‘Any man who risks the ban and takes you for his wife without royal consent will lose everything.’ Warwick’s face was stern, his words savage in the message they delivered, but his eyes were soft with infinite compassion. ‘He will effectively be stripped of his lands and his possessions, his appointments in government.’
‘Oh,’ I said again, almost a whisper, absorbing the enormity of this.
‘Such a man will forgo all promotions, all favour and patronage. All opportunity for his further advancement would be stripped away.’
‘I see.’
‘For any man to wed you—’ Warwick was inexorable ‘—would be political and social suicide. Do you understand? If he took you as his wife, Edmund Beaufort would be ruined.’
‘Yes,’ I heard myself say. ‘Yes, I do understand.’
My throat was full of tears as Warwick’s bald statements, delivered one after the other, were like nails hammered into the coffin of my hopes and dreams. I stood for a while in silence, my hands still enfolded within the Earl’s, as the pieces fell into place, finally driven to accept the impossibility of my union with any ambitious man by the neatest, most vindictive piece of legislation. No specific name had been mentioned, but the intent behind it as clear as the signatures written on the document. My heart was wrenched with hurt as I absorbed the inevitable in that one inexorable warning.
That was the end, was it not? Would Edmund Beaufort run head first into marriage with me, risking the loss of political and social advancement? Would he prejudice his ambitions for me?
Head raised, chin held high in a determination not to appear trampled beneath the weight of what I now knew, I looked to where I had last seen him. And there he stood, deep in conversation with the men who held power in the kingdom in my son’s name, just as his uncle Bishop Henry would once have done. Gloucester, Hungerford, Westmorland, Exeter, Archbishop Chichele.
Edmund knew where his best interests lay, and as I took in his carefully selected, august company, so did I. The Beauforts were political animals through and through. Advancement would take precedent over all other interests. If I had still been of a mind to cling to any foolish hope, Edmund’s present company confirmed all Warwick’s warning.
‘It is better if you do not approach him,’ Warwick said gently.
‘I understand. I understand perfectly.’ I looked up into his face. ‘How could he have been so cruel?’
‘Did he not tell you?’
I shook my head, unable to put my sense of utter rejection into words.
‘I am so sorry. He will not see it as cruelty but as political necessity. A pragmatic decision. All Beauforts would. They have been raised from the cradle to do so.’
‘Even at the cost of breaking my heart?’
‘Even at that.’
‘He wrote that he would remain true to our love.’
‘I am so very sorry, Katherine,’ Warwick repeated.
‘You did warn me.’ My mouth twisted into what was not a smile.
‘I know. But I would not have had you hurt in this manner.’
I looked across to where Edmund was laughing at something Gloucester had said, responding with a dramatic gesture with one arm I recognised so well. Oh, I was hurt. I floundered in desolation that all my visions of happiness were no more than straws in the wind, to be scattered, leaving me empty and broken.
That night I took anguish and tears with me to my bed. Bitter bedfellows indeed to keep me company through the sleepless hours. But I rose in quite a different mood.
‘My lady. May we speak?’
His bow was the epitome of elegant respect, early sun making russet lights gleam in his hair as he flourished his velvet cap.
Anger beat softly in my head. He had found me of no value, and had rejected me as he would a crippled warhorse when no longer fit for purpose. And as he drew himself to his full height, his expression a winning combination of self-deprecation and rueful apology, I felt my simmering temper come dangerously close to the edge of boiling. I had not been aware that I could be possessed by such rage.
I was on my way to Mass, Guille accompanying me, crossing an anteroom where pages and servants scurried to and fro at the behest of their masters. There was no privacy to be had at Westminster, neither would I grant him that luxury. If he had wanted privacy with me, he should have come to Windsor.
‘You will stay with me,’ I ordered Guille as she slowed her step to drop back, at the precise moment that Edmund Beaufort made that bow with all his considerable charm, striking a dramatic pose.
And in that moment, beneath the green and gold panels of his knee-skimming tunic, the sleek hose and velvet-draped hood, I saw him for what he was: all picturesque pretence and show to win my regard, all driving ambition to play a vital role in England’s politics. He was a Beaufort through and through. Yet he was still impressive enough to cause my silly heart to quake.
