The Forbidden Queen. Anne O'Brien
not tell me? Was I, his wife, not to be allowed to give him comfort? But when I placed my hand softly on his forearm in compassion, I felt the muscles beneath the fine cloth instantly stiffen against me. I let my hand fall away.
‘Why did you not tell me?’ However much I might try to suppress it, I could hear the anger in my low-voiced interruption. ‘When I asked you yesterday, you said there was nothing untoward. The whole day passed, and you did not tell me.’
He looked at me as if he could not understand my complaint.
‘I did not tell you. I told no one.’
‘But why not me? I am your wife. And your brother is dead. Did you think I would not care?’ My heart was sore for him. ‘I would mourn with you. I would—’
‘What could you have done?’ he interrupted.
‘I could have given you comfort. Am I incapable of giving you some solace?’
His smile was bleak, barely a smile at all. ‘I did not need it. I don’t need it now. What I need to do is take action to forestall the French advance.’
Thoughts crept into my head. Chilling doubts. The defeat had, of course, been at the hands of my brother. However hard it was, I looked into Henry’s eyes. Had he decided that my Valois blood was more of a danger than a blessing? But his eyes were lightless, empty of either understanding for my predicament or judgement of my possible loyalties. I did not think that he understood at all.
‘Come,’ he said.
I held my ground. ‘Did you not trust me with the news?’ I asked. ‘Is that it? Did you think I would cry it from the rooftops to cast your precious English citizens into despair?’ And an even worse thought joined the others. ‘Or did you think I might secretly rejoice at a French victory over your brother and crow over his death?’
‘Don’t be foolish, Katherine.’ The tone, thick with disdain, slithered over me.
‘I am French, am I not? Is it not possible that I would wish my brother well?’
‘Curb your tongue,’ he ordered. ‘Such thoughts are unworthy of you and demeaning to me. And we are drawing attention to ourselves. We will give the populace no cause for prurient interest.’
His fingers closed around my arm and he propelled me through the churchyard, so fast that I was forced to lengthen my stride to keep up with him. He was smiling for the sake of those who had come to bow and scrape, but his hand gripped like a vice. As soon as we had reached our accommodations and closed the outer door on the populace, he released me as if his hand was scalded. But I continued, driven on by a cold grip around my heart.
‘I am so sorry. I did not intend to demean either you or myself, Henry.’
‘Katherine.’ He turned his back on me, weariness now in his voice. ‘It is done. Leave it now. My brother, God rest his soul, is dead. The battle was a disaster. What more to say, for either of us? You can do or say nothing that could give me comfort or make it more acceptable to me that Thomas is dead. Let it lie.’
I bit down on my lip, silenced at last. ‘I am sorry. I am so sorry for your grief.’ Nothing could have made it plainer that he did not need me, or even want me with him. I waited, expecting him to say more, but he did not.
‘Will you go to France?’ I asked eventually.
‘No. I told your father that I would return in midsummer to restart the campaign, and that is when I will go. Now I have business to attend to.’ And I was shrugged off, the door to his chamber closed against me.
Did he find no value in any words of consolation I might offer, or even in the simple touch of my hand on his? As I stood outside that closed door, all I was aware of was a vast tide of loneliness sweeping up to enclose me. Why are you waiting here? I asked myself. What is there to wait for?
Nothing.
Henry came to my bed that night. I did not think his heart was in it even though his body responded magnificently. It took very little time.
‘Stay with me,’ I invited in despair, as I had once in London, as he shrugged into his chamber robe.
Why would he not stay with me? It was what I wanted more than anything, to lie in his arms and listen to him talk, of his own ambitions, of the loss of his brother. That was what I wanted more than anything in the world, and if I could show him that I was not treasonably French but a loyal wife who cared for his grief and the destruction of his plans, then it was all I could ask for.
I watched from my bed as Henry, pulling up a low stool, sat to slide his feet into a pair of soft shoes. He stopped, arms resting on his knees, and looked down at his loosely clasped hands.
‘Stay,’ I repeated, holding out my hand. ‘I’m sorry I was angry. Perhaps I did not understand.’
When he shook his head, I allowed my hand to fall to the bedcover, my heart falling with it, remembering that Henry did not like to be touched unless he invited it. Yet still I would try. ‘Do we go on to Lincoln by the end of the week?’ I asked.
‘I will go to Lincoln, yes.’
‘Where will we stay? Another bishop’s palace with no heating and poor plumbing?’
‘I will go to Lincoln,’ he repeated. ‘And you will return to London.’
I felt the cold begin to spread outward from my heart. ‘I thought I would travel with you, to the end of the progress.’
‘No. It’s all arranged. You’ll travel to Stamford, then through Huntingdon and Cambridge and Colchester.’ Henry listed them, all already planned, everything in place, with no room for my own wishes. ‘They are important towns and you will make formal entries and woo the populace in my name. It is important that you are seen there.’
‘Would it not be better for me to be seen at your side?’ I asked. ‘A French Queen, whom you hold in esteem, despite the defeat?’
‘Your loyalty is not in question,’ he stated brusquely.
I sat up, holding out my hands, palms up, in the age-old gesture of supplication. ‘Let me come with you, Henry. I don’t think we should be parted now.’
But Henry stood and moved to sit on the bed beside me. At first he did not touch me, then he reached out a hand to stroke my hair, which lay unconfined on my shoulders.
‘Why would you wish to? You’ll be far more comfortable at Westminster or the Tower.’
‘I want to travel with you. I have seen so little of you since we were first wed, and soon you’ll be back in France.’
‘You’ll see enough of me,’ he remarked, as if it was a matter of little consequence how many hours we spent in each other’s company.
‘No.’ I twisted my fingers into the stiffly embroidered lions on his cuff, and said what I had always resisted saying. ‘I love you, Henry.’ Never had I dared speak those words, or even hint at my feelings, fearful of reading the response in that austere face. Now I said them in a bid to remain with him, to make him realise that I could be more to him than I was, and I waited wide-eyed for his response.
‘Of course. It is good that a wife loves her husband.’
It was not what I had hoped for. Merely a trite comment such as Guille had made on my wedding night. My belly clenched with disappointment.
Do you love me, Henry?
I dared not ask. Would he not tell me if he did? Or did he simply presume that I knew? A voice whispered in my mind, a voice of good but brutal sense: He does not love you, so there is nothing to say. I held tight to the emotions that rioted nauseously within my ribcage.
‘Then stay with me tonight,’ I said before my courage could die. ‘If we are to be parted, stay with me now.’
‘I have letters to write to France.’
I