to my friend Agnes de Blagny who, as you know, will be one of your number.’
I felt quite sorry for the timorous Agnes as she was carried off by four court damsels who obviously found the prospect of a day spent picking clothes and jewels so enchanting that their excited chatter died only gradually away down the stair. Bonne of Armagnac remained behind however, sidling up to Catherine and dropping her voice to a confidential murmur. I tactfully retired to the hearth to re-heat the curdled posset, but I have sharp ears and easily caught the gist of her speech.
‘Coming from the convent, Mademoiselle, you will need more than just advice on jewels and fashions. The ways of the court are complex. It is easy to make mistakes. The queen trusts me to help and guide you, just as my father helps and guides the dauphin.’
‘No doubt she does.’ There was a pause as Catherine gazed steadily at Bonne before continuing with the kind of regal assurance that I now believe cannot be taught. ‘And you may be sure that I will be as grateful to you as the dauphin is to your father, Mademoiselle. But I must remind you that the queen made an announcement at court tonight which you seem to have forgotten. As the only remaining unmarried daughter of the king, I am to have the courtesy title of Madame of France. I feel certain that you of all people will not want to continue making an error of protocol by addressing me as Mademoiselle. Now I wish you a very good night – and please leave the key to the strong-box.’
It was only later I learned that the key in question was tantamount to Bonne’s badge of office. It hung from her belt on a jewelled chatelaine and for a moment I thought she was going to refuse to hand it over. Then she unhooked it abruptly and dropped it on the table beside Catherine.
‘As you wish, princesse. Good night.’
‘Good night, Mademoiselle Bonne,’ replied Catherine, her painted court face unsmiling beneath the ornate headdress.
The Count of Armagnac’s daughter made one of her precise courtesies and stalked out, casting a baleful glance at me and leaving the door deliberately open. As I obeyed Catherine’s mute signal to close it, I heard the lady’s footsteps halt at the curve of the stairs and guessed that she had paused in the hope of catching some of our conversation. With a grim little smile I ensured that the only sound that carried to her ears was the firm thud of wood on wood.
‘Am I to address you as Madame then, Mademoiselle?’ I asked Catherine, confusing myself.
To my delight she giggled again. ‘Well, you certainly do not need to address me as both, Mette!’ she exclaimed. After a moment, she said, ‘I think I would rather you stuck to Mademoiselle. I seem to remember that when you called me a little Madame you were usually cross with me.’
‘I am sure I was never cross with you, Madamoiselle,’ I assured her. ‘You were always a good child, and you are scarcely more than a child still.’
She raised a quizzical eyebrow at me.
‘You may not know, Mademoiselle,’ I said, crossing to the hearth to pour the warm posset into a silver hanap, ‘that while you were away there was much political upheaval and at one time the Duke of Burgundy ordered a number of the queen’s ladies to be imprisoned in the Châtelet. Mademoiselle of Armagnac was among them. It is said that their gaolers abused them and I know that they were mauled and mocked by the mob on the way there. She can have no love for commoners like me.’
Catherine gazed at me steadily for several moments before responding. ‘See how useful you are to me already, Mette,’ she remarked. ‘Who else would have told me that?’
I placed the hanap on the table beside her and began removing the pins that fastened her heavy headdress.
As I lifted away the headdress, she briefly massaged an angry red weal where the circlet had dug into her brow, then she cupped her hands around the hanap and took a sip. ‘Now I will tell you something that you may not know, Mette. Mademoiselle Bonne has recently become betrothed to the Duke of Orleans, he who was supposed to marry Michele but ended up marrying our older sister Isabelle. I went to their wedding when I was five but unfortunately she died two years later in childbirth. I prayed for her soul, but I did not weep because, as you know, I hardly knew her. The queen was at pains to tell me all about Bonne’s betrothal this evening. Apparently Louis does not allow his wife Marguerite to come to court because he hates her for being the Duke of Burgundy’s daughter, so when Bonne marries Charles of Orleans, she will be third in order of precedence after the queen and myself.’
Fast though news spread in the palace, this gossip had not yet reached the servants’ quarters. The present Duke of Orleans was the king’s nephew, heir to the queen’s murdered lover. His Orleanist cause had benefited greatly from the Count of Armagnac’s military and political support, and this marriage would be the pay-back, bringing Bonne’s family into the magic royal circle. Mademoiselle Bonne was definitely a force to be reckoned with and I feared that, by showing me favour, Catherine had already irretrievably soured relations with her.
I bent to unfasten the heavy jewelled collar she was wearing and she put down the posset and raised her hand to my face, pushing under my coif to trace the two puckered scars that ran from cheekbone to jaw.
‘The Duke of Burgundy gave you these,’ she said softly, ‘when you were defending me. And my lady Bonne dares to question your trustworthiness!’
‘I am surprised you remember, Mademoiselle,’ I said. ‘You were so young.’
‘How could I forget?’ she cried. ‘Burgundy’s black face still haunts me.’
‘You should not let it,’ I admonished, though I suffered similarly myself. ‘You have the queen’s protection now. It seems that nothing is too good for her youngest daughter.’
Catherine gave a mirthless laugh. ‘A change from the old days, eh, Mette? Do you know, this evening I could not recall my mother’s face?’ She paused reflectively. ‘Yet I should have remembered her eyes, at least, for they are the most extraordinary colour – pale blue-green, almost the colour of turquoise – very striking. I knelt, I took her hand and kissed it as I had been told to do and she raised me and kissed my cheek.’
I began to unpin the folds of her stiff gauze veil and she helped me as I fumbled with the unfamiliar task. ‘You must have been nervous, Mademoiselle,’ I said, thinking that a mother and her long-lost daughter should have met in private, not conducted their reunion in the full view of the court.
Catherine nodded. ‘I was, at first. I had no idea what was expected of me, but then I realised that she did not want me to say or do anything. Just to be there so that everyone could see me. She was very gracious, very effusive. “I declare Catherine to be the most beautiful of my daughters,” she announced. “The most like me.”’
Catherine’s mimicry of her mother’s German accent was done straight-faced, but I saw that her eyes were dancing. ‘Praise indeed, Mademoiselle!’ I remarked, my own lips twitching.
‘Then she made me sit on a stool at her side and proceeded to talk over my head. The hall was full of people hanging on her every word. She said, “We must make the most of France’s beautiful daughter. I have commissioned the best tailors, the finest goldsmiths, the nimblest dance-masters!”’
I had only heard the queen’s voice once before, but Catherine’s impersonation was a wickedly accurate reminder of that fateful day in the rose garden.
When she spoke again, it was in her own soft tones. ‘I asked after my father, the king, but she merely said that he was as well as could be expected. Then I asked about Louis and she looked annoyed and said that the dauphin was away from court but would be back for the tournament
‘They have a huge tourney planned to entertain the English embassy. I am ordered to appear at my most alluring. The queen herself will choose my costume.’ Catherine sighed and her voice trembled as she asked, ‘What is she scheming, Mette?’
‘A marriage, undoubtedly, Mademoiselle,’ I said, removing the last pin, finally able to lift away the unwieldy veil.
‘Yes,