Root of the Tudor Rose (7 page)

Inside the church, the call of a single bugle-horn warned the waiting soldier-king that his bride approached and when Catherine made her entrance on the arm of Philip of Burgundy, Henry was spellbound at the sight of her. He felt an enormous sense of pleasure and of triumph that she came to him not only as his bride but as the living symbol of the unification of France and England. He was about to achieve the pinnacle of his military ambition and to possess the object of his desire at one and the same time.

Archbishop de Savoisy began the marriage ceremony by taking Catherine's right hand and placing it in Henry's. Henry squeezed her thumb and gave her a secret smile.

Trinity Sunday, the second of June 1420, was the day when the English and French royal families had the opportunity of getting to know each other, united at last under the terms of the Treaty of Troyes and by the day's royal wedding.

As far as Henry was concerned, it was very much Catherine's day and he was fully prepared to indulge her. At the reception which preceded the wedding feast, he stood back for a moment and watched the elegance with which she moved among the wedding guests, smiling and laughing with her family. He delighted in her girlishness as she shared a secret with two of her cousins, their heads bent close as they whispered together. Duke Philip's sister, Anne of Burgundy, was the youngest and the most inclined to giggle at whatever little confidence was being exchanged. The Countess Jacqueline of Hainault, who had travelled from Holland to attend the wedding, was taller than the other two and not unlike Catherine in looks, though her features were heavier and less well-defined. There was no doubt in Henry's mind that his bride was by far the most beautiful of the three cousins. Catherine's sister Michelle, the new Duchess of Burgundy, watched them impassively as she stood to one side with her husband, the Duke. Henry grimaced when he noticed that Philip was draped from head to toe in black, in mourning for John the Fearless.

The bridegroom's family was less well represented and King Henry felt a deep regret that his uncle, Bishop Henry Beaufort, was not among the guests. Beaufort was his father's half-brother and a man he had always liked and admired until a grave misunderstanding had arisen between them, and the Bishop had made his resentment plain by not attending his nephew's wedding. Yet, despite their disagreement, Henry found himself hoping that his uncle would like his new wife. Then he smiled to himself. How could anyone not like her!

He took great pleasure in seeing the way his brothers looked at Catherine. Thomas, Duke of Clarence, with his wife at his side, was necessarily circumspect. The rich and autocratic Duchess Margaret was a year older than her husband and had the air of a woman who was not to be trifled with. Margaret had been married before and it was a source of great sadness to her that she had no children from her second marriage. But she was a devout woman and prayed that the Lord would grant her fervent wish for a second family.

Humphrey of Gloucester was not present but John of Bedford, enchanted by his new sister-in-law, was following her around the room like a big puppy, taking every opportunity to offer her sweetmeats or to re-fill her goblet, his round face aglow, his rather beaky nose twitching with pleasure. Henry gloated as he watched. This beautiful creature was his bride, entirely his and his brothers' tongues could hang down to their knees for all Henry cared because nothing could take her away from him. No one else would ever have Catherine, not now, not ever. No one but Henry.

The King of England and his new queen sat close together throughout the wedding feast, at the centre of the long table on a raised dais at the end of the room. Over their heads was a canopy of red silk, richly embroidered with the coats of arms of both families, with their symbols entwined. French royal traditions had prevailed throughout the wedding day and at the end of the evening, the feasting and dancing over, Henry stood and held out his hand to Catherine, smiling his encouragement as he caught the sudden expression of uncertainty on her face. Then, as she rose from her seat at the table, so too did several other people, including Queen Isabeau, the Duke and Duchess of Burgundy, the Countess Jacqueline of Holland, and Archbishop Henri de Savoisy.

‘Why so many people?' demanded Henry, frowning. ‘Is this really necessary?'

‘It is a family tradition, my Lord,' said Queen Isabeau, ‘and it is quite a short ceremony so I would be grateful if you would indulge my wishes.' She leaned towards him, gave him a very knowing look and dropped her voice. ‘I promise that it will not keep you long from the joys of the marriage bed.' Henry smiled at her words. He understood his new mother-in-law only too well. He knew that had she been twenty years younger, she would have been pleased to share those joys with him; she didn't have to tell him so.

