The Forbidden Queen (112 page)

Our children ran and thrived in the grass beside the river and I watched them.

But then the darkness closed in again. Minutes? Hours? How long it engulfed me I could not tell. I saw it approaching and, leaving my children in the care of Joan or Alice, I took to my room, my bed, pleading weariness or some female complaint as I had done once before to ensure no questions were asked. Only Guille was aware, and she kept her own counsel.

I managed it well.

And what was it that I hid? A space widening in my mind, a vast crater that filled to the brim with dark mist. I did not know what happened around me in those hours. It could be a black billowing cloud, all-encompassing, or a creeping dread, like river water rising, higher and higher, after a downpour. My hands and fingers no longer seemed to be mine. They did not obey my dictates. My lips felt
like ice, clear speech beyond me. My servants, my family were as insubstantial as ghosts emerging from an impenetrable mist. I must have eaten, slept, dressed. Did I speak? Did I leave my room? I did not know.

Was Owen aware of my travails? He suspected, even though he was often away, busy now with his own affairs. How could he not know, when I became increasingly detached from him and our world? He said nothing, and neither did I, but I knew he watched me. And perhaps he told Guille to have a care for me, for she was never far from my side.

‘Are you well?’ he asked whenever we met. A harmless enquiry but I saw the concern in his sombre gaze.

I smiled at Owen and touched his hand, the mists quite gone. ‘I am well, my dear love.’

When he took me to his bed, I forgot the whole world except for the loving, secret one we were able to create when I was in his arms. I denied my inner terrors, for what good would it do to bow my head before them? They would engulf me soon enough.

Alice knew, but apportioned the blame for my waywardness, my increased awkwardness to my pregnancy with Tacinda. When I dropped a precious drinking goblet, the painted shards of glass spreading over the floor, splinters lodging in my skirts and my shoes, she merely patted my hand and swept up the debris when I wept helplessly.

Four children in as many years, she lectured. Why was I surprised that sometimes I felt weary, my body not as
strong as it might be, my reactions slow? She dosed me on her cure-all, wood betony, in all its forms—powdered root or a decoction of its pink flowers or mixed with pennyroyal in wine—until I could barely tolerate its bitter taste.

‘It’s good for you,’ Alice lectured. ‘For digestion. For every ache and pain under the sun. And for the falling sickness too.’

My minutes of dissociation concerned her, but it was not the falling sickness. I took the doses, and wished that wood betony might indeed cure all, but my mind went back to my father and his delusional existence. My father, who had sometimes recalled neither his own name nor the faces of his wife and children, who could be violent, running amok as he once had with a lance, killing those unfortunates who had stood in his way and tried to restrain him for his own good.

I tried to shut out the memories but I failed. They muscled their way into my consciousness, forcing me to acknowledge my father’s constant attendants, more gaolers than servants. His guards: to protect him and others from him, as he became more and more divorced from reality and in the end had to be restrained.

‘Drink this,’ Alice insisted. And I did. I clutched at every hope.

Sometimes my father had believed that his body was constructed of glass that would shatter if he was touched. Then he would withdraw into the corner of the room, holding everyone at bay with pitiful cries. Was that the
future for me? Was it possible for the miraculous wood betony to cure that? I did want to think so. And I prayed that the frailty of my father’s stricken mind would not come upon me.

I did not tell Owen the full substance of my fears. Did he guess? I could not tell. He permitted me my times alone, treating me with great care. Perhaps he hid his own dread—and I allowed him to do so because if he admitted to it, then it would be all too real.

And what when I could pretend no longer? I considered it as I lay, my cheek in the soft hollow below Owen’s shoulder, while his chest rose and fell in sleep. The day would come when I could dissemble no longer. What then?

I recalled my sister and I, mocking and fearing my father in equal measure. Would my children mock me, fleeing from me in terror?

God help me. I prayed that this madness would not come to me.

The day is here.

I am well and lucid but I know it will not last. I
know
it, with every breath.

