Joanna Hickson - The Tudor Bride

By the time the herald trumpets sounded, the St George’s Day tournament had been delayed by two weeks. It was well into May when the Knights of the Garter attended their solemn re-dedication service in the castle chapel before donning their burnished armour and parading on horseback around the Upper Court acknowledging the cheers of a large crowd of courtiers and any townsfolk who could wangle an entry by bribery or civic rank. King Henry led the parade, followed by the Duke of Gloucester and the ten other distinguished members of the order of Knights of the Garter who were not fighting in France, were indisposed or had died in the last year. In view of these restrictions it seemed a good turnout.

It was the first time I had ever had a grandstand view of a tournament. The royal box had been erected in front of St George’s Hall and lavishly decorated with banners and spring flowers. Queen Catherine sat enthroned between her new friend Jacqueline of Hainault and Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, while I sat at the back among her ladies, pinching myself and wondering whether, nineteen years ago, my mother could ever have envisaged me in this position when she hired me out, red-eyed from the loss of my stillborn son, to be a wet-nurse to the Queen of France’s new baby girl. ‘It is a good opportunity, Mette,’ she had said encouragingly. ‘It will be hard at first, but who knows where it could lead?’ I stroked the fine cloth of my sleek slate-blue worsted gown and concluded that even in her wildest dreams she could not have conjured this eventuality.

King Henry was to open the tourney with a formal tilt against his brother, but before they rode to their respective ends of the lists, a trumpeter blew a loud blast and Windsor Herald called the crowd to attention in a sonorous, carrying voice.

‘Your Graces, My Lords, Ladies and Knights of the Garter, and all the king’s subjects here present, pray silence for joyful news. Our most puissant King Henry, the greatest knight in Christendom, and his fair Queen Catherine have commanded me to announce that an heir to the thrones of England and France is expected during Advent. And so, God willing, at Christmastide, England and France will celebrate the coming of both the Christ-child and a newborn prince. God save the king and God save Queen Catherine!’

Another trumpet flourish resounded at the end of the herald’s announcement and cheers swelled from among the crowds in the stands. The tilt ground was not a vast arena and the enclosing walls of the castle seemed to shake with the shouts of joy and celebration. Then the bells began to ring, first from the Curfew Tower in the Lower Ward, from which the carillon was taken up by all the church bells in the town of Windsor. Vibrations seemed to shake the clear blue arc of the spring sky and speech became impossible against the tumult of echoing chimes. In the royal box we all burst into spontaneous applause and Catherine stood to acknowledge the enthusiastic greetings that were offered from every side. Blushing prettily, she reached into the floral display before her and plucked an early red rose bud from the garland, leaning over the rail to proffer it to King Henry, whose charger pranced impatiently, agitated by the bells, stirring the sand with its hooves. Controlling his horse with one hand, the king reached over to take the bloom from his wife with a broad smile of pleasure, kissed its tightly curled petals and tucked it into the shoulder joint of his glinting suit of armour, where it nodded jauntily. The red rose was a badge of Lancaster and the king’s delighted smile acknowledged her subtle intention to mark the budding of a new flower of the Lancastrian tree.

The previous day King Henry had announced the appointment of four new Knights of the Garter, including his standard bearer Sir Louis Robsart and the Earl Marshall, Sir Thomas Mowbray, who both now entered the arena on foot bearing spurs and a sword and escorting King James of Scotland modestly dressed in a white jupon, black hose and red shoes. King Henry’s intention was to personally confer the accolade of knighthood on his fellow monarch prior to allowing emissaries at last to enter into negotiations over the Scottish king’s ransom from his prolonged captivity in England. Catherine had expressed a wish to see this ceremony and so it had been decided that it should be performed at the start of the tournament.

Out of interest I kept one eye on Lady Joan as her professed suitor crossed the sand; predictably her eyes were bright with excitement. Meanwhile Joanna Coucy made an accurate but to my mind unnecessary observation.

‘He is somewhat old to be receiving a knighthood, is he not? I thought twenty-one was the usual age. The King of Scots must be all of twenty-five or six. It does not say much for his fighting skills if he has had to wait until now to be dubbed.’

Lady Joan rounded on her fellow lady-in-waiting with an indignant glare. ‘He has not exactly had an upbringing of the usual kind!’ she exclaimed. ‘How would you like to be held for ransom for fifteen years? The old king refused to let him have instruction in the use of arms in case he employed them against Englishmen. He only started his training for knighthood under King Henry, who seems to think he has succeeded, even if you do not!’

Joanna Coucy glared back. ‘Well! You are very quick to defend him, Joan! I wonder why?’

‘Hush,’ I cautioned, leaning from behind to push my face between them with a frown. ‘King James at least deserves your attention at this important moment in his life.’

Lady Joan turned back instantly to watch the proceedings, but Joanna Coucy continued to stare at me balefully. ‘Your title is Keeper of the Queen’s Robes, Madame Lanière, not Keeper of the Queen’s Damsels. What makes you think you have any authority over me?’

Hiding my angry reaction I said quietly and with a pleasant smile, ‘Seniority,’ and put my finger against my lips. As I averted my gaze to the lists I could not help noticing that the Duchess of Hainault had turned in her chair to watch and listen to this exchange. Her eyes were narrowed, as if she pondered a question of profound significance.

A silk carpet had been laid on the sand of the tourney ground and King James was now kneeling before King Henry, who had dismounted and taken the great two-handed sword of Edward the Confessor from his Leopard Herald. Stepping forward he raised the heavy weapon and delivered the accolade of knighthood by three firm taps on the royal squire’s shoulders. ‘James Stewart soyez chevalier – be you knight!’ he declared in a loud, clear voice. ‘Be true to God and guard your honour.’

After a solemn pause, King James rose and the two monarchs kissed each other on the cheek in brotherly acknowledgement, while each of the Scot’s two distinguished sponsors knelt to buckle a polished spur around his ankles. When the sword of knighthood, safe in its scabbard, had been slung from his knightly girdle, they then took him by the arms and turned him to face his fellow knights gathered at the Herald’s Gate, whereupon they put up a rousing cheer which was echoed by King Henry and the Duke of Gloucester, who was still mounted at the far end of the lists. Beside me Lady Joan clapped excitedly, tears of admiration glinting in her eyes.

Genevieve flicked her ears irritably and drops of water flew off to join the misty drizzle that seemed to penetrate every seam of our clothing. It was a whole day’s ride from Windsor to London and within half an hour of setting out, we were wet through to the skin. I had been looking forward to this trip with Walter Vintner as an opportunity to escape the restrictive confines of the castle and breathe the fresh air of the countryside, but I had reckoned without the English weather. After the late snow and thaw, the road was still fetlock deep in mud. We tried as much as possible to avoid the boggiest stretches by riding on the verges, but they were soft also and Genevieve was as miserable as I was, slipping and sliding and pecking so that I was hard put to stay in the saddle. Riding single file with our hoods pulled well down over our heads, it was a morose journey, and no pleasant conversation was possible. It was not until we stopped to rest the horses and restore ourselves at a tavern in Hounslow that there was any opportunity for communication.