The Forbidden Queen

CHAPTER FOUR

London, England: February 1421.

‘I don’t want that tradition, my lord. I would like you to stand with me.’

‘There is no need to be emotional, Katherine.’

Our first disagreement on English soil. Our first full-scale quarrel because, instead of my habitual, careful dissimulation, I said the first words that came into my head.

‘What do you wear for this occasion?’ I had asked, surprised at the informality of Henry’s tunic and hose when I was clad from head to foot in leopards, fleur-delys and ermine. I stood before him, arms lifted to display my finery, as he broke his fast with a hearty appetite in our private chamber. It had taken an hour for my damsels—Beatrice, Meg, Cecily and Joan—to dress me. Now Henry and I were alone.

‘Do you not have a part to play in this?’

‘No.’ Henry looked up from a platter of venison, knife poised. ‘I won’t be there.’

‘Why not?’

‘It is your day. I’ll not take the honour from you.’

I tensed against a tremor of anxiety. I would have to face this shattering ordeal on my own. Already I felt perspiration on my brow and along my spine beneath the heavy fur. Would I ever be able to face such public display with the equanimity that Henry displayed? I did not think so.

‘If I asked you to come with me,’ I tried, ‘would you?’

Henry shook his head. ‘It is the tradition. A King does not attend his Queen’s coronation.’

‘But I don’t want that tradition, my lord. I would like you to stand with me.’

I heard the quiver in my voice, flinched at the formality I still clung to in moments of fear, as I envisaged the hours of ceremonial that I would have to face alone. So did Henry hear it.

‘There is no need to be emotional, Katherine.’

‘I am emotional.’

I felt as if I was being been abandoned in a cold and friendless place, a lamb to the slaughter. I had left the country of my birth with my sister’s ring, a portrait of Henry given to me by Lord John and a desire in my heart to prove myself worthy of my husband’s regard. At first I had looked to Henry, but he had his own affairs and his own manner of dealing with them.

Hardly had we set foot on English soil than it was writ plain. He left me at Canterbury, going on ahead to prepare my reception in London. I wished he hadn’t. I would rather forgo the reception and have him with me. The constant critical concern over my presence, my appearance, my knowledge of how I should comport myself, unnerved and baffled me.

Henry placed his knife carefully beside the platter, aligning it neatly as he sighed. ‘Your damsels will surround you and support you.’

I had enough acquaintance with my damsels to answer smartly, ‘My damsels sneer and scoff at my lack of confidence.’

‘That’s nonsense, Katherine.’ Impatience was gathering like a storm cloud on Henry’s brow. ‘They are only your servants. They will obey you.’

‘But they do not like me.’

‘They don’t have to like you. Their opinion is irrelevant.’

Ridiculously, I felt tears press against my eyelids. This momentous day was being ruined by my lack of assurance and Henry’s lack of understanding. My enjoyment was fast sliding away between the two.

‘My brothers will stand beside you. The archbishop will do all that needs to be done. And you, Katherine, will play the role to perfection.’ Henry rose to his feet and, collecting the pile of documents from beside his platter—of superbly inscribed gold craftsmanship, of course—walked from the room. At the door he halted and looked back. ‘We have been wed for six months now. It is time that you were able to present yourself with more regal authority.’

Henry stepped out, then stopped again to add, ‘You have a duty to this country as Queen and as my wife. It is time that you fulfilled that duty. In all its aspects.’

It was a final, blighting condemnation of my failure to bear a child for him. It was also an order, stated with cold exactitude, leaving me feeling awkward and foolish. And ungrateful, despite having been plucked from obscurity and made Queen of England with all the splendour of rank and honour. Yet how cold was English precedent! How rigidly formal the demands of ceremonial, when my husband was prevented from standing at my side to imbue me with his grace and confidence. Would I ever grow used to it? Growing up enclosed behind Poissy’s walls, I knew nothing of living so prominently in the eye of the Court.

‘I will fulfil my duty. Of course I will. But I do not wish to be there alone.’ I addressed his squared shoulder blades and formidably rigid spine.

Henry did not hear me. Or chose not to.

And now my coronation banquet, which should have filled me with a sense of my achievement, merely enforced my unworthiness. As I sat in the place of honour and smiled at my guests, all I could think of was who was there and who was not. These high-blooded members of the English royal family, these English nobles and princes of the church, would people my future existence and dictate the direction of my future life. I had no one of my own.

