I took Henry’s gauntlets from Guille—Henry had forgotten to retrieve them—and smoothed the stitched and jewelled leather between my palms, before handing them to a passing page with orders to return them to their regal owner. Yes, we would come to know each other better. My spirits lifted.
The opportunity for me to prove my fertility to Henry’s satisfaction was no easy matter to accomplish, but I was granted a honeymoon of sorts. As an army wife, a camp follower.
My honeymoon read like a military campaign. Henry, as newly appointed Regent of France in my father’s name, and thus leading the attack against my brother Charles, took me with him, much like an item of military equipment. I was at the surrender of Sens—a rapid affair over a mere seven days—in June. Ensconced in a pavilion in his camp, Henry had no time for me, although he did inform me of his victory when the fortress fell. He did not even find the time to visit my bed with a view to procuring an heir. For me it was like living in a constant state of apprehension. Would Henry visit me? If not, was it because I had displeased him in some manner unknown to me?
I sat and stitched and tried to converse with my damsels, who made little effort to converse back. I was wary of them. Particularly of Lady Beatrice, the lively brunette, owner of the sharp tongue and a blue and gold damask houppelande with trailing sleeves. I returned the gown to her.
‘It is lovely. I thank you for your generosity, but you must have it back. I had no opportunity to wear it,’ I explained stiltedly.
Her curtsey was perfect, her smile knowing. They all knew of my missed opportunity.
And then we were all packed up and on to Montereau and Melun, where, to my astonished satisfaction, Henry, with an heir strongly in mind after his lengthy absence from the allure of my body, had a dwelling constructed for me, out of earshot of the cannon but near to his pavilion. Thus I was restored to Henry’s determined embrace.
Henry proved to be a driven man. His visits to my bed were now so regular that I felt as if I were written into the battle plans, along with the digging of trenches and the ordering up of ale to keep the soldiery content. He was brisk and efficient on those frequent forays into intimate relations over the four months it took to reduce Melun. He never stayed with me longer than an hour, but during that time I was granted his complete attention. He was always gentle with me. As recompense for his rapid departures, at sunrise and sunset he ordered English minstrels to play one hour of sweet music for me.
I enjoyed the music far more than I did the smoothly expert but rapid assaults on my body. They roused nothing in me other than a desire that I might quicken fast and be done with it. Regretting my coldness, I put the blame firmly at my own door but could do nothing to remedy it. The more I worried about my freezing reticence, the worse it became. To be fair to my new husband, he did not appear to notice. Perhaps he had not the opportunity in the short time he allowed himself to fulfil his marital duties. He was never critical of me. I was touched when he ordered two harps to be sent from England.
‘I know you play the harp,’ he said, snapping his fingers to alert my page, who promptly presented one of the magnificent instruments to me, on one knee.
‘I do.’ I admitted my surprise, and pleasure, that he had found time both to discover it, and to arrange for their delivery from England.
‘My brother John told me.’ Henry ran an expert thumb over the strings of the second harp. ‘I too have the skill.’ He smiled thinly at my raised brows. ‘I have other interests besides warfare, Katherine. Perhaps we might play together.’
I flushed with the thought, until disappointment set in. We might have achieved a meeting of souls in music if Henry had had time to run his hand even once across the strings but his hand was firmly on the war pulse. Music—and a wife—were both an irrelevance for most of the time.
And yet all was not uneasy isolation for me: I made one acquaintance due to the intensity of the savage fighting. I did not recognise the young man, some few years older than I, compactly built, with steady grey eyes at odds with the vibrantly curling hair that reached to his shoulders, who was brought to my door under what was clearly a military guard.
‘Lady Katherine.’ He bowed with the sweetest of smiles, his escort unexpectedly abandoning him to my care. ‘I apologise for my presence here. I am ordered to stay.’
‘Who are you?’ I asked. He clearly knew me.
He executed another flamboyant bow. ‘I am James Stewart.’
‘Yes?’
‘King of Scotland.’
‘Oh.’ I was no wiser. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I don’t suppose he’s told you, has he?’ I shook my head: ‘Because I am a prisoner of your husband.’
‘Are you?’
James explained with cheerful insouciance. Taken captive by English pirates on a ship bound from Scotland to France, he had been handed over to the English King and had been a captive ever since, too dangerous to be sent back to Scotland. And now, his nationality and title of an advantage to England, he had been escorted from London to the war front, where he had been instructed by Henry to command the obedience of the Scots mercenaries who were fighting for the Dauphin. To demand, as their King, that they lay down their arms.
‘Did it work?’ I asked, fascinated, imagining this lively individual addressing his wayward fellow countrymen on the opposite side.
‘Not that I could see. And why would they? Since they’re fighting for money, they don’t acknowledge my authority. Henry was not overly pleased.’ He did not seem particularly concerned over any royal displeasure, and I said as much. ‘I’ve been a prisoner of the English for fourteen years—since I was twelve years old,’ James explained. ‘I have to keep things in perspective, my lady.’
It made little sense to me, not understanding the situation between England and the Scots. ‘You are not well guarded,’ I pointed out. ‘Can you not escape?’
‘How would I get back to Scotland without English aid?’
‘Will you be a prisoner for ever?’ It seemed a terrible predicament. ‘Will Henry never release you?’
James Stewart shrugged lightly. ‘Who’s to say? Only on his terms.’
‘And what are they?’
‘I don’t know that yet.’
I admired the young man’s sangfroid.
‘Since we’re both here for the duration, can I be of any use to you, Lady Katherine?’ King James asked.
His grin won me over. ‘You can entertain me, sir. Tell me about England.’
‘You’ll not get an unbiased view. I’m the enemy and a prisoner, Lady Katherine.’
I liked him even more. ‘I’ll get more from you than I will from my damsels. And you must call me Katherine.’
‘Then you must call me James.’
And so I fell into the first friendship I had ever had.
‘Will I enjoy living in England?’ I asked, my anxieties multiplying now that the time was approaching. James had described for me the great palaces of Windsor and Westminster, the massive Tower of London, the places I would soon call home.
‘Why not? The English are kind enough. In a cool manner, and as long as they see some personal gain in engaging your support. They don’t like you as much as tolerate you.’
‘I think Henry only tolerates me.’ Shocked, I covered my mouth with my fingers. ‘I did not mean to say that. You must not repeat it.’ How unguarded I had been. How unwise to say what was in my heart. I looked at James anxiously. Would he think me impossibly unpolished?
But