The Forbidden Queen

CHAPTER FIVE

He was back. Henry was in London. I knew of his approach to the city even before the cloud of dust from his retinue came in sight of the guards at the gates, since couriers had been arriving for the whole of the previous week, issuing a summons in the King’s name for a Parliament to meet to ratify the Treaty of Troyes. I knew of his arrival at Westminster, where I had already taken up residence, knew of the unpacking and dispersal of his entourage, Henry’s own progress to his private rooms. What I could not hear and deduce from my windows, I ordered Thomas, my page, to discover for me. The King was once more in residence in his capital.

I had a need to speak with him.

‘How did he look?’ I asked, hoping my urgency would extract some specific detail.

‘He was clad in armour and a surcoat with leopards on it,’ Thomas reported with single-minded attention to the accoutrements of his hero, ‘and he wore a jewelled coronet on his helm and a sword at his side.’

‘Is he in good health?’ I asked patiently.

He thought for a moment. ‘Yes, my lady. His horse is very fine too.’

So why was I not waiting for Henry in the courtyard, a Queen to welcome her King? Because I now knew enough of Henry’s preferences to allow him to arrive and settle into his rooms in his own good time, without any distraction, as he brought himself abreast of messages and documents.

I knew, with my newborn cynicism, that I might be awarded at best a cursory bow and a salute to my cheek, at worst a request that I return later in the day. Besides, I wanted my first meeting with him to be alone, not with the whole Court or his military escort as an interested audience.

I waited in my chamber for an hour. He might come to me, to see how I fared, of course. Foolish hope still built like a ball of soft wool in my chest, only to unravel. Another hour passed. I could wait no longer. The excitement that had hummed through my blood for as many weeks as I could count on the fingers of one hand rippled into a warm simmer. It was, I acknowledged with some surprise, as close to happiness as I could expect.

I picked up my skirts and I ran.

I ran along the corridors, as I had once run out into the courtyard on the day after my marriage, my heart sore that Henry was leaving. Now I ran with keen anticipation through the antechambers and reception rooms to the King’s private apartments. The doors were opened for me by a servant who managed to keep his astonishment under control. Obviously queens did not run.

‘Where is the King?’ I demanded of him.

‘In the tapestried chamber, my lady.’

On I went, walking now, catching my breath. Pray God that he was alone. But when I heard the sound of voices beyond the half-open door, irritation, disappointment slowed me. Should I wait? I hesitated, considering the wisdom of postponing this reunion, then knew I could not. I wanted to speak with Henry now. I pushed the door open fully and, not waiting to be invited, I entered.

Henry was in conversation with his brother Humphrey of Gloucester and Bishop Henry. He looked up, frowning at the unwarranted disturbance of what was clearly a council of war, then, seeing me, his brow cleared.

‘Katherine…One minute.’

‘I have news,’ I stated, with only a modicum of grace.

‘From France?’ His head snapped round. ‘From the King? Is he still in health?’

‘As far as I know.’ The state of my father’s wits was of national importance, of course. ‘No, Henry. Not from France.’

Since it was not from France, he looked at me as if he could not imagine what I might have to tell him of such importance to interrupt his own concerns. He addressed a scowling Humphrey. ‘There’s this matter of the Scots supplying arms to the Dauphinists. It must be stopped.’

I walked forward until I could have touched him if I had chosen to. ‘I wish to speak with you now, Henry. I have not seen you for weeks.’ His brows climbed, but I stood my ground. I smiled. ‘I would like it if you were able to spare your wife five minutes of your time.’

‘Of course.’ His brief smile stretched his mouth. ‘If you will attend me here in the hour after noon.’

I was neither surprised nor shocked. Nor was I reduced to easy tears. I had come a long way from the girl who had stood beside him in the church in Troyes. I had more confidence than the girl who had feared sitting alone at her own coronation feast. My weeks alone since my curtailed progress had at last added a gloss of equanimity, however fragile.

‘Now, my lord.’ I raised my chin a little. ‘If it please you.’

