by Anne O'Brien
I ate little, my gowns began to hang on my shoulders, and I felt a tremor behind my eyes before the onset of such pain that I must take to my bed. When restored, I felt no lighter. Sometimes I could not order my thoughts in my mind. Sometimes I forgot what I was about to say, at others I forgot the reply. I kept to my bedchamber on those days, afraid of stumbling over simple words that would cause my four damsels to exchange anxious glances.
The dark nights of my loneliness, the winter cold of my isolation, gnawed at my mind.
‘Walk in the gardens, my lady,’ Alice ordered when the morning acquired a gleam of pale sunshine. ‘It will do you good to get out of this room.’
So I did, with reluctant steps, my women trailing equally reluctantly in the damp chill.
‘Ride along the riverbank,’ Alice suggested.
So I did that too, but horsemanship was not something I excelled in and I felt the cold bite into my bones as we plodded along at a snail’s pace. I had no wish to exchange meaningless gossip with those who rode with me.
‘Drink this.’ Alice, seeing me wan and desolate on my return, presented me with a cup of some foul-smelling substance.
So I drank, not asking what it might be—I had no interest—choking over the bitter aftertaste of herbs that made my belly clench.
‘Look at you!’ she admonished. ‘You must not allow this, my lady. You must eat.’
I studied my reflection in my looking glass. My skin was pale, my hair lank and dull. Had my cheekbones always been as sharp as that? Even the blue of my eyes seemed to have leached into pale grey. I tried to pick at the platter of sweet fritters for fear of Alice’s sharp tongue, but stopped as soon as her back was turned. In those days she was as much my nurse and mentor as Young Henry’s.
I was allowed to accompany my son to the formal opening of Parliament at Westminster. A magnificently formal occasion, it was eminently threatening for a child so young, and I was full of trepidation that Young Henry would fail to impress his subjects. Would not any failure be laid at my door? Perhaps he would even be sent away from me.
‘Did you approve?’ I asked Warwick, who had returned with us to the royal accommodations at Westminster after the event, sitting with us as we sipped a cup of ale. Henry, almost asleep on his feet, was dispatched with Joan to the nursery while Alice and I exchanged glances of sheer relief. Young Henry’s fit of childish temper on the day of his entry into London had terrified me with its frenzy, but now pride in my son was a warm fire in my belly.
‘How could I not?’ Warwick smiled at some memory. ‘He was every inch a king. His father would have been proud of him. What a sovereign we will make of him.’
‘He wooed Parliament, didn’t he?’ Young Henry had clapped his hands when the Speaker had bowed before him.
‘And so did his mother.’ Warwick lifted his cup in a silent toast.
I blushed, surprised at the gathering of tears in my eyes. What an emotional day it had been, and such praise meant more than I could express for my own confidence. I had played my part, made a good impression. My fears of losing Young Henry receded.
Alice left us. The short day grew dark, and Warwick stood to make his departure.
‘Is that it?’ I asked. ‘Do we now return to Windsor?’
Warwick tilted his head. ‘Until next year. We’ll not overburden the boy.’
‘No.’ Of course we would not. I clasped my hands tightly together, as if in a plea, and looked up at him. He was the only man I could ask. ‘I need to do more, Richard.’
‘You will, as he grows older and can cope with more demands.’
‘I think I will do less,’ I admitted sadly. ‘As my son grows, he will stand alone.’
‘But not for many years.’
The day, with its step back into the world of the Court and politics, the bustle and excitement of London, had been a two-edged sword for it had stirred me to life again. Returning to Windsor was like closing the lid of a newly opened coffer, dimming the sparkle of the jewels within, and it would remain closed for the foreseeable future. What a narrow path this was for me to follow.
As my son grew he would willingly cast off the need for his mother’s presence on such occasions as this. At some point in the future my son’s wife would oust me completely, and I would be nothing. Today I had been honoured with my child on my knee, but I was restless, unsettled. Fearful of a future that promised nothing.
‘Will I marry again?’ I asked.
