I had thought I did not know him well enough to share his bed. Now I was beginning to learn. And, yes, he was a man I could admire.
What path did we travel together, having reached this level of acknowledgement between us?
First St Winifred came between us. Young Henry was fascinated by the story of the virtuous lady, decapitated at the hands of the Welsh Prince Caradoc who had threatened her virtue, followed by her miraculous healing and restoration to life. Young Henry expressed a wish to visit the holy well in the northern fastnesses of Wales. I explained that it was too far.
‘My father went on pilgrimage there. He went to pray before the battle of Agincourt,’ Young Henry said. How had he known that? ‘I wish to go. I wish to pray to the holy St Winifred before I am crowned King.’
‘It is too far.’
‘I will go. I insist. I will kneel at the spring on her special day.’
I left it to Warwick to explain that the saint’s day on the third day of November and young Henry’s coronation on the fifth day would not allow for a journey across the width of the country.
So we celebrated St Winifred at Windsor instead—earlier than her special day—but Owen’s preparations filled Young Henry with the requisite excitement. We prayed for St Winifred’s blessing, commending her bravery and vital spirit, and my coffers bought a silver bowl for Young Henry to present to her. Father Benedict had looked askance at making such a fuss of a Welsh saint—and a woman at that—but if King Henry, the victor at Agincourt, had seen fit to honour her, then so would we.
It was a magnificent occasion.
And then within the day all was packed up and we were heading to Westminster for the crowning of my son. Would Owen and I ever find the opportunity to do more than follow the demands of travel and Court life? It seemed that I would need all of Winifred’s perseverance.
On the fifth day of November I stood beside Young Henry when he was crowned King of England. How ridiculously young he looked at eight years, far too small for the coronation throne. Instead they arranged a chair, set up on a step, with a fringed tester embroidered with Plantagenet lions and Valois fleurs-de-lys to proclaim his importance, and with a tasselled cushion for his feet. Kneeling before his slight figure, I was one of the first to make the act of fealty, wrought by maternal worries.
His eyes were huge with untold anxieties when the crown of England was held over his head by two bishops. It was too large, too heavy for him to wear for any length of time, so a simple coronet placed on his brow made a show of sanctity. Henry would have been proud, even more so if his son had not taken off the coronet at the first opportunity during the ceremonial banquet to inspect the jewels in it, before handing it to me to hold, complaining that it made his head ache.
I saw Warwick sigh. My son was very young for so great an honour, but he received his subjects with a sweet smile and well-rehearsed words, before becoming absorbed in the glory of the boar’s head enclosed in a gilded pastry castle.
Owen accompanied me to Westminster, but we may as well have been as far apart as the sun and moon.
And then home to Windsor to mark the ninth anniversary of Young Henry’s birth on the sixth day of December with a High Mass and the feast and a tournament, with opportunities for the younger pages and squires to show off their skills. Henry did not shine, and became querulous when beaten at a contest with small swords.
‘But I am King,’ he stormed. ‘Why do I not win?’
‘You must show your worthiness to be King,’ I reproved him gently. ‘And when you do not, you must be gracious in defeat.’
‘I will not!’
There was little grace in Young Henry and I sensed he would never be the warrior his father had been. Perhaps he would make his fame as a man of learning and holiness. Whatever the future held for my child, as the holy oil was smeared on his brow I felt I had done my duty by my husband, who had in some manner left me, simply by his death, to care for his son. Perhaps I was free now to follow my desire to be with Owen Tudor.
And then it was Christmas and the New Year gift-giving and Twelfth Night.
What of Owen and me?
There was no Owen and me.
