The Forbidden Queen (31 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes, my lady.’

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

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

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

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

‘How very thoughtful of him.’

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

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

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

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

And on the small green branches sat

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

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

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

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

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

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

Henry snuffled and waved his tiny hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Nothing, my lady.’

‘What would you have said?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No. Not yet.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How long could I wait?

I wrote to Henry, taking the matter into my own hand with a direction that shook me.

Spring had arrived. Travellers began to people the roads, groups of merchants and pilgrims about their business, travelling together for safety. The market in Windsor was thronged with townsfolk glad to emerge after the
winter. I watched them from the walls, listening to the cries and music that spoke so eloquently of life going on outside the castle, and with them had come that urgency, to lodge in my mind like a burr under a saddle.

My letter received a reply, and smartly, delivered by Lord John. Yes! Henry would give me leave to join him at last. I tore open the single sheet, scattering the wax in my joyful haste.