The Tudor Bride

King Henry did not attend Catherine’s coronation feast. He explained that it was because the rules of precedence dictated that if he were there she would not be the centre of attention, would not be served first and her new subjects would not do her full honour, being obliged to bow the knee to him first. Disappointed though she may have been, in his absence she was unquestionably Queen of the Feast. The highest nobles in the land acted as her carver, server, butler and cupbearer, while two earls knelt at her feet throughout the meal, holding her sceptres. The Earl of Worcester made an impressive spectacle riding up and down the centre of Westminster Hall on his richly caparisoned horse, ostensibly to keep order, and the Duke of Gloucester, in his role as Great Chamberlain of England, strode grandly about displaying his physique in a short sable-trimmed doublet of gold-embroidered red satin, brandishing his staff of office and directing the seemingly endless parade of dishes and subtleties.

In truth it was more of a pageant than a meal, a feast for the eyes rather than the stomach, as course after course was presented, each one more magnificent than the last and, because Lent had begun the previous week, all consisting of fish in one form or another. I had never seen so many different sea foods presented in so many guises. Anything that swam or crawled under water and could be hooked, trapped or netted had been turned into a culinary masterpiece; sturgeon, lamprey, crayfish, crab, eel, carp, pike, turbot, sole, prawns, roach, perch, chub – roasted, stewed, jellied, baked or fried, embellished with sauces or topped with pastry confections – culminating in a spectacular roasted porpoise riding on a sea of gilded pastry and crowned in real gold. It was all too much for me, but the great and good of the kingdom seated around me on the lower floor of the hall clearly relished it. From her royal dais, the new queen consort smiled and nodded at her subjects, admired the extraordinary skill of the cooks and, I noticed, consumed scarcely a morsel.

In the absence of her husband, seated beside the newly crowned queen was a pleasant-faced young man who also wore a crown; King James of Scotland who, although a monarch in his own right, did not outrank Catherine because he was a king without a kingdom. It was the first time they had met and his story was one which kept Catherine spellbound for much of the feast and earned her heartfelt sympathy. So much so that she regaled us with it at length the following day.

‘King James told me that there are warring factions in Scotland, just as there are in France and that his older brother, David, the heir to the throne, was starved to death in a castle dungeon by his uncle, the Duke of Albany. Fearing that James might also fall into Albany’s clutches, his father, King Robert, put him on a ship to France for safety. He was only twelve. Just think how frightened and lonely he must have been. And before he got near France, his ship was boarded by pirates off England. When they discovered his identity, they sold him to the English king, my own lord’s father, who then demanded that the Scots pay a vast ransom for him. When word of this was brought to King Robert, he fell into a seizure and died; so Albany achieved his evil ambition, took power in Scotland and the ransom has never been paid.’

At this point she gave me a meaningful look. She was thinking, as I was, of the parallels between this story and the civil wars between Burgundy and Orleans which had shaken the throne of France and led to her own marriage treaty, in which King Henry had supplanted her brother Charles as the Heir of France. However, she made no reference to it and continued her tale of the hostage king.

‘King James says the English have always been kind to him, particularly my own lord, the king’s grace, and the recent death of Albany has set the stage for the ransom to be paid. So, since under the rules of chivalry it is a queen’s prerogative to plead just causes, I mean to ask the King of England to instigate the King of Scots’ return to his kingdom.’ She clapped her hands with delight at the prospect of exerting her new powers.

‘Incidentally, little Joan,’ she turned to address Lady Joan Beaufort, who was gazing absent-mindedly out of the solar window, no doubt wishing she was galloping over wide-open spaces to the cry of the hunting horn, ‘King James made particular mention of you during the feast. He pointed you out to me, asked your name and who your parents were. I think you might have made a conquest there.’

Surprised at being addressed directly, Lady Joan went pink, but I think it was more from confusion at being caught day-dreaming than embarrassment at being singled out by the Scottish monarch. ‘Oh,’ was all she said, casting her eyes down as though she had no idea what the queen was talking about.

