My dear Katherine,

I can think of no better news.

The baby kicked and blinked myopically in his cradle—Henry’s cradle—at my knee on which Henry’s letter lay open.

A son, an heir to inherit the thrones of England and France, is the greatest possible achievement of our marriage.

The heir, a boy, born on the sixth day of December at four hours after noon, sneezed.

He must be named Henry.

Henry snuffled and waved his tiny hands.

Order a Mass to be said in grateful thanks.

Henry stuffed the corner of the embroidered coverlet into his mouth.

My heart is filled with great gladness.

Henry.

I had not needed to write to inform Henry of this blessed event. The news had been official, carried fast by one of the heralds in full panoply of tabard and staff of office, and here was the reply, even before we were to celebrate the Birth of the Holy Child.

‘Where is he?’ I asked, noting that Henry’s writing had returned to its usual force.

‘Still at Meaux, my lady,’ Alice reported. ‘They are dug in for a siege. A lengthy business.’

So there was no suggestion that Henry would return soon, but I had not expected it. The festivities were almost upon us.

‘Was the King in good heart? Did the courier say?’ I asked automatically. If he was engaged in a siege, he must be.

‘Yes, my lady. The siege goes well. But…’

My eyes snapped to Alice’s face at the hesitation. ‘But?’

‘Nothing, my lady.’

‘What would you have said?’

‘I think—from what was said—that the King had been unwell, my lady.’

‘Unwell?’ A little jolt to my heart. I could not imagine Henry unwell. His strength had always been prodigious.

‘The courier may have been mistaken, my lady.’ Alice nodded reassuringly. ‘I think they all lack a good night’s sleep and the food leaves much to be desired. His Majesty was well in command.’

I leaned on her reassurance. So no cause for concern, just the usual strains of a long campaign when the body was worn down by the need for constant vigilance. Henry was stronger than any man I knew. I hoped he would come home. I wanted him to smile on the infant Henry and on me.

I lifted the baby from his cradle, holding him so that I could look into his face.

‘You are Henry,’ I informed him. ‘Your father wishes it to be so. His heart is filled with gladness at the news of your birth.’ He seemed to be too small to be Henry. ‘I think I will have to call you Young Henry,’ I informed him.

The baby squirmed and fussed in his wrappings, so I placed him on my lap. I could see nothing of Henry’s face or of Valois in his features, which were still soft and blurred, his eyes the palest of blues and his hair a fair fluff of down. His head was heavy and warm where it rested on my arm, and there was the faintest frown on his brow as if he could not quite see who held him. He began to whimper.

‘I’ll take him, my lady.’ Mistress Waring hovered anxiously, conscious of my lack of experience, but I shook my head and drew the child close to my breast. ‘It is not fitting that you nurse him.’

‘No. Not yet.’

The whimper became a snuffle and the baby fell asleep. Two weeks old—he was so small—and I felt my heart shiver with protectiveness.

‘You are mine,’ I whispered as Mistress Waring moved away. ‘Today you are mine.’

And I knew that my ownership would be a thing of a temporary nature. Soon, even within the coming year, he would have a household of his own with nurses and servants to answer his every need, perhaps even far from me in his own royal castle if that was what Henry wished. It was not unknown.

He would be educated and trained to be the heir, his father’s son, in reading and writing and military pursuits. Henry would buy him a little suit of armour and a small sword and he would learn to ride a horse.

I smiled at the prospect, but my smile was quick to fade. I would lose him fast enough, but for now he was mine, dependent on me, my son quite as much as he was Henry’s, and love for this small being suffused my whole body. I thought he would never be as precious as he was to me at that moment before life stepped between us. Born at Windsor he may have been, but I could see nothing but a glorious future for him.

‘You will never be hungry or afraid or neglected,’ I informed my son.

I kissed his forehead where his fair brows met, and remembered that Henry had not asked after my health at all.

We held the Mass as instructed in the magnificence of St George’s Chapel. The Court celebrated the birth of the Christ Child and the start of the New Year and then the riotous junketings of Twelfth Night without either the King or Queen in attendance.