I thought he might still refuse. I thought he might actually tell me to go away. Instead, Henry nodded to Humphrey and the bishop, who left us alone.

‘Well? News, you said.’

‘Yes.’ The bite of my nails digging into my palms was an acknowledgement that my courage was a finite thing. ‘I am carrying your child.’

It was as if I had stripped to my undershift in public. The stillness in the room prickled over my skin. Henry allowed the list he still held to flutter from his fingers, and for the first time since he had entered the room he really looked at me.

‘I carry your child,’ I repeated. ‘Before Christmas I think your child—pray God a son—will be born. You will have your heir, Henry.’

My words, as I heard them spoken aloud, stirred within me such exhilaration that at last I would achieve something of which he would approve. Surely this would make the difference. This would bring his attention back to me, even if not his love. If I carried a son for him he would be grateful and attentive so that I would not be swept away, like a lazy servant sweeping dust behind a tapestry. I knew that this was the best thing I could do for him, for England.

Since my discovery I had been counting the days to his return, telling no one but Guille, who held a bowl for me every morning as nausea struck. I would have Henry’s child: I would have his gratitude, and prove myself worthy of the contract made at Troyes that Parliament was about to ratify, not just for the crown I brought him but for the heir I had given him. Our son would be King of England and France.

I ordered myself to stand perfectly still as he watched me from under straight brows. I did not even show my pleasure. Not yet. Why did he not say anything? Was he not as delighted as I?

‘Henry,’ I said when still he did not respond. ‘If I have a son you will have achieved all you have worked for. To unite the crowns of England and France.’ What was he thinking? His eyes were opaque, his muscles taut, the stitched leopards immobile. ‘Our child—our son—will be King of England and France,’ I said, unnerved. ‘Are you not pleased?’

It did the trick. His face lit up in the smile such as he had used on the day that he had first met me, when it had turned my knees to water. It still did, God help me. It still did. He crossed the space between us in three rapid strides and seized my hands, kissing my brow, my lips with a fervency I had not experienced before.

‘Katherine—my dear girl. This is the best news I could have had. We will order a Mass. We will pray for a son. A son, in God’s name! Go and dress. We will go to the Abbey and celebrate this momentous event.’

One brush of his knuckles across my cheek, one final salute to my fingers and he released me, leaving me with a yearning that almost succeeded in reducing me to tears. Oh, how I wished he would take me in his arms and kiss me with tenderness, and tell me with intimate words that he was pleased and that he had missed me, even that he was grateful to me for fulfilling my royal duty to him as his wife.

Instead: ‘I need to finish dealing with these,’ he said. His face was vivid with emotion, but his hands and eyes were for the documents. ‘Then we will celebrate with the whole country your superlative gift to me.’

Superlative gift. That did not stop him closing the door behind me as he ushered me out to find something suitably celebratory to wear. I did not run back to my rooms. I walked slowly, considering that my place in Henry’s life would never be important enough to distract him from his role as King.

When the child was born, perhaps?

No, our weeks of being apart had changed nothing between us. I had read love where there was none, as a deprived child would seek it, when all that existed was tolerance and mild affection. I had given up on hope for more at Beverley, when he could not tell me of his grief. Now I abandoned my empty longings, even as I celebrated, clad in the blue of the Virgin’s robes and cloth of gold, my ermine cloak wrapped regally around me, as the voices in the Abbey rose about me in a paean of praise to announce that I was Queen and would soon be mother to the heir.

Even my damsels smiled on me.

‘You will stay here at Westminster,’ Henry informed me as he escorted me back to my chamber at the end of one of the interminable banquets to shackle the foreign ambassadors to our cause, very much in the tone that he had been issuing orders for the past hour. ‘You must send word to me as soon as my son is born.’

Henry was making preparations for his—and his army’s—imminent departure to Calais. I did not waste my breath asking if I would accompany him. If Henry did not want me with him on a progress through peaceful England, he would not want me on a military campaign beset by unknown difficulties. The days of our honeymoon when he had serenaded me with the best minstrels he could set his hands on so close to a battlefield seemed very far away.

