Anne O'Brien - The Forbidden Queen

I watched him as he moved restlessly about the room. He twitched a bed curtain into position, repositioned the cups and flagon on the coffer, cast a log onto the dying embers. When I expected him to approach the bed, he sank to kneel before the prie-dieu , hands loosely clasped, head once more bent, which gave me the opportunity to study him. What did I know about this man that was more than the opinions of others, principally Isabeau? Very little, I decided. Mentally I listed them, dismayed that they made so unimpressive a comment on my new husband as a man.

He was solemn. He did not smile very much, but became animated when discussing war and fighting. He had been kind to me. His manners were exceptional. God’s guidance meant much to him, as did the power of outward show. Had he not insisted on wedding me with all the ritual of French marriage rites? He was never effusive or beyond self-control. He did not look like a man who was a beast in bed. His portrait was very accurate. Perhaps he was even more handsome: when animated he was breathtakingly good to look at.

Was that all I could say, from my personal knowledge?

Henry.

I tried the name in my mind. His brother had called him Hal. Would I dare do that? I thought not. I thought that I would like to, but I had not yet dared to call him more than my lord.

Henry made the sign of the cross on his breast, and looked sharply round as if aware that he was under scrutiny, and I found myself blushing again as I lowered my eyes, foolishly embarrassed to be so caught out. Pushing himself to his considerable height, he walked slowly across the room. And then, when he was sitting on the edge of the bed, he allowed his gaze to run over me. I jumped when he put his hand on mine.

‘You’re trembling again.’

To my relief he addressed me in French.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

What woman would not tremble on her wedding night? Did he not understand? But he did not seem to me to be insensitive. I sought for a suitable reply that would not make me seem inadequate.

‘My mother said you would bring your companions with you,’ I said. ‘She warned me that…well, she warned me.’

‘Did she now? I didn’t bring them, so you may be at ease.’ Still, his expression was unsettlingly grave. ‘I did not think you would wish me to do that.’

‘That is very kind.’ I had not expected such consideration.

‘No. Not kind. They were not necessary. I did not want them here.’

And I realised with a flutter of anxiety that it was not a matter of consideration for me so much as a pursuit of his own desires. On this occasion they had coincided, but it had not been to put me at my ease that had determined his choice.

‘You were very quiet at the feast,’ he observed.

‘My mother was watching me,’ I said, without thinking, then wished I hadn’t when his expressive brows climbed.

‘Does that matter?’

‘Yes. Well—that is, it did. Before I became married to you.’ I thought he must be mad to ask so obvious a question.

‘Why?’

Should I be honest? I decided that I would be so, since it no longer mattered. ‘Because she has a will of iron. She does not like to be thwarted.’ His regard was speculative, not judgemental, but I thought he did not understand what I was trying to explain. ‘She has a need to be obeyed.’ I gave up. ‘Perhaps your mother is more kindly,’ I added.

‘My mother is dead.’

‘Oh.’

‘I don’t remember her. But my father’s second wife was not unkind to me.’ A brief shadow of some fleeting emotion crossed his face. ‘She was kind when I was a boy.’

‘Is she still alive?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you see her?’

‘Not often now.’

‘But she was kind to you.’

‘I suppose she was.’

He was not effusive, and I thought there was a difficulty there. There was certainly no close connection with the lady.

‘So you will never understand about my mother,’ I said.

‘Perhaps not.’ He picked up my hand, and turned it over within his, smoothing his thumb over my palm. There was a little frown between his brows. ‘But the French Queen is not here now. She no longer has jurisdiction over you. You need tremble no more.’

It made me laugh, as it struck home that Isabeau was gone and what passed between us now was not her concern, and never would be again. I no longer trembled; indeed, I admitted to a heady sense of euphoria quite foreign to me. Freedom was a thing of beauty, unfurling like a rose.

‘The jurisdiction over you,’ Henry stated, ‘is now mine.’

My eyes leapt to his face. And I stopped laughing, uncomfortable under that direct stare, for he had not smiled. It had been no pleasantry. Would I find him a hard taskmaster?

‘My mother ordered all my days,’ I ventured.

‘And so shall I,’ Henry responded. ‘But it will be no hardship for you.’

Releasing my hand, he stood and walked away from me, leaving me not knowing what to say. I searched for something innocuous, since he offered no easy conversation. Perhaps Henry did not have easy conversation. I grasped at the obvious, too nervous to sit in silence.

‘Will we go to England soon?’

‘Yes. I want my heir to be born in England.’

He was looping a chain of rubies from round his neck to place, very precisely, on the top of a coffer, then sat to pull off his soft boots.

‘Tomorrow there is to be a tournament to honour our marriage,’ I remarked inconsequentially.

‘Yes.’ His reply was muffled as he pulled his tunic over his head.

I drew in a breath. ‘Will you fight?’

He looked up, lips parted as if to make some remark. Then shook his head and said: ‘I expect so.’

‘Will you fight for me?’

‘Of course. At any tournament you will be guest of honour.’

I thought it a strange choice of wording, but announced what, to my trivial female mind, mattered most at that moment. ‘I have nothing to wear to be guest of honour at a tournament.’

He concentrated on placing his sword and belt beside the glittering chain. ‘What about the gown you were wed in?’

A man’s response, I thought, but, then, he would not know. ‘I will not. It is borrowed—from my mother.’ I saw his scepticism, so tried for hard logic that might sway him. ‘It is French. I am now Queen of England.’

Arrested, and for the first time, he laughed aloud. ‘Have you nothing else? Surely…’

‘The gown made for me when we first met was abandoned in Paris—when we feared your attack and fled.’

His brows drew into a frown, as if I had reminded him of unfinished business on the battlefield, then his expression cleared. ‘Clearly I owe you a gown. I’ll send to arrange it.’

‘Thank you.’ This was not so bad, and I ran my tongue over dry lips. ‘I would like a cup of wine.’ There were things I wanted to say. Wine might help to dissolve the weight in my chest and loose my tongue.

He tilted his chin, as if he rarely poured his own wine, or if he considered my request unwise, but proceeded to present me with one of the lovely chased goblets with a little bow.

‘Don’t throw this one on the floor.’

I expected him to smile, making of it an amusement, but he did not, merely returning to pour a second cup for himself. Perhaps it had been an instruction after all.

‘The English ladies do not like me,’ I announced, sipping the wine.

‘They do not know you.’

I took another sip. ‘They say my mother is a whore.’

‘Katherine,’ It was almost a sigh. Was he shocked? ‘It is not wise to repeat gossip.’

I sipped again, not at all satisfied. ‘I wish to choose my own damsels.’

‘Who would you choose?’ His brows all but disappeared into his hair again.