The Tudor Bride

11

On waking the next day, my first thought was for Genevieve. Guilt stabbed me as I realised that I had seen my beloved mare led away down an alley and had not given any further thought to her welfare. However, during our evening meal my two saddlebags had been delivered to my chamber and I had been able to shake out my best blue Flanders wool gown and hang it on a convenient clothes pole to allow the creases to fall out. I intended to wear it in the evening for Master Vintner’s promised feast. Meanwhile, I washed my face in the water provided, gave my travel-stained russet riding kirtle a good brush to remove the worst of the mud splashes and donned it once more before hurrying downstairs to find the stable.

In daylight the house in Tun Lane was revealed to be one in a row of substantial town houses constructed on a frame of strong, dark oak beams filled in with lime-washed lath and plaster, similar to hundreds I had seen in the towns we had passed through on the court’s progress around England. It was larger than most, boasting four windows on each side of the two gabled upper floors and was roofed with slate tiles which, considering the danger of fire in cramped city streets, I thought a vast improvement on the straw and thatch used in poorer neighbourhoods. An intriguing series of pargetted designs relieved the rectangles of plasterwork on the first floor overhang, the beams framing images of twining vines laden with fruit, a ship loaded with barrels and capering youths and girls treading huge vats of harvested grapes. There was no mistaking that this house had once belonged to a wine merchant, even if it now housed a lawyer’s family.

The narrow tunnel down which the horses had been led the previous night opened on to a rear courtyard surrounded by outhouses, one of which I rather hoped might be a privy. A stable boy was busy tipping a barrow-load of soiled straw onto a muckheap in the corner of the yard and I asked him to show me where Genevieve was. On the way past a feed-barrel I grabbed a handful of oats and enjoyed my mare’s little whicker of recognition before she snuffled them off my outstretched palm. She was comfortably settled in a stall beside Walter’s cob and looked none the worse for the previous day’s long trek. Following the advice of the horse-loving Lady Joan, I felt her legs carefully and was happy to find no sign of heat. I reckoned a day’s rest would do her no harm however.

Having found and made use of the privy, I took a quick tour around the rest of the yard, discovering that the ground floor of the house was given over to a chamber of business where two legal clerks were already busy penning entries in large leather-bound ledgers under the sharp gaze of their employer, Master Geoffrey Vintner. As I passed the open door that led directly into the yard, he called my name.

‘Madame Lanière, good morrow to you! I trust I find you well rested.’ He came out to meet me, his amiable face wreathed in smiles. I found myself wondering if this genial man could really be a forceful interrogative lawyer, then I remembered that he was also a diplomat, where I imagined that cordiality was a definite advantage.

I returned his bow with a bob. ‘Thank you, Master Vintner, I slept well. Your house is very comfortable.’

‘I am glad you think so and it is close enough to the wine warehouses for me to keep an eye on the legal side of our family business. My older brothers are the wine merchants, but I am of some use to them. May I escort you up to the hall to break your fast?’

‘Thank you. I have been checking on my mare but, of course, it was unnecessary. Your stable is as well set up as your house.’

We entered the back door and climbed the narrow stairway from the front lobby. In the hall the table had been pushed to one end of the room and bread and jugs of ale were laid out on the cloth. There was evidence that we were not the first there but whoever had already eaten had also left. We took a bowl each and some bread to a small table by the hearth. Someone had stirred the fire back to life and a cauldron of pottage stood on a trivet keeping warm. The lawyer ladled some into my bowl.

‘My sister may not be good at mutton pie, but she does make decent pottage,’ he said, eyes twinkling. ‘She has breakfasted early and gone off to seek the makings of a good beef dinner and she has taken the girls to carry her baskets.’ He filled his own bowl and sat down opposite me, adding confidentially, ‘I am fortunate that she agreed to come and care for my daughters after their mother died. Elizabeth has a brusque manner but a good heart. I can trust her to do the best for the girls.’

