The Queen's Secret

TRUE LOVE

It was more than three months since Henry had died when I arrived in Windsor. Guillemote and my ladies were overcome with emotion. We embraced each other joyfully. Guillemote said: “He is well. He is waiting for you.”

I ran up the stairs with the ladies behind me. I threw open the door and beheld my son. He was seated on the floor playing with a silver whistle, and in that moment the loss of my husband and my concern for the future were forgotten. I ran to him and knelt beside him. He regarded me solemnly, and my happiness was tinged with sadness because he did not recognize me. I was a stranger to him, and he was not sure what I was doing in his nursery.

I seized him in my arms. “Henry,” I cried, “little Henry…this is your mother come to you.”

He drew himself away, frowning; then he looked around him and, seeing Guillemote standing there, he gave a little crow of triumph and held out his arms to her.

She picked him up. “There, my precious. ’Tis your mother who loves you and is waiting to tell you so.”

He turned his head slightly and regarded me with suspicion.

Guillemote sat down and beckoned me to sit beside her.

“There,” she crooned and placed him on my lap. She knelt down beside us and I noticed how he clung to her hand.

“Poor little mite,” she went on. “He does not know his mother. It is so long, my lady, and he is very little. It will come. He learns quickly, our little one.”

Henry did learn quickly. In less than ten minutes he had accepted me. He had made up his mind that I meant no harm. I was a friend of his dear Guillemote, and if she accepted me, so would he.

I wondered if I should ever equal her in his affections, and I was filled with resentment against a fate which separated a mother from her baby.

I was greatly relieved to be at Windsor again with my ladies around me. How relaxing it was to be able to talk without considering one’s words first.

“It is so good to be with you again,” I told them. “I hope we shall be left in peace for a while.”

“My lady,” said Agnes, “you will make your own decisions. You are the Queen Mother now. It will be different from being Queen. There will not be so many duties.”

Joanna Troutbeck took my hand and kissed it. “We felt for you so much,” she said. “When we heard the news, we wished that we were with you.”

“It was so sudden…such a shock,” I told them. “Who would have thought that Henry could…just die like that?”

“He seemed different from other men…immortal,” said Agnes.

“And now he is proved to be as all men are. They must go when they are called.”

“We will do anything …” said Joanna Belknap.

“We want to help all we can,” they told me.

“I thank God I have my baby. Do you think they will take him from me?”

“If they try to, you must protest.”

“He is the King…and kings are the property of the State, they say. Oh, how I wish he were not a king! When I think of that little head weighed down by a crown …”

“Doubtless,” said Agnes, “he will hold it dear. Most men do.”

“It was a crown which killed his father…or the determination to hunt for it.”

They looked at me in amazement; and I went on, “Oh yes, he was killed in war as much as any man. Had he not wasted his youth and strength on the battlefield, he would be alive today.”

There was a brief silence and I thought: I must not talk thus. I have come here to forget…to be with my child…to make a new life.

I went on: “You must tell me what has been happening while I have been away.”

“The biggest news is the marriage of the Duke of Gloucester,” said Joanna Troutbeck.

“Is that so?”

“To the Lady Jacqueline of Bavaria.”

“But I thought she was married to the Duke of Brabant. How can she therefore marry the Duke of Gloucester?”

“The marriage was annulled. Or so she claims. The anti-Pope obliged and she was free. So she has married Duke Humphrey.”

“There will be trouble surely?”

“It would seem that neither of them cares very much for that.”

“But Brabant is the cousin of the Duke of Burgundy. They are connections of mine. As for Jacqueline, she was once my sister-in-law.”

“They are snapping their fingers at all those who object,” said Agnes. “The Duke of Bedford, we have heard, is furiously angry. Burgundy is not the man to brook interference and he naturally had his eyes on Jacqueline’s possessions. The Duke of Bedford fears he may lose Burgundy as an ally through this. There is a great deal of gossip about it at Court.”

“They have been very rash,” I said. “Are they very much in love?”

“As was said before, I think the Duke is very much in love with Hainault, Zealand, Holland and Friesland,” said Joanna Troutbeck.

“And Jacqueline?” I asked.

“She is in love with the belief that he, as her husband, will fight with her to get her possessions back.”

“So it is a love match between them both and these possessions rather than that of Jacqueline and Humphrey for each other?”

“Well,” said the cynical Joanna Troutbeck. “Is it not for such reasons that marriages are often made?”

I nodded sadly. “As mine was. Was I not fortunate to marry a man like Henry?”

“And he to marry you, my lady.”

“Yes, it was a good marriage. We were happy together…when we were together.”

They began to talk of other matters. I could imagine their whispering to each other when I was not there as to how they could turn my mind from those happy days I had spent with Henry and stop my repining.

· · ·

I had not been in England more than a week or so when messengers arrived from France. I knew they brought news of some calamity, and waited with trepidation for what they had to tell me.

They hesitated for a little while until I begged them to speak. Then one of them said: “It is the King, your father, my lady.”

“My father? What of my father?” He had been a source of anxiety for so long. What more could there be to fear?

“He is dead, my lady.”

I was silent, thinking of my first glimpse of him when I was a child. Vividly I remembered the wild-eyed man who thought he was made of glass. I could remember the bleak despair in his eyes.

“The people of Paris mourn him deeply.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“And now he has gone to his rest, my lady, the rest for which he had so much longed.”

“So…he was in Paris?”

“Yes, my lady. The people cheered him when he came to the city. It warmed his heart to hear the shouts of ‘Noël.’ The people always loved him…even when he could not come among them…even when he was shut away from them.”

Love and pity were very close, I thought.

“He lay in state, my lady, for three days…his face uncovered that all might take a last look at him. He was in the Hôtel de St.-Paul, and crowds went in most devotedly to pay their last respects to him.”

“Yes,” I murmured. “He was well loved.”

“You should have heard the prayers, my lady. The people knew him for a good man. He was sadly afflicted. They said how different the fate of France might have been if he had been well enough to lead the country. They prayed to God for the soul of their dear prince. They said they would never again see one as good as he was. ‘Now it is all wars and trouble,’ they said. ‘Prince, go to your rest. We must remain to our tribulations and sorrows.’ They likened their plight to that of the children of Israel in captivity in Babylon.”

I listened impassively; and suddenly they were covered with embarrassment. They had been thinking of me solely as my father’s daughter and then had realized that I was the conqueror’s widow. I had left my own country and adopted his. It was an awkward situation in which they found themselves. They would have liked to say more, I knew, but they had said as much as they dared.

“How did he die?” I asked. “Was he at peace at the end?”

“They say so, my lady. They say he welcomed death with open arms. He was tired of life. Fate had illused him.”

I thought: Yes, he had always wanted to go. There was nothing for him here but those long periods of darkness followed by brief lucid periods when he would know that it was during his reign that France had been lost, and his own son, the Dauphin, had been deprived of his inheritance. He had had to stand aside and see another proclaimed King of France. What did they think of me? Where was my place in all this? My little son was usurping the rights of the Dauphin.

“They took him to St.-Denis, my lady. The Duke of Berry made a speech over his open tomb. He said: ‘Lord have mercy on the soul of the most high and excellent Charles, King of France, sixth of the name.’”

I nodded…he was King until the end. Henry had agreed that he should retain the title until his death. I was glad that Henry had not robbed him of that, empty as it was.

“Immediately after the Duke of Berry had spoken, there followed a cry of ‘Long live King Henry, by the grace of God, King of France and of England!’”

I felt I could bear no more, so I thanked them for coming and dismissed them. I wanted to be alone.

