The Forbidden Queen. Anne O'Brien

burden of instruction would not fall on her as she moved to the cups and flagon set out on the coffer, poured the deep red liquid and held one of the cups out to me. ‘Drink this. It will strengthen your resolve. Rumour says that he is experienced, as he would be at his age, of course. He was a wild youth with strong appetites—he led a notorious life of lust and debauchery, so one hears, until he abandoned his dissolute companions.’

      ‘Oh.’ Obediently I took a sip, then handed the cup to Guille. I did not want it.

      ‘You will not be unwilling or foolishly naïve, Katherine.’

      Would he dislike me if I made my ignorance obvious? That tender new shoot of optimism withered and died.

      ‘What must I not do that is naïve, Madame?’ I forced myself to ask.

      ‘You will not flinch from him. You will not be unmaidenly. You will not show unseemly appetites.’

      Unmaidenly? Unseemly appetites? I was no wiser. Flinching from him seemed to be something I would very readily do. Will he hurt me? I wanted to ask, but rejected so naïve a question. I imagined she would say yes because it would please her.

      ‘Don’t sit there like a lump of carved stone! Do you understand me, Katherine?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘That is good. All he wants from you is a son—more than one for the security of the succession. If you prove fertile, if you breed easily, and there’s no reason that you shouldn’t since I did, then he’ll be quick to leave you alone.’ She frowned, deciding to say more.

      ‘They say that since his father’s death and gaining the English Crown, he has been abstemious. He is not driven by the demands of the body. He’ll not expect you to act the whore. Unless his years of chastity have fired his passions, of course.’ She frowned down at her hands, clasped before her. ‘It may be so. One never knows with men.’

      My inner terrors leapt to a new level. How could I possibly play the whore? And if even my mother was uncertain…‘What does one not know about men?’ I managed.

      ‘Whether they have the appetite of the beast between the sheets.’

      I swallowed. ‘Is it always…unpleasant?

      ‘In my experience, yes.’

      ‘Oh…Did Gaston have the appetite of a beast?’ I asked, remembering a particular flamboyant young courtier ensconced in the Hôtel de St Pol before I engaged my mind, and instantly regretted it. ‘Pardon, Madame.’

      ‘Impertinence does not become you, Katherine,’ Isabeau remarked. ‘All I will say is thank God the King’s madness has drained him of his urges. And one more thing—if Henry brings his associates with him to the bedchamber, don’t cower in the bed. You are a Valois princess. We will tie this proud King to this treaty. Now remove your shift and get into bed.’

      She rounded on Guille, who still stood at my side, as motionless as a rabbit caught in the eye of a hunting stoat, comb in hand. ‘You will strip the bed tomorrow and parcel up the linens. If any one of these proud English should question my daughter’s virginity or her fitness to be the English queen, we will have the proof of it in the bloodstains.’

      I closed my eyes. It would hurt.

      ‘Yes, Majesty.’ Abandoning the comb, Guille folded down the linen, taking a small leather purse from her bosom. Opening the strings, she began to sprinkle the pristine surface with herbs that immediately filled the stuffy room with sharp fragrance.

      ‘What is that?’ Isabeau demanded.

      ‘To ensure conception, Majesty.’

      Isabeau sneered. ‘That will not be necessary. My daughter will do her duty. She will carry a son for England and France within the year.’

      I dared do no other. Stripped of my shift, I slid beneath the covers, pulling them up to my chin, and waited for the sound of approaching footsteps with thoroughly implanted terror, my newborn confidence effectively slain.

      The door opened. I held my breath and closed my eyes—how impossible was it to honour the King of England when lying naked in a bed—until I realised what was missing. The raucous crack of laughter and jokes and crude roistering of the drunken male guests—there was none of it.

      Henry had brought no one with him but the bishop, who proceeded to pace round my bed to sprinkle holy water on both me and the linens that would witness our holy union, and a page, who placed a gold flagon with matching intricately chased cups on the coffer, before quietly departing. When the bishop launched into a wordy prayer for our health and longevity, I glanced through my lashes at Henry, still clad from head to toe in his wedding finery, arms at his sides, head bent, concentrating on the blessing. The candle flames were reflected a thousand times in the jewels that adorned his chest and hands, shimmering as he breathed steadily.

      I wished I were as calm. The bishop came to the end.

      ‘Amen,’ Henry announced, and glanced briefly at me.

      ‘Amen,’ I repeated.

      Smiling with unruffled serenity, the bishop continued, raising his hand to make the sign of the cross, demanding God’s ultimate gift to us in the form of a son. He was in full flow, but I saw the corners of Henry’s mouth tighten. He looked up.

      ‘Enough.’

      It was said gently enough, but the holy words came to a ragged halt, mid-petition. Henry’s orders, clearly, were obeyed without question.

      ‘You may go,’ Henry announced. ‘You can be assured that this hard-won union will be blessed. It is assuredly God’s will to bring peace and prosperity to both our countries.’ He strode to the door and ushered bishop, Queen and Guille out with a respectful bow.

      And I was alone with him at last.

      I watched him as he moved restlessly about the room. He twitched a bed curtain into position, repositioned the cups and flagon on the coffer, cast a log onto the dying embers. When I expected him to approach the bed, he sank to kneel before the prie-dieu, hands loosely clasped, head once more bent, which gave me the opportunity to study him. What did I know about this man that was more than the opinions of others, principally Isabeau? Very little, I decided. Mentally I listed them, dismayed that they made so unimpressive a comment on my new husband as a man.

      He was solemn. He did not smile very much, but became animated when discussing war and fighting. He had been kind to me. His manners were exceptional. God’s guidance meant much to him, as did the power of outward show. Had he not insisted on wedding me with all the ritual of French marriage rites? He was never effusive or beyond self-control. He did not look like a man who was a beast in bed. His portrait was very accurate. Perhaps he was even more handsome: when animated he was breathtakingly good to look at.

      Was that all I could say, from my personal knowledge?

      Henry.

      I tried the name in my mind. His brother had called him Hal. Would I dare do that? I thought not. I thought that I would like to, but I had not yet dared to call him more than my lord.

      Henry made the sign of the cross on his breast, and looked sharply round as if aware that he was under scrutiny, and I found myself blushing again as I lowered my eyes, foolishly embarrassed to be so caught out. Pushing himself to his considerable height, he walked slowly across the room. And then, when he was sitting on the edge of the bed, he allowed his gaze to run over me. I jumped when he put his hand on mine.

      ‘You’re trembling again.’

      To my relief he addressed me in French.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Why?’

      What woman would not tremble on her wedding night? Did he not understand? But he did not seem to me to be insensitive. I sought for a suitable reply that would not make me seem inadequate.

      ‘My mother said you would bring your companions