Hadleigh Castle, Essex, Spring 1423
Hadleigh Castle, Essex, Spring
I START TO imagine a great wedding and a wedding feast; I don’t know how far Owen ap Maredudd might be tempted under the influence of strong wedding ale.
I have learned that though he is not a wealthy man, he has family lands in the principality of Wales.
His family have been rebels against the English for generations, but he was loyal and brave at the Battle of Agincourt.
He’s not a common man – his family are kin to the kings of Wales: the Glendowers.
That means nothing, now that Wales is a principality under the English crown, but he does have royal blood.
If we were to marry, I would not be lowering myself.
Owen will have a good chance of the spoils of war in Hainault.
If he were to be knighted on the battlefield, he would be Sir Owen and I would be Lady ap Maredudd.
I could tell them at Sterborough that I have a betrothed with a good estate and noble blood.
I practise writing Eleanor ap Maredudd, over and over, with trailing tops like banners on the d’s.
It looks well. I scrunch it up and toss it in the fire.
I find that I am thinking of Owen every day of this springtime visit to Duke Humphrey’s pretty castle, and I am irritated that I rarely see him.
He is responsible for the hunting and the daytime entertainments of the castle, and in the evening, the queen’s ladies are required to observe the baby king’s bedtime as if we were his nursemaids: no drinking, no dancing, and no loud laughing after Vespers.
I am thought to be too fearful of horses to keep up with the hunt, and I don’t deny this, for it might come in useful if I want to avoid the invasion of Hainault.
My lady comes home, hot and thrilled by galloping at the speed of a cavalry charge, her horse’s bright coat darkened with sweat, and I hide my irritation that she has been side by side with the duke all day and not once reminded him of his drunken offer of marriage, and her drunken acceptance.
Duke Humphrey is proud of his great collection of books and his beautiful tapestries and paintings even in this, one of his smaller properties.
He has his own stillroom and a grand library and I assume he is going to show my lady his treasures when she tells me to lay out her best blue gown and her dark-blue hennin early on the morning of St Dymphna’s Day.
‘And perfume?’ I ask hopefully.
She shakes her head. ‘No, not for chapel.’
‘You’re dressed up so fine for mass?’ I suppose it is some special thanksgiving for the baby. Perhaps he has cut another tooth. We had prayers for his first tooth. How many will he get? And will we have to hold a thanksgiving each time?
‘I am meeting Duke Humphrey in his chapel at Prime. We are going to marry.’
She sees my astounded face in her mirror and smiles at me.
‘You’ve persuaded him . . .’
Her smile does not waver. ‘We agreed,’ she reproves me. ‘I am not quite such a crone that I have to persuade a man to marry me.’
‘Of course not!’ I say, quickly recovering. ‘But he does know he’s got to win back your lands?’
‘He’s confident that once I’m an English duchess, the parliament will support me. Duke John will see the advantage of an ally on his north-east flank, and the rents will make me even wealthier than Bishop Beaufort. Our marriage advances us all.’
‘This isn’t your wedding gown!’ I exclaim in horror at the simple elegance of it, and I make a rush for the door to send a maid running to the castle treasure room for her jewel chest and to the royal wardrobe for a fur cape.
‘I want nothing more. It’s a private simple ceremony. Just him and me, and you and his squire ap Maredudd as witnesses. He’s told his priest, and a choir boy will sing the anthem.’
‘The queen should witness. And one of the lords. It should be a great show . . .’
She stops me with a gesture. ‘Hush, Nell. This is between ourselves. He’s marrying me for honourable love, a lord to his lady, to serve me, I’m marrying him for a lifetime alliance with England and the English throne.’
I bend and kiss her cheek. It is her right to have the wedding she wants; she had the courtship she wanted: without seduction or trickery.
She is the most honest bride I have ever known, and this is a true marriage.
He is marrying a woman of equal birth and courage and he chose to serve her, first as her knight errant, to win back her lands.
‘I wish you very happy,’ I say, and I mean it.
It is as Margery Jourdemayne predicted: my lady does things her own way.
And I grant that her way may be better than mine – after all, she has told no lies and played no deceitful games; she has not tricked or seduced, and yet she has won an heir to the throne, with his army – exactly what she wanted for a husband.
And I, who have tried so hard, am not even betrothed.
