The Forbidden Queen

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘What am I?’ I asked Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, Henry’s youngest and least appealing brother, and now the newly appointed Protector of England. King in all but name as far as I could see, but it had been Henry’s wish, and so I must bow to it. And to him. It was exactly one week since I had accompanied Henry’s coffin to his burial in Westminster Abbey.

‘You are Queen Dowager.’ He spoke slowly, as if I might not quite understand the significance of it, and looked down his high-bridged nose. He would rather not be having this conversation with me. I did not know whether he still doubted my facility with the language or questioned the state of my intellect.

Of one fact I was certain: Gloucester was a bitter man, bent on grabbing as much power for himself as he could. Henry, in his final days, had conferred on this younger brother the tutelam et defensionem of my son. On the strength of that, Gloucester had claimed the Regency in England when Lord John of Bedford had shouldered power in France, but Gloucester was not a man to make friends easily.

The lords of the Royal Council declined—very politely but firmly—to invest Gloucester with either the title or the power to govern in this way, only agreeing to him becoming principal counsellor with the title of Protector. Gloucester had not forgiven them, directing most of his animosity at Bishop Henry Beaufort, whom he suspected of stirring up the opposition.

‘You are the supremely respectable, grieving widow of our revered late king,’ he continued, in the same manner.

His explanation was straightforward enough, but it did not make good hearing. Queen Dowager. It made me sound so old. As if I had already lived out my life and my usefulness, and now all I had left was to wait for death, whilst I eked out my existence with prayer and the giving of alms to the poor. Much like Madam Joanna, I pondered, now enjoying her freedom but with increasing ill health. But she was fifty-four years old. I was twenty-one.

Still, I was not sure what Gloucester—and England—expected me to do.

‘What does that mean, my lord?’ I pressed him. I was at Windsor with my baby son, now almost a year old, in a court in mourning. My future too, to my mind, was heavily shrouded, like the winter mists creeping over the water meadows, obscuring all from view. Gloucester had descended on us from Westminster to assess for himself the baby king’s health. He was announced into my solar where I sat with my damsels, Young Henry at my feet, busy investigating a length of vivid purple silk from my embroidery. ‘What role do I have?’

Gloucester pretended, in his supercilious manner, to misunderstand me. ‘You have no political role, Katherine. How would you? I’m amazed that you expect one.’

‘Of course I didn’t expect a political role, Humphrey.’ Since he would be informal, so would I. ‘All I wish to know is what place I have at Court. What it is that I am expected to do.’

His brows rose and he waved a hand around the well-appointed room as if I were particularly stupid to ask. With its beautifully furnished tapestries and hangings, vivid tiles beneath my feet and the polished wood of stools and coffers, indeed I could have asked for nothing more sumptuous to proclaim my royal state. The windows in this room were large, admitting light even on the dullest of days. I followed Gloucester’s gesture, appreciating all I had been given, but…

‘What do I do for the rest of my life?’ I asked.

Henry was dead. I did not miss him: I had never had him to miss, except as an ideal of what I had expected my husband to be. His funeral was over, the silver death mask gleaming in Westminster Abbey, but his legacy for England and his heir dogged my every step. He had been busy indeed on his deathbed when the future government and security of England had been mapped out in every possible detail.

During Young Henry’s infancy, England would be governed by the Council, and those holding the reins of power would be Henry’s closest family. Lord John of Bedford would rule as Regent of France and control the future pursuit of war.

Humphrey of Gloucester, my present reluctant companion, was Protector of England but subordinate to Bedford in all things—which was the reason for Gloucester’s sour expression. And added to the mix was Henry’s uncle, Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, who would be tutor to my young son. I liked Henry Beaufort—he was a shrewd politician, a man ambitious for promotion, but a man not without compassion. Whereas in Gloucester there was no compassion, only a driving need for personal aggrandisement.

Thus Henry had laid down the pattern for how England should be governed until his baby son came of age.

‘Is there no part for me in my son’s life?’ I asked.

For there was no mention of me in the ordering of the realm. Should I have expected one? I saw Henry’s reasoning well enough when he carefully omitted me. I was too closely tied to the enemy in the person of my brother the Dauphin, and as a woman—a woman whom Gloucester still considered incapable of understanding all but the most simple of English sentences—government in any capacity would be entirely beyond me.

‘What do I do with the rest of my life, Humphrey?’ I repeated, enjoying his reaction as he flinched when I called him Humphrey, but he considered my question.

‘You are the Queen Mother.’

‘I know, but I wish to know what that will mean. Am I…?’ I sought for the word ‘superfluous’ and he must have seen my agitation for he deigned to explain.

‘You, Katherine, are of vital importance to England. It is your royal Valois blood that gives the new King his claim to France. And now that your own father is dead…’

For so he was, my torment-ravaged father. His body and mind had been eaten away by those invisible terrors, until eventually he had succumbed to them. My father had died two short months after Henry’s own demise, leaving my little son at ten months with the vast responsibility of kingship over both England and France. I suspected Gloucester considered it a most convenient death.

‘And since your brother the Dauphin refuses to recognise our claim to France and continues to wage war to wrest France from us…’

True. Brother Charles—Charles VII as he now claimed—had an army in the field against us.

‘… we must use every weapon we have to assert our claim for the boy. You are that weapon. Your blood in this child’s veins is the strongest weapon we have to enhance Henry’s son’s claim to the French throne.’ Henry’s son, I noted with a twist to my heart. He would always be Henry’s son. ‘There are many in France who will argue that the boy is too young. That he is English. But he is part Valois too, and so his claim to the French Crown is second to none.’