‘I am sure you can,’ I said, breaking some bread to dip in the pottage and deciding it would be tactful to change the subject. ‘Your son tells me you travel frequently to France. Is that on wine business?’ I knew it was not but did not want to make trouble for Walter if he had told me too much of his father’s affairs.

Geoffrey Vintner pursed his lips. ‘Partly,’ he concurred. ‘But because of my knowledge of both French and English law, I am sometimes employed on missions for the king; a glorified messenger really between the English court and the governing councils of Paris and Rouen. Do you have family in France?’

I suddenly found the bread hard to swallow as a lump came to my throat, a problem which had started to occur more frequently lately as I struggled to come to terms with the extended separation from my children. I tried to clear it and spoke hoarsely as a result.

‘Yes I do but, sadly, they eat from different plates. My son is a huntsman in the dauphin’s household – I am sorry, I mean the Pretender of course …’ I blushed and rushed on, ‘and my daughter is married to a Parisian tailor and so now lives under English rule. She has a little girl, my granddaughter.’

Master Vintner ignored the dauphin/Pretender slip in favour of blatant flattery. ‘Saint’s bones! You are a grandmother? Impossible!’

I felt my cheeks burn even hotter and inwardly scolded myself for foolishness. ‘It is only too possible, sir,’ I said, avoiding his teasing gaze. ‘You might be a grandparent yourself if your son were a daughter.’

He thought about that for a moment. ‘Ah yes, I see what you mean. I find it difficult to contemplate the fact that my daughters are nearly of an age to take husbands. Am I the only father who hates that thought?’

I gave a small laugh. ‘That depends on the husbands they take. Fortunately mine chose well.’

He frowned. ‘Chose?’ he echoed. ‘You mean she chose her own husband? What was her father doing?’

My cheeks had cooled now and I gave him a direct look. ‘Sadly I lost my husband after the Battle of Agincourt. He was as much a casualty of that disaster as the Duke of York, even if he was not a nobleman.’

‘A disaster you call it?’ He kept his expression neutral. ‘Well I suppose for many thousands of your countrymen it was just that. Did he fight in the battle?’

I laid down my horn spoon to clasp my hands tightly in my lap. I did not wish to begin a detailed description of Jean-Michel’s miserable and unnecessary death. ‘No, he was a charettier. He drove supplies for the royal army. Although I serve the queen, I am not of noble stock, sir.’

Master Vintner struck his knee with the palm of his hand and laughed. ‘No more are my son and I, Madame, and yet we serve the king. These are changing times, are they not?’

I resumed my meal and we ate in silence for a few moments. ‘Where is Walter?’ I asked at length. ‘I do not imagine he is a lay-abed.’

‘No, no. I have sent him about his own business. He has gone to buy quills and paper. If you will permit me, I will escort you to the Tailors Hall myself. As it happens, I have done legal work for the guild and I think my introduction may ensure you more solicitous attention than my young son’s.’ He paused, observing me humbly. ‘I hope this arrangement does not offend you.’

In fact I found myself unexpectedly pleased by his offer but I restricted my response to a brief smile and a nod of appreciation. ‘Not at all, sir,’ I said. ‘It is very generous of you to spare the time.’

On Master Vintner’s advice I strapped pattens onto my shoes for the walk to Threadneedle Street and I was glad I had. The muckrakers may have been out at dawn, but the gutters in the lane had already received new and generous dumps of household waste and the main thoroughfares were liberally scattered with fresh droppings from travellers’ horses and the wild pigs that still apparently roamed the streets and gardens. London’s fifty thousand citizens had to eat and drink and pursue their livelihoods and so they also had to live with the side effects. Although the pattens made walking clumsy, at least they kept my feet and my skirt off the ground and my escort was kind enough to offer me his arm over the worst parts.

It was not far to the Tailors Hall and, on the way, we passed numerous workshops of crafts I would need to explore later; haberdashers, drapers, cordwainers, hatters, glovers and hosiers. London might be only half the size of Paris, but there seemed to be no lack of the skills necessary to maintain Queen Catherine’s reputation for setting the style, even when she began to change shape from her usual willow-wand slimness. The only question lay in whether there was a tailor who would be able to satisfy her demand for the new and avant-garde. My son-in-law Jacques had proved exactly the young and daring innovator she had wanted and I needed to find his equal in the lanes off Threadneedle Street.

