Читать книгу The Tudor Bride - Джоанна Хиксон, Joanna Hickson - Страница 19

As soon as the unseasonal blanket of snow had melted, the Duke of Gloucester rode into Windsor with the Duchess of Hainault and, to the surprise of Catherine and her ladies, her sole female attendant was none other than Eleanor Cobham.

The king and queen received Duchess Jacqueline with due ceremony in St George’s great hall and we all had a good look at her as she swept down the room on Gloucester’s arm, looking to my eyes nothing like a damsel in distress. She was tall and statuesque with milky skin and red-blonde hair dressed in plaited ‘horns’, capped with a headdress of exquisite wired Valenciennes lace. Seeing this and her magnificent and unsullied gown of dark-green broadcloth trimmed with sable, I concluded that she had prevailed upon Gloucester to make a halt somewhere in Windsor so that all evidence of the journey could be removed from her person. Jacqueline of Hainault knew the value of first impressions.

When the initial greetings were over, she was invited to take the place of honour beside the king at the high table and a splendid welcome feast was served. However controversial Jacqueline’s departure from mainland Europe may have been, it was made evident to all that she was an honoured guest at the English court.

During the meal Eleanor Cobham was seated among Catherine’s ladies at a lower trestle and we were able to quiz her about her new patron. ‘It was a complete surprise when his grace’s messenger arrived with the invitation to serve the duchess,’ she confessed coyly, ‘especially as my family had moved from Sterborough to Hever, so he was obliged to battle the blizzard to seek me out. Fortunately, Hever is only a day’s ride from Eltham.’

‘Goodness, did you ride there in the snow?’ enquired Lady Joan admiringly. ‘Even in daylight, it must have been a cold and slippery journey.’

‘A little cold,’ acknowledged Eleanor, ‘and of course we had nothing but saddlebags, so this is my only gown.’ She made a deprecatory gesture at her serviceable grey tunic and blue côte-hardie, serviceable for riding hard over snowy roads, but lacking any of the style and colour of court costume. ‘However, the duchess has promised me five marks to buy cloth for new gowns as soon as we are settled.’

‘Five marks!’ I echoed, impressed. ‘The duchess’s purse is well-lined. I thought she had been forced to flee Hainault with barely the clothes on her back.’

Eleanor frowned. ‘Yes, she did, it was a daring escape from all accounts. But she assures me she will receive funds from the king until such time as she regains her own treasury. I hope there are some good tailors about the court.’

‘The queen does not think so,’ Lady Joan remarked. ‘She is sending Madame Lanière to London as soon as the roads dry out, to recruit tailors and mercers. Is that not so, Madame?’

‘More or less,’ I admitted, although since my mission was quickly to acquire some looser gowns to accommodate Catherine’s soon-to-be-swelling belly, I could have done without it being generally known yet. ‘But if I can persuade a number of London craftsmen to come to Windsor, it will be some time before they arrive. Meanwhile, perhaps you may be able to borrow a gown. Several of the queen’s young ladies are more or less your size.’

Eleanor favoured me with an innocent-seeming smile, but I caught a calculating glint in those violet eyes of hers. ‘Or perhaps the queen herself has some old gowns she no longer wears?’ she suggested. ‘You would know that, would you not, Madame?’

I immediately had a vision of Eleanor preening herself in one of Catherine’s Parisian creations and revelling in the jealous glances of the queen’s own maids of honour. ‘I would,’ I confirmed, ‘and I can tell you that all her surplus gowns were left in France, to be distributed to charities in Rouen where the terrible siege left people destitute. Incidentally,’ I added casually, ‘does the duchess know you are not yet fourteen? Is she happy to be responsible for one so young among the schemers and lechers of the court?’

Eleanor’s ingratiating smile faded and was replaced by a smug and steady stare. ‘Actually I was born on the feast of St Richard of Chichester, a saint my mother particularly reveres. And so on the 4th day of April I became fourteen.’

‘Congratulations, Damoiselle. But, even so, you are not old enough to know the difference between a gentleman and a serpent masquerading as a gentleman – and there are plenty of such bejewelled serpents who are not instantly recognisable, not until you find yourself alone with them in a dark corner. Do you take my meaning?’

‘Oh yes, Madame,’ she responded seriously, ‘and I assure you that any man lucky enough to find himself in a dark corner with me will be there at my invitation and extremely rich, titled and unmarried!’ She broke into a gay little laugh. ‘I am joking, Madame!’ she hastened to add, seeing my astonishment. ‘No, the Duchess of Hainault will have in me a diligent and discreet companion. I was merely pointing out that young ladies come to court not only to serve our noble patrons, but also to find a rich and landed husband. I assure you the duchess completely understands the importance of making powerful connections.’ She glanced slyly up at the high table where, with smiles and elegant hand gestures, Jacqueline was adroitly managing to draw the attention of both the king and his brother. Catherine was also leaning forward to listen to their conversation, temporarily ignoring King James who sat on her other side.

Meanwhile I was assessing the impression Eleanor had made on me, admitting astonishment that a girl of such tender years should already have developed this hard-nosed attitude towards her own assets. Where were the wild, romantic notions that filled the minds of most girls of her age and which caused their guardians such worry and heartache? If Eleanor Cobham was to be believed, at just fourteen she already had high ambitions and a very clear idea of how to achieve them.

Joanna Belknap had eagerly taken over Eleanor’s attention with questions about the intriguing stranger and she was not alone in her curiosity. Jacqueline of Hainault had sparked a new fascination in the court.

Eleanor spoke candidly of her new mistress. ‘I have only known her a short time, but she is a lady who knows what she wants and tells you in no uncertain terms. I think she may have rubbed a lot of important people up the wrong way in Brabant, which is why she has come to England. She has even run away from her mother, you know.’

‘Her mother is the sister of the previous Duke of Burgundy, Jean the Fearless; the one who was killed on the bridge at Montereau,’ I observed darkly. Even pronouncing the name of Catherine’s ‘devil Duke’ sent a shiver down my spine. I could not help wondering if his sister might be tainted with the same evil nature, even towards her own daughter. It was not that long since I had risked my life and that of my son and daughter to save Catherine from his vile abuse.

Eleanor shrugged. ‘I do not know about that, but I think she is lonely. She was delighted to receive me when I arrived at Eltham, saying it was several weeks since she had had any female companionship, and I must say her clothes were in a terrible state. It took me a whole day and the help of his grace of Gloucester’s body squire to make that green gown presentable again. The sooner she acquires some menial servants the better, as far as I am concerned. My nails are ruined.’

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.

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.