I nodded slowly. I was to be a symbol, exactly as my mother had painted for me. A living, breathing fleur-de-lys to stamp my son’s right to sit on the French throne.

‘I do have a part to play, then.’

‘Undoubtedly. And I must call on you to play that part to perfection. You must make yourself visible in public, as soon as your deepest mourning is over.’

‘And how long will that be?’

‘I think a year will be deemed acceptable. You must pay all due respect to my brother. It will be expected of you.’ Gloucester smiled thinly. ‘Remaining here at Windsor with the Young King should be no obstacle for you.’

A year of mourning. My heart fell. No dancing or music for a year, no life outside Windsor. As the widow of the hero of Agincourt I must be honourable and virtuous. Being enclosed in a convent could be no worse.

‘Then, you must attend the Young King in all ceremonials, standing with him, reminding the country of the child’s rich inheritance,’ Gloucester continued. ‘You will remain close to the boy. You are the female embodiment of his royal power and will be given a high political profile when it is considered necessary.’

I could have been a statue in Westminster Abbey. Or an armorial in the glazed windows, an embodiment of French royal blood, engraved in stone or coloured glass. It chilled my blood.

‘And when not necessary?’ I asked. ‘When I have observed my days of mourning and am not engaged in ceremonial?’

‘You must be circumspect at all times, Katherine. You must not draw attention to yourself for any but the highest of reasons. There must be no cause for suspicion of your interests or behaviour. I am sure you understand me.’ He was already drawing on his gloves, preparing to return to Westminster, presumably to report to the Council that the Queen Dowager had been made thoroughly cognisant of the future pattern of her life to enhance the glory of England.

‘You mean, I presume, that I must not draw attention to my Frenchness.’

‘Exactly. And you will remain in the Young King’s household. My late brother insisted on it.’ His tone, now that he had informed me of the lack of freedom, was brisk and businesslike and he strode to the door. ‘You will retain your income from your dower properties. It will be a satisfactory sum to pay for your small entourage. It is considered that four damsels will be sufficient for your needs as you will live retired. Do you not agree?’

‘Four…?’ I was used to more than that.

‘You will keep no state. Why would you need more?’ Gloucester drove on. ‘We have appointed a steward and chancellor for you from my late brother’s household. John Leventhorpe and John Wodehouse will deal with all such matters appertaining to your household and your dower lands. They will have all the experience you will need to preserve a household worthy of the Queen Mother.’

I knew them both. Aging men now, meticulous and gifted, with long service to Henry and to his father before him.

‘We have appointed a new Master of the Queen’s Household to order and arrange all things for you. One Owen Tudor, who served under my brother.’

I knew him too. A dark young man with a dramatic fall of black hair and an air of ferocious efficiency, who said little and achieved much, and who had gained his experience in service with Sir Walter Hungerford in France. As steward of Henry’s own household, Sir Walter had an eye for an able man, even though this choice of Gloucester’s, Owen Tudor, seemed to me to be young for such a weighty position. But what did it matter to me? I was hemmed in by Henry’s world as much now as I had been before his death.

‘I expect you will choose your own confessor and chaplain, and your chamber women,’ Gloucester continued, surveying me dispassionately. ‘You will have your own suite of rooms, and there you will be expected to keep queenly state. Beyond that you will obey the instructions sent to you and present the dignified face of Queen Mother to the world.’

I nodded, barely taking this in but holding on to the sweet kernel in the nut. I would accept the period of mourning: it was what Henry deserved, and I would mourn him with due diligence as befitted a French princess. I would accept my ceremonial role and play it to perfection. I would accept that I was to be given no choice in the appointment of officials to my household, except for my chaplain and chamber women. I would tolerate all of that because in Gloucester’s chilly portrayal of my life he had made one pertinent comment.

You will remain close to the boy.

‘I can play that role, my lord,’ I said with formal dignity.

‘We are gratified, my lady.’

I did not like the look in his eye. Neither did I like it that not once had Gloucester shown any interest in his nephew beyond a cursory glance.

When the door closed at Gloucester’s back, I picked up my son, holding his body close, his fair curls soft against my cheek. He was mine: he would always be mine and I would lavish all the love on him that I had.

As the years passed I would watch him grow, learning his lessons, able to wield a sword and ride a horse. One day he would be as great a soldier as his father had been. My days would be well spent in setting his tiny feet on that path. The prophecy would come to nought.

Young Henry patted my cheek then struggled to be set down.

‘You will be a great king,’ I whispered in his ear, holding him tightly, ashamed at the tears that gathered in my eyes.

Young Henry crowed against my shoulder, gripping the folds of my robe.

It came to me that if it had not been for my little son I would have sunk into despair.

I had expected to be pre-eminent in the upbringing of my son. Was I not his mother? Was I not the embodiment of virtuous and noble motherhood, like the Blessed Virgin herself? Not so. At the turn of the year I received a document, which I handed to Master Wodehouse, my new Chancellor: a kindly man, if content to sit with a cup of ale beside a fire in his latter years. Fortunately my demands on him were few.

‘What is this?’ I asked.

It was formal and official in a clerkly hand, and beyond my deciphering.

‘It is the appointment of a legal guardian for the Young King, my lady.’

‘A guardian?’

‘The young King has a new guardian, my lady. Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick. A good man.’

Well, of course he was. I knew Warwick. But his goodness was not an issue. I did not care if he was good. ‘Who says this?’ I demanded.

