“They say a pregnant woman’s whims should be satisfied,” I reminded Guillemote.
“How shall we move later on? You will not be fit for it.”
“No, Guillemote. I shall not be.”
I do not know why I did what I did. It was like some compulsion. Each day I put off the departure. I thought he could not really have meant it. It was such a fanciful notion and Henry was not a man of fancies. It was just said on the spur of the moment. And I did not want to leave Windsor, where I was so happy.
I was still at Windsor when December came. The weather had turned cold. Bleak winds swept through the park and the forest and there were flurries of snow in the air.
“You could not leave in this,” said Guillemote. “The King would not wish it and I would not allow it.”
“No,” I said. “It is too late now, Guillemote.”
Then came that wonderful day when my child was born.
I lay on my bed and they brought him to me and put him in my arms. Happiness surged over me. My child had been safely born and he was perfect in every way.
“A beautiful boy,” they said.
I thought of Henry’s joy when the news reached him. But I had disobeyed him and my son had been born at Windsor.
What did that matter? It was a slight matter when he was here, alive…healthy.
I looked at his little red face, the tiny nose, the little hands, perfectly fitted with miniature nails…and on his head I pictured a crown.
Henry VI was born, and I was happy as I had never been before.
Each morning I awoke to a sense of excitement. I would go to the cradle and gloat over my son. Because Henry was absent there had as yet been no arrangements as to the setting up of a royal nursery. I could keep him with me as any lowborn mother might. That was wonderful.
Guillemote and I would talk of him endlessly. When he whimpered, there was a race between us to reach him first.
Those wonderful days were only overshadowed by the thought that they could not last.
Immediately little Henry had been born, news had been sent across the Channel to his father. I was very proud because I had given him not only a child but a son.
When the messengers returned, I sent for them and I asked what the King had said when the news was imparted to him. I wanted to know each detail.
“His joy was great, my lady. He first asked news of the boy. He was a little sad because he had been out of England at the time of his birth. Then he asked where he had been born.”
I felt a twinge of alarm. He had been so insistent. I could hear his voice echoing in my mind: “The child must not be born at Windsor.”
“And,” I prompted, “you told him …?”
“We told him that the Prince had been born at Windsor.”
“And what said he then?”
The messengers looked at each other and were silent for a moment.
“Yes,” I repeated. “And what said he?”
“He said nothing for a moment, but he seemed uneasy. Then he said slowly: ‘Are you sure that the Prince was born at Windsor?’ ‘Without a doubt,’ we told him.”
“And then?” I asked.
“It seemed, my lady, that a cloud came over his joy. He murmured something. Then he turned to us and said: ‘I, Henry born at Monmouth, shall small time reign and much get; but Henry of Windsor shall long reign and lose all.’ It was strange, my lady, and as though someone spoke through him. It was so clear…we remembered the exact words he spoke. Then he closed his eyes and murmured: ‘But if it is God’s will, so be it.’”
I was overcome with awe, and my conscience was greatly troubled. After the messengers had gone, I kept asking myself what he could have meant.
Then I demanded of myself why I had allowed it to happen.
It was the weather, I excused myself. But I could have got away earlier. Why had I so blatantly flouted Henry’s wishes? I had never done so before.
It was nothing, I assured myself. It was just a fancy of Henry’s.
It was no use. I could not console myself, and the terrible feeling of guilt remained. I was not able to dismiss the matter from my mind, and it cast a slight gloom over the happiness of those days.
Live in the moment, I admonished myself. Little Henry is yours now. For how long? I wondered. They would give him the grand household which they would say was the right of a prince, especially one who was heir to the throne. They would give him all that when what he wanted most was a mother’s love and care. It was foolish to let this fleeting happiness be marred by a sense of guilt over a very trivial matter.
One of my dearest friends was Johan Boyers. He was a doctor of philosophy who had been assigned to me as my confessor. I was attracted to him because he was a man to whom I could talk freely and he had helped me over one or two trifling matters.
At our next meeting I said to him: “There is something on my mind. It is of small account really, but it is worrying me.”
“Then let me hear it,” he said.
“Before he went to France, the King talked to me earnestly about the child we were to have.”
Johan nodded. “It was his great concern. He spoke to me of it. Above all things he wanted a son. I rejoice that God has seen fit to grant his wish.”
“Before the King went he asked me not to allow the child to be born at Windsor.”
“And you disobeyed his wishes?”
“I cannot understand it. I did not want to. But I love Windsor. It is the place where I am most content. I went there when the King left. I missed him very much, but my ladies are my good friends and I became deeply content thinking of little else but the child.”
“It is natural, my lady.”
“But…I did not leave Windsor. I meant to…but something held me there.”
“Because you wanted so much to stay?”
“Yes. Yes, I did. But I did not forget that Henry did not want the child to be born there. I kept telling myself that I would go…in time.”
“Did you have a compulsion to stay?”
“Yes,” I said eagerly, “I think I did.”
