The King's Sister. Anne O'Brien
at Kenilworth. Not for us a wedding at the church door. My father had wed Blanche beneath a gilded canopy held by four lords at Reading Abbey, in the presence of the old King Edward the Third. No such ostentatious splendour for me and the child Earl, but both of us, and the chapel, were dressed for high ceremonial. As were the guests who crowded in to witness our joining in this auspicious union. The robes of my father’s chaplain were spectacular with red silk and gold thread. The banners of Lancaster and Pembroke all but covered the warm hue of the stonework.
My hand, resting lightly in the boy’s, where my father had placed it as a sign that he was giving me into the young Earl’s keeping, was ice cold: the boy’s was unpleasantly warm and clammy. I glanced at my betrothed, ridiculously elegant in gleaming silk tunic, knowing that he wished himself anywhere but in the chapel. Yet I could not fault his rigid stance, his solemn concentration.
I tried to concentrate on the sacred words but failed miserably, conscious only of the child at my side, and disturbed that Dame Katherine should find my behaviour a cause for concern. Was I always as selfish, as careless of the feelings of others, as she perceived? Assuredly I would prove her wrong today. My demeanour would be faultless. I looked across and smiled at the boy, receiving a beaming grin in return.
Yes, I would be kind to him.
The chaplain, austere with the weight of the burden on his frail shoulders, was frowning at me, reminding me that I had responses to make. And so I did, accepting this boy as my husband as the consecration was brought to an end, trying not to think how ridiculous we might appear together in spite of the outward magnificence of silk and satin and jewelled borders. John Hasting’s head barely reached my elbow.
So it was done. I would never again, in public, wear my hair loose in virginal purity. The boy, with surprising dexterity, pushed a gold ring onto my finger. We kissed each other formally on one cheek and then the other. Then fleetingly on the lips. We were man and wife. I was Countess of Pembroke.
‘Will I be allowed to go to the stables now?’ my husband whispered as I bent to salute him.
‘Soon,’ I whispered back.
‘How long is soon?’
I sighed a little as we joined hands and walked between our well-wishers, out of God’s holy presence into the trials of real life.
We were kissed and patted, feted and feasted, which I tolerated far better than my lord who squirmed with embarrassment and, in the end, with surly boredom, face flushed and eyes stormy. Conducted to the place of honour at the high table, our steward presented the grace cup first to us. My father’s carver carved the venison for us. The festive dishes were placed before us to taste and select before the throng stripped the table bare.
This should have been one of the happiest, most exhilarating days of my life. Instead I was torn between pleasure at my new status as a married, titled lady with the money to pay for a household of my own, and dismay that I had no knight to share it with me. I would have liked my husband to woo me, to show admiration for my person. To enjoy my company, whether to dance or sing or read the French tales of love. Of course he would go to war, win glory in tournaments, take his rightful place at court, but he would return to me. He would give me gifts and express a desire to spend time in my company. My husband too would be elegant and charming, well versed in the art of seduction with words and music, gracious and sophisticated.
At least he would have admired the dress that had been stitched for my marriage—for how long had my father known of this union with Pembroke? —with the symbols of Lancaster and Pembroke twining together along hem and the edges of my oversleeves. Such a magnificent heraldic achievement could not go unnoticed by the lord for whose new pre-eminence it was created.
John Hastings paid no heed.
‘My lady! What is it that I am expected to do now?’ the sibilants hissed sotto voce, the boy at my side rubbing the bridge of his nose with his finger, without grace or elegance, and looking hunted after our steward had bowed before him with yet another platter of aromatic meat for him to taste.
I was sure that he had been taught how to conduct himself, but he had not yet been sent to be a page in some noble household, and the heavy significance of the occasion robbed him of any immature confidence that might have been instilled in him by his lady mother. I tried not to sigh. It was not his fault.
‘We eat first,’ I explained. ‘The feast is for us.’
‘Good.’ His eye brightened a little. ‘I will have some of that …’
And, served by our steward, he tucked in to a dish of spiced peacock, spoon akimbo in his fist, as if he had not been fed for a se’enight. I was left to choose my own repast and converse with my uncle of Gloucester on my left, who subjected me to a rambling description of a run after an impressive stag and my uncle’s ultimate success in bringing it down.
I made suitable noises of appreciation. The minstrels sang of love requited, which was patently ridiculous, but I enjoyed the words and the music. My lord ate through another platter that had caught his eye, of frytourys lumbard stuffed with plums, and then drew patterns in the fair cloth with his knife until his mother caught his eye and frowned at him.
The toasts were made, and our health was drunk once more.
Then came the dancing.
The disparity in our heights made even the simplest steps more complicated as we, the newly wedded couple, led the formal procession that wound around the dancing chamber.
Think of him as your brother. Imagine it is Henry. You’ve suffered his prancing attempts often enough.
So I did, relieved that my lord did not caper and skip as Henry was often tempted to do out of wanton mischief. We made, I decided, as seemly a performance as could be expected when the groom had to count the number of steps he took before he bowed and retraced the movement, counting again.
Holy Virgin!
No one laughed aloud. They would not dare, but I could not fail to see the smiles. It might be a political marriage made in the chambers of power, but I could detect pity and condescension as amused eyes slid from mine. I kept my own smile firmly in place as if it were the most enjoyable experience in the world. I had too much pride to bear loss of dignity well, but I had strength of will to hold it at bay.
Returning to our seats, the processing done, the musicians drawing breath and wiping their foreheads, I became aware of the boy’s fierce regard.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Will you enjoy being wed to me, Elizabeth?’ he asked, surprising me, his eyes as bright as a hunting spaniel on the scent, and not at all shy.
‘I have no idea,’ I replied honestly, immediately regretful as his face fell. ‘I suppose I will. Will you enjoy being wed to me?’
‘Yes.’ He beamed with open-hearted pleasure. ‘I have decided. I will like it above all things.’ My brows must have risen. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
I shook my head, unable to see why a young boy was so vehement in his admiration for our married status when it would mean nothing to him for years to come.
‘I will enjoy living here,’ he announced.
Which surprised me even more.
‘Do you not go home with your mother? Or grandmother?’
‘No. I am to live here. At Kenilworth.’ His eyes glowed with fervour, his cheeks flushed from the cup of wine with which he had been allowed to toast me in good form. ‘I am to learn to be a knight. I am to join Henry in my studies. I will keep my horse here and I can have as many hounds as I wish. I will learn to kill with my sword. And I will go hunting. I would like a raptor of my own, as well as the parrot …’
As I smiled at his enthusiasms—for who could resist? —I had to acknowledge this new fact, that I would see him every day. Rather than live apart until he grew into adulthood to become my husband in more than name, we would have to play husband and wife in all matters of day-to-day