The Forbidden Queen

by Anne O'Brien

  It was a cry of anguish.

  Shamed, because there was no answer that could be made, I covered my mouth with my shaking hands. And walked from the room.

  I did not weep. I could not sit, could not lie down on my bed. I stood in the centre of the floor in my chamber and let the realisation wash over me as the sun covered me with its warm blessing from head to foot. I did not feel it. I was shocked to ice, blood sluggish, my heart nothing more than a lump of frozen matter. How could the sun be so warm on my skin when all feeling, all life seemed to have drained from me?

  Eventually I discovered that I was sitting on the floor, staring at the barred pattern made by the light and shadow on the tiles. Bars, such as those making a prison cell of a well-furnished room. But now the bars for me were open and for the first time since I had stood before the altar at Troyes I allowed myself to see the truth in all its rawness. I could pretend, I could hope no longer. Henry’s death had written it plain.

  My life with Henry had been built on a swamp, all its footings unsure except for the legal binding in the eyes of the church. I had worshipped him, been blinded by him, made excuses for his neglect.

  And had he not drawn me into the mirage? He had treated me with such chivalric respect when we had first met and he had wanted to woo my consent—not that he had needed it—but perhaps it had pleased him to acquire a besotted bride. Henry had enjoyed being lauded on all sides, and requiring unquestioning obedience had been part and parcel of his life.

  My mind ranged over the times when I had been an encumbrance or, even worse, a person of no real importance to him. No, he had not been cruel, I admitted with painful honesty, he simply had not seen the need to consider me as part of his life. I had never been part of his life. It had been John who had sent me the portrait, James who had kept me company during the sieges of my honeymoon and played Henry’s harp with me.

  What need to tell his wife of any change of plan? Why tell her that his brother was dead in battle? And as soon as my body had co-operated with the promise of a child, he had abandoned me for the demands of the battlefield. Oh, I knew his commitment to England had been strong, and had he not had a God-anointed duty to his country as King? But did he have to leave me for a year of our young marriage?

  And I, not guiltless in this, had been too immature to forge a relationship with him. I had been obedient and subservient, I had never forced him to notice me as Katherine because I had not known how. I had never dared call him Hal, as his brothers had. And now all my chances to build a loving marriage with Henry were destroyed.

  Perhaps there had never been any real chances.

  A howl was rent from me, hot with fury and grief. I swept my lute from coffer to floor, the strings twanging in complaint. I dragged the curtains of the bed closed. He would never lie there again with me.

  How could this be? How could I have fooled myself for so long? His family, his captains, his confessor all summoned to his bedside. But not me.

  And at last true horror laid its vicious hand on me, and the degradation, for I had not been ousted from his affections by another woman, or even by another man. Or even by a cold and distant duty laid down by God. War and conquest and English glory had proved to be a demanding mistress, against whose enchantment I had never been able to compete. At last I sat and wept, my infatuation for Henry as dead as his earthly remains, my body an empty shell.

  Saddest of all, Henry had never even set eyes on the son he had so desired.

  All the structure of my life lay in pieces, the pattern of my life as Henry’s wife and Queen of England.

  What was expected of me now?

  ‘Do I go to him at Vincennes?’ I asked John next morning. Surely I could make this decision for myself. Of course I would go. As my last office to him as his wife, I would kneel beside his coffin and pray for his departed soul.

  ‘No,’ John replied. ‘They will have already begun the journey back to England. I advise you to make your way to Rouen.’ I had found him in the entrance hall, already dressed to leave, shrugging into a heavy jerkin, pulling on his gauntlets, outside in the courtyard, his horses and entourage already drawn up. ‘I’ll leave James here. He’ll escort you when you’re ready.’

  So I would go to Rouen. The customary flutter of apprehension that attacked me when all was not clear was beating against my temples, warning me of imminent pain. I realised that I had not even asked John what provision had been made for me on my return to England. I had no idea what would be expected of me there.

