The Forbidden Queen

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘Is there no part for me in my son’s life?’ I asked.

  For there was no mention of me in the ordering of the realm. Should I have expected one? I saw Henry’s reasoning well enough when he carefully omitted me. I was too closely tied to the enemy in the person of my brother the Dauphin, and as a woman—a woman whom Gloucester still considered incapable of understanding all but the most simple of English sentences—government in any capacity would be entirely beyond me.

  ‘What do I do with the rest of my life, Humphrey?’ I repeated, enjoying his reaction as he flinched when I called him Humphrey, but he considered my question.

  ‘You are the Queen Mother.’

  ‘I know, but I wish to know what that will mean. Am I…?’ I sought for the word ‘superfluous’ and he must have seen my agitation for he deigned to explain.

  ‘You, Katherine, are of vital importance to England. It is your royal Valois blood that gives the new King his claim to France. And now that your own father is dead…’

  For so he was, my torment-ravaged father. His body and mind had been eaten away by those invisible terrors, until eventually he had succumbed to them. My father had died two short months after Henry’s own demise, leaving my little son at ten months with the vast responsibility of kingship over both England and France. I suspected Gloucester considered it a most convenient death.

  ‘And since your brother the Dauphin refuses to recognise our claim to France and continues to wage war to wrest France from us…’

  True. Brother Charles—Charles VII as he now claimed—had an army in the field against us.

  ‘… we must use every weapon we have to assert our claim for the boy. You are that weapon. Your blood in this child’s veins is the strongest weapon we have to enhance Henry’s son’s claim to the French throne.’ Henry’s son, I noted with a twist to my heart. He would always be Henry’s son. ‘There are many in France who will argue that the boy is too young. That he is English. But he is part Valois too, and so his claim to the French Crown is second to none.’

  I nodded slowly. I was to be a symbol, exactly as my mother had painted for me. A living, breathing fleur-de-lys to stamp my son’s right to sit on the French throne.

  ‘I do have a part to play, then.’

  ‘Undoubtedly. And I must call on you to play that part to perfection. You must make yourself visible in public, as soon as your deepest mourning is over.’

  ‘And how long will that be?’

  ‘I think a year will be deemed acceptable. You must pay all due respect to my brother. It will be expected of you.’ Gloucester smiled thinly. ‘Remaining here at Windsor with the Young King should be no obstacle for you.’

  A year of mourning. My heart fell. No dancing or music for a year, no life outside Windsor. As the widow of the hero of Agincourt I must be honourable and virtuous. Being enclosed in a convent could be no worse.

  ‘Then, you must attend the Young King in all ceremonials, standing with him, reminding the country of the child’s rich inheritance,’ Gloucester continued. ‘You will remain close to the boy. You are the female embodiment of his royal power and will be given a high political profile when it is considered necessary.’

  I could have been a statue in Westminster Abbey. Or an armorial in the glazed windows, an embodiment of French royal blood, engraved in stone or coloured glass. It chilled my blood.

  ‘And when not necessary?’ I asked. ‘When I have observed my days of mourning and am not engaged in ceremonial?’

  ‘You must be circumspect at all times, Katherine. You must not draw attention to yourself for any but the highest of reasons. There must be no cause for suspicion of your interests or behaviour. I am sure you understand me.’ He was already drawing on his gloves, preparing to return to Westminster, presumably to report to the Council that the Queen Dowager had been made thoroughly cognisant of the future pattern of her life to enhance the glory of England.

  ‘You mean, I presume, that I must not draw attention to my Frenchness.’

  ‘Exactly. And you will remain in the Young King’s household. My late brother insisted on it.’ His tone, now that he had informed me of the lack of freedom, was brisk and businesslike and he strode to the door. ‘You will retain your income from your dower properties. It will be a satisfactory sum to pay for your small entourage. It is considered that four damsels will be sufficient for your needs as you will live retired. Do you not agree?’

  ‘Four…?’ I was used to more than that.