There were so many memories…and all sad ones. I wondered about my mother. What was she doing now? She was no longer Queen of France. That was no loss to France. I was filled with a deep resentment toward her. Much of the tragedy which had befallen my father and his country was due to her. And now where was she? I doubted not that she would be looking after herself. She would have her luxuries…her pets…her lovers. And she would not shed a tear for that poor tragic man whose life and whose country she had helped to bring to disaster.

But what was the use of recriminations, of brooding on the past? I had to go on with my life. I was in a new land. I had become a widow. Perhaps they would send me back to France. But I was the mother of their King, so they could hardly do that. I must think of my son. Therein lay my future. I must forget my tragic past. My allegiance was to my new country.

I went to the nursery and gazed down on my sleeping child—King Henry of France and England.

The Duke of Gloucester called at Windsor.

What a handsome man he was! Far more attractive in a way than his brother of Bedford. He wore his hair closely cropped, as Henry had worn his. It was the best style for a soldier; and because it had been favored by the King, it had become fashionable. That would change now, I supposed, with his passing. But just now Henry was very much with us. Humphrey had a love of fine clothes, which Henry, being mostly at war, had no time for. He now wore a blue houppelande caught in at the waist with a jeweled belt. The full sleeves billowed out, and his long pointed shoes were the same color as his houppelande.

He studied me with a mixture of appreciation and speculation, as I guessed he did all women. His eyes were rather like Henry’s, but Henry’s had been clearer. Under Humphrey’s were the beginnings of pouches, which was an indication, I believed, of his indulgence in the pleasures of the flesh. I knew that he was quite unlike Henry in character and temperament. He liked good living; and wine and women played an important part in his life. Yet there was a certain aestheticism about him which was an intriguing contrast to that side of his nature. He was a great lover of the fine arts.

Bedford was more like Henry in character than Humphrey would ever be—though a pale shadow of him.

I was beginning to think that Humphrey’s life was guided by an overweening ambition.

“My lady Queen, my dear sister,” he said, taking both my hands and kissing one after another. “This is a grievous time for us both. How sad my heart is for myself…and for you.”

“You are kind, my lord.”

“I would there was something I could do to alleviate the pain you are suffering. Henry was a wonderful husband…a wonderful brother. There has never been, nor ever will be another such as he.”

“I believe that to be true. I believe, too, that I must congratulate you on your marriage.”

“You are most kind.”

“I was surprised to hear of it. The King knew nothing of it, I believe.”

“No. It happened after his death.”

“My lord Bedford …”

Humphrey raised his eyebrows. “Speak not of it, sweet sister. I have had scolding enough from that quarter.”

“It was a dangerous thing to do, perhaps.”

“But love laughs at danger.”

“Yes, I suppose so. And my kinsman, the Duke of Burgundy, what thinks he of the match?”

“Ranting and raging, I doubt not. Poor little Brabant being his kinsman, Burgundy will have his eyes on Jacqueline’s possessions.”

“I daresay you propose to win them back for her.”

He smiled at me and bowed his head. “We shall see what happens,” he said. “In the meantime I am here on a mission. I looked after our little King well during your absence. Do you agree?”

“Yes, and I thank you.”

“It was a sacred duty. He is an important little boy…the most important in the land. He will help you overcome your sorrow, I trust.”

“I know he will, and I am grateful to you for acting as his guardian while I was out of the kingdom.”

“It was a pleasure as well as a duty. If anything had happened to that child, I should have had to answer to the people. They will adore him when they see him.”

“He is too young as yet to be exposed to the people.”

“Oh, give him a taste of it. I’ll warrant he’ll love to hear the people shout for him. Which brings me to the proposition which I have been commissioned to put to you. Parliament is to be meeting in a week. The Council has decided that the monarch should be present.”

“My baby!”

“Yes, madam. You will drive through the streets of London with the child on your lap. I can promise you it will be a most affecting sight.”

“But…he is too young.”

Gloucester lifted his shoulders. “He is already a king. He will have to grow accustomed to seeing the people. He cannot begin too soon. You will be with him all the time. And…it is the wish of the Council. I think you should prepare to come to London.”

I looked at him in dismay. It was clear to me that the peaceful days were over.

So I went to London for the meeting of Parliament, and I rode through the streets seated on what looked like a throne set up on a chariot, and on my lap was my baby son.

How he delighted them! There is nothing like a baby to touch the hearts of the people. They marveled at him; and indeed he played his part magnificently. I had feared he might scream and cry, but instead he seemed very interested in everything that was going on. Only when the shouts were particularly loud did his little fingers curl more tightly about my hand.

They had dressed him in fine robes, which pleased him. He kept stroking the cloth of gold and velvet and chuckling to himself.

He had quickly grown accustomed to me, and there were times when I thought he knew that I was his mother.

Guillemote said I had weaned his affection from her and that I was the important one with him now. That delighted her as much as it did me. Guillemote was a good woman—a mother to me in my early days and one of the best friends I ever had.

There he sat, my little one, interested in the crowds and music and appearing to listen with solemnity when the proclamations were read out in his name.

I sensed the loyalty of the crowds. Their great hero was dead, but he had left them his son who one day would be a great king.

That was the mood of the people that day.

· · ·

I returned to Windsor, glad to be back but still glowing from my son’s triumph in winning the hearts of the people of London.

I felt I was moving away from my sorrow, and if they would allow me to keep my son, I could be happy. But I knew, of course, that that was hardly likely.

For a year I was left in peace—if peace it could be called, to be continually in fear that something could happen at any moment to disrupt it.

I think I was fortunate to be left so long undisturbed. There were reasons, of course.

It has often amazed me how significant a part Humphrey of Gloucester played in my life, for I think it was largely due to him that I was, at this time, left in peace. I do not mean that he arranged it. Humphrey was not the man to concern himself with other people’s comfort. But this reckless marriage of his with Jacqueline of Bavaria had caused such anxiety to Bedford and those about him that they could give little thought to anything else.

The King was a baby. He was with his mother and her household, so there was no immediate need for him to be a concern of the State—even though he was King—until he was a little older. His affairs could be dealt with later.

The great trouble was that Jacqueline had been married—still was, some believed—to the Duke of Brabant. Burgundy had arranged that marriage and was eager for those rich provinces which Jacqueline had inherited to remain with the Burgundians. And now Gloucester was threatening to take them.

I knew there was trouble between Bedford and Gloucester and that Bedford said this could never have happened if Henry had lived. He would never have allowed Gloucester to marry Jacqueline while the help of Burgundy was necessary to England. Gloucester had placed that in jeopardy and had done a great disservice to his country.

Gloucester snapped his fingers at Bedford and was, so I heard, planning to take a force to the Continent, not to help his brother consolidate Henry’s gains as he should have done but to fight his own little war for the possession of Hainault, Holland, Zealand and Friesland.

In the secrecy of our royal nursery I said to Guillemote: “Perhaps we should be grateful to Gloucester.”

She looked at me with an expression in her eyes which told me she was cautioning me.

“I know, I know,” I said. “He is undermining England’s cause. But let us be frank with each other, dear Guillemote: but for that, they might be turning their attention to us.”

She admitted that was so.

“I dread the day when they make their plans. They will take him from me, Guillemote. I could not bear that.”

She put her arms about me and patted my back, as she used to in the old days when I myself was little more than a baby. “There,” she said. “It has not come to that yet. Let us hope it does not…for a long time.”

“It will, though, Guillemote. Royal children are never left to be happy with their mothers.”