By coincidence, while we waited in the dim oak-panelled hall for a meeting with the grand master of the guild, we witnessed an argument between a tailor and his wife which stirred my interest. For a guild freeman, which he clearly was, the tailor was a relatively young man; in his mid-twenties I would have guessed, his wife about the same, and their conversation centred on a subject which, in view of my own daughter’s position; working in Paris with her husband, was of particular interest to me.

‘Whatever happens, you are not to become excited and start shouting.’

These were the first words I heard as we drew near to the couple, who were among several groups and individuals standing around the long room. The young tailor was addressing his wife, who was already red-faced with suppressed irritation.

‘It will not help your cause and nor will it help mine, which is more important,’ he added.

‘It is unjust!’ she seethed, her voice vibrating with passionate indignation, ‘My work is lauded in the guild when it carries your name and yet I am not permitted to sell it as my own. I do not know how you can take all the credit when you know it is I who do the work.’

‘It is our business, Meg, and we are making our reputation,’ he insisted, keeping his tone deliberate and hushed. ‘When we married, you were happy just to have an outlet for your designs. Do not forget that you would have had no opportunity at all without the backing of my name.’

‘But it is not your name that actually does the designs, cuts the patterns and sews the seams, it is me! How would you like to have someone else receive all the praise and money for your singular endeavours?’

‘I would not stand for it, but I am a man and that is the way things are and you will not change it by shouting at the grand master like a Billingsgate fishwife!’

She looked mutinous, but simmered down enough to keep her thought process logical. ‘Perhaps the answer is for me to stop work and then we will see if our business makes any money!’ she muttered.

‘You can stop work when you fulfil your marriage contract and produce the children to staff our workshop,’ retorted the man with what I surmised was unkindness born of disappointment. ‘Until then, let us turn our attention to the more urgent business of how we are going to answer the guild’s accusations of over-pricing.’

She sniffed loudly, her resentment simmering. ‘We demand the highest prices because our gowns are of the highest quality. I will insist that fact until the moon turns blue.’

At this point a clerk nudged my companion’s elbow and asked us to follow him to the grand master’s chamber. As we traversed the hall, I asked the clerk if he knew the name of the couple we had been standing next to. He glanced back and smiled with instant recognition. ‘Ah yes, goodwife,’ he said, embarrassingly mistaking us for a married couple, ‘that is Master Anthony and his wife. Their designs are presently in great demand by London’s richest and noblest and, because of that, they think they can break the guild’s price tariffs. They are in dispute with the Chapter.’

‘And with each other,’ I murmured and made a mental note of the name Anthony, but I had more interest in the mistress than the master. A female tailor with a reputation for style might be just what Catherine needed in the months leading up to her confinement.

On my return to the house in Tun Lane, the smell of roasting beef assailed my nostrils like a benediction. After introducing me to the Grand Master Tailor my host had left me to attend to his own business, leaving strict instructions for me to meet Walter by the Cheapside fountain at the Vespers bell.

‘I have told my son to escort you home because London is a safe city in daylight,’ he had advised, ‘but as darkness falls a good woman risks being mistaken for one of her less reputable sisters. Besides, you might lose your way and I do not wish you to miss any part of the meal my sister is preparing for us this evening!’

Elizabeth Cope was indeed a great deal better at roasting beef than preparing mutton pie and her prowess had also lightened her mood. It was a cheerful party that gathered around the long table in the hall as night fell. The smoky oil lamps of the previous evening had been replaced by beeswax candles in polished pewter candlesticks and there was manchet bread cut into thick slices as trenchers to soak up the delicious juices of the meat. Best of all there was a leek and oyster pudding as an accompaniment. Master Vintner clearly wished no expense to be spared in demonstrating to the queen’s keeper of robes what a fine household he kept.

