The Forbidden Queen

by Anne O'Brien

  There was no leisure to be had at Vincennes. We moved on to Paris almost immediately for a ceremonial entry in the heat of May, our arrival timed to match that of my parents. We stayed at the Louvre in cushioned luxury, Isabeau and my father consigned to the worn and shabby rooms of the Hôtel de St Pol. My father was too indisposed to notice. Isabeau merely scowled her disapproval when Henry bowed to her.

  Henry and I received visitors, both English and French, we attended banquets too many to count and we watched the Mystery of St George. Henry shuffled throughout and made his excuse before the final bow of the brave knight after his dispatch of the terrible dragon.

  ‘I’ll sit through this no longer,’ he growled, and stalked from the chamber, leaving me to smile brightly to smooth over any ill feelings. The next day we packed up and, detouring to visit the tombs of my ancestors at St Denis, travelled on to Senlis, where Henry made it clear that we would remain for a short time.

  ‘Thank God!’ I remarked to John. ‘At least we can draw breath.’ Even though Isabeau and my father had followed hard on our heels. ‘Perhaps he can rest at last.’

  In all this time Henry had not shared my bed for even an hour, which in itself was a source of anxiety for me. One son left a throne weak. I would imagine that Henry would want more, and that this would be too good an opportunity for him to miss. How many more days could we guarantee that we would be together? But he did not. Fine drawn, strung with nerves, Henry avoided me, and I knew better than to suggest any of Alice’s nostrums. I dared not. The tension around Henry was sharp as his goshawk’s talons.

  I dared not, not even when Henry came to my room that final night, when I least expected it, when I had given up hope. As I was kneeling at my prie-dieu, he entered quietly, pushing the door closed at his back and leaning against it. His face was in shadow but I could not mistake the dark smudges of exhaustion below his eyes. Where his chamber robe fell away from his neck, the tendons stood out in high relief. For a long moment he did not move. He was looking at me but I did not think he saw me.

  ‘Henry…’

  It was the first time we had been alone together since I had returned to France. Unnerved, I stood and I stretched out my hand, my mind suddenly flooded with compassion. Where was the pride, the stern composure? Here was a man suffering from some terrible weight, but whether of mind or body I did not know. Instinct told me that he needed me, and I would respond with all the generosity in my heart, but would he tell me what troubled him?

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said softly.

  For what I was uncertain, neither did I ask when Henry took my hand and led me to the bed, where he pushed me to sit on the edge. I would allow him to do as he wished if it would bring him relief from the pain in his clenched jaw and tired eyes. He sat beside me, his actions spare and controlled, and, leaning, he pressed his lips where my pulse beat at the base of my throat, his hand pushing my shift from my shoulders. When his kisses grew deep, almost with desperation in them, I clung to him. Then Henry groaned against my throat, becoming still. His eyes were closed, every muscle braced.

  ‘Henry?’

  He flung away, to lie supine beside me. Then: ‘Before God, I cannot do this.’ And turned to press his face against my hair. ‘I can’t. Do you know what it takes for me to admit that?’

  Despite the nerves that were clenched hard in my belly, compassion ran strong through my blood. There was some problem here, one even greater than I had feared, that Henry could not control. My hands, holding tight to his shoulders, becoming aware of the sharpness of bone and sparseness of flesh, told their own story.

  ‘You are unwell,’ I murmured. I slid my palms down from his shoulders, along the length of his arms where the muscles had wasted. I pushed the robe away from his chest, and I could see his collarbone stark beneath his skin. ‘What is it?’ I whispered, horrified.

  His attempt at a smile, perspiration standing out on his forehead, was a poor one. ‘The usual soldiers’ disease—a bout of dysentery. But I’m on the mend—although this seems worse than I can ever recall.’

  ‘But you are not on the mend,’ I observed carefully, fearful of driving him away in a bout of pride. ‘It has gone on too long, hasn’t it? I think we should send for your doctor from England.’