It surprised me, much like the brush of moth’s wings against my hair in the dusk, the thought alighting from nowhere in my mind, like a summer swallow newly returned. I had never thought of remarriage before. But why not? Barely into my third decade, why should I not?
‘Do you wish to? I had not realised.’ Warwick looked equally startled.
‘No, no. I have no such plans, or even thoughts of it. But…will I be allowed to? Will the Council allow it? At some future time in my life?’ Suddenly it seemed of major importance that I should have this promise of possible fulfilment and companionship—even of love—somewhere on my horizon.
‘Why not? I can see no reason why you should not.’ Warwick paused, the moment marked by a thin line between his smooth brows. ‘As you say, as Henry grows he will become more independent. Why should you not remarry?’ Another pause. ‘If a suitable husband is found for you, of course.’
His obvious unease comforted me not at all.
If a suitable husband is found for you.
The qualification found a fertile home in my mind, for was that not the essence of it? Who would be considered suitable? I recalled Gloucester’s inflexible portrait of Katherine, the Queen Dowager. I did not think my remarriage was something he would tolerate when he had painted me into a lonely, isolated existence, a gilded figure in an illustrated missal.
I forced myself to pass my time in useful pursuits. No dark night, no cold winter could last for ever. I made myself appear to be busily employed, and so I turned the pages of a book but found no interest in the adventures of Greek gods or heroes who fell in and out of love with envious verve.
I ordered music but I would neither sing nor dance. How could I dance alone? I played with Young Henry, but he was now being drawn into a regime of books and religious observance. I applied my needle with even less enthusiasm, the leaves that blossomed under my needle appearing flat and lacking in life, as if the imminent approach of winter would cause them to shrivel and die. It seemed to me that my own winter approached, even before I had blossomed into summer.
This would be the tenor of my life until the next opening of Parliament, when Young Henry would journey to London and I would again accompany him. Year after year the same. Henry had used me to further his ambitions in France. Now I would be used to bolster the authority of my baby son.
Sometimes I wept.
‘You need company, my lady.’ Alice was fast losing patience.
True, but I was unlikely to get it. Oh, I tried to smile and join in with the damsels, when Meg and Beatrice and Joan whispered their endless gossip and Cecily spoke of love, unrequited for the most part. I tried to force myself to enjoy of a cup of spiced wine and the scandalous tale of Gloucester’s matrimonial exploits to while away the November evenings. And indeed I was momentarily diverted with the reprehensible issue between Lord Humphrey and his wife, Jacqueline of Hainault, a bigamous union, for she was already wed to the Duke of Barbant, and there had been no annulment.
But my interest was tepid at best and they gossiped without me when they found me poor company. I could not blame them. Their chattering voices with their opinions and comments and lewd suggestions barely touched my soul. They, I suspected, were as bored as I, shut away as we were at Windsor at the court of a baby king.
Warwick—dear, kind Warwick—sent me a gift, a lap dog with curling chestnut hair and sharp eyes, and equally sharp teeth. Probably, in a fit of remorse, to take the place of a husband, since the possibility of one had been so far into the future as to be impossible
to envisage. I suspected Alice’s involvement too, hoping it would entice me from misery, and indeed it was a charming creature, still young enough to cause havoc in my chamber, pouncing on embroidery silks and chewing anything left in its path, but it did not distract me.
You are a poor creature! I castigated myself. You have no cause to be so lacking in spirit.
Loneliness wrapped itself, shroud-like, around me, and I covered my face with my hands so that I could not see the aimless path that I must follow until the day I died.
Holy Virgin, I prayed at my prie-dieu every morning. Holy Virgin, grant me some solace. Grant me resolve to see my life as a more purposeful journey.
‘Perhaps you should take the boy and go to Westminster for the Christmas festivities,’ Alice growled as November moved into December. ‘My lord of Warwick will allow it, I’m certain.’
‘No,’ I replied, my voice as dull as my mind. ‘I will not celebrate.’
