The Tudor Bride. Joanna Hickson

his standard bearer Sir Louis Robsart and the Earl Marshall, Sir Thomas Mowbray, who both now entered the arena on foot bearing spurs and a sword and escorting King James of Scotland modestly dressed in a white jupon, black hose and red shoes. King Henry’s intention was to personally confer the accolade of knighthood on his fellow monarch prior to allowing emissaries at last to enter into negotiations over the Scottish king’s ransom from his prolonged captivity in England. Catherine had expressed a wish to see this ceremony and so it had been decided that it should be performed at the start of the tournament.

      Out of interest I kept one eye on Lady Joan as her professed suitor crossed the sand; predictably her eyes were bright with excitement. Meanwhile Joanna Coucy made an accurate but to my mind unnecessary observation.

      ‘He is somewhat old to be receiving a knighthood, is he not? I thought twenty-one was the usual age. The King of Scots must be all of twenty-five or six. It does not say much for his fighting skills if he has had to wait until now to be dubbed.’

      Lady Joan rounded on her fellow lady-in-waiting with an indignant glare. ‘He has not exactly had an upbringing of the usual kind!’ she exclaimed. ‘How would you like to be held for ransom for fifteen years? The old king refused to let him have instruction in the use of arms in case he employed them against Englishmen. He only started his training for knighthood under King Henry, who seems to think he has succeeded, even if you do not!’

      Joanna Coucy glared back. ‘Well! You are very quick to defend him, Joan! I wonder why?’

      ‘Hush,’ I cautioned, leaning from behind to push my face between them with a frown. ‘King James at least deserves your attention at this important moment in his life.’

      Lady Joan turned back instantly to watch the proceedings, but Joanna Coucy continued to stare at me balefully. ‘Your title is Keeper of the Queen’s Robes, Madame Lanière, not Keeper of the Queen’s Damsels. What makes you think you have any authority over me?’

      Hiding my angry reaction I said quietly and with a pleasant smile, ‘Seniority,’ and put my finger against my lips. As I averted my gaze to the lists I could not help noticing that the Duchess of Hainault had turned in her chair to watch and listen to this exchange. Her eyes were narrowed, as if she pondered a question of profound significance.

      A silk carpet had been laid on the sand of the tourney ground and King James was now kneeling before King Henry, who had dismounted and taken the great two-handed sword of Edward the Confessor from his Leopard Herald. Stepping forward he raised the heavy weapon and delivered the accolade of knighthood by three firm taps on the royal squire’s shoulders. ‘James Stewart soyez chevalier – be you knight!’ he declared in a loud, clear voice. ‘Be true to God and guard your honour.’

      After a solemn pause, King James rose and the two monarchs kissed each other on the cheek in brotherly acknowledgement, while each of the Scot’s two distinguished sponsors knelt to buckle a polished spur around his ankles. When the sword of knighthood, safe in its scabbard, had been slung from his knightly girdle, they then took him by the arms and turned him to face his fellow knights gathered at the Herald’s Gate, whereupon they put up a rousing cheer which was echoed by King Henry and the Duke of Gloucester, who was still mounted at the far end of the lists. Beside me Lady Joan clapped excitedly, tears of admiration glinting in her eyes.

       10

      Genevieve flicked her ears irritably and drops of water flew off to join the misty drizzle that seemed to penetrate every seam of our clothing. It was a whole day’s ride from Windsor to London and within half an hour of setting out, we were wet through to the skin. I had been looking forward to this trip with Walter Vintner as an opportunity to escape the restrictive confines of the castle and breathe the fresh air of the countryside, but I had reckoned without the English weather. After the late snow and thaw, the road was still fetlock deep in mud. We tried as much as possible to avoid the boggiest stretches by riding on the verges, but they were soft also and Genevieve was as miserable as I was, slipping and sliding and pecking so that I was hard put to stay in the saddle. Riding single file with our hoods pulled well down over our heads, it was a morose journey, and no pleasant conversation was possible. It was not until we stopped to rest the horses and restore ourselves at a tavern in Hounslow that there was any opportunity for communication.

      ‘Normally I would expect to make it as far as Chiswick by midday at this time of year,’ Walter grumbled. ‘The Swan Inn there always has a hearty welcome for us since it buys wine from our family vintry.’ He looked around the crowded low-beamed room where we sat crammed into a corner, unable to get near enough to the fire to dry our sodden clothes. ‘This place is run by a mean-spirited bunch of monks from the local priory and their trademark is weak ale and tasteless pottage. And look at that fire, not enough heat to dry a kerchief.’

      ‘At least the roof is not leaking,’ I observed with a wry smile. ‘We will not get any wetter for the time being. And we look so poor and bedraggled that no one will try to overcharge us.’

      Walter gave me a lop-sided grin. ‘I did not think there could be a bright side but you found one. That is the mark of a good travelling companion.’

      ‘Thank you, kind sir,’ I smiled back. ‘I am just happy to be out of the rain for a while.’

      ‘Perhaps when we set out again it will have stopped,’ suggested Walter.

      ‘Ah – optimism!’ I cried. ‘You see, you too are a good travelling companion.’

      The pot boy brought us ale and, as Walter had predicted, it was weak but not sour and the pottage, when it came, was actually quite tasty, well-seasoned and laced with herbs and scraps of meat. It served its purpose, which was to warm us up and fortify us for another long ride. Providing the horses had been as satisfactorily cared for, all should be well and, to our delight, when we stepped out into the stable yard the rain had stopped and a watery sun stood high in the sky.

      ‘Now we might reach London before curfew,’ said Walter, taking Genevieve’s reins from the ostler and helping me to mount. ‘It pays to be optimistic.’

      At last able to ride with my hood back, I settled in the saddle and began to look around me. We were travelling east on the Great Western Road out of London and a steady procession of traffic came against us. Mule-carts and hand-carts, many of them empty, were returning to the vegetable gardens and poultry farms of the Thames valley having sold their loads of roots, onions, chickens, ducks, geese and eggs in the city markets. Well-guarded strings of laden pack-horses plodded steadily at the start of their journey to the ports of Bristol and Exeter and the occasional sound of a horn heralded a knight or nobleman with his posse of retainers, bidding us to clear the road to give him passage. We passed through a series of villages until the road once more met the River Thames at Chiswick and became even more crowded as the spires and towers of Westminster grew clearer in our sights.

      We skirted the palace and abbey to the north and it was very slow going on the stretch between there and the London wall, but the sun had dried us out and I was comfortable enough to be fascinated by the sights. This loop of the Thames was, like the stretch of the Seine between the Grand Pont and the Hôtel de St Pol in Paris, the chosen location for the city residences of a number of nobles and bishops, close to both the merchant hub and the centre of royal power that was the palace of Westminster. These mansions were well-protected by high walls and gatehouses, but often the gates were open and it was possible to catch a glimpse of the busy courtyards within, noisy with the clatter of horses hooves and the shouts of servants and varlets bustling through doors and arches.

      ‘This road will take us to the Ludgate,’ Walter shouted above the rattle of iron-bound wheels on a passing cart. ‘Let us hope there is not too much of a queue.’

      ‘Why, when is the curfew?’ I yelled back.

      ‘Not until after the Compline bell, so we should get through before dark. Then it is not far to Tun Lane.’

      Walter had very kindly invited me to stay at his