Виктория Холт - The Queen's Secret

“A marriage …” I said fearfully.

“A marriage, of course. What else?” She was slightly irritable. She wanted me to be young and innocent but not stupid. “You will bless your mother when you hear.”

“Please, Madame…may I hear who this is?”

She leaned toward me. “You will never guess. You would never have dreamed. The King of England has a son…his eldest son…heir to the throne. Who else would I think good enough for my dearest daughter, Katherine?”

“That is Henry,” I said. “Henry of Monmouth.”

“But of course. He is a handsome young man…full of vitality…charming, amusing, witty, good-natured…kind. Everything that a young woman could wish for in a husband.”

“Isabelle did not think so.”

She frowned. “How do you know?” she demanded.

“She told me. She would not have him…and she knew him. She had seen him …”

“Your sister…your dear, dear sister…was not always wise. In any case she was only a child. She could not know what was good for her any more than you can. Never mind. You have a mother to plan for you.” She was smiling at me benignly, forgetting, no doubt, those years of neglect. I had an impulse to ask her where the loving mother had been then.

“Your sister was so young,” she went on. “She was so enamored of Richard, which was good and right that she should be, but like all children she was without judgment. Of course, she had a wonderful life in England…as you will see, my dear. Who would not wish to be Queen of England? And you will be that…in time. I have heard that the King suffers from some illness; he cannot last long. And then Henry, your husband…will be King of England. And you will be beside him, his Queen. Is that not a wonderful prospect? And should you not be grateful to your mother for making all this possible for you?”

“Isabelle could have remained Queen of England if she had married him.”

“Oh, an end to this harking on Isabelle! Isabelle…God rest her soul, has been taken from us. We loved her dearly but at times she could be a little foolish…as most young people are. They do well to listen to their elders…those who make the young people’s future their greatest concern. Then all will be well. Well, let us now say that Isabelle’s loss will be her little sister’s gain. Now listen to me. You are very like your sister. This comes out in your portrait.”

I said: “It was painted with that purpose…to show the similarities between us.”

My mother smiled slyly. “I am sure it will please the Prince.”

“But…I do not want …”

She waved a hand and there was a warning in her eyes. I could see how fierce she would be in anger. She did not want to know what I thought unless it was in favor of the match. If I was proposing to object I had better be silent. In any case my views in the matter were immaterial.

“Now,” she went on, “an embassy will be here shortly. The Duke of York is on the Continent. He will come to Paris to discuss certain matters. Naturally he and his embassy will wish to see you.” She looked at me archly. “And take back a report. We must see that it is a good one.”

I was silent.

“You must learn to be more animated. We do not want the English to say you are dull. Isabelle was full of life. You must try to be like her. They will speak to you in English and you must reply to them in their language…show them that you are not stupid. I have dressmakers coming tomorrow. There are many preparations to be made. You must make a good impression on the King of England’s ambassadors.”

I knew that there was no escape and I was filled with foreboding.

I longed for the peace of Poissy.

The period of preparation had begun. I was with my mother often. She, who had spent a lifetime adorning herself, knew exactly how to accentuate the good points in others. Colors were chosen with the utmost care; the cut of a sleeve, the fall of a skirt…they were matters of great moment. She applauded or abused the dressmakers in accordance with what she considered their deserts. One would have thought we were going into war, or that some matter of great importance to the country’s welfare was being decided.

Jewels were chosen for me. I had to practice my English; I had to learn to dance—a matter which, to my mother’s chagrin, had been somewhat neglected at Poissy. I was kept so busy that I had little time to brood on my situation—which was a good thing.

My dead sister was constantly referred to—“Isabelle did this…she had a habit of …”—until I felt I was impersonating her. And how I longed for her to be with me, to advise me…to help me…to explain what I had to do. The odious Henry of Monmouth had sought her at one time…and ardently, it seemed. She had turned from him in horror. He had never seen me…but his father was seeking me on his behalf. He might not want me any more than I wanted him.

Oh, Isabelle, I thought, if you were here, you would tell me what to do. You would help me to evade this fate which they are determined to press upon me. You did it. How can I?

But Isabelle was gone and I was alone; and I was completely at the command of my indomitable mother.

At length the ambassadors came. I had conversed with them in their own tongue and they had graciously applauded me on my command of their language, which I believe was due to politeness rather than truth, for I had stumbled a little. But it seemed my looks and my demeanor were acceptable; and there was reference to my likeness to my sister Isabelle.

My mother was not displeased.

“You did well,” she told me, and she patted my head. “I could have thought it was Isabelle all over again.” She perfunctorily dabbed at her eyes for a few moments.

The English emissaries were still in Paris, and negotiations went on. I heard that the demands of the King of England were too great; on the other hand they were not refused.

Every day I dreaded to hear the outcome, for I knew that once they reached an agreement—and it was certain that both sides wanted the match to take place—my fate would be settled.

But something happened which was to give me a respite—if only temporarily.

My mother sent for me and I knew at once that she was excited but a little uncertain.

“There is news from England,” she said. “This will undoubtedly delay our plans. I hope not for long. The King of England has died. Prince Henry has become King Henry…King Henry V.”

She was smiling at me coyly.

“Well, what do you say?”

“I…I was wondering what difference that would make.”

“Delay undoubtedly. Perhaps he will want to strike a harder bargain. It was hard enough, God knows, before. But now he is the King…we shall see. Do not fret, child, I am sure your father and I will manage to get this wonderful match for you…however much we have to pay for it.”

I shivered and was silent, and she pretended to construe my attitude as one of delight.

“I know how you feel,” she went on. “It is a dazzling prospect. A Queen…you, my little Katherine. You will learn what that means. I am a proud woman. Two daughters of mine Queens of England. Is that not a wonderful triumph?” She was smiling, gazing ahead. “Of course…he will be busy for a while…getting himself crowned and dealing with matters of state. We know that full well. So it may be that we have to wait for a few weeks or so…months mayhap…before he can give himself up to the delights of marriage.”

I escaped to my own apartments, and there I shut myself in with my thoughts.

A few months. At least it was a respite.

The embassy sent to assess my worthiness to become the bride of the King of England had departed. I wondered what sort of report would be given of me.