  ‘You will keep no state. Why would you need more?’ Gloucester drove on. ‘We have appointed a steward and chancellor for you from my late brother’s household. John Leventhorpe and John Wodehouse will deal with all such matters appertaining to your household and your dower lands. They will have all the experience you will need to preserve a household worthy of the Queen Mother.’

  I knew them both. Aging men now, meticulous and gifted, with long service to Henry and to his father before him.

  ‘We have appointed a new Master of the Queen’s Household to order and arrange all things for you. One Owen Tudor, who served under my brother.’

  I knew him too. A dark young man with a dramatic fall of black hair and an air of ferocious efficiency, who said little and achieved much, and who had gained his experience in service with Sir Walter Hungerford in France. As steward of Henry’s own household, Sir Walter had an eye for an able man, even though this choice of Gloucester’s, Owen Tudor, seemed to me to be young for such a weighty position. But what did it matter to me? I was hemmed in by Henry’s world as much now as I had been before his death.

  ‘I expect you will choose your own confessor and chaplain, and your chamber women,’ Gloucester continued, surveying me dispassionately. ‘You will have your own suite of rooms, and there you will be expected to keep queenly state. Beyond that you will obey the instructions sent to you and present the dignified face of Queen Mother to the world.’

  I nodded, barely taking this in but holding on to the sweet kernel in the nut. I would accept the period of mourning: it was what Henry deserved, and I would mourn him with due diligence as befitted a French princess. I would accept my ceremonial role and play it to perfection. I would accept that I was to be given no choice in the appointment of officials to my household, except for my chaplain and chamber women. I would tolerate all of that because in Gloucester’s chilly portrayal of my life he had made one pertinent comment.

  You will remain close to the boy.

  ‘I can play that role, my lord,’ I said with formal dignity.

  ‘We are gratified, my lady.’

  I did not like the look in his eye. Neither did I like it that not once had Gloucester shown any interest in his nephew beyond a cursory glance.

  When the door closed at Gloucester’s back, I picked up my son, holding his body close, his fair curls soft against my cheek. He was mine: he would always be mine and I would lavish all the love on him that I had.

  As the years passed I would watch him grow, learning his lessons, able to wield a sword and ride a horse. One day he would be as great a soldier as his father had been. My days would be well spent in setting his tiny feet on that path. The prophecy would come to nought.

  Young Henry patted my cheek then struggled to be set down.

  ‘You will be a great king,’ I whispered in his ear, holding him tightly, ashamed at the tears that gathered in my eyes.

  Young Henry crowed against my shoulder, gripping the folds of my robe.

  It came to me that if it had not been for my little son I would have sunk into despair.

  I had expected to be pre-eminent in the upbringing of my son. Was I not his mother? Was I not the embodiment of virtuous and noble motherhood, like the Blessed Virgin herself? Not so. At the turn of the year I received a document, which I handed to Master Wodehouse, my new Chancellor: a kindly man, if content to sit with a cup of ale beside a fire in his latter years. Fortunately my demands on him were few.

  ‘What is this?’ I asked.r />
  It was formal and official in a clerkly hand, and beyond my deciphering.

  ‘It is the appointment of a legal guardian for the Young King, my lady.’

  ‘A guardian?’

  ‘The young King has a new guardian, my lady. Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick. A good man.’

  Well, of course he was. I knew Warwick. But his goodness was not an issue. I did not care if he was good. ‘Who says this?’ I demanded.

  ‘The Council, my lady. It was to be expected,’ Master Wodehouse advised gently, wary of my irritation. And he read on to the end of the Council’s statement while I brooded in silence. It may have been expected, but not by me. I had not been consulted, but I was given to understand that Henry had wished it; Henry’s brothers and uncle wished it. But I did not. I could not see why my son would need a guardian when his mother was perfectly capable of guarding his interests.

  How dared they go over my head and appoint a guardian who would effectively oust me from my son’s side, who would have the power to overrule any decisions I might wish to make?

