The Forbidden Queen. Anne O'Brien
my lady.’
On I went, walking now, catching my breath. Pray God that he was alone. But when I heard the sound of voices beyond the half-open door, irritation, disappointment slowed me. Should I wait? I hesitated, considering the wisdom of postponing this reunion, then knew I could not. I wanted to speak with Henry now. I pushed the door open fully and, not waiting to be invited, I entered.
Henry was in conversation with his brother Humphrey of Gloucester and Bishop Henry. He looked up, frowning at the unwarranted disturbance of what was clearly a council of war, then, seeing me, his brow cleared.
‘Katherine…One minute.’
‘I have news,’ I stated, with only a modicum of grace.
‘From France?’ His head snapped round. ‘From the King? Is he still in health?’
‘As far as I know.’ The state of my father’s wits was of national importance, of course. ‘No, Henry. Not from France.’
Since it was not from France, he looked at me as if he could not imagine what I might have to tell him of such importance to interrupt his own concerns. He addressed a scowling Humphrey. ‘There’s this matter of the Scots supplying arms to the Dauphinists. It must be stopped.’
I walked forward until I could have touched him if I had chosen to. ‘I wish to speak with you now, Henry. I have not seen you for weeks.’ His brows climbed, but I stood my ground. I smiled. ‘I would like it if you were able to spare your wife five minutes of your time.’
‘Of course.’ His brief smile stretched his mouth. ‘If you will attend me here in the hour after noon.’
I was neither surprised nor shocked. Nor was I reduced to easy tears. I had come a long way from the girl who had stood beside him in the church in Troyes. I had more confidence than the girl who had feared sitting alone at her own coronation feast. My weeks alone since my curtailed progress had at last added a gloss of equanimity, however fragile.
‘Now, my lord.’ I raised my chin a little. ‘If it please you.’
I thought he might still refuse. I thought he might actually tell me to go away. Instead, Henry nodded to Humphrey and the bishop, who left us alone.
‘Well? News, you said.’
‘Yes.’ The bite of my nails digging into my palms was an acknowledgement that my courage was a finite thing. ‘I am carrying your child.’
It was as if I had stripped to my undershift in public. The stillness in the room prickled over my skin. Henry allowed the list he still held to flutter from his fingers, and for the first time since he had entered the room he really looked at me.
‘I carry your child,’ I repeated. ‘Before Christmas I think your child—pray God a son—will be born. You will have your heir, Henry.’
My words, as I heard them spoken aloud, stirred within me such exhilaration that at last I would achieve something of which he would approve. Surely this would make the difference. This would bring his attention back to me, even if not his love. If I carried a son for him he would be grateful and attentive so that I would not be swept away, like a lazy servant sweeping dust behind a tapestry. I knew that this was the best thing I could do for him, for England.
Since my discovery I had been counting the days to his return, telling no one but Guille, who held a bowl for me every morning as nausea struck. I would have Henry’s child: I would have his gratitude, and prove myself worthy of the contract made at Troyes that Parliament was about to ratify, not just for the crown I brought him but for the heir I had given him. Our son would be King of England and France.
I ordered myself to stand perfectly still as he watched me from under straight brows. I did not even show my pleasure. Not yet. Why did he not say anything? Was he not as delighted as I?
‘Henry,’ I said when still he did not respond. ‘If I have a son you will have achieved all you have worked for. To unite the crowns of England and France.’ What was he thinking? His eyes were opaque, his muscles taut, the stitched leopards immobile. ‘Our child—our son—will be King of England and France,’ I said, unnerved. ‘Are you not pleased?’
It did the trick. His face lit up in the smile such as he had used on the day that he had first met me, when it had turned my knees to water. It still did, God help me. It still did. He crossed the space between us in three rapid strides and seized my hands, kissing my brow, my lips with a fervency I had not experienced before.
‘Katherine—my dear girl. This is the best news I could have had. We will order a Mass. We will pray for a son. A son, in God’s name! Go and dress. We will go to the Abbey and celebrate this momentous event.’
One brush of his knuckles across my cheek, one final salute to my fingers and he released me, leaving me with a yearning that almost succeeded in reducing me to tears. Oh, how I wished he would take me in his arms and kiss me with tenderness, and tell me with intimate words that he was pleased and that he had missed me, even that he was grateful to me for fulfilling my royal duty to him as his wife.
Instead: ‘I need to finish dealing with these,’ he said. His face was vivid with emotion, but his hands and eyes were for the documents. ‘Then we will celebrate with the whole country your superlative gift to me.’
Superlative gift. That did not stop him closing the door behind me as he ushered me out to find something suitably celebratory to wear. I did not run back to my rooms. I walked slowly, considering that my place in Henry’s life would never be important enough to distract him from his role as King.
When the child was born, perhaps?
No, our weeks of being apart had changed nothing between us. I had read love where there was none, as a deprived child would seek it, when all that existed was tolerance and mild affection. I had given up on hope for more at Beverley, when he could not tell me of his grief. Now I abandoned my empty longings, even as I celebrated, clad in the blue of the Virgin’s robes and cloth of gold, my ermine cloak wrapped regally around me, as the voices in the Abbey rose about me in a paean of praise to announce that I was Queen and would soon be mother to the heir.
Even my damsels smiled on me.
‘You will stay here at Westminster,’ Henry informed me as he escorted me back to my chamber at the end of one of the interminable banquets to shackle the foreign ambassadors to our cause, very much in the tone that he had been issuing orders for the past hour. ‘You must send word to me as soon as my son is born.’
Henry was making preparations for his—and his army’s—imminent departure to Calais. I did not waste my breath asking if I would accompany him. If Henry did not want me with him on a progress through peaceful England, he would not want me on a military campaign beset by unknown difficulties. The days of our honeymoon when he had serenaded me with the best minstrels he could set his hands on so close to a battlefield seemed very far away.
I was now too precious to be risked, as the vessel that would produce the gilded heir. The child who would fulfil Henry’s dreams of an English Empire stretching from the north to the shores of the Mediterranean. I became part of his preparations.
‘Of course.’ There was no doubt in his mind that the child would be male. I tucked my hand into his arm, trying for a lighter mood. His brow was creased with a strong vertical line, his gaze distant. ‘You will be able to celebrate his birth at the same time as that of the Christ Child.’
‘Yes. Before I leave I will order a Mass to be said.’
‘Will you not return before then?’ It would be a good five months. Surely he would return.
‘If it is possible—I will if I can.’
In truth, I did not think he would. The preparations were for a long campaign, and once winter set in there would be no crossing of the Channel unless it was of absolute necessity. As we walked past one of the glazed windows, I looked out over the Thames, grey and drear for it was a cloudy day, and thoughts of winter lodged in my mind. I imagined Westminster would