“This will be different.”

I smiled sadly at her, shaking my head.

“You are with him now. Just forget what may come. Be happy in the moment.”

I realized the wisdom of her words and I determined to try to do as she said. For the time being Henry was with me, and Duke Humphrey was pursuing his wildly ambitious plans. They would all be too concerned with him to think very much about Henry.

So I wanted to make each day last as long as I could. But every morning when I awoke I could not help thinking that this might be the day. Then I would dismiss the fear. Not yet…not yet. Why, it might be a year before they took some action.

That was my mood during that time. Perhaps that was why I behaved in a rather reckless fashion now and then. I certainly did when I appointed Owen Tudor as Clerk of the Wardrobe, which was a post which would keep him close to me.

“He is very handsome and not much older than you are,” said Guillemote, who, over the years, and because she had known me more or less as a baby, often spoke more familiarly to me than the others did.

“What of that?” I said.

She lifted her shoulders and raised her eyes to the ceiling. “You are the Queen,” she said.

Was she implying that Owen Tudor was too young and attractive to live so close to the Queen who was perhaps only a little younger than he was?

I laughed at her. Yes, I was indeed reckless. I think it was because I missed Henry. Perhaps I regretted those times when we had been separated while he had pursued a war which had in the end taken him from me altogether. Perhaps it was because I lived in fear of the desolation which would come upon me when they—as they undoubtedly would—brought certain highly born ladies into the nursery to take charge of my son and decided that caring for him was not a suitable occupation for a queen.

Owen’s coming into my household brightened my days. He was very sympathetic and understood my anxieties. Young Henry had grown fond of him.

He was now entirely my child. He recognized me as his mother; and I believe there is a special bond between a child and its mother, in spite of early separation. Even with my own mother, whom I hated, there was a certain link. I liked to think that I was especially loved by my son.

He was now taking notice, babbling a few words which Guillemote pretended were “Maman” and “Gee Gee”—for herself, of course—but I am not sure whether others recognized them as such.

I would walk in the gardens and wish that Henry could have been with me playing under the trees, as any normal child might have done with his mother; but although I was left in peace with him at this time, it must never be forgotten that he was the King and he could never be allowed to go out without his guards.

But at least in the nursery he was living the life of a normal child.

I found myself often looking for my Clerk of the Wardrobe and detaining him that I might chat with him. The strange manner in which he spoke attracted me. He was different from the others about me. I supposed it was because he was not English. Henry had liked him, too. He had rewarded him for his bravery at Agincourt by making him an Esquire of the Body.

I would not admit even to myself that the memory of Henry was fading a little. He had been a good husband; we had lived intimately together; I believed we had loved each other. Yet always for me there had been reservations which I had not recognized at the time, and I was beginning to be aware of them now. Henry had been unreal to me in a way…remote…a hero…someone not quite human, in spite of his earthy conversation and manners—the manners, as he had often said, of a soldier.

He had been a hero—the most loved king the English had ever known. Many had said so and many would in the years to come. He had been dedicated to his kingship, and the fact that this great king had emerged from a rather disreputable youth made him something of a mystic figure. I had idealized him with the rest. I had been proud of him. But was that love?

My thoughts were now occupied…not with my loss of him but with my fears that my son would be taken away from me.

I felt I did not know myself and that Owen Tudor in his way was helping me to find the person I was.

Sometimes we would sit together and talk. He had a small room in the apartments where he kept his accounts.

One day I went to this room and found him alone. He immediately rose and bowed as I entered.

I said: “Sit down, Owen Tudor.” And I sat too so that we faced each other.

“Tell me truly,” I said, “how does it feel for a brave warrior to be thus engaged, on boring accounts?”

“My lady, I am happy to be here,” he said.

“Perhaps you are…as I am…tired of war?”

“They were great days under the King.”

“They brought about the humiliation of my country.”

“But the triumph of the King’s armies.”

“One country’s victory must be another’s defeat.”

“That is so, my lady.”

“Are you sure you do not want to return to fight?”

“I have had my fill of fighting. The King is dead. Having served with the greatest, I would not wish to do so with any less.”

“So you will stay here. Perhaps one day you will guard the King and be beside him as you were beside his father.”

“Who can say, my lady?”

“I think it would be what my husband, the King, would have wanted. He thought highly of you.”

“He was gracious enough to do so.”

“Did you not fight bravely with him at Agincourt?”

“It was a great honor to be close to him in that battle.”

“He mentioned your name to me. I remember it well.”

“And rewarded me, too. Being Esquire of his Body was the greatest honor I had known at that time. There were some who complained that I was too young for the post, but the King said that there were qualities which were of more importance than years. He was a great king, my lady. There was never one like him before, nor ever will be after. That I know. I shall never forget the day he saved his brother’s life.”

“His brother’s life? I did not know of this. Which brother?”

“The Duke of Gloucester, my lady. I was nearby and saw it all. It could have been the end of the Duke. The Duke of Alençon was in command of the enemy, and I saw him strike down the Duke of Gloucester with his own hand. The Duke lay on the ground for a few seconds. He would have been killed, but the King was at hand. He dashed forward and knocked the sword out of Alençon’s hands. He saved his brother’s life then.”

“The Duke must have been thankful to him.”

Owen was silent and I went on: “Was he not?”

“It is difficult for a proud man to acknowledge a debt.”

“But for a life!”

“That would make him feel even more indebted.”

I wanted to pursue the point, but Owen would not be drawn into it. He was wise really…wiser than I was. He taught me discretion.

These tête-à-têtes were becoming frequent. They were easy to arrange because of his position. I was known to set great store by clothes, and as he was my Wardrobe Clerk I would have a certain amount to say to him. I suppose one of my ladies might have conducted the necessary business, but it was not unnatural that I should want to do it myself.

I liked to listen to his musical voice with the accent which was now becoming familiar to me. He was proud of his ancestors with the unpronounceable names. I used to laugh as he reeled them off and I used to make him say them again, syllable by syllable.

How he loved to talk of Wales! I said: “I think your heart is still there, Owen Tudor.”

“A man’s heart often stays where he first saw the light of day, my lady. And you?”

I shook my head firmly. “No, Owen Tudor. I was very unhappy there. Home! That was the Hôtel de St.-Paul. You could not imagine it. Those cold and drafty rooms. Guillemote will tell you. She came to us when we were there. She looked after us…poor, hungry, shivering little children. We were kept there by our mother, who lived in luxury with her lover and spent so much on garments, perfumes and little pet animals that there was not enough to feed her children. And all the time there was the fear of that wild man…our father…who was often chained to his bed in a room more dismal than ours.”

I was startled by this outburst. This was no way for a queen to talk to one of her subjects. I stopped abruptly: “I…er…Forget what I said. I was carried away. It was what you said about one’s home. I never had a real home, Owen Tudor. This Windsor…with my son…is the best home I ever knew.”

I left him then. I was too emotional to remain. I sat alone in my apartment. Why had I allowed this to happen…to talk so frankly, so intimately…to my Clerk of the Wardrobe?

I wanted to tell Guillemote about it. But no. It was something I could not say to anyone. I could not understand it myself.

· · ·

I insisted that Owen tell me about his family. I loved to hear him talk; he had a love of words and could be carried away by his own rhetoric.

“My sire, my lady,” he told me, “was one Meredydd. He lived in Anglesey, that island at the head of wild Wales. He was what is known in those parts as Escheater of Anglesey, and I pray you do not ask what his duties entailed for I cannot tell you. Yet I know this: later he reveled in the post of Scutifer to the Bishop of Bangor, and I can tell you that that was a grand name for butler or steward. He married my mother. She was named Margaret, her father being Dafydd Fychan ap Dafydd Llwyd, which means that he was the son of the last named.”

