I flushed to the roots of my hair.
‘Have you?’
‘No. I have not.’
‘Did he try to persuade you? I wager he did.’
I shook my head, turning my face away. ‘I would not,’ I whispered.
‘Then you are fortunate. The Beauforts have more charm than is good for them, and Edmund more than most, while you are beautiful and lonely and…vulnerable.’
‘Am I vulnerable? You make it sound as if Edmund tried to persuade me against my will. He did not. When I refused, he did not pressure me. He understood my reticence.’ My voice became sharp as anger flamed. ‘And you have no right to take me to task.’
‘Is that what I was doing?’ Her lips curved into what might have been a smile but there was a weight of sadness over her. ‘Perhaps so. But I must speak out before you become even more entangled in this relationship. It will bring you nothing but grief. Has he asked you to wed him yet?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you say?’
I smiled from the pure delight of it. This would surely make her understand. That Edmund was serious in his intent. ‘I said I would.’
‘My child, it cannot be.’
‘I love him,’ I said. Could she not see how right it was?
‘As if love makes all right with the world. And you have been starved of it for so long. I am so very sorry.’ She leaned awkwardly to place a kiss between my brows. ‘They’ll not let you wed, you know. They’ll move heaven and earth to prevent it.’
Was I not Queen Dowager? I would not accept such interference. ‘I cannot believe that anyone would deny me my right to choose the man I wish to wed.’
‘Then you are a fool, Katherine,’ she announced. ‘You have not thought this through at all. And what Edmund Beaufort is planning! Gloucester will object, for sure. Bedford too when he returns from France. Even Warwick. Bishop Henry might be persuaded to give some lukewarm support if he sees an interest for himself in your union, but even he might have qualms.’
‘They cannot stop me.’
Joanna sighed. ‘Tell me this, Katherine,’ she ordered, stern at my wilful intransigence, and leaned forward, willing me to listen and accept. ‘Has he asked you to keep his proposal secret?’
‘Yes, but only for a short time until—’
‘Until when?’
‘I don’t know.’ I sounded sullen even to my own ears, because it echoed my own fears.
‘Use your wits, my dear.’ She looked frustrated rather than angry. ‘I’m the last woman to condemn you to a sterile widowhood. Do I not know better than most? And God knows you had little pleasure in your marriage to my stepson. He would have tried the patience of a saint. But Edmund Beaufort cannot be the man for you. Even he does not quite see his way forward, so he orders you not to speak of it.’ She took a painful breath. ‘You can’t rely on this proposal, Katherine.’
‘But why not?’ I asked, suddenly thinking that Joanna’s reasoning might be political. ‘Am I wrong in my understanding of this very English situation? Has Edmund’s family not been fully legitimised?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Joanna brushed aside my question with an impatient gesture. ‘But have you thought about the possible repercussions from your marriage to this boy? Haven’t you thought at all beyond Edmund’s ability to seduce your senses? If you wed—what then?’ Her brows drew together in a sharp winging angle. ‘If you carried a legitimate child of your union, such a child—particularly if a boy—would have a volatile mix of Valois and Plantagenet blood in his veins. Anyone with an eye for mischief might consider his claim to the English throne to be as good as Young Henry’s.’
‘No!’ My thoughts whirled. ‘That cannot be. Young Henry is his father’s heir.’
‘And children die young, far too many of them.’
‘It will not happen. Henry is strong and well cared for.’
‘Still, a child borne by you from Beaufort’s loins would be a risky proposition for the stability of this country. Any man with rebellion in mind might consider such a child a useful pawn in a very dangerous political game.’
I thought about this. Then shook my head. ‘No!’
‘Very well. Then consider this as a reason for your match being anathema to many: how much power would it give Edmund Beaufort, to wed you and become stepfather to the King?’
Horror washed over me. I felt as if I were sinking into a quagmire. My breathing was difficult, a constriction tightening around my lungs. Were there so many obstacles in my way that I, in my innocence and ignorance, had never considered? But then, knowing what I did of Edmund, I pushed them aside.
‘He would wish no harm to my son,’ I stated firmly. ‘How could you suggest that?’
