‘Will I marry again?’ I asked.

It surprised me, much like the brush of moth’s wings against my hair in the dusk, the thought alighting from nowhere in my mind, like a summer swallow newly returned. I had never thought of remarriage before. But why not? Barely into my third decade, why should I not?

‘Do you wish to? I had not realised.’ Warwick looked equally startled.

‘No, no. I have no such plans, or even thoughts of it. But…will I be allowed to? Will the Council allow it? At some future time in my life?’ Suddenly it seemed of major importance that I should have this promise of possible fulfilment and companionship—even of love—somewhere on my horizon.

‘Why not? I can see no reason why you should not.’ Warwick paused, the moment marked by a thin line between his smooth brows. ‘As you say, as Henry grows he will become more independent. Why should you not remarry?’ Another pause. ‘If a suitable husband is found for you, of course.’

His obvious unease comforted me not at all.

If a suitable husband is found for you.

The qualification found a fertile home in my mind, for was that not the essence of it? Who would be considered suitable? I recalled Gloucester’s inflexible portrait of Katherine, the Queen Dowager. I did not think my remarriage was something he would tolerate when he had painted me into a lonely, isolated existence, a gilded figure in an illustrated missal.

I forced myself to pass my time in useful pursuits. No dark night, no cold winter could last for ever. I made myself appear to be busily employed, and so I turned the pages of a book but found no interest in the adventures of Greek gods or heroes who fell in and out of love with envious verve.

I ordered music but I would neither sing nor dance. How could I dance alone? I played with Young Henry, but he was now being drawn into a regime of books and religious observance. I applied my needle with even less enthusiasm, the leaves that blossomed under my needle appearing flat and lacking in life, as if the imminent approach of winter would cause them to shrivel and die. It seemed to me that my own winter approached, even before I had blossomed into summer.

This would be the tenor of my life until the next opening of Parliament, when Young Henry would journey to London and I would again accompany him. Year after year the same. Henry had used me to further his ambitions in France. Now I would be used to bolster the authority of my baby son.

Sometimes I wept.

‘You need company, my lady.’ Alice was fast losing patience.

True, but I was unlikely to get it. Oh, I tried to smile and join in with the damsels, when Meg and Beatrice and Joan whispered their endless gossip and Cecily spoke of love, unrequited for the most part. I tried to force myself to enjoy of a cup of spiced wine and the scandalous tale of Gloucester’s matrimonial exploits to while away the November evenings. And indeed I was momentarily diverted with the reprehensible issue between Lord Humphrey and his wife, Jacqueline of Hainault, a bigamous union, for she was already wed to the Duke of Barbant, and there had been no annulment.

But my interest was tepid at best and they gossiped without me when they found me poor company. I could not blame them. Their chattering voices with their opinions and comments and lewd suggestions barely touched my soul. They, I suspected, were as bored as I, shut away as we were at Windsor at the court of a baby king.

Warwick—dear, kind Warwick—sent me a gift, a lap dog with curling chestnut hair and sharp eyes, and equally sharp teeth. Probably, in a fit of remorse, to take the place of a husband, since the possibility of one had been so far into the future as to be impossible to envisage. I suspected Alice’s involvement too, hoping it would entice me from misery, and indeed it was a charming creature, still young enough to cause havoc in my chamber, pouncing on embroidery silks and chewing anything left in its path, but it did not distract me.

You are a poor creature! I castigated myself. You have no cause to be so lacking in spirit.

Loneliness wrapped itself, shroud-like, around me, and I covered my face with my hands so that I could not see the aimless path that I must follow until the day I died.

Holy Virgin, I prayed at my prie-dieu every morning. Holy Virgin, grant me some solace. Grant me resolve to see my life as a more purposeful journey.

‘Perhaps you should take the boy and go to Westminster for the Christmas festivities,’ Alice growled as November moved into December. ‘My lord of Warwick will allow it, I’m certain.’

‘No,’ I replied, my voice as dull as my mind. ‘I will not celebrate.’

She strode from my chamber, eyes snapping at my intransigence. I felt no guilt.