He made me laugh and I was eager to hear more.

“My father Meredydd was a man of wild temper. If a word was uttered against him that did not please him, it would be his hand to his sword. I do not believe any were surprised when he killed a man.”

“Owen Tudor!”

“Alas, ’tis true, my lady. ’Twas before I entered this world. Perforce he fled to the mountains taking Margaret with him, and there in the shadow of great Snowdon, I was born.”

“And you left Wales to come and serve the King?”

“There I had good fortune. Look you, is it not so? A man knows this one…knows that one…and that can be another step up the ladder to fame. My father’s mother was a connection of the great Owen Glendower who was of some use to England. His own son, in time, entered King Henry’s army and so brought me to it.”

“So that is how you came to be with us?”

He looked at me earnestly and murmured: “’Twas the greatest good fortune I have ever known, my lady.”

“I am pleased. I often think that a warrior such as you will want to be off again…fighting.”

“My lady, I am more content here than I have ever been before.”

It was fulsome. But he was Welsh, I reminded myself. He had a poetic soul and might sometimes choose words for their musical sound rather than because they expressed the truth.

But I continued to look forward to our meetings; and they took my mind away, now and then, from the haunting fear that I might lose my son.

Margaret, Duchess of Clarence, was with me again, and I was delighted to see her, particularly as she brought with her her charming daughter of her first marriage, Jane.

Margaret was happier than she had been at our last meeting when she was mourning her husband. Now she had settled down to a life of widowhood and I could see that the center of that life was her daughter.

I found a great pleasure in their company. I, myself, was fast recovering from the shock of Henry’s death, and my nightly prayers were that I should continue in this state.

There was another visitor to Windsor. This was James I of Scotland.

It was not quite true to call James a prisoner in the ordinary sense. He was just being held in England until such time as the Scots paid his ransom.

James was a delightful companion. I had liked him from the moment I met him. I felt I knew him fairly well for he had been with us on our triumphant entry into Paris. Henry had taken him to France in the hope that he would be able to persuade the Scots there not to fight for the French. I believe he had not been very successful in this; but James himself had fought side by side with Henry in several battles and I could not believe that for one moment he saw himself as an enemy. He had been in exile for so long. I think at this time it was nineteen years. But he had always been treated as royalty. The only difference was that his liberty was curtailed. For instance, he could not ride out and return to Scotland. I had a sneaking notion that he had no desire to. Conditions above the border were somewhat harsh compared with the south; and while he was treated in a royal manner, I supposed James felt no restraint—or very little—in not being allowed complete freedom. He was happy enough to be in England. In any case, he never showed any nostalgia for his native land to my knowledge—in fact, he could scarcely have remembered it, for he was about ten years old, I believe, when he had been captured.

He had lived hardly any of his life in Scotland, for he told me that when he was eight years old he had been put into the care of the Earl of Northumberland to learn the manly arts and for a while was educated with the Earl’s grandson, who later became known as “Henry Hotspur.”

It was another case of a minor being too young to take over the government of his country; and his old, sick father decided he would send his young son to France for safety. His efforts failed, for the ship in which James was being taken was intercepted by the English; and that was how James came to be a prisoner awaiting the ransom to be paid.

He was writing a long poem about his life which he called The King’s Quair, and he used to read extracts from it to us, which we found both moving and entertaining.

So I grew very fond of James and hoped we should go on enjoying the peaceful days together for a long time.

It was inevitable that, as they were both at Windsor, one day James should meet Jane.

I remember the occasion vividly. James was in my apartment and we were looking down on the gardens as we chatted. Suddenly Jane came into view.

She looked up at the window and, seeing me with the King of Scotland, she bowed her head; then she looked up again and smiled.

“What a beautiful girl!” said James.

“Yes, is she not.”

“Who is she?”

“She is the daughter of the Duchess of Clarence. Her father was John Beaufort, the Earl of Somerset.”

“Oh…a Beaufort.”

“Yes. The Duchess’s first husband. Poor Margaret, she has been twice widowed.”

“Yes,” he said. “It is sad for her.”

At the earliest possible moment I presented Jane to him. James was clearly bemused. I was not sure of Jane. She was perhaps more in command of her feelings. They talked together for some time and I noticed that his eyes never left her face.

I fancied a certain radiance had touched her too. It was rather charming to see the effect those two had on each other.

I talked to Margaret about them.

“I think there is no doubt that James is falling in love with Jane…or, more likely, has already fallen.”

“I trust that is not so.”

“But why, Margaret? I should like to see James happy. Poor young man! Think of his being a prisoner for nineteen years.”

“It has been a very comfortable prison.”

“If Jane married him, she would be Queen of Scotland.”

“A queen without a crown…a queen without a throne.”

“If the ransom were paid, he would return to Scotland.”

“They say it is a barbaric land, and the ransom will never be paid.”

“James does not seem barbaric, and the ransom will surely be paid one day.”

“He has been brought up in England.”

“Margaret, I thought you would rejoice. I think it is wonderful to see two young people so happy. If they are in love, they should be allowed to marry.”

“Well,” said Margaret. “It has not yet come to that.”

I watched the courtship grow. This was love…true love. It was something I had missed. Henry had never been like that.

I could see it all clearly now. He had been kind to me…gentle…loving…but it was not love such as the King of Scotland had for Jane Beaufort. I felt envious. I would have given a great deal to be loved like that.

They talked to me about it.

“We are going to marry,” James said firmly.

“Then I wish you all the happiness in the world,” I told them.

Jane embraced me. “Nothing will change our minds,” she said. “They can forbid us as much as they like…we will marry. We have made up our minds.”

“You will,” I said. “But do not do anything rash just yet. Surely soon the King’s ransom must be paid.”

“Surely soon,” said James.

Margaret was less optimistic.

“Will they pay his ransom after all these years? It must be nearly twenty now…just because he has fallen in love with an English girl?”

“They must want their king back.”

“After all these years? You can depend upon it—for every one who wants him back, there will be two against it.”

“Why are you so pessimistic, Margaret? Let us hope.”

And so the golden days slipped by.

Trouble with Burgundy through Humphrey’s marriage continued to hold the attention of those who might otherwise turn it to the education of my son, which was a blessing to me. And here in Windsor I had Henry to love and to cherish and I could watch the growing love and courtship of Jane Beaufort and the King of Scotland. And there was Owen.

Happy days when I could forget the shadow hanging over me.

The summer was passing. I lived through the golden days treasuring each one as though it might be the last. I watched with mixed emotions the progress of my son. Each day he seemed to change; he would soon pass out of babyhood. They would be made aware of that passing and they would take him from me. He was now taking a few uncertain steps. Guillemote and I would stand him on the floor, a few paces from each of us, and he would take his tottering steps before stumbling into our arms. We clapped our hands in rapturous applause and he would clap with us, his face a picture of delight. There were happy moments like that to be treasured and I knew I should remember them forever.

Humphrey of Gloucester remained in conflict with the Duke of Burgundy, much to the chagrin of the Duke of Bedford. But I was not thinking very much of that at this stage. I was immersed in my happy days at Windsor, watching the ever-growing love between James and Jane—and envying them.

James was becoming an impatient lover. There was nothing he wanted so much as marriage with Jane. I was deeply aware of his single-mindedness. For him there was one goal. How lucky Jane was to be loved like that!

