The Forbidden Queen

CHAPTER TEN

I fretted, shaking with anxieties, and with fears that built like a thundercloud. Not knowing where Edmund was, I wasted no time in struggling with a pen but sent a courier to Westminster with a verbal message. I must see him.

The days passed, with no word forthcoming from Gloucester or either of the Beauforts. My courier returned empty handed with no news other than Edmund was not at Westminster. All I could do was wait, and worry, the final clash in my verbal bout with Gloucester resounding in my mind.

You cannot prevent us.

Can I not? We’ll see about that.

And so we would. Caught up in the vicious battle with Bishop Henry for power over the Royal Council, Gloucester was set on bringing the Beauforts down. That much I now saw. Perhaps it had not been politic of me to challenge him with his own salacious dabblings in marriage, but it was a wound too late to remedy. I prayed that the desirable Mistress Cobham, commoner though she might be, would sweeten her lover’s temper.

‘I’ll go to Westminster myself,’ I announced, when I could bear the silence no longer, when my feet had all but worn a path to the high vantage point of the Winchester Tower. Madam Joanna had left Windsor for her favoured residence of Havering-atte-Bower even before Gloucester’s arrival, so there was no solace to be had from her calm view of the world.

‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ Alice replied gruffly, when I expressed my intention. ‘Keep a low profile and it might all be swept onto the midden.’ And, with luck, Edmund Beaufort too. I could read her unspoken thoughts but refused to respond. But we both knew it would not happen. The conflict between Gloucester and Bishop Henry had gone far beyond tolerance sealed with a handshake, reaching a climax when Beaufort troops had refused Gloucester access to the Tower of London. The outrage of the royal duke knew no bounds.

‘A pity you could not see your way to be enamoured with a man without name or ambition,’ Alice remarked caustically. ‘If you had, the Council might just leave you alone to be happy.’

I knew that to be a falsehood too. ‘If I had demanded to wed a man without consequence, the Council would object that he was not sufficiently well connected,’ I remarked tartly, weary of it all. ‘Marriage to a commoner would damage my integrity as Queen Dowager. They will not allow me to wed a nobody.’ I frowned. ‘Besides, it’s Edmund I love.’

Alice opened her mouth to reply, then shut it.

‘I do,’ I insisted. ‘I love him and he loves me.’

‘As your ladyship says.’

‘I know what you are thinking. Madam Joanna thinks the same,’ I interrupted the unspoken slight on our love. ‘Edmund’s regard for me is genuine. I am convinced of it. He would not ask me to marry him if he did not love me.’

Alice’s lips tightened, as they did when she reprimanded Young Henry for some lack of courtesy. ‘You might ask yourself, my lady, what he would gain from such a union.’

I strode from the room. No one wished me well in this. How could they not see Edmund’s love for me? How could they not appreciate the array of his gifts, of his skills, as bright as jewels, that he tumbled at my feet for my delectation?

I needed to see him. I needed to be reassured.

To my delight, Edmund returned to Windsor before I could sink into a bad humour. My heart lifted and I sprang to my feet, opening my arms to him as he lifted his to enclose me in their warmth. My lips rose to meet his in urgent welcome. For a little while we simply stood and savoured the closeness.

‘Now, there’s a welcome that no man could resist!’ he remarked as he surveyed me at last, his hands caressing my shoulders.

‘I have missed you.’

‘And I you, so I am come. But what’s this?’ His gaze travelled over my face. ‘You look as if you have been beset,’ he observed, running a finger over my brow. ‘What’s happened to make you frown? Nothing must be allowed to distress my love.’

‘Gloucester has been here. And your uncle,’ I said.

‘I know,’ he growled. ‘You don’t need to tell me about it. I’ve had an earful from Gloucester already.’ He strode away from me to pour two cups of ale. He presented one to me then downed his own in one gulp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘The great lord was brutal in his choice of words.’

‘He says we cannot wed. He says they will stop us.’

‘And he has a whole fistful of arguments why we cannot,’ Edmund agreed. ‘Chief amongst them the one he didn’t see fit to list on his power-grabbing fingers, but the one that everyone sees, signalling like a beacon on a hilltop. That Gloucester would abandon his claim to the throne before he’d acknowledge any more power for the Beauforts. Except that he wouldn’t do that, would he? How he wishes the crown was his!’

He glowered, the expression marring features that were made for laughter. ‘He’ll not let me near the Young King, certainly not as your husband, for fear I lead him into the worst habits. Or try to influence his decisions to benefit the Beauforts as he grows.’

‘Edmund—’ I tried to draw his attention.

‘Let me think,’ he interrupted. ‘I can’t quite see my way around this.’

Edmund frowned into the middle distance, thoughts busy, tossing the empty cup in his hand. Fingering the little brooch pinned to the inner fold of my bodice, his introspection brought me close to despair. I had seen Edmund as my strength. Pray God that he and his uncle would be a match for Gloucester.

‘Have you seen Bishop Henry?’ I asked.

Edmund grimaced. ‘No. He’s sent for me—so I can’t put it off. I don’t see what he can do.’

‘I thought Bishop Henry was not entirely unsympathetic to us,’ I suggested. And when that merited no reply, ‘Can the Council truly stop us?’

‘I have no idea. Gloucester says so—so why not? They can always consign you to a convent and force you to take the veil. That would solve the problem of a marriageable royal widow for good. And they could send me to join Bedford in France. That would settle the issue.’ His quick grin might be feral, but his eyes were bleak. ‘Particularly if I happened to be cut down in battle. That would give Gloucester something to crow about.’