I was now too precious to be risked, as the vessel that would produce the gilded heir. The child who would fulfil Henry’s dreams of an English Empire stretching from the north to the shores of the Mediterranean. I became part of his preparations.

‘Of course.’ There was no doubt in his mind that the child would be male. I tucked my hand into his arm, trying for a lighter mood. His brow was creased with a strong vertical line, his gaze distant. ‘You will be able to celebrate his birth at the same time as that of the Christ Child.’

‘Yes. Before I leave I will order a Mass to be said.’

‘Will you not return before then?’ It would be a good five months. Surely he would return.

‘If it is possible—I will if I can.’

In truth, I did not think he would. The preparations were for a long campaign, and once winter set in there would be no crossing of the Channel unless it was of absolute necessity. As we walked past one of the glazed windows, I looked out over the Thames, grey and drear for it was a cloudy day, and thoughts of winter lodged in my mind. I imagined Westminster would be a cold and inhospitable place in winter.

‘I think I will go to Windsor when the weather turns,’ I said.

‘No.’

I glanced up. Surprisingly, I had his entire attention. ‘Why not?’

‘It is not my wish.’

I felt a little spirit of rebellion stir in my belly. If Henry would not be in England, why should I not choose my residence? Perhaps he had not thought about it carefully enough, and if his concern was for my comfort then he must be open to persuasion. ‘The private rooms are more comfortable and less…’ I sought for a word ‘… less formidable at Windsor. Here I feel as if I am living in a monument rather than a home. The drainage is better at Windsor. I like the countryside too.’

I glanced up and tried a final thrust. ‘The chance of disease, I imagine, is far less at Windsor than living here in the middle of London. The child will thrive there.’

‘No.’ He was no longer even listening. ‘Stay here. Or go to the Tower if you wish. But not Windsor.’

‘I dislike the Tower as much as Westminster,’ I persisted. ‘And what if plague threatens London again?’

‘I’ll not be persuaded, Katherine. I expect you to be obedient to my wishes. Your reputation must be beyond reproach in all things,’ Henry replied. ‘I do not expect you to take matters into your own hands and set up a separate court.’

‘That was never my intent.’

Taking in his severe expression, I knew he considered that there was enough notoriety in my family with my mother living apart from my father in her own household, and was instantly filled with shame. Would I never be free of my mother’s notorious amours?

‘My reputation is beyond reproach,’ I retorted. ‘My mother’s morality is not mine.’

‘Of course. I implied no other,’ continued Henry, starkly disapproving. ‘Merely that the mother of the heir must be as pure as the Holy Virgin.’

‘But I don’t see why it would make a difference if I was at Windsor or Westminster.’

Henry stopped, his hand around my wrist, and for a long moment was caught in a tight-lipped silence as his eyes, bright hazel, searched my face.

‘I order it, Katherine. You will not go to Windsor.’

So much for my brief moment of subversion. I slid back into obedience. ‘Very well,’ I agreed stiffly. ‘I won’t if you don’t wish it.’

‘I will make all the arrangements before I go.’ Henry released my arm and we walked on. I could not see the need for the little lick of temper in his eyes, but if that was what he wanted, I would remain in Westminster and shiver through the cold. I would not go to Windsor. I would be as virtuous as the Virgin herself, cosseted and protected, an example to all womankind. Disillusion might keep me close companionship, but now I had a child to fill my thoughts. A child who I would love as my parents had never loved me.

Henry left me and went to war in a flurry of gilded armour, blazons and caparisoned horses. I received a publically formal bow and a peck on the cheek, impeded somewhat by the feathered war helm he carried, before he mounted. Once I would have been impressed. Now I knew that in his mind would be the superb chivalric impression his leavetaking would make on his subjects.

A pity about Windsor.

But the seed had been sown, and it blossomed more strongly in my mind every day. I began to think of the bright rooms, the large fireplaces, the warm water brought by a spigot so that bathing in a tiled chamber constructed for the purpose became a pleasure.