‘We are pleased to see you restored, my lady,’ my new steward says, the man who replaced Owen as Master of my much-reduced household. ‘We have been concerned.’

My steward is perhaps less careful with his words than he might be, for no one else speaks of it, as if to ignore it will deny its existence, but I am grateful for his well-wishing. It reminds me that I am becoming an object of interest to those around me, and I vow that I will not be a burden. I will not be an embarrassment. I will not drag Owen to the depths of despair, where he cannot reach me, and I cannot reach him. It is time for me to take the step I have had in my mind for some months.

Owen reads it in my mind.

‘Don’t leave me, Katherine,’ he whispers against my
throat when we lie together on that final morning as the sun rises, as if he can read my intent. ‘We have had so little time together. Six years out of a whole lifetime.’

‘My love.’ I kiss his lips. ‘Enough time for me to bear you three fine sons.’

I catch my breath as I do not speak Tacinda’s name. She died, leaving us within the first year of her fragile life. It is a pain in my heart that cannot be healed, but with my lover’s arms around me I smile, my face turned into his hair. How handsome he is. How I love him. This man who has taught me what love can be like between a man and a woman who trust each other infinitely.

I run my hands softly over the fine bones of his face, smoothing the dark brows, combing my fingers through his magnificent hair. I trace the well-moulded lips, the flare of his straight nose; I press my mouth against his. I need to fix his beloved features in my mind so that they will not fade.

‘Stay, Katherine. I will be with you.’

There is more urgency in his voice now, and his arms band tighter round me. So he knows.

‘I am afraid,’ I say.

‘No need. I love you more than life. I’ll let no harm come to you.’

‘But you cannot stop it. How can you stand before the approaching storm and will it to disperse, my dear love? How can you scatter the winds that will destroy all we have together?’

‘Stay with me,’ he insists, lips warm and persuasive. ‘With our children.’

And I allow myself, for that one brief day, to be persuaded. His love is as potent as strong wine. Of course he will keep me safe.

‘I will stay,’ I promise.

His mouth demands, his body possesses with all the old energy and he enfolds me in love.

‘We will live for ever, Katherine. We will grow old and see our children grow strong and wed.’ And then the softest of whispers. ‘I cannot live without you.’

I hear the desperation in his voice.

‘Or I you,’ I reply. How will I exist without him?

Next morning he is gone, on some weighty errand of business, and my thoughts run clear again.

‘I will return by noon,’ he says, his hand on mine. ‘I will return as soon as I can.’

‘Yes,’ I reply. I fashion a smile and return his clasp.

As soon as he is gone, my eyes blind with tears, I order up my litter. I will need no belongings so I pack nothing. While I have my wits, I will determine my future: I will impose no unnecessary grief on those I love. My mind skitters back to that terrible time when I took the decision to set Owen free because I could not contemplate the anguish of his death, only to return to him when we found a way out together, a solution that our minds could fathom and apply.

But now there is no solution for me. Madness strips
away all solutions. Death cancels all loyalties. I know I must free Owen to live his own life without the burden of my slow disintegration. There is no going back for me this time.

And yet, when the litter arrives at the door, for a moment still I hesitate. Will this be the greatest mistake of my life? I feel well, strong, in control of my actions. Perhaps I am misled after all. I should dismiss the litter and wait at the door to welcome him home, take his hands and kiss his dear face.

How will you tolerate the pity in his eyes? How will you tolerate it when passion dies and he cares for you out of duty? When he sits beside your bed, rather than carrying you to his own, when you no longer even recognise him and he turns from you in grief that is too great to bear?

I dress as a widow in sombre state, my still golden hair hidden, my still beautiful face veiled. I leave no written note. What to say? He will know. We said all that was needed without words when his body loved mine and my responses were of my own volition. I will remember that final moment until I can remember no more.

One final task. I visit the nursery and kiss my children: Edmund and Jasper and Owen. They do not understand. I hold them close and kiss them.

‘Be good. Be brave and strong. Obey your father and remember your mother.’

