by Anne O'Brien
Bishop Henry put down his cup, the wine no longer of interest, and took my hands in his. ‘Who can tell? There is one more consequence of Gloucester’s revenge that you must know, Katherine. Arrangements have been made for you to live permanently in the Young King’s household. You will not be allowed to visit your dower properties or travel as you choose. You will go where the Young King goes. Do you understand?’
I understood very well. I was a prisoner. Without bars, without lock and key, but still prisoner under my son’s jurisdiction.
‘It is intended to help you to withstand your carnal passions,’ he continued gently.
And I flinched at the judgement that was becoming engraved on my soul. The image of my mother, painted and bejewelled, casting lascivious glances over the young courtiers, rose before me. What a terrible disservice, all unwittingly, she had done me. I dragged a breath of stifling air into my lungs as I felt my face grow hot from the humiliation.
‘I regret what has been done,’ Bishop Henry continued, when I could not find the words to reply. ‘But it will not be so very bad, you know.’
And now the words spilled out, my voice broken. ‘No? I think it might be. It is to keep me under permanent surveillance.’
‘I’m afraid it is. Young Henry’s claim on the French throne rests entirely on you, and so your reputation must be purer than the pearls in the Virgin’s diadem.’
And at last I wept. For my trampled yearnings for a life with Edmund. For my soft incarceration in my son’s household so that I might never again do anything to cause ripples in English politics. I would be tied fast under Henry’s jurisdiction, anchored as irrevocably as mistletoe in the branch of an apple tree. My heart was broken, my spirit laid low.
‘Don’t weep. Katherine. You are still young.’
‘What use is that? If I am young, I have even more years to live as a prisoner, encased in a shell of lonely respectability. There is no escape for me, is there?’
Would Edmund wed me out of the love he bore me, would he risk wedding me without permission? That was the question to which I needed an answer. The one question I dared not ask. But indeed I did not need to, for Bishop Henry delved into the recesses of his sleeve and drew out a single sheet of a folded document, sealed with the Beaufort crest.
‘Edmund asked me to give you this, my dear. He will explain.’
I held it to my breast, tears bright in my eyes. I could see in the compassionate twist to Bishop Henry’s mouth that he expected it to be Edmund’s farewell to me and, with tears still threatening, I waited until he had tossed off the final dregs of his wine and made his departure—bound for Rome, he informed me, with a cardinal’s hat in his sights since his ambitions in England had been so rudely curtailed—before I broke the seal and read it. I would not expose my broken heart further to the self-serving bishop. But as soon as I was alone I ripped the letter open. Better to know the worst. The lines were simple, the letter short, sufficient for my slow reading.
To Katherine, my one and only love.
How I miss you. It seems a lifetime since we shared the same breath. I long to hold you, to know that you are mine. Soon we will be together again, and I will see you smile.
As you will now know, Gloucester does his damnedest to keep us apart, but I swear he will not succeed. What will be the penalty if we wed, with or without the Young King’s permission? I think that there is no penalty that can be enforced against a Queen of England and a Beaufort in such a case as ours. Is my family so lacking in authority? What can they do to us? No reprimand can keep me from you. No punishment can weigh in the balance against our being together.
I know you will rejoice with me. As proof of my standing at Court, I have been given the overlordship of Mortain. It is a signal honour. How much more proof do I need that my feet are firmly on the ladder to political ascendancy?
Hold fast to your belief in me, my love. I will be at Westminster when you bring Young Henry to Court at the end of the month. We will make our plans.
Always know that I love you.
Your servant, now and always.
Edmund Beaufort
‘Oh, Edmund!’
I cried out in my astonishment as I curled my hand around the enamelled brooch with the Beaufort escutcheon, the lively lion supporting the dominant portcullis, my talisman, that I pinned to my bodice every morning. I was his, loved and valued beyond all others. And here, in his own words, he had vowed to pursue our union. Had I not always known it? Edmund was bold enough, outrageous enough, confident enough with his Beaufort breeding and Plantagenet blood to take a stand against Gloucester and Parliament—against the whole world if need be—to claim the woman he loved. To claim me as his own.