So I must become English.

There was Lord John, who had made me welcome from that very first occasion when the war between hunting cat and wolfhound had filled me with fear. He smiled at me and raised his cup in a silent toast. I could call him John and trust his friendship.

I slid a glance to my right, to Henry Beaufort, clad in all his magnificence as Bishop of Winchester. Thin-faced, sharp-eyed, quick and keen as a fox, this was Henry’s uncle, a man very close to all the Plantagenet brothers. He had welcomed me like a niece, assuring me of his good offices. I think he meant it but I sensed a strong streak of ambition, a man who would let no one stand in his path. He had a wily eye. He patted my hand and nodded his encouragement.

On my left was James, hopeful King of Scotland. Dear James. His jaunty irreverence was balm to my sore heart.

I tried not to look across the table, in case I caught his eye, for there sat Lord Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, another of Henry’s clutch of brothers, easily recognisable with the family traits of nose and brow, but his mouth had a sour twist. I recognised his dislike of me behind the false smile. Perhaps because I was French. Or my mother’s daughter. I was wary of him, and he was cool with me.

The one figure I looked for, and did not find, was that of Queen Dowager Joanna, Henry’s stepmother. Perhaps there was a reason for her absence. Perhaps her health was not good. I determined to ask Henry.

The banquet began. Because it was Lent, the range of magnificent dishes that were brought for our delectation was composed entirely of fish. Salmon and codling, plaice and crabs, sturgeon cooked with whelks—the variety was astonishing. And after each of the three courses a subtlety to honour me, a confection that elicited cries of wonder. A figure of me as Saint Catherine seated amongst angels, all constructed cleverly out of marchpane, then another of me holding a book. I hoped Saint Catherine was better able to master the contents than I. And then another Saint Catherine with her terrible wheel and a scroll in her hand, with gold crowns and fleurs-de-lys and a prancing panther, which made me laugh.

And where was Henry, to enjoy this moment with me? He would not be there because this was my day and he would not impose his own presence on it. The exchange, becoming increasingly impatient on his part and increasingly hopeless on mine, had ultimately undermined all my pleasure.

Oh, I wished I had more confidence. The weight of the jewelled crown on my head did nothing to enhance it. Why did I not have the assurance of Beatrice, who was laughing and simpering with the gallant on her right? How could a newly crowned and anointed Queen of England be so gauchely tongue-tied? I picked at the dish of eels roasted with goujons of turbot.

I made a token gesture of eating, yet when another dish, a crayfish in a golden sauce, was placed before me, I abandoned my spoon. This roused unsubtle debate over possible reasons why my appetite was impaired. Could it be that I carried England’s heir?

No, it could not. My ability to quicken was becoming an issue.

‘You were magnificent, Katherine.’

Back at the Tower, leaping to his feet as the little knot of us, full of laughter and comment, entered the room, Henry abandoned his cup of wine—for once he had been lounging at ease, ankles crossed, a hound at his feet—to clasp my shoulders in his strong hands and kissed my cheeks.

Delighted at such a show of spontaneous admiration, I returned his smile. The apprehension that had dogged me through the whole performance dropped away, along with the ermine cloak that Beatrice bore away to preserve for the next occasion. Henry’s praise expressed with such immediacy was a rare commodity and to be valued.

‘I think I did nothing wrong,’ I replied hopefully, as his hands slid down my arms to link fingers with mine. Joy spurted in my affection-starved heart.

‘You did it to the manner born,’ John assured me.

‘Very gracious, Your Majesty!’ James grinned.

Humphrey said nothing, busying himself with cups of Bordeaux.

‘You made a magnificent Queen,’ Bishop Henry added. ‘You would have been proud of your wife, Hal.’

‘So I am.’ Henry had forgotten our clash of the early morning and was in good humour, reminding me of our first meeting when he had allowed his admiration for me to shine in his eyes. ‘And a more beautiful one I could not have chosen. Did I not say from the beginning that you would make me a superb wife?’

He kissed my fingers, then my lips. He was proud of me. More than gratified, I tightened my hold, heart throbbing and my whole body flushed with my achievements and my love for this man who saw through my fragile facade to my possible strengths and encouraged me to stand alone. With him I would be confident. I would hold my head high.