  He stiffened. I thought he would refuse, then he capitulated, which said much for his state of mind. ‘Yes. I can’t say no, can I?’

  ‘I will send for him. To come here—or to Vincennes?’

  ‘Here—to Senlis. I will come back here after the next battle. It shouldn’t be long.’ His voice was a mere thread, the old scar on his face standing out, angry and livid.

  ‘I don’t think you should go,’ I remonstrated, but again gently. Henry was in no state to be harangued, even if I thought it would do any good. ‘You are not well enough. You drive yourself too hard. You should stay here and recover your health.’

  His response, on a laboured intake of breath, was predictable. ‘It has to be done. I’ll fight your brother at Cosne, and defeat him.’ He kissed me, a perfunctory brush of lips, on my brow. ‘God will give me the strength I need. I’ll deal with the rebels and then I’ll come back here.’

  ‘We should go home.’ I tried to keep the distress from my voice. ‘You should see your son.’

  ‘Yes. You’re right, of course. I’ll leave John in command here.’ He kissed me again. ‘I can’t rest…I can’t sleep.’ I had never seen him so close to despair.

  ‘Stay,’ I said, as I had so many times before, but now with a difference. ‘Stay and sleep.’

  And he did. For the first time Henry spent the whole night in my bed. Restless and plagued by dreams, he found little healing, but I stayed awake at his side in an anxiety-filled vigil, trying to quell my mounting fears. His flesh was heated, his hands curling into claws as his head thrashed on the pillows. As I covered Henry once again with the disordered bed linens, all I could see was a man driven beyond endurance by some monstrous assault.

  He is strong. He will overcome this.

  Henry cried out, shouting in anguish, as if wounded or facing an enemy on the battlefield.

  My heart sore, I kissed his cheek, smoothed back his matted hair and wept.

  The next morning, somewhat restored, although still ice pale, Henry went to Vincennes with his army, taking John and James with him. I sent to London for his doctor, who arrived and waited with me. We both waited, with my mad father and my ever-complaining mother for company, through the long, hot month of August. All I knew was that Henry was still at Vincennes, and that I had never found time to talk to him about the injustice of Madam Joanna. But I would when I saw him again.

  I prayed. The beads, carved ivory and jet, clicked through my fingers in perpetual petition that the Blessed Virgin would watch over my husband and restore him to health.

  When Lord John was announced in the solar of the old palace where I sat with my mother and the handful of damsels who had accompanied me, the silence between us—for what had we to say to each other?—masked by a lute player, I sprang to my feet, delighted to see a familiar face, abandoning my needlework to Beatrice’s care. John would have news of the campaign and perhaps a message from Henry. He would also have some conversation to while away even an hour of my time. He came to an abrupt halt just within the door, pushing gauntlets and helm into the hands of the surprised servant who had announced him.

  ‘John.’ I approached with hands outstretched in welcome, my heart light. ‘What brings you? And James too.’

  For there behind him, similarly clad in a metal-riveted brigandine, gripping gloves and sword, was James Stewart.

  ‘My lady.’ John bowed to me, and to my mother. James’s inclination of the head was cursory in the extreme.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked. ‘We didn’t expect you. Is the battle at Cosne won?’

  ‘No, my lady. The battle has not been fought,’ John replied, lips stiff, voice raw.

  It seemed to me that there could be only one reason. ‘
Has my brother then surrendered?’ But a sudden touch of apprehension prickled over my skin. How formal he was. But perhaps it was simply the presence of my mother that had made him circumspect. It was hard to read anything from the dust-engraved lines on his face, unless it was weariness from the journey.

  ‘No, no.’ Lord John hesitated. ‘The Dauphin has withdrawn from the siege. There will be no battle.’

  ‘Then what…?’

  ‘I am here…’ As he stepped forward into an angled shaft of light from the high window, I saw that his face was a graven mask, imprinted with far more than weariness. ‘It is the King, my lady. The King.’

  What was this? I frowned at the unaccustomed formality. ‘Henry—has he then recovered? Do I go to join him?’

