘No. I am to live here. At Kenilworth.’ His eyes glowed with fervour, his cheeks flushed from the cup of wine with which he had been allowed to toast me in good form. ‘I am to learn to be a knight. I am to join Henry in my studies. I will keep my horse here and I can have as many hounds as I wish. I will learn to kill with my sword. And I will go hunting. I would like a raptor of my own, as well as the parrot …’
As I smiled at his enthusiasms—for who could resist? —I had to acknowledge this new fact, that I would see him every day. Rather than live apart until he grew into adulthood to become my husband in more than name, we would have to play husband and wife in all matters of day-to-day living. I had understood that I could dispense with his company until at least he had the presence of a man. Living in the same household, we would rub shoulders daily. I wondered if his enthusiasms for all things with fur or feathers would pall on me.
‘… and then I will have a whole stable full of horses,’ he continued to inform me. ‘As Earl of Pembroke it is my right. Do you know that I have been Earl since before I was three years old? I wish to take part in a tournament. Do you suppose they will let me?’
‘I think you will have to wait a few years.’
‘Well, I quite see that I must. I will be very busy, I expect. You won’t mind if I don’t come and see you every day, will you?’
‘I think I can withstand the disappointment.’
‘I will find time if you wish, of course. And will you call me Jonty, as my nurse does?’
He chattered on. How self-absorbed he was. It could be worse. He could have been loud and boorish, which he was not. But I was not sure that I liked the idea of having him under my feet like a pet dog.
‘If I cannot yet fight in a tournament, will they let me have one of the brache puppies?’
I looked across the table to Dame Katherine for succour, but knew I could do that no longer. I was a married woman and must make my own decisions, even though my husband could not.
The feast and music reaching its apogee, with a flourish and a fanfare the Earl of Pembroke and I were led from the room with minstrels going before in procession, the guests following behind.
‘Now where are we going?’ the boy asked, his hand clutching mine. ‘Can I go and see the brache bitch and puppies now?’
‘No. We must go first to one of the bedchambers.’
His brow furrowed. ‘It’s too early to go to bed.’
‘But today is special. We are to be blessed.’
And I prayed it would be soon over.
The bed was huge, its hangings intimidating in blue and silver, once again festive with Lancaster and Pembroke emblazoning. With no pretence that we would be man and wife in anything but name, the boy and I were helped to sit against the pillows, side by side with a vast expanse of embroidered coverlet between us and no disrobing. Not an inch of extra flesh was revealed as our chaplain approached, bearing his bowl of holy water, and proceeded to sprinkle it over us and the bed.
‘We ask God’s blessing on these two young people who represent the great families of England, Lancaster and Pembroke. We pray that they may grow in grace until they are of an age to be truly united in God’s name.’
There was much more to the same effect until our garments and the bed were all sufficiently doused.
‘Monseigneur …’ The chaplain looked to my father for guidance. ‘It is often considered necessary for the bridegroom to touch the bride’s leg with his foot. Flesh against flesh, my lord. As a mark of what will be fulfilled by my lord the Earl when he reaches maturity.’
I imagined the scene. The boy being divested of his hose, my skirts being lifted to my knees to accommodate the ceremony. My fingers interwove and locked as I prayed that it need not be. And perhaps the Duke read the rigidity in my limbs.
‘I think it will not be necessary. John and Elizabeth are here together. There is no evidence that they seek to escape each other’s company.’
The guests who had crowded in to witness our enjoyment of our married state smiled and murmured. Everyone seemed to do nothing but smile.
‘What do we do now?’ the Earl asked.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ my father replied. ‘That will all be for the future.’
I did not know whether to laugh or weep.
We stepped down from the bed, on opposite sides. My husband was taken off to his accommodations by his mother, the dowager countess now, who saluted my cheeks and welcomed me as her daughter by law. I returned to my chamber, where Philippa awaited me with my women to help me disrobe.
Instead, Philippa waved the servants away and we stood and looked at each other.
‘Do you know what my husband will be doing as soon as he has removed his wedding finery?’ I asked.
She shook her head.
‘He will be down in the mews because he wants a hawk of his own, or in the stables because he wants one of the brache’s litter. He tells me that he will enjoy living at Kenilworth—did you know he was to stay here? —because he can wield a sword against Henry and take part in a tournament.’
Philippa smiled.
So did I, the muscles of my face aching.
‘He—Jonty—s
ays that he doesn’t mind if he does not see me every day. He will be quite busy with his own affairs to turn him into the perfect knight.’
I began to laugh. So did Philippa, but without the hysterical edge that coloured mine.
‘He says he will make an effort to come and see me, if I find that I miss him.’
We fell into each other’s arms, some tears mixed in, but a release at last in the shared laughter.
‘If it were you,’ I asked at last, ‘what would you do?’
‘Treat him just like Henry, I suppose’.
Which was all good sense. Pure Philippa. And indeed what I had decided for myself.
‘You mean pretend he isn’t there when he is a nuisance, comfort him when he has fallen from his horse and slap his hands when he steals my sweetmeats.’
But Henry liked books and reading, he liked the poetry and songs of our minstrels, as did I. Jonty seemed to have nothing in his head but warfare and hunting.
‘Something like that.’ Philippa did not see my despair. ‘You can’t treat him like a husband.’
‘No. Obedience and honour.’ I wrinkled my nose.
‘You can’t ignore him, Elizabeth. He’ll be living here under your nose.’
‘How true.’ My laughter had faded at last. ‘Philippa—I wish you a better wedding night.’
She wrapped her arms around me for a moment, then began to remove the layers of silk and miniver until I stood once more in my shift, the jewels removed from my hair, standing as unadorned as might any young woman on any uneventful day of her life.
We did not talk any more of my marriage. What was there to say?
I gave my husband a magnificently illuminated book telling the magical tales of King Arthur and his knights, as well as a parrot of his own as wedding gifts. To my dismay, the book was pushed aside while Jonty pounced on the parrot with noisy delight. He called it Gilbert rather than Elizabeth, after his governor who had taught him his letters. I was not sorry.
