The Forbidden Queen by Anne O'Brien Page A

this occasion so that they could impress us with their magnanimity. Perhaps I would always eat from gold platters. I was Queen of England now.
    A whisper hissed, an unmistakable undercurrent, breaking once again into my thoughts. ‘She’ll not keep our Henry’s interest. Look at him! He’s already talking warfare and he hasn’t yet got her into bed!’
    ‘Not exactly smitten, is he?’
    I tried not to be wounded by the gurgle of laughter.
    ‘He’ll want a woman with red blood in her veins, not milk and water. Someone lively and seductive. She looks like a prinked and painted doll.’
    Lively? Seductive?
    Of course I was not lively! Did they expect me to run amok? As for seductive—if that meant to use my female arts to attract a man, I did not know how to, and dared not try. What did these women expect of me when every possible rule for my good behaviour had been drilled into me by my mother after the failure of that first attempt to make a marriage at Melun? Nothing must jeopardise this negotiation at Troyes. Nothing! My conversation and my deportment must be perfect. I had been so buried under instruction that I had become rigid with fear of Isabeau’s revenge if Henry should reject me.
    But of course these haughty English women did not know. How would they? And neither did Henry—for I would never admit it to him. I could not bear to see thecondemnation in his face that I should be so weak and malleable.
    I could feel my mother’s eye on me even as she sat along the table and conversed with someone I could not see. Dry-mouthed, I lifted the cup to my lips, but it was empty except for the dregs. I replaced it, awkward with nerves under her stare, so that the gold-stemmed goblet fell on its side and rolled a little, the remnants of the wine staining the white cloth, before it fell to the floor with a thud of metal against wood.
    I held my breath at my lack of grace, praying that no one had noticed. A hopeless prayer: it seemed that every guest in the room had noticed that the new French wife was so gauche that she must drop her jewelled cup on the floor in the middle of her wedding feast.
    Isabeau frowned. Bedford looked away. Michelle raised her brows. Gloucester inhaled sharply. An almost inaudible ripple of laughter from the ladies informed me that they had noted my lapse of good manners and added it to my list of faults. I clasped my hands tightly in my lap, not even attempting to rescue the vessel. If only the floor beneath my feet would open up and swallow me and the cup from view.
    And then my heart sank, for Henry forsook his planning. Stretching down, without expression, he picked up the gleaming object, tossed it and caught it in one hand and placed it before me once more. And that drew everyone’sattention, even if they had missed my inelegance in the first place.
    ‘Shall I pour you more wine, Katherine?’ Henry asked.
    I dared not look at him—or at anyone. ‘Thank you, sir.’
    I had no intention of drinking it. That way would be madness, drinking to oblivion, to hide the speculative attention, but it was easier to agree than refuse. I had learned that people were far happier when I agreed.
    He looked at me quizzically. ‘Are you content?’
    ‘Yes, my lord.’ I even smiled, a curve of my lips that I hoped would fool everyone.
    ‘This interminable feast will soon be over.’
    ‘Yes, my lord. I expect it will.’
    ‘You will become used to such occasions.’
    ‘Yes.’
    I opened my mouth to say something more flattering, but he had turned away—and I caught my mother’s eye again. Like that of a snake: flatly cold and lethally vicious. Her earlier instructions rushed over me in a black wave, delivered in her curt, clear voice as if she were sitting at my side, even drowning out the female gossips.
    Don’t speak unless you have something to say, or are spoken to
.
    Smile, but don’t laugh loudly. Don’t show your teeth
.
    Eat and drink delicately, and not too much. A man does not wish