by Anne O'Brien
It is my belief that you should be aware of these happenings.
Your loyal servant,
Louis Recoches.
This was disturbing. This was more than disturbing, that Henry’s physical trials should be interpreted by those who wished him ill as a Godly punishment for a political act. Keenly aware of just how Henry’s mind worked, I knew this rumour, like some malevolent creature, would creep to fix its talons into his mind; that his thoughts would be as troubled as his body.
‘How was the King when you left?’ I demanded of the courier, still resolutely standing as immovable as one of my gate-posts despite being in dire need of food and ale and rest.
‘Well, my lady.’
‘Was he still planning his campaign in the north?’
‘Certainly, my lady. Within the week. My lord the King was most enthusiastic to attack my lord of Northumberland’s castles.’
Which sounded good enough. If Henry was campaigning what need for me to fall into a trough of despair? And yet here was a warning I should not ignore. I liked Louis Recoches. I trusted him, as did Henry. Old in years, a fountain of practical common sense, he had been physician to the late Duke of Lancaster and was a much revered member of the household. What had persuaded him to disobey Henry’s instructions and tell me of his fears?
Only, as he must see it, an emergency.
Dismissing the courier at last towards the kitchens, I ambled towards my chamber, my thoughts with Henry so far away from me. A burning of the skin. A great pain. A great fear. If I was with him now, I would talk to him, reassure him that Archbishop Scrope’s death had been well earned by a man who dared to raise his banners against his King. I would ease his conscience.
But I was not with him now. I was too far away to match my mind with his and argue the case until he was at ease again. Never had the distance between us seemed so great as they did on that bright summer morning.
Be calm, I urged. Be sensible.
Back in my chamber I recovered Henry’s letter from my coffer to reread. Yes, the handwriting was firm and flowing with no indication of weakness or lasting pain. Henry could not be so very ill if he could inform me of the wellbeing of his beloved cannon and his campaign against Northumberland. Master Recoches was merely being cautious, for which I should be grateful.
How long would it be before I could see Henry for myself? Christmas at Eltham was far too distant.
And with that thought, a sharp stab of sorrow struck unexpectedly, and with it was resurrected, not for the first time, the acknowledgement of the one continuing lack in my life. Henry and I might have been reconciled in love, in body and in spirit, but no child had been conceived of our happiness. Were we not both proved fertile? Edmund stood as proof of Henry’s potency and my courses coming regularly, I knew that I still had the power to conceive. Perhaps at Christmas, at Eltham, where there was time for celebration and joy and for physical pleasure, our greatest desire would be achieved.
I tapped Henry’s letter against my hand, thinking that it might be good policy to investigate by what manner of means a woman, who no longer had the fertility of a young girl, might encourage conception. It might be good policy to consult my books of herbal potions, and Mistress Alicia whose knowledge was monumental in such affairs.
I sent my thoughts, swift as a rock-dove, towards the north and petitioned the Virgin that she would give Henry health and success. And bring him home.
*
‘Thank God that year is over.’ Henry trod into the entrance hall at Eltham, a joyful Math at his heels, a squire and two pages carrying various items of documents, armour and clothing. ‘And pray God there’s not another like it.’ He stood for a moment, looking round at all those who had gathered to celebrate with us. ‘I’ve missed being here at Eltham.’
‘Eltham has missed you too.’ Smiling, I walked forward. ‘We have all missed you.’
Hands touching, and because we were surrounded by household, dogs and various offspring, we kissed formally, one cheek and then the other. Christmas at Eltham. It had come at last and I was overjoyed to see Henry again. The days of celebration and festivity stretched ahead, full of promise, full of happiness, and most of all delight to have Henry back within my keeping.
I cast my eye over him, looking for any signs that might serve as a warning. I took in his stance, his expression, the set of his shoulders. Northumberland’s rebellion had been ruthlessly put down with ferocious energy. Against Glyn Dwr there had been less success, but would resume in the spring. Since Master Recoche’s warning it was always uppermost in my mind but I could see no evidence of pain as he bent with easy grace to pat Math as she nudged his leg to attract his attention.