He talked to me about it.

“I must be recalled to my kingdom,” he said. “I must have a home to offer Jane.”

“I am sure Jane would be happy to marry a poor prisoner,” I replied.

“I know. It is so with us both. There is nothing…nothing but each other.”

I said: “Such love is rare with kings.”

“A king can love as wholeheartedly as a shepherd.”

“I know, James. You have shown me that. I wish I could help you.”

“I have an idea.”

“Tell me.”

“My countrymen have always been a thorn in the flesh of the English. Now some of them are in France…and of course they are fighting with the French.”

“Well?”

“What if I promised to withdraw them all if they would send me back to Scotland?”

“Could you?”

“I could try.”

“They would still demand the ransom.”

“Perhaps my countrymen would agree to that.”

“You are of an age now to govern. Do you think they will like you? You have been here so long that you are more English than Scot.”

“I can play the Scot at a moment’s notice.”

I laughed at him. “What do you propose to do?” I asked.

“Offer to recall all Scotsmen from France, for one thing.”

“Try it.”

It was about a week later when he came to me in triumph.

“Thomas of Myrton has left for Scotland,” he told me.

“They have sent your chaplain.”

“He seemed a good man to send.”

“And you think he will succeed in making terms for your release?”

“I have told him he must. I want to go back…with Jane as my Queen, and that is what I am going to do, Katherine.”

“I shall pray for you, James.”

“And your prayers will be answered, I know.”

“There are some times when I am sure that if one believes fervently that something will come…it does.”

A few months elapsed before Thomas of Myrton returned from Scotland, but when he did, it became clear that his journey had not been in vain.

James was beside himself with joy.

“It is going to be!” he shouted.

Jane was with him and they both hugged me. All my ladies gathered around, ceremony forgotten. Everyone was kissing everyone else.

“Listen to me,” said James. “It is true. The treaty has been signed. It was done in York between the Scots and the English. The English drove a hard bargain, but my countrymen accepted it. Sixty thousand marks paid in installments of 10,000 over six years. Am I worth it, do you think?”

Jane smiled at him, her eyes shining with joy. “Every mark,” she assured him, “and more.”

“Assuredly so,” he cried. “And the Scots are prepared to pay it! Oh, yes, I repeat, your country drives a hard bargain, Jane. All the Scottish troops are to be withdrawn from France. So that we must try to do. And here is the best part. It is hoped that I will marry an English lady of noble birth.”

Everyone laughed and clapped their hands.

“And what did you reply to that?” I asked him.

“I replied that I would do so with the utmost pleasure. And…here she is. I have already found her. I am determined to take her, and no one else in the world will do for me.”

It was a solemn moment as the lovers clasped hands and gazed soulfully at each other. We were all silent, watching them.

Then the laughter rang out.

“This,” said James, “is the happiest moment of my life. But…there is better to come.”

Oh, to be happy like that! To be loved for oneself…and not for a crown. How I envied those lovers!

I thought that everyone in the castle must.

I went into the wardrobe room. Owen was sitting at a table writing.

“Have you heard the news about the King of Scotland?” I asked.

Owen said he had not.

“You will. The whole Court will be talking about it. He is a very happy man today. Do you know, a treaty has been signed between the Scots and the English? He is going back to Scotland with the Lady Jane.”

“That is wonderful news,” said Owen. “Indeed, the King of Scotland must this day be a very happy man.”

“Happiness shines out of them both. I am afraid I am a little envious of them.”

“All the world is envious of lovers.”

“You too?”

“Everyone, madam.”

“I am ashamed of myself.”

“Your Grace should not be.”

“But I am, Owen. I say to myself, why should this happen to them when I…oh…I think Jane Beaufort is one of the truly fortunate women.”

He was standing before me, and suddenly he put out his hand and touched mine.

“I understand,” he said.

I said in an embarrassed voice: “You see…I was never loved wholeheartedly. Henry loved his battles more.”

“He was a great king.”

“James is a king.”

“It is different.”

I shook my head. “No, Owen, it is just true love and…half love. That is the difference. I have never been loved as Jane is. I have never been loved as my little Henry is loved. My mother gave me no love. I and my brothers and sisters were just encumbrances in her life to be sent off to live in near squalor…out of her life…out of her thoughts. We were of no importance to her. Then I was married and I was happy. I had dreams…but dreams are…only dreams. What was I to Henry? A means of bringing harmony between our two countries…a line in a treaty.”

“It was not so,” said Owen. “He cared for you deeply.”

“He cared for his conquests more. James cares nothing for anything but Jane. That is how I would be loved.”

Then he said a strange thing! “My lady, perhaps you are.”

I looked at him in silence. Then suddenly he bowed and, turning, left me alone in that room.

After that I thought a great deal about Owen. It would be foolish of me to pretend I did not know he harbored a special feeling toward me, as I did to him. I was content with my life as it was at this time. I wanted it to go on and on. I wanted Henry to remain a baby while I went on seeing Owen frequently.

It was absurd, of course. Owen was a handsome young man about my own age; he was brave, good, kind, understanding and clever. But what was he? A squire from some wild country beyond the borders. I did not know very much about the geography of my new country, but I had heard that there were certain remote parts which gave trouble from time to time and that they were inhabited by races not entirely English.

I wanted to learn more about the Welsh.

Guillemote, because she had actually come with me from France and was French herself, understood me well and, being inclined to speak more frankly to me than the others, plucked up courage to comment on what was becoming obvious to them all.

“Do you think you see a little too much of your Wardrobe Clerk?” she asked.

“Owen Tudor!” I cried, taken off my guard.

“That was the man I was thinking of, my lady.”

“See too much of him! But there are certain matters which I have to discuss with him.”

“They seem to be very long and animated conversations.”

“I think, Guillemote, that you are …”

“Forgetting my place. Forgetting that I am speaking to the Queen. Oh, I know what you mean. But I do not forget also that I looked after you as a baby. Who was it you came to when you cut your knees…when you saw bogeys in the night? Tell me that. It was Guillemote. You may be a great queen, but you are still my little one…to me. And let me tell you this, there are greater dangers when you grow up, my lady. And when I see you walking into them, I shall say so…and if that means stepping out of place…if it means talking to the Queen as though she is a child…then I will talk.”

I smiled at her lovingly—Guillemote, my comfort in the dark days in that dismal and often frightening Hôtel, Guillemote who had come into my bed to cuddle me and keep me warm, Guillemote who, I think, would have given her life for me.

“I’m sorry, Guillemote,” I said. “I know you love me. I know that everything you do is for my good. You do not have to tell me that, Guillemote.”

“So now I will speak. It is true that you are shut away at Windsor. But people notice. They say how friendly you are becoming with the Clerk of the Wardrobe. Do you need to talk so much of silks and brocades? He is a very handsome young man, and his manner…and yours…is not quite that of a queen and her wardrobe clerk.”

“I like the man, Guillemote.”

“That much we know.”

“I find him interesting to talk to. He comes from a fascinating background. I did not know anything about the Welsh until I came to this country.”

“There are other ways of learning. I think of you as my little one still. You have always been precious to me. If I saw you running into danger, I would be after you. I would take you up in my arms …”

“I know, Guillemote, but I am not a child anymore.”

“No. You are not a little princess. You are on more dangerous ground. You are a queen…and a queen in a strange land.”

“It is my land now, Guillemote. I became the queen of this country because my husband was king and now I am still a queen.”

“That is what I say. So take care.”

“Why should you see danger, Guillemote?”