  ‘It is an excellent choice, my lady.’ Master Wodehouse was still regarding me with some concern. ‘There could be no better man in the whole of England to protect and advise your son as he grows. Supervising his education and training in all aspects of kingship. It is beyond you, my lady.’

  I frowned at him, and the document.

  ‘Indeed he is the best man possible, my lady.’

  And as I considered it, I saw the sense of it—as I must, for I was not entirely without insight into my son’s needs. As he grew my child would need a man to guide and instruct him in all aspects of warfare as well as in government. Bishop Henry was well intentioned but too entangled in clerical matters and too self-interested, Gloucester too pompous for my taste. Lord John was committed to events in France.

  ‘Could you find any fault in him, my lady?’ Master Wodehouse asked.

  ‘No.’ I sighed. ‘No, I cannot. It is just that…’

  ‘I understand. You do not wish to let go of the boy.’

  No, I did not. There was nothing much else in my life.

  I pondered on what I knew of Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, who had been at Henry’s side since that very first day in the pavilion at Meulan. A man of erudition, a man of considerable reputation, he was barely forty years old, even tempered with considerable personal charm, with all the experience and knowledge I could have asked for. I was forced to admit that Warwick was the perfect choice to teach a growing boy everything a young prince should know. To study, to choose between right and wrong, to fight as a knight to inspire his people, and all the military things that a man must learn that I could not give him.

  Besides, I liked Warwick.

  And so I allowed him his jurisdiction—since I had no power to circumvent it—but still I had to fight the resentment in my heart. The distancing from my son was hard to bear, even though Warwick applied his power with a light hand, often leaving Young Henry in my care when state matters demanded that he be at Westminster. Young Henry was still too young to wield a sword, even a wooden one, and his daily routine continued to rest with me and the coterie of nurses, supervised by Joan Asteley, who spoiled and cosseted him.

  So my initial resentment settled, and I decided that the Council’s decisions could have been far worse. But my complacency could not last. In my heart I knew it and Warwick warned me as we stood in the nursery on one of his visits.

  ‘He looks well,’ Warwick observed as he stroked his hand over Young Henry’s head. My son was asleep, hooded eyes closed, lips relaxed, reminding me how like his father he was in repose.

  ‘He is. Soon he will be running through the palace.’ But not like I had run at the Hôtel de St Pol. Never like that.

  ‘I must buy him a pony.’ Warwick laughed. Then became serious as if he knew I would not like what he said. ‘The time has come, my lady.’ I regarded him quizzically, suddenly aware. ‘Now that the Young King is more than a year old, he must be put under the guidance of a governess.’

  At first I did not quite understand. ‘Do I need more servants?’ I asked. ‘If so, my steward will appoint—’

  ‘The governess will be appointed by the Council,’ he said gently.

  I felt that unpleasant shiver of apprehension. Warwick, as guardian, was a distant figure, willing to allow me a degree of influence, but a governess appointed by the Council would be ever present, a real and constant authority.

  ‘My son has a whole parcel of nurses to see to his needs,’ I remarked coldly. ‘Joan Asteley has my complete confidence. Mistress Waring, of course. Young Henry loves her.’

  ‘He needs more, Katherine. Mistress Waring’s influence must end.’ His gentle use of my name warned me. ‘He needs a governess to nurture him in courtesy and good manners. Most importantly he needs a governess who has the power to chastise the Young King if necessary.’

  Courtesy. Good manners…My authority as his mother counted for less and less. ‘She would chastise my son?’ I was outraged. Yet had not our servants in France chastised me, and not always with a light hand? As I remembered the slaps, the sharp blows of a whip, my hands tightened into fists.

  ‘Only within reason, my lady.’

  ‘And what is reason?’ Abruptly I turned my back on him to walk to the end of the room. ‘She is not his mother. How will she know?’ I raised my voice. ‘I do not agree.’