Why should I not? Henry could not have considered. His mind had been taken up with the French war—he must have been distracted when he had forbidden me, and would surely not object if I ran counter to his orders. He might even forget that he had actually objected. I might like to decide for myself…

A week of constant rain made up my mind. Westminster became a cold grey domain of draughts and streaming walls and icy floors. My growing bulk barely showed under the layers of furs and mantles that Alice heaped on me. Fur-lined slippers did not stop the rising cold as we huddled next to the fires. No one was tempted outside: exercise was taken in the Great Hall, our breath rising in clouds of vapour. And then there was the day when there was ice skimming the water in my ewer. Enough was enough. I could easily travel—it was still two months before the expected birth of my child and I could take to the seclusion of my suite of rooms in Windsor quite as well as in Westminster.

‘We will go to Windsor,’ I announced to Beatrice, suddenly much more cheerful.

‘Yes, my lady.’ And she departed with alacrity to supervise the packing.

‘Will we?’ Alice asked, surprised at this change of plan but willing to see its merits.

‘No, my lady.’ Mistress Waring was adamant, her frown formidable.

Mistress Johanna Waring. If Henry had thought he had made every preparation for my accouchement, he had been wrong, for this self-important individual had arrived in my expanding household the day after Henry’s departure, with much baggage heaped in two large wagons, and a shortage of breath due to her advanced age and considerable girth. Mistress Waring—I would never have dared address her as Johanna—nurse to the infant Henry and his brothers, and one time tirewoman to Lady Mary Bohun, Henry’s mother.

‘A great lady,’ she had informed me, sighing gustily, ousting Alice from her favourite seat and lowering her weight onto it on that day of her arrival. ‘Dead too young. And Lord Henry not yet eight years old.’ She fixed her eye, which brooked no dissent, on me. ‘I expect that you will be a great lady one day.’

And Mistress Waring had brought with her a package.

‘Can’t have the heir born without this, now, can we?’ She pulled at the ties and cloth with surprisingly nimble fingers for a lady of her bulk and years. ‘It was Lord Henry’s, of course. He was such a lovely boy. I always knew he would be a great king. See? When he was old enough to pull himself up?’

There were faint teeth marks in one of the little birds’ heads.

I touched it with my fingertip so that the little wooden box rocked gently on its two falcon-headed supports. I could not imagine Henry so small, so helpless that he would fit into this crib. It swung smoothly against my hand, as my baby would be swung to sleep here. I could not recall if I had had a cradle. Neither did I recall a nurse who had held me in such affection as Mistress Waring had held Henry. And as I was now Henry’s wife, Mistress Waring took me in her briskly solicitous hand and laid down the law.

‘She’s nought but an old besom,’ Beatrice sneered down her narrow nose. ‘She has instructed me to ensure that all windows are kept tightly closed in your chamber, my lady, to allow no foul air to permeate.’

‘Is that not a good thing?’ I asked, quick to pour oil on potentially troubled waters.

‘I don’t see why I should do it. It is the work of a servant.’

‘But she is favoured by the King,’ I replied.

That was enough to restore peace to my dovecote. I was, to my pride, gradually learning to manage my disparate household. Beatrice might have little respect for my opinions, but Henry’s word was law. The windows were kept tightly shut. But as for Windsor, now that I had decided, I would not be put off. Not even by Henry’s officious nurse.

‘Why ever should I not go?’ I asked.

‘Lord Henry will not like it,’ Mistress Waring stated.

‘Lord Henry is not here with frozen feet,’ I replied sharply, rubbing my toes through my fur slippers. I had chilblains.

‘I can heal your chilblains with pennyroyal, my lady,’ Mistress Waring admonished.

‘Then you can heal them in Windsor.’

I left the room, but Mistress Waring followed me to my bedchamber where I directed Beatrice and Meg to select the clothes I would need. Henry’s nurse stood at my shoulder, where she could lecture me without being overheard.

‘What is it, Mistress Waring?’ I asked wearily.

