The Lancastrian Queen

Chapter 5

The fairytale of the wedding feast ended very soon for Marguerite. At the wedding night, the couple was put in bed by the court; the Queen was excited, dressed in her white night gown richly embroidered with pearls and her hair loose on her shoulders. She looked like an angel, not even bothering by the fact that the whole court was seeing her. Jacquetta thoughtfully put a fur coat on Marguerite’s shoulders. The King and Queen of England were blessed by the Archbishop and conducted to their wedding bed, that was especially made for them; the refined linen sheets were put on, the wedding wine was on the bedside table and everything was ready.

As soon as the court left them alone, Marguerite felt a chill down her spine; she had heard about that moment, but never knew exactly what was supposed to happen. All she knew was to remain still, take a deep breath and not say a word: her husband would be the one who would do all the work, who would consummate the marriage and make the alliance complete.

She closed her eyes as she felt King Henry moving by her side, assuming he would put himself on top of her. There would be a little pain, she had heard, but it would not be worse than falling from a horse. Marguerite took a deep breath and prepared herself, but the King did not approach her.

She opened her eyes, surprised. The King had stood up and gone to his oratory on the corner of the bedroom.

“M-milord?”

“I must pray, Marguerite,” he said, simply. “I must pray God to bless our marriage and grant me courage.”

“Courage?” She sat up. “What for?”

“Even though marriage is a holy contract, and that we were blessed by the Pope himself, there are unholy duties from a husband and a wife,” he explained, closing his eyes and crossing himself. “Those unholy duties, I’m afraid, are needed if we want heirs for the throne, I know that. But I must pray for forgiveness for such acts, even if they’re needed.”

Marguerite was appalled; “Unholy?” she gasped. “What can be unholy? We are married in the eyes of God.”

“You’re a maid, a pure maid, and you know no sin,” he smiled to her. “The fact I must take this away from you, Marguerite, it is a great sin. I know I must, but I must be forgiven for it. I must find courage for it.”

“Am I not pretty?” she asked, hurt. Her female pride was tarnished by the fact her husband found unholy to sleep with her.

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve seen,” he replied. “More of a sin to me.”

Defeated, Marguerite laid back, feeling the hot tears escaping from her eyes. She swallowed her anger, thinking maybe he would only pray for a few minutes, and then he would bed her. But an hour passed, and the King did not cease his devouted prayers; two hours, then three, and yet he kept on his knees, fully concentrated and not noticing his bride was mortified behind him. At the end of the fourth hour, Marguerite finally fell asleep.

The next morning was an awkward moment for the new Queen, as she woke up and found her husband getting dressed by her side.

“Good morning, Marguerite,” he greeted her, as if they had spent a lovely night.

“Good morning, milord,” she groaned.

“I must go. It is almost time for the Mass. You should join me, in my chapel. After all, it is your first day as queen.”

Marguerite did not reply; if she had to choose, she would not show her face to the court. The minute the ladies would enter the room to collect the sheets, they would know the marriage had not been consummated. They would gossip about it, and soon the whole court would know the King had not bedded her. Perhaps they would say she did not please him as a wife, why else would a healthy, strong and vibrant man not consummate his marriage? Marguerite would be shamed and mocked by that, all because of him.

Nobody said a word to her that day, but she could hear the whispers and she could swear that all the eyes were on her.  Luckily, Jacquetta remained by her side the entire time, being a cheerful and merry company, making the Queen laugh and showing her the castle.

“Nothing happened last night,” Marguerite finally confessed to Jacquetta, when they were both alone in her chambers. “Nothing. He prayed all night. He said he needed forgiveness before practicing unholy acts of a marriage.”

The Duchess did not pretend she did not know about it; keeping her eyes down, she touched Marguerite’s hand. “Do not worry, Your Grace. You are both young, and there will be time for this.”

“I think he does not like me,” she said, trying not to cry. “He thinks it is unholy to lie with me.”

“No, Your Grace. The King is a very pious and holy man. He values God and the Church above everything, and he likes attending every Mass, praying at every holy hour and following the fasting days. He is a very religious man. But he loves you. He would not have married you if he did not.”

“Well, then he does not find me beautiful!” she protested. “Why else would he not lie with me?”

“He will,” Jacquetta said, pressing her hand. “He will, Your Grace. Do not worry, you are young and he will lie with you. Just be kind, show him love and do not worry too much.”

But Henry did not approach her the next day; he repeated his ritual of prayers, completely ignoring his wife. Marguerite tried to speak with him, and bring him to her bed, but he seemed to be away from Earth, in a holy place, closer to God and uninterested for worldly things, including his duties as a husband.

The frustrating routine continued, week after week. Marguerite was fully aware she was the target of mockery and laughter when she was not looking. After the first month as a married woman, she was still a maiden. Jacquetta was the only one who kept beside her, comforting her when the burden was too heavy on her young shoulders.

“Your Majesty, you should distract yourself,” she finally said. “Your court still do not know you very well, and the friend of the King would love to have more contact with you.”

“You mean, the ones who laugh behind my back?” the Queen asked bitterly. “No, thank you. I know I have no friends in England but you, Jacquetta. I do not wish to associate myself to the kind of men who talks about their own queen in such way.”

“There are men who do not care about gossips.” The Duchess put her hand on Marguerite’s shoulder. “The Duke of Suffolk, for instance; he was the man who made the arrangement of your wedding. He is a friend of yours.”

“The Duke of Suffolk? Which one is Suffolk?”

“William de la Pole. He is always beside the King.”

Marguerite remembered the old brown-haired man, whose eyes were constantly on her.

“De la Pole,” she sighed “is one man only.”

“The Earl of Somerset is also a great ally of your husband.”

“Which one is Somerset?”

“I do not believe you have met him yet; he is in France at the moment. But he is the closest friend of the King, and would never disrespect his wife.”

“Very well, so I have one possible friend abroad, and two near me,” Marguerite shook her head. “Three! Three friends I have in England! So few friends I have, and yet so much I am willing to give…”

“Your Grace, it’s only been a month since you arrived. Give it time. You must prepare yourself for your coronation.”

“Yes.” The thought seemed to comfort the queen. “In a week, I shall be crowned Queen, and no one can contest me.”