Following the Queen's example, yet more people rose from the table and accompanied the bridal couple to their bedchamber where they all clustered in a semi-circle around the foot of the bed, their heads bowed. Then the Archbishop was handed a silver bowl. Dipping his fingers into it, he began to sprinkle holy water.

‘Bless, oh Lord, this marriage bed,' he intoned, ‘that it shall be as fruitful as the garden of Eden, so that the husbandman who plants his seed and the goodwife who receives and nurtures it shall, through your divine mercy, be delivered of strong sons to be brought up in the true faith. Amen.'

‘Amen.' The French nobles and their wives crossed themselves with great solemnity.

‘Amen,' said Henry, trying to keep a straight face. He had every intention of planting his seed at the first possible opportunity and, without actually pushing anyone, he almost shooed them out of the room. Queen Isabeau, the Duchess of Burgundy, and the Countess Jacqueline of Holland accompanied Catherine to her dressing room, where Guillemote was waiting to help her take off her wedding finery.

Relishing the prospect of having his new bride entirely to himself, Henry abruptly dismissed the valet who had helped him shrug off his heavy, ornate doublet. Alone at last, he pulled on a
robe de chambre
and sat down to wait for Catherine.

She came to him attired in a simple white nightgown, hesitating in the doorway of the bedchamber. Relishing the sight of her, Henry rose from his chair, took her hand, and pulled her gently into the room, closing the door behind her.

‘My Lord,' she whispered, her eyes downcast, blushing in the candlelight.

‘Henry,' he corrected her, smiling. ‘We are man and wife now, Catherine, safe from prying eyes in our own bedchamber. Man and wife. You must no longer think of me only as your king. I am also your husband.'

‘Henry,' she said quietly. ‘My husband.'

With her hand still in his, he led her towards the bed where the covers had been turned back. Bending, he put his finger under her chin, raising her face to his. ‘Catherine,' he choked, suddenly overwhelmed. He buried his face in her shoulder, the faint scent of lavender in the soft hair at the nape of her neck rousing him to a passion he hoped he could control. He knew he mustn't frighten her or take her too roughly, he must remember that she was not a strumpet from the stews at Southwark. Catherine was young, not yet nineteen years old, an innocent from a nunnery. But he found his passion difficult to manage. His hands slid down her spine and pressed her body against his own. Then the two, their arms entwined, fell as one onto the goose-feather mattress. Panting now, and between urgent kisses, Henry had begun to tug at the fastenings of Catherine's nightgown when there was a loud rhythmic knock at the door.

‘Who the hell …?'

Catherine drew away from him, clutching her nightgown to her breasts. ‘That will be the soup,' she said, by way of explanation.

‘Soup!' he bellowed. ‘God's wounds! Who ordered bloody soup?'

‘It's … er … it's the custom,' she said as the door opened and a long procession of the French wedding guests came into the bedchamber. Some were carrying bowls of soup and bread on trays and others had flasks of red wine, all of which they set down on a table near the bed, with spoons, goblets, and napkins for the bridal couple. Then they inspected the bed for signs that it had been used for its matrimonial purpose and though it was hardly rumpled as yet, they seemed quite satisfied that it soon would be.

Henry watched, flabbergasted, his passion subsiding as quickly as it had been aroused. Having delivered their ceremonial meal, the guests processed through the room, nodding, smiling and wishing the bride and groom every blessing on their marriage. Then they were gone.

Henry fell backwards onto the bed, almost helpless with laughter.

‘Dear God, are there any more pantomimes to be endured?'

Catherine, sitting on the bed beside him, was smiling. ‘No, Henry. I think they realised that you would soon be fulfilling your intentions, even though we hadn't … well, you know … we hadn't …' she hesitated. ‘Well, anyway, there should be no more pantomimes.'

‘You promise?'

‘I promise. But …' Catherine hesitated again.

‘But what?'

She looked at her new husband uncertainly, her eyes large and luminous in the candlelight. ‘Well, now I have to prove something to myself,' she said.

