thread and he bulged both over and under the stiff material. Yet René of Anjou looked smugly happy at the presence of so many fine nobles at his daughter’s wedding. As she curtsied to both men, Margaret wondered if her father cared at all about the ceremony, or whether he thought only of the lands he had won back to his family estate.
As Margaret rose, another man came through the crowd and bowed deeply. He was tall and wide- shouldered, his hair the colour of iron. His clothes were less gaudy than those of her father or the king, and somehow Margaret knew him as English even before he kissed her hand and spoke.
‘Princess Margaret, it is a great honour,’ he said. ‘I am Suffolk, but it would be my honour if you would call me William.’ To her surprise, he bowed again and she realized the big English lord was almost as nervous as she was.
As he was about to speak once more, her sister Yolande extended her hand, palm downwards, then giggled as Suffolk tried to kiss it and bow for a third time.
‘You must be Princess Yolande, my dear. I am at your service, of course,’ he said. His eyes came back to Margaret and he bit his lower lip.
‘I wonder if you would be so good as to grant me a word in private, my lady? I have some news you must hear before the ceremony.’
Margaret looked up to see her father and King Charles exchanging a confused glance.
‘What is this, Lord Suffolk?’ René said, bustling forward. ‘It is not seemly to delay the ceremony. Where is the bridegroom? Is he close by?’
Margaret’s heart sank as her father spoke. The English king was not there? She had visions of returning unwed to Saumur Castle, the subject of mockery and sly whispers for the rest of her life. She suddenly wanted to cry and felt Yolande’s hand take hers and squeeze it in silent support.
‘Your Majesty, my lord Anjou, I have some distressing news. Would you please escort your daughter out of the sun, into the church? It is not for all ears.’
Suffolk had grown red-faced as he spoke, looking as if he was about to burst with all the public attention focused on him. He was the first to look up when there was a clamour and a crash from the direction of the cathedral main door. Margaret saw an expression of deep relief come to Suffolk’s face when Derry Brewer came out of the gloom and skidded to a stop. There were servants passing through the crowd with jugs and precious glasses of white wine. Derry snatched one as he passed and strolled on towards the carriages in their half- circle.
‘Master Brewer!’ Suffolk said, wiping sweat from his brow with a cloth.
Margaret caught a glimpse of another tall lord turning sharply at the name and striding through the crowd towards them.
‘What a beautiful day for a wedding,’ Derry said in English, emptying his glass in one long draught. He bowed to the French nobles watching him with suspicion. ‘Your Majesties, Lord Suffolk. And these flowers of France must be princesses Margaret and Yolande.’
Derry bowed even deeper for them and kissed both hands with a smile that never left his face. He was sweating madly and looked as if he was trying to control his breathing, Margaret realized. Was he that excited to see them? It looked almost as if he had just been running. The nobles swirling around them were already whispering questions to each other.
Suffolk reached out and took Derry by the arm, growing even more flushed with strain and the heat.
‘I was just explaining, Master Brewer, that we should move to a private place for a moment before the ceremony.’
‘Excellent,’ Derry replied. As a servant passed, he exchanged his empty glass for another and sank that as well in three gulps. ‘It’s far too hot out here. Ah, Lord York! What a pleasure it is to see you so hale and hearty on such a day.’
To Margaret’s eyes, Lord York was much more the way she expected an English lord to look. He was tall and lithe, with a stern, square face and black hair cut short. His dark eyes flashed as he approached and all around them fell silent, sensing a threat like heat coming off the English nobleman. Once again, her father exchanged a glance with King Charles, growing more and more worried by the moment.
‘Your Majesty, Lord René, Lord Suffolk,’ York said, bowing. ‘I am very pleased to see you here, Brewer. I would enjoy a chance to continue our last conversation later on.’
‘Oh, as you wish, my lord. But today is not about our grubby little concerns, now is it? It is a day of celebration, with two great cultures joined in the promise of youth.’
His face still shining with sweat, Derry beamed at them all, clearly delighted at something. Margaret had followed the English words with difficulty and she looked from one to the other. Suffolk had spoken kindly enough and she found herself liking him. Lord York had not even acknowledged her.
‘This way, my lords, ladies. Let us take refuge from the sun in the cathedral.’
Derry led the small group to the open doors, raising his glass to a cluster of panting English soldiers as he went. They glared at him, following his every step with cold eyes.
The inside of the church was like a cool breeze after the hot sun. Margaret breathed deeply, worried she might faint. She leaned on Yolande as the strange little assembly turned and waited to be enlightened.
Derry dabbed his forehead with a fine cloth before he spoke, very aware of the attention focused on him. He knew all the months of planning would come to nothing if he botched this one speech. He raised his head, tucking away the cloth.
‘I’m afraid there is a small difficulty, my lords. King Henry was taken ill last night. It is nothing mortal, but even with purging it will not pass in time. Against his will, he has been forced to return to Calais and from thence to England. He is quite unable to attend and can only send his most abject apologies to Princess Margaret and her father.’
‘A
‘Your Majesty, all is not lost,’ Derry replied. ‘I have specific instructions from King Henry. This is a problem within the powers of men to solve.’
‘You have no bridegroom!’ Lord René expostulated. ‘How will you solve
‘You cut straight to the heart of the matter, Lord Anjou,’ Derry said. His smile had not faltered. ‘Kings are not as other men, thank God. Lord Suffolk here has King Henry’s permission to exchange the vows on his behalf. The wedding will go ahead in that form, with another ceremony in England at a later date. The truce and the exchange of lands will be secured.’
‘Exchange of lands?’ York said suddenly.
Derry turned to him, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
‘My lord York, I see the king has not told you every part of his plans, as is his right. Perhaps you should go outside rather than hear details that do not concern you.’
York gritted his teeth, the muscles on his jaw standing out in lines.
‘I will stay to hear the rest, Brewer. As commander of English forces in Normandy, I believe it does concern me.’
Derry let a moment of silence stretch, as if he were considering having the man thrown out. York flushed further under the combined scrutiny of the French king and Lord Anjou.
‘Very well, Lord York. Stay if you wish, but please allow me to discuss King Henry’s plans without further interruption.’
Margaret thought the thin English lord might explode with rage, but York mastered himself with a visible effort. She found herself drifting, her vision growing blurred with tears. Henry was not coming! Her English wasn’t good enough to follow all the quick conversation. Even as she was trying to understand the calamity, they seemed to be suggesting something else.
‘Excuse me, my lords, Your Majesty,’ she murmured as Derry talked. No one seemed to hear her. ‘Pardon, Father,’ she went on, giving up on English when her heart was tearing in two in her chest. ‘Is there to be no wedding today?’
It was Suffolk who turned to Margaret then, his face registering sorrow and concern. He spoke in fluent