‘Oh, Henry…’

What I would have said I had no idea, for I could hardly pour out my love at his feet, but Henry released my hands and turned to look at John. ‘About tomorrow…’

‘Bishop Henry said we would go on progress,’ I said, emotion still bubbling inside me. ‘So that the people of England will know me.’

‘I leave tomorrow,’ Henry said with a quick glance, taking the cup offered by Humphrey.

My belly lurched, clenched, but I kept my expression impassive. A Queen of England must exercise composure. ‘And what do I do?’ I asked carefully. My smile was pinned to my face.

‘Remain here. I intend to make a circuit of the west. And then I’ll go on to…’ I closed my eyes momentarily, accepting that Henry’s discussion of his itinerary was more for the benefit of his brothers and uncle than for mine. ‘They need to see me after so long in France. And I hope to call on their loyalty in hard cash. The army’s a constant drain—will you organise a body of royal commissioners to follow on behind to receive loans that are freely offered—or not so freely? It’s quicker than going cap in hand to Parliament.’

‘I’ll organise it,’ Humphrey offered.

‘Do I go with you?’ James asked wistfully.

Henry shook his head. ‘Stay in London.’

So he was rejected too. Since there was no reason for me to stay with what was fast becoming a discussion of financial and military policy, masking my raw dismay behind a spritely step, I made my way to the door.

‘If you will excuse me, my lords.’

Henry looked up from the list of loans already promised, handed to him by Humphrey. He promptly cast the list aside and covered the space between us.

‘Forgive me, Katherine. How unthinking I was, and after your glorious day.’ His smile was wry. ‘I know you’ll understand by now that when I am focused on the next campaign, I forget the needs of those around me.’ The smile twisted, even more ruefully, appealingly. ‘I’ll not abandon you completely,’ he said. ‘I have made plans for you to join me at Kenilworth. We will go on from there together to the north. We’ll enjoy a somewhat late honeymoon, without the pressure of battles and sieges. You’ll like that, won’t you?’

‘Oh, yes!’

All my hopefulness returned. So I was not to be entirely cut out of his life. If we travelled slowly together and he was not engaged in warfare, if I could match the sort of wife he wanted and show him that I loved him, then he would come to love me. I knew that he would.

Henry came to me that night, entering my room without a knock, and I was pleased to stretch out my hand in greeting. Stripping off his clothes, he assuaged his need with customary efficiency and speed.

‘Stay with me,’ I invited. ‘Stay with me because tomorrow you will leave me.’

‘I cannot, Katherine. Not tonight. When we are on progress, then I will. But I have too many demands on my time as yet.’

And I am not one of them.

‘Will you miss me?’ I asked, ingenuously. ‘Will you miss me just a little?’

He looked surprised. ‘Of course. Are you not the bride I always wanted?’

‘I do hope so,’ I replied.

‘You are, without a doubt.’

With a kiss to my lips, a smile and a graceful bow, at odds with his informal chamber robe, Henry left me holding tight to his assurances. As it must with any woman, it crossed my mind: did Henry, handsome and powerful, perhaps have a lover? Did he go from my bed to the arms of one of the palace servants who could entice him with sharp wit and languorous caresses?

I did not think so; I had no earthly rival. I had to fight against a God-ordained obligation to England and Henry’s vision of his country as the pre-eminent power in Europe. I did not think I would ever emerge the victor in such a contest.

Holy Mother, have mercy on me. At my prie-dieu I prayed harder than I had ever prayed. If I carried the heir he so desperately desired, Henry might acknowledge me as part of his dream for the future, rather than as a burden to be shouldered or put aside as time and necessity dictated.

‘How does a woman fall for a child?’ I asked. Alice’s much-vaunted feverfew was not working. ‘What must I do to ensure my fertility?’

What a collection of raised brows and rounded mouths. Prayer was good, but I knew I must take counsel elsewhere. I steeled myself to it.

There was a silence in the artlessly decorative group of damsels, stitching and reading in the late afternoon.

Had I shocked them? Did English Queens not ask such intimate questions? I felt my face colour with heat but my need was greater than my shame. They—my damsels—had been universally cool since our establishment back in their own milieu. Poised, at ease in the ceremonial ways of the court, I thought that they scorned my lack of aplomb. Respectful for the most part, for they would not deign to be less than deferential towards the King’s wife, there was no warmth for their foreign mistress. I found them hard to read. I had made no friends there. With no practice in making friends, I had no pattern of experience to use to court and win affection.