Henry was still pinned down by my brother at Meaux, while I kept to my chambers for I had yet to be churched before emerging into the world again. Baby Henry thrived. Alice cared for me, and Mistress Waring waxed tiresomely eloquent in her comparisons between father and son, how Henry had learned to sing and dance as a child with such grace. I regretted that I had never seen Henry sing or dance. But there was time. Young Henry’s birth had blessed me with a new sense of optimism.

I planned my churching with care and an anticipation of my release, and I wrote to Henry.

My lord,

It is my wish to be churched at Candlemas, the Blessed Virgin’s own Feast of Purification. If events in France are such that you could return for this thanksgiving, I would be most gratified.

Your loving wife,

Katherine.

I did not quite beg, but I thought it plain enough. So was the reply.

To my wife Katherine,

I am unable to be in England in February. I will arrange for alms to be given to the poor and prayers to be said for your health and that of my son.

I read no more, for there was not much to read before the signature.

‘What is he doing?’ I asked, unable to hide my chagrin.

‘Besieging that thrice-damned fortress of Meaux, so the courier says,’ Alice informed me. ‘A nest of Dauphinist vipers if ever there was one. It’s proving to be a thorn in English flesh. As well as losing Avranches and regaining it. It’s all a bit busy.’

And my family was causing Henry much annoyance. I could imagine the line digging deep between his brows, even at this distance. So I was churched without much of festivity, and gave candles for the Virgin’s own altar. The prayers were duly said and I expect the alms were given to the poor. Henry was always efficient.

After my release from confinement I remained at Windsor and I wrote.

My lord,

Your son is healthy and strong. Today he is three months old. He has a gold rattle that he beats on the side of his cradle. He also gnaws at it so perhaps his teeth will appear soon.

Your loving wife,

Katherine.

And did I receive a reply? I did not. Whilst I told Henry of the daily minutiae of his son’s life, Henry sent me not one word. I understood his needs, the ambition that drove him on, the pressure of war on his every waking moment. Of course I understood. I would not expect him to expend too much energy in considering my state when he knew that I was safe, and that both I and the child were healthy. I was not selfish.

But it had been almost a year since we had been in each other’s company. Our relationship was so fragile, based on so little time together, how could it survive such absence? Neither was there any indication of when we would be reunited. I accepted that Henry did not love me, but he did not know me. Neither did I know him.

Were we destined to exist like two separate streams, running in tandem but never to meet? Sometimes I wept that we were such strangers to each other.

Desolation throbbed in my blood. Frustration kept me restless. My foolish attempts to send my thoughts to Henry, as if I might find some echo of him, make some ephemeral consummation of the mind with him, failed utterly. But of course, I admonished myself, both parties would need to be open to the conversation. Henry would not be thinking about me.

How long could I wait?

CHAPTER FIVE

He was back. Henry was in London. I knew of his approach to the city even before the cloud of dust from his retinue came in sight of the guards at the gates, since couriers had been arriving for the whole of the previous week, issuing a summons in the King’s name for a Parliament to meet to ratify the Treaty of Troyes. I knew of his arrival at Westminster, where I had already taken up residence, knew of the unpacking and dispersal of his entourage, Henry’s own progress to his private rooms. What I could not hear and deduce from my windows, I ordered Thomas, my page, to discover for me. The King was once more in residence in his capital.

I had a need to speak with him.

‘How did he look?’ I asked, hoping my urgency would extract some specific detail.

‘He was clad in armour and a surcoat with leopards on it,’ Thomas reported with single-minded attention to the accoutrements of his hero, ‘and he wore a jewelled coronet on his helm and a sword at his side.’

‘Is he in good health?’ I asked patiently.

He thought for a moment. ‘Yes, my lady. His horse is very fine too.’

So why was I not waiting for Henry in the courtyard, a Queen to welcome her King? Because I now knew enough of Henry’s preferences to allow him to arrive and settle into his rooms in his own good time, without any distraction, as he brought himself abreast of messages and documents.

I knew, with my newborn cynicism, that I might be awarded at best a cursory bow and a salute to my cheek, at worst a request that I return later in the day. Besides, I wanted my first meeting with him to be alone, not with the whole Court or his military escort as an interested audience.