Henry took off his roll-brimmed cap, tossing it to one of the pages, at the same time running his hand over his hair. It was thinner than I recalled, more close-cropped. Henry caught my eye with a little grimace. Oh, the vanity of men. I would tactfully say nothing, merely look out a remedy for hair loss.
‘Not that I hold out much hope for an improvement in the New Year,’ Henry was grumbling as he dealt similarly with his gloves and dragged his campaigning cloak from his shoulders.
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve issued writs for a new parliament in March. How can it not be contentious?’
‘Finance?’
‘When is it ever not?’
‘I forbid you to worry about parliament until the new year,’ I said, determined to put the tension in him to flight. ‘But not now. Now your time is mine, when your family do not commandeer you.’
It was my pleasure to see his face soften from lines of frustration. Shooing the dogs away, and the servants, pleased to have their lord returned to them, I drew his hand through my arm to follow his sons and the girls into the family apartments.
Henry tensed. Halted, every muscle in his body braced.
I stopped too. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing at all. Just pleased to be home.’ Leaning, he smiled, planted a kiss on my lips, linked his fingers with mine and let me pull him slowly towards fire and wine and family chatter.
Where Master Recoches had joined us. Who was staring at me. I did not like the quality of that stare. But that too could wait. I would talk with him later if I thought it necessary.
Henry lowered himself into a chair, as if days in the saddle had taken their toll, accepting a cup of ale as he gave his full attention to the family news, particularly Philippa’s enthusiasms over her approaching marriage, and while I cast a subtle but eagle eye over him. I thought he looked tired, but no more than a King might, after a year of difficult campaigning and the general horror resulting from his summary execution of Archbishop Scrope. The lines of strain around his eyes would soon smooth out with good food and some fine days of hunting and Twelfth Night games of which he was inordinately fond. His hair might be short cut to his scalp but he was still a handsome man. I presumed there had been no recurrence of the symptoms in June and since Henry chose not to speak of it, I took his lead and I let it lie. If there had been some problem, I thought that he would have told me. Henry was back and as news was exchanged, laughter frayed the edges of absence and it was as if he had never been away.
After an evening of dissecting the pernicious campaigns of Glyn Dwr backed by his French allies, before they were banished for good, it was time to retire. Hal, still cruelly scarred but his face much redeemed from those early days after Shrewsbury, continued to devise means of dealing with Glyn Dwr, becoming more imaginatively vicious as the wine in their cups dwindled. The girls gossiped over Philippa’s forthcoming betrothal to Eric of Denmark. We left them to it, as I walked at Henry’s side, imagination leaping ahead. It would be good to be together again. After days of preparation, my chamber was a haven of clean linen and scented pillows. A perfect place for a harassed King to find sanctuary from the world in the arms of his wife.
And if I had strewn my sheets with the fragrant leaves of the lemon balm to aid conception, who was to know? Who wa
s to make comment, other than Mistress Alicia who had prepared the noxious draught, if I had drunk the distilled flowers of the gillyflower, noon and night for four weeks, to render me fruitful. I was full of hope.
At the door to my chamber Henry came to a halt where, in a strangely deliberate gesture, he turned to look at me. ‘It’s good to be back with you, Joanna.’
His austerity was a surprise. I might have expected him to push me into the chamber where he would embrace me with a fervour. But no, there was nothing untoward here. It always took a little time to ease back into intimacy after a long absence. Both reserved in nature, we could not simply drop into a closeness. It had to be earned, renewed, recalled through a chance word, the touch of a hand, of lips, of eyes, like a new wooing between new lovers. It would all come about. I had no fears that we would soon be at ease with passion restored.
‘It is good to have you back,’ I returned lightly. ‘It has been a long parting.’
