The Dartington Bride: The Coffee Pot Book Club Blog Tour.
1571, and the beautiful, headstrong daughter of a French Count marries the son of the Vice Admiral of the Fleet of the West in Queen Elizabeth’s chapel at Greenwich. It sounds like a marriage made in heaven…
Roberda’s father, the Count of Montgomery, is a prominent Huguenot leader in the French Wars of Religion. When her formidable mother follows him into battle, she takes all her children with her.
After a traumatic childhood in war-torn France, Roberda arrives in England full of hope for her wedding. But her ambitious bridegroom, Gawen, has little interest in taking a wife.
Received with suspicion by the servants at her new home, Dartington Hall in Devon, Roberda works hard to prove herself as mistress of the household and to be a good wife. But there are some who will never accept her as a true daughter of Devon.
After the St Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, Gawen’s father welcomes Roberda’s family to Dartington as refugees. Compassionate Roberda is determined to help other French women left destitute by the wars. But her husband does not approve. Their differences will set them on an extraordinary path…
Excerpt 3:
Clotilde looked up at me from where she’d crouched to adjust the hem of my dress and smiled.
‘Beautiful, ma petite,’ she murmured. ‘You’re a sight to melt the hardest heart.’ I managed a tentative smile in return, a little laugh, but words were beyond me. Anne Cecil reached for my hand and squeezed it, and together the two women ushered me to the door of the chamber. I set out bravely, swishing along the corridor towards the queen’s chapel with my hair unbound. Anne had helped me dress in the blue-green damask gown and lent me the prettiest ruff collar. My sleeves were trimmed with pearls and I wore velvet slippers embroidered with little flowers. I should have felt wonderful decked out so for my wedding day. But my stomach was turning over and over, like one of the queen’s tumblers who’d entertained us the night before. I had a sour taste in my mouth as I braced myself to give a convincing performance. Anne Cecil squeezed my hand and fell in behind me and I saw Papa waiting at the door, his face wreathed in smiles. Sir Arthur stood beside him, grinning like a cat with its paw in the cream jug. Maman, resplendent in her best court gown, and Lady Hereford smiled their encouragement.
Beyond them all Gawen waited. His eyes did not turn as the splendidly dressed lords and ladies made way for me. I took my place beside him but still he stared straight ahead, one foot tapping impatiently on the brightly tiled floor. I risked a quick peep at him. I felt the bright smile I had painted on my face slipping a little when I saw the cold glint in his eyes.
At last Queen Elizabeth made her majestic entrance and drew eyes away from us. It was over in no time. I mumbled my vows. Gawen said his in a flat voice with no feeling at all. He did not venture to kiss his bride. We knelt before Queen Elizabeth for her blessing.
‘You will go to France, young sir, to learn something of the language and customs there, that you may better understand your wife,’ she commanded and a ripple of laughter spread through the throng. I knew, of course, that she was really sending Gawen over to France to have him act as spy for Walsingham and Anne’s father. ‘Now, Madame Champernowne –’ a titter among the ladies was instantly stifled – ‘Sir Arthur has told me you sing well and play on the virginals, and that you’ve brought with you a boy who is a fine musician,’ the queen continued.
‘Yes, Y-y-your M-majesty,’ I stuttered, feeling suddenly hot. It was the very first time anyone had used my new name.
‘It will please me if you remain at court until the spring to entertain us,’ she announced, in a voice that brooked no questioning. As she spoke she gave me such a penetrating stare that I felt even shakier. Then she turned the same look on my papa who, with a beaming smile, gave her a well-practised bow. I wondered if she was keeping me as some sort of hostage against my father’s good behaviour.
Everyone relaxed a bit after the queen swept from the chapel in a dazzling cloud of sumptuous silks and glittering jewels. A group of the younger ladies-in-waiting swarmed round me to admire my gown. As I tried to extricate myself I looked for Gawen. He was nowhere to be seen. I shot rapid glances round the room, hoping no one had noticed and, feeling the flush creeping up my cheeks, I took Sir Arthur’s arm. When we arrived at the room set aside for the celebratory feast Gawen was already seated and helping himself from a platter.
I sat uncomfortably beside my husband at the wedding breakfast and tried valiantly to engage him in conversation. To be fair he did, at least for a time, make a little effort to play his part before the wedding guests, though his eyes never met mine.
‘Tell me about your ship,’ I ventured after a few abortive sallies, and at last he came to life. He gabbled off lots of strange shipboard names that were beyond my English vocabulary and I mumbled what I hoped were appropriate responses. We might even have looked as though we were enjoying each other’s company, but not for long.
When Pierre came in with some of the queen’s musicians they struck up a tune and all eyes turned on us to lead the dance. Gawen just sat there.
‘Husband,’ I said, trying that word out for the first time and not feeling it applied to us at all, ‘we must lead the dance. Everyone is waiting.’ But Gawen pushed back his seat and stumbled away, murmuring that he must find the jakes. I gritted my teeth and felt as though my flesh was crawling.
Anne came to my rescue.
‘Will you step a measure with me and the other ladies?’ she asked, holding my eyes in her steady gaze.
‘Gladly,’ I answered, beaming. That was the only dance I had on my wedding day.
Buy Links:
Universal Buy Link: https://rosemarygriggs.co.uk/books/2/The%20Dartington%20Bride/
Author and speaker Rosemary Griggs has been researching Devon’s sixteenth-century history for years. She has discovered a cast of fascinating characters and an intriguing network of families whose influence stretched far beyond the West Country and loves telling the stories of the forgotten women of history – the women beyond the royal court; wives, sisters, daughters and mothers who played their part during those tumultuous Tudor years: the Daughters of Devon.
Her novel A Woman of Noble Wit tells the story of Katherine Champernowne, Sir Walter Raleigh’s mother, and features many of the county’s well-loved places.
Rosemary creates and wears sixteenth-century clothing, a passion which complements her love for bringing the past to life through a unique blend of theatre, history and re-enactment. Her appearances and talks for museums and community groups all over the West Country draw on her extensive research into sixteenth-century Devon, Tudor life and Tudor dress, particularly Elizabethan.
Out of costume, Rosemary leads heritage tours of the gardens at Dartington Hall, a fourteenth-century manor house and now a visitor destination and charity supporting learning in arts, ecology and social justice.
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