He was Count of Mortain. Was he not in high favour?
As I crushed the letter in my hand it was as if he stood beside me. My mind was suddenly full of his laughter, my head echoing with his murmured words of love. My lips could still taste the quality of his desire as I pressed them to the parchment where his words of love flowed from his pen to me. My body ached for him. We would be together again at Westminster. We would stand side by side, my courage bolstered by Edmund’s love, and challenge the right of Parliament to keep us apart. If necessary we would defy Gloucester. Edmund would assuredly find some way for us to circumvent Gloucester’s cunning maze.
He loves me and he will not desert me.
I held the words close in my heart, repeating them as if they were a nostrum, a witch’s spell to bind us together, against all the odds, as I ran up the stairs to the very top of the great Round Tower, to look out towards London. I could not wait until I saw him again.
‘Edmund!’
Young Henry, seeing a particular face that he recognised in the crowd, laughed aloud, before halting with an embarrassed little hunch of his shoulders beneath his new tunic. I placed a light hand on his arm, steering him forward, and smiled reassuringly when he looked nervously up at me.
‘You can see him later,’ I whispered.
With due formality, court etiquette as heavy on my shoulders as my ermine-lined cloak, I walked at Young Henry’s side as the whole Court made its obeisance, straining for a view of the Young King. Another visit to Westminster, pre-empting the rapidly approaching moment when my son would be crowned King of England.
The days of his tantrums were over and he held himself with quaint dignity: face pale and still endearingly cherubic despite his growing limbs, fair hair brushed neatly beneath his cap, Henry smiled his pleasure, his eyes, round with astonishment, darting this way and that. Until they had come to rest on Edmund Beaufort, Count of Mortain.
‘Can I speak with him now?’ Young Henry whispered back. ‘I have something to tell him.’
‘Of course you have. But first you must greet your uncle of Gloucester,’ I replied.
I too must exert patience. The days, a mere handful, since I had read his letter, had seemed like years in their extent. How many times had I reread it, absorbing the hope that shone through the words. Only a few minutes now before Edmund and I stood face to face, blatantly declaring our love. I smiled, conscious of happiness coating me like the gold leaf on a holy icon. We would be together.
Henry nodded solemnly and walked on, leaving me in his wake where all I could do was will my mind and my body into a semblance of perfect composure. I had seen Edmund even before my son’s recognition, and I too could have cried out his name. My heart was beating so erratically I could barely swallow, my hands damp with longing.
There he was, to my right, bowing elegantly. I turned my head in anticipation. But our eyes did not meet, even when he straightened to his full height and smiled at my son’s enthusiasm. Edmund Beaufort did not smile at me. My heart tripped in its normal rhythm, but I took myself to task. This was far too public for any passionate reunion. Of course we would not speak of love now. But soon, soon…
With confident grace I continued on my prescribed route, inclining my head to those who acknowledged me, taking up my p
osition behind Henry when the necessary presentations were made. Greetings were exchanged, bows and promises of fealty. Gloucester, Warwick, the high blood of the land. And in their midst Edmund stepped up to be greeted by my son as a favoured cousin.
‘We have missed you, Edmund.’
‘Forgive me, Sire. I have been busy about your affairs in France,’ Edmund replied solemnly, hand on heart.
‘I know. You are Count of Mortain. I have a new horse,’ my son announced with pride. ‘He is not as handsome as yours.’
‘I cannot believe that. If it was a gift from my lord of Warwick, it must be a fine animal.’
‘Will you come to Windsor again? When it is cold you can teach me to skate, like you taught my lady mother.’
‘It will be my pleasure, Sire.’
He stepped back, away, to let another approach.
