The Forbidden Queen

‘I suppose I will.’

‘Does he like you?’ she ventured.

So personal a question surprised me, and I did not know how to reply. I considered, balancing his thoughtfulness against his lack of animation. Perhaps it was simply that I did not yet know him very well, or that, starved of affection as I had been, I simply did not recognise such an emotion when I saw it.

‘I think so,’ I said. ‘He kissed me when he left.’

‘Do you like him, my lady?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think I love him.’ I was nineteen years old.

‘That’s good,’ she said, tucking the clean linens around me. ‘It is good if a wife loves her husband.’

‘But I think I drank too much wine,’ I admitted.

‘No one would condemn you for that, my lady. The English King is a cold fish to my mind, but how could he not love so beautiful a lady as you?’

Henry’s emotions were too difficult a subject to unpick. I yawned and eventually I slid into sleep, not dissatisfied with the day. My experience as a wife had so far been better than anything else I had known, and I had a new gown promised for me tomorrow when I would take my place in the English pavilion as Henry’s chosen bride. And I might not invite my mother to accompany me. I would enjoy the tournament as Queen of England and I would give Henry my guerdon to wear as he fought in my honour. I would reward him when he was victorious—as he would assuredly be. I would learn English so that I could converse with my English damsels.

I think I fell asleep smiling, remembering his final caress, his last words.

You were exactly what I had hoped for, my gentle wife.

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.’