  ‘No, my lady. Not that.’

  Dark dread began to close around my heart, but I clung to what I knew must be the truth. Henry would control the situation, the reins firmly in his hand, as skilfully as a knight would direct his mount when riding in the lists. How could the news be bad if both sides had withdrawn from battle? ‘Does he come here, then, to Senlis?’ I asked.

  John drew in a breath. ‘No…’

  The sense of terror, dark and bottomless, began to grip harder, so hard that I could barely take a breath. ‘What is it, John?’ I whispered with a terrible premonition. ‘James?’ I glanced at the silent King of Scotland. ‘Will you not tell me?’

  James looked away.

  ‘Have pity,’ I whispered.

  It was John who told me in the end. ‘Henry is dead.’

  The words dropped like a handful of pebbles, cast to clatter onto the floor in an empty room. I looked up, away from John, my attention caught, as if I had missed something. Perhaps a bird flown in through the open window to flutter and cheep in panic. Or a murmur of gossip from the damsels. Or Thomas entering with a platter of wine and sweetmeats. Or even my father, come to discover where in France he actually was.

  No bird. No conversation. No page or father. No sound except for an echoing silence. Every detail of that room seemed to be fine etched in my mind. My mother was staring at me, her embroidery abandoned in her lap. My damsels seemed frozen in time and space, silent and still as carved statues.

  Inconsequentially I marked that the lute player had stopped playing and was looking at me, open-mouthed. That John’s boots and clothing were mud-spattered, that James’s hair, curled on his neck, was matted and sweat-streaked. They must have ridden hard and fast. How strange that they had not sent a courier to tell me about this vital matter that had brought them hotfoot from Vincennes to Senlis…But—I shook my head, trying to release my thoughts from some muffling cloud.

  What was it that John had just said?

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t…’ I heard myself murmur.

  ‘Henry is dead,’ John repeated. ‘He died two days ago. I am here to tell you, Katherine. I thought it was my duty to come in person.’

  Duty! All was black. My sight, my mind. These words, so gently spoken by a man whom I would call friend, could not be true. Was it a lie? Had it been said to deliberately cause me hurt? My mind shimmered, unable to latch onto the meaning of those three words.

  Henry is dead.

  ‘No.’

  Although my lips formed it, I could not even speak the denial. The floor moved under my feet, seeming to lurch towards me as my sight darkened, sparkling with iridescent points of light, jewel bright, that all but blinded me. I felt my knees weakening and stretched out for something solid to catch hold of…And as I felt John clasp my arm, in a rush of silk damask my mother was at my side, catching hold of me with her nails digging into my hand, her voice as harsh as that of a crow’s warning in my ear.

  ‘Katherine!’

  I heard a mew of pain—my own voice.

  ‘You will not faint,’ my mother muttered. ‘You will not show weakness. Stand up straight, daughter, and face this.’

  Face what? Henry is dead. It couldn’t be.

  A cup of wine was pushed into my hand by Thomas, but I did not drink, even though my throat felt as raw as if it was full of sand. Unheeded, my fingers opening numbly, the cup fell to the floor and liquid splashed over my skirts.

  ‘Katherine! Show the courage of your Valois blood!’

  And at last, at my mother’s command, I drew myself up and forced my mind to work.

  ‘Two days ago,’ I heard myself say, slowly. ‘Two days.’

  Why had I not known? Why had I not felt some powerful essence leach out of this world when so great a soul left it? What had I been doing two days ago? I frowned as I tried to recall. I had ridden into the forest of Chantilly with a group of my mother’s courtiers. I had visited my father, who did not know my name. My mother had bemoaned the quality of my embroidery. I had done all of that and felt no sense that Henry was dead, that Henry’s soul, at some point in those meaningless events, had departed from his body…

  How could he? He was young. In military skill he surpassed all others. Had it been an ambush? A chance attack that had gone wrong?

  ‘Was it in battle?’ I asked. But surely John had said that there was no battle. I must have misunderstood. ‘Did he lead the army against Cosne after all?’

