Anne O'Brien - The Forbidden Queen

King Henry took in my glory, sleeves and all, in one comprehensive, dismissive glance.

‘We are gratified,’ he said, but still in English. ‘We have long wished to meet the princess of France, of whom we have heard so much.’ And he bowed to me with impeccable grace, his hand on his heart.

‘Monseigneur.’ Now that I was face to face with him, almost within touching distance of those snarling leopards on his tunic, any initial courage fled. I sank into a second low curtsey, because he seemed to expect it of me, my eyes, cravenly, on the floor until I felt a stir of air, heard a foot fall, and the soft boots that he wore came into my vision. His hand was stretched down to me.

‘My lady. You must stand.’

It was gently said, yet undeniably a command. I placed my hand in his and he drew me to my feet. Leaning a little, in formal recognition, he lightly kissed me on one cheek and then the other. And then on my mouth with the softest pressure of his own. My heart fluttered. Blushing from throat to hairline, I felt the blood run hot under my skin as his lips brushed against me and his battle-rough palms were firm against mine. All I could think was: King Henry has kissed me in greeting. I stared at him, no words coming to those lips he had just saluted.

‘The rumours of your beauty do not lie, Lady.’ He led me a little distance away from our audience, his voice warming as he did so. ‘Now I can see for myself the value of the gift that the House of Valois would make to me.’

This was undoubtedly a compliment, but his face was so stern. Did Englishmen not smile? I struggled with the English, embarrassingly tongue-tied, searching for a suitable reply.

‘Do you speak English?’ he asked, when I failed.

‘Only a little, Monseigneur ,’ I managed, with what I must presume was an appalling accent. ‘But I will learn more.’

‘Of course you will,’ he affirmed. ‘It is imperative that you do.’

‘I swear I will practise every day,’ I replied, unnerved by the seriousness of his response.

But Henry’s interest had moved from my lack of linguistic skill as his eyes fell from my face to the bodice of my gown where a gold-mounted sapphire was pinned at my neckline.

‘What is it, my lord?’ I asked anxiously: the frown was back.

‘The brooch.’

‘Yes, my lord? It is a gift from Duke John, to honour the occasion.’

‘Where is the gift I sent you?’ he demanded.

I shook my head in incomprehension. Seeing it, Henry condescended to address me in fluent court Latin. ‘I thought you might have worn the brooch, Mademoiselle .’ A rank chill drew all colour from his tone.

‘Which b-brooch, my lord?’ I stammered.

‘I sent you a brooch as a token of my regard. A lozenge with a fleur-de-lys set in gold with rubies and amethysts.’

‘I did not receive it, my lord.’

The frown deepened. ‘It was a costly item. A hundred thousand ecus, as I recall.’

What could I say? ‘I do not have it, my lord. Perhaps it was lost.’

‘As you say. Perhaps it fell into the hands of my enemies. I expect it graces the war coffers of the Dauphinists, your brother’s misguided supporters who would fight against me.’

‘So I expect, my lord.’

It was a strangely unsettling conversation, leaving me with the thought that it was the value of the lost gift that concerned him more than the failure of it to reach me and give me pleasure. The English King was obviously displeased. I risked a glance, wondering what he would say next, but the matter of jewellery had been abandoned.

‘I have been waiting for you all my life, Katherine. It is my intention to wed you,’ he announced with cool and precise diction. ‘You will be my wife.’

He did not ask if I would be willing. We both knew I would follow the dictates of my family. But still I responded from my heart.

‘Yes, my lord. And I would wish it too.’

And as he raised my hand to his lips, in a neat gesture of respect, Henry smiled at me at last, a smile such as a man might use towards the woman he had an admiration for, a woman he might hold in some affection. A woman, I thought, who he might actually come to love. The austere planes of his face softened, his eyes gentled. In that moment his simple acceptance of me overwhelmed me and I sank into admiration for this beautiful man. I returned his smile, my cheeks still flaming with colour.

‘Katherine,’ he murmured. His English pronunciation made of it a caress.

‘Yes, my lord?’

He is not harsh, I thought, seduced by the power of his proximity, the allure of his direct gaze, he is not cold. He is handsome and potent and he wants me as his wife. I was, I decided, sliding into love with him, so easily, and when Henry kissed my cheek again, and then the palm of my right hand, my heart leapt with joy, imagining the picture we must present to our noble onlookers, the King of England treating me, the youngest of the Valois daughters, with such gallantry.

‘I must send you another jewel,’ he said.

‘And I will take great care of it,’ I replied.

A sudden outburst of animal temper thrust between us, and we turned to where the Valois leopard bared its fangs at the English hound that now lunged, barking furiously, drowning out any stilted conversation between their owners. I flinched away, but Henry abandoned me and strode forward.

‘Take them out!’ he snapped, his curt English harsh with irritation. ‘Who in their right minds would bring a hunting cat to a formal negotiating table? That is the end of proceedings for today. We will begin tomorrow at dawn, with no distractions of any nature.’

Whether we fully understood or not, the meaning was clear. Henry bowed with magnificent condescension and strode from the pavilion, followed by Warwick and the recalcitrant hound. But my lord of Bedford stayed behind and walked towards me.

‘There is nothing to fear, my lady,’ he said softly in French.

I did not know whether he meant from the animals or from his brother.

‘Thank you, my lord.’ I said. And I meant it. His assurance was a soothing gesture after Henry’s abrupt departure.

Thus my wooing at Meulan left me in a muddle of heaving emotion. Here was a man who did not dislike me, who would make me Queen of England. Could he perhaps come to love me? Only time would tell. If I was to be the prize to draw Henry back to the negotiating table, then so be it. It pleased me well enough.

I touched my fingertips to my lips where he had kissed me.

Could I love a man I had met only once in my life? It appeared that I could, if admiration and a trembling of the heart signified love. He had cast an enchantment over me, simply by smiling at me and calling me by my name. The scar of some old wound did nothing to mar his beauty. To me, he was everything I had dreamed of.

A Queen of England must be able to speak the language of her husband’s subjects. Had not Henry commanded me to learn? I applied myself to conversation with one of my father’s household who had more than a few basic words to string together, encouraged by the thought that perhaps it would win some commendation from my betrothed. Perhaps he would smile at me again.

‘Good morning, my lord. I hope you are in health.’ Or I might ask him: ‘Do you hunt today, my lord? I would wish to accompany you.’ Or even: ‘Do you admire this new gown that I am wearing? I think it is very fine.’ My adeptness at politics was less sure, but I could ask: ‘Do we welcome the French ambassador to our Court today? Will there be a celebratory feast?’ When my clumsy Gallic tongue had difficulties with celebratory , my impatient tutor, a young lad of fewer years than my own, suggested festive , which I could manage. I even became proficient in the crucial phrase: ‘I will be honoured, Majesty, to accept your hand in marriage.’