He was also assiduous in asking after my success in the workshops of the Cheape and Threadneedle Street, so I delivered a brief account of my meetings with various tailors and the orders I had placed in a number of shops where accessories were made. I kept it short because I did not want to reveal too much before arrangements were finalised with those craftsmen I had patronised. Orders such as these could make or break reputations and when news of the queen’s favour spread, I wanted it to be accurate.

‘And did you make contact with Master Anthony in the course of your activities?’ my host enquired, rather to my surprise. I had not realised that he had heard my exchange with the clerk at the Tailors’ Hall.

‘I called at his workshop, but the apprentice told me his master was still at the Tailors’ Hall,’ I admitted. I did not add that I had gone back there later and spoken to Mistress Anthony, nor reveal anything of the conversation I had had with her. The results of that interview might become known later – or they might not.

Mildy, who had been jiggling about on her chair, could contain herself no longer. ‘Did you buy any pretty things for the queen, Madame?’ she asked excitedly. ‘Any ribbons or lace or jewellery? And if you did, may we see them?’

I smiled at her. She endeared herself to me; as curious as a kitten and twice as irrepressible. At her age I should have been as eager for them as she was, had I ever had the chance even to look at such fripperies. ‘Mostly I ordered drawings and designs to collect tomorrow, but I do have some samples to take back to her grace. You are welcome to see them later if you wish. Tell me though, what did you get up to today? I felt like a slug-a-bed for you were up and out before I broke my fast.’

Mildy’s brow creased under the turned-back brim of her white linen coif. ‘Oh yes, we rise early and today we went to market with Aunt to carry baskets. We had to get there soon after dawn in order to catch the best produce, that is what our aunt said.’

‘And so it is and so we did,’ interjected Mistress Cope, ‘as I think is proved by the quality of the beef we are eating.’

‘Indeed it is!’ echoed her brother heartily, raising his glass. ‘Let us drink a toast to the king and queen and the roast beef of England. Long may they grace our land!’

Mistress Cope spluttered and I caught my host’s eye, fighting to suppress a chuckle at his somewhat subversive conjunction of royalty and bullocks.

‘And now a toast to our guest,’ he added, drawing instant colour to my cheeks. ‘May this not be the last time she honours my house with her presence.’

Later that evening, when the girls had exclaimed over the few gee-gaws I had purchased for Catherine and been chivvied up to bed by their aunt, my host and I sat conversing by the hall fire with the last of the flagon of Gascon wine and I asked him the question I had been pondering ever since I learned of his regular trips to France.

‘I wonder, Master Vintner, if I were to write a letter to my daughter Alys in Paris, whether you would be kind enough to take it to her on your next visit? It would be wonderful to be able to tell her all my news and perhaps there might be an opportunity for her to write a reply while you are in the city.’

Master Vintner did not hesitate for a second. ‘With great pleasure, Madame,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, I will be making the journey very soon, on one of the ships that will carry the king’s relief troops. I believe they will sail at the end of the month so I should be in Paris in early June.’

‘Ah, the best time of year,’ I said enviously. ‘I will write the letter tomorrow and give you clear directions to her house. It is very kind of you to do me this favour.’

‘It is no favour, I assure you,’ he responded, ‘for it will give me the pleasure of hoping for another visit from you so that I can tell you how your daughter fares and of course describe the progress of your little granddaughter. And perhaps one day there will be an opportunity for me to accompany you in person to Paris to see them for yourself.’

I gazed at him, speechless, asking myself how many times this man’s warmth had brought a lump to my throat during the brief hours of our acquaintance. This last offer had taken me completely by surprise. To him it appeared to be the most natural and logical idea, but to me it suddenly seemed like an offer from heaven and I was overwhelmed by a longing to accept immediately, which merely served to tell me how much I had been suppressing my heartfelt wish to see my family again. But I knew of course that it was impossible, at least until after Catherine was safely delivered of her baby, for I had promised faithfully to see her through the momentous process of presenting England and France with their crucially important heir.