OWEN AP MAREDUDD and I are witnesses as our principals take their vows at the altar.
He looks grave, as if his lord is swearing himself into a trap, rather than taking a wife.
It is the saint’s day for women’s madness and mistakes, so I pray to St Dymphna to guard my lady from her habit of marrying bad husbands.
It’s all over in minutes; it feels not just secret but almost shameful – hushed and hurried.
It’s not a binding marriage until the two of them have bedded, so Owen and I have to witness their going into her bedchamber and coming out again.
All four of us slip from the little chapel, walk quickly across the courtyard to the main castle and up to my lady’s rooms. None of us speak as we go up the stone stair; I feel as if I am scuttling in shame, rather than walking in a wedding procession.
Owen opens the door to my lady’s rooms. I go past him to open the inner door to her bedroom.
I wanted to scatter rose petals on the floor among the strewing herbs and sprinkle the bed curtains and sheets with a love potion, but she absolutely forbade it.
‘He is marrying me for honourable love, for polity and for profit, and I him. I want no one saying I enchanted him with potions and spells, that I stole his wits from him.’
‘Nettle tea?’ I suggest, as I undress her and put her nightgown around her shoulders. Nettle tea is supposed to help a woman conceive, and any baby would be fourth in line to the throne. But she just shakes her head.
I close the bedroom door on the two of them, and Owen ap Maredudd gives me a rueful smile. ‘I take it there’s no wedding ale specially brewed? No wedding cakes?’
‘We could have a glass of wine,’ I suggest, and he takes a seat in the window of my lady’s chamber while I pour wine from the silver jug.
We raise them in a toast towards the door and then sit side by side, trying not to listen for noises of lovemaking from the bedroom.
We need not have worried; the door is thick, and our principals do their business in complete silence.
‘Not enough celebration for you?’ he asks me, smiling.
‘It’s what she wants,’ I say. ‘But when I marry, I’ll have a proper wedding feast and dancing.’
‘What if he’s a poor man?’
‘I won’t marry anyone poor,’ I say. ‘He’s got to have a fortune – or at least prospects.’
He raises his glass to me. ‘He’ll be a lucky man.’
I hesitate – I want to tell him that he could be lucky, and that he, surely, has prospects?
‘Will you go to Hainault with your lady?’ he asks me. ‘Whenever they go?’
‘I’ve no choice!’ I take a sip of wine to rinse the bitterness from my voice. ‘She’s my lady; I have to go with her, unless I can marry and leave her service. Like you have to go with the duke.’
‘You can’t stay behind and serve the queen?’ he asks.
I make a little face. ‘She does nothing; her ladies do nothing.’
‘She doesn’t have to do anything but be queen,’ he points out. ‘What would you have her do?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. She just seems to do nothing but be pretty and coo over the baby.’
‘Is there no other lady you’d choose to serve?’
‘I won’t serve anyone less than a duchess,’ I stipulate, and he laughs out loud.
‘God love you! And why would a beauty like you stoop lower than that?’
‘But what about you?’ I ask. ‘Will you have a command in the duke’s army? Or serve as his squire?’
He shakes his head and puts down his glass. ‘He’ll take the men he commanded before, in France.’
I am surprised. ‘But you’ll go too?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’ll take the work that you despise. I’ll serve the little king in his household. I’ll stay with him.’
‘In Hertford Castle and Windsor!’ I exclaim. ‘Never in London except for parliament, and then nothing to do but carry his cushion? Waiting on a spoiled baby who will only get worse as the years go by? First a baby, then a brat?’
‘In fourteen years, he’ll be King of England!’ he says. ‘It’s a long wait, but a great place at the end. Those of us around him now will be his friends and companions for life.’
‘Oh yes, if you never say “no” to him and outdo all the other fools,’ I say crossly. ‘If you can wait fourteen years for a knighthood. Fourteen years before you can marry!’
His smile does not waver. ‘I can wait,’ he says.
In fourteen years’ time, I will be in my thirties, and my looks will be gone. I’m not a man with the luxury of long years to plan my future. I have only a brief window to make my fortune. By the time the baby king is grown and gives Owen a knighthood, I’ll be an old lady.
He takes my hand. ‘How about you? How long can you wait?’
He does not understand that it is no joking matter for a woman. ‘I can’t wait at all.’