by Anne O'Brien
He glowered, the expression marring features that were made for laughter. ‘He’ll not let me near the Young King, certainly not as your husband, for fear I lead him into the worst habits. Or try to influence his decisions to benefit the Beauforts as he grows.’
‘Edmund—’ I tried to draw his attention.
‘Let me think,’ he interrupted. ‘I can’t quite see my way around this.’
Edmund frowned into the middle distance, thoughts busy, tossing the empty cup in his hand. Fingering the little brooch pinned to the inner fold of my bodice, his introspection brought me close to despair. I had seen Edmund as my strength. Pray God that he and his uncle would be a match for Gloucester.
‘Have you seen Bishop Henry?’ I asked.
Edmund grimaced. ‘No. He’s sent for me—so I can’t put it off. I don’t see what he can do.’
‘I thought Bishop Henry was not entirely unsympathetic to us,’ I suggested. And when that merited no reply, ‘Can the Council truly stop us?’
‘I have no idea. Gloucester says so—so why not? They can always consign you to a convent and force you to take the veil. That would solve the problem of a marriageable royal widow for good. And they could send me to join Bedford in France. That would settle the issue.’ His quick grin might be feral, but his eyes were bleak. ‘Particularly if I happened to be cut down in battle. That would give Gloucester something to crow about.’
His tone was violent, the picture he painted monstrous, but not, I knew, without veracity. I did not know how to deal with this. I did not know what to say, so I stood and waited, all dreams for the future fading before my eyes. If Edmund saw no way forward, what was left for us but to obey Gloucester’s commands?
At last, perhaps becoming aware of my silence, he looked at me, and his features softened as with a sigh he tossed the cup carelessly onto the coffer and crossed the chamber to hug me close. With the tenderness I had grown to lean on, he smiled ruefully, resting his chin on my hair.
‘What a brute you must think me. Forgive me, Kat. Of course they won’t pack you off to a nunnery. Or me to France. I’ll wager my best horse it’s all bluster and hot air from Gloucester.’
‘He was very angry.’
‘I know. And not complimentary to me or to my uncle. He accused me of being a power-grabbing upstart with tainted blood. I don’t recall him being quite so savage before, but things are bad between him and Bishop Henry.’ His eyes narrowed, as he read the dismay I could not hide and at last drew me against him, into his arms. ‘I can’t stay—but I thought I should come to reassure you. I’ll talk to Bishop Henry. It will all come right, you know.’ His mouth was warm, tracing a delicate path from brow to lips.
‘Can I be with you, when you see him?’ I asked. Surely if we were both there to plead our cause, the Beaufort cleric must listen.
‘Not necessary,’ he murmured, preoccupied as his teeth nipped lightly along my jaw, sending tremors of pleasure down to my feet.
‘But I wish to.’
Edmund stopped kissing me, and instead framed my face with his hands. His eyes sparkled and his face lit with some deviousness.
‘Then so you shall, Queen Kat. We will beard Uncle Henry in his den, and you will weep piteously and beautifully over his feet. And then, with my esteemed uncle unable to refuse you your heart’s desire, we will cry failure to Protector Gloucester. It will all come to pass, my lovely girl, all your hopes and dreams fulfilled.’
My heart was still as I leaned on Edmund’s reassurance.
‘You took your time, boy. How long does it take to get yourself to Westminster?’
‘Forgive me, sir. I regret the delay, but now I am here, to answer for my sins.’
Bishop Henry, seated behind a vast desk, was not in a good mood, but master of diplomacy as he was, after this first brisk exchange, he welcomed me urbanely and waved us to take softly cushioned seats, which we did. A servant poured wine and was dismissed.
Upon which the urbanity vanished.
‘This marriage, Edmund. You’ve stirred up a damned pot of eels, by God.’
Hands clenched into fists on his thighs, Edmund still kept his reply as smooth as new-churned butter. ‘I don’t see the difficulty, sir. What matter if we wed? Katherine is free to do so, as am I. There can be no church ban, as we are not related to any degree.’
‘Don’t be obtuse, boy,’ Bishop Henry drawled. ‘You know the reasons as well as I.’
‘What are you saying?’ High colour crept along Edmund’s cheekbones. ‘So do you suggest I withdraw? That I break my vow to Katherine, that I reject her as my wife?’
My breath caught in my throat.
But Bishop Henry smiled. There was something unnervingly reptilian about it. ‘Did I say that?’
‘To be frank, sir, I don’t know what you’re saying.’
‘You have much to learn about political manoeuvring, my boy. I am saying that there are ways and means.’
