The Tudor Bride

Even though she sat apart from the conversation, Eleanor must have been listening intently to hear what was said about her for I saw her lips twitch in a secret, self-satisfied smile. Suddenly I felt a surge of relief that she had entered service with the duchess and would therefore presumably no longer be in line to join Catherine’s household. Beautiful though she was, with all the lustre of youth, there was something deeply troubling about Eleanor Cobham.

By the time the herald trumpets sounded, the St George’s Day tournament had been delayed by two weeks. It was well into May when the Knights of the Garter attended their solemn re-dedication service in the castle chapel before donning their burnished armour and parading on horseback around the Upper Court acknowledging the cheers of a large crowd of courtiers and any townsfolk who could wangle an entry by bribery or civic rank. King Henry led the parade, followed by the Duke of Gloucester and the ten other distinguished members of the order of Knights of the Garter who were not fighting in France, were indisposed or had died in the last year. In view of these restrictions it seemed a good turnout.

It was the first time I had ever had a grandstand view of a tournament. The royal box had been erected in front of St George’s Hall and lavishly decorated with banners and spring flowers. Queen Catherine sat enthroned between her new friend Jacqueline of Hainault and Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, while I sat at the back among her ladies, pinching myself and wondering whether, nineteen years ago, my mother could ever have envisaged me in this position when she hired me out, red-eyed from the loss of my stillborn son, to be a wet-nurse to the Queen of France’s new baby girl. ‘It is a good opportunity, Mette,’ she had said encouragingly. ‘It will be hard at first, but who knows where it could lead?’ I stroked the fine cloth of my sleek slate-blue worsted gown and concluded that even in her wildest dreams she could not have conjured this eventuality.

King Henry was to open the tourney with a formal tilt against his brother, but before they rode to their respective ends of the lists, a trumpeter blew a loud blast and Windsor Herald called the crowd to attention in a sonorous, carrying voice.

‘Your Graces, My Lords, Ladies and Knights of the Garter, and all the king’s subjects here present, pray silence for joyful news. Our most puissant King Henry, the greatest knight in Christendom, and his fair Queen Catherine have commanded me to announce that an heir to the thrones of England and France is expected during Advent. And so, God willing, at Christmastide, England and France will celebrate the coming of both the Christ-child and a newborn prince. God save the king and God save Queen Catherine!’

Another trumpet flourish resounded at the end of the herald’s announcement and cheers swelled from among the crowds in the stands. The tilt ground was not a vast arena and the enclosing walls of the castle seemed to shake with the shouts of joy and celebration. Then the bells began to ring, first from the Curfew Tower in the Lower Ward, from which the carillon was taken up by all the church bells in the town of Windsor. Vibrations seemed to shake the clear blue arc of the spring sky and speech became impossible against the tumult of echoing chimes. In the royal box we all burst into spontaneous applause and Catherine stood to acknowledge the enthusiastic greetings that were offered from every side. Blushing prettily, she reached into the floral display before her and plucked an early red rose bud from the garland, leaning over the rail to proffer it to King Henry, whose charger pranced impatiently, agitated by the bells, stirring the sand with its hooves. Controlling his horse with one hand, the king reached over to take the bloom from his wife with a broad smile of pleasure, kissed its tightly curled petals and tucked it into the shoulder joint of his glinting suit of armour, where it nodded jauntily. The red rose was a badge of Lancaster and the king’s delighted smile acknowledged her subtle intention to mark the budding of a new flower of the Lancastrian tree.

The previous day King Henry had announced the appointment of four new Knights of the Garter, including his standard bearer Sir Louis Robsart and the Earl Marshall, Sir Thomas Mowbray, who both now entered the arena on foot bearing spurs and a sword and escorting King James of Scotland modestly dressed in a white jupon, black hose and red shoes. King Henry’s intention was to personally confer the accolade of knighthood on his fellow monarch prior to allowing emissaries at last to enter into negotiations over the Scottish king’s ransom from his prolonged captivity in England. Catherine had expressed a wish to see this ceremony and so it had been decided that it should be performed at the start of the tournament.

Out of interest I kept one eye on Lady Joan as her professed suitor crossed the sand; predictably her eyes were bright with excitement. Meanwhile Joanna Coucy made an accurate but to my mind unnecessary observation.

‘He is somewhat old to be receiving a knighthood, is he not? I thought twenty-one was the usual age. The King of Scots must be all of twenty-five or six. It does not say much for his fighting skills if he has had to wait until now to be dubbed.’

Lady Joan rounded on her fellow lady-in-waiting with an indignant glare. ‘He has not exactly had an upbringing of the usual kind!’ she exclaimed. ‘How would you like to be held for ransom for fifteen years? The old king refused to let him have instruction in the use of arms in case he employed them against Englishmen. He only started his training for knighthood under King Henry, who seems to think he has succeeded, even if you do not!’

Joanna Coucy glared back. ‘Well! You are very quick to defend him, Joan! I wonder why?’

‘Hush,’ I cautioned, leaning from behind to push my face between them with a frown. ‘King James at least deserves your attention at this important moment in his life.’