  ‘What will I do?’ I asked Isabeau in despair. My mother was already making her way towards the chapel for her daily petitioning of the Almighty, but she turned and considered, head tilted, a little smile on her mouth.

  ‘Do you not know? You are more important now, Katherine, than you ever were before the English King’s death. Are you not the living, breathing symbol of all that was agreed between Henry and your father?’ She sneered. ‘They’ll put you on a pedestal, place a halo around your head and clothe you in cloth of gold. Glorious motherhood personified.’

  Her brutal cynicism horrified me. ‘I can’t…’

  ‘Of course you can.’ A sour twist of her mouth, wrecking the smile, coated Isabeau’s words in disdain. ‘What is your alternative? Better that than to be driven to return here to France, to live out your days in penury in company with a bitter, aging woman and a witless man.’

  It shook me into a terrible reality I could not envisage.

  As advised—or instructed—by Lord John, and accompanied by a silent James, for once robbed of all his high spirits, I travelled to Rouen. I was there, in the position prepared for me at the door of the great cathedral, when the remains of King Henry of England arrived.

  I watched the scene unfold, all in sharp detail but as if at a great distance from me. The vast doors had been opened wide to receive the procession. It was truly magnificent: a mighty host of mourners. If I had not realised before the honour in which Henry of Lancaster was held in Normandy, I did now. Bells tolled, clergy chanted, while beneath it all simmered a dark and doleful sense of doom as a carriage drawn by four burnished black horses came to a halt.

  A canopy of rich silk was held aloft. Behind it they came, John of Bedford, James of Scotland, the Earl of Warwick, all the English lords and royal household who had been there at my husband’s death, sombre in black. They bowed to me as they approached and stopped.

  I walked forward, my limbs stiff, to where the bier lay draped in black silk. My errant heart, lodged in my throat, beat louder still. For upon it there was an effigy, a more than life-sized effigy, of Henry, fashioned in leather. I took in the details of it as if it were Henry himself, clad in royal robes, furnished with crown, gold sceptre and orb.

  Slowly I placed my hand on the arm, as if it might be a living body. It was warm from the sun, but rigid and unresponsive. How could this stiff facsimile contain all Henry’s exuberant life-force? The austere features would never again warm into a smile that could pierce my heart as it had in that long-distant pavilion, with the hound and the hunting cat, at Meulan. How strange that now I was free to touch him without redress—except that this creature was not real.

  ‘Is he…?’ I tried to ask. How ignominious it would have been for him if he had been dismembered as the dead sometimes were. His pride could not have tolerated it. ‘Is he…?’ I could not think of the words to ask.

  John came to my rescue. ‘Henry has been embalmed. He was very emaciated at the end. And it is a long journey.’

  Of course. His body would have been packed with herbs against putrefaction, but still my mind could not encompass it. All that life snuffed out. Too young, too young. And as the procession passed by into the dark interior, there was James of Scotland at my side, as he had been for the whole of that terrible journey from Senlis.

  ‘Are you strong?’ he asked, closing a hand around my arm. I must have looked on the brink of collapse. I could not remember when I had last slept through a night.


  ‘Yes,’ I said, my eyes following the preserved remains of my husband.

  ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘I don’t recall.’

  ‘It will be all right, you know.’ He stumbled a little over the words. ‘I know what it is to live in a foreign country—without friends and family.’

  ‘I know.’ The cortege had now made its ponderous way into the cathedral where Henry’s body would lie in state.

  ‘You will return with us to England?’

  I did not think I had a choice. I raised my head and watched the effigy still moving away from me into the shadowed depths, until a bright beam of light illuminated it with colour from one of the windows, and for that brief moment the effigy was banded majestically in red and blue and gold. It woke me from my frozen state and with it came an inner knowledge of what I must do.

  ‘I was his wife. I am the mother of his son, the new king. I will make his return to England spectacular because that is what he would have wanted.’