‘My lady, it must not be.’

‘Mistress Waring—my child will thrive at Windsor because I will be more content.’ She folded her lips. I eyed her. ‘What? I can always come back to Westminster when Henry returns from France, if that’s your concern.’ It had crossed my mind. Indeed, he need never know I had defied him. I really could not see the importance of where I bore this child.

But when Mistress Waring made the sign of the evil eye, I looked aghast, a chill brushing my skin that had nothing to do with the draught whistling round the open door or the grey mist, like an unpleasant miasma, that had blanketed the Thames.

‘It’s the old prophecy, my lady,’ she whispered.

‘A prophecy?’ I whispered back.

‘Made when Lord Henry was born. Come with me.’ I followed, out of my chamber and into my private chapel. ‘I’ll tell you here, because it does not do to speak of some things except in the sight of God.’ She lowered herself awkwardly to her knees before the altar, and I did likewise.

‘Lord Henry was a delicate child—there were fears for his life. An old wisewoman gave a prophecy to his mother, the Lady Mary, to reassure her that the child would not die.’

Mistress Waring made the sign of the cross on her ample bosom.

‘But this has nothing to do with me,’ I replied, puzzled.

‘It might have to do with your child.’

‘And this wisewoman’s sayings will stop me going to Windsor? I think this is nonsense,’ I remarked.

‘It made the Lady Mary weep,’ she asserted.

I would have none of this. I stood and walked from the chapel, back to my chamber where the packing went on apace. By the window, a little ruffled by the strange incident, I let my hand fall to stroke the head of the nearest little falcon on the supports of the cradle. They must have looked over the child that Henry had been, I thought fancifully, keeping watch. Who was keeping watch over him now?

My thoughts winged their way, imagining him in full armour, his battle helm in place, facing my brother’s army. Who would keep him safe? Some wisewoman’s mutterings would have no influence over him, of that I was certain. I offered up a silent prayer, my hand spread wide on my belly.

Holy Mother, keep him safe. Bring him home to me and this child.

Then smiled, a little sadly. His own confidence and his talent in the battlefield would keep him safe. But there was Mistress Waring, her large bulk again looming at my side.

‘The prophecy,’ she hissed.

So I would humour her. ‘What exactly did the prophecy say?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. But the Lady Mary said that Windsor was not the place for the heir to be born.’

‘I cannot believe that my child will suffer for being born in one place or another. I’m sure the Lady Mary had more sense than to give credence to it. If you are so anxious we will say a rosary to the Virgin to ask for her protection.’ I was beyond being dissuaded. I would not be swayed by anything less than good sense.

Mistress Waring drew in a breath. ‘Queen Dowager Joanna knows the truth.’

‘I have never met her.’ Queen Dowager Joanna, Henry’s reclusive stepmother. I recalled her absence at my coronation, and our paths had not crossed since, for which I was probably remiss. I had meant to ask him, and had forgotten.

‘Nor would you,’ Mistress Waring advised bleakly. ‘She is a prisoner.’

‘A prisoner?’ I thought I had misunderstood the word.

‘She is kept in confinement.’

It made no sense to me. ‘Does Henry know?’

‘Of course. It is by his order. She is accused of witchcraft. Against the King himself.’

I could think of nothing to say. Henry had led me to believe that it had been her choice to live a secluded life, not that she had been incarcerated for so terrible a crime. And I could prise no more information from Mistress Waring other than a reiteration that Madam Joanna would know all about the prophecy. And that I must on no account go to Windsor.

‘You must ask the Duke of Bedford for permission, my lady.’ Lord John was still in England, thus a final throw of Mistress Waring’s dice. ‘I wager he will not give it.’

Alice approached to enquire if she should organise the transport of the cradle that still sat, rocking gently, under my hand. Lord John was out of London, visiting the north. Madam Joanna’s predicament was something I must consider at more leisure. As for Windsor as my destination—why should I not make my own decision?

‘Pack it,’ I said.

I was packed up and gone to Windsor long before Lord John returned.

My lord.