How kind, I thought, as if from a distance. How thoughtful he was in his response to my little son. And how astonishingly cruel to me. Not once through the whole of that conversation, not once after a graceful inclination of his head in my general direction, had Edmund Beaufort looked at me. Instead, I’d had an impressive view of his noble profile, smiling and assured and so very arrogant.
Had I been mistaken? I could barely shuffle my thoughts into any sort of order. Had he deliberately ignored me? I tried to quell my rising panic. Perhaps he considered the need for discretion in our relationship. But to turn away, to address not one word to me was difficult to accept. Almost impossible to excuse.
Surely he could speak with me as the Queen Mother, as he was cousin to my son, without causing any ripples at court. The panic began to subside, my breathing to even out. Edmund would speak with me when the formalities were over. Of course he would.
‘When you come to Windsor, will we unpack the masks and costumes again?’ I heard Young Henry calling after Edmund, through the clamour in my head.
Then the presentations were over and the court was free to mingle and converse. Now he would come to me! Now he would walk through the little knots of courtiers, his gaze fixed only on me, alight with determination to let nothing and no one come between us.
But no. To my desolation, Edmund withdrew to the further side of the room. He had passed me by as if I were nothing to him. Once we had passed the hours in intimate dalliance, our blood running hot for each other. Now he did not even look at me as I stood in the group surrounding my son, exchanging greetings and general gossip with Warwick. He had told me that we could be together, that we would make our plans, that nothing could separate us. Conscious of his letter tucked in the bosom of my gown, I did not understand this studied rejection of what we were to each other.
The reception progressed through its habitual pattern, courtiers and aristocrats moving and mingling, making contacts, speaking with those with influence, being seen in the presence of those who could make or break a reputation. I played my allotted part, regal and decorous, but I was weary of it to my bones. Fear built in my breast as the minutes moved on and I tried to recall, word for word, exactly what Edmund Beaufort had written to me. Always know that I love you. No reprimand can keep you from me. Had he not made such declarations? Surely he must find a path to me, to spread his adoration once more at my feet.
He did not. Not once did he approach.
A pain settled in my chest, spreading out to my limbs, an agony that was well nigh physical as all became writ plain for me. This was no chance parting, caused by the demands of the court. This was a deliberate, intentional separation. And, drowning in misery, I fought for dignity. I turned my eyes from him. It crossed my mind, with harsh appreciation, that Henry, cold, superbly controlled Henry, would have been proud of my ability to mask my feelings that day.
But there was a limit to my self-control.
Although I had sworn to look anywhere but in my lover’s direction, when the time came for Young Henry to withdraw, I sought the mass of faces for a last glimpse, as if to twist again the knife that Edmund had planted in my heart when he had so wantonly neglected me throughout the whole of that interminable reception. And there he was in sparkling conversation with a handsome young woman whom I knew well. Eleanor Beauchamp, Warwick’s daughter, come to Court with her husband, Thomas de Ros.
But that did not stop Edmund Beaufort from flirting with her. Oh, I saw the careful attention he paid to her. I recognised the tilt of his head as he listened to what she had to say, I noted the set of his shoulders, the confidential manner in which he leaned a little towards her. All redolent of the manner in which he had once flirted with me. As he had once made love to me with honeyed words and playful gestures. And then, when he turned his head to respond to a passing friend, his handsome face, the sweep of his lashes on his cheek, the clean line his profile drove the blade even deeper.
I stared. And as Lady Eleanor was escorted away by her husband, Edmund turned, so that as chance would have it he looked directly at me. Because I was looking at him, our eyes of necessity met and held. For the length of a heartbeat he paused. And then he made a full court obeisance, as he would honour the Queen Dowager, cold and distant and perfect in its execution.
My self-control snapped like a worn bowstring. He was my lover, the man who would wed me. There must be some terrible misapprehension that had taken hold of my mind, some mistake that Edmund could rectify and then all would be well again. All I needed to do was speak with him, to step to cross the space between us and demand…Demand what? An explanation, I supposed. How could he not approach me, his professed love? How could he not smile and tell me of his heart’s desire as he saluted my fingers with his lips? Throat dry, I determined that I must know.