  James’s hand was warm on my cold one. I could not recall when I had last been touched with such kindness, and I said it to him because I could say it to no one else.

  ‘Henry did not think of me, but I will think of him. Is it not the duty of a wife towards her husband in death as in life? I will carry out his last wishes—whatever they are—because that is what he would have expected of me. I will do it. I will come home to England. Home to my baby son, who is now King of England.’

  ‘You are a brave woman.’

  I turned my head and looked directly at James, seeing a depth of compassion in his face as I remembered John expressing similar sentiments. How wrong they were. I was not brave at all. ‘Why could he not have loved me?’ I asked. ‘Am I so unlovable?’

  It came unbidden to my lips, and I expected no answer but, surprising me, James replied. ‘I don’t know how Henry’s mind worked. He was driven by duty and God’s will for England.’ He hitched a shoulder. ‘No one held centre place in his life. It’s not that he could not love you. I doubt he could love anyone.’ His smile was a little awry. ‘If I did not love Joan, I would love you.’

  It was an easy response, and one he had made before, but it struck at my heart. And I wept at last under the arch of the cathedral door, tears washing unhindered down my cheeks. I wept for Henry, who had not lived to see his visions fulfilled, and for myself and all my silly shattered dreams: the young girl who had fallen in love with the hero of England, who had wooed her as a political necessity.

  ‘My lady.’ Made uneasy by my tears, James handed me a piece of linen. ‘Don’t distress yourself.’

  ‘How can I not? I am French. Without Henry, I will be the enemy.’

  ‘So am I the enemy. We will weather it together.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I murmured. I wiped my tears and lifted my head as I followed my husband’s body into the hallowed darkness. All I wanted was to be at Windsor with my son.

  When we buried Henry in Westminster Abbey, I gave him everything he rejected from me in life: all the care and attention that a wife could lavish on her husband. Henry had arranged it all, of course—how could I ever think I would be given a free hand?—but I paid for it out of my own dower, and I watched the implementation of his wishes with a cold heart as I led the mourners in procession to the Abbey, with James at my side, Lord John behind.

  I arranged that Henry’s three favourite chargers should be led up to the altar. I considered that he would be more gratified with their presence than with mine.

  Henry had put in place a plan for a tomb and chantry chapel in the very centre of the Abbey. So be it. I arranged for the workmen and paid their wages for the very best work they could achieve. No worshipper in the Abbey would ever be able to ignore Henry’s pre-eminence in death as in life.

  I also took the effigy in hand: carved in solid English oak, plated with silver gilt, head and hands in solid silver. And above this magnificent representation were hung his most treasured earthly possessions. His shield and saddle and helmet. Trappings of war.

  Completed at last, gleaming as it did with dull magnificence in the light from hundreds of candles, I stood beside the remarkable resemblance of his effigy. I placed my hand on his cheek then on his chest, where once his heart beat. The heart beneath my hand was still, stone-like in its oaken carcase, but mine shivered within the cage of my ribs.

  ‘I am sorry, my lord. I am sorry that I could not mean more to you. Your heart never beat for me—but I vow that I will raise your son to be the most powerful king that England has ever seen.’

  It was all I could do for him, and I would not be found wanting in this.

  Then, distressingly, clearly into my mind came Madam Joanna’s memory of the old prophecy:

  Henry born at Monmouth shall small time reign and much get.

  The accuracy of the old wisewoman’s reading of Henry’s lifespan took my breath. So short a life, so great an achievement. But would her further insight come to pass also?

  Henry born at Windsor shall long reign and all lose.

  What a terrible burden this placed on me, for was I not helpless to alter the course of such predestined events? But my protectiveness towards my son was reborn with even greater fervency. I would protect him and guide him and pray to God that his reign would be as glorious as his father’s. As the whole country mourned the passing of its acclaimed King, I decided that that must be the course of my life, to protect and nurture. And I banished the unsettling prophecy from my thoughts. I would simply not let it happen.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘What am I?’ I asked Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, Henry’s youngest and least appealing brother, and now the newly appointed Protector of England. King in all but name as far as I could see, but it had been Henry’s wish, and so I must bow to it. And to him. It was exactly one week since I had accompanied Henry’s coffin to his burial in Westminster Abbey.