A week later the space of Windsor’s Upper Ward was full of people and horses. The sudden burst of voices and clattering hooves on the cobbles could be heard even through the glazed windows of the chamber where my damsels and I sat to catch the final spare gleams of the afternoon sun, but I was disinclined to stir myself to look to find out the reason. Probably Warwick come to check on the progress of Young Henry, hopefully without another lap dog. The cheerful activity was, however, too much for my damsels to ignore.

‘My lady?’ Meg asked, already on her feet.

‘Look, if you will,’ I said, not that they needed my permission. My hand of authority was a light one.

A shriek of joy from Joan made all clear.

‘I take it that the King of Scotland visits us,’ I remarked fretfully. I had not seen him for months.

‘May I, my lady?’ she asked. She was already halfway to the door.

‘Of course. Try to be…’ the door shut behind her ‘… maidenly and decorous.’

And she ran, leaving me with a few sharp pangs, firstly that my mood was so churlish, and even more that the arrival of a visitor should give her so much pleasure yet hardly move me from my chair. But I must. I placed the lute I had been idly strumming on the coffer and fixed what I hoped would be a welcoming smile on my mouth.

Would it not be good to see James again? I could not expect him to dance attendance on me as he had done in those early months after Henry’s death, for he had his own life to lead, even if it was curtailed and hemmed about with watchful eyes. I must make him welcome—and there he was, hair curling energetically onto his shoulders, dark eyes gleaming with some personal satisfaction, and Joan looking flushed and eager and youthfully pretty, almost clinging on to his arm. My advice to her had clearly gone unheeded. And then, before I could frown a warning at her, heralded by a burst of vigorous conversation, my chamber was invaded by a group of young men. Around them the damsels glowed, as if the flames of a score of candles had been set ablaze.

I blinked. I had grown unused to such vitality or such lack of rigidly formal courtesy. They were like my puppy, overwhelming in their energy that smashed against my staid walls, ringing from the rafters. Their faces were vivid, their voices sharp and confident, and even their clothing was bright, eye-catchingly fashionable, bringing in a breath of freezing air to prod us into wakefulness after a winter’s hibernation. It was as if a heavy curtain, muffling my chamber from the outside world, deadening every sound, had been rent apart.

Meanwhile, approaching with long strides, James lost no time in polite greeting but flung out his arms before me.

‘It has been agreed!’

‘What has?’ My thoughts refused to drop comfortably into line.

‘Katherine!’ He seized my hands and saluted my fingertips. ‘How can you not know? Are you so isolated here? Or deaf to what’s going on without?’

‘Deaf, I expect.’ I managed to smile apologetically.

‘Never mind. I’m here to tell you in person. They have come to an arrangement at last.’

His face was alight, so much so that my forced smile became a true one as, finally, I caught the gist.

‘Oh, James! I am so pleased for you. I take it you are to be released.’

‘Yes. Freedom, by God.’ His arms around my waist, he spun me round and replaced me on the same spot. ‘I have attended every lengthy, tedious, impossibly dull negotiation between the long-winded but puissant commissioners from Scotland and England—and am come to tell you first because I knew you would wish me well.’

‘Come and tell me,’ I invited, because that was what he wanted from me, and I signalled for wine to be brought. His delight was infectious, stirring even my subterranean depths. Tucking my hand through his arm, I led him to sit beside me on a cushioned settle beside the fire.

‘I’ve harried them from Pontefract to York and back again, until I swear they were weary of the sight of my miserable features. They have finally announced that I’m free to return to Scotland.’ James, running his hands through his unmanageable hair, could barely sit still with the news. He was twenty-nine years old: he had survived fifteen years of cushioned captivity. I had no difficulty in imagining his pleasure, as if the door of a birdcage had been suddenly flung back to allow this glossy singing finch a glimpse of freedom.

And I thought that I too would like such a glimpse of freedom. Not to return to France—there was nothing to draw me there—but to live my life without restriction and to my own will.

‘They’ll make me pay, of course,’ he was continuing as I surveyed the group of young men, his companions, who were making free with the wine at the far side of the room, enjoying the fluttering attentions of the damsels. I recognised most of them—sons of high-blooded English families—but I might have to search for a name or two. There was a loud burst of laughter and in that moment I wished I were there with them, simply a lady of the Court free to flirt and attract the eye of a handsome man.