After several seconds I managed to deliver what I hoped was a serene smile and say, ‘What a kind and thoughtful offer, Master Vintner, but I hope you will not think me ungrateful if I turn it down, at least for the foreseeable future. You see, perhaps the news has not reached London yet, but the queen is enceinte and as you can imagine it will be a long time before I am able to leave her for more than a few days. I have been with her more or less since she was born and I will be with her when she brings her own child into the world. I would not be human if I absented myself from that event.’

He nodded solemnly. ‘Indeed you would not. I had heard the good news of the queen’s happy condition and of course I should have realised that there was no question of you leaving England at this time. But please remember that the offer is always open.’ He leaned forward and poured a last drop of wine into my cup before emptying the flagon into his own. ‘Let us drink to the health of the queen,’ he said. ‘May God give her an easy confinement and a healthy babe in the cradle, be it boy or girl.’

We drank and I inwardly blessed him for being among the few men in England who would not have prayed exclusively for a son for the king.

His eyes twinkled in a way with which I had now grown familiar as he added earnestly, ‘And I hope you will not think it untoward if I suggest that in private at least we abandon formality and call each other by our baptismal names. Mine is Geoffrey.’

I set down my cup and nodded contentedly. ‘And mine is Guillaumette, but that is my serving name. My friends call me Mette.’

‘Then, if you permit it, I shall call you Mette.’

12

I stayed one more night at the House of the Vines and spent the daylight hours completing my business in the craft workshops of Cheapside. Fortunately the weather was kinder on our return journey and we arrived back at Windsor well before sunset, dry and contented. However, comfortable though it was, my chamber in the queen’s apartment felt dull and lonely after the cheerful bustle of the house in Tun Lane and when I presented myself in the queen’s solar after the evening meal, my welcome was disappointing. Deep in intimate conversation with the Duchess of Hainault, Catherine displayed little interest in my arrival and did not enquire whether my trip had been successful.

When I made my curtsy at the door, ‘Goodness, Mette, have you returned already?’ was all she said, before resuming her tête-à-tête. For a moment I thought I heard her mother speaking and felt a jolt of dismay. She had addressed me in English and her broken accent reminded me of Queen Isabeau’s fractured French.

Fortunately Agnes, Lady Joan and Joannas Belknap and Troutbeck greeted me enthusiastically, Joanna Coucy being the exception as I had come to expect, and I spent a pleasant hour describing the sights of London and the new styles and fabrics I had seen in the warehouses and workshops I had visited. None of them asked where I had lodged during my visit and so I did not tell them about the house in Tun Lane or the friendliness of its inhabitants. When Catherine showed signs of retiring, I hurried through to her bedchamber as usual only to find Eleanor Cobham already there preparing a herbal mixture in a pestle and heating a kettle of water over the fire. She smiled at me brightly.

‘There you are, Madame Lanière,’ she said impatiently, as if I were a junior lady-in-waiting reporting late for duty. ‘I am preparing a tisane for the queen. It is one that I have made for the duchess and it was she who recommended it as a night-time posset. Are their graces coming now?’

‘The queen is coming,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you should hurry along to the duchess’s bedchamber.’

‘Oh no,’ Eleanor responded. ‘They will take the tisane together before they retire, but the queen’s new confessor will come to say the Angelus with them first.’

I frowned. ‘A new confessor,’ I echoed. ‘Who is that?’

‘Maître Boyers.’ I noted a triumphant gleam in Eleanor’s eyes, doubtless sparked by the fact that she was able to tell me something pertaining to Catherine that I did not know. ‘The king appointed him to the queen’s household as a parting gift when he left for Winchester. Was it not a great kindness? He said the priest would bring the queen God’s comfort during her pregnancy.’

‘Has the king left for France already?’ I asked faintly, marvelling at how much had occurred during the four days I had been away.

‘No, he has gone to attend to business with Bishop Beaufort in Winchester and will return before he takes ship. The Duke of Gloucester is still at Windsor, however. Ah, here is Maître Jean.’