She knew little about the Welsh. She vaguely remembered Henry’s saying that at one time they had given trouble … as the Scots had in the past and as the Irish did always.

It was late October when the messengers came from France. She received them immediately in her private apartments and she saw at once that the news they brought was of a melancholy nature.

‘My lady,’ she was told, ‘the King your father has died in Paris.’

She was silent. She could not judge her feelings at that moment. The father whom she had loved and for whom she had so often feared was no more. Poor sad King of France, whose life had been such a burden to him and to others. For a moment she was back in the Hôtel de St Pol, a frightened child listening for strange noises which might come from that part of the mansion which had been set aside for the King. She could remember turning to her elder sister Michelle and burying her face against her to shut out the sounds, and Michelle’s stroking her hair and whispering: ‘It is all right, Katherine, he can’t hurt you. He can’t get out. His keepers are with him.’

Then there was another memory, her father emerging from the Hôtel de St Pol, coming to the Louvre, himself again after one of those strange periods, caring for them all, caring for his country and his people.

‘His end was … peaceful?’ she asked.

‘My lady, when he came back to Paris he was well. He came through the streets and the people cheered him. He was deeply loved.’

She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was deeply loved. He was a good man when he was free of his affliction.’

‘The people knew it, my lady. They were saying that if the King had not suffered his illness the trials which have come to France would never have happened.’

The man stopped abruptly. He remembered suddenly that he was talking to the wife of the Conqueror. She was the enemy now.

She cut in quickly: ‘I understand how they feel. They are right. Everything went wrong for France when my father became ill.’

But she was thinking: Nothing would have stopped Henry. He was determined to win the crown of France and none knows more than I that he was a man who would have his way.

‘My lady, it would have warmed your heart to see how the people greeted him when he came to Paris. They were under the rule of the English …’ again that fearful pause and again she nodded reassurance … ‘but they shouted for him. “Noel!” they cried. “Noel!” and they seemed to think that because he was well again we should regain our country. And when he died his body lay in state for three days and the people came to see him and to show their respect and their sorrow. My lady, they said of him “Dear Prince, there will never be another as good as thou wert. Accursed be thy death for now thou hast gone there will be nothing for us but wars and trouble.” They likened themselves to the children of Israel, my lady, crying out during the captivity in Babylon.’

‘It must have been very moving.’

‘My lady forgive me. Like many I loved the King your father.’

She said: ‘Alas that he should have been so afflicted. And what is happening now in Paris?’

‘The Conqueror is there.’

The Conqueror. Her brother-in-law, John of Bedford!

‘He has ordered heralds to proclaim Henry of Lancaster King of England and France.’

The baby in the cradle. Her little Henry. Not yet a year old. Such weighty titles for such a little one to bear.

The messenger was nervous. His was an unenviable task. He must proclaim the death of the lady’s father when her husband had been the reason for France’s downfall and her own child was the usurper King of France.

She understood and her glance and gentle tones reassured him once more that she attached no blame to him because he showed so clearly his loyalty to his own country.

She dismissed him that he might be refreshed after his journey and she went up to the nursery for she felt an irresistible urge to be with her child.

Henry was sleeping peacefully in his cradle. His small hand was clenched about the bed quilt and he was sucking the corner of it. It brought him some sort of odd comfort and he sought it as soon as he was laid in his cradle.

Such a baby. Not yet a year old and already the crown of England was his and they were trying to force the crown of France on top of that.

She was afraid for him. In that moment she wished that she were the wife of a country gentleman living far away from the events which rocked the country. She imagined herself waking each day to the sound of birdsong and the lowing of cattle. It was absurd. Life was not like that. She tried to imagine the warlike Henry in such circumstances. Battle with conquest had been his life; and it seemed certain that it would be the lot of this little one in the cradle.

Why did men seek to be kings and rulers? What joy did it bring them? It had brought death to Henry and to her poor sad father nothing but unhappiness.

