‘You can see him later,’ I whispered.

With due formality, court etiquette as heavy on my shoulders as my ermine-lined cloak, I walked at Young Henry’s side as the whole Court made its obeisance, straining for a view of the Young King. Another visit to Westminster, pre-empting the rapidly approaching moment when my son would be crowned King of England.

The days of his tantrums were over and he held himself with quaint dignity: face pale and still endearingly cherubic despite his growing limbs, fair hair brushed neatly beneath his cap, Henry smiled his pleasure, his eyes, round with astonishment, darting this way and that. Until they had come to rest on Edmund Beaufort, Count of Mortain.

‘Can I speak with him now?’ Young Henry whispered back. ‘I have something to tell him.’

‘Of course you have. But first you must greet your uncle of Gloucester,’ I replied.

I too must exert patience. The days, a mere handful, since I had read his letter, had seemed like years in their extent. How many times had I reread it, absorbing the hope that shone through the words. Only a few minutes now before Edmund and I stood face to face, blatantly declaring our love. I smiled, conscious of happiness coating me like the gold leaf on a holy icon. We would be together.

Henry nodded solemnly and walked on, leaving me in his wake where all I could do was will my mind and my body into a semblance of perfect composure. I had seen Edmund even before my son’s recognition, and I too could have cried out his name. My heart was beating so erratically I could barely swallow, my hands damp with longing.

There he was, to my right, bowing elegantly. I turned my head in anticipation. But our eyes did not meet, even when he straightened to his full height and smiled at my son’s enthusiasm. Edmund Beaufort did not smile at me. My heart tripped in its normal rhythm, but I took myself to task. This was far too public for any passionate reunion. Of course we would not speak of love now. But soon, soon…

With confident grace I continued on my prescribed route, inclining my head to those who acknowledged me, taking up my position behind Henry when the necessary presentations were made. Greetings were exchanged, bows and promises of fealty. Gloucester, Warwick, the high blood of the land. And in their midst Edmund stepped up to be greeted by my son as a favoured cousin.

‘We have missed you, Edmund.’

‘Forgive me, Sire. I have been busy about your affairs in France,’ Edmund replied solemnly, hand on heart.

‘I know. You are Count of Mortain. I have a new horse,’ my son announced with pride. ‘He is not as handsome as yours.’

‘I cannot believe that. If it was a gift from my lord of Warwick, it must be a fine animal.’

‘Will you come to Windsor again? When it is cold you can teach me to skate, like you taught my lady mother.’

‘It will be my pleasure, Sire.’

He stepped back, away, to let another approach.

How kind, I thought, as if from a distance. How thoughtful he was in his response to my little son. And how astonishingly cruel to me. Not once through the whole of that conversation, not once after a graceful inclination of his head in my general direction, had Edmund Beaufort looked at me. Instead, I’d had an impressive view of his noble profile, smiling and assured and so very arrogant.

Had I been mistaken? I could barely shuffle my thoughts into any sort of order. Had he deliberately ignored me? I tried to quell my rising panic. Perhaps he considered the need for discretion in our relationship. But to turn away, to address not one word to me was difficult to accept. Almost impossible to excuse.

Surely he could speak with me as the Queen Mother, as he was cousin to my son, without causing any ripples at court. The panic began to subside, my breathing to even out. Edmund would speak with me when the formalities were over. Of course he would.

‘When you come to Windsor, will we unpack the masks and costumes again?’ I heard Young Henry calling after Edmund, through the clamour in my head.

Then the presentations were over and the court was free to mingle and converse. Now he would come to me! Now he would walk through the little knots of courtiers, his gaze fixed only on me, alight with determination to let nothing and no one come between us.

But no. To my desolation, Edmund withdrew to the further side of the room. He had passed me by as if I were nothing to him. Once we had passed the hours in intimate dalliance, our blood running hot for each other. Now he did not even look at me as I stood in the group surrounding my son, exchanging greetings and general gossip with Warwick. He had told me that we could be together, that we would make our plans, that nothing could separate us. Conscious of his letter tucked in the bosom of my gown, I did not understand this studied rejection of what we were to each other.

