A bleak fury raged within me, a desolation so deep that I should ever have thought that he could love me. He did not. He never had, he never would. Even affection seemed to be beyond what he could give me. He could play the chivalrous prince and woo me with fine words, he could possess my body with breathtaking thoroughness, but his emotions were not involved. His heart was as coldly controlled as his outer appearance.
And—the anger burned even brighter—he had judged me to be nothing more than an empty-headed idiot, incapable of comprehending the difficulties of his foreign policies or the extent of his own ambitions. I was an ill-informed woman who had little wit and could not be expected to take an interest. I may have been ill informed when he first met me, but I had made it a priority to ask and learn. I was no longer ignorant and knew very well the scope of Henry’s vision to unite England and France under one strong hand.
It was during that lonely night that I accepted that, even as I grieved for Henry’s loss of a beloved brother, my marriage was a dry and arid place. Why had it taken me so long to see what must have been obvious to the whole court?
I rose at dawn, my mind clear. If all Henry wanted was an obedient, compliant wife who made no demands on him, then that was what he would have. Not waiting for Guille, I began to pack my clothes into their travelling coffers. Obedient and compliant? I would be exactly what he wanted, and after Mass and a brief repast, both celebrated alone—Henry was elsewhere—I stepped into the courtyard where my travelling litter already awaited me. Before God, he was thorough.
It crossed my mind that the accounts of taxes paid and unpaid might prove a more beguiling occupation than wishing me God speed, but there he was, waiting beside the palanquin, apparently giving orders to the sergeant-at-arms who would lead my escort. It did nothing to thaw out my heart. Of course he was conscious of my safety: after last night—might I not be carrying the precious heir to England and France?
‘Excellent,’ he said, turning as he heard the brisk clip of my shoes on the paving. ‘You will make good time.’
My smile was perfectly performed. ‘I would not wish to be tardy, my lord.’
‘Your accommodations will be arranged for you in Stamford and Huntingdon. Your welcome is assured.’
‘I expect they will.’ I held out my hand. Henry kissed my fingers and helped me into the litter, beckoning for more cushions and rugs for my comfort.
‘I will be in London at the beginning of May, when Parliament will meet.’
‘I will look for you then, my lord.’
The muscles of my face ached with the strain of smiling for so long, and I really could not call him Henry.
At a signal we moved off. I did not look back. I would not wish to know if Henry stayed to see my departure or was already walking away before my entourage had passed from the courtyard. And thus I travelled quite magnificently with a cavalcade of armed outriders, servants, pages and damsels. The people of England flocked to see their new Queen even though the King was not at her side.
In Stamford and Huntingdon and Cambridge I was made to feel most welcome, I was feasted and entertained most royally, my French birth proving not to be a matter for comment. It should have been a series of superb triumphal entries, but rather a deluge of rejection invaded every inch of my body. I meant nothing to Henry other than as a vessel to carry my precious blood to our son, so that in his veins would mingle the right to wear both English and French crowns. I should have accepted it from the very beginning. I had been foolish beyond measure to live for so long with false hopes. But no longer.
My naïvety, constantly seeking Henry’s love for me when it did not exist, was a thing of the past. His heart was a foreign place to me, his soul encased in ice.
Why had I not listened to Michelle? It would have saved me heartbreak if I had. And although I knew from past experience that tears would bring no remedy, yet still I wept. My final acknowledgement of my place in Henry’s life chilled me to the bone.
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-delys 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 placed his knife carefully beside the platter, aligning it neatly as he sighed. ‘Your damsels will surround you and support you.’
I had enough acquaintance with my damsels to answer smartly, ‘My damsels sneer and scoff at my lack of confidence.’
‘That’s nonsense, Katherine.’ Impatience was gathering like a storm cloud on Henry’s brow. ‘They are only your servants. They will obey you.’
‘But they do not like me.’
‘They don’t have to like you. Their opinion is irrelevant.’
Ridiculously, I felt tears press against my eyelids. This momentous day was being ruined by my lack of assurance and Henry’s lack of understanding. My enjoyment was fast sliding away between the two.
‘My brothers will stand beside you. The archbishop will do all that needs to be done. And you, Katherine, will play the role to perfection.’ Henry rose to his feet and, collecting the pile of documents from beside his platter—of superbly inscribed gold craftsmanship, of course—walked from the room. At the door he halted and looked back. ‘We have been wed for six months now. It is time that you were able to present yourself with more regal authority.’
Henry stepped out, then stopped again to add, ‘You have a duty to this country as Queen and as my wife. It is time that you fulfilled that duty. In all its aspects.’