‘The Council, my lady. It was to be expected,’ Master Wodehouse advised gently, wary of my irritation. And he read on to the end of the Council’s statement while I brooded in silence. It may have been expected, but not by me. I had not been consulted, but I was given to understand that Henry had wished it; Henry’s brothers and uncle wished it. But I did not. I could not see why my son would need a guardian when his mother was perfectly capable of guarding his interests.

How dared they go over my head and appoint a guardian who would effectively oust me from my son’s side, who would have the power to overrule any decisions I might wish to make?

‘It is an excellent choice, my lady.’ Master Wodehouse was still regarding me with some concern. ‘There could be no better man in the whole of England to protect and advise your son as he grows. Supervising his education and training in all aspects of kingship. It is beyond you, my lady.’

I frowned at him, and the document.

‘Indeed he is the best man possible, my lady.’

And as I considered it, I saw the sense of it—as I must, for I was not entirely without insight into my son’s needs. As he grew my child would need a man to guide and instruct him in all aspects of warfare as well as in government. Bishop Henry was well intentioned but too entangled in clerical matters and too self-interested, Gloucester too pompous for my taste. Lord John was committed to events in France.

‘Could you find any fault in him, my lady?’ Master Wodehouse asked.

‘No.’ I sighed. ‘No, I cannot. It is just that…’

‘I understand. You do not wish to let go of the boy.’

No, I did not. There was nothing much else in my life.

I pondered on what I knew of Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, who had been at Henry’s side since that very first day in the pavilion at Meulan. A man of erudition, a man of considerable reputation, he was barely forty years old, even tempered with considerable personal charm, with all the experience and knowledge I could have asked for. I was forced to admit that Warwick was the perfect choice to teach a growing boy everything a young prince should know. To study, to choose between right and wrong, to fight as a knight to inspire his people, and all the military things that a man must learn that I could not give him.

Besides, I liked Warwick.

And so I allowed him his jurisdiction—since I had no power to circumvent it—but still I had to fight the resentment in my heart. The distancing from my son was hard to bear, even though Warwick applied his power with a light hand, often leaving Young Henry in my care when state matters demanded that he be at Westminster. Young Henry was still too young to wield a sword, even a wooden one, and his daily routine continued to rest with me and the coterie of nurses, supervised by Joan Asteley, who spoiled and cosseted him.

So my initial resentment settled, and I decided that the Council’s decisions could have been far worse. But my complacency could not last. In my heart I knew it and Warwick warned me as we stood in the nursery on one of his visits.

‘He looks well,’ Warwick observed as he stroked his hand over Young Henry’s head. My son was asleep, hooded eyes closed, lips relaxed, reminding me how like his father he was in repose.

‘He is. Soon he will be running through the palace.’ But not like I had run at the Hôtel de St Pol. Never like that.

‘I must buy him a pony.’ Warwick laughed. Then became serious as if he knew I would not like what he said. ‘The time has come, my lady.’ I regarded him quizzically, suddenly aware. ‘Now that the Young King is more than a year old, he must be put under the guidance of a governess.’

At first I did not quite understand. ‘Do I need more servants?’ I asked. ‘If so, my steward will appoint—’

‘The governess will be appointed by the Council,’ he said gently.

I felt that unpleasant shiver of apprehension. Warwick, as guardian, was a distant figure, willing to allow me a degree of influence, but a governess appointed by the Council would be ever present, a real and constant authority.

‘My son has a whole parcel of nurses to see to his needs,’ I remarked coldly. ‘Joan Asteley has my complete confidence. Mistress Waring, of course. Young Henry loves her.’

‘He needs more, Katherine. Mistress Waring’s influence must end.’ His gentle use of my name warned me. ‘He needs a governess to nurture him in courtesy and good manners. Most importantly he needs a governess who has the power to chastise the Young King if necessary.’

Courtesy. Good manners…My authority as his mother counted for less and less. ‘She would chastise my son?’ I was outraged. Yet had not our servants in France chastised me, and not always with a light hand? As I remembered the slaps, the sharp blows of a whip, my hands tightened into fists.

‘Only within reason, my lady.’

‘And what is reason?’ Abruptly I turned my back on him to walk to the end of the room. ‘She is not his mother. How will she know?’ I raised my voice. ‘I do not agree.’

Warwick followed me, eyes soft with sympathy, but he spoke plainly, as was his wont. ‘This is no argument here, Katherine. It will happen with or without your consent—and it must be no surprise to you. It is customary for princes to be raised in their own households. You cannot expect to keep him close to you, even though you live in the same palace. He will be raised with his own staff, eventually with youngsters of noble blood of his own age. He will learn what it is to be King. You know this. Surely you were brought up with your royal brothers and sisters in a similar manner?’

‘Yes,’ I admitted abruptly. Did he not realise? That was my reason for resisting. I remembered my own childhood far too vividly. ‘I know exactly what it can be like. I would not give my son to the possibility of such neglect. Or chastisement!’

‘It will not be like that.’

I took a turn to the window and back, hemmed in by the shadows of the past. ‘I hear what you say.’ I tried to hide the hopelessness that lapped against my heart. ‘Do I have any influence over who will be governess?’

‘The appointment will be decided by the Council,’ Warwick repeated.

So, no. The answer was no. I pressed my fingertips against my lips to still their trembling. I would not weep. I would remain strong, for my son’s sake, and I frowned at the idea that encroached, and not for the first time, since Gloucester’s dislike of me bit deep.

‘Is it because I am my mother’s daughter, and her reputation is not of the best? Is my influence not trustworthy?’

Warwick considered his answer.

