The Forbidden Queen

by Anne O'Brien

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

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

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

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

  Your loyal and loving wife,

  Katherine

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

  To my wife Katherine,

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

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

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

  Henry.

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

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

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

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

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

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

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

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

  ‘How very thoughtful of him.’

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

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

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

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

  And on the small green branches sat

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

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

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

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

  My dear Katherine,

  I can think of no better news.

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

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

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

  He must be named Henry.

  Henry snuffled and waved his tiny hands.

  Order a Mass to be said in grateful thanks.

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

  My heart is filled with great gladness.

  Henry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Nothing, my lady.’

  ‘What would you have said?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 
; ‘No. Not yet.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  My lord,

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

  Your loving wife,

  Katherine.

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

  To my wife Katherine,

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

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

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

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

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

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

  My lord,

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

  Your loving wife,

  Katherine.

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

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

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

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

  How long could I wait?

  CHAPTER SIX

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

  My lord,

  Now that the roads are dry and passable, I think it would be good for me to visit with my parents in Paris. And with you too if you deem it possible. I understand that the fortress of Meaux has at last fallen to English hands. Perhaps you will have a short time to welcome me to France.

  Your loving wife,

  Katherine.

  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.

  To my wife Katherine,

  It is not a good time for you to travel in France. Meaux has fallen but matters between your brother and me are by no means settled. I would not wish you to be placed in any danger.

  No! I swallowed against the intense disappointment and read on.

  I think you will see the wisdom of remaining in England until I consider it safe for you to arrive. Your safety is my prime concern, you understand. I will send a courier when time and events permit.

  Henry.

  So my safety was his prime concern, was it? He would send a courier, would he? Then why did I get the impression that such an invitation would never happen? My desolate restlessness was replaced by fury. It blazed, for by now I had not seen Henry for over a twelve-month, so long ago that when I closed my eyes I had to concentrate to bring his features into focus. Would I eventually forget that direct stare, the straight nose and uncompromising mouth? Would I need his portrait to remind me?

  Oh, Henry! You have not even given me a sound reasoning why I should not, merely it is not a good time. When will it be a good time?

  ‘He says no.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What is he doing now?’ I asked Lord John, looking up from the brisk refusal that he had brought. ‘I thought Meaux had asked for terms at last.’

  ‘Yes. It’s taken.’

  ‘But he has no wish to see me. You don’t have to deny it,’ I said, seeing John’s failure to find a soft reply, trying not to read the pity in his face. ‘I know that his feelings for me are…mild.’ How painful it was to admit that in public. ‘But I cannot accept his reasoning. In fact, I will not accept.’

  There was a lull in hostilities. If Henry would not come to me, then I must go to him, and it seemed to me to be high time Henry came face to face with his son. It was time my baby travelled to the country that he would one day rule. It was time he became acquainted with his Valois grandparents.

  How easy it was to make that decision, and to inform John of my wishes, r
efusing any advice to the contrary. My energy restored with the prospect of action, I marched to Young Henry’s room, swept the baby up from his cradle and took him to look out of the window in the general direction of where his father might be at that very moment. Young Henry was growing, I noticed. He was heavier in my arms now.

  ‘Shall we go to France? Shall I take you to see your father?’

  He grinned with toothless gums. ‘Then we will go.’

  But first, before I saw Henry again, I knew I must discover the truth to some unanswered questions. After months of inactivity, I was swept with a desire to discover what was hidden, and perhaps to build some bridges.

  It was not at all what I had expected when, accompanied by an impressive escort, including both Gloucester and Bishop Henry, I made a bid to discover all I could about Henry’s imprisoned stepmother and the troubling prophecy.

  Leeds Castle, a beautiful little gem set in a sapphire lake created by two encircling arms of a river, the waters reflecting the blue of the sky, was no grim dungeon for Madam Joanna. A soft imprisonment—yet still, all in all, it was an imprisonment if she lived under the custody of Sir John Pelham, as Bishop Henry informed me, and was not free to travel. I was both intrigued and anxious. What would this visit reveal about Madam Joanna—or indeed about Henry?

  We were announced into her chamber: Joanna of Navarre, Queen Dowager of England and second wife of Henry’s father. She did not rise from her chair when Gloucester and Bishop Henry kissed her cheeks with obvious fondness. And I saw why she did not stand when she placed an affectionate hand on Gloucester’s sleeve.

  Elegant she may be, her pure white hair coiffed, the folds of her houppelande rich with embroidered panels, jewels gleaming at neck and wrist, but her hands were crippled into claws and her shoulders rigid, and any movement deepened the lines between her brows. Discomfort notwithstanding, I was welcomed with a smile and a speculative regard from direct grey eyes. Entertained with music and wine, Gloucester and Bishop Henry proceeded to enliven her existence with news of court trivia and some comment on what Henry was doing in France.