The reception progressed through its habitual pattern, courtiers and aristocrats moving and mingling, making contacts, speaking with those with influence, being seen in the presence of those who could make or break a reputation. I played my allotted part, regal and decorous, but I was weary of it to my bones. Fear built in my breast as the minutes moved on and I tried to recall, word for word, exactly what Edmund Beaufort had written to me. Always know that I love you. No reprimand can keep you from me. Had he not made such declarations? Surely he must find a path to me, to spread his adoration once more at my feet.

He did not. Not once did he approach.

A pain settled in my chest, spreading out to my limbs, an agony that was well nigh physical as all became writ plain for me. This was no chance parting, caused by the demands of the court. This was a deliberate, intentional separation. And, drowning in misery, I fought for dignity. I turned my eyes from him. It crossed my mind, with harsh appreciation, that Henry, cold, superbly controlled Henry, would have been proud of my ability to mask my feelings that day.

But there was a limit to my self-control.

Although I had sworn to look anywhere but in my lover’s direction, when the time came for Young Henry to withdraw, I sought the mass of faces for a last glimpse, as if to twist again the knife that Edmund had planted in my heart when he had so wantonly neglected me throughout the whole of that interminable reception. And there he was in sparkling conversation with a handsome young woman whom I knew well. Eleanor Beauchamp, Warwick’s daughter, come to Court with her husband, Thomas de Ros.

But that did not stop Edmund Beaufort from flirting with her. Oh, I saw the careful attention he paid to her. I recognised the tilt of his head as he listened to what she had to say, I noted the set of his shoulders, the confidential manner in which he leaned a little towards her. All redolent of the manner in which he had once flirted with me. As he had once made love to me with honeyed words and playful gestures. And then, when he turned his head to respond to a passing friend, his handsome face, the sweep of his lashes on his cheek, the clean line his profile drove the blade even deeper.

I stared. And as Lady Eleanor was escorted away by her husband, Edmund turned, so that as chance would have it he looked directly at me. Because I was looking at him, our eyes of necessity met and held. For the length of a heartbeat he paused. And then he made a full court obeisance, as he would honour the Queen Dowager, cold and distant and perfect in its execution.

My self-control snapped like a worn bowstring. He was my lover, the man who would wed me. There must be some terrible misapprehension that had taken hold of my mind, some mistake that Edmund could rectify and then all would be well again. All I needed to do was speak with him, to step to cross the space between us and demand…Demand what? An explanation, I supposed. How could he not approach me, his professed love? How could he not smile and tell me of his heart’s desire as he saluted my fingers with his lips? Throat dry, I determined that I must know.

‘Don’t.’

Barely had I taken a second step than a hand closed lightly around my wrist.

‘Richard!’

It was Warwick, standing at my shoulder, his gaze following the line of my sight.

‘But I must—’

‘Don’t go to him,’ he responded gently. ‘It is useless, Katherine. To cause a scene would be—’

‘He said he would wed me and defy Parliament,’ I interrupted, careless of any such scene yet still managing to keep my voice low.

‘He won’t do it. He won’t wed you now.’

‘How can you say that?’ I resisted the gentle pull on my arm, but Warwick was intent on manoeuvring me out of the throng, towards the tapestry-hung wall.

‘I know he will not. You have to know what has been done. Listen to me, Katherine.’ In the little space he had created for us, Warwick gripped harder so that I must concentrate. ‘There have been new moves. Gloucester has locked every door, barred every window against you.’

‘But I know.’ Still I remonstrated. How could it be so bad? ‘I know the law says that I must ask my son’s permission to marry but surely—’

‘There’s more. Another clause.’ There was barely a pause. ‘It will have serious consequences for your remarriage. To any man.’

‘Oh.’ Now I was afraid.

‘Any man who risks the ban and takes you for his wife without royal consent will lose everything.’ Warwick’s face was stern, his words savage in the message they delivered, but his eyes were soft with infinite compassion. ‘He will effectively be stripped of his lands and his possessions, his appointments in government.’

‘Oh,’ I said again, almost a whisper, absorbing the enormity of this.

‘Such a man will forgo all promotions, all favour and patronage. All opportunity for his further advancement would be stripped away.’