‘I think you have to accept that there are those in the Council who wish to supersede your influence.’ He shrugged uneasily, aware that his reply had hurt. ‘You must accept it, Katherine. The governess chosen by the Council will deal well with the boy. He is growing quickly; he needs more than clean clothes and regular meals. He needs discipline and education, and he needs to be raised with all the tenets of an English prince.’

But did I not have the right to nurture him and see him grow out of babyhood? My mother had never watched me. I would watch my son, for he was all I had. In that moment I felt like resting my head on Warwick’s shoulder and weeping out my sorrows.

‘It will not be a bad thing,’ he told me. ‘They will appoint someone who is wise and kind and has experience of children.’

‘You are a member of the Council. Will you have a voice in who is chosen?’ I asked, raising my chin. I would not weep.

‘Yes.’

‘Can you sway them against any choice made by Gloucester?’

Warwick smiled dryly. ‘I am not without influence.’

It was my one hope.

I knew what I wanted, what I must do, for my own peace of mind. All that was required was a little careful intrigue. A week later, during which I was not inactive, I requested Warwick’s attendance at Windsor again, waylaying him as he entered the palace and crossed the Great Hall.

‘I have been considering my son’s governess, sir.’ He bowed with his customary grace, but his glance was more than a little wary, probably preparing for another battle with the Queen Mother, who ought to have the sense to accept the decisions made for her son. ‘Has the Council made its choice?’ I asked.

‘Not to my knowledge, my lady.’ He slid another glance in my direction.

‘Then come with me.’

I led him to the nursery where Joan Asteley and her minions were occupied in the constant demands of a young boy that filled their day. But there, in the midst of the activity, a woman was seated on a stool with Young Henry on her lap. A tall, spare lady in sombre garments, straight-backed and authoritative, her hair hidden in the pristine folds of her white coif. When we arrived she was speaking with my son, allowing him to work his hands into her gloves, laughing with him when he laughed. When she heard the door open, she looked up.

‘I do not need to introduce you, sir,’ I said, admiring the picture they presented. Henry, appealingly angelic today, had a new blue tunic and a matching felt cap flattening his curls. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes alight with his occupation. The woman’s stern face was softened with laughter, the sharp gaze holding a glint of unexpected roguishness at what we had plotted together.

Warwick came to an abrupt stop, then strode in with a bark of a laugh.

‘No. You do not. Perhaps I should not be surprised to see you here, Alice. Can I guess why?’

Dame Alice Botillier placed my son on his feet at her side, and stood with a smile, holding out her hands. Warwick took them and kissed her on both cheeks.

‘You don’t need to guess,’ she said. ‘You are a man of considerable foresight.’

‘So?’ Warwick surveyed me, and then Alice. ‘Do I scent a scheme here? Am I being outmanoeuvred?’

‘No scheme, sir. Here is my son’s new governess.’ I repeated Warwick’s words back to him. ‘She is wise and kind and has experience of children.’

‘As I know.’

‘Mistress Alice has served me before, during my confinement. Her husband was well regarded by the King.’

‘Indeed. I know that too.’

‘If you would be so good as to recommend her to the Council.’

Warwick’s agile brows rose. ‘And how could I not as she is a kinswoman of mine?’

I smiled. ‘Exactly so!’

So Mistress Alice Botillier, at my instigation and as a more than willing ally, joined my household when Warwick’s recommendation was accepted by the Council. Alice had left my service in France, remaining with her husband, Sir Thomas, and her son, Ralph, when I had returned with Henry’s body, but she had taken little persuading to join me once more. I liked her and respected her: she was for me the perfect choice, and closely connected to Warwick’s family as she was, the Council would see no difficulty. Alice would raise my son as she had raised her own.

Yet still I seethed with jealousy. For her authority over every action of my son was supported by the Council and by law, and it hurt my heart to watch Alice’s influence grow. Young Henry ran to her rather than to me. When he wept, it was her lap in which he burrowed for comfort. She soothed him when he woke in fear from bad dreams. I did not think he cried for me. I did not think that he noticed when I left him to his nursemaids. I was being pushed further and further back into the shadows, shadows that were increasingly difficult to disperse.

Holy Mother, grant me your strength to live this life with some vestige of inner peace.

And for the most part I did, but oh, I wept with savage grief for my sister. Me beloved sister was dead. Suddenly, shockingly, a report had come that Michelle was dead. I could not comprehend it; I could not accept that her loving nature and bright spirit were quenched for ever. My first impulse was to go to France—but to what purpose? My sister was dead and I would not mourn with my mother.

I wept and for a little while Alice comforted me as she comforted my son. Sometimes I despaired. All gone—my father, my sister, my husband. Who was left with whom I could open my heart?

Blessed Virgin, have mercy on me. Keep my son safe.

But Young Henry was increasingly less and less mine.

What have you done with your clever arrangements, Henry? What vile future have you wrought for me? You have left me nothing, not even my child. If I lose Young Henry, what do I have left?

I fell into melancholy. The shortening days of winter, which had always induced a weight on my spirits, now pressed me down so low that I could hardly stand upright to bear them. As darkness invaded every day, I could not shake off my desolation. I slept badly, yet when daybreak came I felt no urge to rise and face the new day.

I ate little, my gowns began to hang on my shoulders, and I felt a tremor behind my eyes before the onset of such pain that I must take to my bed. When restored, I felt no lighter. Sometimes I could not order my thoughts in my mind. Sometimes I forgot what I was about to say, at others I forgot the reply. I kept to my bedchamber on those days, afraid of stumbling over simple words that would cause my four damsels to exchange anxious glances.

The dark nights of my loneliness, the winter cold of my isolation, gnawed at my mind.

