Ridiculously, I felt tears press against my eyelids. This momentous day was being ruined by my lack of assurance and Henry’s lack of understanding. My enjoyment was fast sliding away between the two.
‘My brothers will stand beside you. The archbishop will do all that needs to be done. And you, Katherine, will play the role to perfection.’ Henry rose to his feet and, collecting the pile of documents from beside his platter—of superbly inscribed gold craftsmanship, of course—walked from the room. At the door he halted and looked back. ‘We have been wed for six months now. It is time that you were able to present yourself with more regal authority.’
Henry stepped out, then stopped again to add, ‘You have a duty to this country as Queen and as my wife. It is time that you fulfilled that duty. In all its aspects.’
It was a final, blighting condemnation of my failure to bear a child for him. It was also an order, stated with cold exactitude, leaving me feeling awkward and foolish. And ungrateful, despite having been plucked from obscurity and made Queen of England with all the splendour of rank and honour. Yet how cold was English precedent! How rigidly formal the demands of ceremonial, when my husband was prevented from standing at my side to imbue me with his grace and confidence. Would I ever grow used to it? Growing up enclosed behind Poissy’s walls, I knew nothing of living so prominently in the eye of the Court.
‘I will fulfil my duty. Of course I will. But I do not wish to be there alone.’ I addressed his squared shoulder blades and formidably rigid spine.
Henry did not hear me. Or chose not to.
And now my coronation banquet, which should have filled me with a sense of my achievement, merely enforced my unworthiness. As I sat in the place of honour and smiled at my guests, all I could think of was who was there and who was not. These high-blooded members of the English royal family, these English nobles and princes of the church, would people my future existence and dictate the direction of my future life. I had no one of my own.
So I must become English.
There was Lord John, who had made me welcome from that very first occasion when the war between hunting cat and wolfhound had filled me with fear. He smiled at me and raised his cup in a silent toast. I could call him John and trust his friendship.
I slid a glance to my right, to Henry Beaufort, clad in all his magnificence as Bishop of Winchester. Thin-faced, sharp-eyed, quick and keen as a fox, this was Henry’s uncle, a man very close to all the Plantagenet brothers. He had welcomed me like a niece, assuring me of his good offices. I think he meant it but I sensed a strong streak of ambition, a man who would let no one stand in his path. He had a wily eye. He patted my hand and nodded his encouragement.
On my left was James, hopeful King of Scotland. Dear James. His jaunty irreverence was balm to my sore heart.
I tried not to look across the table, in case I caught his eye, for there sat Lord Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, another of Henry’s clutch of brothers, easily recognisable with the family traits of nose and brow, but his mouth had a sour twist. I recognised his dislike of me behind the false smile. Perhaps because I was French. Or my mother’s daughter. I was wary of him, and he was cool with me.
The one figure I looked for, and did not find, was that of Queen Dowager Joanna, Henry’s stepmother. Perhaps there was a reason for her absence. Perhaps her health was not good. I determined to ask Henry.
The banquet began. Because it was Lent, the range of magnificent dishes that were brought for our delectation was composed entirely of fish. Salmon and codling, plaice and crabs, sturgeon cooked with whelks—the variety was astonishing. And after each of the three courses a subtlety to honour me, a confection that elicited cries of wonder. A figure of me as Saint Catherine seated amongst angels, all constructed cleverly out of marchpane, then another of me holding a book. I hoped Saint Catherine was better able to master the contents than I. And then another Saint Catherine with her terrible wheel and a scroll in her hand, with gold crowns and fleurs-de-lys and a prancing panther, which made me laugh.
And where was Henry, to enjoy this moment with me? He would not be there because this was my day and he would not impose his own presence on it. The exchange, becoming increasingly impatient on his part and increasingly hopeless on mine, had ultimately undermined all my pleasure.
Oh, I wished I had more confidence. The weight of the jewelled crown on my head did nothing to enhance it. Why did I not have the assurance of Beatrice, who was laughing and simpering with the gallant on her right? How could a newly crowned and anointed Queen of England be so gauchely tongue-tied? I picked at the dish of eels roasted with goujons of turbot.