  ‘No. It was not a wound,’ John explained, relieved to be asked something that he could answer. ‘He was struck down with dire symptoms. The bloody flux, we think. A soldier’s disease—but far more virulent than most.’

  ‘Oh.’ I could not take it in, that he was dead of some common ailment. My magnificent husband cut down by the soldiers’ flux.

  ‘For the last three weeks he could barely rise from his bed,’ John continued to explain in flat tones that expressed nothing of the agony Henry must have suffered. Or the anxieties of his captains.

  ‘I sent for a new doctor from England,’ I said. ‘Henry said that he should wait here. I should have sent him to Vincennes…’

  ‘I doubt he could have reversed the illness,’ John soothed. ‘He was failing for three weeks. You must not blame yourself.’

  The words swirled around me, pecking at my mind like a flock of insistent chickens. This made no sense. Three weeks!

  ‘He could barely ride when he left here—he was too weak in spite of his insistence,’ John continued. ‘We travelled to Vincennes by river in the end, which was easier. Henry tried to ride the final miles into camp but it could not be.’ John passed his tongue over dry lips. ‘He was carried the last distance in a litter.’

  ‘And that was three weeks ago.’

  ‘Yes, my lady. On the tenth day of August. He did not leave his bed again.’

  But…it made no sense. He had been so ill that he could not ride a horse for three weeks? For a moment I closed my eyes against what I now understood…Then opened them and fixed John with a stare, for I must know the truth and I would not allow him to dissemble.

  ‘My husband was bedridden for three weeks.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who was with him? At the end?’

  ‘I was. His uncle Exeter. Warwick. His captains. James, of course.’ His eyes slid from mine. Dear John. He knew exactly what I was asking. ‘I think there might have been other members of his council, and of course his household. I forget…’

  ‘And what did you speak of?’

  ‘What use is this?’ my mother demanded, still at my side, her hand still gripping mine. ‘What use to know what he said? I swear it will give you no comfort.’

  I shook her off, stepping to stand alone with a bleak resolve. ‘I need to know. What did you discuss in all those three weeks, John?’

  ‘Matters of state. Government affairs, of course. The direction of the war…’

  ‘I see.’

  Henry’s brother, his uncle, his friend and captains had all been summoned to his side, but not his wife. They had discussed matters of state, but nothing as personal as the ignorance of a wife who had not been invited to attend her husband’s deathbed. His wife, who could have made the journey within two days if she had been infor
med. Emotion throbbed behind my eyes: shock that a man who had seemed untouchable should live no more; anger that I should be the last to know.

  ‘Did he speak of me at the end?’ I asked, my voice perfectly controlled, knowing the answer by now. ‘Did he talk of me or of his son?’

  ‘Of his son, yes. It was imperative to consider the position of the new king.’ John’s eyes were full of misery as his gaze met mine. I admired his courage to deliver that blow so honestly. I needed honesty beyond anything else.

  ‘It was not imperative to consider my position. He did not talk of me,’ I stated.

  ‘No, my lady. Not of you.’

  I took a breath against the dark shadows that hovered. ‘What did Henry say at the very end? Did he know he was dying?’

  ‘Yes. He said that he wished he could have rebuilt the walls of Jerusalem. He begged forgiveness for his sins. He said that he had wronged Madam Joanna.’ John smiled grimly. ‘He has released her. You will be relieved to hear that, I know. She never deserved her imprisonment.’

  I laughed harshly, mirthlessly. At least he had remembered Madam Joanna.

  ‘That was all he said, until he committed his soul to Christ’s care.’ John took my hand. ‘Forgive me, Katherine. There was no easy way to deliver this catastrophic news. I cannot imagine your grief. If there is more I can tell you…’

  There was really nothing more to ask. Nothing more for me to say. But I did, because the dark clouds were rent and the true horror had struck home.

  ‘Why did he not tell me that he was near death? Why did he not send for me?’