I nodded, barely taking this in but holding on to the sweet kernel in the nut. I would accept the period of mourning: it was what Henry deserved, and I would mourn him with due diligence as befitted a French princess. I would accept my ceremonial role and play it to perfection. I would accept that I was to be given no choice in the appointment of officials to my household, except for my chaplain and chamber women. I would tolerate all of that because in Gloucester’s chilly portrayal of my life he had made one pertinent comment.

You will remain close to the boy.

‘I can play that role, my lord,’ I said with formal dignity.

‘We are gratified, my lady.’

I did not like the look in his eye. Neither did I like it that not once had Gloucester shown any interest in his nephew beyond a cursory glance.

When the door closed at Gloucester’s back, I picked up my son, holding his body close, his fair curls soft against my cheek. He was mine: he would always be mine and I would lavish all the love on him that I had.

As the years passed I would watch him grow, learning his lessons, able to wield a sword and ride a horse. One day he would be as great a soldier as his father had been. My days would be well spent in setting his tiny feet on that path. The prophecy would come to nought.

Young Henry patted my cheek then struggled to be set down.

‘You will be a great king,’ I whispered in his ear, holding him tightly, ashamed at the tears that gathered in my eyes.

Young Henry crowed against my shoulder, gripping the folds of my robe.

It came to me that if it had not been for my little son I would have sunk into despair.

I had expected to be pre-eminent in the upbringing of my son. Was I not his mother? Was I not the embodiment of virtuous and noble motherhood, like the Blessed Virgin herself? Not so. At the turn of the year I received a document, which I handed to Master Wodehouse, my new Chancellor: a kindly man, if content to sit with a cup of ale beside a fire in his latter years. Fortunately my demands on him were few.

‘What is this?’ I asked.

It was formal and official in a clerkly hand, and beyond my deciphering.

‘It is the appointment of a legal guardian for the Young King, my lady.’

‘A guardian?’

‘The young King has a new guardian, my lady. Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick. A good man.’

Well, of course he was. I knew Warwick. But his goodness was not an issue. I did not care if he was good. ‘Who says this?’ I demanded.

‘The Council, my lady. It was to be expected,’ Master Wodehouse advised gently, wary of my irritation. And he read on to the end of the Council’s statement while I brooded in silence. It may have been expected, but not by me. I had not been consulted, but I was given to understand that Henry had wished it; Henry’s brothers and uncle wished it. But I did not. I could not see why my son would need a guardian when his mother was perfectly capable of guarding his interests.

How dared they go over my head and appoint a guardian who would effectively oust me from my son’s side, who would have the power to overrule any decisions I might wish to make?

‘It is an excellent choice, my lady.’ Master Wodehouse was still regarding me with some concern. ‘There could be no better man in the whole of England to protect and advise your son as he grows. Supervising his education and training in all aspects of kingship. It is beyond you, my lady.’

I frowned at him, and the document.

‘Indeed he is the best man possible, my lady.’

And as I considered it, I saw the sense of it—as I must, for I was not entirely without insight into my son’s needs. As he grew my child would need a man to guide and instruct him in all aspects of warfare as well as in government. Bishop Henry was well intentioned but too entangled in clerical matters and too self-interested, Gloucester too pompous for my taste. Lord John was committed to events in France.

‘Could you find any fault in him, my lady?’ Master Wodehouse asked.

‘No.’ I sighed. ‘No, I cannot. It is just that…’

‘I understand. You do not wish to let go of the boy.’

No, I did not. There was nothing much else in my life.

I pondered on what I knew of Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, who had been at Henry’s side since that very first day in the pavilion at Meulan. A man of erudition, a man of considerable reputation, he was barely forty years old, even tempered with considerable personal charm, with all the experience and knowledge I could have asked for. I was forced to admit that Warwick was the perfect choice to teach a growing boy everything a young prince should know. To study, to choose between right and wrong, to fight as a knight to inspire his people, and all the military things that a man must learn that I could not give him.

Besides, I liked Warwick.

