Luckily Lord Offemont, the wily old diplomat who ran the queen’s household, understood only too well the jealousies and machinations of court life and managed to mollify Mademoiselle Bonne with some even more desirable accommodation for her protégées, but the episode further strained relations between me and the future Duchess of Orleans.
When Catherine heard of Alys’ sewing talent, she immediately arranged for her also to be transferred to her ever-growing household, which meant that instead of endlessly hemming the queen’s sheets and chemises, my nimble-fingered little daughter found herself tending the princess’ new wardrobe, sewing fashionable trimmings onto beautiful gowns which, needless to say, she loved.
Ah, those gowns! A score of them were ordered, all truly fabulous; designed and constructed by the best tailors using gleaming Italian brocades, embroidered velvets and jewel-coloured damasks, the hems of their trailing sleeves intricately dagged into long tear-drops or edged with sumptuous Russian furs. Despite their constant complaints about unpaid bills, the craftsmen of Paris clamoured for the patronage of this new darling of Queen Isabeau’s court. Tailors, hatters, hosiers, shoemakers, glovers and goldsmiths flocked to Catherine’s tower, filling the ground-floor ante-room with their wares and spilling out into the cloister until it began to resemble a street-market where the fashion-mad young ladies-in-waiting fell over each other to handle lustrous silks and gauzes, try soft Cordovan leather slippers and exclaim over exquisite jewelled collars, brooches and buckles. It was these ladies who decided which craftsmen and traders should be invited to present their wares personally to the royal client and I soon learned that their decisions were not made on merit alone. Even I was promised a silver belt-buckle if I would clear the path to Catherine’s door but, although as one of Catherine’s key-holders I had recently taken to wearing a belt, I angrily refused the offer and roundly scolded the offender.
My intimate relationship with the princess was a constant irritation to Bonne of Armagnac and flashpoints occurred almost daily. I tended to keep a close, motherly eye on my chick, whereas Bonne’s attitude was more didactic, offering copious advice and instruction but often leaving Catherine to flounder in awkward situations.
Entering the salon at the height of the fashion frenzy, I found the princess cowering in her canopied chair surrounded by a bevy of tradesmen all gabbling at once and thrusting samples of their wares in her face. For a young girl only a few days out of the convent, it was a distressing situation and, seeing Catherine close to tears, I inwardly cursed Bonne and her silly court creatures, conspicuous by their absence, being unable to resist the temptations displayed in the cloister.
‘Shame on you, masters,’ I protested, pushing the men aside. ‘The princess will make no decisions while you rant at her like that!’ I bobbed a knee before Catherine’s chair. ‘Forgive me, highness, but it is time to prepare for court. Have I your permission to clear the room?’
‘Yes, thank you, Mette,’ she murmured and I shooed the importunate craftsmen through the door, still trying vainly to cry their wares. Catherine was visibly shaken, her hands white-knuckled on the arms of her chair. ‘That was horrible!’ she exclaimed. ‘I did not know what to do. They just kept coming. I feel so foolish.’
I was about to point out that she should not have been left without support when Bonne arrived looking flustered. Seeing me, her expression changed abruptly.
‘Oh, it is you,’ she said coldly. ‘The masters said some wimpled hag had dismissed them.’ Pointedly turning her back on me, she addressed Catherine in a more circumspect tone. ‘Could you make no choices, Madame? It will be hard to dress you adequately for court if no accessories are selected. Did the masters offend you in some way?’
‘Yes,’ replied Catherine, lifting her chin and fixing Bonne with a suddenly dry and steely gaze. ‘There were too many in the room and I should not have been left alone with them. Fortunately Mette came to my aid.’
Colour flooded Bonne’s creamy cheeks. ‘I crave your pardon, Madame. They were only the most worthy craftsmen. I thought your highness understood that furnishing your wardrobe is a matter of urgency.’
‘That may be so, but I do not have to be pestered,’ Catherine retorted. ‘The queen relies on you to help me, Mademoiselle, and I think she would not be pleased to hear that you left me alone with all those men, however worthy you consider them.’
Bonne had no alternative but to look contrite and murmur another apology, but the most galling thing for her was probably not the reprimand but the fact that it was delivered in my presence.
Of course there were times when Bonne came into her own. Catherine was summoned daily by the queen to attend a meal or an entertainment or be presented to a visiting dignitary. Mademoiselle of Armagnac was an expert on protocols and pedigrees and before each visit was able to relay snippets of useful information picked up from her court-wise father. These coaching sessions intensified as the grand tournament approached, a day Catherine was dreading.
‘Oh the tournament, the tournament! The queen never stops talking about it,’ she complained one morning, fidgeting fretfully as a gesticulating tailor issued quick-fire instructions to Alys, who was kneeling before Catherine, pinning final adjustments to the magnificent gown ordered for the princess’ first grand public appearance. A high-waisted, sweep-skirted style known as the houppelande was the new height of fashion at the French court and Queen Isabeau had insisted that this vitally important example of it should be tailored from cloth-of-gold, which would clearly demonstrate Catherine’s high value in the marriage market. I was no expert on fashion but I thought the heavy gold gown threatened to overwhelm her fair, translucent beauty.
‘The queen keeps reminding me that the English envoys will be reporting every detail of my appearance and behaviour back to King Henry and that I have the honour of France to uphold. It makes me so nervous that I will probably fall over or come out in spots.’
I overheard this comment whilst busy tidying behind the guarderobe curtain and I immediately wanted to rush out and tell her that there was not a princess in the whole of Christendom more brilliant and beautiful than she, but with Mademoiselle Bonne supervising the fitting I let discretion rule me.
She took a less reassuring line. ‘I’m sure the queen only wishes to remind you of how much is at stake, Madame,’ I heard her say. ‘If there is no marriage there will be no treaty with the English and war will inevitably follow. My father tells me that the treaty talks are at a crucial stage and Cardinal Langley is a very slippery customer.’
‘I cannot think why King Henry sent a cardinal to do his wooing,’ Catherine grumbled. ‘What does a celibate know about marriage?’
I smiled to myself, hearing the schoolgirl speaking. One day someone would tell her of the many former convent pupils ensconced as the paramours of primates.
Mademoiselle of Armagnac was not put off her stride. ‘Cardinal Langley is a diplomat first and a priest second, Madame. When it comes to a royal marriage, the bride is always part of an extended negotiation.’ It occurred to me that Bonne might have been describing her own marriage. ‘In such circumstances birth and pedigree are of paramount importance.’
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