‘Walk in the gardens, my lady,’ Alice ordered when the morning acquired a gleam of pale sunshine. ‘It will do you good to get out of this room.’

So I did, with reluctant steps, my women trailing equally reluctantly in the damp chill.

‘Ride along the riverbank,’ Alice suggested.

So I did that too, but horsemanship was not something I excelled in and I felt the cold bite into my bones as we plodded along at a snail’s pace. I had no wish to exchange meaningless gossip with those who rode with me.

‘Drink this.’ Alice, seeing me wan and desolate on my return, presented me with a cup of some foul-smelling substance.

So I drank, not asking what it might be—I had no interest—choking over the bitter aftertaste of herbs that made my belly clench.

‘Look at you!’ she admonished. ‘You must not allow this, my lady. You must eat.’

I studied my reflection in my looking glass. My skin was pale, my hair lank and dull. Had my cheekbones always been as sharp as that? Even the blue of my eyes seemed to have leached into pale grey. I tried to pick at the platter of sweet fritters for fear of Alice’s sharp tongue, but stopped as soon as her back was turned. In those days she was as much my nurse and mentor as Young Henry’s.

I was allowed to accompany my son to the formal opening of Parliament at Westminster. A magnificently formal occasion, it was eminently threatening for a child so young, and I was full of trepidation that Young Henry would fail to impress his subjects. Would not any failure be laid at my door? Perhaps he would even be sent away from me.

‘Did you approve?’ I asked Warwick, who had returned with us to the royal accommodations at Westminster after the event, sitting with us as we sipped a cup of ale. Henry, almost asleep on his feet, was dispatched with Joan to the nursery while Alice and I exchanged glances of sheer relief. Young Henry’s fit of childish temper on the day of his entry into London had terrified me with its frenzy, but now pride in my son was a warm fire in my belly.

‘How could I not?’ Warwick smiled at some memory. ‘He was every inch a king. His father would have been proud of him. What a sovereign we will make of him.’

‘He wooed Parliament, didn’t he?’ Young Henry had clapped his hands when the Speaker had bowed before him.

‘And so did his mother.’ Warwick lifted his cup in a silent toast.

I blushed, surprised at the gathering of tears in my eyes. What an emotional day it had been, and such praise meant more than I could express for my own confidence. I had played my part, made a good impression. My fears of losing Young Henry receded.

Alice left us. The short day grew dark, and Warwick stood to make his departure.

‘Is that it?’ I asked. ‘Do we now return to Windsor?’

Warwick tilted his head. ‘Until next year. We’ll not overburden the boy.’

‘No.’ Of course we would not. I clasped my hands tightly together, as if in a plea, and looked up at him. He was the only man I could ask. ‘I need to do more, Richard.’

‘You will, as he grows older and can cope with more demands.’

‘I think I will do less,’ I admitted sadly. ‘As my son grows, he will stand alone.’

‘But not for many years.’

The day, with its step back into the world of the Court and politics, the bustle and excitement of London, had been a two-edged sword for it had stirred me to life again. Returning to Windsor was like closing the lid of a newly opened coffer, dimming the sparkle of the jewels within, and it would remain closed for the foreseeable future. What a narrow path this was for me to follow.

As my son grew he would willingly cast off the need for his mother’s presence on such occasions as this. At some point in the future my son’s wife would oust me completely, and I would be nothing. Today I had been honoured with my child on my knee, but I was restless, unsettled. Fearful of a future that promised nothing.

‘Will I marry again?’ I asked.

It surprised me, much like the brush of moth’s wings against my hair in the dusk, the thought alighting from nowhere in my mind, like a summer swallow newly returned. I had never thought of remarriage before. But why not? Barely into my third decade, why should I not?

‘Do you wish to? I had not realised.’ Warwick looked equally startled.

‘No, no. I have no such plans, or even thoughts of it. But…will I be allowed to? Will the Council allow it? At some future time in my life?’ Suddenly it seemed of major importance that I should have this promise of possible fulfilment and companionship—even of love—somewhere on my horizon.

‘Why not? I can see no reason why you should not.’ Warwick paused, the moment marked by a thin line between his smooth brows. ‘As you say, as Henry grows he will become more independent. Why should you not remarry?’ Another pause. ‘If a suitable husband is found for you, of course.’

His obvious unease comforted me not at all.

If a suitable husband is found for you.

The qualification found a fertile home in my mind, for was that not the essence of it? Who would be considered suitable? I recalled Gloucester’s inflexible portrait of Katherine, the Queen Dowager. I did not think my remarriage was something he would tolerate when he had painted me into a lonely, isolated existence, a gilded figure in an illustrated missal.

I forced myself to pass my time in useful pursuits. No dark night, no cold winter could last for ever. I made myself appear to be busily employed, and so I turned the pages of a book but found no interest in the adventures of Greek gods or heroes who fell in and out of love with envious verve.

I ordered music but I would neither sing nor dance. How could I dance alone? I played with Young Henry, but he was now being drawn into a regime of books and religious observance. I applied my needle with even less enthusiasm, the leaves that blossomed under my needle appearing flat and lacking in life, as if the imminent approach of winter would cause them to shrivel and die. It seemed to me that my own winter approached, even before I had blossomed into summer.

This would be the tenor of my life until the next opening of Parliament, when Young Henry would journey to London and I would again accompany him. Year after year the same. Henry had used me to further his ambitions in France. Now I would be used to bolster the authority of my baby son.

Sometimes I wept.

‘You need company, my lady.’ Alice was fast losing patience.