  ‘You are Queen Dowager.’ He spoke slowly, as if I might not quite understand the significance of it, and looked down his high-bridged nose. He would rather not be having this conversation with me. I did not know whether he still doubted my facility with the language or questioned the state of my intellect.

  Of one fact I was certain: Gloucester was a bitter man, bent on grabbing as much power for himself as he could. Henry, in his final days, had conferred on this younger brother the tutelam et defensionem of my son. On the strength of that, Gloucester had claimed the Regency in England when Lord John of Bedford had shouldered power in France, but Gloucester was not a man to make friends easily.

  The lords of the Royal Council declined—very politely but firmly—to invest Gloucester with either the title or the power to govern in this way, only agreeing to him becoming principal counsellor with the title of Protector. Gloucester had not forgiven them, directing most of his animosity at Bishop Henry Beaufort, whom he suspected of stirring up the opposition.

  ‘You are the supremely respectable, grieving widow of our revered late king,’ he continued, in the same manner.

  His explanation was straightforward enough, but it did not make good hearing. Queen Dowager. It made me sound so old. As if I had already lived out my life and my usefulness, and now all I had left was to wait for death, whilst I eked out my existence with prayer and the giving of alms to the poor. Much like Madam Joanna, I pondered, now enjoying her freedom but with increasing ill health. But she was fifty-four years old. I was twenty-one.

  Still, I was not sure what Gloucester—and England—expected me to do.

  ‘What does that mean, my lord?’ I pressed him. I was at Windsor with my baby son, now almost a year old, in a court in mourning. My future too, to my mind, was heavily shrouded, like the winter mists creeping over the water meadows, obscuring all from view. Gloucester had descended on us from Westminster to assess for himself the baby king’s health. He was announced into my solar where I sat with my damsels, Young Henry at my feet, busy investigating a length of vivid purple silk from my embroidery. ‘What r
ole do I have?’

  Gloucester pretended, in his supercilious manner, to misunderstand me. ‘You have no political role, Katherine. How would you? I’m amazed that you expect one.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t expect a political role, Humphrey.’ Since he would be informal, so would I. ‘All I wish to know is what place I have at Court. What it is that I am expected to do.’

  His brows rose and he waved a hand around the well-appointed room as if I were particularly stupid to ask. With its beautifully furnished tapestries and hangings, vivid tiles beneath my feet and the polished wood of stools and coffers, indeed I could have asked for nothing more sumptuous to proclaim my royal state. The windows in this room were large, admitting light even on the dullest of days. I followed Gloucester’s gesture, appreciating all I had been given, but…

  ‘What do I do for the rest of my life?’ I asked.

  Henry was dead. I did not miss him: I had never had him to miss, except as an ideal of what I had expected my husband to be. His funeral was over, the silver death mask gleaming in Westminster Abbey, but his legacy for England and his heir dogged my every step. He had been busy indeed on his deathbed when the future government and security of England had been mapped out in every possible detail.

  During Young Henry’s infancy, England would be governed by the Council, and those holding the reins of power would be Henry’s closest family. Lord John of Bedford would rule as Regent of France and control the future pursuit of war.

  Humphrey of Gloucester, my present reluctant companion, was Protector of England but subordinate to Bedford in all things—which was the reason for Gloucester’s sour expression. And added to the mix was Henry’s uncle, Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, who would be tutor to my young son. I liked Henry Beaufort—he was a shrewd politician, a man ambitious for promotion, but a man not without compassion. Whereas in Gloucester there was no compassion, only a driving need for personal aggrandisement.

  Thus Henry had laid down the pattern for how England should be governed until his baby son came of age.