I touch Alice’s hand. She is weeping.

I am ready.

I leave my ring and the dragon brooch on the coffer beside his bed. The ring he gave me when we flouted all law and decency and wed, the brooch I took when I first loved him. I leave them for him, and I step into my litter.

I stand at the door of the great Abbey at Bermondsey. How cold my hands are. The door swings open because they expect me—I have sent word. They will take me in for my own sake with as much compassion as my money can buy for me. I will bear Owen’s final child here, in the care of the nuns.

I take one step forward.

If I go in, I will never step back into the world.

No, I cannot! Owen, my love, my love
.

His promise, made to me in the chapel at Windsor, slams into my mind.
I will never allow us to be parted, this side of the grave
.

But it cannot be. My heart is breaking, my face is wet with tears that I cannot stop. Almost I step back, to be with him until I have no more breath in my body. Then my father stands before me. The capering halfwit, the vague, gibbering remnant of the king he had once been. The pain sets up a flutter in my head, behind my eyes. I know that soon it will become intense.

Goodbye, Owen. Goodbye. God keep you. Always know that I love you. Know that I have given you your freedom because I love you too much to tie you to a mindless ghost
.

I take a breath.

One day I know that Owen and I will be reunited, in God’s grace. There will be no more grief, no more tears to overshadow our love. It will last for all eternity.

I step over the threshold.

The day is here.

I am well and lucid but I know it will not last. I
know
it, with every breath.

‘We are pleased to see you restored, my lady,’ my new steward says, the man who replaced Owen as Master of my much-reduced household. ‘We have been concerned.’

My steward is perhaps less careful with his words than he might be, for no one else speaks of it, as if to ignore it will deny its existence, but I am grateful for his well-wishing. It reminds me that I am becoming an object of interest to those around me, and I vow that I will not be a burden. I will not be an embarrassment. I will not drag Owen to the depths of despair, where he cannot reach me, and I cannot reach him. It is time for me to take the step I have had in my mind for some months.

Owen reads it in my mind.

‘Don’t leave me, Katherine,’ he whispers against my
throat when we lie together on that final morning as the sun rises, as if he can read my intent. ‘We have had so little time together. Six years out of a whole lifetime.’

‘My love.’ I kiss his lips. ‘Enough time for me to bear you three fine sons.’

I catch my breath as I do not speak Tacinda’s name. She died, leaving us within the first year of her fragile life. It is a pain in my heart that cannot be healed, but with my lover’s arms around me I smile, my face turned into his hair. How handsome he is. How I love him. This man who has taught me what love can be like between a man and a woman who trust each other infinitely.

I run my hands softly over the fine bones of his face, smoothing the dark brows, combing my fingers through his magnificent hair. I trace the well-moulded lips, the flare of his straight nose; I press my mouth against his. I need to fix his beloved features in my mind so that they will not fade.

‘Stay, Katherine. I will be with you.’

There is more urgency in his voice now, and his arms band tighter round me. So he knows.

‘I am afraid,’ I say.

‘No need. I love you more than life. I’ll let no harm come to you.’

‘But you cannot stop it. How can you stand before the approaching storm and will it to disperse, my dear love? How can you scatter the winds that will destroy all we have together?’

‘Stay with me,’ he insists, lips warm and persuasive. ‘With our children.’

And I allow myself, for that one brief day, to be persuaded. His love is as potent as strong wine. Of course he will keep me safe.

‘I will stay,’ I promise.

His mouth demands, his body possesses with all the old energy and he enfolds me in love.

‘We will live for ever, Katherine. We will grow old and see our children grow strong and wed.’ And then the softest of whispers. ‘I cannot live without you.’

I hear the desperation in his voice.

‘Or I you,’ I reply. How will I exist without him?

Next morning he is gone, on some weighty errand of business, and my thoughts run clear again.

‘I will return by noon,’ he says, his hand on mine. ‘I will return as soon as I can.’

‘Yes,’ I reply. I fashion a smile and return his clasp.