Catherine laughed. ‘I think most girls would be more excited by the attentions of a young, unmarried king than you appear to be! Perhaps if I told you he has recently purchased a new jet-black destrier from the Earl Marshal’s stud you might be a little more impressed?’

Joan’s eyes did light up at this. ‘Has he, your grace? How much did he pay for it?’

The queen spluttered with mingled mirth and exasperation. ‘I have no idea. You will have to ask him yourself, but you may have to wait a while because he departs tomorrow in the king’s train. King Henry fears that the Welsh border is too dangerous for ladies to visit at present, so he intends to go there first while we stay here at Westminster and make preparations to meet him further north. Belknap and Troutbeck, I want you to tell me all about the northern shires. Who are their leaders? What are their grievances and concerns? I am to join the king at a place called Kenil-wort.’ She stumbled slightly on the pronunciation of the English name and gazed enquiringly about the room. ‘Is that how you say it? Which of you can tell me about this place?’

Joanna Coucy was ready, as always, to air her knowledge. ‘It is the grandest of the Lancastrian palaces, your grace, situated right in the heart of England. I went there once with my father who had business at the duchy court. I believe the king spent his early childhood there. It was his mother’s favourite castle.’

‘Is that so, Coucy?’ Catherine beckoned to the girl. ‘Bring your stool nearer and reveal to me all you know about Kenil-wort and the king’s mother.’

‘Forgive me, your grace, but I believe it is pronounced Kenilworth,’ remarked Coucy, smirking as she picked up her stool to carry it across the room, deftly dodging Eleanor Cobham’s suddenly outstretched foot. Observing this, her second attempt to capsize the big-headed Joanna, I decided it was probably fortunate that, with her coronation duties over, the tricky Damoiselle Cobham would be returning home to Sterborough the following day.

5

The queen’s procession arrived at Kenilworth at sunset. Seen through the mist rising off the surrounding lake, the castle seemed to float weightless before us, its tall red sandstone towers glowing in the sun’s dying rays like pillars of fire. We were cold and tired after a long day in the saddle, but the magnificent spectacle imbued us with a new energy and the whole column of riders broke simultaneously into a brisk canter which even I, novice horsewoman that I was, found unexpectedly invigorating, especially as the chill March breeze had stiffened my limbs and, despite my riding gloves, almost frozen my fingers to the reins.

I had been to a few castles in my time, but I had never seen one quite like Kenilworth. Even at a distance it gave the impression of a palace rather than a fortress, for its towers were not crenellated, its curtain wall was barely eight-foot high and you could see the sun glinting off scores of delicate glass panes in huge mullioned windows. As we trotted through the first gatehouse to enter the long causeway across the lake, I realised the reason for the lack of apparent defences. Those fine windows were never going to be shattered by a bombardment, for not even King Henry’s vast new German cannons were capable of hurling a missile that far and getting scaling ladders and men across the lake would take a flotilla of boats which would simply not be available at this inland location. The causeway was the only dry access to the castle and it was fiercely fortified with stout stone barbicans and gatehouses at both ends, which fortunately stood open to our cavalcade. I learned later that the causeway was in fact a dam, built in order to flood the land around Kenilworth and create a huge lake. In that misty pink sunset, with a group of swans trailing wedge-shaped ripples over the glassy water, it looked to me like the legendary lake of Avalon and when a solitary boat with a crimson sail emerged through the mist, moving slowly towards the apparently floating castle, it might have been carrying King Arthur to his final resting place.

Our accommodation at Kenilworth was the best we had experienced since leaving the Hôtel de St Pol in Paris over two years before. The principal living chambers were on the first floor of a tower set behind the spectacular great hall, where the master-mason had deployed a unique system of heavy oak rafters, permitting a wide, cathedral-like space without any of the usual pillars needed to support the roof above. It reminded me of Westminster Hall, where Catherine’s coronation feast had been held, but Walter Vintner, my fount of English history, told me that the Westminster roof was actually a copy of the Kenilworth design. It was this fact that really brought home to me how rich and powerful King Henry’s grandfather, John of Gaunt, had been as Duke of Lancaster, for it was he who had initiated the renovation and embellishment of Kenilworth with its soaring towers and gracious presence chambers.

