The page made himself as inconspicuous as possible at the
back of the English delegation, looking at the vast tapestries
on the walls of this dusty, splendid Parisian hall, clutching his
box to his chest, waiting for his cue.
His latest master, the Duke of Clarence, had turned away
from the repulsively fat French Queen, his hostess, whose
eyes were glittering as wickedly as the jewels half-buried in
the flesh of her slug fingers. Clarence fixed his eyes on the
fourteen-year-old Princess at her side. The Princess was
Owain’s age, and quite a pretty girl, Owain judged, with light
brown hair and freckles and gentle eyes over a long nose; it
would be sad if time turned her into a swollen monster like
her mother. Owain also noticed that the Princess’s cheeks were
very pink, which perhaps wasn’t surprising since her top
garment was an enormous green velvet houppelande, magnificently
trimmed with miniver fur – very stately, but far too
hot for this bright May afternoon. Perhaps they felt the cold
more in Paris, he thought. Or perhaps she was just blushing
because she knew what was coming.
Thomas of Clarence opened his pop eyes wide, broadened
his mouth into something like a smile and bowed slightly to
the girl – the closest an English soldier duke would ever come
to the elaborate manners of the French court. The Duke had
been a little thrown, when he and his men had reached Paris
at noon, by the news that the King of France was indisposed
today and couldn’t meet him, and that the French side in these
negotiations would be led by Queen Isabeau instead. After a
whispered conference before the French delegation walked in,
he’d decided to proceed regardless. But he wasn’t a ladies’
man. He didn’t know how to talk to women. He was far too
abrupt.
‘Your Highness,’ he said to the Princess. ‘I am bidden by
my master to seek you out and raise with you the question
that is uppermost in his mind.’
He paused. She paused. There was an expectant silence
from the two dozen other people in the hall.
‘If it please God, and your father and mother, he hopes you
will marry him, and become our mistress and Queen of
England,’ Thomas of Clarence barked, without the slightest
attempt at diplomatic finesse.
There was a collective indrawn breath from the French
side of the room. Owain knew the French were supposed
to be grateful for this offer, because the French, though
grand, were weak. Their King was ill. They said he went
mad every time the moon was full. And while he was mad
the French quarrelled among themselves. So they hadn’t
managed to put up much resistance to the English army’s
rampagings through Normandy. Now they were meant to
think that this promise of a marriage between this Princess
and the King of England must mean the King of England
planned to stop his brother attacking Normandy and pursue
an alliance with France and England instead. And, if the
French nobility didn’t have to fight the English, they could
go on plotting against each other to their hearts’ content.
Still, Owain’s impression was that the French side of the
room was not exactly grateful. Looking from one polite,
squeamish, uncomfortable expression to another, he guessed:
they want the marriage; they’d just rather have heard this
another way. They can’t believe he’s made the proposal
without days of entertainments and compliments, hints and
manoeuvrings beforehand. They’re shocked.
One of the English dug Owain in the back. It jolted him
back to what he was supposed to be doing. This was
his moment. He took a dozen steps forward, with his heart
thumping, his palms damp, terrifyingly aware of every eye
in the room being on him. When he reached the middle of
the hall, beside the Duke, he sank down on one knee, with the
flamboyant arm and head movement he’d been practising
(perhaps he could be courtly enough to make up for the
Duke’s gruffness). Making sure he was perfectly steady on
his knees, he opened the clasp on the little casket and threw
it open so the jewel inside glittered.
Stranger than fiction, blending tragedy and farce, How to Create the Perfect Wife is an engrossing tale of the radicalism, and deep contradictions, at the heart of the Enlightenment.
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