“Because I know you well. When you talk of that man I hear in your voice and I see in your eyes…what he is becoming to you.”

“I admit, I enjoy talking to him.”

“That is clear to see.”

My lips quivered as she put her arms around me. She rocked me to and fro as she used to do when I was a child.

“I understand…I understand,” she murmured. “But you must take care. A queen could never mate with a wardrobe clerk, and a Welsh one at that.”

“What does his country matter?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

I went on: “I did not know of these other races here. I thought they were all English. We did not hear of the Welsh in France.”

“There is much we did not hear of. And it is not only the Welsh in him. Think of it. He is a soldier from nowhere. What could come of this? Nothing…nothing…but misery. That is why I say, dear Princess, my dear, dear Queen, take care.”

I put my arms about her and clung to her for a few seconds. Then I withdrew myself.

“What are you thinking of, Guillemote? How could you ever think I would have such a thing in mind!”

She looked relieved. “It was silly of me. Of course you would not. It was merely that…oh yes, it was foolish of me.”

“Guillemote,” I said, “we will forget this nonsense.”

I knew the peaceful days must soon come to an end.

It was a year since Henry had sat on my lap and we had ridden through the streets of London. I often smiled to remember how quiet and solemn he had been, listening with what seemed like pleasure to the shouts of the people.

There came a message from the Council. The King’s presence would be needed at the opening of Parliament.

He was now nearly two years old and had grown considerably since he had made his first public appearance. He was not the docile infant he had been.

Preparations to leave for London began.

I did not see Owen Tudor before we left. I had avoided him after my conversation with Guillemote.

Her remarks had made me assess my feelings more honestly. I saw that I had allowed myself to slip into a very pleasant relationship without realizing that it would be noticed and might be misconstrued by those about me.

It had been so comforting to be with him, to discover something of his background and to talk to him about my early life and his. He had listened with great attention and sympathy and made me see those days less grimly than I had before. I would find something to laugh at, though previously I should have thought that impossible.

We were young. Twenty-one or -two is the age for gaiety and romance. Two people as we were, put together, with similar tastes, must be attracted to each other…and such attraction could quickly strengthen into something deeper.

Yes. I was in love with Owen Tudor, if being in love means a lifting of the spirits when a certain person appears, of wanting to be with him above all else, of feeling completely at one with him, wanting to reach out and touch him, to be close to him and never go away.

Yes, that summed up my feelings—but I was the Queen and he was a humble soldier from the remote country of Wales.

Guillemote was right. I should be watchful of myself. More than that…a wise woman would send him away…right away…out of Windsor…out of the household.

Send him away! Give the impression that I no longer wanted him in my household, when he had made Windsor such a happy place for me!

Of one thing I was certain. Wise or not, I was not going to send Owen away.

In the meantime I had to consider the journey to London. I was afraid. They would realize that Henry was growing up and that it was time they took him out of his mother’s care.

He was my child. I had borne him. Why should I allow them to wrest him from me? I wanted to keep him with me. I wanted to keep Owen with me…to go on as we had been.

We left on Saturday, November 13. I remember the day—dark, gloomy, typical November with a mist in the air. I always felt there was something ominous about mists. I remembered the last occasion. The weather had been similar then.

Henry was quite happy. He was with me and was interested in everything he saw.

I think he was forward for his age. He babbled a lot and could say a few words, and one of these was a decisive “no” when something was done which he did not like.

But he enjoyed the journey, sitting on my lap as we rode along.

We spent the first night at Staines, and he awoke next morning in a bad mood. Where were his familiar surroundings? Where was Guillemote?

I said: “We are going to have a great deal of fun. We are going to open Parliament.”

He was dressed with difficulty, protesting all the time, and when he was taken out to the litter, in which we were to make the journey to London, he screamed and kicked out at everyone who approached him, except me. And me he regarded with reproachful eyes.

“No, no, no,” he said emphatically.

He kicked and struggled when it was attempted to lift him into the litter.

We could not very well travel through the villages where the people would come out to see him and discover that their little King was a bawling and protesting child.

There was a hurried conversation. It was decided that it would be better not to leave and that we should, therefore, stay another day in Staines.

One of the guards came to me and said: “My lady, it is the Sabbath Day. We believe it is because of this that the King refuses to travel.”

I stared at him in amazement. Could he really believe that Henry was aware of what day it was?

He said: “They are saying, my lady, that he is going to be a great and pious king and as such he will believe in keeping the Sabbath holy.”

My scowling and red-faced infant looked anything but pious to me; but I was glad they had construed his behavior in this way and thought it better not to raise contradictions.

So that day was spent at Staines. I was dreading the next for fear of more tantrums, but Henry awoke in a sunny mood. He chuckled with glee when he was being prepared, and his mood did not change when it was time for him to get into the litter with me. He held my hand firmly and allowed himself to be placed in it, smiling the while.

His demeanor confirmed the belief that his anger had been because they were trying to make him travel on the Sabbath Day; and thus the rumor of his pious destiny was first founded.

The rest of the journey was uneventful. He was interested in everything. He laughed and I taught him to wave at the people, which naturally delighted them.

We had another stop at Kennington, and it was Wednesday when we rode to Parliament. Henry was dressed in a gown of crimson velvet and wore a cap of the same material. On the cap was set a crown—very small, to fit his little head. He was very interested in this and kept putting up a hand to touch it proudly. They had given him a tiny scepter to hold, which drew his attention from the crown.

The occasion was a great success. He played his part well, showing an interest in the people and now and then saying a word or two in his baby language. He raised his hand in acknowledgment of the cheers and waved to the people.

They adored him.

“God bless our little King!” they shouted; and even his father, returning as the triumphant conqueror, could scarcely have received a more enthusiastic welcome from the citizens of London.

This impeccable behavior continued throughout the ceremony.

He appeared to listen to the speeches with great solemnity, staring at the faces of the speakers and now and then giving a little grunt or crow as though in acquiescence.

He was a great success and I was proud of him, though at the same time very uneasy. They would be more than ever reminded that he was growing up, and that was what I most dreaded.

Soon after the opening of Parliament we left Westminster. I was conducted to Waltham Palace, where I stayed for a few days and nights and from there went to Hertford. It was not Windsor, but it was almost as good, or I found my household assembled there waiting to welcome me. And among them was Owen.

When they all greeted me, he looked at me with such love and longing in his eyes that I could no longer be blind to his feelings for me; and my own response would have told me—if I had not known already—that I returned his love.

We were to spend Christmas at Hertford, which was an indication of what was to come, for this had already been decided for us and was not of my choosing. I knew that those who had chosen would now determine how and where the King should be brought up and were reminding me that they had not forgotten their duty.

I felt a certain feverish excitement that Christmas, I was on the brink of change. Poor Guillemote, she would suffer with me. We had to console ourselves. I would not think beyond this Christmas.

Guillemote said: “They may take him away, yes. But we shall still see him. You are his mother. He will ask for us…he will cry for us. They cannot deny the King his wishes. This has happened to all queens. They are never allowed to bring up their children after the manner of humble women.”

“The fact that it has happened before and to us all does not make it any easier to bear, Guillemote.”

She shook her head sadly. Then she looked intently at me. She knew me so well, and knew that I could not help thinking of Owen.

It was then that the thought came into my mind: I will not lose everything.

James of Scotland joined the household with the Duchess of Clarence and her daughter Jane. We were all caught up in the excitement of the coming wedding. The lovers lived in a dream of happiness which was wonderful to share in. And I did share it. I was uplifted by the knowledge that I too was loved.