‘Prove what, sweetheart?' asked Henry, pushing a tendril of hair away from her face and trying to pull her down towards him. God, he thought, swelling again, how he wanted her.

Catherine held back from him, a small frown creasing her forehead. ‘Well, Guillemote says …'

‘What does Guillemote say, my love?' Henry was reaching up to nibble at her earlobe now, his eyes half closed, not really listening.

‘Guillemote says that all Englishmen have tails.'

Henry stopped nibbling. ‘What?' He hoisted himself up onto his elbow and looked at her, astounded. ‘Englishmen have tails! She really thinks that?'

‘Yes, she does. Many French people do. Now, I suppose, I will find out for myself.'

Henry rolled over onto his back, guffawing with laughter. Then he paused and looked up at Catherine who was watching him with a small, hesitant smile on her face.

‘Oh, my love,' he said, pulling her down towards him so that her head was on his shoulder. ‘Come, give me your hand.' With infinite tenderness, he reached for her hand and guided it downwards on to the flat of his stomach.

‘Englishmen do have tails, you know,' he whispered against her hair, smiling in the half-light, ‘but not on their backsides.'

‘What!' Catherine's eyes widened in alarm and she tried to draw back from him but her hand was imprisoned in his.

‘This is mine,' he said, ‘but it's at the front, not at the back. And this Englishman's tail is wagging very hard indeed.'

Henry spent the next two days doting on his new wife and tutoring her gently in the ways of love. Catherine made the joyous discovery that, though she had not really known what to expect once the door of the bedchamber was closed, she was able to respond to her new husband's ardour with pleasure and with a surprising appetite for more.

Two new harps had been ordered from John Bore, the London harp-maker, one for Henry and one for Catherine as a wedding gift. Henry played his instrument with considerable skill and sang in a warm baritone voice. They were delighted to realise that her voice blended pleasingly with his and they discovered the joy of singing together. She could have stayed in their bedchamber forever, making music, making love.

But it couldn't last. The following day, a ceremonial mid-day feast was held in the great hall of the castle at Troyes. Some of Henry's own military musicians, the pipe and tabor players, had joined the musicians of the Valois court, making quite a large ensemble in the minstrels' gallery. They were already playing popular airs and gigues as the guests arrived. King Charles was still confined to bed so Queen Isabeau and her daughter Michelle were escorted to the royal dais at the end of the room by Philip of Burgundy. A fanfare on the bugle-horn from the minstrels' gallery and a scatter of applause greeted the entrance of the bridal couple as they made their way through the room and took their places once again at the centre of the high table under the same red silken baldaquin. Archbishop Henri de Savoisy said a short grace and, after much scraping of chairs and benches, some eighty guests sat down to await their meal.

They were not disappointed. No sooner had the assembled company settled themselves at the tables than the food began to arrive, born aloft on trays by troops of servants. The royal chef had excelled himself. Course after delicious course was served and the table on the royal dais was graced with three dressed swans, their wired necks elegantly bent and decorated with garlands. Alongside each bird was a bowl of rich
chaudron
sauce.

‘This makes a change from battlefield fare!' said Henry to his new mother-in-law. ‘Do you always eat as well as this?'

‘The Valois court is renowned for it,' said Queen Isabeau, ‘so there are always plenty of guests at our table.'

‘I'm not surprised. What's the secret?'

‘Tradition, mainly. A tradition established by my father-in-law's master cook Guillaume Taillevant. Our present chef was one of his students and he himself now has several apprentices working with him in the kitchens.'

‘Mmmm,' said Henry, licking his fingers before dipping them in a small bowl of water infused with rosemary and orange peel. He wiped them on his sleeve then turned to Catherine. ‘I hope you won't be disappointed in our English food, my sweet. Maybe we should persuade one of the apprentice chefs from the palace kitchens to come back to England with us.'

‘But there's more to life than food,' she said, giving Henry a conspiratorial smile as she squeezed his hand under the table. It was quite clear what she was thinking. ‘How soon shall we set out for England, my Lord?'

‘Not for a little time yet,' said Henry. ‘I have things I must attend to here in France. And the longer I leave them, the more urgent they become.'