The Forbidden Queen

Her reply warned me that I must take care never to be openly critical of my heroic husband. The loyalty of the English to their masterful king was chiselled in granite, like the blank-eyed statues on Westminster Abbey. Accepting my silence as compliance, Alice dosed me with an infusion of feverfew, the yellow-centred white flowers gathered from the hedgerows.

‘If the King is to plant his seed, the earth must be rich and strong to nurture it.’

I shuddered at the rank smell.

‘Drink up! This will heat your belly and your blood. You’ll carry a child in no time.’

At a lull in the siege operations, Henry planted his seed with thorough attention to detail. I prayed fervently for a satisfactory result.

‘Are you happy here?’ Henry asked as he pulled on his boots and reached across the bed to retrieve his sword. There had not been much in the way of undressing, time being at a premium.

Happy? I did not think I was, but neither was I unhappy. Lonely, yes, but less so in the company of the splendidly garrulous Scottish King. My facility with English was improving in leaps and bounds, as James would say.

‘I am not unhappy,’ I offered, regretting my nervousness, wishing that I could be more loquacious in my stern husband’s company.

‘Good. I would not wish that.’

It had the effect of a warm caress, and encouraged by it I touched his wrist. Henry stroked his hand along the length of my hair.

‘A child will bring you happiness,’ he observed. And then: ‘You’re not afraid of me, are you?’

‘Afraid?’ My cheeks became a puzzled pink.

‘I have never yet beaten a wife.’

His humour was heavy but I laughed and reached up to kiss his cheek. Henry appeared surprised. His mouth was firm, his embrace strong and, abandoning the sword and any thought of returning to the fray quite yet, his renewed possession of me was more than flattering.

‘Pray for a son, Katherine. Pray for an heir for England.’

And I did, fervently. And that Henry would miraculously fall in love with me if I could laugh with him and fulfil this apex of his desire. While I was thus engaged in bright thoughts of the future, Melun fell at last. Rejoicing, I tolerated Alice’s astringent draughts, dressed with care, and was unpacking the harps when Henry arrived.

‘We leave tomorrow,’ he announced.

‘Where are we going? To England?’

Mentally repacking the harps, I experienced a sudden desire to see my new country. To settle into a new home where I might raise my children and have some time for what could pass for a normal wedded life even if I was a queen. Henry was preoccupied, reading a letter just delivered.

‘Do we go to England?’ I persisted.

‘Paris first,’ he said. His eyes gleamed. He must have seen my doleful expression for, surprising me, he wound an arm around my waist and drew me close, rubbing his face against my hair. ‘You will enjoy going home to Paris. We’ll celebrate our victory, and put on a show for the citizens.’ He kissed my mouth with obvious passion, perhaps for me as well as for his victory. ‘And then we will return to England. To celebrate our triumph. Perhaps we’ll have a child to celebrate too.’

It was lightly said, but I could feel the beat of his blood under my palm, and I felt a blossoming of incipient joy within me. Of anticipation for a love that would surely mature and develop between us. This would be the real beginning of my marriage, when we were in England, when we would be able to spend time together, to grow to know each other.

I laughed, making Henry smile too.

‘I would like very much to go to England. I’m sure I will quicken soon.’

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.