The Tudor Bride. Joanna Hickson

right hand as he grasped his brother’s with the left.

      ‘A hearty welcome to both your graces!’ He pressed his lips to the king’s ring, but raised his eyes not to his brother’s face but to Catherine’s. ‘England waits with bated breath to greet its beautiful French queen.’

      A faint flush stained Catherine’s cheeks, but she remained straight-faced under the impact of Gloucester’s dazzling smile. If the duke’s youth had been in any way misspent, it did not show. I believe few men of thirty could boast such a fine, full set of white teeth as that smile revealed. His face was clean-shaven, smooth and unblemished, in striking contrast with the scarred and care-lined visage of the king, only five years his senior.

      ‘We hear you have a ceremonial welcome planned for us, brother.’ King Henry raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘We are to be carried shoulder high through the surf.’

      Gloucester appeared reluctant to drag his gaze from Catherine’s face. ‘Indeed, sire, as is customary for people of great rank and honour. You will be pleased to hear that the surf has dwindled to friendly ripples now though. You may remember that we welcomed Emperor Sigismund to these shores with the Wardens’ lift. We can do no less to honour the return of the glorious and victorious King of England and France – and the advent of his beauteous queen – than was appropriate for a visiting Holy Roman Emperor.’

      King Henry frowned. ‘It is ill-judged, Humphrey, to place the crown of France on my head while the father of my queen still lives.’ He made an irritable upward movement with his hand. ‘But rise, brother, if only to explain how we are to enter these chairs of yours without getting wet. As you know, I have always avoided such mummery in the past.’

      When he rose, Gloucester stood almost as tall as the king and a head taller than Catherine. ‘A simple matter, sire!’ he declared, gesturing over the side of the ship. ‘The litters are fastened ready, there on my galley. The captain will bring the ship as near to the shore as he may, the gangway will be lowered onto the galley and you and Madame, the queen, will walk regally down it. Once safely seated, you will be rowed towards the shore until the water is shallow enough for your Wardens to wade in, take the litters on their shoulders and bear them ceremoniously up the beach. The trumpets will sound, the musicians will play and the crowds will cheer. When he can make himself heard, the Lord Warden – my humble self – will make a speech of welcome, then your litters will be lifted shoulder high once more for the short journey to the castle.’

      ‘And do I have your solemn word that there is no question of either of us receiving a ducking?’ The king favoured his brother with a fiercely narrowed gaze.

      Gloucester made an appreciative gesture in Catherine’s direction. ‘Her grace appears to be made of fairy dust, my lord. I would wager we could carry her from Dover to London without effort. As for your grace’s royal person, it can surely rely on divine protection to remain dry.’

      ‘Hmm.’ King Henry grunted non-committally.

      Catherine suddenly favoured Gloucester with one of her most regal smiles and surprised him by speaking in charming broken English, her voice light but firm. ‘My lord of Gloucester is gracious to honour us with this ceremony, but should I not also descend from the chair and set my foot on English soil?’ She turned to the king. ‘Perhaps we could walk to the castle, my lord? It does not look far. The people will the better have a sight of us.’

      King Henry shot a sharp glance at his brother, who shook his head almost imperceptibly and said hastily, ‘That might be unwise, Madame. It is a steep climb. But Madame will have the opportunity to set foot on English soil when she reaches the town gate. There, the mayor of Dover waits to present you with the freedom of the town. I can assure you that the populace is out to greet you. Walking anywhere would render your graces susceptible to the attentions of over-eager citizens in the narrow streets, and besides we go in procession to the castle. Teams of hand-picked burghers are waiting to shoulder your chairs, and I think when you witness the exuberance of our English crowds you will understand the need for being raised above the common herd. Also, I trust you will forgive the coarseness of the people’s greetings. They will doubtless shout “Fair Kate!” as you pass. It is not meant to offend, but to please. Fair is in praise of your beauty and Kate is a shortening of your name.’

      ‘The king has told me this. If they think me fair before they have properly seen me, such blind devotion cannot be deemed … how do you say? … an insult,’ responded Catherine with a smile. ‘And if they call me fair, how can I then not like the name they give me?’

      I watched Gloucester bow deeply to Catherine and thought I saw a spark of recognition in his eyes, as if he realised that, like him, she possessed a keen appreciation of the importance of public acclaim. ‘You are a lady of great wisdom, Madame. And you are to be congratulated on your grasp of English. Is she not, brother?’

      King Henry directed one of his rare smiles at Catherine. ‘You will find that my queen grasps many things quickly, Humphrey, including the strategic value of flattery. Now, let us get this adventurous journey started. I think you will need help in mounting the chair-litter, Catherine, however much my brother makes light of the matter! You should summon your attendants.’

      There were only three of us to summon because all but one of Catherine’s French ladies-in-waiting had been left with their families in France. The exception was the devout and practical Agnes de Blagny, a knight’s daughter who had been orphaned and impoverished by her father’s death at the Battle of Agincourt. She had come to the French court with Catherine from their convent school, where they had been close friends. The other attendant was a young English beauty, Joan Beaufort, daughter of the Duchess of Clarence and step-daughter of King Henry’s brother Thomas, Duke of Clarence. The duchess was also accompanying Catherine to England to instruct her in the protocol of the English court. At nineteen and fourteen years old respectively, my two colleagues in attendance on the new queen were better suited, I willingly admitted, to help Catherine down the gangway and onto the gilded chair-litter that was roped tightly to the bobbing galley. Being the same age as the English king, I am not suggesting I was over the hill in any way, but I confess that my thirty-four years had broadened my beam and made me less agile than my younger companions. However, I think I can safely say that my relationship with Queen Catherine ran closer and deeper than that of any teenage court damsel, for I had suckled her as a babe, nursed her as an infant and steered her through a profoundly troubled girlhood. She had left her mother, Queen Isabeau, in Paris without a second thought, but in order to bring me with her to England she had raised me from the rank of menial servant and given me a courtier’s post as one of her closest confidantes. I had journeyed a long way from my father’s bakery on the banks of the Seine.

      I bustled behind Agnes and Joan, directing proceedings as they did all the bending and tugging, easing the queen’s voluminous skirts down the narrow gangway. The king and the duke handed her into the galley and the girls helped her into the litter, tucking the folds of her costly gown around her feet to keep it clear of the water.

      As the galley drew nearer to the beach, seven men wearing short doublets and thigh-high bottins started to wade out towards us, the wavelets lapping first at their leather-clad ankles and then rising up their shins. The shingle shelved very gradually and they were a good thirty yards offshore before we came alongside them, at which point the Duke of Gloucester stood up and leaped casually over the side, landing up to his thighs and causing a mighty splash. Muttering under my breath, I hastily brushed the water drops from Catherine’s fine worsted skirts as the rowers shipped their oars and those nearest to the chair-litters began to untie the ropes attaching them to the galley.

      ‘Have no fear, my beautiful queen,’ Gloucester said as the galley rocked turbulently, unbalanced by the rowers’ efforts to heave Catherine’s litter over the side and onto the shoulders of the bearers. ‘Archbishop Chichele was our last carry and he is twice your weight.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the other three men in his team and signalled with his free arm. ‘Forward, fellow wardens!’

      As they began moving, I saw Catherine raise her chin, summon a fixed smile and lift one hand to wave to the crowd. On the other side of the galley, King Henry was already shore-bound.

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