And so I allowed him his jurisdiction—since I had no power to circumvent it—but still I had to fight the resentment in my heart. The distancing from my son was hard to bear, even though Warwick applied his power with a light hand, often leaving Young Henry in my care when state matters demanded that he be at Westminster. Young Henry was still too young to wield a sword, even a wooden one, and his daily routine continued to rest with me and the coterie of nurses, supervised by Joan Asteley, who spoiled and cosseted him.

So my initial resentment settled, and I decided that the Council’s decisions could have been far worse. But my complacency could not last. In my heart I knew it and Warwick warned me as we stood in the nursery on one of his visits.

‘He looks well,’ Warwick observed as he stroked his hand over Young Henry’s head. My son was asleep, hooded eyes closed, lips relaxed, reminding me how like his father he was in repose.

‘He is. Soon he will be running through the palace.’ But not like I had run at the Hôtel de St Pol. Never like that.

‘I must buy him a pony.’ Warwick laughed. Then became serious as if he knew I would not like what he said. ‘The time has come, my lady.’ I regarded him quizzically, suddenly aware. ‘Now that the Young King is more than a year old, he must be put under the guidance of a governess.’

At first I did not quite understand. ‘Do I need more servants?’ I asked. ‘If so, my steward will appoint—’

‘The governess will be appointed by the Council,’ he said gently.

I felt that unpleasant shiver of apprehension. Warwick, as guardian, was a distant figure, willing to allow me a degree of influence, but a governess appointed by the Council would be ever present, a real and constant authority.

‘My son has a whole parcel of nurses to see to his needs,’ I remarked coldly. ‘Joan Asteley has my complete confidence. Mistress Waring, of course. Young Henry loves her.’

‘He needs more, Katherine. Mistress Waring’s influence must end.’ His gentle use of my name warned me. ‘He needs a governess to nurture him in courtesy and good manners. Most importantly he needs a governess who has the power to chastise the Young King if necessary.’

Courtesy. Good manners…My authority as his mother counted for less and less. ‘She would chastise my son?’ I was outraged. Yet had not our servants in France chastised me, and not always with a light hand? As I remembered the slaps, the sharp blows of a whip, my hands tightened into fists.

‘Only within reason, my lady.’

‘And what is reason?’ Abruptly I turned my back on him to walk to the end of the room. ‘She is not his mother. How will she know?’ I raised my voice. ‘I do not agree.’

Warwick followed me, eyes soft with sympathy, but he spoke plainly, as was his wont. ‘This is no argument here, Katherine. It will happen with or without your consent—and it must be no surprise to you. It is customary for princes to be raised in their own households. You cannot expect to keep him close to you, even though you live in the same palace. He will be raised with his own staff, eventually with youngsters of noble blood of his own age. He will learn what it is to be King. You know this. Surely you were brought up with your royal brothers and sisters in a similar manner?’

‘Yes,’ I admitted abruptly. Did he not realise? That was my reason for resisting. I remembered my own childhood far too vividly. ‘I know exactly what it can be like. I would not give my son to the possibility of such neglect. Or chastisement!’

‘It will not be like that.’

I took a turn to the window and back, hemmed in by the shadows of the past. ‘I hear what you say.’ I tried to hide the hopelessness that lapped against my heart. ‘Do I have any influence over who will be governess?’

‘The appointment will be decided by the Council,’ Warwick repeated.

So, no. The answer was no. I pressed my fingertips against my lips to still their trembling. I would not weep. I would remain strong, for my son’s sake, and I frowned at the idea that encroached, and not for the first time, since Gloucester’s dislike of me bit deep.

‘Is it because I am my mother’s daughter, and her reputation is not of the best? Is my influence not trustworthy?’

Warwick considered his answer.

‘I think you have to accept that there are those in the Council who wish to supersede your influence.’ He shrugged uneasily, aware that his reply had hurt. ‘You must accept it, Katherine. The governess chosen by the Council will deal well with the boy. He is growing quickly; he needs more than clean clothes and regular meals. He needs discipline and education, and he needs to be raised with all the tenets of an English prince.’

But did I not have the right to nurture him and see him grow out of babyhood? My mother had never watched me. I would watch my son, for he was all I had. In that moment I felt like resting my head on Warwick’s shoulder and weeping out my sorrows.