By contrast, her wedding to Owen Tudor took place among a small group gathered at the studded oak door of St Andrew’s church in Hadham. There were the bride and groom, a group of loyal friends and the grey-bearded village priest. Instead of liveried royal guards holding back a mob of excited citizens wildly cheering the royal bride and groom, there was a small group of curious locals murmuring amongst themselves in the churchyard as they watched two strangers make their marriage vows. Agnes and I were the only people to have witnessed both ceremonies and I remarked to Agnes on the difference in Catherine’s demeanour on the two occasions. In Troyes she had been a nervous girl, overawed by the charismatic king she was marrying and almost overwhelmed by the clamour and glamour of it all. Now she was a woman in love with the handsome man at her side, maturely beautiful in a simple wired veil and understated gown of blue flower-patterned linen. Not wishing to appear anything more than an esquire’s wife, her only jewellery was a plain silver brooch set with a stone of polished crystal, given to her by her bridegroom on her wedding eve.