I said to James: “How well everything has turned out. It is like a miracle.”

He agreed. “It was worth being a captive all those years to come to this. For think you, if it had not been so, I should never have met Jane.”

“And that makes everything that has gone before worthwhile for you?”

He looked at me, astonished that I could ask such a question.

“But indeed it does. To think that, if I had not been taken a prisoner by the English all those years ago, I might well have been in Scotland now, separated from Jane by hundreds of miles…never knowing the one woman in the world for me existed. Can you imagine a greater tragedy?”

“Perhaps, if you had never known Jane existed, you would not have missed her.”

“What a travesty of life that would have been!”

“So you would stay a prisoner if it was the only way you could be with her?”

“I would rather be in the darkest dungeon with her than on the grandest throne without her.”

That is love, I thought. And when it comes it must be taken with both hands. It is only fools who turn their backs on love.

I was not entirely surprised when Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, called at Hertford to see me.

I had met him on other occasions. Henry had mentioned him to me with respect and affection; and, moreover, Warwick had been in France at the time of our marriage and had taken part in my coronation.

Henry had said to me: “There is a man whom I can trust. Such men I keep close to me. I feel blessed that there are men like Warwick at my side.”

And I had always thought that Warwick deserved his confidence.

He kissed my hand and thanked me for receiving him so graciously, while I tried to remain calm, though guessing what he had come for made that difficult.

My fears were soon realized.

He said, “My lady, you will know that I was honored by the late King’s confidence, and to me he left the greatest of all tasks—the care and education of his son, our gracious King Henry VI.”

I bowed my head in acknowledgment.

“Your Grace has been in deep mourning this last year and I know that you have derived much comfort from living quietly with our dear lord, your son, who is very young yet.”

“That is so,” I said. “He is a baby still and he needs his mother.”

“It was noticed with what regal dignity he conducted himself at Westminster.”

I thought of the screaming infant who had manifested his disapproval at Staines by noisy and scarcely regal protestations. Henry was a baby, in spite of the miniature crown they had set upon his head.

The Earl went on: “It is time he was given his own household. He must begin to learn that he has a great position to fill.”

“I think he is hardly of an age to realize what that means.”

“It is never too early to begin to learn. The late King entrusted me with his upbringing and education and I am determined to do my duty in a manner which would have had his approval.”

“I understand, but he is…as yet…very young.”

“Responsibility descends early on royal heads, my lady. I have engaged for him a nurse in the person of one Joan Astley. A very worthy lady, the wife of Thomas Astley. She is well experienced with children and will be a careful and a loving nurse.”

“My woman Guillemote has looked after my son with the utmost loving care and he is very fond of her.”

“I am sure of that, my lady. But the King must have a qualified nurse and one who has the approval of the Council and myself.”

I knew it was hopeless. He had had my husband’s commands to form my son’s household, and in the eyes of these men, the matter of great importance was not that little Henry be surrounded by those who loved him but that he learn how to be a king.

I should have been prepared. I knew it had to come. I had in fact been expecting it all through the year. Yet I felt stunned. Whatever they said, whatever I tried to do, they were going to take him away from me.

I heard myself stammer: “This…Joan Astley…she is…er…kind …?”

“She will know exactly how to treat the King.”

“The King is but a child. He needs his mother.”

The Earl smiled at me benignly. “The King will have great responsibility. He cannot shelter forever in the loving arms of his mother.”

“In a year or so…perhaps.”

“The King is no longer a baby.”

What was the use? I felt angry. Why should some hardheaded man who knew nothing about the ties between a mother and her child decide our lives for us? My baby might be—rather sadly—a king, but he was only a child…my child. I wanted to rage and storm at this man who was smiling so confidently, sure that he knew what was best for my child.

“Mrs. Astley will be arriving within a few weeks,” he went on. “And, of course, equally important is his governess. I have chosen Dame Alice Butler…a most worthy lady.”

“You mean…she will be in charge of his household?”

He smiled and inclined his head.

I felt limp with dismay and anger. I knew that the Earl was only following custom. I knew it was the fate of all queens to lose their babies in this way…but that did not make it any easier to bear.

I wanted to shout: “No, I will not allow it.”

Wild plans were forming in my mind. I would run away. Guillemote and I would take Henry and find some humble place in which we could live in peace.

How foolish of me! I should have known that they would choose for me. They were going to take my baby away from me. Some would say I had been fortunate to have had him to myself for so long.

The Earl may have had a glimmer of understanding, for he was not an unkindly man, merely insensitive to a mother’s emotions.

“Your Grace will be highly satisfied with the ladies whom I have chosen,” he said. “They will be kind yet firm…exactly what his Grace the King needs. The Council have decided that, in view of the very important posts they hold, they shall be highly paid. In fact I can tell you that their salaries will be £40 a year, which is equal to the salary of a Privy Councilor. So you see, my lady, what importance has been attached to this matter. We are giving Dame Alice permission to chastise the King if that should be necessary.”

I cried out in alarm: “No!”

The Earl looked at me almost pityingly. “It is considered necessary for most children at some time. It will just be a little light punishment to teach the difference between right and wrong.”

I felt in despair. Facing it was even worse than I had imagined.

He went on: “The King will have his own Court and children of his own age—heirs to baronies and so on—to be brought up with him. So he will not lack company.”

No, I thought bitterly, except that of his mother!

“The King’s Court will become an academy for the young nobility, which seems a highly satisfactory arrangement.”

I was too emotional to trust myself to speak.

“Your Grace will find that the Council has been equally assiduous in its care for you. All the dower palaces will be at your disposal, the only exceptions being Havering and Langley, which, as your Grace knows, are in the possession of Queen Joanna, widow of the late King’s father, King Henry IV.”

I was not listening. All I could think was: it is as I feared. I have lost my son.

With a heavy heart I traveled to Southwark for the marriage of James and Jane.

How I envied them! They would be setting out on a new life. My ladies had shivered at the thought of the Court of Scotland and wondered how James would be received after spending so long away from his native land.

“It will be different,” said Joanna Courcy, “for there is no doubt that we are different from the Scots.”

“They are his people,” insisted Guillemote, “and blood is strong.”

“But he has become one of us,” said Agnes.

“Have no fear,” I told them. “He has Jane, and while they are together, they will be happy.”

They all sighed and I guessed they were thinking, with a little envy—as I was, of the lovers.

They were so radiantly happy, and as soon as the wedding was over they would set out for Scotland.

It was a very impressive ceremony, held in the church of St. Mary Overy, and immediately afterward we adjourned to the adjacent palace, which belonged to Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester. He was Jane’s uncle and delighted, of course, that she was marrying into the royal House of Scotland. The Bishop was one of the richest men in England, for he was the second son of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, and Katherine Swynford, although the Duke had married Winchester’s mother after his birth and he, with his siblings, had been legitimized by Henry IV.

I was watchful of Winchester during the banquet. I had heard a great deal about his quarrel with the Duke of Gloucester, and I knew that the two were declared enemies and that, if Henry had been living, he would have taken sides with the Bishop against his own brother.

Gloucester wanted power. His lifelong regret was that he had not been born the eldest son. For a man such as he, to be the youngest was a tragedy…for him, but not indeed for the country.

I did not know a great deal about politics, but I was aware that Gloucester’s schemes were all for self-aggrandizement and that Winchester, in spite of his reputation for being haughty, arrogant and in his opinion as royal as the King, was a man of intellectual brilliance; and he did realize the importance of putting the country first.

