Joanna Hickson - The Tudor Bride

She laid a pair of dainty little hands on the cloth to prove her point, but they did not look particularly work-worn to me. These days, at court, I kept my own hands hidden as much as possible because there was no disguising the evidence of their years of physical toil.

Eleanor continued cheerfully, ‘Indeed, from what I know of her grace’s intentions, the establishment of her household is precisely what she will be discussing with the king at this moment.’

She was right and very successful that discussion proved to be, for by nightfall the Duchess of Hainault and Eleanor were installed in a suite of guest chambers beside the queen’s and planning how to spend the allowance of a hundred pounds a month granted to Jacqueline from the Royal Exchequer, a very considerable amount of money. The immediate problem of the ladies’ lack of apparel was solved with the loan of a gown to the duchess from Catherine’s wardrobe and one to her lady in waiting from a generous Lady Joan, which was just as well because the delayed tournament, when everyone would be sporting their finest apparel, had been rescheduled for two days’ time.

It was intriguing to watch Catherine and Jacqueline quickly establish a close relationship, for since they were both princesses of European courts they had a great deal in common, not least the fact that they had once been sisters-in-law. At the time of her birth, Catherine’s brother Jean had shared the royal nursery at the Hôtel de St Pol in Paris with their older siblings Louis and Michele and, for nearly four years, I had tended them all, as well as, when he came along, their younger brother Charles. I remembered Jean as a tough, pugnacious little boy who had constantly scrapped with his brother Louis and shown scant interest in any form of learning other than how to fight. At the age of seven, together with Louis and Michele, he had been more or less abducted by the Duke of Burgundy; Louis and Michele he had betrothed to his own children and Jean to his niece Jacqueline, after which the young prince of France had gone to live with her family and become a stranger to his own.

‘I barely remember Jean,’ Catherine admitted on Jacqueline’s first visit to her solar. ‘I was three when my brothers left and I can only recall Jean teasing me about my imaginary playmates. He would call me Lame-Brain.’

‘Oh that was Jean all right,’ laughed Jacqueline. ‘He had absolutely no imagination. He had no time for anything that did not have a military purpose. If he saw me reading a book he would snatch it out of my hands and throw it across the room. “Books are for nuns,” he would shout. “They make you dull. Come and play chess with me.” He was good at chess and later became quite a strategist. Wherever we went he would assess the lie of the land and devise imaginary battle plans. If he had lived he would have made a good general.’ Her face fell as she said this. ‘France could have done with a dauphin capable of fighting a war.’

‘Yes, we could,’ agreed Catherine thoughtfully. ‘That is why Henry is now the Heir of France rather than Charles.’ A brief silence fell between them while she made a few token stitches in her embroidery, which had otherwise lain abandoned on her lap. Then she added, ‘This may sound an impertinent question, Madame, but did you become fond of Jean?’

Jacqueline gave her a keen glance. ‘No, not really, he was not sympathique , as you know. But we understood each other. That was the advantage of growing up together. Moreover he was more interested in knightly pursuits than those of the bedchamber and so he was more like my brother than my husband. In truth I mourned him as a brother when he died.’

‘His death must have been a terrible shock. He was only eighteen, was he not? It certainly it took us all by surprise in Paris. It was so sudden. Did he suffer greatly?’

A shadow seemed to cross the duchess’s face. ‘Yes he did. There was some bubo or tumour in his ear and it pressed on his brain they said. I sat with him while the doctors tried to relieve the pain with the most terrible treatments, which he fought against like a madman. In short he screamed and groaned until he was utterly exhausted and then he fell back dead. It was truly horrible.’ She sat back white-faced at the memory, which still obviously haunted her.

‘But it does not sound as if he was poisoned, as some people suggested,’ Catherine said gently. ‘Did the doctors suspect any foul play?’

Jacqueline shook her head. ‘No, not at the time, although some of our courtiers spread rumours about witchcraft or sorcery, but no names were ever spoken.’

‘There were rumours like that when Louis died, but I was always certain that he drank himself to death. And now there is only Charles left, the last of our mother’s five sons.’ Catherine dropped her voice and glanced around at her ladies, most of whom were quietly squabbling over embroidery silks in a far corner. ‘But we do not speak of him outside this room, especially since his forces killed my lord the king’s brother. You met Charles once though, did you not?’

Jacqueline gave a brief laugh. ‘Yes. Charles came to try and persuade his brother to kiss his father’s hand, but Jean would not go to Paris. Actually Charles did not try very hard to make him. They discovered that they both hated their mother – your mother – and did not trust her. Jean declared openly that she said one thing and did another.’

‘Well, he was right there,’ observed Catherine dryly. ‘Yet he trusted Jean the Fearless, which I find incomprehensible.’

Jacqueline visibly shuddered. ‘It was. I think he admired his ruthlessness. Your brother would have been a ruthless ruler too, if he had lived. At least he had all his wits, unlike my brute of a cousin of Brabant, whom I was forced to marry after your brother died. That marriage was Jean the Fearless’s doing too. I was drugged and dragged to the altar.’ Her full lips were pressed together into a thin line and the next words were forced through her teeth. ‘Jean of Burgundy was a man of whom it is impossible to speak well, even though he is dead.’

I quickly rolled my eyes at Catherine in silent warning, but she was discreet in her response, sensibly giving no hint of her own extreme and justified abhorrence of the murdered duke. ‘How much you have suffered,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Life in Brabant must have been unbearable if you were forced to flee in terror – even from your own mother.’

‘They all conspire to take my lands,’ insisted Jacqueline bitterly. ‘My mother, my uncle and my cousin all blatantly seek the expansion of Burgundy’s territories. I am without friends save for his grace, your husband. King Henry is the only man of power to embrace my cause. I am eternally grateful to him and the Duke of Gloucester.’

‘Yes, you and Humphrey have had time to become well acquainted, being snowed up together as you were, and he brought his little protégée to your notice too.’ She cast a glance at Eleanor, who sat a little removed from the other young ladies across the chamber. ‘She is something of a beauty your new companion, is she not?’

The duchess laughed happily. ‘Oh yes – and quite delightful; so accomplished for her age and very bright. Of course I will seek other attendants too, but I know already that she will be of particular help to me.’

Even though she sat apart from the conversation, Eleanor must have been listening intently to hear what was said about her for I saw her lips twitch in a secret, self-satisfied smile. Suddenly I felt a surge of relief that she had entered service with the duchess and would therefore presumably no longer be in line to join Catherine’s household. Beautiful though she was, with all the lustre of youth, there was something deeply troubling about Eleanor Cobham.