The Tudor Bride by Joanna Hickson Page B

girl’s shoulder and turned to face the two kings.
    ‘And no one is to lay any blame at Joan’s door. It was entirely my idea and she was kind enough to make it possible for me that is all. I confess that the result of our adventure is a disappointment for myself, but Joan is a skilled and daring horsewoman and I, for one, am proud of her.’ She aimed a look of encouragement at her maid of honour and made a wobbly curtsey to the king. ‘Have I your permission to retire, my liege?’ She gave him a tremulous smile, which I swear no red-blooded man could have resisted and his sternness visibly melted under its beam.
    ‘I will come soon to see how you are faring,’ he said, his eyes still anxious.
    On closer inspection, I found Catherine’s injuries to be just as she had claimed; bruises, both of body and pride, exacerbated by a few sharp twinges in her back. However, I noticed that she had become alarmingly pale and encouraged her to return to bed. She did not need much persuading. Uneasily I wondered if there might be more to her pallor than simply the after-effects of hitting the ground at speed. The bed was still rumpled from when she had abandoned it before dawn and, as I pulled the bedclothes straight ready for her to climb in, I posed the question foremost in my mind.
    ‘You have not asked me for a napkin lately, Mademoiselle,’ I remarked, crossing my fingers among the sheets. ‘Should I be drawing any conclusions from this?’
    There was a pause. ‘Perhaps,’ she admitted in a very small voice. ‘To be honest, Mette, I do not dare to look.’
    I felt my stomach lurch. Dressing herself for her clandestine excursion, she had only managed to pull a woollen kirtle and her fur-lined heuque over her chemise and so far I had only removed the heuque.
    ‘Do you mean you might be pregnant?’ I gulped, instinctively crossing myself.
    Catherine nodded, tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks. ‘Or I may have been – before I fell off the horse. I realise now I have been very stupid, Mette. I was angry yesterday, the men were being so … so male! I wanted to show them that we women are just as spirited as they are; not difficult and “hard to handle”, as they put it.’
    Her white face worried me, but I thought it a good sign that she had made no mention of stomach pains and, when I removed her kirtle, I was heartily relieved to find an unblemished chemise beneath. ‘All is well,’ I declared gratefully, ‘so far anyway.’ I had to tell her because she had covered her own eyes for fear of what mine might see.
    ‘Are you sure, Mette?’ she asked, dropping her hands but still unable to allow herself to believe it. ‘I confess that I have a pain in my back and I feared the worst.’
    ‘Then you must rest immediately, Mademoiselle,’ I said briskly, dumping the kirtle and moving to pull back the bedclothes. ‘You must keep your feet up for a day and more, until we know if there is definitely to be a child.’ I forced a consoling smile, although I was suddenly very angry with her. She and King Henry had prayed for an heir at every shrine on their progress through the country and yet with one foolhardy action she had risked destroying any new life that might be growing inside her. I now pondered whether I should immediately inform King Henry of the situation.
    In the event it was a decision I did not have to make because the king arrived almost as soon as Catherine was between the sheets and once he had satisfied himself about her general condition he asked a very direct question.
    ‘It is nearly six weeks since we came together at Kenilworth, Catherine, and I have not been kept from your bed by any female effusions. Is it possible that you are pregnant?’
    When Catherine confessed that it was possible, he was torn between praise and reproach, elated and exasperated at the same time.
    ‘I do not know what to say,’ he admitted, somehow managing to smile and frown at the same time. ‘Glory be to God