I remembered Henry’s once saying: “A man may be what he wishes if he does but remember that he is an Englishman and owes his first allegiance to England.”

I felt sure Winchester did that.

I watched him at that time, presiding at the feast. All those things which had been said of him I felt to be true; and I firmly believed that Humphrey, with his wildly ambitious schemes, would be no match for him.

Margaret, Duchess of Clarence, was beside me. It was with great emotion that she had watched her daughter married to the King of Scotland.

I took her hand and pressed it.

I whispered to her: “I never saw two people so radiantly happy as those two.”

She smiled and nodded.

I returned to Hertford. They were already preparing to move the King’s household to Eltham.

I went into the nursery to look at him. He was asleep. I watched him in silence, and Guillemote came to stand beside me.

“Soon he will be gone away,” I said.

“Yes,” she answered.

“How can they do this to us?” I demanded.

“It is the custom and we knew it had to come.”

I did not answer.

“They will be kind to him,” she went on. “I have spoken to Mrs. Astley. She seems a good woman, overawed by her task. I think he will like her.”

“He will cry for us, Guillemote.”

“I hope not too much. He is interested in everything around him. There will be his new surroundings…new people.”

“You do not think he will forget us, Guillemote?”

“Oh no, no, no. But I hope he will not think of us too often…just at first …”

I stooped and kissed him. There would not be many more times when I could steal into his bedroom and see him thus informally…yet it was a blessing any peasant woman might have enjoyed with her son…day or night.

Who would be born royal?

Poor Margaret had her moods of sadness, too.

She said: “It was a beautiful ceremony; and Jane looked so happy, did she not?”

“Jane looked wonderful.”

“She was always first with me. I loved her more than I ever loved anyone else…from the moment she was born.”

“I know,” I said.

“And now…she has gone. I may never see her again.”

“You will travel to Scotland. It is not so very far. And they will visit the Court here.”

She shook her head.

“You must not be sad, Margaret,” I said. “Think of Jane. She is happy. I never saw two people so happy in the whole of my life. Remember her as she was at her wedding, Margaret.”

“I do. We both know that one of the tragedies of a noblewoman’s life is that she must lose her children. Why do they envy us…those tillers of the soil…those peasants? I know they must work hard for their livings, but they have their families about them. Ours are taken from us to be brought up in other houses …”

I put my hand over my eyes and she cried: “Oh, forgive me, Katherine. I am selfish. Jane is happy. It is what she wanted.”

“Yes, Margaret,” I said. “And they are going to take my baby from me. They are going to bring him up as a king…which they say a mother cannot do. They are setting up others to take care of him…those who can make of him a king.”

She put her arms about me and we wept together.

It was no use telling myself that what I suffered had been endured by every queen before me. I was going to lose my baby.

Guillemote had tried to comfort me. I should not lose him entirely. I could see him often. I was his mother, was I not? He would want to see me. He would demand it.

We smiled together and I was remembering the storms when he had refused to leave Staines in the litter. He would want to see his mother and he would demand to.

I thought of Dame Alice Butler, who had “the power to chastise.” Oh, no, I could not bear that.

I sent for Owen. I had to see him. I wanted to talk to him. I thought that he alone at this time could give me comfort.

He came and stood respectfully before me.

I said: “As you know, we shall be leaving here soon. The King is going to have his own household which…is what I have been expecting for some time. It will be soon. They are making plans now. I shall need…some new gowns.”

I faltered. It was useless to pretend I had sent for him to discuss purchases of material. I was horrified to find that my eyes were filled with tears. I said: “They are taking him away from me, Owen. My baby…he will be without his mother…without Guillemote …”

“They say that Mrs. Astley understands children well. The King has already seen her. He seems to like her …”

“He will want his mother…and his mother…she will want him.”

He knelt before me and, suddenly taking my hand, kissed it.

“I should be brave,” I said. “I knew it had to come. For months I have been dreading it. They left us alone together longer than I expected. But now it has come. Very soon they will take him away. He will be as a stranger to me.”

“He will never be that.”

“Others will be around him. They will teach him to forget his mother. There will be others to take my place.”

“I think a child never forgets his mother, my lady.”

“But I shall not see him, Owen. I shall be alone.”

He put my hand to his lips and kept it there.

I went on: “The King of Scotland has left now…taking Lady Jane with him. They are so happy. They did not mind leaving us in the least, though they were kind enough to say they would miss us. But they want nothing more than each other. Oh, how I envy them! To love like that and to be loved. It seems to them that all the world is smiling at them. Her mother wept because she had lost her, but she was proud, I think. The Bishop was there…the Bishop of Winchester. He is very grand, handsome, dignified…and so royal …”

“Well, is he not, my lady, the son of the great John of Gaunt?”

“Legitimized by his loving half-brother…my husband’s father.”

“He was a wise king. He knew that it is better to have certain people with him than against him.”

“The Bishop indeed looked worthy of his royalty. He was pleased by the marriage. Everyone was pleased. What perfection…to love like that and to have everyone smiling approval.”

“Methinks they would have been happy without the approval.”

I looked at him earnestly. I felt there was something he wished to say and dared not. I knew that I should have to be the one to put away pretense, stop hiding behind conventions and speak the truth.

“Do you really think they would have been, Owen?” I asked.

“I am sure of it. With them it was true love. Who could doubt that?”

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I do not doubt it. And they would be right.”

It was enough. It was the spark which set light to the fire.

We stood close, smiling at each other. There was no need for words in that moment. His arms were about me and he held me tightly.

Then I heard him say: “For so long I have loved you, Katherine…Queen of England.”

And I replied: “I love you too, Owen Tudor.”

That night we became lovers. It was reckless. I am amazed now, looking back, at our courage. I was in a state of despair. I was going to lose my child. I was not the sort of woman who could live without a husband. Moreover, I was in love. This was different from what I had experienced with Henry. I had believed I was in love with him. I had been fond of him. I had found life with him fulfilling to a certain extent, even enjoyable. But it could not be compared with the feelings I experienced with Owen.

This was reckless love…love which refused to be denied, which had not been arranged for the benefits it would bring to both sides in a war. This was different. This was dangerous, unsanctified love…love which was so overwhelming as to be irresistible.

And having tasted it, there was no going back.

He told me how he had loved me from the beginning, how he had contemplated asking that he might be relieved of his post, and how he could not bring himself to do that.

I listened avidly, drinking in every word, reveling in this wild passion which I vowed I would never lose.

It was my due. It was the due of every woman. They had taken my child from me; they should not deny me my lover.

We were both fully aware of the dangers.

“I have good and faithful women about me,” I told him. “They would never betray me.”

“You are too gentle, my love, too trusting. You expect everyone to be as kind and good as you are.”

“Dear Owen,” I assured him, “I can trust my Joannas and Agnes, and Guillemote would die rather than betray me.”

“I have noticed their devotion and have often rejoiced in it.”

We talked of little that night but our love for each other…how it delighted and alarmed us at the same time.

“No one can love where people want them to because it is convenient,” I said. “Love is not like that. It is there…one does not say it is suitable…therefore we will love.”

“You have suffered so much,” he said.

“My dear Owen, all our troubles will be shared from now on.”

“Katherine…is it possible…do you think …?”

“Have I a timid lover?”

“Not timid…the only anxiety I have is what trouble this may bring to you.”

I put my fingers over his lips.

“I will not listen to such talk,” I said. “For tonight in any case we are together. It is wonderful. At last we have broken through the barriers of convention and admitted our love. Nothing must spoil this night.”

Nor did it. That was for later. On this night we had found each other.

That was enough.