But this was urgent. I needed advice.

Meg pursed her lips. ‘Your hips are very small, my lady, for sure. It can make childbearing difficult.’

My hands clenched into fists, well hidden in the soft silk of my skirts. So the fault was mine that I did not conceive. As perhaps it was, but I heard the disdain for my failure behind the carefully phrased fact.

‘His Majesty is capable, my lady,’ Beatrice observed. They would know how often Henry came to my bedchamber, of course.

‘Yes.’ The heat in my face became more intense.

Joan, the youngest of my damsels, with a kinder eye, spoke up. ‘My sister says that if you grind the dried testicle from a wild pig into powder, mix it in wine and drink it, the result is excellent.’

‘Do we have a testicle of a wild pig?’ I heard myself asking, unnerved at the advice.

A silence. A pause. Then my damsels erupted into laughter, with an edge that was, to my mind, not kind at all. I thought they looked at me with pity, even when Alice took them to task.

‘I have heard of such a nostrum, Joan, but that was not helpful. Unless you are volunteering to go and kill a wild pig for us? And you can take Beatrice with you. Her scowl will kill a boar at twenty paces. I think we can do better. If you carry a walnut in its shell, my lady, it will strengthen your womb and aid fertility.’

‘If you eat walnuts, it is said to cure madness.’

I froze, heated skin now pale and cold at this unexpected wounding. Anguish ripped through me that Cecily would make it so personal an attack. Could they be so deliberately cruel? I turned to her, prepared to defend my father.

‘Enough, Cecily!’ It was Beatrice who came to my aid. ‘Your manners are not what your mother would wish for you. I suggest you say a rosary before dinner and pray to the Holy Virgin for humility.’

While to me, with compassion in her face, Alice advised, ‘We will tuck some leaves of polygonum bistorta into your sleeves. And if you will eat some of the seeds of the Helianthus flowers, my lady…’

‘And you, Cecily, might pray that fragility of mind never touches one of your family.’ Beatrice continued her admonitions to my pert damsel. But I knew that Beatrice’s loyalty was to Henry and the as yet unconceived heir rather than to me.

‘Forgive me, my lady.’ Cecily’s eyes dropped before mine.

‘Thank you,’ I said to Alice, smiling at Beatrice, hanging on to dignity.

‘It’s early days,’ soothed Alice. Then added sternly, ‘And this flock of clucking fowl should know better than to mock a woman in such need.’

My damsels sniffed at the reprimand and laughed in corners, even when they knew I would hear them.

No, I made no friends with my ladies in waiting.

Perhaps it was at Leicester where I eventually caught up with Henry on his progress. Or perhaps it was York. Or even Beverley. Or perhaps I did not actually go to Beverley. I remember Henry enveloping me in his arms, lifting me from my litter, welcoming me with gratifying heat, but in the end one town merged with yet another, towns I did not know and have little memory of, where the inhabitants thronged the streets to cheer us, fêting us with banquets and entertainments and lavish gifts of gold and silver. So pleased they were to see and entertain their King after so long an absence.

And his new French wife, of course. Henry continued in good mood, receiving the professions of loyalty with gracious words, before demanding taxes and reinforcements for the renewal of war. I knew the direction of Henry’s thoughts. How could I not, when boxes of documents accompanied us, packed into carts that lumbered along in our wake? But Henry smiled and bowed and was careful to wish me good morning and ask after my health.

After my failure to fulfil his hopes on that last night in London at the Tower, Henry occupied my bed with flattering frequency, his desire for an heir taking precedence even over the Exchequer rolls. With tender kisses and chivalrous consideration, he put me at my ease, and I felt more attuned to Henry than I had ever been.

‘I am proud of you, Katherine,’ he said more than once when I had helped him charm the citizens of some town into subscribing to the royal coffers.

‘That pleases me,’ I replied.

Henry kissed me on my mouth. ‘I knew you would be an excellent wife.’

And my heart kicked against my ribs in a not unpleasant reaction. This was the closeness I had looked for. When he took the time to escort me through the fine streets of York and into the magnificent Minster, I could not believe my good fortune. Henry was indulgent and I relaxed when he held my hand and introduced me as his incomparable wife.

But at Beverley—or perhaps it was York—there was an unnerving change. I saw the exact moment it happened.