True, but I was unlikely to get it. Oh, I tried to smile and join in with the damsels, when Meg and Beatrice and Joan whispered their endless gossip and Cecily spoke of love, unrequited for the most part. I tried to force myself to enjoy of a cup of spiced wine and the scandalous tale of Gloucester’s matrimonial exploits to while away the November evenings. And indeed I was momentarily diverted with the reprehensible issue between Lord Humphrey and his wife, Jacqueline of Hainault, a bigamous union, for she was already wed to the Duke of Barbant, and there had been no annulment.

But my interest was tepid at best and they gossiped without me when they found me poor company. I could not blame them. Their chattering voices with their opinions and comments and lewd suggestions barely touched my soul. They, I suspected, were as bored as I, shut away as we were at Windsor at the court of a baby king.

Warwick—dear, kind Warwick—sent me a gift, a lap dog with curling chestnut hair and sharp eyes, and equally sharp teeth. Probably, in a fit of remorse, to take the place of a husband, since the possibility of one had been so far into the future as to be impossible to envisage. I suspected Alice’s involvement too, hoping it would entice me from misery, and indeed it was a charming creature, still young enough to cause havoc in my chamber, pouncing on embroidery silks and chewing anything left in its path, but it did not distract me.

You are a poor creature! I castigated myself. You have no cause to be so lacking in spirit.

Loneliness wrapped itself, shroud-like, around me, and I covered my face with my hands so that I could not see the aimless path that I must follow until the day I died.

Holy Virgin, I prayed at my prie-dieu every morning. Holy Virgin, grant me some solace. Grant me resolve to see my life as a more purposeful journey.

‘Perhaps you should take the boy and go to Westminster for the Christmas festivities,’ Alice growled as November moved into December. ‘My lord of Warwick will allow it, I’m certain.’

‘No,’ I replied, my voice as dull as my mind. ‘I will not celebrate.’

She strode from my chamber, eyes snapping at my intransigence. I felt no guilt.

A week later the space of Windsor’s Upper Ward was full of people and horses. The sudden burst of voices and clattering hooves on the cobbles could be heard even through the glazed windows of the chamber where my damsels and I sat to catch the final spare gleams of the afternoon sun, but I was disinclined to stir myself to look to find out the reason. Probably Warwick come to check on the progress of Young Henry, hopefully without another lap dog. The cheerful activity was, however, too much for my damsels to ignore.

‘My lady?’ Meg asked, already on her feet.

‘Look, if you will,’ I said, not that they needed my permission. My hand of authority was a light one.

A shriek of joy from Joan made all clear.

‘I take it that the King of Scotland visits us,’ I remarked fretfully. I had not seen him for months.

‘May I, my lady?’ she asked. She was already halfway to the door.

‘Of course. Try to be…’ the door shut behind her ‘… maidenly and decorous.’

And she ran, leaving me with a few sharp pangs, firstly that my mood was so churlish, and even more that the arrival of a visitor should give her so much pleasure yet hardly move me from my chair. But I must. I placed the lute I had been idly strumming on the coffer and fixed what I hoped would be a welcoming smile on my mouth.

Would it not be good to see James again? I could not expect him to dance attendance on me as he had done in those early months after Henry’s death, for he had his own life to lead, even if it was curtailed and hemmed about with watchful eyes. I must make him welcome—and there he was, hair curling energetically onto his shoulders, dark eyes gleaming with some personal satisfaction, and Joan looking flushed and eager and youthfully pretty, almost clinging on to his arm. My advice to her had clearly gone unheeded. And then, before I could frown a warning at her, heralded by a burst of vigorous conversation, my chamber was invaded by a group of young men. Around them the damsels glowed, as if the flames of a score of candles had been set ablaze.

I blinked. I had grown unused to such vitality or such lack of rigidly formal courtesy. They were like my puppy, overwhelming in their energy that smashed against my staid walls, ringing from the rafters. Their faces were vivid, their voices sharp and confident, and even their clothing was bright, eye-catchingly fashionable, bringing in a breath of freezing air to prod us into wakefulness after a winter’s hibernation. It was as if a heavy curtain, muffling my chamber from the outside world, deadening every sound, had been rent apart.

Meanwhile, approaching with long strides, James lost no time in polite greeting but flung out his arms before me.

‘It has been agreed!’

‘What has?’ My thoughts refused to drop comfortably into line.

‘Katherine!’ He seized my hands and saluted my fingertips. ‘How can you not know? Are you so isolated here? Or deaf to what’s going on without?’

‘Deaf, I expect.’ I managed to smile apologetically.

‘Never mind. I’m here to tell you in person. They have come to an arrangement at last.’

His face was alight, so much so that my forced smile became a true one as, finally, I caught the gist.

‘Oh, James! I am so pleased for you. I take it you are to be released.’

‘Yes. Freedom, by God.’ His arms around my waist, he spun me round and replaced me on the same spot. ‘I have attended every lengthy, tedious, impossibly dull negotiation between the long-winded but puissant commissioners from Scotland and England—and am come to tell you first because I knew you would wish me well.’

‘Come and tell me,’ I invited, because that was what he wanted from me, and I signalled for wine to be brought. His delight was infectious, stirring even my subterranean depths. Tucking my hand through his arm, I led him to sit beside me on a cushioned settle beside the fire.

‘I’ve harried them from Pontefract to York and back again, until I swear they were weary of the sight of my miserable features. They have finally announced that I’m free to return to Scotland.’ James, running his hands through his unmanageable hair, could barely sit still with the news. He was twenty-nine years old: he had survived fifteen years of cushioned captivity. I had no difficulty in imagining his pleasure, as if the door of a birdcage had been suddenly flung back to allow this glossy singing finch a glimpse of freedom.

