And I would take Madam Joanna’s advice. At the beginning of May, leaving my son in the care of his besotted parcel of nurses, escorted by Lord John and with a fair wind behind us, I sailed to Harfleur. Before I left, I wielded a pair of shears with great care.
I had learned much that disturbed me about Henry’s treatment of Madam Joanna, yet she bore no grudges. Could I be equally tolerant, knowing his obsession with the campaign in France drove him in all things? I did not know. But in spite of everything that lay between us, I knew that I must make Henry notice me.
The closer I got to Paris, the more nervous I became. In the year in which we had lived apart, I had changed and I now accepted Henry’s coolness towards me. It was a fact that could not be denied, and surely I was now mature enough to shoulder the burden that my regard for him might not be returned. And yet I continued to hope that Henry would at least rejoice at seeing me, even when it was a hope difficult to maintain.
I could imagine Henry rejoicing at nothing but a hard-won battle, a successfully completed siege. In my head I could hear the timbre of his voice but not the greeting he would offer me. And what would I say to him? He had, after all, forbidden me to make this journey.
And then there was the whole weight of Madam Joanna’s imprisonment. I suspected, as did she, that witchcraft had been a carefully crafted ploy to remove her dower lands from her because Henry had needed them for me. I felt the guilt of it, even though the lady had absolved me. I wondered if I would have the courage to challenge Henry with his calculated cruelty towards a woman who had done him no harm.
I could not excuse Henry, however hard I tried, from an act of such arrogant self-interest that it took my breath. He could indeed be ruthless when pursuing his own set purpose, and how difficult it was to sustain a regard for a man who could be so coldly unscrupulous. I had seen his vicious temper in war; now I had experienced it in the very heart of his family.
I thrust that unsettling thought away. Henry must be pleased with his victory at Meaux, with his son. Would that not cause him to smile at me and kiss me in greeting?
‘He’ll not send you home, you know,’ Lord John said, apparently seeing my anxiety. ‘You don’t have to fear that he will not treat you with respect.’
‘That is not my fear,’ I replied. My fear was that he would treat me with too much respect. That he would freeze me to the spot with frigid courtesy and an oppressive outward display of his kingship.
‘He’ll enjoy your company when he has time to think about it.’
I smiled at him sympathetically. John was trying very hard.
‘I know he does not wish me to be here. But I thought that I must.’
‘You are a courageous woman, Katherine.’
‘I assure you I am not! My heart is thudding hard enough to crack a rib.’
‘There are many forms of courage.’
When Lord John took hold of my hand, to fold it warmly in his as he helped me to dismount, I held on tightly. I would need all of his strength behind me when I came face to face with Henry.
Henry and I met just outside Paris, at the palace at Blois de Vincennes, our joint arrival coinciding fortuitously, although Henry’s was far more impressive for he had moved his whole court there after the fall of Meaux.
I was able to slip almost invisibly through the throng of military and baggage wagons, artillery and horseflesh, catching a glimpse of Henry in the midst, so that my heart lurched in familiar fashion at the sight of him, but I knew better than to approach. Henry was more amenable when things were done on his own terms.
For a moment I simply looked, held fast in fascination. He was listening to one of his captains, then pointed and issued an order. Another captain claimed his attention before marching off to carry out some instruction. I grimaced silently then left him to his arrangements.
I shook my head and settled myself with John in one of the audience chambers, and was delighted when James of Scotland found his way to join us, with all the pleasure of reunion and a cup of wine. As lively as I remembered him, his curly hair still rioting, he had grown, in height and breadth and in confidence.
‘We have missed you,’ I told him.
‘I enjoy soldiering,’ he announced.
‘Good. Are you better at it than writing verses?’
He laughed. ‘I can’t help it if you do not recognise the hand of a master.’ Then: ‘How is Joan?’
‘Languishing in London.’ And I told him of her, yet all the time my senses stretched for the sound of Henry’s footsteps, every muscle tensing when I finally heard them.
