The Forbidden Queen

‘Henry.’ I tried as we sat side by side to sample the meats and puddings at the formal banquet. ‘Has something happened to disturb you?’

I could not imagine what it might be. The obvious answer was a reversal in English interests in France, but that would have prompted a council of war, not a withdrawal into oyster-like silence. Was it rebellion in England? If so, we would not be sitting here calmly eating the beef and toasting the health of our hosts, who still wore the costumes of their lively play. So not rebellion.

‘Not a thing,’ Henry replied, sotto voce, ‘unless it is the toughness of this meat. I advise you to try the fish.’

I gave up.

Henry did not honour me with his attentions that night. I had hoped he might. Could I not persuade him to tell me what was in his heart? But he did not come.

Next morning, when we were to attend Mass, as I made my way to the private chapel we had used on previous mornings, I was informed by one of Henry’s squires that Mass would be celebrated in the body of the church with a full congregation from the town.

Escorted there, I found Henry already kneeling. Conscious of my tardiness, I knelt at his side without comment. He acknowledged me with an inclination of his head, no more than a glance, but there was time for nothing more as the polyphony began and the bishop took his place before the altar. A quiet stillness settled in me as the familiar words and gestures of the priest wrapped round me and my mind was overwhelmed by the intense colours from the great east window. The blue of lapis and cobalt, the blood red of rubies and garnets. Everything was as it should be. Of course nothing was amiss. Would Henry not have said?

There—there were the prayers for Henry and England, for me his Queen and—

My breath caught on an inhalation as the bishop’s less than sonorous tones rolled out.

‘We pray for the departed soul of Thomas, the Duke of Clarence.’

Thomas, Duke of Clarence. Henry’s brother. Dead! When had this happened? Hands gripped tight, I glanced across at Henry, but his gaze was fixed on the altar.

‘… cruelly done to death in France. We thank God for his courageous life and pray for his departed soul.’

Henry’s brother was dead. So that was the news that had arrived. He had known since the previous morning and had said nothing to me. I might have no experience of family relations with my brothers except for suspicion and hostility, but Henry had a keen closeness with his brothers. How could he show so little grief? If Michelle were dead, would I not grieve? I would not be silent. I would weep, howling out my hurt for all to hear. My chest was tight, my breathing shallow, my emotions all awry: my sorrow was for Henry, but why had he not told me the truth?

The Mass proceeded to its end, and as we walked side by side from the vast arch of the church into the sunlit warmth of the churchyard, I stopped, caught hold of the fullness of Henry’s tunic and faced him.

‘You have known of this since yesterday,’ I stated. ‘Since the letter arrived.’

‘Yes.’

‘Was it a battle?’

‘Yes. At Bauge.’ He was silent for a long moment, looking back towards the precise carving of leaves and flowers, interspersed with grinning stone faces, that rioted around the doorway, but I did not think he saw them. His mind was in France, on a battlefield where English pride had been trampled in the dust and a royal brother done to death, and behind his implacable mask I saw his sorrow. Would I actually have to ask if it was an English defeat?

‘Was it…?’

‘It was a rout,’ he remarked impassively, gaze snapping back to my face. ‘Your inestimable brother the Dauphin all but destroyed my army and killed my brother. Thomas rode against superior forces and was cut down in the thick of it. He was one of the first to die. Bad tactics, I warrant you—he always had more courage than sense and to wear a jewelled coronet on his helmet was downright foolhardy. But still. My army was beaten and my brother slain.’

‘Oh.’ It was worse than I had thought, and for a moment Henry’s features were raw with the grief he had so effectively hidden.

‘His body was recovered. It will be brought back to England for burial.’

‘Good. That’s good, of course.’

But the grief had gone and Henry’s eyes were cold and searching, as if he could find the answer to his question in my face. ‘It is a great loss. Such a defeat is catastrophic for us at this point in the war. Are we so vulnerable? It will make my task so much harder…’

‘Henry!’