His tone was violent, the picture he painted monstrous, but not, I knew, without veracity. I did not know how to deal with this. I did not know what to say, so I stood and waited, all dreams for the future fading before my eyes. If Edmund saw no way forward, what was left for us but to obey Gloucester’s commands?

At last, perhaps becoming aware of my silence, he looked at me, and his features softened as with a sigh he tossed the cup carelessly onto the coffer and crossed the chamber to hug me close. With the tenderness I had grown to lean on, he smiled ruefully, resting his chin on my hair.

‘What a brute you must think me. Forgive me, Kat. Of course they won’t pack you off to a nunnery. Or me to France. I’ll wager my best horse it’s all bluster and hot air from Gloucester.’

‘He was very angry.’

‘I know. And not complimentary to me or to my uncle. He accused me of being a power-grabbing upstart with tainted blood. I don’t recall him being quite so savage before, but things are bad between him and Bishop Henry.’ His eyes narrowed, as he read the dismay I could not hide and at last drew me against him, into his arms. ‘I can’t stay—but I thought I should come to reassure you. I’ll talk to Bishop Henry. It will all come right, you know.’ His mouth was warm, tracing a delicate path from brow to lips.

‘Can I be with you, when you see him?’ I asked. Surely if we were both there to plead our cause, the Beaufort cleric must listen.

‘Not necessary,’ he murmured, preoccupied as his teeth nipped lightly along my jaw, sending tremors of pleasure down to my feet.

‘But I wish to.’

Edmund stopped kissing me, and instead framed my face with his hands. His eyes sparkled and his face lit with some deviousness.

‘Then so you shall, Queen Kat. We will beard Uncle Henry in his den, and you will weep piteously and beautifully over his feet. And then, with my esteemed uncle unable to refuse you your heart’s desire, we will cry failure to Protector Gloucester. It will all come to pass, my lovely girl, all your hopes and dreams fulfilled.’

My heart was still as I leaned on Edmund’s reassurance.

‘You took your time, boy. How long does it take to get yourself to Westminster?’

‘Forgive me, sir. I regret the delay, but now I am here, to answer for my sins.’

Bishop Henry, seated behind a vast desk, was not in a good mood, but master of diplomacy as he was, after this first brisk exchange, he welcomed me urbanely and waved us to take softly cushioned seats, which we did. A servant poured wine and was dismissed.

Upon which the urbanity vanished.

‘This marriage, Edmund. You’ve stirred up a damned pot of eels, by God.’

Hands clenched into fists on his thighs, Edmund still kept his reply as smooth as new-churned butter. ‘I don’t see the difficulty, sir. What matter if we wed? Katherine is free to do so, as am I. There can be no church ban, as we are not related to any degree.’

‘Don’t be obtuse, boy,’ Bishop Henry drawled. ‘You know the reasons as well as I.’

‘What are you saying?’ High colour crept along Edmund’s cheekbones. ‘So do you suggest I withdraw? That I break my vow to Katherine, that I reject her as my wife?’

My breath caught in my throat.

But Bishop Henry smiled. There was something unnervingly reptilian about it. ‘Did I say that?’

‘To be frank, sir, I don’t know what you’re saying.’

‘You have much to learn about political manoeuvring, my boy. I am saying that there are ways and means.’

I did not understand where this was leading, but Bishop Henry’s assurance stirred a nugget of hope where there had been none. ‘Are you saying, my lord, that Gloucester can be persuaded to withdraw his objection?’ I asked. I could not see how.

‘No, my lady.’ His smile became broader. ‘He will definitely try to stop you attempting to wed. But I know of a way to bring a halt to his ambitions. It will please me immeasurably to chop the rungs of the ladder from under Gloucester’s feet.’

So I did not need to weep over his feet after all. Bishop Henry was suddenly all politician, and out for blood.

‘I don’t see how,’ Edmund interjected.

‘Of course you don’t. But I will show you. Am I not Lord Chancellor? I am not without powers, whatever Gloucester might like to think. My associates in the Council, always eager to snap at Gloucester’s heels, will ensure that I have my way.’

‘But Gloucester has a loud voice in the Royal Council.’

‘I have Bedford’s ear too. Bedford needs money to pursue the French wars. When the Council cannot raise enough gold, who is it that gets them out of difficulties and provides the loans?’ He smiled serenely in answer to his own question. ‘I do. The Council is very grateful to me.’

Edmund bowed his head, for the first time since we had arrived a smile lighting his countenance. ‘I underestimated you, Uncle.’

‘It is never wise to do so. You may get your lovely French wife yet.’

‘You’ll see. I’ll make you my wife before the year’s out,’ Edmund said, all his enthusiasm restored as he escorted me to the door. He cradled my face so that he could kiss my lips in farewell. ‘Gloucester’s not a match for my wily uncle. I’ll wed you and we’ll prove Gloucester and the Council wrong. What a couple we will make.’

I left them to their plotting with their heads bent over a manuscript. They were two of a Beaufort kind. Bishop Henry was on our side. What could go wrong?

There it was: a clever piece of sleight of hand, worthy of Bishop Henry at his most scheming. News of it reached Eltham, where Young Henry’s court had moved on its annual progress from one royal palace to the next, by the usual convoluted route of gossip and legalistic assertion. I refused to rejoice until my Chancellor, John Wodehouse, could read the document and pronounce on it with certainty. He did so, with some bafflement as to its cause.

‘I simply don’t see the need,’ he stated more than once.

For it transpired that when Parliament had met in Leicester, a member of the Commons had presented a petition, from the goodness of his heart and in the name of his fellow Commoners, all loyal subjects to a man. Would it not be an act of kindness to allow royal widows to marry again if they so wished? Upon payment of an appropriate fine, of course, to the royal coffers. Perhaps the Lord Chancellor would give the matter his expertise and consideration, based on his vast experience?

