The Forbidden Queen

‘Yes, Majesty.’ Abandoning the comb, Guille folded down the linen, taking a small leather purse from her bosom. Opening the strings, she began to sprinkle the pristine surface with herbs that immediately filled the stuffy room with sharp fragrance.

‘What is that?’ Isabeau demanded.

‘To ensure conception, Majesty.’

Isabeau sneered. ‘That will not be necessary. My daughter will do her duty. She will carry a son for England and France within the year.’

I dared do no other. Stripped of my shift, I slid beneath the covers, pulling them up to my chin, and waited for the sound of approaching footsteps with thoroughly implanted terror, my newborn confidence effectively slain.

The door opened. I held my breath and closed my eyes—how impossible was it to honour the King of England when lying naked in a bed—until I realised what was missing. The raucous crack of laughter and jokes and crude roistering of the drunken male guests—there was none of it.

Henry had brought no one with him but the bishop, who proceeded to pace round my bed to sprinkle holy water on both me and the linens that would witness our holy union, and a page, who placed a gold flagon with matching intricately chased cups on the coffer, before quietly departing. When the bishop launched into a wordy prayer for our health and longevity, I glanced through my lashes at Henry, still clad from head to toe in his wedding finery, arms at his sides, head bent, concentrating on the blessing. The candle flames were reflected a thousand times in the jewels that adorned his chest and hands, shimmering as he breathed steadily.

I wished I were as calm. The bishop came to the end.

‘Amen,’ Henry announced, and glanced briefly at me.

‘Amen,’ I repeated.

Smiling with unruffled serenity, the bishop continued, raising his hand to make the sign of the cross, demanding God’s ultimate gift to us in the form of a son. He was in full flow, but I saw the corners of Henry’s mouth tighten. He looked up.

‘Enough.’

It was said gently enough, but the holy words came to a ragged halt, mid-petition. Henry’s orders, clearly, were obeyed without question.

‘You may go,’ Henry announced. ‘You can be assured that this hard-won union will be blessed. It is assuredly God’s will to bring peace and prosperity to both our countries.’ He strode to the door and ushered bishop, Queen and Guille out with a respectful bow.

And I was alone with him at last.

I watched him as he moved restlessly about the room. He twitched a bed curtain into position, repositioned the cups and flagon on the coffer, cast a log onto the dying embers. When I expected him to approach the bed, he sank to kneel before the prie-dieu, hands loosely clasped, head once more bent, which gave me the opportunity to study him. What did I know about this man that was more than the opinions of others, principally Isabeau? Very little, I decided. Mentally I listed them, dismayed that they made so unimpressive a comment on my new husband as a man.

He was solemn. He did not smile very much, but became animated when discussing war and fighting. He had been kind to me. His manners were exceptional. God’s guidance meant much to him, as did the power of outward show. Had he not insisted on wedding me with all the ritual of French marriage rites? He was never effusive or beyond self-control. He did not look like a man who was a beast in bed. His portrait was very accurate. Perhaps he was even more handsome: when animated he was breathtakingly good to look at.

Was that all I could say, from my personal knowledge?

Henry.

I tried the name in my mind. His brother had called him Hal. Would I dare do that? I thought not. I thought that I would like to, but I had not yet dared to call him more than my lord.

Henry made the sign of the cross on his breast, and looked sharply round as if aware that he was under scrutiny, and I found myself blushing again as I lowered my eyes, foolishly embarrassed to be so caught out. Pushing himself to his considerable height, he walked slowly across the room. And then, when he was sitting on the edge of the bed, he allowed his gaze to run over me. I jumped when he put his hand on mine.

‘You’re trembling again.’

To my relief he addressed me in French.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

What woman would not tremble on her wedding night? Did he not understand? But he did not seem to me to be insensitive. I sought for a suitable reply that would not make me seem inadequate.

‘My mother said you would bring your companions with you,’ I said. ‘She warned me that…well, she warned me.’

‘Did she now? I didn’t bring them, so you may be at ease.’ Still, his expression was unsettlingly grave. ‘I did not think you would wish me to do that.’

‘That is very kind.’ I had not expected such consideration.

‘No. Not kind. They were not necessary. I did not want them here.’