The Tudor Bride by Joanna Hickson Page A

himself. Where is he, Mette? He wrote to say he would meet me here in mid March. Today is the fourteenth. Why is he not here?’
    Her fretful query was typical of the mood she had been in ever since King Henry had left for Wales on the day after her coronation. Although her father and mother, the French king and queen, had lived in separate houses within the royal palace and held their own separate courts, for some reason Catherine seemed to expect that she and Henry would be together all the time, making no allowance for the fact that he had not one but two kingdoms to run and a new campaign army to recruit and finance before he returned to his preferred occupation, which was storming more castles and conquering more territory. I do not know where she had got the impression that a marriage between royals meant living a cosy domestic life. Certainly not from her mother, Queen Isabeau. Too late I realised that, unlikely as it seemed, she had a commoner’s attitude towards marriage and sought love and a working companionship with her husband, and I fear I was probably responsible for this desire, which was rarely fulfilled at any level of society.
    I could not even persuade Catherine to break her fast in the great hall or attend mass in the ducal chapel, which only required a short walk across the inner court. She declared that she would emerge only when the king put in an appearance. Fortunately, later that morning, a courier arrived on a lathered horse with news that King Henry would be at Kenilworth before sundown. There was also a letter for the queen, written under the royal seal and in the king’s own hand which, when she had read it, she showed me with undisguised glee, as if to say: ‘See? I was right to wait!’
    — ξξ —
    To Catherine, my dear and well-beloved queen, greetings,
    I trust this finds you already at Kenilworth where, God willing, I expect to be myself within the day. We have hardly seen the hills of Wales, for it has rained consistently but our marcher barons are successfully keeping the peace and we have encountered little unrest.
    At Kenilworth I have a surprise for you and ask you not to be too curious about your surroundings until I come to show them to you personally. We have talked of my love for the place and I long to share it with the Queen of my Heart.
    I will set out at sunrise and must stop briefly at Warwick, but before sunset I will have you in my arms. God be with you and keep you safe until then,
    I kiss your mouth,
    Henry
    Written at night in Dudley this 13th day of March 1421.
    — ξξ —
    Noting the address from which this letter was written, I was thankful that Catherine had not shown it to Joanna Coucy, for we would never have heard the end of it if she had known that the king was staying at her father’s castle. I handed it back, a little surprised that she had shown it to me at all, because of its personal nature. I took it as another example of her fluctuating self-confidence; she wanted me to witness the fact that King Henry still loved her, despite their recent lack of intimacy.
    Her mood had changed from listless indifference to brisk intention. ‘Call the steward, Mette,’ she said. ‘I want to hear the arrangements for my lord’s arrival. And bring my sunset gown – the one I wore for my wedding. I will wear it to greet the king today.’
    All afternoon, from the window of her chamber, Catherine watched the western sky and it had hardly begun to acquire the first pink tinge of sunset, when a trumpet sounded from the battlements of the keep. She scrambled to her feet, excited and agitated.
    ‘They have sighted the king’s procession. Quick, Mette! Bring my mantle. I must be waiting for him when he rides in.’
    The sunset gown was so called because it was made of dark-blue, filmy gauze embroidered with tiny gold fleurs-de-lys and was worn over a cloth-of-silver kirtle with a wide gold lace hem. When Catherine lifted the skirt to walk, the lace beneath gleamed