Bishop Henry, Lord Chancellor, had expressed his interest and his concern over the plight of royal widows in general, and would give the matter some thought.

‘Does Madam Joanna intend to wed again?’ My Chancellor asked of no one in particular. ‘I would not have thought it.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps some aging knight has caught her eye, to give her companionship in her declining years—and she needs a legal blessing. Who’s to know what ideas get into the heads of women when they reach a certain age?’

But I knew. The enterprising member of the Commons had doubtless had his palm oiled by a purse of gold from Bishop Henry. And the clever bishop would make the final decision. How delightfully, pragmatically vague it was. How cunning. I admired the sympathetic wording.

And it was for me. Madam Joanna would never wed again—but I would.

I prayed for Bishop Henry’s quick consideration and the Council’s consent. Surely it was now only a matter of time before I stood with Edmund before a priest who would witness our union. Although I lived out those days in a storm of nervous tension, nothing could undermine my elation.

I looked daily for Edmund to ride to Eltham, bounding from horse to hall with triumphal energy, to deliver the good news. I got Bishop Henry instead, and I was surprised, for rumours had flown, darting like iridescent dragonflies over the surface of the sluggish river in recent weeks. Troops had appeared on the streets of London, outbreaks of violence had become the order of the day, and to my dismay Young Henry emerged as a valuable prize in the battle for power between Gloucester and Bishop Henry.

I heard this news with a kind of creeping terror. Beaufort or Plantagenet, sanctified bishop or noble duke—were either to be trusted when their own authority came into the balance? My little son had become a pawn in their deadly game. I buried my personal concerns deep as Young Henry’s freedom came under threat, and prayed for Bedford’s calming influence on his brother and uncle. But Bedford was still in France and the rumours became more disturbing as the armed retinues of Gloucester and Beaufort confronted each other on London Bridge, Gloucester threatening to descend on us and remove my son from Eltham into his custody, by physical force if necessary.

We sat and quaked at every noise, guards doubled, listening for the clash and clamour of approaching mailed knights. And here in the midst of the political upheavals was Bishop Henry, come to Eltham, to tell me—to tell me what?

‘It is not good news, Katherine.’

As he entered the Great Hall and walked slowly across the worn paving slabs to where I waited for him, his doleful features confirmed my suspicions. Still suave, still impeccably dressed in clerical authority, Bishop Henry looked weary, as if he had indulged in a long battle of wits, and lost. I simply stood, unable to express my fears, my lips numb with anticipation of the worst.

But what was the worst Gloucester could do? I had swept aside the foolish thought that Edmund had mischievously planted, of being enclosed against my will in a convent. That could not be. It would not be! If it was mooted, I would simply return to the French court.

But if I returned to France, it would be without my son.

I willed myself to be sensible. It would not come to that. So what was it that gave Bishop Henry’s features the aspect of a death’s head? And, even more pertinent, where was Edmund?

‘Tell me,’ I ordered sharply, I who rarely ordered anyone sharply.

Bishop Henry replied without subtlety, his face expressionless. ‘All is lost. My petition to the Commons on your behalf has been destroyed. Bedford has returned, and ordered a cessation of hostilities.’ He lifted a shoulder in rueful acceptance. ‘He is not best pleased. And in the aftermath Gloucester has taken pleasure in revenge on the Beaufort name. I am defeated.’ I waited. There was more to come. Bishop Henry folded his hands and pronounced: ‘There will be repercussions for you too.’

Ah, there it was. ‘So I will not be allowed to wed Edmund.’

It was difficult to form the words. A fist of pure, raw emotion tightened in my chest, so strong that I could barely breathe, yet I firmed my shoulders and kept a level gaze, even as the bishop’s eye slid from mine. I was right to fear the worst. His voice was rough as if he had argued himself into exhaustion.

‘There are difficulties, Katherine. Gloucester is preparing to tie your situation into knots. And for me too there has been a high price to pay. I have been forced to resign my position as Lord Chancellor.’ Even in my own pain I thought: how the years show on your face today. My heart was touched with compassion. I laid my hand softly on his sleeve, feeling the tension below the rich damask as he added, ‘Gloucester is in the ascendant. It is a tragic outcome for you, I fear.’

He did not resist as I led him to my parlour, motioning for the damsels to depart. Once there, he sank wearily into my own chair with its carved back and arms, leaning back as if he needed its support, while I stuffed soft cushions behind him and sent for wine. And when we were alone I pulled up a low stool and prepared to listen to what had been done that was so tragic and that would have so great a bearing on my life.

‘Gloucester intends to persuade the Commons in the next session to implement a statute. They will most assuredly comply.’

‘And what is this statute?’

Bishop Henry drank deep. ‘No man will be allowed to wed a Queen Dowager without the consent of the King and his Council.’

‘Oh!’

I thought about this, studying my hands, my fingers interlocking. It did not seem so very bad. My remarriage had not exactly been forbidden. All I needed was permission.

‘Is that all?’ I asked, looking up into the bishop’s weary eyes. It was bad, but not beyond redemption.

‘Think about it, Katherine. Think about what he has done.’

And I did—and at last the simple statement spinning in my brain came to rest. I think I laughed at the enormity of it.

‘Of course. The consent of the King.’ I felt the rise of hysteria in my chest. ‘And since my son is not of an age to give consent to anything…’ How cleverly it had been done, how callously. He had not needed to name me—he would not wish to be accused of being vindictive—neither did he have to forbid me, merely make it an impossibility. ‘Does Gloucester know what he was doing? Does he know that he will condemn me to widowhood?’

