at least have liked him to call me by my name. I did not think that too much to ask.
Perhaps that was how Englishmen made love. Perhaps it would all become more acceptable. Perhaps I might even come to enjoy it. I could not imagine such an eventuality but, then, my experience was lamentable and I would learn from Henry’s smoothly practised skills. He deserved a wife who could learn and become what he desired.
If I expected some intimate exchange of words after the deed—which I did—I was entirely misled. Henry climbed from the bed, delved into a coffer—one of his own that had been brought to the room—after relighting one of the candles and shrugged into a loose chamber robe that fell magnificently in heavy folds of sable fur and crimson damask to the floor. Fastening a belt that sparkled with rubies and agates, he ran his fingers through his hair to make some semblance of order and returned to look down at me where I clutched the linen to my chin.
‘Sleep well.’ Smoothing my hair, he leaned to press a light kiss on my forehead—the only kiss during the whole of the proceedings. ‘Tomorrow you will need all your resources. It will be a long day.’
Was that it? Was he leaving me without a word? I needed at least to know if he had found me a satisfactory wife. I could not let him go without knowing.
‘Henry.’ I tried his name in my mouth for the first time. ‘Was I, was I…?’ But I did not know how to ask.
‘You were exactly what I had hoped for, my gentle wife,’ he replied, and kissed my hair at my temple, his lips warm, infinitely tender, so that my heart beat long and slow.
The door closed behind him, leaving me miserably bereft, for in my innocence I had not expected to spend this night alone. Perhaps I had not pleased him after all, and he was merely being polite in his cool manner. Or perhaps I had satisfied him and he simply did not show it. What would make him show the passion I had seen when he had discoursed on the effective laying of sieges or moving troops into position to attack? I thought I knew. Only if I fell for a child would he rejoice.
I prayed that I would, and quickly.
There was a tentative knock on the door and in came Guille, who must have been watching for just this eventuality. She came slowly towards the bed, curtsied, and we looked at each other. Much of an age with me, short and neat with a managing disposition that I lacked, Guille was the nearest to a friend that I had. I felt that her experience of life was also so much greater than mine.
‘Was he pleased, my lady?’
‘He said so.’ I cast back the covers and ran a hand over the sheets, which were bloodstained enough to please my mother. ‘He had his proof that I was a virgin, despite my mother’s reputation.’
‘I will deal with them, my lady.’ She bustled about, pouring tepid water from ewer to bowl for me, generally putting all to rights. ‘You will be happier as Henry’s wife.’
‘I suppose I will.’
‘Does he like you?’ she ventured.
So personal a question surprised me, and I did not know how to reply. I considered, balancing his thoughtfulness against his lack of animation. Perhaps it was simply that I did not yet know him very well, or that, starved of affection as I had been, I simply did not recognise such an emotion when I saw it.
‘I think so,’ I said. ‘He kissed me when he left.’
‘Do you like him, my lady?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think I love him.’ I was nineteen years old.
‘That’s good,’ she said, tucking the clean linens around me. ‘It is good if a wife loves her husband.’
‘But I think I drank too much wine,’ I admitted.
‘No one would condemn you for that, my lady. The English King is a cold fish to my mind, but how could he not love so beautiful a lady as you?’
Henry’s emotions were too difficult a subject to unpick. I yawned and eventually I slid into sleep, not dissatisfied with the day. My experience as a wife had so far been better than anything else I had known, and I had a new gown promised for me tomorrow when I would take my place in the English pavilion as Henry’s chosen bride. And I might not invite my mother to accompany me. I would enjoy the tournament as Queen of England and I would give Henry my guerdon to wear as he fought in my honour. I would reward him when he was victorious—as he would assuredly be. I would learn English so that I could converse with my English damsels.
I think I fell asleep smiling, remembering his final caress, his last words.
You were exactly what I had hoped for, my gentle wife.
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.
‘Some colour in your cheeks, my lady,’ Guille advised. ‘It wouldn’t do to look pale at the tournament.’
I submitted to her deft ministrations, impatient to be with him, to experience once again his consideration for me. To talk to him as I had talked last night. Lips and cheeks, enhanced with a delicate tint, I admired my reflection in my looking glass. He had thought about me, he had taken the time to provide me with something close to my heart. He had listened to my foolish complaint and not forgotten. My heart sang a little.
‘You look happy, lady.’
I thought about this. ‘I think I am.’ It was not an emotion I recognised, but if this deep contentment was happiness, then I was happy. ‘I need a glove,’ I said impatiently. ‘I must have one.’
‘Why is that, my lady?’
‘To give to Henry as my guerdon. He will fight for me today. And he will win.’ I enjoyed the sound of his name on my
