The Tudor Bride. Joanna Hickson

we went he would assess the lie of the land and devise imaginary battle plans. If he had lived he would have made a good general.’ Her face fell as she said this. ‘France could have done with a dauphin capable of fighting a war.’

      ‘Yes, we could,’ agreed Catherine thoughtfully. ‘That is why Henry is now the Heir of France rather than Charles.’ A brief silence fell between them while she made a few token stitches in her embroidery, which had otherwise lain abandoned on her lap. Then she added, ‘This may sound an impertinent question, Madame, but did you become fond of Jean?’

      Jacqueline gave her a keen glance. ‘No, not really, he was not sympathique, as you know. But we understood each other. That was the advantage of growing up together. Moreover he was more interested in knightly pursuits than those of the bedchamber and so he was more like my brother than my husband. In truth I mourned him as a brother when he died.’

      ‘His death must have been a terrible shock. He was only eighteen, was he not? It certainly it took us all by surprise in Paris. It was so sudden. Did he suffer greatly?’

      A shadow seemed to cross the duchess’s face. ‘Yes he did. There was some bubo or tumour in his ear and it pressed on his brain they said. I sat with him while the doctors tried to relieve the pain with the most terrible treatments, which he fought against like a madman. In short he screamed and groaned until he was utterly exhausted and then he fell back dead. It was truly horrible.’ She sat back white-faced at the memory, which still obviously haunted her.

      ‘But it does not sound as if he was poisoned, as some people suggested,’ Catherine said gently. ‘Did the doctors suspect any foul play?’

      Jacqueline shook her head. ‘No, not at the time, although some of our courtiers spread rumours about witchcraft or sorcery, but no names were ever spoken.’

      ‘There were rumours like that when Louis died, but I was always certain that he drank himself to death. And now there is only Charles left, the last of our mother’s five sons.’ Catherine dropped her voice and glanced around at her ladies, most of whom were quietly squabbling over embroidery silks in a far corner. ‘But we do not speak of him outside this room, especially since his forces killed my lord the king’s brother. You met Charles once though, did you not?’

      Jacqueline gave a brief laugh. ‘Yes. Charles came to try and persuade his brother to kiss his father’s hand, but Jean would not go to Paris. Actually Charles did not try very hard to make him. They discovered that they both hated their mother – your mother – and did not trust her. Jean declared openly that she said one thing and did another.’

      ‘Well, he was right there,’ observed Catherine dryly. ‘Yet he trusted Jean the Fearless, which I find incomprehensible.’

      Jacqueline visibly shuddered. ‘It was. I think he admired his ruthlessness. Your brother would have been a ruthless ruler too, if he had lived. At least he had all his wits, unlike my brute of a cousin of Brabant, whom I was forced to marry after your brother died. That marriage was Jean the Fearless’s doing too. I was drugged and dragged to the altar.’ Her full lips were pressed together into a thin line and the next words were forced through her teeth. ‘Jean of Burgundy was a man of whom it is impossible to speak well, even though he is dead.’

      I quickly rolled my eyes at Catherine in silent warning, but she was discreet in her response, sensibly giving no hint of her own extreme and justified abhorrence of the murdered duke. ‘How much you have suffered,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Life in Brabant must have been unbearable if you were forced to flee in terror – even from your own mother.’

      ‘They all conspire to take my lands,’ insisted Jacqueline bitterly. ‘My mother, my uncle and my cousin all blatantly seek the expansion of Burgundy’s territories. I am without friends save for his grace, your husband. King Henry is the only man of power to embrace my cause. I am eternally grateful to him and the Duke of Gloucester.’

      ‘Yes, you and Humphrey have had time to become well acquainted, being snowed up together as you were, and he brought his little protégée to your notice too.’ She cast a glance at Eleanor, who sat a little removed from the other young ladies across the chamber. ‘She is something of a beauty your new companion, is she not?’

      The duchess laughed happily. ‘Oh yes – and quite delightful; so accomplished for her age and very bright. Of course I will seek other attendants too, but I know already that she will be of particular help to me.’

      Even though she sat apart from the conversation, Eleanor must have been listening intently to hear what was said about her for I saw her lips twitch in a secret, self-satisfied smile. Suddenly I felt a surge of relief that she had entered service with the duchess and would therefore presumably no longer be in line to join Catherine’s household. Beautiful though she was, with all the lustre of youth, there was something deeply troubling about Eleanor Cobham.

      By the time the herald trumpets sounded, the St George’s Day tournament had been delayed by two weeks. It was well into May when the Knights of the Garter attended their solemn re-dedication service in the castle chapel before donning their burnished armour and parading on horseback around the Upper Court acknowledging the cheers of a large crowd of courtiers and any townsfolk who could wangle an entry by bribery or civic rank. King Henry led the parade, followed by the Duke of Gloucester and the ten other distinguished members of the order of Knights of the Garter who were not fighting in France, were indisposed or had died in the last year. In view of these restrictions it seemed a good turnout.

      It was the first time I had ever had a grandstand view of a tournament. The royal box had been erected in front of St George’s Hall and lavishly decorated with banners and spring flowers. Queen Catherine sat enthroned between her new friend Jacqueline of Hainault and Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, while I sat at the back among her ladies, pinching myself and wondering whether, nineteen years ago, my mother could ever have envisaged me in this position when she hired me out, red-eyed from the loss of my stillborn son, to be a wet-nurse to the Queen of France’s new baby girl. ‘It is a good opportunity, Mette,’ she had said encouragingly. ‘It will be hard at first, but who knows where it could lead?’ I stroked the fine cloth of my sleek slate-blue worsted gown and concluded that even in her wildest dreams she could not have conjured this eventuality.

      King Henry was to open the tourney with a formal tilt against his brother, but before they rode to their respective ends of the lists, a trumpeter blew a loud blast and Windsor Herald called the crowd to attention in a sonorous, carrying voice.

      ‘Your Graces, My Lords, Ladies and Knights of the Garter, and all the king’s subjects here present, pray silence for joyful news. Our most puissant King Henry, the greatest knight in Christendom, and his fair Queen Catherine have commanded me to announce that an heir to the thrones of England and France is expected during Advent. And so, God willing, at Christmastide, England and France will celebrate the coming of both the Christ-child and a newborn prince. God save the king and God save Queen Catherine!’

      Another trumpet flourish resounded at the end of the herald’s announcement and cheers swelled from among the crowds in the stands. The tilt ground was not a vast arena and the enclosing walls of the castle seemed to shake with the shouts of joy and celebration. Then the bells began to ring, first from the Curfew Tower in the Lower Ward, from which the carillon was taken up by all the church bells in the town of Windsor. Vibrations seemed to shake the clear blue arc of the spring sky and speech became impossible against the tumult of echoing chimes. In the royal box we all burst into spontaneous applause and Catherine stood to acknowledge the enthusiastic greetings that were offered from every side. Blushing prettily, she reached into the floral display before her and plucked an early red rose bud from the garland, leaning over the rail to proffer it to King Henry, whose charger pranced impatiently, agitated by the bells, stirring the sand with its hooves. Controlling his horse with one hand, the king reached over to take the bloom from his wife with a broad smile of pleasure, kissed its tightly curled petals and tucked it into the shoulder joint of his glinting suit of armour, where it nodded jauntily. The red rose was a badge of Lancaster and the king’s delighted smile acknowledged her subtle intention to mark the budding of a new flower of the Lancastrian tree.