I ate little, my gowns began to hang on my shoulders, and I felt a tremor behind my eyes before the onset of such pain that I must take to my bed. When restored, I felt no lighter. Sometimes I could not order my thoughts in my mind. Sometimes I forgot what I was about to say, at others I forgot the reply. I kept to my bedchamber on those days, afraid of stumbling over simple words that would cause my four damsels to exchange anxious glances.
The dark nights of my loneliness, the winter cold of my isolation, gnawed at my mind.
‘Walk in the gardens, my lady,’ Alice ordered when the morning acquired a gleam of pale sunshine. ‘It will do you good to get out of this room.’
So I did, with reluctant steps, my women trailing equally reluctantly in the damp chill.
‘Ride along the riverbank,’ Alice suggested.
So I did that too, but horsemanship was not something I excelled in and I felt the cold bite into my bones as we plodded along at a snail’s pace. I had no wish to exchange meaningless gossip with those who rode with me.
‘Drink this.’ Alice, seeing me wan and desolate on my return, presented me with a cup of some foul-smelling substance.
So I drank, not asking what it might be—I had no interest—choking over the bitter aftertaste of herbs that made my belly clench.
‘Look at you!’ she admonished. ‘You must not allow this, my lady. You must eat.’
I studied my reflection in my looking glass. My skin was pale, my hair lank and dull. Had my cheekbones always been as sharp as that? Even the blue of my eyes seemed to have leached into pale grey. I tried to pick at the platter of sweet fritters for fear of Alice’s sharp tongue, but stopped as soon as her back was turned. In those days she was as much my nurse and mentor as Young Henry’s.
I was allowed to accompany my son to the formal opening of Parliament at Westminster. A magnificently formal occasion, it was eminently threatening for a child so young, and I was full of trepidation that Young Henry would fail to impress his subjects. Would not any failure be laid at my door? Perhaps he would even be sent away from me.
‘Did you approve?’ I asked Warwick, who had returned with us to the royal accommodations at Westminster after the event, sitting with us as we sipped a cup of ale. Henry, almost asleep on his feet, was dispatched with Joan to the nursery while Alice and I exchanged glances of sheer relief. Young Henry’s fit of childish temper on the day of his entry into London had terrified me with its frenzy, but now pride in my son was a warm fire in my belly.
‘How could I not?’ Warwick smiled at some memory. ‘He was every inch a king. His father would have been proud of him. What a sovereign we will make of him.’
‘He wooed Parliament, didn’t he?’ Young Henry had clapped his hands when the Speaker had bowed before him.
‘And so did his mother.’ Warwick lifted his cup in a silent toast.
I blushed, surprised at the gathering of tears in my eyes. What an emotional day it had been, and such praise meant more than I could express for my own confidence. I had played my part, made a good impression. My fears of losing Young Henry receded.
Alice left us. The short day grew dark, and Warwick stood to make his departure.
‘Is that it?’ I asked. ‘Do we now return to Windsor?’
Warwick tilted his head. ‘Until next year. We’ll not overburden the boy.’
‘No.’ Of course we would not. I clasped my hands tightly together, as if in a plea, and looked up at him. He was the only man I could ask. ‘I need to do more, Richard.’
‘You will, as he grows older and can cope with more demands.’
‘I think I will do less,’ I admitted sadly. ‘As my son grows, he will stand alone.’
‘But not for many years.’
The day, with its step back into the world of the Court and politics, the bustle and excitement of London, had been a two-edged sword for it had stirred me to life again. Returning to Windsor was like closing the lid of a newly opened coffer, dimming the sparkle of the jewels within, and it would remain closed for the foreseeable future. What a narrow path this was for me to follow.
As my son grew he would willingly cast off the need for his mother’s presence on such occasions as this. At some point in the future my son’s wife would oust me completely, and I would be nothing. Today I had been honoured with my child on my knee, but I was restless, unsettled. Fearful of a future that promised nothing.
‘Will I marry again?’ I asked.
It surprised me, much like the brush of moth’s wings against my hair in the dusk, the thought alighting from nowhere in my mind, like a summer swallow newly returned. I had never thought of remarriage before. But why not? Barely into my third decade, why should I not?
‘Do you wish to? I had not realised.’ Warwick looked equally startled.
