The Queen

Chapter 1

June 2, 1420, the day of King Henry V and Lady Catherine de Valois' wedding, was strange for both of them. King Henry had just won his first (and hopefully last) war as the King of England and had worked hard to secure a peace agreement with France. The Treaty of Troyes, along with marriage to the princess of France, had positioned him as the Heir to the French throne. For her part, Catherine was not only dealing with her own personal sense of loss, the death of her brother and knowing that she was to leave her much beloved Father and her homeland, but also with aftershock of the unexpected war and the great toll it had taken on France. France had sustained great human losses. Many of those who survived the battles had fallen sick do to hunger and lack of medical care during the siege. No one in the country, including it's wise and kind-hearted Princess, had escaped the ravages of this pointless war. Not even her father's good natured humor had comforted her as it waged on.  After the battle at Agincourt, she had known, perhaps even before her Father, that France would need to surrender and her own hand would be offered in marriage. It was inevitable. When the details of the treaty had finally been reached, Catherine's only relief had been that the wedding was to take place in her home country, at the beautiful Parish Church of St. John or Troyes Cathedral. 

So now here she stood, in a building that seemed to mirror her current situation. While beautiful, the gothic architect and design made one feel somewhat uneasy, as if being watched or haunted. As many of France's nobles and families attended as possible, but under the circumstances and with the aftereffects of the war, it lacked much of the warmth and liveliness Catherine had admired about weddings she had attended growing up. Her new husband was so quiet and unassuming during the ceremony that she hardly noticed him and allowed herself to be absorbed in her own thoughts about what awaited her in England. He too was lost in his own thoughts, he had lost much during this war; soldiers, resources, and his best friend. He could only hope that this war would help to unite England and was anxious to return to see how his subjects would react to this victory.  The couple hardly said more than two words to each other during this period of time.

The day that they were set to sail to England was a cold and rainy one. Hal had arranged that his new wife, her handmaids, and all of their belongings go back on a seperate ship than himself and his advisors. Catherine was grateful for the reprieve and, standing on the wooden platform of the ship as a cold ocean mist sprayed at her face, she bravely hugged her father goodbye for what she knew would be a long time.

He touched her face fondly, "I am so proud of you Ma fille. Your bravery and loyalty to France will be long remembered."

Tears welled up in her eyes as she tightly grasped her father's hands and then, finally, let go.

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The day of King Henry's triumphant return to England was greeted with a pompous ceremony meant to celebrate England's victory and briefly introduce Queen Catherine to the royal court.  After weeks of traveling, Catherine found herself seated next to her husband, a man she barely knew, eating a lavish meal among people she knew not.  She noticed the King's hands shake as he picked up his drink and wondered to herself if he was nervous? He didn't seem so, but rather, overwhelmed and haunted with thoughts that she could not know.

Catherine couldn't help but think back to the statements she had made to the King, just a few short hours before as they had prepared themselves to be introduced to the people. She could hear the crowds gathered around the palace chant for "King Henry!", their cheers filling the air and seemingly vibrating the walls of the palace. He had entered her room and she had felt such rage toward him.  She wanted to rattle him, she wanted him to feel as unnerved and angry as she did. He had called her beautiful in her own language, she thanked him shortly so as not to encourage him. He had demanded that she no longer speak French, only English. Just to test him she lied, saying she did not know English, but got no reaction from him, so she began speaking in fluent English.  He simply smiled at her small deceit. She hadn't rattled him, just amused him, which angered her.

So she pressed on more, "I will not submit to you. You must earn my respect. " she had stated.

"I know." He had answered.

She had not expected that, and did not trust he meant it either. So she pressed even further, wanting him to feel ashamed for his perceived "achievements" of defeating her country's army.

He had started this war without reason and wasted so many Christian lives in the process. She demanded a reason for this waste and he spoke of the things she knew he would bring up, childish reasons. He had seemed genuinely confused when she said there had been no plot by her father to kill him, he continued questioning her more and more. She spoke her mind, not caring how he would react. Even when she called him a "young, vain, foolish man, so easily riled and beguiled" she had kept her composure while rage boiled beneath her calm facade, hoping he would feel the full weight of his mistakes.

But rather than anger, a look of realization and clarity had swept over his face. "I must leave you now." And left abruptly. When her handmaids came back into the room and asked what their conversation was about, she didn't even know how to answer. All she knew was that when he came back a little later, he seemed disheveled and intense. She felt the gravity of his presence before she had seen him, as he crossed the room of people and made his way straight to her.

She turned and couldn't look away from his grave, searching, eyes as he said, "I ask nothing of you, except that you always speak to me clear and true. Will you promise me, only that?"  She had never been looked at in such a manner, but met his stare, "I will."

He had grabbed both of her hands and they made their way to the deafening crowds that waited outside.

Once in front of his subjects, his countenance had changed to that of a lively, grateful, and strong king. He knew so many by name, even the peasants who ran up to offer best wishes and blessings on their marriage. She imagined that the intimacy with these commoners came from the years he spent living among them, an odd thing she had learned about him before he had made war with her people.

She knew how to work the crowds as well, she had been trained for this life. The day she would be married off to a King of whichever nation would be best for France, where she would live the remainder of her days away from her people and family, and be expected to provide an heir to the throne of where she lived. Even as a child she remembered discussions of her betrothal to the Prince of Wales, which never came to fruition.

So now the matter was done, she was married to this man she sat next to, this stranger.  She breathed in deeply, steeling herself, accepting her reality.  She must be brave.  She would be brave.  This was her duty.  The rest of the evening continued on in blur, shaking hands, extravagant food, and introductions. In order to keep her practiced composure, she had to ignore the constant chants of the people over having defeated France.