the fact explicit? ‘You sent the portrait.’ But I saw the lack of comprehension, the hint of censure in the flat stare, and realised that I had made a mistake. Pride and dignity fled. I instantly floundered into an incomprehensible reply, making matters worse, furious with myself, despairing of my inability to hold tight to confident tranquillity as Michelle would have done.
‘Forgive me. Perhaps I was mistaken,’ I managed, flushing to the roots of my hair. I prayed, my thoughts scrambling, that Isabeau was not close enough to hear me exhibit my desperate lack of sophistication.
‘I expect my brother Bedford sent it,’ Henry remarked.
‘Y-yes,’ I stammered. ‘I expect that was so.’ I dropped into clumsy silence as our procession shuffled in an impatience to move. His brother. Of course. I remembered John of Bedford’s kindness at our first meeting. Henry had seen no need to give me such a symbol of his esteem. I swallowed hard against the hurt that it meant so little to him, but chided myself. I was too easily hurt. I must grow up quickly, as Michelle had warned. It was not Henry’s fault that my happiness was so transient a thing. It was mine.
Perhaps sensing the turbulence in me, Henry patted my hand as if I were a child, before looking back over his shoulder to address those who pressed close behind. His three brothers, Bedford, Gloucester and Clarence. His uncle, Bishop Henry of Winchester. And he grinned.
‘Are you ready? My dear wife is near frozen to death. Her health is my prime concern. If you intend to stay in my good books, you’ll walk sprightly now.’ His grin encompassed me too. ‘Lend her your cloak, John. You can manage without.’
Lord John obeyed with a laugh, and I found myself wrapped around in heavy folds of velvet. Henry himself fastened the furred collar close against my neck.
‘There. I should have thought of it. It becomes you better than it does my brother.’
My dear wife. His fingers were brisk and clever, his kiss between my brows light, and still I shivered, but now with pleasure at the depth of his consideration. I was wed to Henry of England. I had a family. For the first time in my life I belonged to someone who put my happiness before anything else, and his touch heated my skin.
Was this love? I was certain that it must be, as my heart was swamped with unnamed longings. I looked up at my new husband as we paced slowly towards the now open door, to discover that Henry was still looking at me, coolly assessing his new possession, until his beautiful mouth curved in a renewed smile and his eyes gleamed with the candles’ reflected light. His grip was sure, resonating with authority: I knew he wanted me and would not let me go, and I was glad of it.
I was truly dazzled. My hopes for this marriage were beyond any woman’s dreams. And it was God’s will—had Henry not said so? All would be well. I knew it.
‘Well, all in all, it could be worse. Or could it?’ A sly chuckle followed.
I was sitting in the place of honour for my wedding banquet.
‘She’s young.’
‘But Valois.’
‘She’s handsome enough.’
‘If you like pale and insipid.’
‘I’m surprised Henry does. I thought a more robust wife would bring him to heel at last.’
I flushed uncomfortably. Whatever I was, I was not a robust wife. The burgeoning confidence that had stiffened my spine at my wedding was draining away like floodwater into a winter sluice. Do they not say that eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves? How true. Unfortunately, my understanding of English had improved sufficiently for me to grasp the gist of the conversation between the little huddle of three English ladies.
Blue-blooded and arrogant, they had accompanied the English court to my marriage, and now as my bridal feast drew to its close, when I knew that I must stand to make a dignified exit beneath the prurient gaze of the feasting masses, they had moved to sit together and gossip, as women will. They were not wilfully cruel, I decided. I supposed they thought I would not understand.
‘Do you suppose she’s inherited the Valois…problems?’
‘There are so many.’
‘Madness, forsooth. Have you seen her father? No wonder they shut him away.’ The owner of that voice was a rosy-cheeked brunette with decided opinions, and none to my advantage.
I glanced at Henry, to sense his reaction, but he was deep in some discussion with his brothers Bedford and Clarence to his right that necessitated the manoeuvring of knives and platters on the table.
‘And treachery…’
‘Extravagance…’
‘Adultery…’
The eyes turned as one to Isabeau, who was leaning to attract some man’s attention, and the voices dropped to a whisper, but not enough for me to be deaf to their judgements.
‘She likes young men, the younger the better. Nought but a whore. And an interfering bitch when it comes to politics.’
‘We must hope there’s nothing of her mother in her.’ The brunette’s eyes flicked back to me. I stared stolidly before me, concentrating on the crumbs on the table as if they held some message. ‘Madness would be better than uncontrollable lust.’ A soft laugh drove the blade into my unsuspecting flesh.
The heads were together again. ‘It’s always a problem if the bride is foreign and of a managing disposition. She’ll want to introduce French ways. Pursue French policies.’ There was an inhalation of scandalised breath. ‘Will she expect us to speak French with her?’
‘Will she seduce our young courtiers, do you suppose, climbing into their beds when the King is away?’
By this time I was horror-struck. Was this what the English thought of me, before the knot was barely tied? A dabbling French whore? And would I be expected to take these women as my damsels? Would I have no choice in the matter?
‘She doesn’t have much to say for herself. Barely two words.’
They are cruel, a voice whispered in my head. They don’t like you. They mean to hurt you.
I knew it to be true. They had already damned me, dismissed me as inadequate for my new role. I tried to close my ears but a little interlude of quietness fell, while the minstrels quaffed ale and the musicians tucked into any passing platter they could waylay.
‘She doesn’t look like a managing woman. More a timid mouse.’
Resentment surged beneath my black and gold bodice. This should have been a moment of spectacular satisfaction for me, a celebratory feast. The Mayor of Paris had sent Henry wagons full to the brim with barrels of wine in grateful thanks that he had not razed their city walls to the ground. My mother’s lips might twist at their treacherous pandering as she drank the fine vintage, but the quality was beyond compare.
Above my head the banners of English leopards and Valois fleurs-de-lys hung heavy in the hot air. I should have been exultant. At my side sat the most powerful man in Europe, and to my mind the most handsome, so how could I be so foolish as to allow these English women to destroy my pleasure? The clear voices continued in inexhaustible complaint.