We had taken possession of yet another suite of chilly and inconvenient rooms in the accommodations belonging to the church, and letters arrived at daybreak as we broke our fast after Mass. There was nothing unusual in this to draw my attention from the prospect of two hours watching the craftsmen of the town perform yet another play of their own devising. Noah and the Flood, and the whole array of animals—or at least a goodly sum of them portrayed by the masked children of the guild families.

Henry opened the documents one after the other, one hand dealing efficiently with bread and beef, the other smoothing out the well-travelled parchments. He read rapidly, with a brief smile or a grunt and a nod, pushing them aside into two neat piles, one for immediate attention, the other for disposal. Henry was nothing if not meticulous.

And then he hesitated. His hand clenched the letter he held. Very carefully he placed the bread and the letter on the table, and brushed the crumbs from his fingers. His eyes never left the written words.

‘What is it?’ I asked, putting down my spoon. The stillness in him was disquieting.

I might not have spoken. Henry continued to read to the end. And then started again at the top. When it was finished, he folded the document and tucked it into the breast of his tunic.

‘Henry?’ By this time I had progressed from the formal address of ‘my lord’.

Henry slowly raised his eyes to my face. His expression did not change by even the least tightening of muscles but I thought the news was ill. The opaque darkness of his eyes, reminiscent of the dark pewter of the puddles in the courtyard of my childhood home under a winter sky, told of something that had displeased or worried him. His lips parted as if to speak.

‘Is it danger?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘No danger. No.’ It was as if he shook his reactions back into life, to re-engage his senses. Bread and meat forgotten, he clenched his hand round the cup at his elbow and gulped the last of his ale.

‘Is it bad news, then?’ For however much he might struggle to maintain it, something had unexpectedly shattered his impassivity.

Stiff-limbed, Henry stood. ‘We are expected to attend the mummers and official welcome this morning.’ As if I did not already know. ‘Be ready at eleven of the clock.’

He walked from the room with no further comment or explanation, my astonished gaze following him. And the day passed as so many before, with Henry the ultimate monarch, charmingly attentive to his loyal subjects, delighting them with his attention to their preparations but completely devoid of emotion. Noah’s ark might have sunk without trace and the animals met a watery death for all the enjoyment he had in it.

‘Henry.’ I tried as we sat side by side to sample the meats and puddings at the formal banquet. ‘Has something happened to disturb you?’

I could not imagine what it might be. The obvious answer was a reversal in English interests in France, but that would have prompted a council of war, not a withdrawal into oyster-like silence. Was it rebellion in England? If so, we would not be sitting here calmly eating the beef and toasting the health of our hosts, who still wore the costumes of their lively play. So not rebellion.

‘Not a thing,’ Henry replied, sotto voce, ‘unless it is the toughness of this meat. I advise you to try the fish.’

I gave up.

Henry did not honour me with his attentions that night. I had hoped he might. Could I not persuade him to tell me what was in his heart? But he did not come.

Next morning, when we were to attend Mass, as I made my way to the private chapel we had used on previous mornings, I was informed by one of Henry’s squires that Mass would be celebrated in the body of the church with a full congregation from the town.

Escorted there, I found Henry already kneeling. Conscious of my tardiness, I knelt at his side without comment. He acknowledged me with an inclination of his head, no more than a glance, but there was time for nothing more as the polyphony began and the bishop took his place before the altar. A quiet stillness settled in me as the familiar words and gestures of the priest wrapped round me and my mind was overwhelmed by the intense colours from the great east window. The blue of lapis and cobalt, the blood red of rubies and garnets. Everything was as it should be. Of course nothing was amiss. Would Henry not have said?

There—there were the prayers for Henry and England, for me his Queen and—

My breath caught on an inhalation as the bishop’s less than sonorous tones rolled out.

‘We pray for the departed soul of Thomas, the Duke of Clarence.’

Thomas, Duke of Clarence. Henry’s brother. Dead! When had this happened? Hands gripped tight, I glanced across at Henry, but his gaze was fixed on the altar.

‘… cruelly done to death in France. We thank God for his courageous life and pray for his departed soul.’

Henry’s brother was dead. So that was the news that had arrived. He had known since the previous morning and had said nothing to me. I might have no experience of family relations with my brothers except for suspicion and hostility, but Henry had a keen closeness with his brothers. How could he show so little grief? If Michelle were dead, would I not grieve? I would not be silent. I would weep, howling out my hurt for all to hear. My chest was tight, my breathing shallow, my emotions all awry: my sorrow was for Henry, but why had he not told me the truth?

