The Forbidden Queen. Anne O'Brien

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      He tilted his chin, as if he rarely poured his own wine, or if he considered my request unwise, but proceeded to present me with one of the lovely chased goblets with a little bow.

      ‘Don’t throw this one on the floor.’

      I expected him to smile, making of it an amusement, but he did not, merely returning to pour a second cup for himself. Perhaps it had been an instruction after all.

      ‘The English ladies do not like me,’ I announced, sipping the wine.

      ‘They do not know you.’

      I took another sip. ‘They say my mother is a whore.’

      ‘Katherine,’ It was almost a sigh. Was he shocked? ‘It is not wise to repeat gossip.’

      I sipped again, not at all satisfied. ‘I wish to choose my own damsels.’

      ‘Who would you choose?’ His brows all but disappeared into his hair again.

      ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted.

      ‘I have already chosen them—you have already met some of them at the banquet,’ Henry remarked matter-of-factly. ‘It will be better it they are English as you will reside in England. Lady Beatrice will guide you in your first steps.’

      ‘Will you not be with me?’

      ‘Not all the time.’

      So I was condemned to the company of the unknown Lady Beatrice. I hoped she was not the opinionated brunette. I sipped again, the warmth dulling the ferment in my belly as Henry began, moving with an agile flex of muscles, to address the ties of his shirt.

      ‘May I keep Guille?’

      ‘Who is that?’

      ‘My chambermaid.’

      ‘If you wish.’ He did not care.

      Henry continued to remove his garments until he stood in immaculately close-fitting hose. Nervously I concentrated on the hue of the wine in my cup and dredged up another irrelevant question.

      ‘What is your stepmother’s name?’

      ‘She is Joanna. From the house of Navarre.’

      ‘Will I meet her? Does she live at Court?’

      ‘No. She lives in seclusion. Her health is not good.’ He took a breath as he stood beside the bed, towering over me. ‘Katherine.’ It seemed that Henry did not wish to speak of Madam Joanna, and I thought he was growing impatient.

      ‘Has your mother, in her wisdom and undoubted experience, told you what to expect?’ My eyes snapped up to his face, all the comforting wine-induced warmth dissipating, seeing that his mouth was set in an uncompromising line of distaste, and not for the first time I wished that my mother had been more circumspect in her amorous dealings. My heart sank but I would not pretend what I did not know. Fear crept steadily back to engulf me, like a winter fog rolling across bleak and chilly water meadows.

      ‘No,’ I announced. I thought he sighed again. ‘She said you were so experienced that it would not matter that I had none and was raised in a convent.’ And I found within me a sudden desire to shake him out of his cold self-possession. I gulped a mouthful of wine. ‘She said that you had led a dissolute life.’ Nerves—and wine—made me indiscreet. Anything to prolong the time until he joined me in the bed. By now I was trembling uncontrollably.

      ‘She said you had spent a life of lust and debauchery—before you became king, that is, and abandoned your companions.’

      ‘You should not believe all you hear,’ he replied, and, although his response was even, I thought I had displeased him.

      ‘Did you?’ I asked.

      ‘Did I what?’

      ‘Abandon your companions.’ I had never had any companions to abandon.

      ‘Yes. It was necessary. They were not to my advantage.’

      I drank again, summoning all my false courage as my head swam a little with the warm fumes of the excellent Bordeaux. ‘Am I? Am I to your advantage?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘A royal virgin with a dowry of inestimable value.’

      His gaze moved steadily over my face. ‘I did not know that we were going to talk of politics.’

      ‘I know nothing else to talk about. I have run out of subjects.’

      ‘And drunk too much wine, I think.’ He took the cup from me, but his voice was gentle.

      ‘I don’t feel drunk,’ I said consideringly. ‘Do I need to talk of anything else?’

      ‘You don’t need to talk at all.’ And he pinched out the candles.

      I valued the darkness. It was, at the moment when I became Henry’s wife in the flesh, an experience that I was not at all sure I wished to repeat. The best I could say was that it was brief.

      What did I recall of it?

      Pain, of course: the physical invasion; the weight of his body on mine so that I felt crushed to the bed. But was that not the lot of all virgins? But then there was the uncomfortable unpleasantness of it all that made me squirm. My mother would have her stained sheets, and I supposed I would, with time and frequency, become used to it. And I remembered the overwhelmingness of it: the heat; the slide of his hands, roughly calloused, when he made himself master of me. There was the power of his hard-muscled, soldier’s body that allowed me no time to catch my breath.

      And there was the strange silence, apart from Henry’s heightened breathing as he took his pleasure. Henry spoke not one word to me during the whole event. I recalled no pleasure, on his part or mine. It was, I decided, all very prosaic and unembellished.

      Well, what did you expect? my mind queried fretfully as Henry withdrew, removed his weight and sank his face in the pillow beside me. I had expected some romance, in the manner of the troubadours, some soft words, even if untrue, to engage my emotions. Some caresses, heated kisses, tender encouragement, not a silent assault delivered with cool skill, driving towards a desired outcome. I would at least have liked him to call me by my name. I did not think that too much to ask.

      Perhaps that was how Englishmen made love. Perhaps it would all become more acceptable. Perhaps I might even come to enjoy it. I could not imagine such an eventuality but, then, my experience was lamentable and I would learn from Henry’s smoothly practised skills. He deserved a wife who could learn and become what he desired.

      If I expected some intimate exchange of words after the deed—which I did—I was entirely misled. Henry climbed from the bed, delved into a coffer—one of his own that had been brought to the room—after relighting one of the candles and shrugged into a loose chamber robe that fell magnificently in heavy folds of sable fur and crimson damask to the floor. Fastening a belt that sparkled with rubies and agates, he ran his fingers through his hair to make some semblance of order and returned to look down at me where I clutched the linen to my chin.

      ‘Sleep СКАЧАТЬ