When I started to relay this information to Catherine on the morning after our arrival, she stopped me in mid-sentence, holding up her hand imperiously. ‘Do not tell me, Mette!’ she exclaimed. ‘I do not want to hear anything about the glories of Kenilworth unless it is from the king’s own mouth. Nor do I want to be given a guided tour of its policies by the steward as he offered last night. I am sure the place is heaven on earth but I will only think so if King Henry shows it to me himself. Where is he, Mette? He wrote to say he would meet me here in mid March. Today is the fourteenth. Why is he not here?’

Her fretful query was typical of the mood she had been in ever since King Henry had left for Wales on the day after her coronation. Although her father and mother, the French king and queen, had lived in separate houses within the royal palace and held their own separate courts, for some reason Catherine seemed to expect that she and Henry would be together all the time, making no allowance for the fact that he had not one but two kingdoms to run and a new campaign army to recruit and finance before he returned to his preferred occupation, which was storming more castles and conquering more territory. I do not know where she had got the impression that a marriage between royals meant living a cosy domestic life. Certainly not from her mother, Queen Isabeau. Too late I realised that, unlikely as it seemed, she had a commoner’s attitude towards marriage and sought love and a working companionship with her husband, and I fear I was probably responsible for this desire, which was rarely fulfilled at any level of society.

I could not even persuade Catherine to break her fast in the great hall or attend mass in the ducal chapel, which only required a short walk across the inner court. She declared that she would emerge only when the king put in an appearance. Fortunately, later that morning, a courier arrived on a lathered horse with news that King Henry would be at Kenilworth before sundown. There was also a letter for the queen, written under the royal seal and in the king’s own hand which, when she had read it, she showed me with undisguised glee, as if to say: ‘See? I was right to wait!’

—ξξ—

To Catherine, my dear and well-beloved queen, greetings,

I trust this finds you already at Kenilworth where, God willing, I expect to be myself within the day. We have hardly seen the hills of Wales, for it has rained consistently but our marcher barons are successfully keeping the peace and we have encountered little unrest.

At Kenilworth I have a surprise for you and ask you not to be too curious about your surroundings until I come to show them to you personally. We have talked of my love for the place and I long to share it with the Queen of my Heart.

I will set out at sunrise and must stop briefly at Warwick, but before sunset I will have you in my arms. God be with you and keep you safe until then,

I kiss your mouth,

Henry

Written at night in Dudley this 13th day of March 1421.

—ξξ—

Noting the address from which this letter was written, I was thankful that Catherine had not shown it to Joanna Coucy, for we would never have heard the end of it if she had known that the king was staying at her father’s castle. I handed it back, a little surprised that she had shown it to me at all, because of its personal nature. I took it as another example of her fluctuating self-confidence; she wanted me to witness the fact that King Henry still loved her, despite their recent lack of intimacy.

Her mood had changed from listless indifference to brisk intention. ‘Call the steward, Mette,’ she said. ‘I want to hear the arrangements for my lord’s arrival. And bring my sunset gown – the one I wore for my wedding. I will wear it to greet the king today.’

All afternoon, from the window of her chamber, Catherine watched the western sky and it had hardly begun to acquire the first pink tinge of sunset, when a trumpet sounded from the battlements of the keep. She scrambled to her feet, excited and agitated.

‘They have sighted the king’s procession. Quick, Mette! Bring my mantle. I must be waiting for him when he rides in.’

The sunset gown was so called because it was made of dark-blue, filmy gauze embroidered with tiny gold fleurs-de-lys and was worn over a cloth-of-silver kirtle with a wide gold lace hem. When Catherine lifted the skirt to walk, the lace beneath gleamed like the setting sun against a darkening sky. It had been made by my son-in-law, the tailor Jacques, and she had worn it for her wedding to King Henry in the city of Troyes the previous June. It was the first time she had put it on it since that day and it was Catherine’s intention that he should recognise it and understand the significance of her choice.

