He did not resist as I led him to my parlour, motioning for the damsels to depart. Once there, he sank wearily into my own chair with its carved back and arms, leaning back as if he needed its support, while I stuffed soft cushions behind him and sent for wine. And when we were alone I pulled up a low stool and prepared to listen to what had been done that was so tragic and that would have so great a bearing on my life.
‘Gloucester intends to persuade the Commons in the next session to implement a statute. They will most assuredly comply.’
‘And what is this statute?’
Bishop Henry drank deep. ‘No man will be allowed to wed a Queen Dowager without the consent of the King and his Council.’
‘Oh!’
I thought about this, studying my hands, my fingers interlocking. It did not seem so very bad. My remarriage had not exactly been forbidden. All I needed was permission.
‘Is that all?’ I asked, looking up into the bishop’s weary eyes. It was bad, but not beyond redemption.
‘Think about it, Katherine. Think about what he has done.’
And I did—and at last the simple statement spinning in my brain came to rest. I think I laughed at the enormity of it.
‘Of course. The consent of the King.’ I felt the rise of hysteria in my chest. ‘And since my son is not of an age to give consent to anything…’ How cleverly it had been done, how callously. He had not needed to name me—he would not wish to be accused of being vindictive—neither did he have to forbid me, merely make it an impossibility. ‘Does Gloucester know what he was doing? Does he know that he will condemn me to widowhood?’
‘I have no doubt he does.’ Bishop Henry drained his cup, and refilled it. ‘You will have to wait for at least a decade until Henry reaches his majority.’
I could wed Edmund, but not for a whole ten years, even supposing Young Henry could be persuaded. It stretched like an eternity before me. I could not even imagine so long a wait, seeing only that my thirtieth year would be well gone, my hair faded to grey, my face become marked and lined with the passage of time.
And Edmund—would he not look elsewhere, for a younger bride? Despair closed in on me as I looked up at the bishop again to see him watching me. His face was so full of pity I could not bear it. How could I expect Edmund to wait ten years to win my hand? I could not expect any man to wait a whole decade.
I looked away to hide the tears that slid down my cheeks, even as my thoughts wove a new pattern, seeking some way through Gloucester’s cunningly worked maze. I was not entirely forbidden to enter into marriage, was I?
‘What if I disobey?’ I asked, astonished at how my thoughts had leapt from acceptance to defiance. Would I dare to go against the will of Parliament? I did not think so, yet with Edmund by my side, what might I not dare to do? ‘Will I be punished if I wed without Young Henry’s consent?’
Bishop Henry put down his cup, the wine no longer of interest, and took my hands in his. ‘Who can tell? There is one more consequence of Gloucester’s revenge that you must know, Katherine. Arrangements have been made for you to live permanently in the Young King’s household. You will not be allowed to visit your dower properties or travel as you choose. You will go where the Young King goes. Do you understand?’
I understood very well. I was a prisoner. Without bars, without lock and key, but still prisoner under my son’s jurisdiction.
‘It is intended to help you to withstand your carnal passions,’ he continued gently.
And I flinched at the judgement that was becoming engraved on my soul. The image of my mother, painted and bejewelled, casting lascivious glances over the young courtiers, rose before me. What a terrible disservice, all unwittingly, she had done me. I dragged a breath of stifling air into my lungs as I felt my face grow hot from the humiliation.
‘I regret what has been done,’ Bishop Henry continued, when I could not find the words to reply. ‘But it will not be so very bad, you know.’
And now the words spilled out, my voice broken. ‘No? I think it might be. It is to keep me under permanent surveillance.’
‘I’m afraid it is. Young Henry’s claim on the French throne rests entirely on you, and so your reputation must be purer than the pearls in the Virgin’s diadem.’
And at last I wept. For my trampled yearnings for a life with Edmund. For my soft incarceration in my son’s household so that I might never again do anything to cause ripples in English politics. I would be tied fast under Henry’s jurisdiction, anchored as irrevocably as mistletoe in the branch of an apple tree. My heart was broken, my spirit laid low.
‘Don’t weep. Katherine. You are still young.’
‘What use is that? If I am young, I have even more years to live as a prisoner, encased in a shell of lonely respectability. There is no escape for me, is there?’