I did not understand where this was leading, but Bishop Henry’s assurance stirred a nugget of hope where there had been none. ‘Are you saying, my lord, that Gloucester can be persuaded to withdraw his objection?’ I asked. I could not see how.
‘No, my lady.’ His smile became broader. ‘He will definitely try to stop you attempting to wed. But I know of a way to bring a halt to his ambitions. It will please me immeasurably to chop the rungs of the ladder from under Gloucester’s feet.’
So I did not need to weep over his feet after all. Bishop Henry was suddenly all politician, and out for blood.
‘I don’t see how,’ Edmund interjected.
‘Of course you don’t. But I will show you. Am I not Lord Chancellor? I am not without powers, whatever Gloucester might like to think. My associates in the Council, always eager to snap at Gloucester’s heels, will ensure that I have my way.’
‘But Gloucester has a loud voice in the Royal Council.’
‘I have Bedford’s ear too. Bedford needs money to pursue the French wars. When the Council cannot raise enough gold, who is it that gets them out of difficulties and provides the loans?’ He smiled serenely in answer to his own question. ‘I do. The Council is very grateful to me.’
Edmund bowed his head, for the first time since we had arrived a smile lighting his countenance. ‘I underestimated you, Uncle.’
‘It is never wise to do so. You may get your lovely French wife yet.’
‘You’ll see. I’ll make you my wife before the year’s out,’ Edmund said, all his enthusiasm restored as he escorted me to the door. He cradled my face so that he could kiss my lips in farewell. ‘Gloucester’s not a match for my wily uncle. I’ll wed you and we’ll prove Gloucester and the Council wrong. What a couple we will make.’
I left them to their plotting with their heads bent over a manuscript. They were two of a Beaufort kind. Bishop Henry was on our side. What could go wrong?
There it was: a clever piece of sleight of hand, worthy of Bishop Henry at his most scheming. News of it reached Eltham, where Young Henry’s court had moved on its annual progress from one royal palace to the next, by the usual convoluted route of gossip and legalistic assertion. I refused to rejoice until my Chancellor, John Wodehouse, could read the document and pronounce on it with certainty. He did so, with some bafflement as to its cause.
‘I simply don’t see the need,’ he stated more than once.
For it transpired that when Parliament had met in Leicester, a member of the Commons had presented a petition, from the goodness of his heart and in the name of his fellow Commoners, all loyal subjects to a man. Would it not be an act of kindness to allow royal widows to marry again if they so wished? Upon payment of an appropriate fine, of course, to the royal coffers. Perhaps the Lord Chancellor would give the matter his expertise and consideration, based on his vast experience?
Bishop Henry, Lord Chancellor, had expressed his interest and his concern over the plight of royal widows in general, and would give the matter some thought.
‘Does
Madam Joanna intend to wed again?’ My Chancellor asked of no one in particular. ‘I would not have thought it.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps some aging knight has caught her eye, to give her companionship in her declining years—and she needs a legal blessing. Who’s to know what ideas get into the heads of women when they reach a certain age?’
But I knew. The enterprising member of the Commons had doubtless had his palm oiled by a purse of gold from Bishop Henry. And the clever bishop would make the final decision. How delightfully, pragmatically vague it was. How cunning. I admired the sympathetic wording.
And it was for me. Madam Joanna would never wed again—but I would.
I prayed for Bishop Henry’s quick consideration and the Council’s consent. Surely it was now only a matter of time before I stood with Edmund before a priest who would witness our union. Although I lived out those days in a storm of nervous tension, nothing could undermine my elation.
I looked daily for Edmund to ride to Eltham, bounding from horse to hall with triumphal energy, to deliver the good news. I got Bishop Henry instead, and I was surprised, for rumours had flown, darting like iridescent dragonflies over the surface of the sluggish river in recent weeks. Troops had appeared on the streets of London, outbreaks of violence had become the order of the day, and to my dismay Young Henry emerged as a valuable prize in the battle for power between Gloucester and Bishop Henry.
I heard this news with a kind of creeping terror. Beaufort or Plantagenet, sanctified bishop or noble duke—were either to be trusted when their own authority came into the balance? My little son had become a pawn in their deadly game. I buried my personal concerns deep as Young Henry’s freedom came under threat, and prayed for Bedford’s calming influence on his brother and uncle. But Bedford was still in France and the rumours became more disturbing as the armed retinues of Gloucester and Beaufort confronted each other on London Bridge, Gloucester threatening to descend on us and remove my son from Eltham into his custody, by physical force if necessary.
We sat and quaked at every noise, guards doubled, listening for the clash and clamour of approaching mailed knights. And here in the midst of the political upheavals was Bishop Henry, come to Eltham, to tell me—to tell me what?
