‘I cannot believe that my child will suffer for being born in one place or another. I’m sure the Lady Mary had more sense than to give credence to it. If you are so anxious we will say a rosary to the Virgin to ask for her protection.’ I was beyond being dissuaded. I would not be swayed by anything less than good sense.

Mistress Waring drew in a breath. ‘Queen Dowager Joanna knows the truth.’

‘I have never met her.’ Queen Dowager Joanna, Henry’s reclusive stepmother. I recalled her absence at my coronation, and our paths had not crossed since, for which I was probably remiss. I had meant to ask him, and had forgotten.

‘Nor would you,’ Mistress Waring advised bleakly. ‘She is a prisoner.’

‘A prisoner?’ I thought I had misunderstood the word.

‘She is kept in confinement.’

It made no sense to me. ‘Does Henry know?’

‘Of course. It is by his order. She is accused of witchcraft. Against the King himself.’

I could think of nothing to say. Henry had led me to believe that it had been her choice to live a secluded life, not that she had been incarcerated for so terrible a crime. And I could prise no more information from Mistress Waring other than a reiteration that Madam Joanna would know all about the prophecy. And that I must on no account go to Windsor.

‘You must ask the Duke of Bedford for permission, my lady.’ Lord John was still in England, thus a final throw of Mistress Waring’s dice. ‘I wager he will not give it.’

Alice approached to enquire if she should organise the transport of the cradle that still sat, rocking gently, under my hand. Lord John was out of London, visiting the north. Madam Joanna’s predicament was something I must consider at more leisure. As for Windsor as my destination—why should I not make my own decision?

‘Pack it,’ I said.

I was packed up and gone to Windsor long before Lord John returned.

My lord.

I am well. Mistress Waring expects our child to be born early in December.

What more could I write? Nothing I did here at Windsor could possibly interest Henry. Windsor was everything I had remembered and anticipated from my brief visit on my first arriving in England, a place of seductive comfort and royal extravagance, nicely balanced. Painted and tapestried, the rooms that looked out over the River Thames closed around me like a blessing.

Four were put aside for my own use, apart from my bedchamber. One was hung entirely with mirrors, a room that I avoided as my girth grew and I became more clumsy, so I commandeered the Rose Chamber, glorious with paint and gilding, instead. One chamber was for dancing, constructed by Edward III for his wife, Philippa. There was no dancing for my little household, but perhaps at Christmas there would be celebrations. Perhaps Henry would be there to see his firstborn child.

Fat and indolent, I withdrew and settled into Windsor like a bird into her nest, in a world from which all men were barred as my time drew closer. My chilblains responded to the pennyroyal ointment. Alice and Mistress Waring clucked around me. Even my damsels regarded me with smiles of approval and a willingness to entertain me with music and song as the arrival of the heir approached. It amused me that everyone presumed the child would be a son. I hoped so, I prayed so, for a son would assuredly win me Henry’s approval.

Occasionally my thoughts turned to Madam Joanna, shut away from the world much as I was, but for necromancy. Necromancy! The use of the Dark Arts. What had she done? And why had Henry remained so determinedly silent about it? When my child was born, I decided, I would make it in my way to visit this intriguing Queen Dowager.

I wrote to Henry. I felt a need to tell him, to remind him of my existence, yet found it strangely difficult to write. My skills were limited, and I struggled with the words as well as the sentiments.

I pray for your safety, and that of the coming child. I trust that you are well and in good heart. I look to the day when you return to England in victory, as do all your loyal subjects.

It was deplorably stilted, but all I could do. I did not know where in France he was at that moment but thought him still to be tied down at the siege of Meaux, where my brother’s forces were holding out against Henry’s assault. And how to finish this worthless little note?

Your loyal and loving wife,

Katherine

I sent it by courier and set myself to stitching for the child that moved restlessly under my hand. Perhaps Henry would even find time to reply. And when he did, I opened the letter enthusiastically, scattering wax on my skirts as the royal seal broke.

To my wife Katherine,

I rejoice to hear of your good health and trust the arrival of the child will be soon and not too difficult for you to support. I will order a Mass to be said for your strength.

The writing was uneven, the uprights less forceful than I thought I remembered, not that I had seen Henry write often. Well, I considered. He would not be free to sit and write at leisure. And, no, for he continued:

I am at Meaux but we are hampered by heavy rains that have caused the river to flood. We are troubled by dysentery. I will return to Westminster when affairs permit.

Henry.

The tail on the y slid abruptly away with a blot and a smear.

I rubbed my thumb over the smudged letters of his name. Not much here. I frowned at it. Then at Alice, who had delivered it from the courier who had remained shut out beyond my closed doors.

‘Was the King in good health? Did the courier say?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Good. Do we know anything about the King of Scotland?’

For James, restless at the endless curtailment of his freedom, had begged to be allowed to accompany Henry to France. Henry had finally agreed, and given consent to James’s release from captivity. Within three months of Henry’s return to England, and presuming that the Scottish forces had fought well in England’s name, James would be restored to Scotland, if hostages were given for his loyalty.

And providing that James agreed to wed my damsel Joan Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset and niece to Bishop Henry, it was a neat way of keeping an independent James loyal to English interests. Not that that bothered him particularly. James thought Joan Beaufort to be a remarkably pretty girl.

‘Yes, my lady. Lord James sent a poem for the Lady Joan.’ With a sly smile Alice removed from her sleeve a folded and sealed square of parchment. ‘I have it here.’

‘How very thoughtful of him.’

I beckoned Joan, who had been watching, anticipating my every move. A solemn girl in a yellow gown, she was marked by the distinctive Beaufort features of heavily hooded eyes and softly russet hair. One day she would make a lovely bride.

And I smiled, my heart a little sore, as she fell on the dog-eared parchment as if it would save her life, instantly engrossed as she read and re-read with flushed cheeks. I wished that Henry had sent me something rather than a mere half-dozen lines, written about dysentery and flooding.

‘“Now was there maid fast by the wall,”’ Joan read aloud so that we might all admire.

‘“A garden faire, and in the corners set a herbery green.

And on the small green branches sat

The little sweet nightingale, that sang so loud and clear…”’

James’s poetry was not good, he would never threaten the reputations of the troubadours, but if nothing else it proclaimed the direction of his heart.

Should I read aloud from Henry’s note to me? I thought sourly. But I was instantly regretful of the jealousy that nipped at my thoughts. They were both young, and no doubt the love that bound them together was a fine thing.

Whatever the state of the chilly rift between us, Henry would be far too busy to mend it, and neither had I made any effort with intimate thoughts in my writings to him. How could I? The campaign took precedence over everything: I must understand that and not be a burden on him. Yet I felt moved to leave the room as Joan launched into the third verse. I could not bear to listen to the passion of a lord yearning for his lady, however badly written the sentiments.

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.