The Tudor Bride

A tall, thin tonsured man in the white habit and black cloak of a Dominican had entered the room and paused uncertainly on the threshold. ‘The queen told me to come to the oratory,’ he said apologetically. ‘She and the duchess are on their way.’

‘God’s greeting, Maître,’ I said, approaching the priest and making a small bob. ‘I am Guillaumette Lanière, the queen’s Keeper of Robes. Eleanor here tells me that you have been appointed her confessor. May I offer my congratulations?’

Maître Boyers made me a small bow over clasped hands. His thin face and frame gave him an aesthetic look, but his smile was warm and friendly. ‘I have heard about you, Madame,’ he said. ‘The king tells me that you guard the queen’s physical well-being whilst I am to attend to the spiritual. Would that be a fair summary?’

‘I have served the queen with all my heart and soul for many years,’ I said. ‘But she certainly craves spiritual guidance from the right person. If the king has chosen you, you must be that person.’

‘As well as studying theology at Oxford, I am a member of the Dominican Priory of St John there, the Blackfriars. My lord, the king, thought that since her grace was educated by Dominican nuns in France, she might be receptive to spiritual guidance from one of our order.’

I was about to remark on the king’s thoughtfulness when the door was thrown open to the swish of silken skirts. My knee touched the floor and I expected Catherine to raise and greet me as she usually did, but behind her came Jacqueline of Hainault and they both swept past me without a glance in order to acknowledge the priest. The three then immediately disappeared into the little oratory off the bedchamber and the door closed behind them.

Still kneeling, I felt my stomach twist into a hard knot of distress and my mind flew back to when Catherine had returned to Paris after ten years of convent schooling and I mistook another young lady for her. Bonne of Armagnac had been the newly appointed and high-nosed mademoiselle whom I had wrongly assumed must be Catherine and her disdainful attitude towards me, a mere servant, had led me to believe that my beloved nursling had no memory of one who had loved her like a mother. The crippling sense of worthlessness which had assailed me then resurfaced at this moment with astonishing force, making me realise that Catherine still had an overwhelming power over my emotions.

I got to my feet and saw that Eleanor Cobham was watching me closely, her lips curved in a half smile. She could not have failed to notice the tears in my eyes, but made no comment. I turned away and busied myself preparing the great bed for Catherine’s repose. As I smoothed the lavender-scented sheets and arranged the monogrammed pillows, my mind was a blur of bewilderment at Catherine’s apparent and sudden change of attitude. I thought I knew what, or rather who had caused it and I fretted over the possible consequences.

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