On Progress, Spring 1421
On Progress, Spring
MY LADY MAY not like fuss, but the newly married queen has to be lavished with attention.
The court, organised for her comfort and entertainment, is now turned upside-down to make a short journey north-west. The king is riding through the middle lands of England, raising money from the merchants and townsmen for his next campaign in France.
Apparently, the queen can only journey to meet him with a train of wagons carrying tapestries, tables, beds, and bedding, clothes, jewels, musical instruments, and works of art, as if we were going to a desert instead of Coventry.
She is a treasure that must be moved with the rest. She must sleep on her own sheets in her own bed and greet her new husband dripping with his family jewels.
At Coventry, everything changes: we are no longer a court of idle ladies, waiting for the men to arrive; now they are here, snatching a respite in a long war.
The queen and her ladies are as alert as hunting dogs for the coming and going of the soldier king and his handsome warrior-brothers.
The beautiful rooms even smell different: no longer scented by perfume and strewn rushes but by a rush of fresh air that blows in the acrid scent of black powder and the clean smell of horses and saddle leather.
The queen wears her best gowns every day; the ladies-in-waiting and the maids-of-honour chatter in high voices, laugh loudly at nothing, volunteer to sing, and dance their very best – there are no more languid rehearsals.
I shine among them, one of the best singers and by far the best dancer.
I know that everyone is watching me and I manage to charmingly yield my place to better-born ladies – yet still appear at the head of the chain or the centre of the circle.
When the king comes in I have to stand behind Countess Jacqueline, quite hidden by her enormous headdress.
He is striking. He stands head and shoulders over his court, a tall man with a thick mop of dark hair, cropped short like a soldier.
He would be handsome, but one side of his face is torn with a great scar – quite monstrous.
On a king, the old wound is oddly enticing: he looks like a fallen angel.
I wonder what it would be like to be loved by a man who looks like a demon and comes from war like a devil from hell?
Would I be frightened – as a good maid should be frightened?
Or would my heart leap up to meet a being half-man, half-monster, with a desire and determination to match my own?
The king is followed by his riding court – tough men who have been to war with him.
All of them have the same alert walk; they all wear leather jackets padded against a blade, as he does, and they all carry daggers or swords at their belts.
This man and his brothers have been at war almost all their lives: the young prince was fighting Owen Glendower at the age of thirteen, facing Harry Hotspur at sixteen.
He beat the French army at Agincourt before he was thirty.
Of course, he is England’s darling. His progress with his handsome brothers from the west to the Midlands has been to show himself to his adoring people and persuade them to pay new taxes for this unending war.
He kisses his wife on the mouth, and then turns to greet the court of ladies, with his hand resting on the queen’s slender waist. Jacqueline steps forward first, perfectly composed, and she curtseys to a carefully measured depth: a royal countess to a king.
He raises her at once, taking her hand, speaking simply and quietly to her in a quick exchange of questions and answers.
He does not flirt with her, and she is not coquettish.
He asks questions, just as he would to a man, and she does not simper.
I see that I was wrong to think that this warlike king would see another woman at court as a burden – he is talking to her as if he values her thoughts.
Behind the king is his uncle – forty-five-year-old Henry Beaufort Bishop of Winchester, missing nothing – and beside him are two of his three royal brothers, great dukes, John of Bedford and Humphrey of Gloucester; the third brother, Thomas of Clarence, is guarding our lands in France.
John looks older than thirty, more serious, while Humphrey has a bright intelligent face and a peacock style of dressing: bright in rich silks, pointed leather shoes, and coloured hose.
He bows to my lady in the style of the Burgundian court – twirling one hand, with the other hand on his heart.
We process formally into dinner. The king leads his wife, and Duke John offers his hand to my lady; Duke Humphrey takes in one of the queen’s ladies.
I come far behind the other ladies-in-waiting and I am seated below the silver and gilt salter, a clear marker between the great ladies and their lesser companions.
There is only one advantage to being so far down the table: I can watch the king, unnoticed.
He is the key to my lady’s future; she has to please him.
I look at his companions; they are the key to mine.
One of them – though I don’t yet know which one – will be my husband, unless an unknown great lord springs up like a devil out of nowhere and sweeps me away.