‘Undoubtedly. And I must call on you to play that part to perfection. You must make yourself visible in public, as soon as your deepest mourning is over.’
‘And how long will that be?’
‘I think a year will be deemed acceptable. You must pay all due respect to my brother. It will be expected of you.’ Gloucester smiled thinly. ‘Remaining here at Windsor with the Young King should be no obstacle for you.’
A year of mourning. My heart fell. No dancing or music for a year, no life outside Windsor. As the widow of the hero of Agincourt I must be honourable and virtuous. Being enclosed in a convent could be no worse.
‘Then, you must attend the Young King in all ceremonials, standing with him, reminding the country of the child’s rich inheritance,’ Gloucester continued. ‘You will remain close to the boy. You are the female embodiment of his royal power and will be given a high political profile when it is considered necessary.’
I could have been a statue in Westminster Abbey. Or an armorial in the glazed windows, an embodiment of French royal blood, engraved in stone or coloured glass. It chilled my blood.
‘And when not necessary?’ I asked. ‘When I have observed my days of mourning and am not engaged in ceremonial?’
‘You must be circumspect at all times, Katherine. You must not draw attention to yourself for any but the highest of reasons. There must be no cause for suspicion of your interests or behaviour. I am sure you understand me.’ He was already drawing on his gloves, preparing to return to Westminster, presumably to report to the Council that the Queen Dowager had been made thoroughly cognisant of the future pattern of her life to enhance the glory of England.
‘You mean, I presume, that I must not draw attention to my Frenchness.’
‘Exactly. And you will remain in the Young King’s household. My late brother insisted on it.’ His tone, now that he had informed me of the lack of freedom, was brisk and businesslike and he strode to the door. ‘You will retain your income from your dower properties. It will be a satisfactory sum to pay for your small entourage. It is considered that four damsels will be sufficient for your needs as you will live retired. Do you not agree?’
‘Four…?’ I was used to more than that.
‘You will keep no state. Why would you need more?’ Gloucester drove on. ‘We have appointed a steward and chancellor for you from my late brother’s household. John Leventhorpe and John Wodehouse will deal with all such matters appertaining to your household and your dower lands. They will have all the experience you will need to preserve a household worthy of the Queen Mother.’
I knew them both. Aging men now, meticulous and gifted, with long service to Henry and to his father before him.
‘We have appointed a new Master of the Queen’s Household to order and arrange all things for you. One Owen Tudor, who served under my brother.’
I knew him too. A dark young man with a dramatic fall of black hair and an air of ferocious efficiency, who said little and achieved much, and who had gained his experience in service with Sir Walter Hungerford in France. As steward of Henry’s own household, Sir Walter had an eye for an able man, even though this choice of Gloucester’s, Owen Tudor, seemed to me to be young for such a weighty position. But what did it matter to me? I was hemmed in by Henry’s world as much now as I had been before his death.
‘I expect you will choose your own confessor and chaplain, and your chamber women,’ Gloucester continued, surveying me dispassionately. ‘You will have your own suite of rooms, and there you will be expected to keep queenly state. Beyond that you will obey the instructions sent to you and present the dignified face of Queen Mother to the world.’
I nodded, barely taking this in but holding on to the sweet kernel in the nut. I would accept the period of mourning: it was what Henry deserved, and I would mourn him with due diligence as befitted a French princess. I would accept my ceremonial role and play it to perfection. I would accept that I was to be given no choice in the appointment of officials to my household, except for my chaplain and chamber women. I would tolerate all of that because in Gloucester’s chilly portrayal of my life he had made one pertinent comment.
‘I can play that role, my lord,’ I said with formal dignity.
‘We are gratified, my lady.’
I did not like the look in his eye. Neither did I like it that not once had Gloucester shown any interest in his nephew beyond a cursory glance.
When the door closed at Gloucester’s back, I picked up my son, holding his body close, his fair curls soft against my cheek. He was mine: he would always be mine and I would lavish all the love on him that I had.