The Mass proceeded to its end, and as we walked side by side from the vast arch of the church into the sunlit warmth of the churchyard, I stopped, caught hold of the fullness of Henry’s tunic and faced him.

‘You have known of this since yesterday,’ I stated. ‘Since the letter arrived.’

‘Yes.’

‘Was it a battle?’

‘Yes. At Bauge.’ He was silent for a long moment, looking back towards the precise carving of leaves and flowers, interspersed with grinning stone faces, that rioted around the doorway, but I did not think he saw them. His mind was in France, on a battlefield where English pride had been trampled in the dust and a royal brother done to death, and behind his implacable mask I saw his sorrow. Would I actually have to ask if it was an English defeat?

‘Was it…?’

‘It was a rout,’ he remarked impassively, gaze snapping back to my face. ‘Your inestimable brother the Dauphin all but destroyed my army and killed my brother. Thomas rode against superior forces and was cut down in the thick of it. He was one of the first to die. Bad tactics, I warrant you—he always had more courage than sense and to wear a jewelled coronet on his helmet was downright foolhardy. But still. My army was beaten and my brother slain.’

‘Oh.’ It was worse than I had thought, and for a moment Henry’s features were raw with the grief he had so effectively hidden.

‘His body was recovered. It will be brought back to England for burial.’

‘Good. That’s good, of course.’

But the grief had gone and Henry’s eyes were cold and searching, as if he could find the answer to his question in my face. ‘It is a great loss. Such a defeat is catastrophic for us at this point in the war. Are we so vulnerable? It will make my task so much harder…’

‘Henry!’

I did not care. I did not care about the war. I did not care about our escort of knights and servants and men-at-arms who thronged behind us, hindered from leaving the church by our halting. All I cared about was his incomprehensible silence on so personal a matter that must have wounded him. Why could he not tell me? Was I, his wife, not to be allowed to give him comfort? But when I placed my hand softly on his forearm in compassion, I felt the muscles beneath the fine cloth instantly stiffen against me. I let my hand fall away.

‘Why did you not tell me?’ However much I might try to suppress it, I could hear the anger in my low-voiced interruption. ‘When I asked you yesterday, you said there was nothing untoward. The whole day passed, and you did not tell me.’

He looked at me as if he could not understand my complaint.

‘I did not tell you. I told no one.’

‘But why not me? I am your wife. And your brother is dead. Did you think I would not care?’ My heart was sore for him. ‘I would mourn with you. I would—’

‘What could you have done?’ he interrupted.

‘I could have given you comfort. Am I incapable of giving you some solace?’

His smile was bleak, barely a smile at all. ‘I did not need it. I don’t need it now. What I need to do is take action to forestall the French advance.’

Thoughts crept into my head. Chilling doubts. The defeat had, of course, been at the hands of my brother. However hard it was, I looked into Henry’s eyes. Had he decided that my Valois blood was more of a danger than a blessing? But his eyes were lightless, empty of either understanding for my predicament or judgement of my possible loyalties. I did not think that he understood at all.

‘Come,’ he said.

I held my ground. ‘Did you not trust me with the news?’ I asked. ‘Is that it? Did you think I would cry it from the rooftops to cast your precious English citizens into despair?’ And an even worse thought joined the others. ‘Or did you think I might secretly rejoice at a French victory over your brother and crow over his death?’

‘Don’t be foolish, Katherine.’ The tone, thick with disdain, slithered over me.

‘I am French, am I not? Is it not possible that I would wish my brother well?’

‘Curb your tongue,’ he ordered. ‘Such thoughts are unworthy of you and demeaning to me. And we are drawing attention to ourselves. We will give the populace no cause for prurient interest.’

His fingers closed around my arm and he propelled me through the churchyard, so fast that I was forced to lengthen my stride to keep up with him. He was smiling for the sake of those who had come to bow and scrape, but his hand gripped like a vice. As soon as we had reached our accommodations and closed the outer door on the populace, he released me as if his hand was scalded. But I continued, driven on by a cold grip around my heart.

‘I am so sorry. I did not intend to demean either you or myself, Henry.’

‘Katherine.’ He turned his back on me, weariness now in his voice. ‘It is done. Leave it now. My brother, God rest his soul, is dead. The battle was a disaster. What more to say, for either of us? You can do or say nothing that could give me comfort or make it more acceptable to me that Thomas is dead. Let it lie.’