Lady Joan turned back instantly to watch the proceedings, but Joanna Coucy continued to stare at me balefully. ‘Your title is Keeper of the Queen’s Robes, Madame Lanière, not Keeper of the Queen’s Damsels. What makes you think you have any authority over me?’

Hiding my angry reaction I said quietly and with a pleasant smile, ‘Seniority,’ and put my finger against my lips. As I averted my gaze to the lists I could not help noticing that the Duchess of Hainault had turned in her chair to watch and listen to this exchange. Her eyes were narrowed, as if she pondered a question of profound significance.

A silk carpet had been laid on the sand of the tourney ground and King James was now kneeling before King Henry, who had dismounted and taken the great two-handed sword of Edward the Confessor from his Leopard Herald. Stepping forward he raised the heavy weapon and delivered the accolade of knighthood by three firm taps on the royal squire’s shoulders. ‘James Stewart soyez chevalier – be you knight!’ he declared in a loud, clear voice. ‘Be true to God and guard your honour.’

After a solemn pause, King James rose and the two monarchs kissed each other on the cheek in brotherly acknowledgement, while each of the Scot’s two distinguished sponsors knelt to buckle a polished spur around his ankles. When the sword of knighthood, safe in its scabbard, had been slung from his knightly girdle, they then took him by the arms and turned him to face his fellow knights gathered at the Herald’s Gate, whereupon they put up a rousing cheer which was echoed by King Henry and the Duke of Gloucester, who was still mounted at the far end of the lists. Beside me Lady Joan clapped excitedly, tears of admiration glinting in her eyes.

10 (#ulink_5147b82f-2ed9-5cc4-8843-3fe16a0f8afb)

Genevieve flicked her ears irritably and drops of water flew off to join the misty drizzle that seemed to penetrate every seam of our clothing. It was a whole day’s ride from Windsor to London and within half an hour of setting out, we were wet through to the skin. I had been looking forward to this trip with Walter Vintner as an opportunity to escape the restrictive confines of the castle and breathe the fresh air of the countryside, but I had reckoned without the English weather. After the late snow and thaw, the road was still fetlock deep in mud. We tried as much as possible to avoid the boggiest stretches by riding on the verges, but they were soft also and Genevieve was as miserable as I was, slipping and sliding and pecking so that I was hard put to stay in the saddle. Riding single file with our hoods pulled well down over our heads, it was a morose journey, and no pleasant conversation was possible. It was not until we stopped to rest the horses and restore ourselves at a tavern in Hounslow that there was any opportunity for communication.

‘Normally I would expect to make it as far as Chiswick by midday at this time of year,’ Walter grumbled. ‘The Swan Inn there always has a hearty welcome for us since it buys wine from our family vintry.’ He looked around the crowded low-beamed room where we sat crammed into a corner, unable to get near enough to the fire to dry our sodden clothes. ‘This place is run by a mean-spirited bunch of monks from the local priory and their trademark is weak ale and tasteless pottage. And look at that fire, not enough heat to dry a kerchief.’

‘At least the roof is not leaking,’ I observed with a wry smile. ‘We will not get any wetter for the time being. And we look so poor and bedraggled that no one will try to overcharge us.’

Walter gave me a lop-sided grin. ‘I did not think there could be a bright side but you found one. That is the mark of a good travelling companion.’

‘Thank you, kind sir,’ I smiled back. ‘I am just happy to be out of the rain for a while.’

‘Perhaps when we set out again it will have stopped,’ suggested Walter.

‘Ah – optimism!’ I cried. ‘You see, you too are a good travelling companion.’

The pot boy brought us ale and, as Walter had predicted, it was weak but not sour and the pottage, when it came, was actually quite tasty, well-seasoned and laced with herbs and scraps of meat. It served its purpose, which was to warm us up and fortify us for another long ride. Providing the horses had been as satisfactorily cared for, all should be well and, to our delight, when we stepped out into the stable yard the rain had stopped and a watery sun stood high in the sky.

‘Now we might reach London before curfew,’ said Walter, taking Genevieve’s reins from the ostler and helping me to mount. ‘It pays to be optimistic.’

At last able to ride with my hood back, I settled in the saddle and began to look around me. We were travelling east on the Great Western Road out of London and a steady procession of traffic came against us. Mule-carts and hand-carts, many of them empty, were returning to the vegetable gardens and poultry farms of the Thames valley having sold their loads of roots, onions, chickens, ducks, geese and eggs in the city markets. Well-guarded strings of laden pack-horses plodded steadily at the start of their journey to the ports of Bristol and Exeter and the occasional sound of a horn heralded a knight or nobleman with his posse of retainers, bidding us to clear the road to give him passage. We passed through a series of villages until the road once more met the River Thames at Chiswick and became even more crowded as the spires and towers of Westminster grew clearer in our sights.