I am well. Mistress Waring expects our child to be born early in December.

What more could I write? Nothing I did here at Windsor could possibly interest Henry. Windsor was everything I had remembered and anticipated from my brief visit on my first arriving in England, a place of seductive comfort and royal extravagance, nicely balanced. Painted and tapestried, the rooms that looked out over the River Thames closed around me like a blessing.

Four were put aside for my own use, apart from my bedchamber. One was hung entirely with mirrors, a room that I avoided as my girth grew and I became more clumsy, so I commandeered the Rose Chamber, glorious with paint and gilding, instead. One chamber was for dancing, constructed by Edward III for his wife, Philippa. There was no dancing for my little household, but perhaps at Christmas there would be celebrations. Perhaps Henry would be there to see his firstborn child.

Fat and indolent, I withdrew and settled into Windsor like a bird into her nest, in a world from which all men were barred as my time drew closer. My chilblains responded to the pennyroyal ointment. Alice and Mistress Waring clucked around me. Even my damsels regarded me with smiles of approval and a willingness to entertain me with music and song as the arrival of the heir approached. It amused me that everyone presumed the child would be a son. I hoped so, I prayed so, for a son would assuredly win me Henry’s approval.

Occasionally my thoughts turned to Madam Joanna, shut away from the world much as I was, but for necromancy. Necromancy! The use of the Dark Arts. What had she done? And why had Henry remained so determinedly silent about it? When my child was born, I decided, I would make it in my way to visit this intriguing Queen Dowager.

I wrote to Henry. I felt a need to tell him, to remind him of my existence, yet found it strangely difficult to write. My skills were limited, and I struggled with the words as well as the sentiments.

I pray for your safety, and that of the coming child. I trust that you are well and in good heart. I look to the day when you return to England in victory, as do all your loyal subjects.

It was deplorably stilted, but all I could do. I did not know where in France he was at that moment but thought him still to be tied down at the siege of Meaux, where my brother’s forces were holding out against Henry’s assault. And how to finish this worthless little note?

Your loyal and loving wife,

Katherine

I sent it by courier and set myself to stitching for the child that moved restlessly under my hand. Perhaps Henry would even find time to reply. And when he did, I opened the letter enthusiastically, scattering wax on my skirts as the royal seal broke.

To my wife Katherine,

I rejoice to hear of your good health and trust the arrival of the child will be soon and not too difficult for you to support. I will order a Mass to be said for your strength.

The writing was uneven, the uprights less forceful than I thought I remembered, not that I had seen Henry write often. Well, I considered. He would not be free to sit and write at leisure. And, no, for he continued:

I am at Meaux but we are hampered by heavy rains that have caused the river to flood. We are troubled by dysentery. I will return to Westminster when affairs permit.

Henry.

The tail on the y slid abruptly away with a blot and a smear.

I rubbed my thumb over the smudged letters of his name. Not much here. I frowned at it. Then at Alice, who had delivered it from the courier who had remained shut out beyond my closed doors.

‘Was the King in good health? Did the courier say?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Good. Do we know anything about the King of Scotland?’

For James, restless at the endless curtailment of his freedom, had begged to be allowed to accompany Henry to France. Henry had finally agreed, and given consent to James’s release from captivity. Within three months of Henry’s return to England, and presuming that the Scottish forces had fought well in England’s name, James would be restored to Scotland, if hostages were given for his loyalty.

And providing that James agreed to wed my damsel Joan Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset and niece to Bishop Henry, it was a neat way of keeping an independent James loyal to English interests. Not that that bothered him particularly. James thought Joan Beaufort to be a remarkably pretty girl.

‘Yes, my lady. Lord James sent a poem for the Lady Joan.’ With a sly smile Alice removed from her sleeve a folded and sealed square of parchment. ‘I have it here.’

‘How very thoughtful of him.’

I beckoned Joan, who had been watching, anticipating my every move. A solemn girl in a yellow gown, she was marked by the distinctive Beaufort features of heavily hooded eyes and softly russet hair. One day she would make a lovely bride.