‘Don’t.’
Barely had I taken a second step than a hand closed lightly around my wrist.
‘Richard!’
It was Warwick, standing at my shoulder, his gaze following the line of my sight.
‘But I must—’
‘Don’t go to him,’ he responded gently. ‘It is useless, Katherine. To cause a scene would be—’
‘He said he would wed me and defy Parliament,’ I interrupted, careless of any such scene yet still managing to keep my voice low.
‘He won’t do it. He won’t wed you now.’
‘How can you say that?’ I resisted the gentle pull on my arm, but Warwick was intent on manoeuvring me out of the throng, towards the tapestry-hung wall.
‘I know he will not. You have to know what has been done. Listen to me, Katherine.’ In the little space he had created for us, Warwick gripped harder so that I must concentrate. ‘There have been new moves. Gloucester has locked every door, barred every window against you.’
‘But I know.’ Still I remonstrated. How could it be so bad? ‘I know the law says that I must ask my son’s permission to marry but surely—’
‘There’s more. Another clause.’ There was barely a pause. ‘It will have serious consequences for your remarriage. To any man.’
‘Oh.’ Now I was afraid.
‘Any man who risks the ban and takes you for his wife without royal consent will lose everything.’ Warwick’s face was stern, his words savage in the message they delivered, but his eyes were soft with infinite compassion. ‘He will effectively be stripped of his lands and his possessions, his appointments in government.’
‘Oh,’ I said again, almost a whisper, absorbing the enormity of this.
‘Such a man will forgo all promotions, all favour and patronage. All opportunity for his further advancement would be stripped away.’
‘I see.’
‘For any man to wed you—’ Warwick was inexorable ‘—would be political and social suicide. Do you understand? If he took you as his wife, Edmund Beaufort would be ruined.’
‘Yes,’ I heard myself say. ‘Yes, I do understand.’
My throat was full of tears as Warwick’s bald statements, delivered one after the other, were like nails hammered into the coffin of my hopes and dreams. I stood for a while in silence, my hands still en
folded within the Earl’s, as the pieces fell into place, finally driven to accept the impossibility of my union with any ambitious man by the neatest, most vindictive piece of legislation. No specific name had been mentioned, but the intent behind it as clear as the signatures written on the document. My heart was wrenched with hurt as I absorbed the inevitable in that one inexorable warning.
For any man to wed you it would be political and social suicide.
That was the end, was it not? Would Edmund Beaufort run head first into marriage with me, risking the loss of political and social advancement? Would he prejudice his ambitions for me?
Head raised, chin held high in a determination not to appear trampled beneath the weight of what I now knew, I looked to where I had last seen him. And there he stood, deep in conversation with the men who held power in the kingdom in my son’s name, just as his uncle Bishop Henry would once have done. Gloucester, Hungerford, Westmorland, Exeter, Archbishop Chichele.
Edmund knew where his best interests lay, and as I took in his carefully selected, august company, so did I. The Beauforts were political animals through and through. Advancement would take precedent over all other interests. If I had still been of a mind to cling to any foolish hope, Edmund’s present company confirmed all Warwick’s warning.
‘It is better if you do not approach him,’ Warwick said gently.
‘I understand. I understand perfectly.’ I looked up into his face. ‘How could he have been so cruel?’
‘Did he not tell you?’
I shook my head, unable to put my sense of utter rejection into words.
‘I am so sorry. He will not see it as cruelty but as political necessity. A pragmatic decision. All Beauforts would. They have been raised from the cradle to do so.’
‘Even at the cost of breaking my heart?’
‘Even at that.’
‘He wrote that he would remain true to our love.’
‘I am so very sorry, Katherine,’ Warwick repeated.
‘You did warn me.’ My mouth twisted into what was not a smile.
‘I know. But I would not have had you hurt in this manner.’