I bit down on my lip, silenced at last. ‘I am sorry. I am so sorry for your grief.’ Nothing could have made it plainer that he did not need me, or even want me with him. I waited, expecting him to say more, but he did not.

‘Will you go to France?’ I asked eventually.

‘No. I told your father that I would return in midsummer to restart the campaign, and that is when I will go. Now I have business to attend to.’ And I was shrugged off, the door to his chamber closed against me.

Did he find no value in any words of consolation I might offer, or even in the simple touch of my hand on his? As I stood outside that closed door, all I was aware of was a vast tide of loneliness sweeping up to enclose me. Why are you waiting here? I asked myself. What is there to wait for?

Nothing.

Henry came to my bed that night. I did not think his heart was in it even though his body responded magnificently. It took very little time.

‘Stay with me,’ I invited in despair, as I had once in London, as he shrugged into his chamber robe.

Why would he not stay with me? It was what I wanted more than anything, to lie in his arms and listen to him talk, of his own ambitions, of the loss of his brother. That was what I wanted more than anything in the world, and if I could show him that I was not treasonably French but a loyal wife who cared for his grief and the destruction of his plans, then it was all I could ask for.

I watched from my bed as Henry, pulling up a low stool, sat to slide his feet into a pair of soft shoes. He stopped, arms resting on his knees, and looked down at his loosely clasped hands.

‘Stay,’ I repeated, holding out my hand. ‘I’m sorry I was angry. Perhaps I did not understand.’

When he shook his head, I allowed my hand to fall to the bedcover, my heart falling with it, remembering that Henry did not like to be touched unless he invited it. Yet still I would try. ‘Do we go on to Lincoln by the end of the week?’ I asked.

‘I will go to Lincoln, yes.’

‘Where will we stay? Another bishop’s palace with no heating and poor plumbing?’

‘I will go to Lincoln,’ he repeated. ‘And you will return to London.’

I felt the cold begin to spread outward from my heart. ‘I thought I would travel with you, to the end of the progress.’

‘No. It’s all arranged. You’ll travel to Stamford, then through Huntingdon and Cambridge and Colchester.’ Henry listed them, all already planned, everything in place, with no room for my own wishes. ‘They are important towns and you will make formal entries and woo the populace in my name. It is important that you are seen there.’

‘Would it not be better for me to be seen at your side?’ I asked. ‘A French Queen, whom you hold in esteem, despite the defeat?’

‘Your loyalty is not in question,’ he stated brusquely.

I sat up, holding out my hands, palms up, in the age-old gesture of supplication. ‘Let me come with you, Henry. I don’t think we should be parted now.’

But Henry stood and moved to sit on the bed beside me. At first he did not touch me, then he reached out a hand to stroke my hair, which lay unconfined on my shoulders.

‘Why would you wish to? You’ll be far more comfortable at Westminster or the Tower.’

‘I want to travel with you. I have seen so little of you since we were first wed, and soon you’ll be back in France.’

‘You’ll see enough of me,’ he remarked, as if it was a matter of little consequence how many hours we spent in each other’s company.

‘No.’ I twisted my fingers into the stiffly embroidered lions on his cuff, and said what I had always resisted saying. ‘I love you, Henry.’ Never had I dared speak those words, or even hint at my feelings, fearful of reading the response in that austere face. Now I said them in a bid to remain with him, to make him realise that I could be more to him than I was, and I waited wide-eyed for his response.

‘Of course. It is good that a wife loves her husband.’

It was not what I had hoped for. Merely a trite comment such as Guille had made on my wedding night. My belly clenched with disappointment.

Do you love me, Henry?

I dared not ask. Would he not tell me if he did? Or did he simply presume that I knew? A voice whispered in my mind, a voice of good but brutal sense: He does not love you, so there is nothing to say. I held tight to the emotions that rioted nauseously within my ribcage.

‘Then stay with me tonight,’ I said before my courage could die. ‘If we are to be parted, stay with me now.’

‘I have letters to write to France.’

I swallowed the disappointment that filled my mouth. I would not ask again. At that moment I knew that I would never ask again.

‘You must make ready to leave at daybreak,’ he said.

‘I will do whatever you wish,’ I replied, weakly compliant. But I knew in my heart that there was no changing his mind.

