‘Does Madam Joanna intend to wed again?’ My Chancellor asked of no one in particular. ‘I would not have thought it.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps some aging knight has caught her eye, to give her companionship in her declining years—and she needs a legal blessing. Who’s to know what ideas get into the heads of women when they reach a certain age?’
But I knew. The enterprising member of the Commons had doubtless had his palm oiled by a purse of gold from Bishop Henry. And the clever bishop would make the final decision. How delightfully, pragmatically vague it was. How cunning. I admired the sympathetic wording.
And it was for me. Madam Joanna would never wed again—but I would.
I prayed for Bishop Henry’s quick consideration and the Council’s consent. Surely it was now only a matter of time before I stood with Edmund before a priest who would witness our union. Although I lived out those days in a storm of nervous tension, nothing could undermine my elation.
I looked daily for Edmund to ride to Eltham, bounding from horse to hall with triumphal energy, to deliver the good news. I got Bishop Henry instead, and I was surprised, for rumours had flown, darting like iridescent dragonflies over the surface of the sluggish river in recent weeks. Troops had appeared on the streets of London, outbreaks of violence had become the order of the day, and to my dismay Young Henry emerged as a valuable prize in the battle for power between Gloucester and Bishop Henry.
I heard this news with a kind of creeping terror. Beaufort or Plantagenet, sanctified bishop or noble duke—were either to be trusted when their own authority came into the balance? My little son had become a pawn in their deadly game. I buried my personal concerns deep as Young Henry’s freedom came under threat, and prayed for Bedford’s calming influence on his brother and uncle. But Bedford was still in France and the rumours became more disturbing as the armed retinues of Gloucester and Beaufort confronted each other on London Bridge, Gloucester threatening to descend on us and remove my son from Eltham into his custody, by physical force if necessary.
We sat and quaked at every noise, guards doubled, listening for the clash and clamour of approaching mailed knights. And here in the midst of the political upheavals was Bishop Henry, come to Eltham, to tell me—to tell me what?
‘It is not good news, Katherine.’
As he entered the Great Hall and walked slowly across the worn paving slabs to where I waited for him, his doleful features confirmed my suspicions. Still suave, still impeccably dressed in clerical authority, Bishop Henry looked weary, as if he had indulged in a long battle of wits, and lost. I simply stood, unable to express my fears, my lips numb with anticipation of the worst.
But what was the worst Gloucester could do? I had swept aside the foolish thought that Edmund had mischievously planted, of being enclosed against my will in a convent. That could not be. It would not be! If it was mooted, I would simply return to the French court.
But if I returned to France, it would be without my son.
I willed myself to be sensible. It would not come to that. So what was it that gave Bishop Henry’s features the aspect of a death’s head? And, even more pertinent, where was Edmund?
‘Tell me,’ I ordered sharply, I who rarely ordered anyone sharply.
Bishop Henry replied without subtlety, his face expressionless. ‘All is lost. My petition to the Commons on your behalf has been destroyed. Bedford has returned, and ordered a cessation of hostilities.’ He lifted a shoulder in rueful acceptance. ‘He is not best pleased. And in the aftermath Gloucester has taken pleasure in revenge on the Beaufort name. I am defeated.’ I waited. There was more to come. Bishop Henry folded his hands and pronounced: ‘There will be repercussions for you too.’
Ah, there it was. ‘So I will not be allowed to wed Edmund.’
It was difficult to form the words. A fist of pure, raw emotion tightened in my chest, so strong that I could barely breathe, yet I firmed my shoulders and kept a level gaze, even as the bishop’s eye slid from mine. I was right to fear the worst. His voice was rough as if he had argued himself into exhaustion.
‘There are difficulties, Katherine. Gloucester is preparing to tie your situation into knots. And for me too there has been a high price to pay. I have been forced to resign my position as Lord Chancellor.’ Even in my own pain I thought: how the years show on your face today. My heart was touched with compassion. I laid my hand softly on his sleeve, feeling the tension below the rich damask as he added, ‘Gloucester is in the ascendant. It is a tragic outcome for you, I fear.’
