The Agincourt Bride (50 page)

‘It concerns our wedding,’ he continued, his eyes studying her closely as if doubtful of her reaction. ‘I confess that I was less than satisfied with the ambiance of the cathedral during our betrothal ceremony and I wondered if you would object if we held our wedding somewhere else.’

Catherine inclined her head enquiringly. ‘May I ask what it was about the cathedral that you did not like, my lord?’

The queen protested. ‘His grace does not need to go into detail, Catherine. If he is unhappy that is all you need to know.’

Catherine ignored the interruption and smiled disarmingly at King Henry. ‘I merely wondered if we were dismayed by the same things, sire. For instance the fact that the cathedral is still under construction and there are masons’ tools and equipment everywhere and part of the nave stands open to the sky.’

King Henry’s smile transformed his face, relieving the stern expression dictated by his scar. ‘You felt it too!’ he exclaimed. ‘It spoiled the atmosphere. We need calm and beauty for this most important occasion, not ladders and scaffolding.’

‘I completely agree,’ Catherine said, nodding happily. ‘Would you permit me to suggest another church?’

King Henry seemed a changed man that day. I swear I saw a twinkle in his eye as he responded, ‘As long as it is the one I was going to suggest.’

And together they both said, ‘St Jean au Marché!’ and burst out laughing.

‘I have worshipped there several times since coming to Troyes,’ added the king when their laughter subsided. ‘I like the way it sits in the midst of a busy market and yet is a haven of peace.’

‘And it has seen many weddings and masses and churchings,’ continued Catherine eagerly. ‘I myself attended a baptism there recently. I would love our marriage to take place there.’

‘Then I will ask the archbishop to arrange it,’ King Henry said, then hesitated before raising a new topic. ‘But there is one more matter I must mention, which also concerns his grace – it is the matter of his See.’

Catherine raised her eyebrows. ‘The Archbishop’s See? I thought Sens had fallen recently.’ I noticed she avoided mentioning that it was the dauphin’s forces which had overrun the city. Her brother was still a thorny topic as far as she was concerned.

King Henry was impressed at her grasp of military progress. ‘That is precisely the matter in hand. In return for marrying us, I have promised the archbishop to restore him to his city and his cathedral. I wish to lay siege to Sens immediately after our wedding, Catherine.’

I stifled a gasp and could only imagine Catherine’s reaction to this announcement.

‘When you say immediately, how soon would that be?’ I had the distinct impression that her question was asked through clenched teeth.

King Henry had the grace to blush. ‘I wish to leave the next day.’ He held up a hand apologetically, ‘I know – you are offended – but you are marrying a soldier, Catherine. June brings good siege weather and the Pretender is strengthening all his frontline garrisons by the day. We cannot wait.’

There was a tense silence and even the queen had the sense to hold her peace. When Catherine spoke her words were laced with irony. ‘It must be frustrating for a soldier like yourself, sire, that the Church permits war during Pentecost but not weddings. Otherwise we could be married today and I could become a camp follower tomorrow.’

I sighed. There had been the stirrings of harmony, but discord had prevailed.

Nothing had changed about the marriage, however, except the location. There was still much to prepare, which now also included packing all Catherine’s goods and chattels ready for immediate departure on what she ironically called her
‘lune de siège’
. In their attic workrooms above the royal apartments Jacques and Alys stitched away on the princess’ wardrobe, while a nursemaid rocked baby Catrine’s cradle and I sneaked up for frequent grandmotherly cuddles and playtimes.

Michele of Burgundy kept us straight about the etiquette and form of a royal wedding, explaining the order of the ceremony, the distribution of alms, the programme of feasting and entertainment and the awkward bedding ritual, which apparently would involve the archbishop, all the family members present and even musicians.

‘And that reminds me,’ she added during this crucial planning meeting, actually turning to address me personally, ‘it is time you got busy with your tweezers, Madame Lanière. No royal or noble virgin in France goes to her marriage bed looking less than smooth all over.’

This was a tradition I was familiar with, that young French brides of dynastic families must be brought to their deflowering in a state of hairless purity, a condition that did not of course extend to their crowning glory, which had to be worn loose and flowing as a magnificent statement of their nubility. In painful pursuit of this pristine state, Catherine endured hours of tweezing in intimate places and endured it without complaint – a stoicism which I anticipated might stand her in good stead.

