Chapter 224: Your Bride Awaits
"Thank you." Lionel said. He dismissed the guard with a small nod and slipped the parchment inside his doublet. There would be time to read it after the wedding. At least, Lionel hoped there would be.
The great doors of Whitehall opened. Every guard in the courtyard straightened. Henry emerged with Stephen beside him.
Stephen’s endless fussing had produced something magnificent. The king’s ceremonial doublet had been fashioned from cloth of gold and deep crimson velvet. Pearls and gemstones caught the morning light at his collar and cuffs. The crown rested on his head.
Lionel wished Richard, Duke of Kingsmere, had been standing beside him to witness it. Whatever had passed between them, Richard had once been Henry’s closest companion. He should have been there to see his friend step into history.
Instead, he was somewhere across the Channel.
It was a great day for England. France’s princess stood ready to become England’s queen, and Henry was about to secure the alliance generations of English kings had pursued.
Henry descended the steps towards the waiting carriage. Lionel bowed deeply as the king approached.
"Your Majesty," he said. "Your bride awaits."
Henry answered with a curt nod and entered the carriage without another word. Lionel watched him settle behind the drawn-back curtains, unease tightening beneath his ribs. The king’s silences were rarely empty. Henry became quiet only when his thoughts had grown too loud for speech, and with Livia now lodged at Whitehall, Lionel could imagine several thoughts capable of ruining a royal wedding.
He signalled to the captain. Trumpets sounded. The palace gates opened, and the procession began its journey towards Westminster Abbey. Mounted guards moved in disciplined ranks around the royal carriage, while heralds in livery rode ahead, clearing the way through streets crowded with cheering Londoners.
Inside the carriage, Henry heard almost none of it. He was going to be married. By the end of the day, a French princess would be his wife. He would promise his body, his loyalty, and the future of his dynasty to a woman he scarcely knew.
The princess brought a considerable dowry, rich enough to finance armies. More importantly, the match promised favourable access to French ports, protection for English merchants, and a diplomatic alliance his predecessors had pursued through wars.
It was an achievement. A glorious one. If the marriage held, chroniclers would record his reign as the moment England secured by ceremony what earlier kings had failed to win by force. His councillors would praise his judgement. Merchants would bless his name.
So why did triumph feel so much like surrender?
Henry looked through the window at the crowds gathered behind the guards. They cheered for the king they believed certain of his course. None could see the man inside wondering whether there was still time to make the procession turn around.
Whitehall lay behind him. Livia was there. Perhaps she was in the library, pretending the day meant nothing. Perhaps she was relieved.
Henry leaned against the padded seat, his foot beating an impatient rhythm against the carriage floor. He endured the noise for half a mile before the pressure inside his chest became unbearable. He struck the carriage roof. "Hold!"
The command carried. Outside, the coachman hauled on the reins. The horses slowed reluctantly, the royal escort compressing around them as riders shouted warnings down the line. One by one, the procession came to a halt, causing enough confusion to feed London’s gossipmongers.
Within moments, Lionel appeared beside the carriage. He opened the door only far enough to look inside.
"Your Majesty," he said, "is all well?"
Henry sat rigidly against the cushions. "Have them turn around."
"Did Your Majesty forget something?" he asked cautiously. "I can send a rider back to Whitehall. Whatever it is, he may retrieve it and meet us before we reach the Abbey."
"I forgot nothing."
"Then perhaps—"
"I cannot do this." Henry’s restraint broke. "Turn the damned carriage around."
Lionel stared at his sovereign. There were moments when obedience was simple. Turning England’s king away from his own wedding procession was not one of them.
Instead of stepping back to relay the order, he opened the carriage door fully and climbed inside.
Henry’s eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?"
"Attempting to prevent a disaster, Sire."
Henry looked towards the window, where cheering had begun to dissolve into whispers.
"Your Majesty, the princess is waiting at Westminster Abbey. The French household is assembled. We have—"
"Lionel, save it." Henry dragged a hand across his face. "I have already given myself that speech...I have listed the treaty, the dowry, the glory, the future of England. And of all the reasons I could come up with to marry today, none had anything to do with me."
"Sire, I wish I could tell you that you are wrong," Lionel began. "You are not wrong," he continued. "This marriage has very little to do with you as a man. But it has everything to do with England. You are not merely Henry today. You are the Crown. Men look to you for certainty. Merchants have staked fortunes upon this alliance. France has crossed the Channel believing England keeps its word."
"And if I do not?"
"Then every rival court in Christendom will feast upon it. Your enemies will call you weak, your friends will begin to doubt you."
Henry pressed one hand against his chest. "My heart begins this strange stuttering the nearer we come to the Abbey. It knows, Lionel. It knows I am walking towards something I should not do."
"I believe you. I believe this marriage is not what you want," Lionel said. "I believe every step towards that altar will cost you something. But it is still what you must do. Go through with the ceremony. Speak the vows. Secure the alliance. Afterwards, if it will persuade you to continue, I shall personally ensure Miss Valenti is the first person you see when you return to Whitehall."
"When I believed I had lost her," Henry said quietly, "it felt as though my heart had died with her. And now she is back. Not entirely mine, perhaps not mine at all, but near enough that I can imagine it." Henry’s voice roughened. "I want to stop bargaining with myself. I want to choose her completely."
"Can I? I am king. Why can’t I?"
"The throne would suffer," Lionel said. "That is why. Miss Valenti brings no dowry, and no family alliance the court can proclaim as a triumph. As far as the kingdom knows, she comes from Beaumont’s. That history will cling to her, however unjustly. It will not stop with her. The stain will be passed to any children she bears you. Every rival claimant will use their mother’s birth against them. Every rebellion will find a sermon in it."
Lionel swallowed. "Sire, I will personally ensure Miss Valenti is dressed in jewels and brought to your apartments tonight, if that is what you desire. I will do everything in my power to secure this marriage while allowing Miss Valenti to remain beside you. My allegiance is to the Crown before any man, even the man who wears it. For the sake of the throne, I beg you, Your Majesty."
At last, Henry released a weary breath. The fight seemed to leave him.
"Have them proceed."
Lionel bowed deeply. He left the carriage and issued the order. Moments later, the horses moved again, carrying Henry towards Westminster Abbey.
*****
Lady Bella rose with the rest of the congregation when the musicians began. The sound travelled through Westminster Abbey, filling the vaulted church. Heads turned towards the west doors as they opened, and the French princess entered beneath a canopy borne by noblemen of her household.
Bella hated to admit it, but the bride looked spectacular. Her gown was cut in the French fashion, with a fitted bodice, a square neckline edged in pearls, and wide sleeves lined with pale fur. Cloth of silver shimmered beneath an open overskirt embroidered with fleurs-de-lis and Tudor roses. A long mantle flowed behind her, carried by ladies dressed in matching colours, while a jewelled French hood framed her face.
The workmanship was exquisite. Unfortunately, so was the witch wearing it. Bella folded her hands before her and arranged her features. Open dislike would be rude.
She sat with her family among the baronage, behind those of higher precedence. The Queen Mother occupied a place of honour near the front, surrounded by senior noblewomen and officers of the royal household. The Lord Chancellor, great lords, bishops, and ambassadors filled the stalls and seats nearest the choir, each positioned according to rank.
Bella’s parents sat beside her, visibly moved by the grandeur of the occasion. Her brother, the Baron, remained on her other side. His wife had recently been delivered of a child and was still confined to her lying-in chamber, which Bella considered an excellent excuse to avoid witnessing a marriage one already disliked.
At the front of the Abbey, Henry waited before the High Altar.
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