She strode from my chamber, eyes snapping at my intransigence. I felt no guilt.
A week later the space of Windsor’s Upper Ward was full of people and horses. The sudden burst of voices and clattering hooves on the cobbles could be heard even through the glazed windows of the chamber where my damsels and I sat to catch the final spare gleams of the afternoon sun, but I was disinclined to stir myself to look to find out the reason. Probably Warwick come to check on the progress of Young Henry, hopefully without another lap dog. The cheerful activity was, however, too much for my damsels to ignore.
‘My lady?’ Meg asked, already on her feet.
‘Look, if you will,’ I said, not that they needed my permission. My hand of authority was a light one.
A shriek of joy from Joan made all clear.
‘I take it that the King of Scotland visits us,’ I remarked fretfully. I had not seen him for months.
‘May I, my lady?’ she asked. She was already halfway to the door.
‘Of course. Try to be…’ the door shut behind her ‘… maidenly and decorous.’
And she ran, leaving me with a few sharp pangs, firstly that my mood was so churlish, and even more that the arrival of a visitor should give her so much pleasure yet hardly move me from my chair. But I must. I placed the lute I had been idly strumming on the coffer and fixed what I hoped would be a welcoming smile on my mouth.
Would it not be good to see James again? I could not expect him to dance attendance on me as he had done in those early months after Henry’s death, for he had his own life to lead, even if it was curtailed and hemmed about with watchful eyes. I must make him welcome—and there he was, hair curling energetically onto his shoulders, dark eyes gleaming with some personal satisfaction, and Joan looking flushed and eager and youthfully pretty, almost clinging on to his arm. My advice to her had clearly gone unheeded. And then, before I could frown a warning at her, heralded by a burst of vigorous conversation, my chamber was invaded by a group of young men. Around them the damsels glowed, as if the flames of a score of candles had been set ablaze.
I blinked. I had grown unused to such vitality or such lack of rigidly formal courtesy. They were like my puppy, overwhelming in their energy that smashed against my staid walls, ringing from the rafters. Their faces were vivid, their voices sharp and confident, and even their clothing was bright, eye-catchingly fashionable, bringing in a breath of freezing air to prod us into wakefulness after a winter’s hibernation. It was as if a heavy curtain, muffling my chamber from the outside world, deadening every sound, had been rent apart.
Meanwhile, approaching with long strides, James lost no time in polite greeting but flung out his arms before me.
‘It has been agreed!’
‘What has?’ My thoughts refused to drop comfortably into line.
‘Katherine!’ He seized my hands and saluted my fingertips. ‘How can you not know? Are you so isolated here? Or deaf to what’s going on without?’
‘Deaf, I expect.’ I managed to smile apologetically.
‘Never mind. I’m here to tell you in person. They have come to an arrangement at last.’
His face was alight, so much so that my forced smile became a true one as, finally, I caught the gist.
‘Oh, James! I am so pleased for you. I take it you are to be released.’
‘Yes. Freedom, by God.’ His arms around my waist, he spun me round and replaced me on the same spot. ‘I have attended every lengthy, tedious, impossibly dull negotiation between the long-winded but puissant commissioners from Scotland and England—and am come to tell you first because I knew you would wish me well.’
‘Come and tell me,’ I invited, because that was what he wanted from me, and I signalled for wine to be brought. His delight was infectious, stirring even my subterranean depths. Tucking my hand through his arm, I led him to sit beside me on a cushioned settle beside the fire.
‘I’ve harried them from Pontefract to York and back again, until I swear they were weary of the sight of my miserable features. They have finally announced that I’m free to return to Scotland.’ James, running his hands through his unmanageable hair, could barely sit still with the news. He was twenty-nine years old: he had survived fifteen years of cushioned captivity. I had no difficulty in imagining his pleasure, as if the door of a birdcage had been suddenly flung back to allow this glossy singing finch a glimpse of freedom.
And I thought that I too would like such a glimpse of freedom. Not to return to France—there was nothing to draw me there—but to live my life without restriction and to my own will.
