Young Henry, seeing a particular face that he recognised in the crowd, laughed aloud, before halting with an embarrassed little hunch of his shoulders beneath his new tunic. I placed a light hand on his arm, steering him forward, and smiled reassuringly when he looked nervously up at me.
‘You can see him later,’ I whispered.
With due formality, court etiquette as heavy on my shoulders as my ermine-lined cloak, I walked at Young Henry’s side as the whole Court made its obeisance, straining for a view of the Young King. Another visit to Westminster, pre-empting the rapidly approaching moment when my son would be crowned King of England.
The days of his tantrums were over and he held himself with quaint dignity: face pale and still endearingly cherubic despite his growing limbs, fair hair brushed neatly beneath his cap, Henry smiled his pleasure, his eyes, round with astonishment, darting this way and that. Until they had come to rest on Edmund Beaufort, Count of Mortain.
‘Can I speak with him now?’ Young Henry whispered back. ‘I have something to tell him.’
‘Of course you have. But first you must greet your uncle of Gloucester,’ I replied.
I too must exert patience. The days, a mere handful, since I had read his letter, had seemed like years in their extent. How many times had I reread it, absorbing the hope that shone through the words. Only a few minutes now before Edmund and I stood face to face, blatantly declaring our love. I smiled, conscious of happiness coating me like the gold leaf on a holy icon. We would be together.
Henry nodded solemnly and walked on, leaving me in his wake where all I could do was will my mind and my body into a semblance of perfect composure. I had seen Edmund even before my son’s recognition, and I too could have cried out his name. My heart was beating so erratically I could barely swallow, my hands damp with longing.
There he was, to my right, bowing elegantly. I turned my head in anticipation. But our eyes did not meet, even when he straightened to his full height and smiled at my son’s enthusiasm. Edmund Beaufort did not smile at me. My heart tripped in its normal rhythm, but I took myself to task. This was far too public for any passionate reunion. Of course we would not speak of love now. But soon, soon…
With confident grace I continued on my prescribed route, inclining my head to those who acknowledged me, taking up my position behind Henry when the necessary presentations were made. Greetings were exchanged, bows and promises of fealty. Gloucester, Warwick, the high blood of the land. And in their midst Edmund stepped up to be greeted by my son as a favoured cousin.
‘We have missed you, Edmund.’
‘Forgive me, Sire. I have been busy about your affairs in France,’ Edmund replied solemnly, hand on heart.
‘I know. You are Count of Mortain. I have a new horse,’ my son announced with pride. ‘He is not as handsome as yours.’
‘I cannot believe that. If it was a gift from my lord of Warwick, it must be a fine animal.’
‘Will you come to Windsor again? When it is cold you can teach me to skate, like you taught my lady mother.’
‘It will be my pleasure, Sire.’
He stepped back, away, to let another approach.
How kind, I thought, as if from a distance. How thoughtful he was in his response to my little son. And how astonishingly cruel to me. Not once through the whole of that conversation, not once after a graceful inclination of his head in my general direction, had Edmund Beaufort looked at me. Instead, I’d had an impressive view of his noble profile, smiling and assured and so very arrogant.
Had I been mistaken? I could barely shuffle my thoughts into any sort of order. Had he deliberately ignored me? I tried to quell my rising panic. Perhaps he considered the need for discretion in our relationship. But to turn away, to address not one word to me was difficult to accept. Almost impossible to excuse.
Surely he could speak with me as the Queen Mother, as he was cousin to my son, without causing any ripples at court. The panic began to subside, my breathing to even out. Edmund would speak with me when the formalities were over. Of course he would.
‘When you come to Windsor, will we unpack the masks and costumes again?’ I heard Young Henry calling after Edmund, through the clamour in my head.
Then the presentations were over and the court was free to mingle and converse.