‘It is not good news, Katherine.’
As he entered the Great Hall and walked slowly across the worn paving slabs to where I waited for him, his doleful features confirmed my suspicions. Still suave, still impeccably dressed in clerical authority, Bishop Henry looked weary, as if he had indulged in a long battle of wits, and lost. I simply stood, unable to express my fears, my lips numb with anticipation of the worst.
But what was the worst Gloucester could do? I had swept aside the foolish thought that Edmund had mischievously planted, of being enclosed against my will in a convent. That could not be. It would not be! If it was mooted, I would simply return to the French court.
But if I returned to France, it would be without my son.
I willed myself to be sensible. It would not come to that. So what was it that gave Bishop Henry’s features the aspect of a death’s head? And, even more pertinent, where was Edmund?
‘Tell me,’ I ordered sharply, I who rarely ordered anyone sharply.
Bishop Henry replied without subtlety, his face expressionless. ‘All is lost. My petition to the Commons on your behalf has been destroyed. Bedford has returned, and ordered a cessation of hostilities.’ He lifted a shoulder in rueful acceptance. ‘He is not best pleased. And in the aftermath Gloucester has taken pleasure in revenge on the Beaufort name. I am defeated.’ I waited. There was more to come. Bishop Henry folded his hands and pronounced: ‘There will be repercussions for you too.’
Ah, there it was. ‘So I will not be allowed to wed Edmund.’
It was difficult to form the words. A fist of pure, raw emotion tightened in my chest, so strong that I could barely breathe, yet I firmed my shoulders and kept a level gaze, even as the bishop’s eye slid from mine. I was right to fear the worst. His voice was rough as if he had argued himself into exhaustion.
‘There are difficulties, Katherine. Gloucester is preparing to tie your situation into knots. And for me too there has been a high price to pay. I have been forced to resign my position as Lord Chancellor.’ Even in my own pain I thought: how the years show on your face today. My heart was touched with compassion. I laid my hand softly on his sleeve, feeling the tension below the rich damask as he added, ‘Gloucester is in the ascendant. It is a tragic outcome for you, I fear.’
He did not resist as I led him to my parlour, motioning for the damsels to depart. Once there, he sank wearily into my own chair with its carved back and arms, leaning back as if he needed its support, while I stuffed soft cushions behind him and sent for wine. And when we were alone I pulled up a low stool and prepared to listen to what had been done that was so tragic and that would have so great a bearing on my life.
‘Gloucester intends to persuade the Commons in the next session to implement a statute. They will most assuredly comply.’
‘And what is this statute?’
Bishop Henry drank deep. ‘No man will be allowed to wed a Queen Dowager without the consent of the King and his Council.’
‘Oh!’
I thought about this, studying my hands, my fingers interlocking. It did not seem so very bad. My remarriage had not exactly been forbidden. All I needed was permission.
‘Is that all?’ I asked, looking up into the bishop’s weary eyes. It was bad, but not beyond redemption.
‘Think about it, Katherine. Think about what he has done.’
And I did—and at last the simple statement spinning in my brain came to rest. I think I laughed at the enormity of it.
‘Of course. The consent of the King.’ I felt the rise of hysteria in my chest. ‘And since my son is not of an age to give consent to anything…’ How cleverly it had been done, how callously. He had not needed to name me—he would not wish to be accused of being vindictive—neither did he have to forbid me, merely make it an impossibility. ‘Does Gloucester know what he was doing? Does he know that he will condemn me to widowhood?’
‘I have no doubt he does.’ Bishop Henry drained his cup, and refilled it. ‘You will have to wait for at least a decade until Henry reaches his majority.’
I could wed Edmund, but not for a whole ten years, even supposing Young Henry could be persuaded. It stretched like an eternity before me. I could not even imagine so long a wait, seeing only that my thirtieth year would be well gone, my hair faded to grey, my face become marked and lined with the passage of time.
And Edmund—would he not look elsewhere, for a younger bride? Despair closed in on me as I looked up at the bishop again to see him watching me. His face was so full of pity I could not bear it. How could I expect Edmund to wait ten years to win my hand? I could not expect any man to wait a whole decade.
I looked away to hide the tears that slid down my cheeks, even as my thoughts wove a new pattern, seeking some way through Gloucester’s cunningly worked maze. I was not entirely forbidden to enter into marriage, was I?
‘What if I disobey?’ I asked, astonished at how my thoughts had leapt from acceptance to defiance. Would I dare to go against the will of Parliament? I did not think so, yet with Edmund by my side, what might I not dare to do? ‘Will I be punished if I wed without Young Henry’s consent?’
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.
An
d 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.