‘They’ll make me pay, of course,’ he was continuing as I surveyed the group of young men, his companions, who were making free with the wine at the far side of the room, enjoying the fluttering attentions of the damsels. I recognised most of them—sons of high-blooded English families—but I might have to search for a name or two. There was a loud burst of laughter and in that moment I wished I were there with them, simply a lady of the Court free to flirt and attract the eye of a handsome man.
Wistfully, I turned my attention back to James, who continued to expand on his good fortune. ‘An extortionate ransom of sixty thousand marks.’ He laughed with a sardonic bark. ‘Good to know they see my worth. In their generosity, I get to pay it in annual instalments.’ His cynical smile sat strangely on his youthful features, but he had learned cynicism before all else in his protracted exile. ‘I hope it won’t beggar Scotland. They’ll not want me back if it does.’
‘Of course they will,’ I assured him, my attention snagged by a raucous burst of laughter.
One face in the mêlée of young men, and younger than most, caught my eye. A vital face with fine dark brows and russet eyes that glittered with high spirits.
‘And do you know the best of it?’ James continued, unaware of my wandering appreciation. ‘I get my wife. I get Joan.’ He leaned to where Joan hovered, close enough to overhear, snatched her hand and pulled her closer still until his arm was wound around her waist. ‘I never thought I’d see the day. Or if I did, we would both be in our dotage before we climbed into the marriage bed together and I would be incapable.’
Joan giggled, her cheeks pink, and I smiled on them, even as claws of jealousy raked at my heart. Joan positively shimmered with happiness and James’s love for her was written on his face far more clearly than it had ever been in his verses. I clenched my fists in the folds of my skirts. I would curb such instincts as base as envy.
‘Have they set a date for your marriage?’ I asked, aware now of a frown between James’s eyes, but again my interest was caught elsewhere.
The young man with russet eyes and hair to match had snatched off his cap, flinging it to one of his friends, and was demonstrating a flamboyant thrust of an imaginary sword. He lunged, overbalanced, righted himself with a graceful turn of foot and burst into laughter. His companions mocked but slapped him on the back in easy camaraderie. He might be younger than most of them but he had a place in their society. When he retaliated with a series of quick punches to those w
ho tormented him, I found myself smiling because I could do no other.
And, of course, I knew those features. When he turned to face me, repeating the thrust with an agile wrist, I saw the Beaufort family resemblance was strong. Joan’s hair might be lighter, her eyes more brown than russet, but the smile was the same, the quick winging brows.
Here was her brother.
‘No, they have not set a date for the marriage yet.’ I heard James remark in reply to my question. ‘They say it will be as soon as it can be arranged—although I have my doubts.’ He shook off his concern, probably for the sake of Joan, who had begun to look anxious again, and he seized my hand and squeezed it. ‘We’ll live in hope—have I not done so for the past dozen years and more? And I’ll expect you to dance at my wedding.’
‘I don’t dance,’ I said flatly. My baser nature was still lurking around my mood, reluctant to let go and be banished.
‘Well, you should.’ For the first time he really looked at my face. ‘What’s wrong, Katherine? You don’t look happy.’ I shook my head. This was no day for my unreasonable miseries. ‘In fact…’ he pursued, frowning.
Immediately I stood, more than a little embarrassed that he should see so great a change in me. ‘Perhaps you should introduce your friends.’
As a distraction it worked well enough. ‘Most of them you know.’ He complied, drawing the young men forward to make their bow. ‘And here,’ he announced, ‘is Edmund.’
‘My brother thought he ought to come to wish me well, my lady,’ Joan said, pulling the young man before me. I saw love and admiration in her face, and was not surprised.
He bowed, more ostentatiously than was necessary in so intimate a setting, and I remembered his flamboyance with the invisible sword. Clearly he was a man to draw attention to himself, as was proved when the feathers of his velvet cap swept the floor, his arms spread in the deepest respect, until he looked up at me beneath his well-etched brows. He laughed aloud, his eyes full of mischief.