‘I have no doubt he does.’ Bishop Henry drained his cup, and refilled it. ‘You will have to wait for at least a decade until Henry reaches his majority.’

I could wed Edmund, but not for a whole ten years, even supposing Young Henry could be persuaded. It stretched like an eternity before me. I could not even imagine so long a wait, seeing only that my thirtieth year would be well gone, my hair faded to grey, my face become marked and lined with the passage of time.

And Edmund—would he not look elsewhere, for a younger bride? Despair closed in on me as I looked up at the bishop again to see him watching me. His face was so full of pity I could not bear it. How could I expect Edmund to wait ten years to win my hand? I could not expect any man to wait a whole decade.

I looked away to hide the tears that slid down my cheeks, even as my thoughts wove a new pattern, seeking some way through Gloucester’s cunningly worked maze. I was not entirely forbidden to enter into marriage, was I?

‘What if I disobey?’ I asked, astonished at how my thoughts had leapt from acceptance to defiance. Would I dare to go against the will of Parliament? I did not think so, yet with Edmund by my side, what might I not dare to do? ‘Will I be punished if I wed without Young Henry’s consent?’

Bishop Henry put down his cup, the wine no longer of interest, and took my hands in his. ‘Who can tell? There is one more consequence of Gloucester’s revenge that you must know, Katherine. Arrangements have been made for you to live permanently in the Young King’s household. You will not be allowed to visit your dower properties or travel as you choose. You will go where the Young King goes. Do you understand?’

I understood very well. I was a prisoner. Without bars, without lock and key, but still prisoner under my son’s jurisdiction.

‘It is intended to help you to withstand your carnal passions,’ he continued gently.

And I flinched at the judgement that was becoming engraved on my soul. The image of my mother, painted and bejewelled, casting lascivious glances over the young courtiers, rose before me. What a terrible disservice, all unwittingly, she had done me. I dragged a breath of stifling air into my lungs as I felt my face grow hot from the humiliation.

‘I regret what has been done,’ Bishop Henry continued, when I could not find the words to reply. ‘But it will not be so very bad, you know.’

And now the words spilled out, my voice broken. ‘No? I think it might be. It is to keep me under permanent surveillance.’

‘I’m afraid it is. Young Henry’s claim on the French throne rests entirely on you, and so your reputation must be purer than the pearls in the Virgin’s diadem.’

And at last I wept. For my trampled yearnings for a life with Edmund. For my soft incarceration in my son’s household so that I might never again do anything to cause ripples in English politics. I would be tied fast under Henry’s jurisdiction, anchored as irrevocably as mistletoe in the branch of an apple tree. My heart was broken, my spirit laid low.

‘Don’t weep. Katherine. You are still young.’

‘What use is that? If I am young, I have even more years to live as a prisoner, encased in a shell of lonely respectability. There is no escape for me, is there?’

Would Edmund wed me out of the love he bore me, would he risk wedding me without permission? That was the question to which I needed an answer. The one question I dared not ask. But indeed I did not need to, for Bishop Henry delved into the recesses of his sleeve and drew out a single sheet of a folded document, sealed with the Beaufort crest.

‘Edmund asked me to give you this, my dear. He will explain.’

I held it to my breast, tears bright in my eyes. I could see in the compassionate twist to Bishop Henry’s mouth that he expected it to be Edmund’s farewell to me and, with tears still threatening, I waited until he had tossed off the final dregs of his wine and made his departure—bound for Rome, he informed me, with a cardinal’s hat in his sights since his ambitions in England had been so rudely curtailed—before I broke the seal and read it. I would not expose my broken heart further to the self-serving bishop. But as soon as I was alone I ripped the letter open. Better to know the worst. The lines were simple, the letter short, sufficient for my slow reading.

To Katherine, my one and only love.

How I miss you. It seems a lifetime since we shared the same breath. I long to hold you, to know that you are mine. Soon we will be together again, and I will see you smile.

As you will now know, Gloucester does his damnedest to keep us apart, but I swear he will not succeed. What will be the penalty if we wed, with or without the Young King’s permission? I think that there is no penalty that can be enforced against a Queen of England and a Beaufort in such a case as ours. Is my family so lacking in authority? What can they do to us? No reprimand can keep me from you. No punishment can weigh in the balance against our being together.

I know you will rejoice with me. As proof of my standing at Court, I have been given the overlordship of Mortain. It is a signal honour. How much more proof do I need that my feet are firmly on the ladder to political ascendancy?

Hold fast to your belief in me, my love. I will be at Westminster when you bring Young Henry to Court at the end of the month. We will make our plans.

Always know that I love you.

Your servant, now and always.

Edmund Beaufort

‘Oh, Edmund!’

I cried out in my astonishment as I curled my hand around the enamelled brooch with the Beaufort escutcheon, the lively lion supporting the dominant portcullis, my talisman, that I pinned to my bodice every morning. I was his, loved and valued beyond all others. And here, in his own words, he had vowed to pursue our union. Had I not always known it? Edmund was bold enough, outrageous enough, confident enough with his Beaufort breeding and Plantagenet blood to take a stand against Gloucester and Parliament—against the whole world if need be—to claim the woman he loved. To claim me as his own.

He was Count of Mortain. Was he not in high favour?

As I crushed the letter in my hand it was as if he stood beside me. My mind was suddenly full of his laughter, my head echoing with his murmured words of love. My lips could still taste the quality of his desire as I pressed them to the parchment where his words of love flowed from his pen to me. My body ached for him. We would be together again at Westminster. We would stand side by side, my courage bolstered by Edmund’s love, and challenge the right of Parliament to keep us apart. If necessary we would defy Gloucester. Edmund would assuredly find some way for us to circumvent Gloucester’s cunning maze.

