‘No, no. I have no such plans, or even thoughts of it. But…will I be allowed to? Will the Council allow it? At some future time in my life?’ Suddenly it seemed of major importance that I should have this promise of possible fulfilment and companionship—even of love—somewhere on my horizon.
‘Why not? I can see no reason why you should not.’ Warwick paused, the moment marked by a thin line between his smooth brows. ‘As you say, as Henry grows he will become more independent. Why should you not remarry?’ Another pause. ‘If a suitable husband is found for you, of course.’
His obvious unease comforted me not at all.
The qualification found a fertile home in my mind, for was that not the essence of it? Who would be considered suitable? I recalled Gloucester’s inflexible portrait of Katherine, the Queen Dowager. I did not think my remarriage was something he would tolerate when he had painted me into a lonely, isolated existence, a gilded figure in an illustrated missal.
I forced myself to pass my time in useful pursuits. No dark night, no cold winter could last for ever. I made myself appear to be busily employed, and so I turned the pages of a book but found no interest in the adventures of Greek gods or heroes who fell in and out of love with envious verve.
I ordered music but I would neither sing nor dance. How could I dance alone? I played with Young Henry, but he was now being drawn into a regime of books and religious observance. I applied my needle with even less enthusiasm, the leaves that blossomed under my needle appearing flat and lacking in life, as if the imminent approach of winter would cause them to shrivel and die. It seemed to me that my own winter approached, even before I had blossomed into summer.
This would be the tenor of my life until the next opening of Parliament, when Young Henry would journey to London and I would again accompany him. Year after year the same. Henry had used me to further his ambitions in France. Now I would be used to bolster the authority of my baby son.
Sometimes I wept.
‘You need company, my lady.’ Alice was fast losing patience.
True, but I was unlikely to get it. Oh, I tried to smile and join in with the damsels, when Meg and Beatrice and Joan whispered their endless gossip and Cecily spoke of love, unrequited for the most part. I tried to force myself to enjoy of a cup of spiced wine and the scandalous tale of Gloucester’s matrimonial exploits to while away the November evenings. And indeed I was momentarily diverted with the reprehensible issue between Lord Humphrey and his wife, Jacqueline of Hainault, a bigamous union, for she was already wed to the Duke of Barbant, and there had been no annulment.
But my interest was tepid at best and they gossiped without me when they found me poor company. I could not blame them. Their chattering voices with their opinions and comments and lewd suggestions barely touched my soul. They, I suspected, were as bored as I, shut away as we were at Windsor at the court of a baby king.
Warwick—dear, kind Warwick—sent me a gift, a lap dog with curling chestnut hair and sharp eyes, and equally sharp teeth. Probably, in a fit of remorse, to take the place of a husband, since the possibility of one had been so far into the future as to be impossible to envisage. I suspected Alice’s involvement too, hoping it would entice me from misery, and indeed it was a charming creature, still young enough to cause havoc in my chamber, pouncing on embroidery silks and chewing anything left in its path, but it did not distract me.
Loneliness wrapped itself, shroud-like, around me, and I covered my face with my hands so that I could not see the aimless path that I must follow until the day I died.
‘Perhaps you should take the boy and go to Westminster for the Christmas festivities,’ Alice growled as November moved into December. ‘My lord of Warwick will allow it, I’m certain.’
‘No,’ I replied, my voice as dull as my mind. ‘I will not celebrate.’
She strode from my chamber, eyes snapping at my intransigence. I felt no guilt.