And I thought that I too would like such a glimpse of freedom. Not to return to France—there was nothing to draw me there—but to live my life without restriction and to my own will.

‘They’ll make me pay, of course,’ he was continuing as I surveyed the group of young men, his companions, who were making free with the wine at the far side of the room, enjoying the fluttering attentions of the damsels. I recognised most of them—sons of high-blooded English families—but I might have to search for a name or two. There was a loud burst of laughter and in that moment I wished I were there with them, simply a lady of the Court free to flirt and attract the eye of a handsome man.

Wistfully, I turned my attention back to James, who continued to expand on his good fortune. ‘An extortionate ransom of sixty thousand marks.’ He laughed with a sardonic bark. ‘Good to know they see my worth. In their generosity, I get to pay it in annual instalments.’ His cynical smile sat strangely on his youthful features, but he had learned cynicism before all else in his protracted exile. ‘I hope it won’t beggar Scotland. They’ll not want me back if it does.’

‘Of course they will,’ I assured him, my attention snagged by a raucous burst of laughter.

One face in the mêlée of young men, and younger than most, caught my eye. A vital face with fine dark brows and russet eyes that glittered with high spirits.

‘And do you know the best of it?’ James continued, unaware of my wandering appreciation. ‘I get my wife. I get Joan.’ He leaned to where Joan hovered, close enough to overhear, snatched her hand and pulled her closer still until his arm was wound around her waist. ‘I never thought I’d see the day. Or if I did, we would both be in our dotage before we climbed into the marriage bed together and I would be incapable.’

Joan giggled, her cheeks pink, and I smiled on them, even as claws of jealousy raked at my heart. Joan positively shimmered with happiness and James’s love for her was written on his face far more clearly than it had ever been in his verses. I clenched my fists in the folds of my skirts. I would curb such instincts as base as envy.

‘Have they set a date for your marriage?’ I asked, aware now of a frown between James’s eyes, but again my interest was caught elsewhere.

The young man with russet eyes and hair to match had snatched off his cap, flinging it to one of his friends, and was demonstrating a flamboyant thrust of an imaginary sword. He lunged, overbalanced, righted himself with a graceful turn of foot and burst into laughter. His companions mocked but slapped him on the back in easy camaraderie. He might be younger than most of them but he had a place in their society. When he retaliated with a series of quick punches to those who tormented him, I found myself smiling because I could do no other.

And, of course, I knew those features. When he turned to face me, repeating the thrust with an agile wrist, I saw the Beaufort family resemblance was strong. Joan’s hair might be lighter, her eyes more brown than russet, but the smile was the same, the quick winging brows.

Here was her brother.

‘No, they have not set a date for the marriage yet.’ I heard James remark in reply to my question. ‘They say it will be as soon as it can be arranged—although I have my doubts.’ He shook off his concern, probably for the sake of Joan, who had begun to look anxious again, and he seized my hand and squeezed it. ‘We’ll live in hope—have I not done so for the past dozen years and more? And I’ll expect you to dance at my wedding.’

‘I don’t dance,’ I said flatly. My baser nature was still lurking around my mood, reluctant to let go and be banished.

‘Well, you should.’ For the first time he really looked at my face. ‘What’s wrong, Katherine? You don’t look happy.’ I shook my head. This was no day for my unreasonable miseries. ‘In fact…’ he pursued, frowning.

Immediately I stood, more than a little embarrassed that he should see so great a change in me. ‘Perhaps you should introduce your friends.’

As a distraction it worked well enough. ‘Most of them you know.’ He complied, drawing the young men forward to make their bow. ‘And here,’ he announced, ‘is Edmund.’

‘My brother thought he ought to come to wish me well, my lady,’ Joan said, pulling the young man before me. I saw love and admiration in her face, and was not surprised.

He bowed, more ostentatiously than was necessary in so intimate a setting, and I remembered his flamboyance with the invisible sword. Clearly he was a man to draw attention to himself, as was proved when the feathers of his velvet cap swept the floor, his arms spread in the deepest respect, until he looked up at me beneath his well-etched brows. He laughed aloud, his eyes full of mischief.

‘My sister does me a disservice, my lady. I am not at her beck and call. Neither am I under orders from the newly restored King of Scotland.’ His smile touched my heart as he took my hand and raised it formally to his lips. They were warm and dry against my skin and I shivered at their light brush as Edmund Beaufort continued, smoothly courteous, holding my gaze with his. ‘I am come to pay my respects to the Young King. And, of course, to his lady mother.’

He hesitated as if he was lacking in assurance, but I knew he was not. None of the Beauforts lacked assurance. ‘If my lady will receive me here as a guest, in her household, as the King’s cousin?’

The question made my heart flutter. How strange that he should ask it, and in so personal a manner. Why would I not receive him? The strange intensity of him undermined my habitual polite response, and I found myself searching for a reply, caught up in his stare.

His family history was not unknown to me, redolent as it was with past scandals. The Beaufort bloodline was descended from John of Lancaster and his mistress of many years Katherine Swynford. A scandalous, illegitimate line, of course, but on the marriage of the infamous pair the children had been subsequently legitimised and had married into the aristocratic families of the realm. Now, formidably ambitious, precociously gifted and intelligent as well as blood related to the King, they were one of the foremost families in the land.

And this was Edmund Beaufort, son of the Earl of Somerset and nephew of Bishop Henry, and of course Joan’s brother. And second cousin to my son. A young man from a family skilled in warfare and politics, obviously destined for great things, as were all his family, although he had been too young to fight in the recent wars in France at Henry’s side.

