The Tudor Bride. Joanna Hickson

be off on campaign as soon as a pregnancy was established, I was the one he would hold responsible for nurturing it to a successful conclusion. It was obvious that they both fervently desired each other – you could feel the sexual urgency crackling between them – but while Catherine’s desire for him was artless and emotional, his desire for her was controlled and dynastic – or so I thought …

      I took a seat in the shadows beside the fireplace hood where I could not see or be seen by the two diners, but it was not long before I leaped up again in response to a loud bellow from the king.

      ‘Guillaumette! Where are you when we need you? Come and unlace this tiresome gown!’

      The sunset gown was beautiful to behold, but needed the services of a maid to release the wearer from its clutches. I hurried to perform the task, pulling the gold laces from their hooks as quickly as I could while the squire Robin took the narrow stair down from the minstrel’s gallery two steps at a time to come to the aid of the king. Nothing was said but the king and Catherine never took their eyes off each other as we undressed them and when they were both reduced to their chemises, King Henry gathered his queen in his arms and almost threw her onto the embroidered silk cover of the great tester bed. The squire and I had scarcely managed to give them the privacy of the crimson curtains before we heard the urgent sounds of passionate love-making. We exchanged wry glances and while he hastened to set a reviving flagon of wine and accompanying cups on a side table, I retired to the hearth to stoke up the fire. As I stirred the embers and sent sparks flying with fresh logs, I could not suppress a gurgle of mirth, picturing my incendiary task as a metaphor for what was taking place only yards away behind the drawn bed-curtains. A few days and nights of this, I thought with an indulgent smile, and England would soon have its longed-for heir.

       6

      For three days and nights, the king and queen scarcely left the confines of the hall with its blazing fire and accommodating bed. Soon after dawn on the first morning, I took it upon myself to commandeer the boat and boatman to take me across the lake to fetch fresh clothes and other necessities for Catherine and we returned with a priest and the clerk, Walter Vintner, his scrip full of letters and documents for King Henry’s attention. Fragrant new loaves from the castle bake-house, milk and cheese from the dairy and a large basket of fruit and vegetables had also been loaded on board, an indication that the king would not be leaving imminently, and who could blame him?

      During the return journey, being privy to the royal itinerary, young Walter proved a fruitful source of information. ‘The king intends to visit Coventry and Leicester while he is at Kenilworth and the queen is to go with him. They will stay on here until after Easter and then they are to make a progress through the northern shires. I hope you will not suffering unduly from all that riding, Madame.’ A mischievous grin crossed the young clerk’s face.

      I shot him an indignant glare. ‘It is not I who bears the strain, Master Walter, it is my stalwart mare. Perhaps on your return to the castle you might be kind enough to check that Genevieve is well tended in the stables.’

      ‘No need, Madame. I went there last night to check my own cob and met Lady Joan Beaufort, who told me she had been speaking to the stable master about all the queen’s horses, so I think you may be reassured on that score.’

      I was impressed. ‘I will tell the queen that her youngest maid of honour shows great initiative. Although I am afraid it may only confirm her opinion that Lady Joan cares too much for horses.’

      Walter made an appreciative noise. ‘She is a beauty though, is she not, Madame? Many a young squire would be happy to loosen her girths!’

      I glanced at the priest’s back, straight and prim on the forward thwart and wondered if he had heard the last remark. ‘Whoa Master Vintner!’ I murmured reprovingly. ‘Lady Joan is the king’s cousin and destined for a great match. You had best keep your eyes down if you value your position!’

      He had the grace to look a little sheepish. ‘I was just saying … I do not aspire to a high-born love, I assure you. However, if I did, I would pick Lady Joan over that Eleanor Cobham. She is another beauty right enough, but I reckon she would be a handful – and I do not mean in a buxom way!’

      I decided there and then that it was time Master Vintner found himself a wife and wondered if he had a sweetheart at home in London. A position like his in the royal household did not lend itself to a steady domestic life and I knew that many of the courtiers in the king’s retinue made use of the whores who were allowed to follow at the back of the train if they submitted themselves to the court physicians for regular health checks. My curiosity did not extend to questioning Walter on this matter however.

      The royal couple were still abed when we returned, giving time for breakfast to be prepared and warm water to be brought for washing. After dressing quickly, the king spent half an hour with his clerk in an adjoining chamber while Catherine stood before the fire in a dreamy reverie, allowing me to dress her in a simple kirtle and warm fur-lined over-dress of the sort the English called a côte-hardie; a very French name for a garment which I had never seen worn in Paris, at least not by a woman. I had acquired it for Catherine in London, thinking it a practical style for informal wear.

      It was not until she was fully clothed that she even noticed her apparel but then she commented on it. ‘Is this new, Mette? I have not seen it before.’

      ‘Yes, Mademoiselle. It is an English style. A little old-fashioned, perhaps, but I thought it suitable.’

      She fingered the fine cornflower-blue wool. ‘It is a pretty colour but why now, particularly?’

      I gave a casual shrug. ‘You may notice that it has no lacing at the back.’

      A sly glance showed me that she was digesting the significance of this remark. Then an irrepressible giggle burst forth, which soon developed into a lusty laugh. ‘Oh, Mette, you are a rogue!’ she cried when she could speak. ‘Sometimes I think you forget that I am a queen.’

      ‘Only when you do yourself, Mademoiselle,’ I assured her. ‘Which is when you are happy – as you were last night, unless I am very much mistaken?’

      ‘No, Mette, you are not mistaken,’ she admitted twisting to and fro, trying to find a fastening in the loose garment which skimmed the hips and had characteristically wide arm-holes. ‘But I will be even happier when I discover how I get out of this.’

      I moved forward to unfasten the plaited silk girdle around her hips. ‘Undo this and just lift it over your head,’ I explained. ‘Or get your lover to do it for you,’ I added with a twinkle.

      She gave me a reproachful look. ‘My husband, Mette,’ she corrected primly. ‘King Henry is my husband.’

      I assumed a suitably contrite expression. ‘Forgive me, Mademoiselle. Last night I mistook him for your lover and I hope to do so again tonight.’

      I could see her wrestling with herself, undecided whether to chastise me or to concur. I hoped she would soon discover an ability to be both queen and coquette.

      She and her lover-king settled into a relaxed companionship which lasted until Easter. It was interrupted by an official two-day visit to Coventry, when they were fêted and entertained and Catherine’s beauty and charm loosened the purse-strings of the rich merchant guilds so that the king’s campaign coffers were much replenished as a result. They returned to the Pleasance and a few more days of private indulgence before taking up residence in the formality of the castle to celebrate the feast of Easter with the rest of the court.

      When we finally left Kenilworth, the royal household took up a nomad existence, heading north and riding a minimum of twenty miles a day. King Henry was an impatient traveller and tended to push the timetable to the limit. An overnight stay would always include an official dinner with opportunities either for fund-raising and recruitment or a visit to a chapel or shrine. By the time we reached York, a hundred and twenty miles north of Kenilworth, we had visited ten cold, grey shire towns and