“And the King knows?”
“One of the first things he asked was where was the baby born.”
“And when he was told?”
“He made a strange remark. He said that Henry of Monmouth would gain a good deal and not reign long and Henry of Windsor would reign for a long time and lose a great deal. It seemed such an odd thing to say.”
“He may have been quoting some old prophecy. He must have had a premonition before he left, as he said he did not want the child to be born at Windsor.”
“It is baffling.”
“And what did he mean about reigning a short time? He is a great king. The people love him. He must reign for many years…and then…in due course…there will be another Henry to follow him.”
“But why did I stay? If I had known of this prophecy…or whatever it is…before, I should have done everything possible to get away from Windsor. And yet I had this compulsion to stay.”
Johan was thoughtful for awhile, then he said: “If we are going to take any account of this prophecy, we must say that it is God’s will that it should have happened as it did. There was nothing you could have done to change it.”
“I could have left Windsor. I could have made sure that my child was not born there, then he would not have been Henry of Windsor.”
“What is to be will be. If you had known of this you could have acted differently, it is true. But it was clearly not meant that you should know. You will forget this matter. It is a fancy which came into the mind of the King.”
“He is not given to fancies.”
“Perhaps we all are at times.”
“I wish that I knew what it meant.”
“God’s ways are mysterious. People have strange fancies…all of us do at times. Let us pray that all will be well with the King and his son.”
I was ready to do that with fervor.
And after a whil
e I ceased to worry. It had just been a fancy on Henry’s part. Such prophecies were meaningless. I had a strong and virile husband and a healthy baby.
I must rejoice.
The baptism of my son was carried out with the ceremony due to the heir to the throne. I said to Guillemote that it was difficult to imagine our little one with such a grand title.
Henry had chosen his godparents: his brother John, Duke of Bedford, and Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, Henry’s father’s half-brother. They were both men who were held in high esteem. His godmother was Jacqueline of Bavaria, who was immensely delighted to be given this honor. She was sure that it meant Henry had her good at heart and in time might even help her to regain her lost provinces.
Little Henry, I am proud to say, behaved with impeccable decorum at his baptism and he was the object of much admiration.
The time was passing and I knew that change must come. The inevitable happened. It was a summons from Henry for me to join him in France.
At first I made wild plans for taking the baby with me. Then I thought of the unpredictable stretch of water between me and Henry. It would be May, I reminded myself; and that would be very different from February when I had crossed before. Then I remembered the rough going across country and I knew I was deluding myself. Of course the baby would have to stay in England.
The Council had decided these matters for me. I was a fool to have thought it possible. I should never have been allowed to take little Henry with me.
It was arranged that he should be left in the care of his uncle Humphrey, the Duke of Gloucester, while the King and I were in France, so I had to prepare myself to say farewell to my baby.
“Well,” said Joanna Troutbeck, “you won’t see the baby, but the King will make up for that.”
I wanted to say that nothing would make up for parting with my baby, but of course there would be some consolation in Henry’s company, though experience had taught me not to expect too much of that. There would be the usual battles, the partings, the reunions, and never knowing from one hour to the next when he would be gone.
Duke Humphrey came to see me and the child.
He was very charming and told me I need have no anxieties about my son. Everything could be safely left to him.
He did not appear to be the sort of man who would interest himself in nurseries. But he would not have to do so, of course—just make sure that the right people were about the child and did their work efficiently. I should insist on Guillemote’s staying with him.
Jacqueline was with me at this time. She showed an interest in her young godson, but I was never sure how deeply her feelings went. I imagined she gave more thought to her lost possessions than to her godmother’s vows.
She met Humphrey. After all, the boy was under his care and she was his godmother. It should make a common interest.
I could see that they were rather attracted to each other, and it was not long—as I had guessed would be the case—before Jacqueline was telling him of her wrongs.
He knew what had happened, of course, and why she was in England, but he listened with the utmost sympathy.
“My dear lady,” he soothed, “how you have suffered! That uncle of yours is indeed a wicked man. And your husband…he allowed it to happen!”
“My husband no more!” she cried. “We are divorced. The Pope has annulled our marriage.”
“The Pope has agreed to this?”
“The Spanish Benedict.”
“He whom some call the anti-Pope?”
“Anti-Pope or not, he has been a good friend to me.”
“Then I will say he is a good pope.”
They laughed together. I had never seen Jacqueline so merry before.
She talked to him about the importance of what she had lost. Hainault, Holland, Zealand and Friesland…all gone to the wicked uncle through treachery.
“But I do not despair,” she said. “One day some gallant and noble knight will come to my aid.”
Duke Humphrey was smiling at her.
“There can be no doubt of that,” he said. “Godspeed the day.”
At length he left, reluctantly, and I remarked to my ladies that he had talked more to Jacqueline than to me.
“He seemed taken with her,” said Agnes.