‘I suppose the dates of my menses were freely discussed in council when they were deciding on the wedding date,’ she observed dryly, as she lay naked under a carefully arranged sheet while I worked as gently as I could on her right armpit. ‘I assume you still keep the queen informed, Mette. It cannot be just coincidence that they managed to avoid my time of the month.’

‘No, Mademoiselle,’ I admitted contritely, ‘it is not coincidence. But you can thank King Henry himself that you were spared the indignity of a virginity test. I gather he said that he was prepared to take it on trust.’

I stepped hastily back from my task as Catherine reared up, clutching the sheet around her, her eyes wide with shock. ‘Jesu, Mette, I did not know such a thing was a possibility! Whatever would I have done?’

I shrugged. ‘I do not think it would have been necessary to do anything, Mademoiselle. I took the precaution of making subtle enquiries. It seems such tests are not intimately physical; that would defeat the purpose, would it not? But I am glad King Henry refused it, for dignity’s sake.’

‘Yes, that was good of him.’ Catherine gave me a troubled look. ‘Did he really say that? That he was prepared to trust me?’

‘So I am told,’ I nodded, following her train of thought. ‘And so he can,’ I asserted firmly. ‘God knows he can.’

‘W
hen we were girls at the convent we used to day-dream about what our husbands would be like. Do you remember, Agnes?’

Catherine’s voice held a far-away note, which made me wonder if I had put a little too much poppy juice into the calming posset I had insisted she drink on rising. Outside the chamber window the early morning sky showed a milky haze and weak sunshine cast long, faint shadows across the waterside gardens. Despite an overnight downpour, it seemed unlikely that rain would spoil the royal wedding day.

‘Of course I remember,’ nodded Agnes, beckoning Alys to help her gather up a heavy under-skirt made of precious cloth of silver and hemmed with broad gold lace. ‘We imagined you marrying a handsome, royal prince – and you are going to do just that, this very day!’ Intensely aware of the bride’s jangling nerves, Agnes’ words were warm with encouragement. Carefully she and Alys lifted the silver skirt high and slipped it over Catherine’s head. It fell about her with a rustling sigh and they set about arranging the folds and tying the points at the waist.

I knelt at Catherine’s feet, proffering the pearl-encrusted satin slippers she would wear for her wedding. Jacques’ exquisite gown lay like a lifeless puppet across the bed beside us and the tailor himself paced the ante-chamber, anxiously awaiting the call to come and make last-minute adjustments when the princess was dressed.

‘But we imagined him kind and gentle as well as royal and handsome, did we not?’ said Catherine wistfully. She appeared almost unaware of what her attendants were clothing her in. The prized Venetian mirror stood close at hand, but she had not so much as glanced at her reflection. ‘I suppose little girls can never imagine any other sort of bridegroom.’

Gently I felt under the heavy gold lace hem of the under-skirt for one foot after the other and she put a hand on my shoulder for balance as I pushed them into the slippers. Helped by Alys, Agnes went to collect the filmy wedding gown from the bed. ‘King Henry is chivalrous enough to satisfy any young maid’s dream,’ she observed. ‘He will treat you with honour and respect, I have no doubt.’

‘You may be right.’ Catherine’s voice was muffled by the folds of fabric as the gown was pulled down over her body. Obediently, she held out her arms to allow the two helpers to pull on the separate sleeves. ‘But we did not dream of honour and respect. We dreamed of love. How young and silly we were.’ Over our heads she gazed about the room as the three of us fussed around her. ‘I may never sleep in this chamber again,’ she announced, as if suddenly arriving in the present. ‘Tomorrow we leave for Sens and who knows where King Henry will lead his army after that. I am just so thankful that you are all coming with me. I do not think I could have borne to be without you.’

The decision I had been mulling over for days had been made for me. I had not needed to choose between staying with Alys and going with Catherine, because she had invited Jacques to be her personal tailor and he and Alys had agreed to bring the baby and become part of Catherine’s household, at least for the time being. It had been a massive decision, but for Jacques in particular it was an offer he could not refuse. So the apprentice was to keep the house in the Rue de l’Aiguille ticking over and my little family was to join the wandering caravan that formed the all-conquering English king’s retinue. As to where it would lead us, only time would tell.

