‘My lady.’ Made uneasy by my tears, James handed me a piece of linen. ‘Don’t distress yourself.’

‘How can I not? I am French. Without Henry, I will be the enemy.’

‘So am I the enemy. We will weather it together.’

‘Thank you,’ I murmured. I wiped my tears and lifted my head as I followed my husband’s body into the hallowed darkness. All I wanted was to be at Windsor with my son.

When we buried Henry in Westminster Abbey, I gave him everything he rejected from me in life: all the care and attention that a wife could lavish on her husband. Henry had arranged it all, of course—how could I ever think I would be given a free hand?—but I paid for it out of my own dower, and I watched the implementation of his wishes with a cold heart as I led the mourners in procession to the Abbey, with James at my side, Lord John behind.

I arranged that Henry’s three favourite chargers should be led up to the altar. I considered that he would be more gratified with their presence than with mine.

Henry had put in place a plan for a tomb and chantry chapel in the very centre of the Abbey. So be it. I arranged for the workmen and paid their wages for the very best work they could achieve. No worshipper in the Abbey would ever be able to ignore Henry’s pre-eminence in death as in life.

I also took the effigy in hand: carved in solid English oak, plated with silver gilt, head and hands in solid silver. And above this magnificent representation were hung his most treasured earthly possessions. His shield and saddle and helmet. Trappings of war.

Completed at last, gleaming as it did with dull magnificence in the light from hundreds of candles, I stood beside the remarkable resemblance of his effigy. I placed my hand on his cheek then on his chest, where once his heart beat. The heart beneath my hand was still, stone-like in its oaken carcase, but mine shivered within the cage of my ribs.

‘I am sorry, my lord. I am sorry that I could not mean more to you. Your heart never beat for me—but I vow that I will raise your son to be the most powerful king that England has ever seen.’

It was all I could do for him, and I would not be found wanting in this.

Then, distressingly, clearly into my mind came Madam Joanna’s memory of the old prophecy:

Henry born at Monmouth shall small time reign and much get.

The accuracy of the old wisewoman’s reading of Henry’s lifespan took my breath. So short a life, so great an achievement. But would her further insight come to pass also?

Henry born at Windsor shall long reign and all lose.

What a terrible burden this placed on me, for was I not helpless to alter the course of such predestined events? But my protectiveness towards my son was reborn with even greater fervency. I would protect him and guide him and pray to God that his reign would be as glorious as his father’s. As the whole country mourned the passing of its acclaimed King, I decided that that must be the course of my life, to protect and nurture. And I banished the unsettling prophecy from my thoughts. I would simply not let it happen.

CHAPTER SIX

I wrote to Henry, taking the matter into my own hand with a direction that shook me.

My lord,

Now that the roads are dry and passable, I think it would be good for me to visit with my parents in Paris. And with you too if you deem it possible. I understand that the fortress of Meaux has at last fallen to English hands. Perhaps you will have a short time to welcome me to France.

Your loving wife,

Katherine.

Spring had arrived. Travellers began to people the roads, groups of merchants and pilgrims about their business, travelling together for safety. The market in Windsor was thronged with townsfolk glad to emerge after the winter. I watched them from the walls, listening to the cries and music that spoke so eloquently of life going on outside the castle, and with them had come that urgency, to lodge in my mind like a burr under a saddle.

My letter received a reply, and smartly, delivered by Lord John. Yes! Henry would give me leave to join him at last. I tore open the single sheet, scattering the wax in my joyful haste.

To my wife Katherine,

It is not a good time for you to travel in France. Meaux has fallen but matters between your brother and me are by no means settled. I would not wish you to be placed in any danger.

No! I swallowed against the intense disappointment and read on.

I think you will see the wisdom of remaining in England until I consider it safe for you to arrive. Your safety is my prime concern, you understand. I will send a courier when time and events permit.

Henry.

So my safety was his prime concern, was it? He would send a courier, would he? Then why did I get the impression that such an invitation would never happen? My desolate restlessness was replaced by fury. It blazed, for by now I had not seen Henry for over a twelve-month, so long ago that when I closed my eyes I had to concentrate to bring his features into focus. Would I eventually forget that direct stare, the straight nose and uncompromising mouth? Would I need his portrait to remind me?

