The Forbidden Queen (41 page)

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.

‘It will not be a bad thing,’ he told me. ‘They will appoint someone who is wise and kind and has experience of children.’

‘You are a member of the Council. Will you have a voice in who is chosen?’ I asked, raising my chin. I would not weep.

‘Yes.’

‘Can you sway them against any choice made by Gloucester?’

Warwick smiled dryly. ‘I am not without influence.’

It was my one hope.

I knew what I wanted, what I must do, for my own peace of mind. All that was required was a little careful intrigue. A week later, during which I was not inactive, I requested Warwick’s attendance at Windsor again, waylaying him as he entered the palace and crossed the Great Hall.

‘I have been considering my son’s governess, sir.’ He bowed with his customary grace, but his glance was more than a little wary, probably preparing for another battle with the Queen Mother, who ought to have the sense to
accept the decisions made for her son. ‘Has the Council made its choice?’ I asked.

‘Not to my knowledge, my lady.’ He slid another glance in my direction.

‘Then come with me.’

I led him to the nursery where Joan Asteley and her minions were occupied in the constant demands of a young boy that filled their day. But there, in the midst of the activity, a woman was seated on a stool with Young Henry on her lap. A tall, spare lady in sombre garments, straight-backed and authoritative, her hair hidden in the pristine folds of her white coif. When we arrived she was speaking with my son, allowing him to work his hands into her gloves, laughing with him when he laughed. When she heard the door open, she looked up.

‘I do not need to introduce you, sir,’ I said, admiring the picture they presented. Henry, appealingly angelic today, had a new blue tunic and a matching felt cap flattening his curls. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes alight with his occupation. The woman’s stern face was softened with laughter, the sharp gaze holding a glint of unexpected roguishness at what we had plotted together.

Warwick came to an abrupt stop, then strode in with a bark of a laugh.

‘No. You do not. Perhaps I should not be surprised to see you here, Alice. Can I guess why?’

Dame Alice Botillier placed my son on his feet at her
side, and stood with a smile, holding out her hands. Warwick took them and kissed her on both cheeks.

‘You don’t need to guess,’ she said. ‘You are a man of considerable foresight.’

‘So?’ Warwick surveyed me, and then Alice. ‘Do I scent a scheme here? Am I being outmanoeuvred?’

‘No scheme, sir. Here is my son’s new governess.’ I repeated Warwick’s words back to him. ‘She is wise and kind and has experience of children.’

‘As I know.’

‘Mistress Alice has served me before, during my confinement. Her husband was well regarded by the King.’

‘Indeed. I know that too.’

‘If you would be so good as to recommend her to the Council.’

Warwick’s agile brows rose. ‘And how could I not as she is a kinswoman of mine?’

I smiled. ‘Exactly so!’

So Mistress Alice Botillier, at my instigation and as a more than willing ally, joined my household when Warwick’s recommendation was accepted by the Council. Alice had left my service in France, remaining with her husband, Sir Thomas, and her son, Ralph, when I had returned with Henry’s body, but she had taken little persuading to join me once more. I liked her and respected her: she was for me the perfect choice, and closely connected to Warwick’s family as she was, the Council would
see no difficulty. Alice would raise my son as she had raised her own.

Yet still I seethed with jealousy. For her authority over every action of my son was supported by the Council and by law, and it hurt my heart to watch Alice’s influence grow. Young Henry ran to her rather than to me. When he wept, it was her lap in which he burrowed for comfort. She soothed him when he woke in fear from bad dreams. I did not think he cried for me. I did not think that he noticed when I left him to his nursemaids. I was being pushed further and further back into the shadows, shadows that were increasingly difficult to disperse.

Holy Mother, grant me your strength to live this life with some vestige of inner peace
.

And for the most part I did, but oh, I wept with savage grief for my sister. Me beloved sister was dead. Suddenly, shockingly, a report had come that Michelle was dead. I could not comprehend it; I could not accept that her loving nature and bright spirit were quenched for ever. My first impulse was to go to France—but to what purpose? My sister was dead and I would not mourn with my mother.

I wept and for a little while Alice comforted me as she comforted my son. Sometimes I despaired. All gone—my father, my sister, my husband. Who was left with whom I could open my heart?

Blessed Virgin, have mercy on me. Keep my son safe
.

But Young Henry was increasingly less and less mine.