He loves me and he will not desert me.

I held the words close in my heart, repeating them as if they were a nostrum, a witch’s spell to bind us together, against all the odds, as I ran up the stairs to the very top of the great Round Tower, to look out towards London. I could not wait until I saw him again.

‘Edmund!’

Young Henry, seeing a particular face that he recognised in the crowd, laughed aloud, before halting with an embarrassed little hunch of his shoulders beneath his new tunic. I placed a light hand on his arm, steering him forward, and smiled reassuringly when he looked nervously up at me.

‘You can see him later,’ I whispered.

With due formality, court etiquette as heavy on my shoulders as my ermine-lined cloak, I walked at Young Henry’s side as the whole Court made its obeisance, straining for a view of the Young King. Another visit to Westminster, pre-empting the rapidly approaching moment when my son would be crowned King of England.

The days of his tantrums were over and he held himself with quaint dignity: face pale and still endearingly cherubic despite his growing limbs, fair hair brushed neatly beneath his cap, Henry smiled his pleasure, his eyes, round with astonishment, darting this way and that. Until they had come to rest on Edmund Beaufort, Count of Mortain.

‘Can I speak with him now?’ Young Henry whispered back. ‘I have something to tell him.’

‘Of course you have. But first you must greet your uncle of Gloucester,’ I replied.

I too must exert patience. The days, a mere handful, since I had read his letter, had seemed like years in their extent. How many times had I reread it, absorbing the hope that shone through the words. Only a few minutes now before Edmund and I stood face to face, blatantly declaring our love. I smiled, conscious of happiness coating me like the gold leaf on a holy icon. We would be together.

Henry nodded solemnly and walked on, leaving me in his wake where all I could do was will my mind and my body into a semblance of perfect composure. I had seen Edmund even before my son’s recognition, and I too could have cried out his name. My heart was beating so erratically I could barely swallow, my hands damp with longing.

There he was, to my right, bowing elegantly. I turned my head in anticipation. But our eyes did not meet, even when he straightened to his full height and smiled at my son’s enthusiasm. Edmund Beaufort did not smile at me. My heart tripped in its normal rhythm, but I took myself to task. This was far too public for any passionate reunion. Of course we would not speak of love now. But soon, soon…

With confident grace I continued on my prescribed route, inclining my head to those who acknowledged me, taking up my position behind Henry when the necessary presentations were made. Greetings were exchanged, bows and promises of fealty. Gloucester, Warwick, the high blood of the land. And in their midst Edmund stepped up to be greeted by my son as a favoured cousin.

‘We have missed you, Edmund.’

‘Forgive me, Sire. I have been busy about your affairs in France,’ Edmund replied solemnly, hand on heart.

‘I know. You are Count of Mortain. I have a new horse,’ my son announced with pride. ‘He is not as handsome as yours.’

‘I cannot believe that. If it was a gift from my lord of Warwick, it must be a fine animal.’

‘Will you come to Windsor again? When it is cold you can teach me to skate, like you taught my lady mother.’

‘It will be my pleasure, Sire.’

He stepped back, away, to let another approach.

How kind, I thought, as if from a distance. How thoughtful he was in his response to my little son. And how astonishingly cruel to me. Not once through the whole of that conversation, not once after a graceful inclination of his head in my general direction, had Edmund Beaufort looked at me. Instead, I’d had an impressive view of his noble profile, smiling and assured and so very arrogant.

Had I been mistaken? I could barely shuffle my thoughts into any sort of order. Had he deliberately ignored me? I tried to quell my rising panic. Perhaps he considered the need for discretion in our relationship. But to turn away, to address not one word to me was difficult to accept. Almost impossible to excuse.

Surely he could speak with me as the Queen Mother, as he was cousin to my son, without causing any ripples at court. The panic began to subside, my breathing to even out. Edmund would speak with me when the formalities were over. Of course he would.

‘When you come to Windsor, will we unpack the masks and costumes again?’ I heard Young Henry calling after Edmund, through the clamour in my head.

Then the presentations were over and the court was free to mingle and converse. Now he would come to me! Now he would walk through the little knots of courtiers, his gaze fixed only on me, alight with determination to let nothing and no one come between us.

But no. To my desolation, Edmund withdrew to the further side of the room. He had passed me by as if I were nothing to him. Once we had passed the hours in intimate dalliance, our blood running hot for each other. Now he did not even look at me as I stood in the group surrounding my son, exchanging greetings and general gossip with Warwick. He had told me that we could be together, that we would make our plans, that nothing could separate us. Conscious of his letter tucked in the bosom of my gown, I did not understand this studied rejection of what we were to each other.

The reception progressed through its habitual pattern, courtiers and aristocrats moving and mingling, making contacts, speaking with those with influence, being seen in the presence of those who could make or break a reputation. I played my allotted part, regal and decorous, but I was weary of it to my bones. Fear built in my breast as the minutes moved on and I tried to recall, word for word, exactly what Edmund Beaufort had written to me. Always know that I love you. No reprimand can keep you from me. Had he not made such declarations? Surely he must find a path to me, to spread his adoration once more at my feet.

He did not. Not once did he approach.

A pain settled in my chest, spreading out to my limbs, an agony that was well nigh physical as all became writ plain for me. This was no chance parting, caused by the demands of the court. This was a deliberate, intentional separation. And, drowning in misery, I fought for dignity. I turned my eyes from him. It crossed my mind, with harsh appreciation, that Henry, cold, superbly controlled Henry, would have been proud of my ability to mask my feelings that day.

But there was a limit to my self-control.

