his enthusiasms for all things with fur or feathers would pall on me.
‘… and then I will have a whole stable full of horses,’ he continued to inform me. ‘As Earl of Pembroke it is my right. Do you know that I have been Earl since before I was three years old? I wish to take part in a tournament. Do you suppose they will let me?’
‘I think you will have to wait a few years.’
‘Well, I quite see that I must. I will be very busy, I expect. You won’t mind if I don’t come and see you every day, will you?’
‘I think I can withstand the disappointment.’
‘I will find time if you wish, of course. And will you call me Jonty, as my nurse does?’
He chattered on. How self-absorbed he was. It could be worse. He could have been loud and boorish, which he was not. But I was not sure that I liked the idea of having him under my feet like a pet dog.
‘If I cannot yet fight in a tournament, will they let me have one of the brache puppies?’
I looked across the table to Dame Katherine for succour, but knew I could do that no longer. I was a married woman and must make my own decisions, even though my husband could not.
The feast and music reaching its apogee, with a flourish and a fanfare the Earl of Pembroke and I were led from the room with minstrels going before in procession, the guests following behind.
‘Now where are we going?’ the boy asked, his hand clutching mine. ‘Can I go and see the brache bitch and puppies now?’
‘No. We must go first to one of the bedchambers.’
His brow furrowed. ‘It’s too early to go to bed.’
‘But today is special. We are to be blessed.’
And I prayed it would be soon over.
The bed was huge, its hangings intimidating in blue and silver, once again festive with Lancaster and Pembroke emblazoning. With no pretence that we would be man and wife in anything but name, the boy and I were helped to sit against the pillows, side by side with a vast expanse of embroidered coverlet between us and no disrobing. Not an inch of extra flesh was revealed as our chaplain approached, bearing his bowl of holy water, and proceeded to sprinkle it over us and the bed.
‘We ask God’s blessing on these two young people who represent the great families of England, Lancaster and Pembroke. We pray that they may grow in grace until they are of an age to be truly united in God’s name.’
There was much more to the same effect until our garments and the bed were all sufficiently doused.
‘Monseigneur …’ The chaplain looked to my father for guidance. ‘It is often considered necessary for the bridegroom to touch the bride’s leg with his foot. Flesh against flesh, my lord. As a mark of what will be fulfilled by my lord the Earl when he reaches maturity.’
I imagined the scene. The boy being divested of his hose, my skirts being lifted to my knees to accommodate the ceremony. My fingers interwove and locked as I prayed that it need not be. And perhaps the Duke read the rigidity in my limbs.
‘I think it will not be necessary. John and Elizabeth are here together. There is no evidence that they seek to escape each other’s company.’
The guests who had crowded in to witness our enjoyment of our married state smiled and murmured. Everyone seemed to do nothing but smile.
‘What do we do now?’ the Earl asked.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ my father replied. ‘That will all be for the future.’
I did not know whether to laugh or weep.
We stepped down from the bed, on opposite sides. My husband was taken off to his accommodations by his mother, the dowager countess now, who saluted my cheeks and welcomed me as her daughter by law. I returned to my chamber, where Philippa awaited me with my women to help me disrobe.
Instead, Philippa waved the servants away and we stood and looked at each other.
‘Do you know what my husband will be doing as soon as he has removed his wedding finery?’ I asked.
She shook her head.
‘He will be down in the mews because he wants a hawk of his own, or in the stables because he wants one of the brache’s litter. He tells me that he will enjoy living at Kenilworth—did you know he was to stay here? —because he can wield a sword against Henry and take part in a tournament.’
Philippa smiled.
So did I, the muscles of my face aching.
‘He—Jonty—says that he doesn’t mind if he does not see me every day. He will be quite busy with his own affairs to turn him into the perfect knight.’
I began to laugh. So did Philippa, but without the hysterical edge that coloured mine.
‘He says he will make an effort to come and see me, if I find that I miss him.’
We fell into each other’s arms, some tears mixed in, but a release at last in the shared laughter.
‘If it were you,’ I asked at last, ‘what would you do?’
‘Treat him just like Henry, I suppose’.
Which was all good sense. Pure Philippa. And indeed what I had decided for myself.
‘You mean pretend he isn’t there when he is a nuisance, comfort him when he has fallen from his horse and slap his hands when he steals my sweetmeats.’
But Henry liked books and reading, he liked the poetry and songs of our minstrels, as did I. Jonty seemed to have nothing in his head but warfare and hunting.
‘Something like that.’ Philippa did not see my despair. ‘You can’t treat him like a husband.’
‘No. Obedience and honour.’ I wrinkled my nose.
‘You can’t ignore him, Elizabeth. He’ll be living here under your nose.’
‘How true.’ My laughter had faded at last. ‘Philippa—I wish you a better wedding night.’
She wrapped her arms around me for a moment, then began to remove the layers of silk and miniver until I stood once more in my shift, the jewels removed from my hair, standing as unadorned as might any young woman on any uneventful day of her life.
We did not talk any more of my marriage. What was there to say?
I gave my husband a magnificently illuminated book telling the magical tales of King Arthur and his knights, as well as a parrot of his own as wedding gifts. To my dismay, the book was pushed aside while Jonty pounced on the parrot with noisy delight. He called it Gilbert rather than Elizabeth, after his governor who had taught him his letters. I was not sorry.
‘Does your husband not keep you company this morning, Elizabeth?’
Some would say it was a perfectly ordinary question to a new wife. If the husband in question were not eight years old. So some would say that perhaps there was amusement in the smooth tones.
I knew better. Isabella, Duchess of York, sister to Constanza, my father’s Castilian wife, owned an abrasive spirit beneath her outward elegance, as well as an unexpectedly lascivious temperament. Constanza’s ambition for restoration of the crown of Castile to her handsome head had been transmuted into a need for self-gratification in her younger sibling, who had come to England with her and promptly married my uncle of York. I was fascinated by the manner in which Isabella pleased herself and no one else, but I did not like her, nor did I think she liked me. Her expression might be blandly interested, but her eye was avid for detail as she made herself comfortable beside me in the solar as if with a cosy chat in mind.
‘Learning to read and write I expect,’ I replied lightly. ‘His governor does not allow him to neglect these skills, even though his mind is in the tilt-yard.’