I did not care. I did not care about the war. I did not care about our escort of knights and servants and men-at-arms who thronged behind us, hindered from leaving the church by our halting. All I cared about was his incomprehensible silence on so personal a matter that must have wounded him. Why could he not tell me? Was I, his wife, not to be allowed to give him comfort? But when I placed my hand softly on his forearm in compassion, I felt the muscles beneath the fine cloth instantly stiffen against me. I let my hand fall away.

‘Why did you not tell me?’ However much I might try to suppress it, I could hear the anger in my low-voiced interruption. ‘When I asked you yesterday, you said there was nothing untoward. The whole day passed, and you did not tell me.’

He looked at me as if he could not understand my complaint.

‘I did not tell you. I told no one.’

‘But why not me? I am your wife. And your brother is dead. Did you think I would not care?’ My heart was sore for him. ‘I would mourn with you. I would—’

‘What could you have done?’ he interrupted.

‘I could have given you comfort. Am I incapable of giving you some solace?’

His smile was bleak, barely a smile at all. ‘I did not need it. I don’t need it now. What I need to do is take action to forestall the French advance.’

Thoughts crept into my head. Chilling doubts. The defeat had, of course, been at the hands of my brother. However hard it was, I looked into Henry’s eyes. Had he decided that my Valois blood was more of a danger than a blessing? But his eyes were lightless, empty of either understanding for my predicament or judgement of my possible loyalties. I did not think that he understood at all.

‘Come,’ he said.

I held my ground. ‘Did you not trust me with the news?’ I asked. ‘Is that it? Did you think I would cry it from the rooftops to cast your precious English citizens into despair?’ And an even worse thought joined the others. ‘Or did you think I might secretly rejoice at a French victory over your brother and crow over his death?’

‘Don’t be foolish, Katherine.’ The tone, thick with disdain, slithered over me.

‘I am French, am I not? Is it not possible that I would wish my brother well?’

‘Curb your tongue,’ he ordered. ‘Such thoughts are unworthy of you and demeaning to me. And we are drawing attention to ourselves. We will give the populace no cause for prurient interest.’

His fingers closed around my arm and he propelled me through the churchyard, so fast that I was forced to lengthen my stride to keep up with him. He was smiling for the sake of those who had come to bow and scrape, but his hand gripped like a vice. As soon as we had reached our accommodations and closed the outer door on the populace, he released me as if his hand was scalded. But I continued, driven on by a cold grip around my heart.

‘I am so sorry. I did not intend to demean either you or myself, Henry.’

‘Katherine.’ He turned his back on me, weariness now in his voice. ‘It is done. Leave it now. My brother, God rest his soul, is dead. The battle was a disaster. What more to say, for either of us? You can do or say nothing that could give me comfort or make it more acceptable to me that Thomas is dead. Let it lie.’

I bit down on my lip, silenced at last. ‘I am sorry. I am so sorry for your grief.’ Nothing could have made it plainer that he did not need me, or even want me with him. I waited, expecting him to say more, but he did not.

‘Will you go to France?’ I asked eventually.

‘No. I told your father that I would return in midsummer to restart the campaign, and that is when I will go. Now I have business to attend to.’ And I was shrugged off, the door to his chamber closed against me.

Did he find no value in any words of consolation I might offer, or even in the simple touch of my hand on his? As I stood outside that closed door, all I was aware of was a vast tide of loneliness sweeping up to enclose me. Why are you waiting here? I asked myself. What is there to wait for?

Nothing.

Henry came to my bed that night. I did not think his heart was in it even though his body responded magnificently. It took very little time.

‘Stay with me,’ I invited in despair, as I had once in London, as he shrugged into his chamber robe.

Why would he not stay with me? It was what I wanted more than anything, to lie in his arms and listen to him talk, of his own ambitions, of the loss of his brother. That was what I wanted more than anything in the world, and if I could show him that I was not treasonably French but a loyal wife who cared for his grief and the destruction of his plans, then it was all I could ask for.