As the king and his retinue clattered over the causeway and through the fortified gatehouse, Catherine took her place at the top of the sweeping stone stairway that led up to the great hall. Long shadows had formed across the flagging of the inner court and the sky was a fiery orange, causing the approaching horsemen to shield their eyes from its glare. King Henry was in the van and did not wait for a squire to rush forward to take the reins before flinging himself from his horse and taking the steps two at a time to reach Catherine’s side. Heedless of the numerous observers, he first kissed her hand and then drew her to him and kissed her on the lips, clasping his arms hungrily around her as he did so. It was by no means a gentle or decorous salute and, when he eventually pulled back from it, there was a broad smile on his own lips.

‘Catherine my queen, my beautiful bride! I have galloped hard and eagerly to greet you!’

Her cheeks pink with shy pleasure, Catherine sank into a formal obeisance, as all of us around her had already done at the king’s approach. ‘You are well come, your grace,’ she said, tilting her head up to return his smile and expose the long, white column of her throat, where a pulse beat visibly, revealing her own heightened emotions. ‘I too have waited eagerly for you.’

He pulled her quickly to her feet and putting his arm around her shoulders led her through the porch into the great hall. ‘Then let us waste no time, my lady. I have much to show you.’

‘But you must take refreshment, my lord,’ she protested. ‘You have ridden hard.’

The king shook his head. ‘It is no distance from Warwick and they gave me food and drink there. No – let my men rest and eat, I have other plans for you and me. We have not much time before darkness falls.’

Inside the hall the king took me by surprise, addressing me directly. ‘Always nearby, Madame Lanière,’ he remarked with a smile. ‘Has the queen a warm cloak?’ He felt the velvet of the formal mantle Catherine wore and pulled a face. ‘This mantle is not suitable for our purpose. Be sure I recognise the gown however. We will do it justice, I promise you.’

Quite what he meant by that I hesitated to guess, but I bobbed my knee and hurried away to fetch the cloak. ‘And bring one for yourself, Madame,’ the king called after me. ‘A queen cannot do without her handmaid. Meet us at the Water Gate.’

I felt my own heart racing as I hurried to do his bidding wondering, as Catherine must have been, what surprise he had planned for her. I had to seek directions to the Water Gate because, like her, I was as yet unfamiliar with the castle lay-out but I found it quite close to the privy apartments, directly opposite a tunnel leading from the kitchens to a steeply sloping court behind the great hall undercroft. I guessed that supplies for the kitchen were brought by boat across the lake and carried via this route into the cellars. Passing through the gate I found steps leading down to a stone quay and a sailing boat moored alongside. I recognised it as the one we had seen approaching the castle the previous night.

King Henry was already handing Catherine carefully down into the boat. She was shivering and I hastily passed her fur-lined cloak to the king who leaped into the boat, sat down beside her and wrapped her swiftly in its folds. ‘You were just in time, Madame,’ he said, his teeth gleaming in the dying rays of the sun. ‘I think my lady’s blood was about to freeze.’

‘But now I am warm, my lord,’ Catherine murmured softly, ‘and intrigued to know where you are abducting me to at this darkling hour.’

King Henry did not answer her question, but put his arm around her and she snuggled down into his embrace, a smile lighting her face. He pulled the capacious hood of the cloak over her ears and over the gold nets and circlet which held her hair in place. ‘These are regally elegant,’ he said, tugging lightly at the nets, ‘but they will not keep you warm in the lake breezes. Cast off, boatman, and jump aboard, Robin.’ This last was addressed to the young squire who was holding the prow of the boat fast against the quay.

Catherine sat up in alarm. ‘And Mette. Do not forget Mette, my lord!’

The squire grinned and gave me his hand to steady me as I stepped aboard. There was a narrow plank seat set in front of the mast and, unbalanced, I sat down rather heavily, rocking the boat. ‘Your Mette is certainly aboard now, Catherine!’ cried the king with what I considered unnecessary mirth.