How old was he? I considered the years behind the supreme confidence, beneath the fluid line of muscle given attention by his fashionable tunic with its luxuriant sleeves and jewelled clasps. Less than twenty years old, I thought. Younger than I. But he had grown up since I had last seen him, a youth under Bishop Henry’s care, when I had first come to England. Taller and broader, he would make a fine soldier now that he was grown into his strength.

‘My lady?’

I had been staring at him. ‘You are welcome,’ I managed as he bowed low again over my hand, brushing my fingers once more in chivalrous salute. And he did not release his clasp until I tugged my hand away, and then he did so with a rueful smile.

‘Forgive me, my lady. I am sorely blinded by your beauty. As is every man here.’

It took my breath. I could only stare at him, as he stared back at me. Men did not flirt so openly with the Queen Dowager. Men did not flirt at all.

James, still caught up in his own woes and oblivious to any undercurrents, continued to expound. ‘I still thought they would never release me, even with the document and the pen to hand.’

‘Of course they would.’ Edmund, abandoning me with a charming smile much older than his years, punched him on the arm. ‘Have sense, man. Think about it. What will your return to Scotland bring of benefit to England? Peace between the two countries. Particularly if you decide you were well treated here.’

James gave a shout of laughter. ‘So that’s why the Exchequer has agreed to provide me with a tunic in cloth of gold for my wedding.’

‘Of course. And in grateful thanks for your cloth of gold you will do exactly what England demands of you. You will withdraw all Scottish aid to French armies, and you will stop any plundering along the border between our two countries.’

I was impressed. How precocious he was, and how cynical, as were all the Beaufort clan. I could not look away as he stood, hands fisted on hips, outlining the future of English relations with Scotland. Edmund grinned, spreading his hands, long fingered and elegant. ‘The cloth of gold is the last payment England will have to make for you. You’ll be home in no time after the New Year. And we will send you off in good spirits, will we not, my lady?’ He had spun round. Again, before I could prepare for it, that red-brown gaze was devouring my face and I felt myself flushing almost as rosily as Joan.

‘What do you say, my lady?’ he whispered, as if it were some intimate invitation.

And all I could do was swallow the breath caught fast in my throat.

‘As for that, if you’ll have us,’ James interrupted, as he gestured to encompass his friends, ‘we’re in mind to stay here with you for Christmas and the New Year.’

‘And the possibility of spending it with your newly affianced wife…’ I managed to chide, pleased to have the attention drawn away from me.

‘… has nothing to do with it.’ But James’s hand sought Joan’s again.

‘And you, Lord Edmund? Do your family expect you?’ I held my breath, not quite knowing why. Or perhaps not willing to admit to it.

‘No, my lady. I am here at your disposal.’ His face was a miracle of deference.

‘There are no festivities planned,’ I warned. ‘We live quietly.’ I thought I sounded ungracious and tried to make amends. ‘That is to say that usually we see no need to feast and…’ This was no better. Windsor sounded much like a convent of aging nuns.

‘Quietly?’ Edmund interrupted, grinning. ‘It’s no better than a damned tomb. It’s a dismal place. Old King Edward, who feasted and frolicked at every opportunity, must be turning in his grave. I think we should celebrate.’

‘Celebrate what?’ James asked warily, which gave me pause. It made me think that he might have had experience of some of Beaufort’s wilder schemes. I could imagine Edmund Beaufort being wild.

‘Your release, man. Let’s make it a Christmas and Twelfth Night to remember.’ And Edmund Beaufort actually grasped my hand, linking his fingers with mine before I could react. ‘What do you say, Queen Kat? Shall we shake Windsor back into life? Shall we make the old rooms echo with our play?’

Edmund Beaufort was irrepressible. Queen Kat? No one had ever called me that. But my heart was lighter. For the first time in many weeks my spirits had risen, and my room was full of noise and laughter. I did not know whether to laugh or rebuke him for his lack of respect. I did neither, for he gave me no time.

‘Do you object to games and dancing, Majesty? I do hope not.’ Releasing me as fast as he had seized hold of me, he swept me another magnificent bow, as full of mockery as it was possible to be, following it with a dozen agile dance steps that took him to plant a kiss on Beatrice’s cheek. ‘We’ll celebrate around you if you’ve no taste for it—and you can sit on your dignity and let us get on with it.’

I laughed at the irreverent picture, and at Beatrice’s astonished discomfiture. But there he was, waiting for my reply.

‘Well, Cousin Queen? Do we celebrate with you or around you? Or do we leave you to your misery and take ourselves off to Westminster instead?’

I was struck by an overwhelming longing to be part of this youthful group.

‘Let me arrange the festivities for you,’ Edmund Beaufort pleaded in false anxiety. ‘I will die of boredom if you refuse. Let me loose to bring this place back to life again.’

And you too. I heard the implication that was not spoken.

Entirely baffled, I felt the prickle of tears at his concern.

‘I’d let him if I were you,’ James remarked. ‘He’ll only badger you into insensibility if you don’t.’

‘Please let us dance, my lady,’ Joan added.

‘And even play games. We are not too old for games,’ Meg observed.

‘I would like it too,’ Beatrice added solemnly.

I raised my palms, helpless before all the expectant faces. ‘It seems that we celebrate,’ I managed.

Edmund crowed at his success. ‘Then we will. I’m at your feet, my lady. Your wish is my command.’ True to his statement, he flung himself to his knees and raised the hem of my gown to his lips. When he looked up his face was all vivid life and expectation. ‘We will turn night into day. We will transmute shadows into brightest sunlight.’

That was what I wanted.

The years fell away from me.