And I smiled, my heart a little sore, as she fell on the dog-eared parchment as if it would save her life, instantly engrossed as she read and re-read with flushed cheeks. I wished that Henry had sent me something rather than a mere half-dozen lines, written about dysentery and flooding.

‘“Now was there maid fast by the wall,”’ Joan read aloud so that we might all admire.

‘“A garden faire, and in the corners set a herbery green.

And on the small green branches sat

The little sweet nightingale, that sang so loud and clear…”’

James’s poetry was not good, he would never threaten the reputations of the troubadours, but if nothing else it proclaimed the direction of his heart.

Should I read aloud from Henry’s note to me? I thought sourly. But I was instantly regretful of the jealousy that nipped at my thoughts. They were both young, and no doubt the love that bound them together was a fine thing.

Whatever the state of the chilly rift between us, Henry would be far too busy to mend it, and neither had I made any effort with intimate thoughts in my writings to him. How could I? The campaign took precedence over everything: I must understand that and not be a burden on him. Yet I felt moved to leave the room as Joan launched into the third verse. I could not bear to listen to the passion of a lord yearning for his lady, however badly written the sentiments.

My dear Katherine,

I can think of no better news.

The baby kicked and blinked myopically in his cradle—Henry’s cradle—at my knee on which Henry’s letter lay open.

A son, an heir to inherit the thrones of England and France, is the greatest possible achievement of our marriage.

The heir, a boy, born on the sixth day of December at four hours after noon, sneezed.

He must be named Henry.

Henry snuffled and waved his tiny hands.

Order a Mass to be said in grateful thanks.

Henry stuffed the corner of the embroidered coverlet into his mouth.

My heart is filled with great gladness.

Henry.

I had not needed to write to inform Henry of this blessed event. The news had been official, carried fast by one of the heralds in full panoply of tabard and staff of office, and here was the reply, even before we were to celebrate the Birth of the Holy Child.

‘Where is he?’ I asked, noting that Henry’s writing had returned to its usual force.

‘Still at Meaux, my lady,’ Alice reported. ‘They are dug in for a siege. A lengthy business.’

So there was no suggestion that Henry would return soon, but I had not expected it. The festivities were almost upon us.

‘Was the King in good heart? Did the courier say?’ I asked automatically. If he was engaged in a siege, he must be.

‘Yes, my lady. The siege goes well. But…’

My eyes snapped to Alice’s face at the hesitation. ‘But?’

‘Nothing, my lady.’

‘What would you have said?’

‘I think—from what was said—that the King had been unwell, my lady.’

‘Unwell?’ A little jolt to my heart. I could not imagine Henry unwell. His strength had always been prodigious.

‘The courier may have been mistaken, my lady.’ Alice nodded reassuringly. ‘I think they all lack a good night’s sleep and the food leaves much to be desired. His Majesty was well in command.’

I leaned on her reassurance. So no cause for concern, just the usual strains of a long campaign when the body was worn down by the need for constant vigilance. Henry was stronger than any man I knew. I hoped he would come home. I wanted him to smile on the infant Henry and on me.

I lifted the baby from his cradle, holding him so that I could look into his face.

‘You are Henry,’ I informed him. ‘Your father wishes it to be so. His heart is filled with gladness at the news of your birth.’ He seemed to be too small to be Henry. ‘I think I will have to call you Young Henry,’ I informed him.

The baby squirmed and fussed in his wrappings, so I placed him on my lap. I could see nothing of Henry’s face or of Valois in his features, which were still soft and blurred, his eyes the palest of blues and his hair a fair fluff of down. His head was heavy and warm where it rested on my arm, and there was the faintest frown on his brow as if he could not quite see who held him. He began to whimper.

‘I’ll take him, my lady.’ Mistress Waring hovered anxiously, conscious of my lack of experience, but I shook my head and drew the child close to my breast. ‘It is not fitting that you nurse him.’

‘No. Not yet.’