The boat nosed out into the lake, pushing the water aside like wrinkled black silk as the red sail filled and flapped in the light breeze, driving us south-east around the castle mound and towards the opposite shore. Little was visible there except the silhouette of an uneven line of trees standing out against the pearly grey sky. Having no fur-lined cloak or lover’s embrace to warm me, I thought a little enviously of the household, sitting down to their hot meal in the great hall and wondered what awaited us in the dark forest ahead. Behind me a murmured conversation was taking place between Catherine and the king, but the words were too indistinct to make out and anyway I assumed they were private. Suddenly I felt terribly lonely, marooned on that black lake with no idea where I was going and glumly certain that I would be the last to be rescued if a sudden storm blew up and threw us all into the water.

I should have had more faith in King Henry’s generalship. There was nothing random about this twilight escapade. Within a few minutes we rounded a low headland and there before us, set against the trees, stood a small castle with crenellated towers, a moat and a drawbridge and torches blazing spluttering greetings from the gatehouse walls.

‘Welcome to the Pleasance,’ said King Henry to Catherine. ‘This is my surprise for my beloved queen.’

Catherine was enchanted. I could hear it in her voice.

‘It is beautiful! It reminds me of the Vallon Vert.’

‘I thought it would,’ the king responded, sounding pleased. ‘Like our pavilion there, the Pleasance is timber, painted to look like stone. I had it built soon after I came to the throne. I wanted a place to retreat to.’ The boat grounded on a gently sloping shingle beach and Robin jumped over the side to keep it steady. ‘Come, there are fires to warm you and a meal has been prepared.’

The king followed his squire over the side and took Catherine in his arms to carry her to the shore. I tutted in disapproval as the train of her bridal gown trailed in the water but she was heedless, as well she might be, snug in the arms of her royal spouse. Clambering down the length of the boat, I was glad to see that it was possible to jump down onto the beach without getting my feet wet, for no one was offering to carry me.

Catherine was right when she said the place reminded her of the Vallon Vert. That had been her name for the little green valley where King Henry had had wooden pavilions built for himself and Catherine and for her parents, the King and Queen of France, to live in during the siege of Melun. It had been high summer and while they were staying in that cool oasis of shade, she and King Henry had discovered that real love might be possible between them.

Those summer pavilions had been little more than wooden tents, but The Pleasance was a more solid construction, designed as a miniature version of Kenilworth with glazed windows and graceful oriels giving views over the lake. King Henry told Catherine that, in the days before his marriage, he had used it to entertain his close friends, hunting in the surrounding forest and feasting in the hall. I assumed that these feasts had not been for men only, but no details were forthcoming. There was certainly plenty of space for amorous adventures. On a quick inspection of the facilities, I discovered several privy chambers in the towers behind the hall but for this romantic interlude, alone with his young queen, the king had ordered a large tester bed set up in the great hall, where the two of them could spend a few days alone together without interruption or distraction.

‘And no siege guns thundering away on the other side of the hill!’ Catherine pointed out to me with joy when the king had gone to check arrangements with the small band of castle servants seconded to The Pleasance. ‘Oh, Mette, is this not perfect? I had no idea that Henry was planning this idyll for us, which makes it so much the better!’

‘And look, Mademoiselle,’ I said, laying my hands on a harp which stood in the shadows beside the carved mantle-hood, beyond the reach of the fire’s heat.

‘A harp!’ she cried, dancing across the room to run her fingers over the strings, filling the air with a rush of liquid notes. ‘It must have been Henry’s mother’s, do you not think?’

‘What must have been my mother’s?’ The king strode back into the room and I hastened to melt into the shadows as he came up behind Catherine. ‘Oh, the harp – yes. She was always making music with some instrument or other. She taught me my first chords when I was three. She loved to sing to us.’ He put his arms around Catherine’s waist and pulled her to him so that her head lay back on his shoulder. ‘Come, let us eat. I am famished!’

‘But I thought you said you ate with the Earl of Warwick,’ Catherine protested.

‘I said I ate at Warwick,’ agreed the king, ‘but the earl was not there and the fare was bread and pottage.’ He shuddered. ‘It filled my belly but offended my senses. Here the cooks have prepared mussels and crayfish, with melted cheese.’ He glanced over his shoulder at me, knowing exactly where I was. ‘Mette can serve us and Robin will play and sing. He is not as accomplished as Owen Tudor, but he will do.’