And as she looked down at her sleeping son she thought she saw her father’s face.

She began to tremble. It was almost like a revelation. She stared down at the baby. What had come over her? The little face was in repose; the chubby hand clutched the edge of the quilt. He was just a baby … not in the least like a sad old man.

She was melancholy; she mourned her father; and she was filled with apprehension for the future.

If only Henry had not died, she thought. How different everything would have been. Then she thought that if he had lived, he would have been the one who was proclaimed in Paris, and she would be beside him … the crowned King and Queen of France. And there would have been those in the crowd who would murmur against them.

No, it seemed that there was little happiness for Kings.

She went to the window and looked out. It was a damp and misty day. Winter would soon be upon them. She thought again of that December day when little Henry had been born in Windsor … forbidden Windsor, and she caught her breath with sudden terror.

She stared with unseeing eyes at the late wisps of foliage on the oak trees, and suddenly she caught a glimpse of the Welsh squire. He was riding into the courtyard on the way to the stables.

She remembered then that encounter in the forest and she had a desire to see him again.

She said to one of her women: ‘That Welsh squire, I would have a word with him.’

The woman looked surprised, but it was easy for Katherine to overcome awkward situations. She could always fall back on her lack of understanding of the language and the customs of the country.

‘I would like to know how he does his duties …’ she went on. ‘I would not want to think that I had introduced into my household one who …’

She floundered and the woman said: ‘Do you wish me to make enquiries about him, my lady? If he has done aught to displease you …’

‘No … no … I do not know. I will speak to him myself.’

‘Yourself, my lady?’

‘It is what I mean. Send him to me. I will talk to him in my ante-chamber.’

The woman curtseyed and retired to do her bidding, no doubt thinking that the behaviour of the French was sometimes incomprehensible. But the late King had said his wife should be humoured. He did not want her to lose her foreign charm.

He came into the room, rather shyly, surprised as he was naturally to be summoned to the presence of the Queen.

‘Ah, Owen Tudor,’ she said stumbling a little over his name, ‘the squire from Wales.’ She smiled for he was beginning to look alarmed. ‘There is no need to fear,’ she said. ‘I remember seeing you in the forest of Vincennes. I commanded then that you should join my household.’

‘I thank you, my lady,’ said the young man, ‘and if I have done aught to displease you …’

‘No, no. You have not displeased. You have pleased …’ He looked even more alarmed and she went on quickly: ‘You must understand I have not yet learned well the language. There are times when I say what is not always understood.’

He bowed and waited.

‘I just wished to talk to you,’ she said. ‘We talked before. It was good for me. I was very unhappy then … I still am unhappy.’

‘My lady, you have had a great loss. All England has.’

‘And Wales?’ she said.

‘I have always served the King well, my lady.’

‘I know, and now you must serve your new King.’

Her expression clouded. She had remembered what had set her off on this strange impulse.

‘Tell me, Owen Tudor,’ she said, ‘are you like your father … or perhaps your grandfather?’

‘My father was accused of murder, my lady,’ said Owen, ‘and I should not like that to happen to me. My grandfather was Tudor Vychan ap Gronw and he was a very fine man I have heard.’

‘You are proud of your grandfather, Owen Tudor?’

‘He received a knighthood at the hands of the great King Edward the Third. My father, Meredydd, was steward to the Bishop of Bangor.’

‘And he was the one who was accused of murder. Tell me about that.’

‘I know nothing of it, my lady. Families do not talk of these things except to say one of their number was wrongly judged.’

‘So you believe there was no murder?’

He lifted his shoulders. ‘I do not know, but my father was a hot-tempered man and he was outlawed and forced to live in the mountains. I was born there.’

Owen Tudor stopped, suddenly realising it was the Queen to whom he was talking in this manner.

‘Do you think you are like your father … or your grandfather?’

‘Sons often bear resemblances to their parents, I believe my lady.’