‘This is just because you remind me of my old dad, not because I’m going soft,’ he muttered. ‘All right?’
The drover opened one eye and looked blearily at him.
‘All right then,’ Derry said. He took a deep breath and began to run.
Margaret hardly dared move in the dress. The new cloth itched and felt strange on her, as stiff as if she were dressed in boards. Yet she could not deny it looked magnificent in the long glass. Seed pearls were sewn on to every exposed part, so that they rattled whenever she moved. The veil was as thin as spiderweb and she marvelled at being able to see through it. She could no longer bend to look at the perfect satin slippers she wore underneath. Her feet seemed far away, as if they belonged to someone else, while she had been reduced to a head, perched on acres of white cloth. Only the servant fanning at her kept sweat from breaking out as the heat of the day rose.
Margaret was flushed by the time she was finally allowed to come out into the sunshine. Saumur Castle was the best part of forty miles from the cathedral at Tours and a grand carriage waited for her in the courtyard. It gleamed with polish and new black paint, drawn by two matched geldings in glossy brown. A canopy had been erected over the open seats, to protect her from dust as they rode.
Her mother came out of the main house, approaching with both pride and strain written clearly in her expression. Margaret stood awkwardly as her dress was tweaked and tugged into the perfect position to take her seat.
‘Keep your head high and don’t slouch,’ her mother said. ‘The dignity of the family rides with you today, Margaret. Do not shame us. Yolande! Help your sister.’
Yolande scurried forward, lifting armfuls of cloth to prevent them dragging on the stones as Margaret took careful steps. A footman she did not know helped her up the step and, with a gasp, she ducked through the gap and almost fell on to the bench inside. She was in, with Yolande fussing around to arrange the train in such a way that it would not wrinkle too badly. Another carriage was already waiting to enter the courtyard and it felt as if the entire staff were coming out to wave her off. Margaret concentrated on breathing shallowly, feeling dizzy from the constriction. She could not have slouched if she’d wanted to: the panels of the dress held her upright. She raised a hand to the lines of maids and footmen and they cheered her dutifully. Her gaze fell on one she did know, from running into her during the king’s visit. That young woman was smiling and waving a handkerchief with tears in her eyes. Margaret felt like a painted doll compared to the little girl she had been then.
Bright-eyed and panting, Yolande clambered in to sit at her side.
‘This is incredible,’ she said, looking all around. ‘It’s all for you! Are you excited?’
Margaret searched inside herself and found only nervousness. She made a rueful face in reply. Perhaps she would be excited on the road, but she was about to marry a young man she had never seen. Would this English Henry be as nervous? She doubted it. Her future husband was a king and used to grand occasions.
Two more footmen in black, polished boots and spotless livery took their positions on either side of the carriage. In theory they would repel any thieves or bandits on the road, but there was no real danger. The carriage driver was a large florid man who bowed elaborately to the two girls before taking his seat and arranging a long whip with a dangling cord at the tip.
Somehow the carriages began moving before Margaret was ready. She saw the walls of Saumur passing and leaned as far over as she could to wave goodbye to her mother. Her father and brothers had gone ahead the previous day. This morning was for the women of the household, but it had come and gone so quickly she could not comprehend it. All the hours since waking seemed to have been compressed into moments and she wanted to call out for the driver to stop, her mind flitting through a thousand things she was meant to remember.
She saw her mother signalling to the next carriage, her mind already on the gaggle of cousins and the vast labour going on to prepare Saumur for a wedding feast that evening. Margaret sat back, seeing two more of the carriages waiting patiently to take guests to Tours. As she and her sister trundled out on to the road, Margaret listened to the driver clicking his tongue and making the whip snap, so that the horses lurched into a trot in perfect unison. She gasped with pleasure at the breath of wind on her face. It would be hours yet till she saw the cathedral. For the first time, she felt a pleasurable tingle of anticipation.
As the carriage left Saumur land through the northern gate, the road widened. Both girls were awed at the crowd lining the verges. No one had bothered to tell Margaret of the numbers who had travelled just to see her. English and French alike stood waving their caps and cheering, calling her name. Margaret blushed prettily and they craned their necks and laughed in the sunshine.
‘Bloody hell,’ Yolande muttered in delight. ‘This is wonderful.’
Suffolk did his best to hide his worry as he stood in front of the cathedral. He stared up at the double tower as if he found it interesting, doing anything he could to seem relaxed and untroubled. His new trousers and tunic itched, though he fancied he looked slimmer than usual in the cut. He was forced to mop his face as the weight of his cloak seemed to grow heavier with every passing hour, the fur trim tickling his throat. The English style of layered cloth was out of place in a French summer, but he noticed the French were dressed just as warmly, so that they were almost as red-faced as the English nobles already drunk on fortified wine.
Suffolk envied York his trim frame as he caught sight of the man striding through the crowd and stopping to give orders to one of his men-at-arms. The duke had brought a huge personal guard with him, more than all the other English lords put together. Even so, it was dwarfed by the number of French soldiers camped around the town.
Suffolk watched as York’s man saluted and rushed off on some errand. Suffolk clasped his hands behind his back and tried to look fascinated by the gothic towers and ornate stonework. He wished his wife had come, but Alice had been scandalized at the very thought. It had been hard enough explaining that he would marry a fourteen-year-old French princess that day, if it all came off. Having his own wife there as well would be a mockery of the church, or so she’d said, at some length.
A greater mockery would be the slaughter that could very well erupt at the slightest provocation, Suffolk thought. For the moment, York’s men were studiously ignoring the French soldiers around Tours, while their noble masters strolled and talked. Suffolk knew the French were there to take command of Anjou and Maine the moment the service was over. He would have loved to tell York, especially after suffering the man’s meaningful glances to the distant soldiers. York felt his caution was utterly vindicated by the presence of such a French force. As they’d passed briefly in the churchyard, he’d hissed a question, demanding to know how Suffolk thought just a few guards could have protected King Henry. Suffolk had only been able to mumble helplessly that there would surely be no danger on a wedding day. York had glared at him, visibly suspicious as he bustled away.
It was a fraught situation and Suffolk’s nerves wound tighter and tighter with every passing hour. York didn’t know the king would not be coming and now there were two armies facing each other in the fields. All it would take was for some idiot to call the wrong insult or play some vicious prank and no force on earth or in heaven would prevent a battle. Suffolk used a soft cloth to wipe his face once more.
As he murmured something inane to another guest, Suffolk saw York change direction to approach him across the churchyard.
‘Come on, Derry,’ Suffolk said softly in English, making the closest French noble squint at him in confusion. ‘I need you here. Come on.’ He beamed at the duke as he halted.