The whimper became a snuffle and the baby fell asleep. Two weeks old—he was so small—and I felt my heart shiver with protectiveness.

‘You are mine,’ I whispered as Mistress Waring moved away. ‘Today you are mine.’

And I knew that my ownership would be a thing of a temporary nature. Soon, even within the coming year, he would have a household of his own with nurses and servants to answer his every need, perhaps even far from me in his own royal castle if that was what Henry wished. It was not unknown.

He would be educated and trained to be the heir, his father’s son, in reading and writing and military pursuits. Henry would buy him a little suit of armour and a small sword and he would learn to ride a horse.

I smiled at the prospect, but my smile was quick to fade. I would lose him fast enough, but for now he was mine, dependent on me, my son quite as much as he was Henry’s, and love for this small being suffused my whole body. I thought he would never be as precious as he was to me at that moment before life stepped between us. Born at Windsor he may have been, but I could see nothing but a glorious future for him.

‘You will never be hungry or afraid or neglected,’ I informed my son.

I kissed his forehead where his fair brows met, and remembered that Henry had not asked after my health at all.

We held the Mass as instructed in the magnificence of St George’s Chapel. The Court celebrated the birth of the Christ Child and the start of the New Year and then the riotous junketings of Twelfth Night without either the King or Queen in attendance.

Henry was still pinned down by my brother at Meaux, while I kept to my chambers for I had yet to be churched before emerging into the world again. Baby Henry thrived. Alice cared for me, and Mistress Waring waxed tiresomely eloquent in her comparisons between father and son, how Henry had learned to sing and dance as a child with such grace. I regretted that I had never seen Henry sing or dance. But there was time. Young Henry’s birth had blessed me with a new sense of optimism.

I planned my churching with care and an anticipation of my release, and I wrote to Henry.

My lord,

It is my wish to be churched at Candlemas, the Blessed Virgin’s own Feast of Purification. If events in France are such that you could return for this thanksgiving, I would be most gratified.

Your loving wife,

Katherine.

I did not quite beg, but I thought it plain enough. So was the reply.

To my wife Katherine,

I am unable to be in England in February. I will arrange for alms to be given to the poor and prayers to be said for your health and that of my son.

I read no more, for there was not much to read before the signature.

‘What is he doing?’ I asked, unable to hide my chagrin.

‘Besieging that thrice-damned fortress of Meaux, so the courier says,’ Alice informed me. ‘A nest of Dauphinist vipers if ever there was one. It’s proving to be a thorn in English flesh. As well as losing Avranches and regaining it. It’s all a bit busy.’

And my family was causing Henry much annoyance. I could imagine the line digging deep between his brows, even at this distance. So I was churched without much of festivity, and gave candles for the Virgin’s own altar. The prayers were duly said and I expect the alms were given to the poor. Henry was always efficient.

After my release from confinement I remained at Windsor and I wrote.

My lord,

Your son is healthy and strong. Today he is three months old. He has a gold rattle that he beats on the side of his cradle. He also gnaws at it so perhaps his teeth will appear soon.

Your loving wife,

Katherine.

And did I receive a reply? I did not. Whilst I told Henry of the daily minutiae of his son’s life, Henry sent me not one word. I understood his needs, the ambition that drove him on, the pressure of war on his every waking moment. Of course I understood. I would not expect him to expend too much energy in considering my state when he knew that I was safe, and that both I and the child were healthy. I was not selfish.

But it had been almost a year since we had been in each other’s company. Our relationship was so fragile, based on so little time together, how could it survive such absence? Neither was there any indication of when we would be reunited. I accepted that Henry did not love me, but he did not know me. Neither did I know him.

Were we destined to exist like two separate streams, running in tandem but never to meet? Sometimes I wept that we were such strangers to each other.

Desolation throbbed in my blood. Frustration kept me restless. My foolish attempts to send my thoughts to Henry, as if I might find some echo of him, make some ephemeral consummation of the mind with him, failed utterly. But of course, I admonished myself, both parties would need to be open to the conversation. Henry would not be thinking about me.

How long could I wait?