  Warwick followed me, eyes soft with sympathy, but he spoke plainly, as was his wont. ‘This is no argument here, Katherine. It will happen with or without your consent—and it must be no surprise to you. It is customary for princes to be raised in their own households. You cannot expect to keep him close to you, even though you live in the same palace. He will be raised with his own staff, eventually with youngsters of noble blood of his own age. He will learn what it is to be King. You know this. Surely you were brought up with your royal brothers and sisters in a similar manner?’

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted abruptly. Did he not realise? That was my reason for resisting. I remembered my own childhood far too vividly. ‘I know exactly what it can be like. I would not give my son to the possibility of such neglect. Or chastisement!’

  ‘It will not be like that.’

  I took a turn to the window and back, hemmed in by the shadows of the past. ‘I hear what you say.’ I tried to hide the hopelessness that lapped against my heart. ‘Do I have any influence over who will be governess?’

  ‘The appointment will be decided by the Council,’ Warwick repeated.

  So, no. The answer was no. I pressed my fingertips against my lips to still their trembling. I would not weep. I would remain strong, for my son’s sake, and I frowned at the idea that encroached, and not for the first time, since Gloucester’s dislike of me bit deep.

  ‘Is it because I am my mother’s daughter, and her reputation is not of the best? Is my influence not trustworthy?’

  Warwick considered his answer.

  ‘I think you have to accept that there are those in the Council who wish to supersede your influence.’ He shrugged uneasily, aware that his reply had hurt. ‘You must accept it, Katherine. The governess chosen by the Council will deal well with the boy. He is growing quickly; he needs more than clean clothes and regular meals. He needs discipline and education, and he needs to be raised with all the tenets of an English prince.’

  But did I not have the right to nurture him and see him grow out of babyhood? My mother had never watched me. I would watch my son, for he was all I had. In that moment I felt like resting my head on Warwick’s shoulder and weeping out my sorrows.

  ‘It will not be a bad thing,’ he told me. ‘They will appoint someone who is wise and kind and has experience of children.’

  ‘You are a member of the Council. Will you have a voice in who is chosen?’ I asked, raising my chin. I would not weep.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you sway them against any choice made by Gloucester?’

  Warwick sm
iled dryly. ‘I am not without influence.’

  It was my one hope.

  I knew what I wanted, what I must do, for my own peace of mind. All that was required was a little careful intrigue. A week later, during which I was not inactive, I requested Warwick’s attendance at Windsor again, waylaying him as he entered the palace and crossed the Great Hall.

  ‘I have been considering my son’s governess, sir.’ He bowed with his customary grace, but his glance was more than a little wary, probably preparing for another battle with the Queen Mother, who ought to have the sense to accept the decisions made for her son. ‘Has the Council made its choice?’ I asked.

  ‘Not to my knowledge, my lady.’ He slid another glance in my direction.

  ‘Then come with me.’

  I led him to the nursery where Joan Asteley and her minions were occupied in the constant demands of a young boy that filled their day. But there, in the midst of the activity, a woman was seated on a stool with Young Henry on her lap. A tall, spare lady in sombre garments, straight-backed and authoritative, her hair hidden in the pristine folds of her white coif. When we arrived she was speaking with my son, allowing him to work his hands into her gloves, laughing with him when he laughed. When she heard the door open, she looked up.

  ‘I do not need to introduce you, sir,’ I said, admiring the picture they presented. Henry, appealingly angelic today, had a new blue tunic and a matching felt cap flattening his curls. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes alight with his occupation. The woman’s stern face was softened with laughter, the sharp gaze holding a glint of unexpected roguishness at what we had plotted together.

  Warwick came to an abrupt stop, then strode in with a bark of a laugh.

  ‘No. You do not. Perhaps I should not be surprised to see you here, Alice. Can I guess why?’

  Dame Alice Botillier placed my son on his feet at her side, and stood with a smile, holding out her hands. Warwick took them and kissed her on both cheeks.

  ‘You don’t need to guess,’ she said. ‘You are a man of considerable foresight.’

  ‘So?’ Warwick surveyed me, and then Alice. ‘Do I scent a scheme here? Am I being outmanoeuvred?’