about on her chair, could contain herself no longer. ‘Did you buy any pretty things for the queen, Madame?’ she asked excitedly. ‘Any ribbons or lace or jewellery? And if you did, may we see them?’
I smiled at her. She endeared herself to me; as curious as a kitten and twice as irrepressible. At her age I should have been as eager for them as she was, had I ever had the chance even to look at such fripperies. ‘Mostly I ordered drawings and designs to collect tomorrow, but I do have some samples to take back to her grace. You are welcome to see them later if you wish. Tell me though, what did you get up to today? I felt like a slug-a-bed for you were up and out before I broke my fast.’
Mildy’s brow creased under the turned-back brim of her white linen coif. ‘Oh yes, we rise early and today we went to market with Aunt to carry baskets. We had to get there soon after dawn in order to catch the best produce, that is what our aunt said.’
‘And so it is and so we did,’ interjected Mistress Cope, ‘as I think is proved by the quality of the beef we are eating.’
‘Indeed it is!’ echoed her brother heartily, raising his glass. ‘Let us drink a toast to the king and queen and the roast beef of England. Long may they grace our land!’
Mistress Cope spluttered and I caught my host’s eye, fighting to suppress a chuckle at his somewhat subversive conjunction of royalty and bullocks.
‘And now a toast to our guest,’ he added, drawing instant colour to my cheeks. ‘May this not be the last time she honours my house with her presence.’
Later that evening, when the girls had exclaimed over the few gee-gaws I had purchased for Catherine and been chivvied up to bed by their aunt, my host and I sat conversing by the hall fire with the last of the flagon of Gascon wine and I asked him the question I had been pondering ever since I learned of his regular trips to France.
‘I wonder, Master Vintner, if I were to write a letter to my daughter Alys in Paris, whether you would be kind enough to take it to her on your next visit? It would be wonderful to be able to tell her all my news and perhaps there might be an opportunity for her to write a reply while you are in the city.’
Master Vintner did not hesitate for a second. ‘With great pleasure, Madame,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, I will be making the journey very soon, on one of the ships that will carry the king’s relief troops. I believe they will sail at the end of the month so I should be in Paris in early June.’
‘Ah, the best time of year,’ I said enviously. ‘I will write the letter tomorrow and give you clear directions to her house. It is very kind of you to do me this favour.’
‘It is no favour, I assure you,’ he responded, ‘for it will give me the pleasure of hoping for another visit from you so that I can tell you how your daughter fares and of course describe the progress of your little granddaughter. And perhaps one day there will be an opportunity for me to accompany you in person to Paris to see them for yourself.’
I gazed at him, speechless, asking myself how many times this man’s warmth had brought a lump to my throat during the brief hours of our acquaintance. This last offer had taken me completely by surprise. To him it appeared to be the most natural and logical idea, but to me it suddenly seemed like an offer from heaven and I was overwhelmed by a longing to accept immediately, which merely served to tell me how much I had been suppressing my heartfelt wish to see my family again. But I knew of course that it was impossible, at least until after Catherine was safely delivered of her baby, for I had promised faithfully to see her through the momentous process of presenting England and France with their crucially important heir.
After several seconds I managed to deliver what I hoped was a serene smile and say, ‘What a kind and thoughtful offer, Master Vintner, but I hope you will not think me ungrateful if I turn it down, at least for the foreseeable future. You see, perhaps the news has not reached London yet, but the queen is enceinte and as you can imagine it will be a long time before I am able to leave her for more than a few days. I have been with her more or less since she was born and I will be with her when she brings her own child into the world. I would not be human if I absented myself from that event.’
He nodded solemnly. ‘Indeed you would not. I had heard the good news of the queen’s happy condition and of course I should have realised that there was no question of you leaving England at this time. But please remember that the offer is always open.’ He leaned forward and poured a last drop of wine into my cup before emptying the flagon into his own. ‘Let us drink to the health of the queen,’ he said. ‘May God give her an easy confinement and a healthy babe in the cradle, be it boy or girl.’
We drank and I inwardly blessed him for being among the few men in England who would not have prayed exclusively for a son for the king.
His eyes twinkled in a way with which I had now grown familiar as he added earnestly, ‘And I hope you will not think it untoward if I suggest that in private at least we abandon formality and call each other by our baptismal names. Mine is Geoffrey.’
I set down my cup and nodded contentedly. ‘And mine is Guillaumette, but that is my serving name. My friends call me Mette.’
‘Then, if you permit it, I shall call you Mette.’
I stayed one more night at the House of the Vines and spent the daylight hours completing my business in the craft workshops of Cheapside. Fortunately the weather was kinder on our return journey and we arrived back at Windsor well before sunset, dry and contented. However, comfortable though it was, my chamber in the queen’s apartment felt dull and lonely after the cheerful bustle of the house in Tun Lane and when I presented myself in the queen’s solar after the evening meal, my welcome was disappointing. Deep in intimate conversation with the Duchess of Hainault, Catherine displayed little interest in my arrival and did not enquire whether my trip had been successful.
When I made my curtsy at the door, ‘Goodness, Mette, have you returned already?’ was all she said, before resuming her tête-à-tête. For a moment I thought I heard her mother speaking and felt a jolt of dismay. She had addressed me in English and her broken accent reminded me of Queen Isabeau’s fractured French.
Fortunately Agnes, Lady Joan and Joannas Belknap and Troutbeck greeted me enthusiastically, Joanna Coucy being the exception as I had come to expect, and I spent a pleasant hour describing the sights of London and the new styles and fabrics I had seen in the warehouses and workshops I had visited. None of them asked where I had lodged during my visit and so I did not tell them about the house in Tun Lane or the friendliness of its inhabitants. When Catherine showed signs of retiring, I hurried through to her bedchamber as usual only to find Eleanor Cobham already there preparing a herbal mixture in a pestle and heating a kettle of water over the fire. She smiled at me brightly.
‘There you are, Madame Lanière,’ she said impatiently, as if I were a junior lady-in-waiting reporting late for duty. ‘I am preparing a tisane for the queen. It is one that I have made for the duchess and it was she who recommended it as a night-time posset. Are their graces coming now?’
‘The queen is coming,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you should hurry along to the duchess’s bedchamber.’
‘Oh no,’ Eleanor responded. ‘They will take the tisane together before they retire, but the queen’s new confessor will come to say the Angelus with them first.’
I frowned. ‘A new