Although I had sworn to look anywhere but in my lover’s direction, when the time came for Young Henry to withdraw, I sought the mass of faces for a last glimpse, as if to twist again the knife that Edmund had planted in my heart when he had so wantonly neglected me throughout the whole of that interminable reception. And there he was in sparkling conversation with a handsome young woman whom I knew well. Eleanor Beauchamp, Warwick’s daughter, come to Court with her husband, Thomas de Ros.

But that did not stop Edmund Beaufort from flirting with her. Oh, I saw the careful attention he paid to her. I recognised the tilt of his head as he listened to what she had to say, I noted the set of his shoulders, the confidential manner in which he leaned a little towards her. All redolent of the manner in which he had once flirted with me. As he had once made love to me with honeyed words and playful gestures. And then, when he turned his head to respond to a passing friend, his handsome face, the sweep of his lashes on his cheek, the clean line his profile drove the blade even deeper.

I stared. And as Lady Eleanor was escorted away by her husband, Edmund turned, so that as chance would have it he looked directly at me. Because I was looking at him, our eyes of necessity met and held. For the length of a heartbeat he paused. And then he made a full court obeisance, as he would honour the Queen Dowager, cold and distant and perfect in its execution.

My self-control snapped like a worn bowstring. He was my lover, the man who would wed me. There must be some terrible misapprehension that had taken hold of my mind, some mistake that Edmund could rectify and then all would be well again. All I needed to do was speak with him, to step to cross the space between us and demand…Demand what? An explanation, I supposed. How could he not approach me, his professed love? How could he not smile and tell me of his heart’s desire as he saluted my fingers with his lips? Throat dry, I determined that I must know.

‘Don’t.’

Barely had I taken a second step than a hand closed lightly around my wrist.

‘Richard!’

It was Warwick, standing at my shoulder, his gaze following the line of my sight.

‘But I must—’

‘Don’t go to him,’ he responded gently. ‘It is useless, Katherine. To cause a scene would be—’

‘He said he would wed me and defy Parliament,’ I interrupted, careless of any such scene yet still managing to keep my voice low.

‘He won’t do it. He won’t wed you now.’

‘How can you say that?’ I resisted the gentle pull on my arm, but Warwick was intent on manoeuvring me out of the throng, towards the tapestry-hung wall.

‘I know he will not. You have to know what has been done. Listen to me, Katherine.’ In the little space he had created for us, Warwick gripped harder so that I must concentrate. ‘There have been new moves. Gloucester has locked every door, barred every window against you.’

‘But I know.’ Still I remonstrated. How could it be so bad? ‘I know the law says that I must ask my son’s permission to marry but surely—’

‘There’s more. Another clause.’ There was barely a pause. ‘It will have serious consequences for your remarriage. To any man.’

‘Oh.’ Now I was afraid.

‘Any man who risks the ban and takes you for his wife without royal consent will lose everything.’ Warwick’s face was stern, his words savage in the message they delivered, but his eyes were soft with infinite compassion. ‘He will effectively be stripped of his lands and his possessions, his appointments in government.’

‘Oh,’ I said again, almost a whisper, absorbing the enormity of this.

‘Such a man will forgo all promotions, all favour and patronage. All opportunity for his further advancement would be stripped away.’

‘I see.’

‘For any man to wed you—’ Warwick was inexorable ‘—would be political and social suicide. Do you understand? If he took you as his wife, Edmund Beaufort would be ruined.’

‘Yes,’ I heard myself say. ‘Yes, I do understand.’

My throat was full of tears as Warwick’s bald statements, delivered one after the other, were like nails hammered into the coffin of my hopes and dreams. I stood for a while in silence, my hands still enfolded within the Earl’s, as the pieces fell into place, finally driven to accept the impossibility of my union with any ambitious man by the neatest, most vindictive piece of legislation. No specific name had been mentioned, but the intent behind it as clear as the signatures written on the document. My heart was wrenched with hurt as I absorbed the inevitable in that one inexorable warning.

For any man to wed you it would be political and social suicide.

That was the end, was it not? Would Edmund Beaufort run head first into marriage with me, risking the loss of political and social advancement? Would he prejudice his ambitions for me?

Head raised, chin held high in a determination not to appear trampled beneath the weight of what I now knew, I looked to where I had last seen him. And there he stood, deep in conversation with the men who held power in the kingdom in my son’s name, just as his uncle Bishop Henry would once have done. Gloucester, Hungerford, Westmorland, Exeter, Archbishop Chichele.

Edmund knew where his best interests lay, and as I took in his carefully selected, august company, so did I. The Beauforts were political animals through and through. Advancement would take precedent over all other interests. If I had still been of a mind to cling to any foolish hope, Edmund’s present company confirmed all Warwick’s warning.

‘It is better if you do not approach him,’ Warwick said gently.

‘I understand. I understand perfectly.’ I looked up into his face. ‘How could he have been so cruel?’

‘Did he not tell you?’

I shook my head, unable to put my sense of utter rejection into words.

‘I am so sorry. He will not see it as cruelty but as political necessity. A pragmatic decision. All Beauforts would. They have been raised from the cradle to do so.’

‘Even at the cost of breaking my heart?’

‘Even at that.’

‘He wrote that he would remain true to our love.’

‘I am so very sorry, Katherine,’ Warwick repeated.

‘You did warn me.’ My mouth twisted into what was not a smile.

‘I know. But I would not have had you hurt in this manner.’

I looked across to where Edmund was laughing at something Gloucester had said, responding with a dramatic gesture with one arm I recognised so well. Oh, I was hurt. I floundered in desolation that all my visions of happiness were no more than straws in the wind, to be scattered, leaving me empty and broken.

That night I took anguish and tears with me to my bed. Bitter bedfellows indeed to keep me company through the sleepless hours. But I rose in quite a different mood.