We skirted the palace and abbey to the north and it was very slow going on the stretch between there and the London wall, but the sun had dried us out and I was comfortable enough to be fascinated by the sights. This loop of the Thames was, like the stretch of the Seine between the Grand Pont and the Hôtel de St Pol in Paris, the chosen location for the city residences of a number of nobles and bishops, close to both the merchant hub and the centre of royal power that was the palace of Westminster. These mansions were well-protected by high walls and gatehouses, but often the gates were open and it was possible to catch a glimpse of the busy courtyards within, noisy with the clatter of horses hooves and the shouts of servants and varlets bustling through doors and arches.

‘This road will take us to the Ludgate,’ Walter shouted above the rattle of iron-bound wheels on a passing cart. ‘Let us hope there is not too much of a queue.’

‘Why, when is the curfew?’ I yelled back.

‘Not until after the Compline bell, so we should get through before dark. Then it is not far to Tun Lane.’

Walter had very kindly invited me to stay at his family house on the edge of the Vintry, the wharf area on the river where wine cargoes were unloaded and stored in warehouses.

‘Shall I meet your father?’ I asked with interest. ‘Is he in London?’

‘I believe so. He usually lets me know if he is travelling to France.’

‘And will your aunt be there? The one your sisters wish was not?’

He gave me a worried look. ‘Yes, but I hope you will not make any mention of that,’ he said. ‘I probably should not have told you.’

I smiled reassuringly. ‘I promise I will be the soul of discretion. It is extremely kind of you to offer me lodging. I hope your aunt will not be put out by it.’

He looked as if the thought had never occurred to him. ‘I cannot think why she should. We have plenty of room. Anyway, you can have my chamber if there is any problem and I will sleep in the hall with the servants. It would not be the first time.’

I did not pursue the subject, but nevertheless felt a stab of misgiving. His original description of his aunt had not encouraged me to think that she was an easy-going woman and I feared my arrival might rouse her ire.

‘Well, I will be very grateful not to have to take a room in a strange inn,’ I said. ‘The prospect does not appeal to me.’ Catherine had suggested I seek lodging at Westminster Palace, but I suspected that when the royals were not in residence such a place would be cold and eerie and, anyway, I wanted to be closer to the shops and workshops in the city.

We waited less than half an hour in the queue to pass through the wall and immediately began to plod up a hill on a narrow roadway lined with tightly packed half-timbered houses whose overhanging gables almost grazed our heads, obscuring the setting sun and trapping the acrid odour stirred by our horses’ hooves. Behind us the Compline bell began to ring from a nearby abbey, tucked into the corner formed where the London wall dipped down to the river bank.

‘Blackfriars Abbey,’ Walter revealed. ‘Of the Dominican order. Their bell denotes the start of curfew. We only just made it through the gate.’

At my request we had been speaking English all day. I was getting more fluent and needed the practice. I had discovered that learning the language led me to understand the English character better and it was becoming clear to me that although many of them were descended from Normans, they displayed very different characteristics from their continental cousins. I found them more phlegmatic, less quick to anger and generally more straightforward in their attitude to life.

Walter leaned from his saddle to speak above the clanging sound of another bell which began to ring out from a large building silhouetted at the top of the hill. ‘That is St Paul’s,’ he said, ‘the greatest church in London. In the churchyard you’ll see a big cross where many a famous sermon has been preached. Crowds block the street to hear them, especially in times of trouble.’

When we reached the elevated churchyard it was just possible to see over the patchwork of tiled rooftops down to the river Thames, its brown and turgid waters transformed by the reflected sunset into a golden highway dotted with boats and ships. London seemed smaller than Paris, crammed tightly within its walls and, judging by the miasma of smells that assailed our nostrils, afflicted with the same city problems; waste, ordure and disease. It also radiated all the excitement and opportunity that resulted when people massed together in the right location for trade, industry and creativity.

We had stopped to let our horses draw breath after the climb and to allow me to admire the view. Walter was eager to share his pride in his native city, ‘The river looks magical in this light, does it not? The Vintry is this side of London Bridge,’ he said, indicating the higgledy-piggledy line of buildings on the many-arched bridge I remembered crossing the day before Catherine’s coronation. ‘Our house is in Tun Lane, off Cordwainer Street. Ten minutes’ ride. I hope supper will be ready!’

When we reached the Vintner house it was already shuttered against the night, but the street gate quickly opened in response to Walter’s rat-tat-a-tat-tat coded knock. A grizzled servant emerged first from a narrow passage at the side of the house and took our horses, while seconds later down some steps at the main entrance tumbled two young girls, laughing and exclaiming as they came.

‘Walter! Walter! It’s you at last!’

Light spilled out a welcome from lamps burning in the inner porch and Walter returned the enthusiastic embraces of the two whom I assumed to be his sisters before shushing them and ushering me up the steps towards the warmth of the interior.

‘Now calm down and show your manners to my guest,’ he admonished gently. ‘This is Madame Lanière, who is Keeper of the Robes to Queen Catherine and deserves your greatest courtesy. Madame, may I present my sisters? This is Anne, the eldest and this hoyden is Mildred, although we call her Mildy because she does not deserve such a saintly name.’