Anne O'Brien - The Forbidden Queen

‘My lord?’

Henry stripped off his gauntlets, handed them to Guille and seized both my hands.

‘I have abandoned you—and I need to ask your pardon,’ he announced. ‘I was in the wrong. We will both have to accept that there will be times when I forget that I have a wife. I’ll not make excuses, Katherine, but sometimes for me the demands of war will be paramount. I would not have hurt you or made you feel of less worth than you are to me. I did not wish to distress you last night. You were so looking forward to today. There will be other tournaments, I promise you. And I sent you out of the courtyard for your own safety. Do you understand?’

He sighed and at last he smiled. ‘I suppose I have not used you well. Preoccupation or selfishness—call it what you will. I ask your pardon, my dear wife.’

‘I do understand. I willingly give it.’ His apology, the depth of sincerity in his words and expression, astonished me.

‘I want you with me in the coming weeks.’

‘And I want to be with you,’ I replied.

‘We will come to know each other better.’

Henry kissed me full on the lips then bowed, his hand on his heart. He would never know how far that gesture went towards healing my uncertainties. There was the explanation I had so desperately wanted from him, and the acknowledgement that I had been in the right to demand it. For my part I must accept that war was a demanding mistress on Henry’s time and concentration and, therefore, I, his wife, must learn to temper my needs.

The hurt of the morning began to lessen, giving way to a soft awareness of my new role in this marriage, and the knowledge that I must try hard to build this new relationship into something solid and valuable, as Henry would try too. He had not thought about me because he could not, but when we were together, every day, on honeymoon…

I took Henry’s gauntlets from Guille—Henry had forgotten to retrieve them—and smoothed the stitched and jewelled leather between my palms, before handing them to a passing page with orders to return them to their regal owner. Yes, we would come to know each other better. My spirits lifted.

The opportunity for me to prove my fertility to Henry’s satisfaction was no easy matter to accomplish, but I was granted a honeymoon of sorts. As an army wife, a camp follower.

My honeymoon read like a military campaign. Henry, as newly appointed Regent of France in my father’s name, and thus leading the attack against my brother Charles, took me with him, much like an item of military equipment. I was at the surrender of Sens—a rapid affair over a mere seven days—in June. Ensconced in a pavilion in his camp, Henry had no time for me, although he did inform me of his victory when the fortress fell. He did not even find the time to visit my bed with a view to procuring an heir. For me it was like living in a constant state of apprehension. Would Henry visit me? If not, was it because I had displeased him in some manner unknown to me?

I sat and stitched and tried to converse with my damsels, who made little effort to converse back. I was wary of them. Particularly of Lady Beatrice, the lively brunette, owner of the sharp tongue and a blue and gold damask houppelande with trailing sleeves. I returned the gown to her.

‘It is lovely. I thank you for your generosity, but you must have it back. I had no opportunity to wear it,’ I explained stiltedly.

Her curtsey was perfect, her smile knowing. They all knew of my missed opportunity.

And then we were all packed up and on to Montereau and Melun, where, to my astonished satisfaction, Henry, with an heir strongly in mind after his lengthy absence from the allure of my body, had a dwelling constructed for me, out of earshot of the cannon but near to his pavilion. Thus I was restored to Henry’s determined embrace.

Henry proved to be a driven man. His visits to my bed were now so regular that I felt as if I were written into the battle plans, along with the digging of trenches and the ordering up of ale to keep the soldiery content. He was brisk and efficient on those frequent forays into intimate relations over the four months it took to reduce Melun. He never stayed with me longer than an hour, but during that time I was granted his complete attention. He was always gentle with me. As recompense for his rapid departures, at sunrise and sunset he ordered English minstrels to play one hour of sweet music for me.

I enjoyed the music far more than I did the smoothly expert but rapid assaults on my body. They roused nothing in me other than a desire that I might quicken fast and be done with it. Regretting my coldness, I put the blame firmly at my own door but could do nothing to remedy it. The more I worried about my freezing reticence, the worse it became. To be fair to my new husband, he did not appear to notice. Perhaps he had not the opportunity in the short time he allowed himself to fulfil his marital duties. He was never critical of me. I was touched when he ordered two harps to be sent from England.

‘I know you play the harp,’ he said, snapping his fingers to alert my page, who promptly presented one of the magnificent instruments to me, on one knee.

‘I do.’ I admitted my surprise, and pleasure, that he had found time both to discover it, and to arrange for their delivery from England.

‘My brother John told me.’ Henry ran an expert thumb over the strings of the second harp. ‘I too have the skill.’ He smiled thinly at my raised brows. ‘I have other interests besides warfare, Katherine. Perhaps we might play together.’

I flushed with the thought, until disappointment set in. We might have achieved a meeting of souls in music if Henry had had time to run his hand even once across the strings but his hand was firmly on the war pulse. Music—and a wife—were both an irrelevance for most of the time.

And yet all was not uneasy isolation for me: I made one acquaintance due to the intensity of the savage fighting. I did not recognise the young man, some few years older than I, compactly built, with steady grey eyes at odds with the vibrantly curling hair that reached to his shoulders, who was brought to my door under what was clearly a military guard.

‘Lady Katherine.’ He bowed with the sweetest of smiles, his escort unexpectedly abandoning him to my care. ‘I apologise for my presence here. I am ordered to stay.’

‘Who are you?’ I asked. He clearly knew me.

He executed another flamboyant bow. ‘I am James Stewart.’

‘Yes?’

‘King of Scotland.’

‘Oh.’ I was no wiser. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I don’t suppose he’s told you, has he?’ I shook my head: ‘Because I am a prisoner of your husband.’

‘Are you?’

James explained with cheerful insouciance. Taken captive by English pirates on a ship bound from Scotland to France, he had been handed over to the English King and had been a captive ever since, too dangerous to be sent back to Scotland. And now, his nationality and title of an advantage to England, he had been escorted from London to the war front, where he had been instructed by Henry to command the obedience of the Scots mercenaries who were fighting for the Dauphin. To demand, as their King, that they lay down their arms.

‘Did it work?’ I asked, fascinated, imagining this lively individual addressing his wayward fellow countrymen on the opposite side.

‘Not that I could see. And why would they? Since they’re fighting for money, they don’t acknowledge my authority. Henry was not overly pleased.’ He did not seem particularly concerned over any royal displeasure, and I said as much. ‘I’ve been a prisoner of the English for fourteen years—since I was twelve years old,’ James explained. ‘I have to keep things in perspective, my lady.’