‘My lady. May we speak?’

His bow was the epitome of elegant respect, early sun making russet lights gleam in his hair as he flourished his velvet cap.

Anger beat softly in my head. He had found me of no value, and had rejected me as he would a crippled warhorse when no longer fit for purpose. And as he drew himself to his full height, his expression a winning combination of self-deprecation and rueful apology, I felt my simmering temper come dangerously close to the edge of boiling. I had not been aware that I could be possessed by such rage.

I was on my way to Mass, Guille accompanying me, crossing an anteroom where pages and servants scurried to and fro at the behest of their masters. There was no privacy to be had at Westminster, neither would I grant him that luxury. If he had wanted privacy with me, he should have come to Windsor.

‘You will stay with me,’ I ordered Guille as she slowed her step to drop back, at the precise moment that Edmund Beaufort made that bow with all his considerable charm, striking a dramatic pose.

And in that moment, beneath the green and gold panels of his knee-skimming tunic, the sleek hose and velvet-draped hood, I saw him for what he was: all picturesque pretence and show to win my regard, all driving ambition to play a vital role in England’s politics. He was a Beaufort through and through. Yet he was still impressive enough to cause my silly heart to quake.

His stare, bright and confident, sought and held mine and he smiled, but then my heart quaked no more and I did not return it. I did not even consider a curtsey. I simply stood, straight-backed, hands folded neatly at my waist, and waited to see what he would say to redeem himself. Yesterday he had treated me as Queen Dowager. Today I would act as one, and ride the fury that was a burning weight in my belly.

‘Queen Kat. You are as lovely as ever.’

How despicable he was. Did he consider me so shallow that I could be soothed by empty flattery?

‘Why did you not tell me?’ I demanded.

I had startled him with my directness, but he did not hesitate. ‘I would tell you now. But I would still say that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known.’

The conceit of the man. I could almost see his wily Beaufort brain working furiously behind his winning smile as he resorted to flattery. My temper leapt in little flames. I did not lower my voice: today I was in no mood for either compromise or discretion. ‘You should have come to me and told me yourself that you could no longer wed me. You should have come to Windsor.’

‘May we speak alone?’ His brows rose with charming intimacy.

‘No.’

His smile slid impressively into an expression of abject contrition. ‘I should have come. It was wrong of me, entirely deplorable. I deserve your disdain, my lady, and I can only beg forgiveness. I thought you would understand.’

So he would try to win my sympathies. He held out his hand, expecting me to place mine there, as once I would have. I kept my fingers lightly laced.

‘You are not making this easy for me,’ he said.

‘Nor will I,’ I replied. ‘And I would have liked to have been told of the circumstance that made you break your promise to me of undying love. I did not enjoy having to discover it from Warwick under the interested gaze of the entire court. Or to have you ignore me through the whole proceedings.’

And I was astonished. Where had this confidence, this impressive fluency, this desire to wound come from? Born out of irrepressible outrage at my lover’s public rebuff, I was not subtle. I was not sensitive to the comings and goings around us. I wanted to hear it from his own lips, to see his discomfort as he explained that ambition made my love superfluous.

My tone attracting attention, bringing glances in our direction, Edmund’s brow darkened and the contrition vanished, replaced by a flash of anger. He took a highly un-lover-like grip of my arm and pulled me out of the general flow of people into a window embrasure, waving Guille aside.

‘There’s no need to make public our personal differences.’ I watched his struggle to contain his irritation and admired his success as his lively features became almost benign with compassion. How remarkably plausible he was. Why had I never suspected it when I had believed every word he had uttered? ‘I understand your disappointment in me.’

‘No, you do not,’ I retorted smartly. ‘And I was not aware that we had any personal differences. Our differences, as I understand it, are political.’

He sighed. An exhalation of deepest remorse. How well he was able to run through the gamut of emotions. ‘You read it perfectly. But still—I thought you would understand.’ He made a languid gesture with one elegant hand, which roused my temper to new proportions. There was nothing languid about Edmund Beaufort. This was all for effect, playing a role to relieve his conscience, if he possessed one.

‘What is it that I would understand, Edmund?’ I asked prosaically.

‘I think it is obvious, Katherine.’ At last an edge coloured his voice. ‘I never thought you obtuse.’

His deliberate use of my name, which had once made me shiver with desire, left me unmoved. I found myself observing him, as Young Henry might sit for hours and watch the scurrying of ants beneath the painted tiles in the garden at Windsor. Without doubt he was a master of words and emotions, weaving them to his own purpose. My heart, which had once burned for him, felt as cold as ice in my chest.

‘I think my appreciation of the situation is sound,’ I informed him, without heat. ‘My belief that you loved me was destroyed yesterday. By Warwick’s kindness and your distance that was little short of insolent—’

‘Katherine, never that! You must see.’ His voice was softly seductive, urging me to be won over.

‘I do see. I now see astonishingly well. I suppose I am honoured that you have taken the time to seek me out.’

Suddenly the charm was gone, temper returned. ‘Then if you know the terms of the statute, what can I say that you do not know for yourself?’

‘What indeed. But I think you should have had the honesty to tell me that you have placed politics before love.’ For the first time in my life I felt in control of my emotions as I provoked the man I had once loved. ‘I am sorry you were not able to explain for yourself that your desire for office and promotion must take precedence over my hand in marriage.’

Edmund’s face paled, a little muscle tightening at the side of his mouth. ‘They made it impossible for me to do otherwise,’ he responded curtly. He was angry, but so was I.

