The Lady of the Rivers by Philippa Gregory Page A

trusted to stand with the adults on this most important day. I wish that I was eight years old like Isabelle, and could look at John, Duke of Bedford, and marvel at his greatness and know that he would say nothing to me, that he would not even see me. But I am not a little girl any more, and as I look across at him, he does see me, he looks at me with a sort of avid curiosity, and this time there is nowhere for me to hide.

    My mother comes to my room the night before my wedding. She brings the gown for the next day and lays it carefully in the chest at the foot of my bed. The tall headdress and veil are mounted on a stand, safely out of the way of candles or dust.
    My maid is brushing my fair hair before the beaten silver mirror, but as my mother comes in I say, ‘You can stop now, Margarethe,’ and she twists the long fall o a loose plait, ties it with a ribbon, and goes from the room.
    Mother sits awkwardly on the bed. ‘I need to speak to you about marriage,’ she starts. ‘About what your duties will be as a married woman. I suppose you should know.’
    I turn on my stool and wait, saying nothing.
    ‘This is a marriage of great advantage to you,’ she says. ‘We are of Luxembourg, of course, but to gain the position of an English duchess is a great thing.’
    I nod. I wonder if she is going to say anything about what happens on the wedding night. I am afraid of the great duke and I am dreading the thought of spending the night with him. The last wedding I went to they put the couple in bed together and in the morning they fetched them out with music and singing and laughing, and then the mother went in and brought out the sheets and they were red with blood. Nobody would tell me what had happened, if there had been some sort of accident. Everyone behaved as if everything was quite wonderful, as if they were pleased at the sight of blood on the linen. Indeed, they were laughing and congratulating the bridegroom. I wonder if my mother is going to explain now.
    ‘But for him, it is not a marriage of advantage,’ she says. ‘It may cost him very dear.’
    ‘The jointure?’ I ask, thinking that it must cost him money to pay me my allowance.
    ‘His allies,’ she says. ‘He has been in alliance with the Dukes of Burgundy to fight against the Armagnacs. England could not have fought such a war without their support. His wife was Anne of Burgundy – the present duke was her brother – and she made it her business to keep her brother and her husband in good friendship. Now she has died, there is no-one to keep the friendship, no-one to help them resolve their disagreements.’
    ‘Well, I can’t,’ I say, thinking of the Duke of Burgundy whom I have seen half a dozen times in my whole life, while certainly he has never noticed me at all.
    ‘You will have to try,’ my mother says. ‘It will be your duty, as an English duchess, to hold Burgundy in alliance with England. Your husband will expect you to entertain his allies and to be charming.’
    ‘Charming?’
    ‘Yes. But there is a difficulty. Because my lord John of Bedford is marrying you so soon after the death of his wife, the Duke of Burgundy is offended at the insult to his dead sister. He has taken it badly.’
    ‘Then why are we marrying so quickly?’ I ask. ‘If it upsets the Duke of Burgundy? Surely we should leave it a year and not displease him? He is our kinsman, as well as the Duke of Bedford’s ally. Surely we should not offend him?’
    My mother smiles faintly. ‘It makes you a duchess,’ she reminds me. ‘A greater title even than mine.’
    ‘I could be a duchess next year.’ The thought of escaping this marriage, even for a year, fills me with hope. ‘We could just be betrothed.’
    ‘Lord John won’t wait,’ she says flatly. ‘So don’t hope for that. I just want to warn you that he may lose his ally by marrying you. You must do all that you can to retain the friendship of the Duke of Burgundy, aremind them both that you are