‘You will prefer it.’ Henry stood. You will prefer it, I thought.

‘I will be ready. Henry…’ He halted at the door and looked back. ‘You don’t really think I would rejoice in my brother’s victory, do you?’

For a moment he looked as if he was considering the matter and my heart lurched. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you would. I know you have no love for the Dauphin. And I think you have little interest in politics and what goes on in the war.’

I forced myself to show no reaction, no resentment. ‘So you don’t condemn me for my birth and past loyalties.’

‘No. How should I? I knew the complications when I took you in marriage. Don’t worry about it, Katherine. Your position as my wife is quite secure.’ He opened the door. ‘And will become even stronger when you give birth to England’s heir.’

And he closed the door at his back, reinforcing the reason he had come to me when his heart was heavy with grief for his brother. Not for comfort, or to spend a final hour with me, but to get a child on me before he parcelled me off to London so that I might sit in the vast rooms of Westminster with the heir to England growing inside me.

A bleak fury raged within me, a desolation so deep that I should ever have thought that he could love me. He did not. He never had, he never would. Even affection seemed to be beyond what he could give me. He could play the chivalrous prince and woo me with fine words, he could possess my body with breathtaking thoroughness, but his emotions were not involved. His heart was as coldly controlled as his outer appearance.

And—the anger burned even brighter—he had judged me to be nothing more than an empty-headed idiot, incapable of comprehending the difficulties of his foreign policies or the extent of his own ambitions. I was an ill-informed woman who had little wit and could not be expected to take an interest. I may have been ill informed when he first met me, but I had made it a priority to ask and learn. I was no longer ignorant and knew very well the scope of Henry’s vision to unite England and France under one strong hand.

It was during that lonely night that I accepted that, even as I grieved for Henry’s loss of a beloved brother, my marriage was a dry and arid place. Why had it taken me so long to see what must have been obvious to the whole court?

I rose at dawn, my mind clear. If all Henry wanted was an obedient, compliant wife who made no demands on him, then that was what he would have. Not waiting for Guille, I began to pack my clothes into their travelling coffers. Obedient and compliant? I would be exactly what he wanted, and after Mass and a brief repast, both celebrated alone—Henry was elsewhere—I stepped into the courtyard where my travelling litter already awaited me. Before God, he was thorough.

It crossed my mind that the accounts of taxes paid and unpaid might prove a more beguiling occupation than wishing me God speed, but there he was, waiting beside the palanquin, apparently giving orders to the sergeant-at-arms who would lead my escort. It did nothing to thaw out my heart. Of course he was conscious of my safety: after last night—might I not be carrying the precious heir to England and France?

‘Excellent,’ he said, turning as he heard the brisk clip of my shoes on the paving. ‘You will make good time.’

My smile was perfectly performed. ‘I would not wish to be tardy, my lord.’

‘Your accommodations will be arranged for you in Stamford and Huntingdon. Your welcome is assured.’

‘I expect they will.’ I held out my hand. Henry kissed my fingers and helped me into the litter, beckoning for more cushions and rugs for my comfort.

‘I will be in London at the beginning of May, when Parliament will meet.’

‘I will look for you then, my lord.’

The muscles of my face ached with the strain of smiling for so long, and I really could not call him Henry.

At a signal we moved off. I did not look back. I would not wish to know if Henry stayed to see my departure or was already walking away before my entourage had passed from the courtyard. And thus I travelled quite magnificently with a cavalcade of armed outriders, servants, pages and damsels. The people of England flocked to see their new Queen even though the King was not at her side.

In Stamford and Huntingdon and Cambridge I was made to feel most welcome, I was feasted and entertained most royally, my French birth proving not to be a matter for comment. It should have been a series of superb triumphal entries, but rather a deluge of rejection invaded every inch of my body. I meant nothing to Henry other than as a vessel to carry my precious blood to our son, so that in his veins would mingle the right to wear both English and French crowns. I should have accepted it from the very beginning. I had been foolish beyond measure to live for so long with false hopes. But no longer.

My naïvety, constantly seeking Henry’s love for me when it did not exist, was a thing of the past. His heart was a foreign place to me, his soul encased in ice.

Why had I not listened to Michelle? It would have saved me heartbreak if I had. And although I knew from past experience that tears would bring no remedy, yet still I wept. My final acknowledgement of my place in Henry’s life chilled me to the bone.