‘So they did. Love, it seems, even after such splendid promises of life-long fidelity, appears to be finite, my lord of Mortain.’ I noted that his compressed lips paled further under my blow. ‘Such an honour as the lordship of Mortain could not be thrown away, could it? You would have lost it before you had even set your foot on the territory if you had held out to marry me.’ My mouth curled. ‘I have been put very firmly in my place, have I not?’

And Edmund’s features, once pale as wax, became engulfed in an unflattering tide of red that rose to his hairline, and his response was vicious as he admitted to everything I knew of him.

‘Are you a fool, Kat? You know the terms of the statute. To wed you would cripple me. Would you expect me to give up my land, my titles? My ambitions as a soldier? I am a Beaufort. It is my right to hold office in this realm. Would you really expect me to jettison my ambitions for marriage?’

‘No. What I would expect is that you would have the grace to tell me.’ He shrugged a little. I considered it a crude gesture, and drove on. ‘You have taught me a hard lesson, Edmund, but I have learnt it well: to trust no man who might be forced to choose between power and high politics on the one side and matters of the heart on the other. It is too painful a decision to expect any man to make.’

I tilted my chin as I watched his jaw tighten, my mind suddenly flooded with Madam Joanna’s warnings. Had he indeed used me? Oh, yes, he most definitely had. My naïvety horrified me.

‘Perhaps it was not such a painful decision for you. Perhaps you did not love me at all, except when I might have been your road to glory. Marriage to me would have given you such authority, wouldn’t it, Edmund? There you would have been, standing at the right hand of the Young King. His cousin, his adviser, his counsellor, his superb friend. His father by marriage. Now, that would have been a coup indeed. I expect you thought that I could be tolerated as a wife if I brought you such a heady prize.

‘I’m sorry your plan shattered into pieces at your feet. Gloucester had the right of it when he saw your promotion as no good thing.’ And I hammered home the final nail. ‘I expect he was right to suspect all Beauforts. They seek nothing but their own advancement.’

The flush had receded under my onslaught and Edmund was once more as pale as new-made whey.

‘I did love you.’ I noted the tense. ‘I hurt you.’

‘Yes.’ I put a sneer into my voice without any difficulty. ‘Yes, you hurt me. I think I could even say that you broke my heart. And don’t say you’re sorry for that,’ I said as his mouth opened. ‘I do not want your pity.’

‘Forgive me.’

‘No. I don’t think I will. I am in no mood to forgive.’ I lifted my hands and for a moment I struggled with the clasp of the brooch on my bodice. ‘I would return this to you.’ It tore the material, but I held it out on my palm.

He made no move to take it. ‘I gave it to you as a gift,’ he said stiffly.

‘A gift when you promised to marry me. It’s an elegant thing.’ The portcullis gleamed in the rays of the sun and the eye of the lion glittered, giving it a louche, roguish air. Much like Edmund Beaufort, I decided. ‘Now the promise is broken and the trinket is not mine to have. It is a family piece and should be given to your future wife.’

‘I will not take it back. Keep it, my dear Kat,’ he snapped, his tone bitter, words deliberately chosen to wound. ‘Keep it in memory of my love for you.’

‘Did you ever love me?’

‘Yes. You are a desirable woman.’ But his eyes could not quite keep contact. I did not believe him. ‘No man could deny your beauty. How could I not feel the attraction between us?’

‘Perhaps you did,’ I compromised sadly. ‘But simply not enough.’

‘It was a truly pleasurable dalliance.’

‘A dalliance?’ I clenched my fist around the jewel to prevent me from striking him, dropping into French in my renewed fury. ‘Mon Dieu! How dare you dishonour my love, given freely and honestly, with the triviality of a dalliance? I did love you once, when I believed you to be a man of honour. Perhaps I should be thankful to Gloucester after all for sparing me from a disloyal and craven husband. I pity your future wife to the bottom of my heart.’

He stepped back as if I had indeed struck him.

‘I can do no more than plead my cause,’ he responded curtly. ‘It would have been like nailing myself into my coffin before I was twenty years of age. You would ask too much of me.’

‘I know. And that’s the saddest part of the whole affair.’ For it was all true, of course. It would have been cruel to have tied him to me, stripping away all hope of the life to which he had been born and raised. It would have been very wrong of me and, knowing it, I would have stepped aside. ‘Take it.’ I opened my palm again, the colours of the brooch springing to life. When he made no move to do so, merely regarding me with a strange mix of dismay and defiance in his face, I placed it on the stone window ledge at my side.

‘I loved you, Edmund. I understand perfectly. I would have released you from your promises but you did not have the courage to face me. You are a man of straw. I did not realise.’

I walked round him and on, Guille following. I would not look back, even when my heart wept for what I had lost. Would he even now come after me, change his mind, tell me that his love was still strong and could not be denied? For a moment my heart beat loudly in my ears as I waited for his long stride to catch up with me and his command to stop.

Katherine—don’t leave me!

Of course he did not so command me. When, at the door, I looked back—for how could I resist?—he had gone. I let my eye rest on the window ledge where the blue and red and gold should have made a bright smudge in the low sun. It was flat and grey and empty. He had taken the brooch too. Perhaps one day it would grace the bodice of the lady whom he, and the law, deemed suitable for a Beaufort bride.

Perhaps he had loved me. But what was such love if it was too weak to triumph against worldly considerations? Edmund’s cold rejection of me had destroyed all my happiness. In that moment my love for him crumbled into dust beneath my feet. I thought he would not have been so very shallow.

Perhaps, I considered in that moment of blinding revelation, I had not fallen in love at all. Lonely and isolated, lured by the hand of an expert in the arts of love, I had simply fallen into the fatal trap of a glittering infatuation, only to be sacrificed on the altar of Beaufort aggrandisement.

I was infatuated no more.