What have you done with your clever arrangements,
Henry? What vile future have you wrought for me? You have left me nothing, not even my child. If I lose Young Henry, what do I have left?

I fell into melancholy. The shortening days of winter, which had always induced a weight on my spirits, now pressed me down so low that I could hardly stand upright to bear them. As darkness invaded every day, I could not shake off my desolation. I slept badly, yet when daybreak came I felt no urge to rise and face the new day.

I ate little, my gowns began to hang on my shoulders, and I felt a tremor behind my eyes before the onset of such pain that I must take to my bed. When restored, I felt no lighter. Sometimes I could not order my thoughts in my mind. Sometimes I forgot what I was about to say, at others I forgot the reply. I kept to my bedchamber on those days, afraid of stumbling over simple words that would cause my four damsels to exchange anxious glances.

The dark nights of my loneliness, the winter cold of my isolation, gnawed at my mind.

‘Walk in the gardens, my lady,’ Alice ordered when the morning acquired a gleam of pale sunshine. ‘It will do you good to get out of this room.’

So I did, with reluctant steps, my women trailing equally reluctantly in the damp chill.

‘Ride along the riverbank,’ Alice suggested.

So I did that too, but horsemanship was not something I excelled in and I felt the cold bite into my bones as we
plodded along at a snail’s pace. I had no wish to exchange meaningless gossip with those who rode with me.

‘Drink this.’ Alice, seeing me wan and desolate on my return, presented me with a cup of some foul-smelling substance.

So I drank, not asking what it might be—I had no interest—choking over the bitter aftertaste of herbs that made my belly clench.

‘Look at you!’ she admonished. ‘You must not allow this, my lady. You must eat.’

I studied my reflection in my looking glass. My skin was pale, my hair lank and dull. Had my cheekbones always been as sharp as that? Even the blue of my eyes seemed to have leached into pale grey. I tried to pick at the platter of sweet fritters for fear of Alice’s sharp tongue, but stopped as soon as her back was turned. In those days she was as much my nurse and mentor as Young Henry’s.

I was allowed to accompany my son to the formal opening of Parliament at Westminster. A magnificently formal occasion, it was eminently threatening for a child so young, and I was full of trepidation that Young Henry would fail to impress his subjects. Would not any failure be laid at my door? Perhaps he would even be sent away from me.

‘Did you approve?’ I asked Warwick, who had returned with us to the royal accommodations at Westminster after the event, sitting with us as we sipped a cup of ale. Henry, almost asleep on his feet, was dispatched with Joan to the
nursery while Alice and I exchanged glances of sheer relief. Young Henry’s fit of childish temper on the day of his entry into London had terrified me with its frenzy, but now pride in my son was a warm fire in my belly.

‘How could I not?’ Warwick smiled at some memory. ‘He was every inch a king. His father would have been proud of him. What a sovereign we will make of him.’

‘He wooed Parliament, didn’t he?’ Young Henry had clapped his hands when the Speaker had bowed before him.

‘And so did his mother.’ Warwick lifted his cup in a silent toast.

I blushed, surprised at the gathering of tears in my eyes. What an emotional day it had been, and such praise meant more than I could express for my own confidence. I had played my part, made a good impression. My fears of losing Young Henry receded.

Alice left us. The short day grew dark, and Warwick stood to make his departure.

‘Is that it?’ I asked. ‘Do we now return to Windsor?’

Warwick tilted his head. ‘Until next year. We’ll not overburden the boy.’

‘No.’ Of course we would not. I clasped my hands tightly together, as if in a plea, and looked up at him. He was the only man I could ask. ‘I need to do more, Richard.’

‘You will, as he grows older and can cope with more demands.’

‘I think I will do less,’ I admitted sadly. ‘As my son grows, he will stand alone.’

‘But not for many years.’

The day, with its step back into the world of the Court and politics, the bustle and excitement of London, had been a two-edged sword for it had stirred me to life again. Returning to Windsor was like closing the lid of a newly opened coffer, dimming the sparkle of the jewels within, and it would remain closed for the foreseeable future. What a narrow path this was for me to follow.

As my son grew he would willingly cast off the need for his mother’s presence on such occasions as this. At some point in the future my son’s wife would oust me completely, and I would be nothing. Today I had been honoured with my child on my knee, but I was restless, unsettled. Fearful of a future that promised nothing.

‘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.