As the years passed I would watch him grow, learning his lessons, able to wield a sword and ride a horse. One day he would be as great a soldier as his father had been. My days would be well spent in setting his tiny feet on that path. The prophecy would come to nought.
Young Henry patted my cheek then struggled to be set down.
‘You will be a great king,’ I whispered in his ear, holding him tightly, ashamed at the tears that gathered in my eyes.
Young Henry crowed against my shoulder, gripping the folds of my robe.
It came to me that if it had not been for my little son I would have sunk into despair.
I had expected to be pre-eminent in the upbringing of my son. Was I not his mother? Was I not the embodiment of virtuous and noble motherhood, like the Blessed Virgin herself? Not so. At the turn of the year I received a document, which I handed to Master Wodehouse, my new Chancellor: a kindly man, if content to sit with a cup of ale beside a fire in his latter years. Fortunately my demands on him were few.
‘What is this?’ I asked.
It was formal and official in a clerkly hand, and beyond my deciphering.
‘It is the appointment of a legal guardian for the Young King, my lady.’
‘A guardian?’
‘The young King has a new guardian, my lady. Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick. A good man.’
Well, of course he was. I knew Warwick. But his goodness was not an issue. I did not care if he was good. ‘Who says this?’ I demanded.
‘The Council, my lady. It was to be expected,’ Master Wodehouse advised gently, wary of my irritation. And he read on to the end of the Council’s statement while I brooded in silence. It may have been expected, but not by me. I had not been consulted, but I was given to understand that Henry had wished it; Henry’s brothers and uncle wished it. But I did not. I could not see why my son would need a guardian when his mother was perfectly capable of guarding his interests.
How dared they go over my head and appoint a guardian who would effectively oust me from my son’s side, who would have the power to overrule any decisions I might wish to make?
‘It is an excellent choice, my lady.’ Master Wodehouse was still regarding me with some concern. ‘There could be no better man in the whole of England to protect and advise your son as he grows. Supervising his education and training in all aspects of kingship. It is beyond you, my lady.’
I frowned at him, and the document.
‘Indeed he is the best man possible, my lady.’
And as I considered it, I saw the sense of it—as I must, for I was not entirely without insight into my son’s needs. As he grew my child would need a man to guide and instruct him in all aspects of warfare as well as in government. Bishop Henry was well intentioned but too entangled in clerical matters and too self-interested, Gloucester too pompous for my taste. Lord John was committed to events in France.
‘Could you find any fault in him, my lady?’ Master Wodehouse asked.
‘No.’ I sighed. ‘No, I cannot. It is just that…’
‘I understand. You do not wish to let go of the boy.’
No, I did not. There was nothing much else in my life.
I pondered on what I knew of Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, who had been at Henry’s side since that very first day in the pavilion at Meulan. A man of erudition, a man of considerable reputation, he was barely forty years old, even tempered with considerable personal charm, with all the experience and knowledge I could have asked for. I was forced to admit that Warwick was the perfect choice to teach a growing boy everything a young prince should know. To study, to choose between right and wrong, to fight as a knight to inspire his people, and all the military things that a man must learn that I could not give him.
Besides, I liked Warwick.
And so I allowed him his jurisdiction—since I had no power to circumvent it—but still I had to fight the resentment in my heart. The distancing from my son was hard to bear, even though Warwick applied his power with a light hand, often leaving Young Henry in my care when state matters demanded that he be at Westminster. Young Henry was still too young to wield a sword, even a wooden one, and his daily routine continued to rest with me and the coterie of nurses, supervised by Joan Asteley, who spoiled and cosseted him.
So my initial resentment settled, and I decided that the Council’s decisions could have been far worse. But my complacency could not last. In my heart I knew it and Warwick warned me as we stood in the nursery on one of his visits.
‘He looks well,’ Warwick observed as he stroked his hand over Young Henry’s head. My son was asleep, hooded eyes closed, lips relaxed, reminding me how like his father he was in repose.
‘He is. Soon he will be running through the palace.’ But not like I had run at the
