Free The Forbidden Queen by Anne O'Brien Page A

to feel shamed by my appearance on that day. I was the one bargaining point we Valois had, and Duke John—not my mother, of course—had decided that I was worth some outlay. More coin than I had ever imagined in my life, the vast sum of three thousand florins, had been spent on my appearance. I prayed I would be worth it as I breathed shallowly, my palm damp with nerves within my cousin’s heavy clasp.
    And so, splendid in my fur-edged sleeves at last, I made my first curtsey to Henry of England.
    I had a price to pay for my moment of glory. It was all very well to dress me as if I were already Queen of England, but in a hot tent on a sultry day in May, I was as heated as if I were labouring in the royal kitchens.
    The heart-shaped headdress that confined all my hair sat heavily on my brow like a boiled pudding, the short veiling clinging damply to my neck. The folds of the houppelande, quite beautiful and as blue as the Virgin’s robe, furred and embroidered and belted beneath my breast with a jewelled girdle, were so heavy that trickles of sweat ran down my spine. But I braced myself against the discomfort.
    I suppose I looked well enough, a true princess, as I lifted my skirts a little way with my free hand to exhibitthe pleated under-tunic of cloth of gold. All very fine—except that it was all outward show. My linen shift was old and darned and rough against my naked flesh. My shoes let in the damp from the dew-laden grass. The florins had not run to new shoes or undergarments, but the King would not notice that beneath my magnificently trailing skirts and jewelled bodice.
    King Henry took in my glory, sleeves and all, in one comprehensive, dismissive glance.
    ‘We are gratified,’ he said, but still in English. ‘We have long wished to meet the princess of France, of whom we have heard so much.’ And he bowed to me with impeccable grace, his hand on his heart.
    ‘Monseigneur.’
Now that I was face to face with him, almost within touching distance of those snarling leopards on his tunic, any initial courage fled. I sank into a second low curtsey, because he seemed to expect it of me, my eyes, cravenly, on the floor until I felt a stir of air, heard a foot fall, and the soft boots that he wore came into my vision. His hand was stretched down to me.
    ‘My lady. You must stand.’
    It was gently said, yet undeniably a command. I placed my hand in his and he drew me to my feet. Leaning a little, in formal recognition, he lightly kissed me on one cheek and then the other. And then on my mouth with the softest pressure of his own. My heart fluttered. Blushing from throat to hairline, I felt the blood run hot under my skin as his lips brushed against me and his battle-roughpalms were firm against mine. All I could think was: King Henry has kissed me in greeting. I stared at him, no words coming to those lips he had just saluted.
    ‘The rumours of your beauty do not lie, Lady.’ He led me a little distance away from our audience, his voice warming as he did so. ‘Now I can see for myself the value of the gift that the House of Valois would make to me.’
    This was undoubtedly a compliment, but his face was so stern. Did Englishmen not smile? I struggled with the English, embarrassingly tongue-tied, searching for a suitable reply.
    ‘Do you speak English?’ he asked, when I failed.
    ‘Only a little,
Monseigneur
,’ I managed, with what I must presume was an appalling accent. ‘But I will learn more.’
    ‘Of course you will,’ he affirmed. ‘It is imperative that you do.’
    ‘I swear I will practise every day,’ I replied, unnerved by the seriousness of his response.
    But Henry’s interest had moved from my lack of linguistic skill as his eyes fell from my face to the bodice of my gown where a gold-mounted sapphire was pinned at my neckline.
    ‘What is it, my lord?’ I asked anxiously: the frown was back.
    ‘The brooch.’
    ‘Yes, my lord? It is a gift from Duke John, to honour the