I placed my hand against his chest, as I had before, a tender gesture, a promise of what I hoped for. Henry’s muscles tensed. I felt him actually hold his breath and resist.
‘Joanna…’
He paused. I tilted my head, a silent question, still unconcerned. Henry smiled a little. Yes, it was always difficult after a long parting.
‘Forgive me, Joanna. I would sleep alone tonight.’
It was a shock. Concern leapt into life. I could find no response that was not foolish, yet still I said it.
‘Why?’
Unusually, distressingly, his eyes slid from mine. I could not recall Henry ever being uncertain or insecure. Reticent, yes, but not lacking in confidence. His directness was one of the attributes I most liked in him. But then his gaze returned and held mine, flat and uncompromising, as if he had made a decision with which he was not comfortable but which he would pursue to its bitter end.
‘I am weary. I would be no good to you as a lover.’
Which I could understand. More or less.
‘Could we not just sleep in the same bed?’ I asked. ‘I am reluctant to let you out of my sight.’
‘I am not sleeping well. I am restless. It would be better if we were apart.’ He kissed me softly, but on my brow rather than my lips. ‘Just for tonight.’
I could think of nothing to say other than,‘If that is your wish, Henry. Do you need me to organise a sleeping draught?’
‘Not necessary. Master Recoches has already supplied me with what I need.’
As he turned to walk to his own private chamber, I stretched out my hand to catch his arm, to draw him back, but he had moved beyond me. Perhaps he even quickened his pace. ‘Good night, Joanna. May God keep you in his infinite mercy.’
Which left me standing, arm uselessly outstretched.
‘Sleep well, Henry.’
I heard when Henry closed the door. The lock clicked into place very softly. How could such a soft action, so unthreatening a noise, hurt so greatly? For a little while I stood where he had left me, my arms at my side, tempted to simply follow him. To knock and demand admittance—but he was weary and did not deserve that I pester him through sheer disappointment.
So we spent that night apart.
And the next.
And the next, when Henry did not even try to find an excuse, and I was becoming too humiliated to ask the reason. I had meant to touch delicately on his thinning hair. Did I not have to hand the root of the lilium candidum, pounded small with honey which would restore hair to its youthful glossy thickness? But Henry kept me at arm’s length as surely as if he wielded a lance. It proved to be impossible to have an intimate conversation with a man who locked his door or kept himself in the centre of the family crowd, where discussions of male vanity and virility were forbidden. Again, heart-breakingly, I felt thrust out of Henry’s life. Irrelevant. Isolated. Unwanted.
And without doubt it was deliberate on Henry’s part.
A strange species of panic began to inhabit my mind with all the possible reasons for Henry’s rejection of me. Since our estrangement we had been as close as a walnut in its shell, but now, now it seemed to me that Henry would ride a dozen leagues and wrestle with a dragon rather than spend time alone with me.
And the crux of my worry, the one that coated me in despair. After that one impersonal kiss on my brow, when Henry denied my bed, Henry never touched me.
Where lay the problem? Was it me? After all the difficult paths we had trod together, after we had overcome the storm and tempest and the sucking ooze of swamp and mire, had Henry simply fallen out of love with me, wishing he had never embarked on that astonishing wooing? Even more distressing, it seemed to me more than possible that my increasingly distant husband had met another woman capable of giving him more pleasure and less challenge than I. Fast growing Edmund was evidence of just such an occasion, when we had been apart. I had thought we were reconciled. I had thought I had come to understand Henry’s driving needs and he had accepted the sharp edges of my character. I had tried so hard to smooth them into tolerance.
In those days of festive pleasure and celebration at Eltham I was forced to face the truth. I was rejected as a wife in all carnal sense.
Quicksand once more moved under my feet. Henry no longer returned my love. My lemon balm and tincture of gillyflower to enhance pregnancy lay gathering dust in their phials. My root of Madonna Lily, supreme remedy for loss of hair in its tight-lidded pot, began to dry and curl at the edges.