“In my opinion,” said Joanna Courcy, “he is taken with Hainault, Holland, Zealand and Friesland.”
We all laughed, and I set about getting on with my preparations to leave.
John, Duke of Bedford, was to escort me to France. I had said my farewells to my baby and left him in Guillemote’s careful hands. She had assured me that I had nothing to worry about. The Duke of Gloucester had given me his word that when the baby’s household was arranged Guillemote should remain with him.
The crossing was fairly calm, and on landing I was accompanied by Bedford and 20,000 men to Vincennes.
Henry was in the wood there with my parents, waiting to greet me.
What an emotional reunion that was! Henry embraced me with fervor. I had been a little worried as to what his reaction would be after I had disobeyed him regarding little Henry’s birthplace; but he did not seem to remember that in his joy at seeing me.
My father embraced me with tears on his cheeks. I was fearful that the deep emotion might bring on one of his periods of madness.
“My daughter…my Katherine …” he murmured. “I am so proud of you.”
My mother, plumper than ever, gloriously appareled, perfumed and sparkling, kissed me with an outward display of affection.
“My dear, dear daughter,” she cried. “How wonderful for us to be together again. It has been so long. And now there is the little one. How I wish I could see him! Later on he must come here to be with me.”
Never, I thought; but I smiled pleasantly.
I rode side by side with Henry to our lodging, and at last we were alone.
I thought he looked a little strained, and when the first passionate reunion was over I asked tentatively about his health.
“I’m well enough, Kate,” he said. “A soldier’s life is not an easy one. We go from place to place, and Meaux was an obstinate city. I did not think they could hold out so long.”
“I was hoping this fighting would be over.”
“I doubt we shall ever be completely at peace here. These people…they have too much resistance.”
“They resent the conqueror. That is natural.”
“I know. I’d have a poor opinion of them if they were otherwise. But it makes the going hard.”
“They will go on resisting forever,” I said.
He nodded grimly. “That may be so, but where they rise against me, they will be put down. Never fear. Now…tell me of our son.”
“He is wonderful and beginning to know us. Everyone dotes on him.”
“And strong…and healthy?”
“He is the son of his father!”
It was the wrong thing to have said, I knew, because I saw a shadow pass across his face. Is he as well as he pretends to be? I wondered.
I knew that sooner or later he would broach the subject of Henry’s birthplace and I decided to mention it first.
“I am sorry,” I said, “that I did not get away from Windsor in time for the birth.”
“What kept you?”
“It was the weather,” I said quickly, suppressing the impulse to tell the truth and say, my own inclination.
“You left it until it was too late to venture out?”
I nodded. Then I was contrite. I put my arms about him and wept. “I am sorry, Henry. I am sorry. It was my fault. I should have gone before…I wanted to…I really did. But it was some compulsion.”
He stroked my hair and kissed me tenderly on the brow.
“Fret not, Kate,” he said. “You cannot go against what is to be.”
“I should have, Henry. I could have …”
“Let us forget it.”
“But you were so determined. It has spoiled your joy in our son.”
“It does not do to be fanciful. All will be well with our son…and with me.”
“You will make it so,” I said. “You are brave and strong; and nothing can ever succeed against you.”
“Except God’s will,” he reminded me. And then he added: “We can do no good by speaking of it. So forget it. It has to be. And we have been apart so long. I have thought of you constantly, and now you are here …”
I felt an immense relief sweep over me. I was forgiven. Indeed it seemed as though there was no question or need of forgiveness. If he believed the prophecy and that fate had decided it should come to pass, there was nothing anyone could have done to change it. On the other hand…if it were fanciful nonsense, why bother with it?
So…we would forget it. No harm could come to any of us while we had Henry to guard us.
I gave myself up to the pleasure of being with him again after our long separation.
It was Whitsun Eve when, beside Henry, I rode into Paris. How moving it was to ride through my native city. My mind slipped back, as it must do once again, to those days of poverty in the Hôtel de St.-Paul, and I marveled afresh at the strangeness of fate which had brought me back to ride side by side with the conqueror.
I did wonder what the people thought as they watched me—their own princess—now the wife of the victor.
They lined the streets all the way to the Louvre, shouting their loyal greetings.
My parents were not riding with us. That would have been too humiliating for my father, so he and my mother had gone by a different route to the Hôtel de St.-Paul.
I was richly clad with a crown on my head, to remind these people that I was their future Queen as well as the Queen of England.
It seemed disloyal when their real queen was with my father on the way to the dreary Hôtel de St.-Paul.
We rested that night at the Louvre.
Henry was very understanding and had noticed how quiet I had become.
When we were alone in our apartment, he took my chin in his hand and looked earnestly into my face. “This is a strange day for you, Kate,” he said.
“It is certain to make me feel a little bewildered to be back here in the city of my childhood.”
“All that is behind you,” he insisted. “We are here and this is how it should be. Think of this, Kate. I can do more for France than your father could.”
The Queen's Secret Page 14
