The Forbidden Queen. Anne O'Brien

his mouth was set in an uncompromising line of distaste, and not for the first time I wished that my mother had been more circumspect in her amorous dealings. My heart sank but I would not pretend what I did not know. Fear crept steadily back to engulf me, like a winter fog rolling across bleak and chilly water meadows.

      ‘No,’ I announced. I thought he sighed again. ‘She said you were so experienced that it would not matter that I had none and was raised in a convent.’ And I found within me a sudden desire to shake him out of his cold self-possession. I gulped a mouthful of wine. ‘She said that you had led a dissolute life.’ Nerves—and wine—made me indiscreet. Anything to prolong the time until he joined me in the bed. By now I was trembling uncontrollably.

      ‘She said you had spent a life of lust and debauchery—before you became king, that is, and abandoned your companions.’

      ‘You should not believe all you hear,’ he replied, and, although his response was even, I thought I had displeased him.

      ‘Did you?’ I asked.

      ‘Did I what?’

      ‘Abandon your companions.’ I had never had any companions to abandon.

      ‘Yes. It was necessary. They were not to my advantage.’

      I drank again, summoning all my false courage as my head swam a little with the warm fumes of the excellent Bordeaux. ‘Am I? Am I to your advantage?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘A royal virgin with a dowry of inestimable value.’

      His gaze moved steadily over my face. ‘I did not know that we were going to talk of politics.’

      ‘I know nothing else to talk about. I have run out of subjects.’

      ‘And drunk too much wine, I think.’ He took the cup from me, but his voice was gentle.

      ‘I don’t feel drunk,’ I said consideringly. ‘Do I need to talk of anything else?’

      ‘You don’t need to talk at all.’ And he pinched out the candles.

      I valued the darkness. It was, at the moment when I became Henry’s wife in the flesh, an experience that I was not at all sure I wished to repeat. The best I could say was that it was brief.

      What did I recall of it?

      Pain, of course: the physical invasion; the weight of his body on mine so that I felt crushed to the bed. But was that not the lot of all virgins? But then there was the uncomfortable unpleasantness of it all that made me squirm. My mother would have her stained sheets, and I supposed I would, with time and frequency, become used to it. And I remembered the overwhelmingness of it: the heat; the slide of his hands, roughly calloused, when he made himself master of me. There was the power of his hard-muscled, soldier’s body that allowed me no time to catch my breath.

      And there was the strange silence, apart from Henry’s heightened breathing as he took his pleasure. Henry spoke not one word to me during the whole event. I recalled no pleasure, on his part or mine. It was, I decided, all very prosaic and unembellished.

      Well, what did you expect? my mind queried fretfully as Henry withdrew, removed his weight and sank his face in the pillow beside me. I had expected some romance, in the manner of the troubadours, some soft words, even if untrue, to engage my emotions. Some caresses, heated kisses, tender encouragement, not a silent assault delivered with cool skill, driving towards a desired outcome. I would 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