In the hall, skirting the walls and thus keeping out of the way of the comings and goings, I turned into a window embrasure where I sat. Guille hovered.
‘You could return to your chamber, my lady. That might be best.’
But I would not. I would make my own decision, no matter how small, no matter how unused I was to doing so. And so I remained there, in all my useless, festive glory, as if carved from marble, my heart a solid lump of it. Cold and uncertain, all my earlier happiness no more than a faded memory, the one question that beat in my head, with the familiar flutter of painful anxiety was: why did he not tell me? This preparation for war had been no instant decision. He had known. He had known when I had confessed my naïve pleasure in the tournament. Why had he not told me the truth then, that the celebration would never take place?
Because he does not care enough about you to be honest with you. It was easier for him, so that he need not explain that he would leave you on the first day of your married life.
It was the only answer that made any sense. He did not care for me, for Katherine. Any wife with my blood and my name and my dowry would have sufficed. Why should he have to explain himself to me if he did not wish to? I mattered to him because, by a signature on a document, I had brought him a crown, and that was all.
And then I saw him approaching, followed by a squire and a brace of hounds. By the time he reached me his brow was smooth, but I had seen it, that first moment when he had looked around to discover me, and he had frowned.
‘What is happening?’ I asked as soon as he was within hearing distance.
‘I am leaving.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To the fortress of Sens.’ He stood in front of me.
‘Why?’
‘I intend to invest it.’ I must have looked puzzled. ‘To set up a siege.’
‘Were we not to celebrate our marriage today?’ Restraint seemed to be beyond me.
‘There are more important things to do, Katherine. Sens is a hotbed of Dauphinist sympathies. It needs to be brought under English control.’
‘And it has to be today?’
‘I think it must.’
I did not think he understood the reason for my question at all. Why did you not tell me? The one question I dared not ask, for I already knew I would not like the reply.
‘And I think I should know what is expected of me today,’ I said instead. Despite the fist that seemed to have lodged permanently in my chest, I held his flat regard, astonished at my brazenness, but I would not be swept aside as an unwanted nuisance. I was his wife and I was a Valois princess. This day, by tradition, as he well knew, should have been mine, and the situation at Sens was hardly an emergency to demand Henry’s attention at this very hour. I kept my voice low and cool.
‘I was expecting to celebrate my marriage. Now it seems that I am not to do so. I think I should have been made aware of this. Last night you did not tell me. And you dismissed me from the courtyard as if I were an encumbrance.’
Don’t dare to tell me that the decision to go to war was made this morning.
As Henry inclined his head, the slash of high colour along his cheekbones began to fade. ‘It was obviously remiss of me,’ he replied stiffly. ‘I ask pardon, lady, if I have given offence.’
It was the nearest I would get to an apology—and I felt he did not make them often—but it was not a reason. I could feel his impatience to be elsewhere, to be involved and doing.
‘How long will you be gone?’
‘It’s a military campaign. It is impossible to say.’
I wished he did not make it quite so plain that he thought it was all beyond my understanding.
‘What about me?’ How hard it was to ask, but what was expected of me? How was I to know if I did not ask Henry? Did I sit at Troyes and wait for news? Stitch and pray as a good wife should, living out her days in fear that her lord was wounded or even dead. That was exactly what he would think. ‘I suppose you wish for me to remain here.’
‘No. You will accompany me.’
The rock in my chest lurched. ‘Accompany you? To Sens?’ The terrible constriction eased.
‘Certainly. You are my wife and between us we have a duty to perform. An heir for England and France. The misguided efforts of the Dauphin can not be allowed to hinder a political necessity.’ He bowed. ‘I’ll send instructions for your comfort during the journey.’
It was as if he had struck me and I flinched. So my compliance was nothing more than a political necessity, a need for me to prove my Valois fertility, and for him to discuss it so blatantly in the presence of his squire and my chambermaid…Because I could do no other, I swept my borrowed skirts in a formal curtsey.
‘I will be honoured to accompany you.’
Henry bowed. ‘That is good. Good day, my lady.’
And I was once more alone in my window embrasure, wretched with disappointment, watching him weave his way between soldiers and servants. I sank back onto the window seat.
What did you expect? He is at war. A war against your brother. Of course he will be preoccupied. Do you really expect him to pass the time of day with you?
My eyes followed his progress through the hall with, I suspected, a world of longing in their depths that I had not the skill to disguise. At the door, he looked back over his shoulder. Then he paused, gestured for his squire to go ahead, before striding all the way back through the crowd, which parted to let him pass.
I stood. Now what would he say to me? Perhaps he had changed his mind, considering that it would be better for me to remain in Troyes. The frown was still heavy on his brow, if that was any indication.
‘My lord?’
Henry stripped off his gauntlets, handed them to Guille and seized both my hands.
‘I have abandoned you—and I need to ask your pardon,’ he announced. ‘I was in the wrong. We will both have to accept that there will be times when I forget that I have a wife. I’ll not make excuses, Katherine, but sometimes for me the demands of war will be paramount. I would not have hurt you or made you feel of less worth than you are to me. I did not wish to distress you last night. You were so looking forward to today. There will be other tournaments, I promise you. And I sent you out of the courtyard for your own safety. Do you understand?’
He sighed and at last he smiled. ‘I suppose I have not used you well. Preoccupation or selfishness—call it what you will. I ask your pardon, my dear wife.’
‘I do understand. I willingly give it.’ His apology, the depth of sincerity in his words and expression, astonished me.
‘I want you with me in the coming weeks.’
‘And I want to be with you,’ I replied.
‘We will come to know each other better.’
Henry kissed me full on the lips then bowed, his hand on his heart. He would never know how far that gesture went towards healing my uncertainties. There was the explanation I had so desperately wanted from him, and the acknowledgement that I had been in the right to demand it. For my part I must accept that war was a demanding mistress on Henry’s time and concentration and, therefore, I, his wife, must learn to temper my needs.