Meanwhile I watched him for any evidence of the state of his mind, like a female hawk watches its errant young. I could not fault him. During the day he was in good heart, courteous, quick to laugh and encourage the family in festive excess. He sang. He dressed in rich velvets and damasks of past years when we acted the old myths and legends. Charming, friendly, affectionate, he seemed prepared to sink readily into the demands of this festive season.
But here was the difference. Henry did not ride out with the young ones when they hawked or hunted, on the pretext of business spending many hours in the muniment room, buried with his steward in documents and rent rolls. Or he retreated to the mews where he kept the company of his young hawks. He did not dance. He did not participate in the ferocious and rowdy game-playing.
Frustration was a wild beast within me. This was not how we spent Christmas. Christmas was a time for family. But Henry was ignoring his own precedents.
And to me? How did my husband, my lover, respond to me? As outwardly as charming and friendly and affectionate as to the rest of the family, but there was an invisible wall between us through which I was not allowed to pass. Henry had a myriad of excuses to prevent himself being trapped in a room alone with me.
My despair grew. But so did my pride. Why must I persist when it was as clear as the heart of the cabochon diamond Henry gave me as a New Year’s gift? Henry did not want me near him. I could humiliate myself with rejection no more. I found that I was withdrawing further and further into my old reserved self. I no longer even tried to tempt Henry into intimacy.
Until, that is, the evening when he thought no one was aware of him, when we were all concentrating on the dolorous take of Tristan and Isolde, acted with great verve by Hal and Philippa in the velvet robes and peacock feathers of Edward the Third’s Court. In that moment, Henry’s face was drawn in an agonised torment, as if sleep had become a stranger to him and his thoughts were raw with pain.
And I was watching.
Sleeping apart from me was not solving the problem for him. Insurrection in England might well keep him from sleep, but I was convinced that there was far more than Northumberland’s machinations on his mind. I steeled myself to make yet another attempt to draw him into confession.
‘What’s Northumberland doing at this moment?’ I asked with apparent mild interest, coming to sit by him, setting a little trap. ‘Plotting new conspiracies?’ Since Henry was still up to his neck in non-festive business, I saw no need for me to hold back.
From which he escaped with perfect equanimity and s
mooth if acerbic handling. ‘Spending this festive season at Alnwick, I expect, considering how he will govern his new realm after dividing it with Glyn Dwr and Mortimer. And I don’t expect he is being forced to discuss it with his wife.’
Which put me firmly in my place, and rather more sharply than I had expected. No more traps from me, then. But eventually I reached the limit of my tolerance.
‘Henry.’ Rising early, knowing his habits as well as I knew my own, I had intercepted him as he descended the spiral stair from early Mass in his oratory. Since he was alone, and I seated on a stool at the foot of the stair, I spoke without preamble.
‘Tell me what is amiss.’
‘Nothing is amiss, Joanna.’ There was no attempt at a smile. I thought it took him an effort to meet me face to face. I might even have suspected him of trying to walk past me when I stood and stepped in his path.
‘I do not hesitate to say that you lie,’ I said, grasping the nettle.
I saw the chain on his breast rise and fall as he took a breath.
‘You must not worry.’
‘How can I not worry?’
‘All will be well. All will be well.’
‘No, all will not be well, Henry. How can all be well when you banish me from your bed and will not talk with me about anything more meaningful than the lack of seasoning in the venison pottage or the fascinating fact that John is growing so fast that he needs new shoes every time he blinks?’
Henry’s eyes might narrow as if I had dealt him a physical blow, but his reply was as unemotional as all his recent replies.
‘It is better so.’
‘Better? Henry—’ Yes, I would ask him. ‘Is it your health?’
‘No.’
Well, that was a strong denial. I sought for another reason, snatching at thoughts that raced through my mind. Anything that could have a trace of logic attached to it for this distancing.