Oh, Henry! You have not even given me a sound reasoning why I should not, merely it is not a good time. When will it be a good time?

‘He says no.’

‘I know.’

‘What is he doing now?’ I asked Lord John, looking up from the brisk refusal that he had brought. ‘I thought Meaux had asked for terms at last.’

‘Yes. It’s taken.’

‘But he has no wish to see me. You don’t have to deny it,’ I said, seeing John’s failure to find a soft reply, trying not to read the pity in his face. ‘I know that his feelings for me are…mild.’ How painful it was to admit that in public. ‘But I cannot accept his reasoning. In fact, I will not accept.’

There was a lull in hostilities. If Henry would not come to me, then I must go to him, and it seemed to me to be high time Henry came face to face with his son. It was time my baby travelled to the country that he would one day rule. It was time he became acquainted with his Valois grandparents.

How easy it was to make that decision, and to inform John of my wishes, refusing any advice to the contrary. My energy restored with the prospect of action, I marched to Young Henry’s room, swept the baby up from his cradle and took him to look out of the window in the general direction of where his father might be at that very moment. Young Henry was growing, I noticed. He was heavier in my arms now.

‘Shall we go to France? Shall I take you to see your father?’

He grinned with toothless gums. ‘Then we will go.’

But first, before I saw Henry again, I knew I must discover the truth to some unanswered questions. After months of inactivity, I was swept with a desire to discover what was hidden, and perhaps to build some bridges.

It was not at all what I had expected when, accompanied by an impressive escort, including both Gloucester and Bishop Henry, I made a bid to discover all I could about Henry’s imprisoned stepmother and the troubling prophecy.

Leeds Castle, a beautiful little gem set in a sapphire lake created by two encircling arms of a river, the waters reflecting the blue of the sky, was no grim dungeon for Madam Joanna. A soft imprisonment—yet still, all in all, it was an imprisonment if she lived under the custody of Sir John Pelham, as Bishop Henry informed me, and was not free to travel. I was both intrigued and anxious. What would this visit reveal about Madam Joanna—or indeed about Henry?

We were announced into her chamber: Joanna of Navarre, Queen Dowager of England and second wife of Henry’s father. She did not rise from her chair when Gloucester and Bishop Henry kissed her cheeks with obvious fondness. And I saw why she did not stand when she placed an affectionate hand on Gloucester’s sleeve.

Elegant she may be, her pure white hair coiffed, the folds of her houppelande rich with embroidered panels, jewels gleaming at neck and wrist, but her hands were crippled into claws and her shoulders rigid, and any movement deepened the lines between her brows. Discomfort notwithstanding, I was welcomed with a smile and a speculative regard from direct grey eyes. Entertained with music and wine, Gloucester and Bishop Henry proceeded to enliven her existence with news of court trivia and some comment on what Henry was doing in France.

Madam Joanna absorbed it all, then announced with quiet authority: ‘I wish to speak with Katherine.’ And when we were alone, duke and bishop obediently departing: ‘Sit next to me. I hoped you would come and visit me.’

I moved to the stool at her side. ‘I did not realise, my lady.’ What a poor excuse it sounded even to my ears, and what an appalling situation. ‘I did not even know—’

‘That I was a prisoner.’ She completed my thought with astonishing complacence.

‘Henry told me you chose to live a quiet life.’

‘Perhaps I would, in the circumstances.’ She lifted her arthritic hands with a little moue of distaste, before allowing them to fall gently back into her lap. ‘But this is no choice.’ Her smile was wry and humourless, her eyes sharp, demanding an honest response. ‘And no doubt you wish to know why my stepson keeps me under lock and key?’

‘Mistress Waring said that…’ How could I voice something so terrible?

‘I was accused of witchcraft.’ Madam Joanna frowned as if the words pained her. ‘It is true. So I am accused. Do you believe it?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think Bishop Henry does. Or Gloucester.’ Their warm acknowledgement of the Queen Dowager, their affection for her, could not be ignored.