I did not attend Catherine’s wedding Mass. Large though it was, the church of St Jean au Marché was no cathedral and by mid-morning it was so crammed with royalty, priests, lords, ladies and courtiers that although Catherine had put me on the guest-list, I knew there would be little chance of my seeing anything through the throng. So, along with Alys and Jacques and a thousand other citizens, I watched from the marketplace as the bride and groom met under a gold canopy at the entrance to the church and exchanged their marriage vows before the Archbishop of Sens and the people of Troyes.

A hushed silence fell while King Henry’s deep, clear voice invoked the Trinity – ‘
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti
, In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost’ – and performed the ritual of sliding the wedding ring over the first and second fingers of Catherine’s left hand, before pushing it firmly down onto the third. I had not yet seen it but Catherine had told me that the ring was fashioned from rare red gold mined in the hills of Wales, Henry’s first royal demesne, and studded with rubies to honour the scarlet and gold of the English sovereign’s three-lion standard. I felt my heart thump in my chest as the realisation hit me that its solid presence on Catherine’s finger symbolised her irrevocable union with this man of immense power whom she scarcely knew. One man of power had already done his best to ruin her life; would this one be the making of it or would the ring prove to be a shackle that fettered her to a future of fear and disappointment? Was the real Henry of Monmouth the kind and compassionate companion of her schoolgirl dreams or a slash and burn creature of the
chevauchée
? Crossing myself, I put up a silent prayer to St Catherine to protect her namesake from further harm.

As the ring slid home, a great cheer went up and the crowd surged against the crossed pikes of the guards ringing the church steps. ‘Long live the Princess Catherine, long live the bride and groom!’ they chanted, their voices swelling louder and louder on a tide of enthusiasm fuelled by the emotion of the ceremony and the spectacle it afforded. King Henry had given Catherine a wedding gift of six milk-white horses to carry her litter and the magnificence of this equipage, combined with the brilliance of King Henry’s escort of knightly retainers, stirred the mass of onlookers into an emotional frenzy which the guards struggled to contain.It was an outward manifestation of my own inner turmoil. It was all so different from the quiet vows Alys and Jacques had exchanged on the steps of this very church not nine months before. Glancing across at them, I saw that their hands were clasped as they relived the moment. But of course the glamorous pair on the church steps today was not just any young couple. When Archbishop Savoisy lifted his hand and waited patiently for silence, he formally presented the newlyweds to the people, using the full list of their honours and titles and it became evident to all that this union was an event that would change the world.

‘Citizens of Troyes, people of France, subjects of our most gracious sovereign King Charles the sixth,’ boomed the prelate, well used to making his voice carry to large congregations. ‘I present to you as man and wife Henry and Catherine, by divine grace King and Queen of England and Ireland, Heir and Heiress of France, Prince and Princess of Wales, Duke and Duchess of Lancaster, Duke and Duchess of Normandy and Duke and Duchess of Guienne. Let those who are joined by God be never divided by man.’

As the cheers erupted once more and the bells of St Jean sounded a joyful peal, I exchanged awestruck glances with Alys. The nervous girl we had dressed that morning and calmed with kind words and kisses was now the queen and consort of a man who could claim dominion over what seemed like half of Christendom.

‘Jacques’ gown looks superb, does it not, Ma?’ Alys shouted proudly above the tumult. She turned to whisper something in her husband’s ear, making Jacques smile and blush, banishing the tenseness and exhaustion which had shadowed his face for the past three weeks.

‘You are indeed a genius, Jacques!’ I declared at the top of my voice, causing several of those nearest in the crush to turn and stare at the bashful young tailor. ‘The gown is a triumph!’

Alys was right, it was a glorious creation, and Catherine looked every inch the queen she had just become. Standing slender and graceful beside her broad-shouldered husband, she shyly acknowledged the crowd’s ovation, her natural and striking beauty dazzlingly offset by the impact of her attire. Jacques’ gown and the mane of flaxen hair spilling down from her jewelled gold coronet made her look like an angel in a gospel illumination.