The Forbidden Queen. Anne O'BrienЧитать онлайн книгу.
love you if you were my wife.’
My face flushed brightly, my breath caught in my throat.
‘Really?’ I knew I was ingenuous, but how could I not respond to such unexpected admiration? ‘How kind you are.’
I smiled at James, and he smiled back at me. From that moment he became a welcome addition to my battlefield household, which was further enhanced by the arrival of Dame Alice Botillier, her husband and full-grown son both being in Henry’s service.
Her role became something between nurse and superior tirewoman, her position arranged by Henry to promote my well-being and to care for me when I became pregnant. Stern and acerbic, every inch of her tall figure encased in austere black with a crisp white coif as if she had taken holy vows, I found her presence agreeable, although her first words were caustic enough.
‘There’s not enough flesh on your bones, my lady, to feed a starving lion. If you are to carry a child, we must build you up.’
‘If I am to carry a child, I need to see more of my husband,’ I replied crossly. Henry had been absent for almost a week.
Alice pursed her lips. ‘I expect he does his best in the circumstances.’
Her reply warned me that I must take care never to be openly critical of my heroic husband. The loyalty of the English to their masterful king was chiselled in granite, like the blank-eyed statues on Westminster Abbey. Accepting my silence as compliance, Alice dosed me with an infusion of feverfew, the yellow-centred white flowers gathered from the hedgerows.
‘If the King is to plant his seed, the earth must be rich and strong to nurture it.’
I shuddered at the rank smell.
‘Drink up! This will heat your belly and your blood. You’ll carry a child in no time.’
At a lull in the siege operations, Henry planted his seed with thorough attention to detail. I prayed fervently for a satisfactory result.
‘Are you happy here?’ Henry asked as he pulled on his boots and reached across the bed to retrieve his sword. There had not been much in the way of undressing, time being at a premium.
Happy? I did not think I was, but neither was I unhappy. Lonely, yes, but less so in the company of the splendidly garrulous Scottish King. My facility with English was improving in leaps and bounds, as James would say.
‘I am not unhappy,’ I offered, regretting my nervousness, wishing that I could be more loquacious in my stern husband’s company.
‘Good. I would not wish that.’
It had the effect of a warm caress, and encouraged by it I touched his wrist. Henry stroked his hand along the length of my hair.
‘A child will bring you happiness,’ he observed. And then: ‘You’re not afraid of me, are you?’
‘Afraid?’ My cheeks became a puzzled pink.
‘I have never yet beaten a wife.’
His humour was heavy but I laughed and reached up to kiss his cheek. Henry appeared surprised. His mouth was firm, his embrace strong and, abandoning the sword and any thought of returning to the fray quite yet, his renewed possession of me was more than flattering.
‘Pray for a son, Katherine. Pray for an heir for England.’
And I did, fervently. And that Henry would miraculously fall in love with me if I could laugh with him and fulfil this apex of his desire. While I was thus engaged in bright thoughts of the future, Melun fell at last. Rejoicing, I tolerated Alice’s astringent draughts, dressed with care, and was unpacking the harps when Henry arrived.
‘We leave tomorrow,’ he announced.
‘Where are we going? To England?’
Mentally repacking the harps, I experienced a sudden desire to see my new country. To settle into a new home where I might raise my children and have some time for what could pass for a normal wedded life even if I was a queen. Henry was preoccupied, reading a letter just delivered.
‘Do we go to England?’ I persisted.
‘Paris first,’ he said. His eyes gleamed. He must have seen my doleful expression for, surprising me, he wound an arm around my waist and drew me close, rubbing his face against my hair. ‘You will enjoy going home to Paris. We’ll celebrate our victory, and put on a show for the citizens.’ He kissed my mouth with obvious passion, perhaps for me as well as for his victory. ‘And then we will return to England. To celebrate our triumph. Perhaps we’ll have a child to celebrate too.’
It was lightly said, but I could feel the beat of his blood under my palm, and I felt a blossoming of incipient joy within me. Of anticipation for a love that would surely mature and develop between us. This would be the real beginning of my marriage, when we were in England, when we would be able to spend time together, to grow to know each other.
I laughed, making Henry smile too.
‘I would like very much to go to England. I’m sure I will quicken soon.’
CHAPTER FOUR
London, England: February 1421.
‘I don’t want that tradition, my lord. I would like you to stand with me.’
‘There is no need to be emotional, Katherine.’
Our first disagreement on English soil. Our first full-scale quarrel because, instead of my habitual, careful dissimulation, I said the first words that came into my head.
‘What do you wear for this occasion?’ I had asked, surprised at the informality of Henry’s tunic and hose when I was clad from head to foot in leopards, fleur-de-lys and ermine. I stood before him, arms lifted to display my finery, as he broke his fast with a hearty appetite in our private chamber. It had taken an hour for my damsels—Beatrice, Meg, Cecily and Joan—to dress me. Now Henry and I were alone.
‘Do you not have a part to play in this?’
‘No.’ Henry looked up from a platter of venison, knife poised. ‘I won’t be there.’
‘Why not?’
‘It is your day. I’ll not take the honour from you.’
I tensed against a tremor of anxiety. I would have to face this shattering ordeal on my own. Already I felt perspiration on my brow and along my spine beneath the heavy fur. Would I ever be able to face such public display with the equanimity that Henry displayed? I did not think so.
‘If I asked you to come with me,’ I tried, ‘would you?’
Henry shook his head. ‘It is the tradition. A King does not attend his Queen’s coronation.’
‘But I don’t want that tradition, my lord. I would like you to stand with me.’
I heard the quiver in my voice, flinched at the formality I still clung to in moments of fear, as I envisaged the hours of ceremonial that I would have to face alone. So did Henry hear it.
‘There is no need to be emotional, Katherine.’
‘I am emotional.’
I felt as if I was being been abandoned in a cold and friendless place, a lamb to the slaughter. I had left the country of my birth with my sister’s ring, a portrait of Henry given to me by Lord John and a desire in my heart to prove myself worthy of my husband’s regard. At first I had looked to Henry, but he had his own affairs and his own manner of dealing with them.
Hardly had we set foot on English soil than it was writ plain. He left me at Canterbury, going on ahead to prepare my reception in London. I wished he hadn’t. I would rather forgo the reception and have him with me. The constant critical concern over my presence, my appearance, my knowledge of how I should comport myself, unnerved and baffled me.
Henry