I led him to the nursery where Joan Asteley and her minions were occupied in the constant demands of a young boy that filled their day. But there, in the midst of the activity, a woman was seated on a stool with Young Henry on her lap. A tall, spare lady in sombre garments, straight-backed and authoritative, her hair hidden in the pristine folds of her white coif. When we arrived she was speaking with my son, allowing him to work his hands into her gloves, laughing with him when he laughed. When she heard the door open, she looked up.
‘I do not need to introduce you, sir,’ I said, admiring the picture they presented. Henry, appealingly angelic today, had a new blue tunic and a matching felt cap flattening his curls. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes alight with his occupation. The woman’s stern face was softened with laughter, the sharp gaze holding a glint of unexpected roguishness at what we had plotted together.
Warwick came to an abrupt stop, then strode in with a bark of a laugh.
‘No. You do not. Perhaps I should not be surprised to see you here, Alice. Can I guess why?’
Dame Alice Botillier placed my son on his feet at her side, and stood with a smile, holding out her hands. Warwick took them and kissed her on both cheeks.
‘You don’t need to guess,’ she said. ‘You are a man of considerable foresight.’
‘So?’ Warwick surveyed me, and then Alice. ‘Do I scent a scheme here? Am I being outmanoeuvred?’
‘No scheme, sir. Here is my son’s new governess.’ I repeated Warwick’s words back to him. ‘She is wise and kind and has experience of children.’
‘As I know.’
‘Mistress Alice has served me before, during my confinement. Her husband was well regarded by the King.’
‘Indeed. I know that too.’
‘If you would be so good as to recommend her to the Council.’
Warwick’s agile brows rose. ‘And how could I not as she is a kinswoman of mine?’
I smiled. ‘Exactly so!’
So Mistress Alice Botillier, at my instigation and as a more than willing ally, joined my household when Warwick’s recommendation was accepted by the Council. Alice had left my service in France, remaining with her husband, Sir Thomas, and her son, Ralph, when I had returned with Henry’s body, but she had taken little persuading to join me once more. I liked her and respected her: she was for me the perfect choice, and closely connected to Warwick’s family as she was, the Council would see no difficulty. Alice would raise my son as she had raised her own.
Yet still I seethed with jealousy. For her authority over every action of my son was supported by the Council and by law, and it hurt my heart to watch Alice’s influence grow. Young Henry ran to her rather than to me. When he wept, it was her lap in which he burrowed for comfort. She soothed him when he woke in fear from bad dreams. I did not think he cried for me. I did not think that he noticed when I left him to his nursemaids. I was being pushed further and further back into the shadows, shadows that were increasingly difficult to disperse.
And for the most part I did, but oh, I wept with savage grief for my sister. Me beloved sister was dead. Suddenly, shockingly, a report had come that Michelle was dead. I could not comprehend it; I could not accept that her loving nature and bright spirit were quenched for ever. My first impulse was to go to France—but to what purpose? My sister was dead and I would not mourn with my mother.
I wept and for a little while Alice comforted me as she comforted my son. Sometimes I despaired. All gone—my father, my sister, my husband. Who was left with whom I could open my heart?
But Young Henry was increasingly less and less mine.
I fell into melancholy. The shortening days of winter, which had always induced a weight on my spirits, now pressed me down so low that I could hardly stand upright to bear them. As darkness invaded every day, I could not shake off my desolation. I slept badly, yet when daybreak came I felt no urge to rise and face the new day.
