A week later the space of Windsor’s Upper Ward was full of people and horses. The sudden burst of voices and clattering hooves on the cobbles could be heard even through the glazed windows of the chamber where my damsels and I sat to catch the final spare gleams of the afternoon sun, but I was disinclined to stir myself to look to find out the reason. Probably Warwick come to check on the progress of Young Henry, hopefully without another lap dog. The cheerful activity was, however, too much for my damsels to ignore.
‘My lady?’ Meg asked, already on her feet.
‘Look, if you will,’ I said, not that they needed my permission. My hand of authority was a light one.
A shriek of joy from Joan made all clear.
‘I take it that the King of Scotland visits us,’ I remarked fretfully. I had not seen him for months.
‘May I, my lady?’ she asked. She was already halfway to the door.
‘Of course. Try to be…’ the door shut behind her ‘… maidenly and decorous.’
And she ran, leaving me with a few sharp pangs, firstly that my mood was so churlish, and even more that the arrival of a visitor should give her so much pleasure yet hardly move me from my chair. But I must. I placed the lute I had been idly strumming on the coffer and fixed what I hoped would be a welcoming smile on my mouth.
Would it not be good to see James again? I could not expect him to dance attendance on me as he had done in those early months after Henry’s death, for he had his own life to lead, even if it was curtailed and hemmed about with watchful eyes. I must make him welcome—and there he was, hair curling energetically onto his shoulders, dark eyes gleaming with some personal satisfaction, and Joan looking flushed and eager and youthfully pretty, almost clinging on to his arm. My advice to her had clearly gone unheeded. And then, before I could frown a warning at her, heralded by a burst of vigorous conversation, my chamber was invaded by a group of young men. Around them the damsels glowed, as if the flames of a score of candles had been set ablaze.
I blinked. I had grown unused to such vitality or such lack of rigidly formal courtesy. They were like my puppy, overwhelming in their energy that smashed against my staid walls, ringing from the rafters. Their faces were vivid, their voices sharp and confident, and even their clothing was bright, eye-catchingly fashionable, bringing in a breath of freezing air to prod us into wakefulness after a winter’s hibernation. It was as if a heavy curtain, muffling my chamber from the outside world, deadening every sound, had been rent apart.
Meanwhile, approaching with long strides, James lost no time in polite greeting but flung out his arms before me.
‘It has been agreed!’
‘What has?’ My thoughts refused to drop comfortably into line.
‘Katherine!’ He seized my hands and saluted my fingertips. ‘How can you not know? Are you so isolated here? Or deaf to what’s going on without?’
‘Deaf, I expect.’ I managed to smile apologetically.
‘Never mind. I’m here to tell you in person. They have come to an arrangement at last.’
His face was alight, so much so that my forced smile became a true one as, finally, I caught the gist.
‘Oh, James! I am so pleased for you. I take it you are to be released.’
‘Yes. Freedom, by God.’ His arms around my waist, he spun me round and replaced me on the same spot. ‘I have attended every lengthy, tedious, impossibly dull negotiation between the long-winded but puissant commissioners from Scotland and England—and am come to tell you first because I knew you would wish me well.’
‘Come and tell me,’ I invited, because that was what he wanted from me, and I signalled for wine to be brought. His delight was infectious, stirring even my subterranean depths. Tucking my hand through his arm, I led him to sit beside me on a cushioned settle beside the fire.
‘I’ve harried them from Pontefract to York and back again, until I swear they were weary of the sight of my miserable features. They have finally announced that I’m free to return to Scotland.’ James, running his hands through his unmanageable hair, could barely sit still with the news. He was twenty-nine years old: he had survived fifteen years of cushioned captivity. I had no difficulty in imagining his pleasure, as if the door of a birdcage had been suddenly flung back to allow this glossy singing finch a glimpse of freedom.
And I thought that I too would like such a glimpse of freedom. Not to return to France—there was nothing to draw me there—but to live my life without restriction and to my own will.
